#shiv roy fanfiction

[milfp1lled]

Hi! Can you do Shiv Roy x fem!reader angst? Leaving it up to you what about

“I always want you when I’m finally fine”

pairing: Shiv Roy x fem!reader

summary: After you confessed that you loved her, Shiv had all but told you not to call her…ever. So you’re thrown off guard when you get a phone call from her at 3 am.

warnings: 18+ sexual themes,angst, toxic relationships, strong language, alcohol use

word count: 5574

notes: obviously this fic is inspired by the song, listened to an entire mitski playlist as I wrote this so do with that info what you will haha.

You were always a worrier.

Constantly fearing and expecting the worst-case scenario, a request for a simple conversation suddenly had you feeling like you were about to get horrific news and a late-night phone call usually had you spiraling.

So that’s why you’re surprised at yourself when your phone starts ringing at God knows what time, and you immediately stretch your arm out with a groan to quickly press decline. Despite not knowing whom the call was coming from, you roll over onto your side with a silent promise to chase it up in the morning.

You’d been practicing doing that recently: ‘protecting your peace’, is what the overly chipper, new-age psychologist whom you’d recently started paying thousands to “fix” you called it.

Then the vibrating starts up again…you’re not happy.

Muttering expletives under your breath you snatch the phone from your bed stand before raising it up to your ear.

You’d been tossing and turning all night and had just managed to fall asleep but of course, someone had to wake you the moment you had dozed off. You say a silent prayer at the fact that you had tomorrow off from work or else you’d be downing cups of coffee all day to have some kind of semblance to a functioning person.

"Uh-huh?" You hum, eyes half-lidded as you already start to nod off again.

"...hey, uh...I'm outside, can let me into your building?"

The voice is slurred and rambling, but you recognise it all the same, suddenly wide awake as you scramble to your feet, phone pulled away from your ear in disbelief to squint at the name on the display:

'Shiv🥕🔝'

Huh.

"What? Siobhan...It’s 3am"

Not to mention you didn't want to see her.

 …You shouldn’t want to see her was probably closer to describing it.

You peer down from one of your windows and sure enough, she is standing there, arms folded across her chest and that bored look on her face, breath catching in your throat at the mere sight of her. You look for any sign of another party near her, eyebrows furrowing at the fact there is no car black car parked outside one of the neighbouring houses.

Where was the car that had dropped her off?

This was anything but the first time you'd been summoned for a classic Shiv Roy booty call. But usually, it came in the form of a "come over?” or an “I miss you” text when you think she was feeling extra mean. You'd drop everything like the pathetically devoted follower you were, opting instead to spend the rest of the night swallowing the feeling of self-loathing as the two of you would fuck each other into oblivion.

You knew the rules: It was always at some 5-star hotel; never at yours or any of her many homes- that was too personal. You were never supposed to linger after. Shiv Roy was straight to the point, and concise, she didn't do pillow talk.

One time she’d seemed particularly stressed out and you'd tried to ask her if she was okay and in turn, were promptly put in your place and shown the door. You didn’t have access to or get to see that part of Shiv (if she even still existed) anymore.

Safe to say you didn’t bother trying to fill the cold, endless silence after that.

To her credit, she would always call you a taxi, or get one of her drivers to drop you off the moment you were done, and you'd sit silently crying in the car on the way home, clasping the broken pieces of your heart in your hands, trying to hold yourself together until Shiv decided she needed you again.

Waiting for her to call, to touch you and make you whole. To make you mean something.

So naturally, of course, you were shocked to see her outside of where you lived again.

You think back to the only other occasion she’d been at your apartment, your birthday a year ago. She’d come to collect you for one of your “meetings” and had surprised you by coming equipped with your favourite vanilla bean cake from Magnolia Bakery. She seemed unusually light…happy (and definitely a little bit drunk) and even sang you an out-of-tune rendition of happy birthday that made your cheeks hurt from smiling. You’d put your favourite record on and asked her to dance with you in your kitchen and she’d rolled her eyes claiming she didn’t listen to music, you’d laughed at how ridiculous that sounded (she was always such a fucking cliché), but she’d danced with you anyway.

She’d touched you and had seen you, really seen you…but the moment was fleeting, the same cold no nonsense Shiv the moment you left for the hotel. Sometimes you think you’d imagined that day.

You’re surprised she even still remembers your address now.

“Please?” she sighs out softly

You could never say no to her.

Well-trained, you obey, buzzing her in with a sigh of resignation.                                                                    What were you doing?

Moments later, Shiv twirls out of your lift into your condo with a giggle and you realised dreadingly that she's wasted. Not even the standard Shiv level of buzzed that you’d seen her at.

She looked frazzled and her hair was slightly askew, and she had one of those almost fake-looking wide smiles on her face.

“Hey Honey”

Were you having a fever dream? Maybe you’d lost it.

"These are killing me!” She groans taking off her heels and tossing them onto the floor of your foyer behind her-making herself right at home besides the fact this was her second time even being in your loft.

Actually Maybe she’d lost it.

You keep your mouth closed, not quite of what to say.

"I was at Ken’s birthday...and it was...a shit show." She explains stumbling into your apartment.

"But, I was dancing you know..." she uncharacteristically giggles, leaning in to whisper to you conspiratorially, despite there only being two of you in the entire loft.

You could smell the tequila on her breath.

You ignore her but she doesn’t seems to notice,

"In the middle of the dancefloor too”.

Shiv ,unprompted, then proceeds to give you a demonstration, not receptive to the fact that there was no music playing. You have to turn away, unable to stop yourself from cracking a small chuckle at her performance. Drunk or not, you didn’t want to give her the satisfaction.

"See? Just like how we used to back in our London days...Do you remember the raves and house parties we used to go to?” she exclaims unusually animated. You weren’t us yes to hearing her speak without that usual apathetic Shiv drawl.

You turn to pour yourself a glass of water, anything to keep your hands busy, not even attempting to pick up the bone she just so eagerly threw your way.

Making a forbidden reference to your past and she actually seemed to look back on it fondly? A couple of months ago, before that night, you probably would’ve chased after said bone that’s been thrown your way, practically fawning at her feet.

Was this a trap?

This inkling doesn’t stop your heart from fluttering in your chest though.

"Why are you here Shiv?" You question after a while, eyes narrowing, already knowing you were wasting your time trying to have an effective conversation with someone this drunk.

The heiress smiles sadly before throwing her hands in the air blasély,

"You called me a vampire...they can't be out in the day...can they?"

You try your best not to wince at her words and immediately fail.

"...I went to Kenfest…and not that I was looking or anything, there were so many people…but I noticed you weren't there…”

Sure, you’d received an invite to Kendall’s birthday party. But that wasn’t really your scene anymore.

"I know you Naomi are friends...I thought you’d be there but…but you didn’t go. Why not?” she rambles manically,

“I don’t care or anything, but… Kendall put you on the list s-”

"Is that why you came here at 3am? To lecture me for skipping out on "Kenapalooza?" you interrupt massaging your temples,

She at least has the decency to pretend to look embarrassed.

"I just…I miss you" she stutters, nonchalant as though this was just a standard afternoon, and you were two busy friends who’d just happened to bump into each other.

Missed you.

That dreaded feeling of realisation slowly creeps through your body.

So that’s why she was here.

What this was really about.

Fucking.

Everything was always about fucking with Shiv. Getting fucked over by her family or some other corporate big wig. Fucking you both physically or metaphorically. Fucking with you.

You feel yourself starting to get angry.

“Yeah? I’m not in the mood to be in the same room as you, let alone a quickie so your luck’s all out.”

