some cute, sexy roman and gerri fanfic

their unconsummated romance is my porn

setting: hmm, where should they be…gerri’s apartment? have we seen gerri’s apartment yet???? from what i can remember roman lives in a cool and clean and modern very expensive box, so let’s do this at gerri’s, if only so i can give her thick, plush carpeting and some kind of designer cat. i just caught one of our many disgusting shelter cats going apeshit on a yogurt container with a speck of dried mango in the bottom of it and that’s not good enough for gerri. can you imagine her wrestling a plastic tub away from a mangy, yowling piece of shit as the recycling crashes down around her? yeah, me neither. gerri would have a ragdoll or maybe a persian, something soft and fluffy and calm that would curl up on her lap while she sips [googles “most expensive scotch fancy rich people like”] macallan 25. okay so we’re at gerri’s on a tuesday? wednesday?? evening (weekend sex feels too formal somehow) and she got home a while ago, answered a few emails and scrolled through some texts, maybe called her sister to see what’s up, did the kids like the oculus she had messengered over last week?, and she’s sitting on her elegant sofa thinking about what to have for dinner.

wardrobe: was it in the tern haven episode where we got to see gerri’s jammies? what was she wearing, some kind of satin-y boudoir robe in a garish floral print with a real hiked-up brassiere underneath??? we’re not doing any of that! maybe that’s how obscenely rich people dress when they “relax” but this is my fantasy so gerri has those titties loose, baby. i’m thinking a luxurious cashmere sweatsuit, cozy and soft but also if you saw it in the store you’d know to steer clear because even at a glance it’s obvious you absolutely cannot afford it. gray cashmere hoodie and wide legged pants, hair in a topknot, no shoes because what is she, a farmer? (i am never not wearing shoes, and yes i actually am a farmer.)

ambiance: the tv is on. i’m sorry, but it is just not believable to me when a person is alone in her home and there’s no dull drone of a television set humming in the background? gerri has lit some cire trudon abd el kader candles (the big ones that cost, like, $400 apiece) to set the vibe. it smells good, and feels cozy as hell. the lights are dimmed but not that fucking dim, homegirl is 60 years old. anyway she queues up the latest episode of bridgerton and pulls a blanket onto her lap when her phone chirps. it’s roman on facetime: “i told the doorman i’m your son but he doesn’t believe me and won’t let me up, help.” gerri smiles to herself as she ends the call. DINNER HAS ARRIVED.

appetizer: okay you thought i meant hardcore boning but no, you perverted freak, roman brought pasta from [someplace fancy in manhattan]. i like roman in a crispy suit, so he bursts through the door in a slim cut black tom ford (he makes rich people suits, right) with a white shirt open to his collarbones, no tie. his phone is blowing up (logan calling about a business thing, probably) but he tosses it on the granite countertop like “who gives a shit?” after breezing past gerri in a way that lets us know that he is absolutely at home in her place. i mean, he obviously has suits and toiletries and his own coffee mug here. roman starts to unload the bags but stops as gerri slides past him to get the chilled acqua panna from the fridge, pulling her in to deeply inhale the scent of her neck. that’s hot, right? an uncomforatbly long neck whiff? maybe he lingers in that area for a minute, nibbles an ear. or flicks his lizard tongue against those downy lil tufts of hair we all have on the side of our face? i would be into that! something gross but extremely sexy.

dinner: roman gets the plates out and gerri is like, “dude, your phone,” (it’s still buzz buzz buzzing) and he says “FUCK DAD” with his best high school sophomore swagger and gerri laughs nervously because he thrusts his hips as he says it like he’s literally fucking his dad and that’s revolting. should they eat at the kitchen island? the dining room table? roman votes for the living room in front of the television (so he won’t have to make small talk that’s not about fucking) and that’s fine by her, she really wanted to watch her damn shows. roman heads to the living room with their bucatini but gerri hangs back a second, checks his texts to make sure the world isn’t currently burning and also swallows two motrin, dry. she’s not trying to deal with chronic knee pain during a 69!!!!!! it’s tom calling, and for a hot second she considers answering and commanding he get his dick out and slap it around for her amusement but she thinks better of it and turns the phone off instead. gerri joins roman on her luxurious sofa (he’s changed the channel to something dumb but she doesn’t care, she’s just happy to be sitting with her sensible heels off for the evening) and he pulls her feet into his lap, tenderly massaging the soles with his thumbs. she starts eating because listen, she had a long fucking day and her blood sugar is getting kind of low. shit, did she forget to take her probiotic again??? roman continues his massage and it’s a great one, the kind where you isolate each individual toe and really get in there to work out all that gloom and doom. gerri closes her eyes and sinks back into the couch, a little bucatini strand surfing a saliva wave out of the corner of her slackened mouth.

“i missed the shit outta you today,” roman says, his rubbing intensifying in pressure. “dad [past tense verb] the [business word] and i had to [adverb] [verb] the fucking [business word] and it was [adjective] but all i could fucking think about was [verb ending in -ing] your sweet [human body part] tonight. is that okay?” gerri nods in the affirmative because we believe in enthusiastic consent in this horny daydream, and roman takes her half-eaten dinner (“i’m still eating that!” she groans internally) and sets it gently on the coffee table before sliding from the couch to the floor. he begs her to step on his face, but the last time they played that game the cat jumped down and scared them both and she’d accidentally dislocated his nose with her heel. he takes all of the toes on her left foot into his warm, wet mouth, grotesquely stretching his lips to encompass them all. is this…actually gratifying? it feels weird to her but he likes it, so whatever. plus letting him do this three times a week really seems to have helped her plantar fasciitis.

dessert: “let’s take a sexy shower” roman says, entering the bedroom shirtless in a pair of black boxer briefs she’d given him on his last birthday. gerri, carefully massaging a palmful of la mer night cream in an upward motion on her face and neck, knows that means he wants her to pee on him but her bladder is empty; she’d already peed thirty times that day with all the diuretics the doctor has her taking, she’s like a broken radiator just slowly leaking fluid all goddamn day. (on her mental checklist: “buy poise pads!”) she turns the thermostat down to a refreshing 65 degrees and unearths a bottle of lubricant from her bedside table. “get me an ice water,” she demands, and roman springs to action, his weenie bouncing out in front of him with excitement as he bounds for the sub zero in the kitchen. frankly, she’s exhausted. maybe she can convince him to just eat her ass until he falls asleep? that worked a few nights ago! the peeing is such a mess and the cleaning service isn’t scheduled to be there until the end of the week, and if she can convince him to just do bottom half stuff tonight she can keep her hoodie on and snuggle in and maybe even sleep a little while he finishes his business? gerri had 300 pages of contracts to sift through before noon while roman jerked off under her desk, she could really use an extra hour or two of sleep. she squeezes some la prairie liquid caviar (the pushy saleslady at saks upsold her but who cares) into her hands and closes her eyes for one delicious second (is there such a thing as a 1-second nap?) then roman is back with the water and a boner and one look at her face tells him everything he needs to know: “shall i analingus you to sleep, babe?” he asks, licking his teeth. gerri sighs with palpable relief and spreads her butt cheeks wide. “merge and acquisition me, daddy.”

next week’s episode: after a lunch of room temperature soup roman rubs biofreeze on gerri’s lower back before she cowgirls him raw to an episode of the daily.