Shiv balks at the accusation,                                                                                                   “What? Fuck you Y/n, I’m being serious…I mean it.”

You let a laugh in disbelief,

“Oh, you mean it do you Shiv? Fuck me? Fuck you.”

"We don't have that or any kind of relationship with each other anymore...you made that very clear... "

Her jaw sets and she looks away from you, fiery stare instead directed at the pillar in the middle of your living room. You think it had the potential to snap it in half

"Oh, get off your moral high horse-you gave just as good as you got that night... " she laughs, tilting her head to the side even though none of this was really that funny.

Your blood runs cold.

You'd bared your soul to her that night. You told her you loved her, and she’d gotten angry at your confession and had shot down you in classic Roy fashion. She didn’t want to hear it. She didn’t have time for this. The two of you already had a good thing going but you were weak and now you had ruined it.

She was vicious.

You just weren't good enough. You never would be.

A rat backed into a corner, you’d lashed out at her, desperately hurling insults, and a couple of cruel truths at her to see what stuck. Anything to try and hurt her the way she'd hurt you.

You’d called her a megalomaniac, an emotionally repressed vampire.

"Do you remember? I know I do."

Shiv smiles a twisted grin at the haunted look in your eyes, a deer in the headlights, and smelling blood she zeroes in on your exposed weakness. Anything to get a show of emotion from you.

Sure, Shiv lived up to her name, tongue as sharp as her namesake. But she was a mean drunk and could quickly turn downright fucking cruel after a couple of shots, you knew and had seen that first hand, the fact that she'd been dancing and singing in your kitchen moments ago didn't save you from that.

She licks her lips, a predator ready to sink its teeth into her prey,

"You begged on your knees for me to change my min-"

"Just stop, Shiv. Fuck!" You yell, eyes glistening with unshed tears, and the both of you jump, the latter looking taken aback.

You never yelled. Never.

For just a second there, she looks like the scared, sad little rich girl you’d first befriended at high school and your heart sinks.

Was it worth it?

“I’m sorry.” You murmur placing your head in your hands,

Only 10 minutes into conversation, and you were already cracking under the weight of her words. You really were weak y/n.

You'd known Shiv for years now and were more than familiar with her acerbic tongue but regardless she always knew the right thing to say to push your buttons, even after all this time,

"I don't want to rehash this with you...so just go and be with your fucking husband whom you love so much Siobhan," you mumble, unable to look at her.

This time it’s her turn to wince.

"Fine." Shiv stumbles to her feet again taking an unsteady step towards your door,

“Are you not gonna call your driver to pick you up?” you ask chewing on your bottom lip,

“Why, do you give a fuck now?” she pouts mockingly,

“No, I sent him home for the night…I’m walking…just like I did to get here” Shiv hums matter-of-factly as she attempts to put her shoes back on, failing spectacularly.

She could not be serious.

Your loft was in TRIBECA... Shiv lived on the other side of Manhattan.

You think back to looking for a car that wasn’t there when she’d first arrived at your place.

Okay, so maybe she hadn't taken a car…you knew she wouldn't be caught dead riding the subway...which meant she had in fact walked.

How had she not gotten mugged?    

Daughter of one of the richest men in the world roaming alone in New York?

You couldn’t let her go back out there.

You look over at the redhead and she’s still struggling to do the buckle of her shoes.

It was getting painful to watch.

“Sit down” you sigh, and she shoots you a look,

“No…you don’t want me here.” She replies tersely,

“Just… fucking sit-down Siobhan...please" you sigh, turning around to place a slice of sourdough bread into your sandwich press when she obliges, clumsily sitting herself down at your kitchen island.

If she was going to stick around, you needed her to be soberer than this. 

She drums her fingers on the countertop, those beautiful blue eyes dancing around the room before she begins to spin herself around on the stool she’s sat on, a shit-eating grin spread across her face, your previous exchange of words clearly  already forgotten.

She had to be,at the very least a solid 5 cosmos in.

The sight is jarring in comparison to the full corporate dinner get-up she has on, but you also can’t help but acknowledge it’s the most carefree you’ve seen her look in a while. The redhead usually had that faraway look in her eyes, like she was thinking about 20 different things at once.

She watches you cut her toastie up into squares in silence, and you reach across the table to place the it in front of her.

She raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow at you.

"Eat up." You state simply sliding the plate closer to her,

Shiv peers at the plate in horror, and anyone would be forgiven for thinking that you'd tried to serve her a turd on her plate, before she pushes it away from her like a petulant child, those piercing blue eyes giving you a look that could kill.

She used to love your classic grilled cheeses.

"It's not caviar or a prime cut of wagyu from Le Bernardin but I promise it's not going to kill you." You nudge teasingly, your attempts at negotiation falling on deaf ears as you’re rewarded with a scoff.

Fuck it. You press your lips in a straight line leaning down to be eye level with her, attempting to give her your own take on the classic Shiv Roy death glare.

"I’ll make you something else If you want but if you don’t eat at least something I’m going to kick you out of my apartment and onto your ass Siobhan.”

The heiress blinks a couple of times, nonplussed at being told by you of all people what to do and begrudgingly she eats up, the alcohol clearly making her more compliant than usual.

You let out a discreet breath, glad she didn't call your bluff.                                    

The truth was that you loved Shiv so ardently that even if the circumstances were different, you wouldn’t even dream of doing that.

The last time you'd spoken she'd pretty much gutted you like a fish, letting her in your apartment was literally going against everything your brain and your therapy sessions told you to do, yet here she was.

You’d do anything for her and that was scary.

There was never any logic, or acknowledgment of your boundaries and wants when Shiv was around. That was you; Y/N the people pleaser.

But how could you help it?

Your love for her was so heavy you could feel its weight on your shoulders as you walked, it sat in the back of your mind like a stone, it clouded your lungs as you breathed...and you eventually couldn't take it anymore. You were choking on it.

You'd coughed it all up and Shiv took one look at you, at all that love, and she’d turned her nose up in disgust.  It came down to it and she didn't choose you. You just weren't enough. You never would be.

You used to think about what it would be like to have her here all the time; Shiv in one of your old T-shirts, perched on the countertop cracking one of her sardonic one-liners as you cooked but you scold yourself immediately, waving the thought away with a wave of your hand.

You watch her in silence as she slowly eats, satisfied as you notice her eyes were less bleary, and she was slightly more subdued, her chaotic and abrasive drunkenness seeming to have mellowed out to her just being slightly tipsy. You could relax in the fact that you likely wouldn’t be cleaning her vomit off of your mahogany floors tomorrow morning at the very least.

You rise to your feet, wordlessly turning to head to your room, and she takes the hint and follows you.

It wasn’t like your place had a guest room anyway.

You watch her in silence as she wipes off her makeup then slowly begins to take off her bracelets…then earrings and necklace, pausing when she gets to her watch.

"…It’s been 5 months y/n…were you just...never going to call me again?" She eventually asks hesitantly, voice small.

Oh.

She didn't exactly make it seem like she wanted to hear from you.

What did you say to that?

How were you supposed to lay out a decade and a half of hurt in one sentence?

You shrug, unknowing of the answer yourself.

"We already did it enough as teens and in our 20s, so I just…I didn't feel up to playing 'friends' again with Mrs Roy-Wambsgans..." you stare at your hands so that you don’t have to look at her,

You hear her take in a shuddering breath.

"I'm not trying to be a cunt...but that's the reason why I didn’t. And our last conversation really did a number on me...after we spoke I was just so...."

Shiv nods, swallowing deeply, before turning her back to you, moving her hair to the side.

You take the hint and help her unzip her dress.

"I'm sorry..." she murmurs tears welling in her eyes as she climbs out of it, the soft green fabric falling to the floor, leaving her in her underwear.

"I know..." you breath out in exhaustion, handing her a pair of your satin pajamas.

You were so tired. Tired of hearing sorry. Tired of feeling sorry. Tired of being in love with a woman who didn't want to give you the time of day unless you had something she needed. You were tired of giving. You had nothing more to give.

"Do you remember, the night before my wedding?"

"Please don't do this to me again, Shiv." You beg in anguish,

"What you said..."

"I just said don't."

She opens her mouth again, eyes glistening,

"I begged you not to marry Tom..." you interrupt, hoping hearing the story from your own lips would make it hurt less,

"You said that I could do so much better than him...that he didn't love me as much as you did" continues Shiv

"And maybe that is true... maybe I can do better...maybe he can do better." Shiv's chest shudders and she presses her eyes tightly shut,

"But...most of all you can do better than me."

"you're selfless and compassionate...and I don't know if I can love you in the way that you want the way that you say you lov"-

"But do you?" You croak out, voice breaking,

"Love me, I mean"

Shiv falters,

"Well…what difference does it make..." she sighs dejectedly.

You slowly walk toward her, hand slightly raised like you were approaching a dangerous animal as you look into the shorter woman's eyes.

"Shiv…do you love me?" You whisper again voice catching after each word.

Shiv opens and closes her mouth repeatedly, and you wait for her to say something as she searches for the right words.

…they never come.

She looks at you, that same vague look in her eyes, lifting her hand as though reaching out to touch you but she pauses halfway, opting to put her thumb in between her teeth, biting as though physically retraining herself.

You didn’t really know her anymore, but you still recognised her tells, the puckering of her lips when she was trying to stop herself from saying something, the biting of the tip of her thumb when she was anxious.

You watch taken aback, as her face starts to twist with emotion.

You'd never seen Shiv truly lost for words like that.

She rakes a hand through her hair in exasperation.

"I...fuck" she grunts, retreating from you, as she turns to angrily wipe away a stray tear with the back of her right hand,

"You're good...too good." She sniffs eyes red rimmed,

"I'm....not a good person y/n, I don't want to tarnish you with my...me."

You look at her with a sigh before letting out an empty chuckle, looking upwards as you feel the tears, you'd been holding in start to stream down your cheeks,

Maybe it was too late for that. The damage had already been done.

Shiv suddenly turns around to look at you, eyes hardened with resolve as she quickly stalks across the room, before she straddles your lap, pressing her forehead against yours.

She leans forward, gently leaning in to kiss your tears away in a silent apology and your eyes flutter closed at the sensation, trying to burn the feeling of her touch into your memory.

She places a feverish kiss against your cheek. Then your wrist.

Then another wet kiss against that soft spot below your jaw that she knows drives you crazy and you melt into her as you reward her with a needy moan, goading her on, once again.

You just couldn't help yourself.

"Fuck...Shiv..." you mewl, arms draped around her neck,

"You like that...right?" She whispers, her tone sultry and slow but, but her movements contrastingly hurried.

Why did this feel like a test.

She knew you did.

"only thing sweeter than the sound of those moans you make is how you taste..." she husks,

"We shouldn’t..."

No matter how much you really wanted to.

"Please" she gasps in between trailing kisses down your neck,

"I want to give you everything you deserve...”

“…so much...I really want to try but don't know how."

"You were right about what you said...last time...All I do is take and take and take but it's because I don't know how to give." continues the heiress, voice wobbling.

She was crying.

"Just let me give you this..." she continues in a ragged breath, hand reaching under your top to palm one of your breasts, gently pinching your nipples and you squeeze your tear-filled eyes shut as you can’t help but find yourself arching into her touch.

"Just tell me what you want me to do to you...I just...want to make you feel good" she rasps but it’s off, her voice sounds shaky...desperate,

“This is the only way I know how”.

Sex with Shiv always was always so good, but you always found yourself feeling worse off after. You were greedy. You wanted more. More of Shiv. You wanted all of her-but you'd settle for this, doing anything to have her close.

But the want was eating away at you.

Chipping at you bit by bit until there was nothing.

Sometimes you felt like that'd already happened. Like there was nothing left to you anymore, you were just a black hole and you and your thoughts were just all Shiv.

This was a bad idea.

“I don’t know Shiv…” you sigh suddenly, begrudging pushing her hands away from you, despite the fact that they felt oh-so good on your body.

Shiv pauses, tear stained face frowning at you in confusion, as she tries to figure you out

“O-Okay well…how about…you can just do whatever you want to me?” she suggests frantically, guiding your hands under her shirt, you can feel her trembling slightly beneath your skin,

"Let just leave it.” You sniff,

She jumps out of your lap as though burned.

Sometimes your relationship with Shiv felt like a wound, and she was a vampire; that maybe she couldn’t help it, but the moment she smelt blood she'd feast on you, your affection, your infatuation. She’d always be gone the moment there was nothing more of you to devour. Each time you were left behind, desperately still clinging onto the bloody remains of the love you still had for her despite her shredding them between her teeth.

You'd been periodically drifting in and out of each other’s lives this way for the past 17 years.

First, you were 15, the quiet new girl at Sacred Hearts who'd been plucked out of obscurity to be best friends with Shiv 'the queen' Roy. You remember ducking under the bedsheets at a sleepover with her exchanging kisses and giggling, a private and exciting secret between the two of you…you were her dirty secret, even now it felt like you always would be. Then you were the 20-something London party girls who were joint at the hip: appearing oddly close to others but nothing more than friends who just happened to secretly sleep with each other sometimes.

Then there was whatever this was. 

This Shiv wasn’t really your friend, or even your “lover” anymore, sometimes the term felt too warm to describe what you were doing together. This Shiv was worlds away from the one you once knew; she wore turtlenecks and silk blouses and had a sharp blunt cut bob and the insults to match.

What had happened in the years you’d been away from each other?

Who’d made her this way?

You wanted to hug her. To hold her close to you and huddle under a blanket like you had as kids for as long as she’d let you. You wanted to tell her that she didn’t have to put on the armour anymore, that you were safe, and that she could be vulnerable with you without any ulterior motives.

But now you were asking yourself whether there even was any armour to take off anymore. maybe this was just Shiv now. But then on the occasion there were those odd moments, those slithers of light, where you saw glimpses of the Shiv you once knew again; how she’d often make teasing jokes with that old sparkle in her eyes, the way she giggles, ticklish when your fingers ghost past her waist in bed, the way she’d kiss you sweetly in the moments after…how she looked at you in adoration when you came undone.

You’d realised after that that you loved her anyway. Shiv Roy: jaded rich private school girl, party girl socialite, ruthless Waystar-Royco successor…you loved them all.

But the thing was didn't know if you had it in you to keep on doing this. If your heart could take any more of this.

"So…what, are things just never going to go back to the way they were before then?" Shiv asks evenly, the youngest Roy hunching over herself as she cradles her elbows close to her sides, looking off into the distance-unable to meet your eyes.

Before what? Before she broke your heart? Before you'd kissed for the very first time? Or before you told her you loved her?

You close your eyes a sob wracking through your body, before you shake your head,

"Maybe... we need to cut our losses here...maybe this is wasting our time, and this isn't what either of us needs."

Maybe the problem wasn't other people...but just you and Shiv. The two of you weren't meant to be in each other's lives. No matter how much you loved her it wouldn't be enough.

Shiv was assured, practical, cautious and calculated: almost everything she said  and did had a motive or thought  behind it, even her marriage had logic and purpose and some kind of benefit driving it alongside the fact she loved him.

Shiv worked and strove toward power.

You on the other hand wore your heart on your sleeve when you were upset or emotional you cried openly and unabashedly. You drifted through life trying to find an identity for yourself outside of your rich family…you were always trying to fix things and people that couldn’t or didn’t want to be fixed, trying to worm your way into Shiv’s heart when she didn’t want you to.  

You were a liability.

It was never going to work. She was never going to pick someone like you.

Shiv blanches,

"Okay well...I need you." She grits out tensely, fists tightly balled by her sides. You could see her eyes were watering again.,

She needed you.

 But maybe it wasn’t in the same way you needed her. You wanted her. You wanted her with every fibre of your being.

"I need you." sniffs Shiv, so quiet and wavering you have to strain to hear her, grabbing onto you as though you might disappear,

"But you don't love me" you weep, crumbling at the realisation that she was never going to see you the way you saw her.

Shiv doesn't say anything, but you think that's all you need to hear.

She crawls into your bed, maintaining her silence as she lifts the blanket for you to climb in after her. You slide in beside her, at first back first pressed against hers, but eventually mentally talking yourself into turning to face her.

You inch forward until your noses are touching staring into those expressive steely blue eyes; cold at first glance but always swirling with emotion beneath the surface...she'd become an expert at making sure you could never tell which ones.

You think you’d memorised every inch of her face by now high apple cheeks,those long translucent eyelashes,and the freckles beneath the usual layer of makeup that you never got to see.

She was beautiful and she knew it.

Once when you were kids, you'd stared at her during the entirety of a study group, counting all of the freckles dusted on her face, and when you'd told her afterwards what you were doing she'd rolled her eyes and kissed the thought away from your mind.

You'd do anything to get inside of her mind. To know what she was thinking. Whether you truly ever meant something to her.

"My sweet, Sweet y/n." She whispers, but it a voice in the back of your head tells you it feels mocking, then suddenly you're unable to tell if her voice was dripping with sweetness or condescension.

Sweet, Sweet, stupid Y/N. Willing to risk it all for someone who would never love you back.

She was right in saying you were hers. Your heart did belong to Shiv. But Shiv wasn't yours. She never was, and she never would be.

She cups your face in her hands, thumbs gently stroking your cheeks before she pulls you into a sweet kiss that seems to go on forever and you revel in the feeling of her lips on yours, grasping onto her as though she might disappear until the kiss tastes salty from both of your tears.

It felt like a farewell.

You don't let go of her, wanting to keep the feeling of the soft warmth of her skin against yours, fingertips slowly raking down her arms, starting from her shoulders, taking time to map out each and every beautiful blemish on her skin on the way down. It reminded you that Shiv was in fact still human.

You nick your finger on something sharp and quickly retract your hand hissing as you look down to see the glimmering emerald of a ring sitting on her finger; a reminder of who you really were to Shiv: someone to pass the time with when her husband the man she chose over you, was gone.

She moves her hands out of your reach.

"You just...keep on hurting me" you whisper out dejectedly through your tears.

You felt like you'd never forgive her for coming here and making you experience this all over again. You’d never forgive yourself.

Sure, Shiv was laying in your bed...in your arms but nothing had changed.

She presses her forehead against yours, and you reach a hand up to touch her cheek, to check if she was still there physically, despite the cavern of circumstances separating you from each other, despite the emotional gap she’d intentionally forged between the two of you.

“i know…”

You let out a shaky sigh “I…I don’t know if it’s doing either of us any good to keep seeing each other.”

"I know..." Shiv wobbles out, finally allowing herself to cry freely,

*

You hated her. You loved her. You wished you'd never met her. You didn't quite know how to live your life without her looming presence in it.

With a chaste kiss against your collarbone, she presses her face into the gentle curve of your neck, and you wrap your arms around her to pull her against your chest.

You exhale shudderingly and press your lips to the top of her head, taking a deep breath to inhale the scent of her coconut shampoo one the last time. Eyes snapping closed you mumble a silent mantra into silky strawberry-blonde locks:

Love me, Love me, Love me.

Maybe in another life.

____

You don’t allow yourself to feel surprised as you wake up the next day and Shiv is gone.

This is one occurrence of many that you have been left reeling by the hurricane that was Shiv Roy, but it still hurts just as much as it did the first time as you feel your heart cracking.

[peachyteabuck]

i’m out of my head when you’re not around

summary: shiv has a lot of secrets. you happen to be one of them

a commission for @cherrysweetdevine​

pairing: shiv roy x reader

words: 2366

content warnings: mentions of whorephobia (reader is a stripper), survival sex work, vaginal fingering, car sex, angst, they love each other but they Can’t Be Together, fingers in mouth, orgasm control/denial, D/s dynamics, “mommy” pet name used

Shiv is not a woman who likes to have weaknesses. She covers her tracks wherever she makes them. She has shell companies for her shell companies, and then shell companies for those, too. She’s got lawyers heartless and well-paid enough to defend her. She’s got corporate spies, and government ties, and both fear her.

Somehow, though, you’ve weaseled your way into a certain spot in her chest that pangs when she’s far away from you for too long. It’s not as though she can text, email, or call—all of which are discoverable in the event of an unfortunate legal situation. No, she has to go in person, has to speak in a subtle code, and hope you understand. She has to leave her phone in the car, contacting her driver with a different burner each time. She’s careful, practiced, and precise.

Especially when she sneaks out to see you during work hours. She’d deny it if anyone asked—not that they were dumb enough to think they could ask her such a question. What Shiv does off company property is no one’s business but her own, and she intends to keep it that way.  

Entering the facility, she refuses a coat check (she knows from you the person running it tonight has sticky fingers, and a penchant for mixing up tags) and slides into one of the velvet-lined semi-circle couches in the darkest corner of the club. It’s far from the stage, the usual clientele leaving the seat vacant for that reason. Not many people are here—probably because she decided to come after the dinner rush. A smart move, considering how much she hates being overcrowded. It’s stifling, to be around many people—especially when all of those people are old, sweaty men.

She’s not here to throw cash, though, she’s here to see you.

And you, she notices, have just stepped onto the floor. Not only that, but you’re wearing the dress she bought you recently.

The white dress, dripping in hand-beaded, translucent crystal fringe, hugs your figure. The crystals move as you do, dancing as if they’re the ones on stage. Each one shines in the light, licking at your skin like flames onto wood. You don’t let it subsume you, though. No one else could wear that dress like you are right now. No one has the presence powerful enough to rival the crystals, or the V-shaped hem, or the deep neckline. The shoes, the ones she also bought you, are the same white as the dress. The toe strap has just enough crystals to call attention to them were you to be upside down, the ankle strap and thick heel bare.

The most important facet of your attire, though, is that Shiv had it custom-made for you and had it delivered to your apartment on the Upper West Side. She saw it on a model during fashion week, touting the gaudy, too-short dress with an atrocious pair of heels and a walk that reminded her of tripod dog that just woke up from a deep nap.

Shiv saw something though, behind the horrid styling and wretched model. She saw a chance, which she immediately took to prove that she hadn’t forgotten about you despite months of no contact.

If Shiv were anyone else, she would’ve grabbed you already—gave you a giant diamond ring and an outrageously expensive wedding and swept you to some cottage in the countryside where she’d make love to you as if she was trying to produce an heir.

But she’s herself, and you’re you, and so she finds herself here: in this high-end strip club-slash-sex dungeon, watching you from afar like a hunter in the brush. At least for them, though, they have the pleasure of taking their kills home.

No, she just saw a five-figure price tag and filled out the check. What can she say, she likes things that are expensive. She anything as long as it has a big enough price tag. The powerbroker inherited an unfortunate number of traits from Logan—her hairline, how she likes her coffee in the morning, the way she expresses love in the same way the average general speaks to their soldiers. This, though, seems to get her into the most trouble. Particularly, the most trouble with you.

One of the other girls offers her a menu as she sits down, one she turns down. She knows what she wants, ordering a bottle for herself and a single cocktail for you.

It’s not long before you find her, sitting to her right. Right after, the sever brings her order and leaves without saying anything else. She’s seen you and her together before, she knows she won’t be needed until it’s time to pay the tab.

“Fancy seeing you here,” you say, no hint of irony in your voice. Shiv likes that about you, how dry you are. No lube before the fucking, just how Shiv likes it.

She takes a long drink from her glass, savoring the rich taste for a moment before speaking. “I could say the same to you as well.”

“Still with your husband?” you ask, sipping on the virgin sex on the beach. Shiv could convince you to do quite a lot—but you’d never drink on the job, and you don’t intend to start now. Even for the beautiful woman with a bottomless wallet and a toy collection that would put the pro-dominatrixes who work in the club to shame, you’ve got to keep a clear head and not break house rules. It’s kept you alive this long, and you’re not one for breaking tradition.

Shiv respects that, popping the cork and pouring herself a glass of 2007 Sassicaia. She’s the only woman you had ever met who drinks red wine at a strip club, but you admire her commitment to avoiding champagne and vodka.

“By all legal accounts,” is all Shiv says in return. A divorce is costly, even with the prenup, and could make her appearance to shareholders worse. She’s tough, and a good CEO, but the bastards are always looking for a way to undermine her. Still, she and Tom haven’t slept in the same bed in years, now, their legal addresses are the same only in case someone were to ask. They haven’t spoken to each other about anything except business in even longer, their conversations about times when they need to be seen together going through their assistants.

Shiv Roy maintains a steeled image, and she can’t give that up for anyone—even you.

You know it, too; your profession acts as a piece of bulletproof glass, separating you for eternity.

This job may not have been your first choice. In fact, it was a last-ditch effort to keep yourself from getting evicted. Your mom may not know what you do, your career a shameful red A on your personhood. You lie to anyone who asks, dodging questions from landlords and lenders and your financial advisor.

But it had paid for your niece to go to nursing school. It had kept your sister out of collections when she had that cancer scare. It kept a roof over both of their heads when both of them lost their jobs. It keeps you out of debt and your apartment paid off. You don’t have a lifeboat, you are a lifeboat.

Shiv can’t understand that. The silver spoon hidden artfully under her tongue still shines when the dim lights of the house floor hit it just right. You can’t be too mad at her, though. The valley it creates between you keeps you from getting too close, from falling into her clutches. She’s a customer, and, you, providing a service. A very expensive service. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less. It keeps you both in your respective rigid categories, the borders shocking you every time you attempt to navigate past them.

“Meet me outside?” she asks, raking her eyes up and down your form. You shake just a bit as you break from your own line of thought, remembering the rest of the world exists. “I know your shift’s over soon.”

Shiv’s right. Even if she wasn’t, it’s not like you’d make more money showing your lace thong to the grandpas currently whistling at your coworker.

You nod, not giving her the satisfaction of a verbal reply. She just smiles, though, knowing she’s won and that there’s nothing anyone can do about it. There’s a certain smugness that comes from succeeding in battle, and Shiv will take it in any form she can. At least silence saves your dignity.

“One more thing,” she leans over to whisper, her lips just barely grazing the shell of your ear. “Keep the dress on.”

Back in the dressing room, you put on the biggest coat you can find, mindful of handsy customers’ bad habits regarding dancers out in the unprotected open. See a pretty woman in a short dress, and know she’s a dancer? It’s a concoction that ends in either a police report or a trip to the morgue, and you don’t have time for either. The mink and chinchilla fur blend keeps the February New York air from biting too deep into your skin, and the general public from seeing you dressed to the nines on a Tuesday night.

Confident in your half-hearted disguise as a normal civilian, you somehow find the courage to leave.

The dancers all have a special exit, patrolled by two security guards who are big as houses. They’re Russian, covered in tattoos, and wear earpieces you’ve never seen them talk into. They have, however, made sure no one who isn’t a dancer gets into the dressing rooms and kept every creepy customer from harassing leaving girls. In your book, that’s all you need to know that they’ll keep you safe.

You can feel their eyes following you as you step into Shiv’s car, the driver opening the door for you before walking back to his place in the front. Shiv’s already there, working on a tablet you’re sure is on airplane mode. She doesn’t look up to greet you until the car has already begun driving, and even then all she does is press a button on the central console.

You watch as the soundproof partition rolls up, the driver’s blank face staring straight ahead as you watch him disappear behind the black divider. Only then does Shiv turn to you, leaning forward to press your foreheads together.

Her perfectly manicured nails—painted in a deep purple that contrasts her pale skin—trace up your leg. “I’ve missed you, you know.”

In the safety of the car, you let your guard down. Your thighs open slowly, carefully, making room for her between them. But she doesn’t go that far, instead tracing up your navel before cradling your cheek. “And I know you’ve missed me, too.”

All you can do is flick your eyes between looking at her hand, and looking into her eyes.

“C’mon, open up, darling,” she coos, her index and middle finger rubbing over your plump bottom lip. Your lipstick, a matte nude meant to keep all the attention on your dress, doesn’t come off on her fingers just yet. For that, you’re grateful.

You hesitate for a moment, looking from her soft hands to her relaxed face. Shiv pouts, her calm demeanor giving way to a faux-niceness that has your center aching.

“Baby, don’t be like this,” she tuts, moving her hand so her thumb ever-so-subtly pulls your lips apart. “Let Mommy have some fun before we get home, won’t you?”

You nod ever so slightly, swallowing in a weak attempt to build your own courage back up. “Yes, Mommy. I’m sorry.”

She smiles as you open your mouth, welcoming the intrusion.

“Such a good girl for me,” she coos, her fingers rubbing circles onto your tongue before thrusting to the back of your throat. You can feel bits of drool fall down your chin between your thighs and pooling on the seat. It’s not the worst thing these seats have seen, at least not from you. And yet here, now, as Shiv balances her other hand behind you, as her wedding ring glints against the bright billboards of the city…

You gag around her fingers, the sudden drop in your ability to retrieve oxygen causing you to jerk.

“Shh pretty thing,” Shiv whispers, moving to rub at the tip of your tongue again. It gives you a chance to breathe, even as your jaw aches and your desperation grows. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.”

You can barely hear her over the ringing in your ears, your heart a racehorse in your chest. Your body slumps against the seats as you try to steady your breathing, but the last thread of your self-control snaps as you feel her tease at the thin fabric covering your weeping pussy. She doesn’t take them off, merely pushes them to the side.

“Fuck,” your voice is barely above a whisper, breathy and wonton. Her movements are confident and practiced as she gathers your wetness, circling it around your neglected clit. You buck into her hand, your hips moving on their own accord. No one else can touch you as she can, no one can elicit the same animalistic moans as her middle and index finger curling inside of you while her thumb rubs at your clit.

It’s good, it’s so fucking good, and all too soon you’re muffling your moans by biting into your hand as your other hand digs into her arm. Just a few more presses, just a few more twists until you-

Shiv laughs as she pulls away, watching as your face contorts and you cry out choked sobs.  

“Nuh-uh, baby,” she smiles as you whine, kicking your feet and pleading quietly. “Gotta make sure you have a reason to come home with me.”

It’s only then that you realize the car has stopped, and Shiv is moving your dress down and coat to cover your body. You follow her, stumbling along as she leads you. Still, in your frenzied state, you know you’d trust her to lead you safely anywhere.

[vclvetfleur]

Obedient

Pairing ▹ Roman Roy x Fem! Reader

Synopsis ▹ After graduating college, you had a hard time finding anything. You were living paycheck to paycheck, until your old college roommate tried to help out with getting you an interview at her job, Waystar Royco. After a mix up, you find out that you were interviewing for Kendall's little brother, Roman. The more time you spent with him, you realized his whole facade of being the weird noisy arrogant douche was just to cover up really dark issues. But how much of it can you take til it just becomes way too much for you? You had your own stuff to deal with.

Notes ▹ I decided to finally start a series about Roman. There is not enough fan fictions about him. There's going to be talks about past traumas and unhealthy coping mechanisms. I plan on making the character have deep rooted trauma as well, but hiding it a lot better than Roman, not as well though. There will be triggers for past child abuse, implied (c)SA, mentions of EDs and some substance abuse. Regardless of the heavy tones, I hope you have fun reading. This is mostly a therapy writing thing.

.・。.・゜✭・.Playlist ・✫・゜・。.

Chapters ▹ Chapter 1 , Chapter 2, Chapter 3 , Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 14, Chapter 15, Chapter 16, Chapter 17, Chapter 18, Chapter 19, Chapter 20

[bowieandqueen11]

Kissing Roman Roy Would Include...

Request: oh my god! your kendall roy kissing headcanons were adorable! would it be possible to get some for roman as well? i just know that man is touch starved and definitely had an awkward time kissing the reader early on in their relationship. obviously, you can choose to ignore but thank you!

Awww yes of course you can get some my love this man is 100% touch starved you’re so right <3

LADS OKAY I’M COMING BACK TO SAY THIS IS NEARLY 7K AND MY LONGEST FIC BY FAR LMAOO BABYGIRL CODED anyway comments are much appreciated because I am so tired lol ty ty ily all! :)

Warning: mentions of injuries/ blood, childhood abuse, and some swearing! Also MAJOR spoilers for Season 4!!

(I do not own Succession or its characters, all rights go to creators. Gif credit goes to @xihatiancai.)

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°

We all really took one look at Roman Roy and went wet pathetic disgusting meow meow man I love you, and I really love and appreciate that for all of us. Because like... if not babygirl, why babygirl coded?

The first time you guys ‘kissed’, you were both around seven years old: on the tennis court, Shiv had sent a ball flying at Roman that had bent his hand backwards, and left quite a nasty gash of blood running down his arm. Instead of comforting the brother she had just bruised for the umpteenth time, the set of Roman crawling down to sit on the grass while cradling his arm just made her furious, and she went storming off towards the kitchen for some chocolate milk to cool down. You had been watching from the doubles side line, dropping your own racket as soon as Roman began to snivel, squeezing his skin back together and wincing as warm blood gushed out onto the grass. You run over to kneel in front of him, the harsh rays of light blushing across your head like a halo as you grab onto his elbow. You press the back of your shirt against it, hoping it will do until a nurse or one of the waiters comes running out with a first aid kit; as you glance up, the furious face of his father comes pacing past the balcony doors, and so you turn Roman’s head to look at you instead, praying that he won’t spot him. It will only make him whine more. It surprises you when he curses curtly instead at the feel of your fingers pressing down hard against his wound, but when you mumble an apology he finally stops scowling down at the ground and looks up: it’s as if he’s seeing you properly for the first time. His eyes light up as you gently lean down and press a kiss against the bloodstains; just the slightest hint of pressure, and tingling warmth of your your lips is enough to send a flourish through his body and make Roman Roy feel nourished. No longer withered, no longer left to rot. Roman gazes up at you: past the dappled sunlight, past the dotted clouds, past the earth and skies and heavens, and past it all he sees you. 

You’re the first and last person he’s ever wanted to kiss. Like craving poison, he knows it will pass through and destroy him if he allows himself to indulge. But by god, if it wouldn’t taste so sweet as it pours down his throat and overwhelms every dilapidated part of his body.

The first time he works up the nerves to kiss you back, is in one of the pool storage huts just past the outer boundaries of his father’s estate. Shiv had finally convinced her father to allow her out into the city to go shopping for some new suits, and Ken had been chained into a business meeting to take notes for Logan, so Roman had been left all alone to wander around the ostentatious shadows and lonely halls of the house he hated to call home. Feeling trapped, like he couldn’t breathe, he wanders towards the ‘safe space’ the two of you had created a couple of years ago: a small nook you and Roman had spent the day nestling out (and nearly breaking his arm shoving unused surfboards and pool cleaning chemical boxes) in the dim, and slightly damp room. Finally feeling at home as he stepped into the mildew-steeped scent cloud that enveloped the square box stuffed full of things his father had wanted out of his sight, his heart is allieved to spot you already there. You don’t even have to look up from your book as he comes dawdling towards you like a puppy afraid it’s about to be kicked. When you open your arm up to him willingly, the true him comes leaping forth: like a darting hummingbird, he comes flying  into your side, nestling his chin on the hard part of your shoulder so he can scan the words lazily past your head. After about half an hour of him gripping onto your shirt, as sweet and softly as infant spring, he glances up towards your face and an overwhelming urge overtakes him. Before he can stop himself, before he can make sense of his decision, before he can chide himself for his weakness, he lifts his head up and presses his lips firmly, if a little harshly, against the side of your cheek. Your book crashes to the floor with a thunderous slap, lifting a small cloud of dust as you raise your fingers to the wet spot in surprise. He immediately shuffles backwards at the noise, before making an awkward, fumbling excuse and running out the door.

He never brings it up again, but whenever you’re round at the Roy residence after that you can feel the intensity of his eyes land on you far more often. He blinks away and scratches the back of his neck nonchalantly whenever you catch him, or sometimes scrunches his nose up and starts biting the edges of his fingernails if he’s really nervous. But the love is there. He just can’t say it yet.

Once, when you were the only person in the house besides Connor and Logan, you were asked by the second-born eldest son to help him find Romie. With a concerned sigh, Connor wanders off to check behind the bathroom door off the living room, his lips forming a tight line as he disappears off down the corridor. Turns out, Logan had found out that Roman had been the one to spill his ice cream cone in the car on the way back from his fencing lesson, and Roman had run off cursing and crying when he heard the roar reverberate out from his father’s office at the news. You know where he is, instinctively. Of course you do: you don’t even need to think as your feet guide you towards his bedroom, and your body shrinks down to scoot under the bed and lie on the pristinely clean floorboards. He’s hiding behind the tendril weeds of his fear, making himself as small a target as possible as he balls himself up, trembling like heavy branches when lanced with frost. From behind his raised elbows that protect his face, he’s sniffling, his feet leaving the ground every few seconds from how harshly they shake. You lie down carefully on your side beside him, so hyperaware of any part of yourself brushing against him, in case the wounded creature decides to bolt. Thankfully, he comes sliding towards you, only stopping when your chest does the job for him; being as physically close as he can get to you, he huddles into your embrace while you stroke back the few curls by his ear. Once you’ve finally managed to choke back your own tears, your lips latch onto the spot of skin by the lobe of his ear, eyes closing and ticking his skin. He warbles against you, shivering, and the kiss just makes him whine more harrowingly against your chest.

Romie’s always around you. Always. He finds it difficult to actually be physically intimate, so it says quite plainly (even if you can’t understand it yet) that you’re the love of his life when he comes barrelling down the front stairs of the veranda and straight into your hug whenever your first foot falls onto the estate. It also means that during family dinners, when he’s finally mastering the skill of slouching back in his wishbone chair and tuning out all the horrible and spiteful things wrapped up in faux sincerity his family are saying about each other, he turns instead to kick your feet under the table. The brush of his ankle against your shoe is soon followed by the heavy pressure of his fingers reaching over onto your lap and entangling with your own. When the two of you are finally excused, you decide not to go back inside straight away. Instead, the two of you go for a dander around some of the verdant fields around the edges of the property: a few green patches here there that are filled with the scent of honeysuckle and freshly blooming rainbows splattered amongst the dirt. You decide to stop and sit for a while on the edge of a cobbled stone wall, laughing as Roman nearly falls off the uneven patch as he settles down beside you. He shrugs you off with a wave of his hand, but he’s smiling as you pluck a daisy from between the blades and tuck it behind his ear. For a while, the two of you just exist: watching the sunset brew violet and lilac gleams across your eyeline, talking shite and poking fun at each other, until Roman shyly takes a break from his rapid talking to blink slowly. He leans his torso forward, and after a bashful burn flickers over his cheeks, he squeezes his eyes shut and plants a wet kiss against your cheek, just like he had done all those years before.

He climbs into your room later that night, and you nearly hit him with a baseball bat when you come strolling out of your bathroom to see a teenager laying splayed out in a heap on your rug, a few pages of your homework flying over your desk from where he had banged his knee and tripped. With a lopsided grin, he decides to just stay lying there (once you had convinced him that you weren’t going to actually hit him). Sometimes Roman just likes to watch what you’re doing: to observe as an outsider what normality, what contentment should and could feel like. As you sit by your lamp and finish off your english essay for the next morning, you notice with furrowed eyebrows that Roman is moochier than normal tonight: he keeps squirming, rolling about and whining as if he’s debating something in his mind. That’s why when he’s gripping onto the ivy and finally climbing back down into the darkness later that night, you grab onto the collar of his sherpa jacket and heave him up through the air like a flustered bird towards you. After his initial surprise at the feeling of you pounding your lips against his own, he melts into you: clumsily, messily, desperately, but with one hand gripping so hard onto your window frame that he splinters the wood. His top lip refuses to let you go: capturing onto your bottom lip over and over and over again, the sweet taste of cherry flooding your senses as you bite down on the lip forcing its way into your mouth. When he pulls away, he looks so uncharacteristically serious for a moment as he hovers a few inches away from your face. His eyes never break from your lips, as if he he looks away the miracle he’s been graced with might fly away and he’ll be left with the hellish nightmare of his normal reality. But it doesn’t, and so you let him go.

He burns a crimson red and starts muttering incoherently as his feet work their way back down the garden lattice, but he’s got this giddy smile and a spring in his swishing walk the whole way home.

I mean, like, of course Connor invited you on the camping trip. And man, I mean the tension that had been expanding between you and Roman over the last few years was becoming more and more obvious to his brothers, and it pierced Roman’s heart with a stroke of fear when he realised it was to him as well. Connor’s little fishing expedition by the river turned out a little differently than he expected: instead of a placid moment between family, learning and teaching new skills together and bonding over one activity they could all share in, it was more of a ‘watch little gremlin Roman flirt obnoxiously with Y/n and, once again, ignore everyone else’ fest. Kendall sat on the shore, itchy against the reeds of grass and sighing every time he looked down at his watch. Connor was still having fun, though, from where he was wading his brand new, and never worn again wellies into the shallow end of the creek. It was just that every now and then he would have to trip over his fishing line and scoot to the right to avoid large splashes of weedy water landing on him; Roman had decided a much better use of his time was to try and pull up handful of mud and chase you around the river side with it. Your squeals, as you ran around the tamarack trees and peered around the sides like a meerkat, could be heard from the campsite. So, too, could Roman’s hyena laugh as he went laughing around the bend after you, and Connor had to spend half the night ignoring your shared snickers as he apologies to camper after camper. 

I don’t even know how, but somehow the two of you managed to convince Connor that it was a great idea for you and Roman to share a tent. Thanks to Kendall’s pointed warning for the two of you to behave and ‘not embarrass the family name anymore’, you were both surprisingly well behaved during the night. Mainly due to the fact that before you fell asleep, you leant over and left a chaste kiss against Roman’s cold forehead, before turning onto your side facing him and wishing him a goodnight. He wiggled down into his sleeping bag like a little worm as the electricity from your touch spread down like firebolts through his body. That man did not sleep one wink that night. Not one. Instead he rolled onto his left side, and chose to spend his time contemplating you: taking you in. The milky buzz of twilight flooded through the loose zip, the chirp of bouncing crickets on the darkened rocks outside match the intense thudding of his heart. Fumbling his fingers up so they rested underneath the side of his jaw, he made himself comfortable as he observed the way your chest rose and fall: the way your nose crinkled up in disgust when you were in the throes of a weird dream, the way your mouth mushed as you turned more into the stony ground. How much he loved you. How happy he could be if he could just summon the bravery to tell you. How fucked he was. How, if he did, his father would immediately utilise it, weaponize his love against him.

Roman wasn’t stupid, but he was. He didn’t know if he could find a way to escape this cage. Deep in his heart, he knew there was no key to this dog kennel, to this bird cage, to this leash. But he lay there, still, dreaming of freedom.

You get invited along on their family holidays a lot, mainly because Logan spends his whole time on phone calls and not mentally being present so he doesn’t really notice you’re there. If you and Roman aren’t spending the afternoons sitting together on a sun lounger, reading aloud softly to him by the pool side, it’s spent actually in the pool. A freshly seventeen year old Roman had seemed nervous, besides the usual annoyance at having to wear nothing but swimming shorts: shaken all day; when you touch his pinkie finger and grip onto it, silently asking him with your stern expression if you were okay, only the most miniscule of grins could cross his face in response. He still seemed unsettled in the water, besides the fact that Shiv’s foot nearly thwacked him up the face as she and Kendall wrestled each other under the water, both unrelenting in their accusation that the other had lost their splashing match. While you watched on in horrified curiosity, you nearly jumped when you felt Roman softly touch your elbow and lead you away from the affray. You think he’s trying to guide you towards the Jacuzzis as you bob across the water, or perhaps back to his room to escape the antics of his family. Instead, Roman leads you further into the deep end for a moment; after a sharp turn right, you’re surrounded by a small well, a shallow area just out of sight of the main swimming area. The imposing walls loom over your head as you take a perched seat on the brick bench that runs around the semi-circle, and Roman’s breath trembles as he follows suit, sitting maddingly close to you. You open your mouth to ask him what’s going on, but before you can get a squeak out he’s lunged at you, fervently enough to make you nearly bite your tongue. It’s not super romantic, and it’s incredibly clumsy as an inexperienced Roman Roy mashes his lips against your bottom one until he can feel his teeth clash against yours. You can taste a touch of pineapple from the inside of his mouth as he sloppily raises his cupid’s bow, and soon after the tang of chlorine as he falls too far forward and sends you both tumbling backwards into the water. But when you come back up for air, heaving him up by his underarms and staring dumbstruck at him as he pants heavily and tries to look anywhere else, you burst out giggling. Roman’s smile grows brightly enough to blight the sun as he looks incredulously at you, the laughter only stopping short on his lips when he catches the squinting look of his sister watching the two of you from the boundary edge.

It’s the first and last time Roman Roy kisses you for a while, terrified that one of his siblings will go squealing to daddy and he’ll take you away from him. And then, suddenly, the two of you have grown up. Roman’s still stuck to you like glue, but the repression festers away in his stomach until he feels as if some kind of scaly tooth monster is gnawing away at his insides. He feels the leather tighten around his neck whenever he’s standing like an affronted ostrich in that office with his father, his master, his demise, his ghost, him. 

So, Roman starts to try and avoid you whenever he’s at Waystar, worried that the grief that never seems to leave his mind will strangle you if he lets you in. Terrified that his father will die, but also that his father will never die. That this is just another cage. Eventually, after weeks of him turning on his heels with a manic jolt and running out of every board room he spots you in: after months of the child dressed up as a man putting his phone to his ear and having nonsensical phone calls every time he passes you in the corridors, you manage to nab him when he’s walking out of the break room. Even though a stuttering cousin Greg thinks you’re trying to kidnap him when you grab Roman by the collar and start dragging him to the elevator, you refuse to let go until Greg’s waving hand is firmly shut behind the metal sheets. You let go, and he fumbles backwards onto the hand-rail that runs around the small rectangle with a bemused ‘what the actual fuck’, but you just cross your arms and stare at him, refusing to talk first. 

Your austere façade quickly drops, and you’re quick to slam your first into the emergency button on the panel, gripping onto Roman’s sleeve as the elevator lurches to a stop between the twenty-second and twenty-third floors. A kind of acceptance has washed over Roman, some kind of known and familiar claustrophobia from having spent his whole life locked up, his whole life thrown about sets in. He picks at his fingernails as his eyes dart about, wild and brutal and crushing as he looks around for an escape route. It’s only when you put a hand on his shoulder and draw him in for a hug that he breaks down; he squats down so the two of you are resting a few inches off the floor, his face buried just atop of your heart as he shakes and he cries and he allows himself the security to just crumble. To melt down. To kick his feet and hope his father feels the wring of the shackles against his own ankles. He hopes for the first time in his life, as you stroke the back of his head and shush him comfortingly, that they hurt him. 

Something changes between the two of you that day. You’re kinder to each other, and slowly to yourselves. It’s not outspoken, or rushed, or ravenous, but it begins to grow and grow and grow until it’s not only confusion and anguish that lies at the pit of Roman’s rotting core.

It starts with him becoming more comfortable showing affection to you around his family. Like you sitting on Roman’s lap at Shiv’s wedding reception, not listening to the speeches but trying to hide your giggles in Roman’s palms as he’s busy trying to take roses out of the centre piece and pin them through your hair. Or his full weight against you during the professional photos out on the balcony, and not even Shiv flicking her brother or Tom waving his hand at Roman to try and get him to behave could stop him from leaning backwards and planting a kiss underneath your jawline once the man said he was taking the final photograph. The two of you go out into the gardens later that night, trying to escape the ear-hammering loud beats of the D.J., and to try and make an early escape from the growing fight that seemed to be coming between Tom and Shiv’s old work acquaintance. With two beers and slightly tipsy heads, you sit down and talk on the dew-ridden grass, shoulders swaying against the other’s in time with the falling pine leaves. You felt like children again, and against the smouldering clash of fireworks that brandished the sky in bursts of red and gold, you both felt undying as well. He kisses you then, his hand reaching up to brush against the side of your cheek, his bottom lip teasingly tugging at your bottom lip and making you swat him away with a laugh. As you take his hand in your own and press a promise filled kiss against his middle knuckle, he hopes that one day he’ll be able to kiss you at your own wedding.

When you know he’s having a rough day at work, you like to try and sneak into his office and wrap your arm around his stomach, peppering kisses up and down his spine. Although he tries to shake you off like a startled starling at first, when he realises that you also managed to close the blinds on your way in without him noticing, he quickly relinquishes himself onto your barrage of adoration. He becomes all whiny, and soft, and needy, and all the things he’ll never allow himself to be outside of the security blanket of this closed off room. Although he still isn’t comfortable with anything too sexual, you won’t find him complaining as he wrestles you to the sofa. Once you’ve had the wind knocked out of your lungs, and Roman’s satisfied with how fully you’re splayed out on your back before him, he’ll go scuttling over to the end of the sofa and kneel down beside it. With a mischievous glimmer in his eye, he’ll swish his hips from side to side and come crawling up the sides of his body like a wolf slinking towards its dinner. Then he attacks: his tongue heavy and slick as he draws a hickey out just under the pulse point on your neck, pressing him firmly against you if you try to squirm away, chiding you with a warning. When it becomes too much, he lets you grip him up by his tie and walk him backwards until his thighs hit his desk. He jumps up to perch on it, and you stand between his legs as they tighten around you. You’re slow and careful as you loosen the material between your fingers, opening the first button of his shirt, and only the first so he doesn’t become too uncomfortable, with a satisfying loud pop. He whimpers as you lean over to scrape your teeth against the exposed skin, working your way up until your lips are tantalisingly hovering over the stubble on his jaw. He can feel your breath, hot and unsteady as it pants against him, but he still can’t stop the shiver that racks through him as he takes your hand and guides them under his shirt. With your hands firmly planted against his abdomen, you look at him quizzically, worried, but he just keeps his fingers on top of your own and answers you by sweetly pressing his top lip over his own. Just once, he wanted to feel safe, to feel okay with the love of his life touching his body.

The two of you have this game where you try to steal kisses from each other during the most inappropriate and annoying times possible. Oh, Shiv’s trying to talk to you in her kitchen about how her trip to England went? Roman barges in between the two of you, nearly making Shiv chop her thumb off, just so he can interrupt his sister by smirking against your mouth. Kendall wants to run through a presentation the two of them have to give the next morning? You’re grabbing onto Roman’s head as you run through the office, nearly giving him a heart attack as he scrambles backwards and allows you to drop his head back onto the cushion. With a full plant landing on his already pliant lips, Kendall’s left with a fed-up ‘hey’, yet unsurprised look of disappointment on his face as you run off back to your own desk.

When his father called Romie a moron in Prague, the look of desolation that crossed through his teary eyes was enough to make an angel weep. But it broke you even more when he pattered out of the dining area, walking shoulder to shoulder with you, but not saying anything. He was just staring down at his hands as if they were blotted: stained with specks of blood, and he would have to spend another sleepless night scrubbing them out of his skin. It wasn’t the first time he heard it, but it was the first time you were there to hear it too, and you weren’t going to let him get comfortable wallowing in that fearful acceptance. You grip onto his shoulder and steer him away from the milling crowd of sheep, stuffing him into a bathroom stall of the east wing of the hotel. Crowded together, Roman’s hamstring bumps against the porcelain as the two of you scoot about until you’re standing facing each other as best as you could. He looks at you, bleary eyed, and you look at him, bleary eyed. He breaks. Choking, gasping, breathless sobs, drowning in his misery. He grabs onto your shirt, clawing into the meat of your shoulders as if he’ll sink if he lets go. He keeps babbling through bubbles of spit about how he just wants to make his father proud, how he wants to be just like him, how he wants to prove that he can rule all this too. How he can never replace him. But he can. He wants it all to burn, but he wants to stand on the ruins and be the one to plant the foundations again. To make a better world, in honour of his father: in honour of the god of war that rages within his head. You press quick kisses on his sweaty forehead whenever you can, doing your best to dodge the quick turns of his head and wiping away the trails of tears with your thumb. All you can do in that moment, as you press your lips against the side of his ear and whisper it to the most intimate, lost parts of himself, is to let him know that you’re proud of him, no matter what happens next. You always have been, and even the ghost of Logan that possess Roman can’t stop that.

The sloppy kisses he gives you the next morning omg. When the two of you are sitting on your bedroom steps, and you’re biting your bottom lip in concentration as you try to do up the buttons of his dress shirt and make him look presentable in front of his family. Like a feral dog, he uses all of his leftover energy trying to nip and bite your fingertips, catching them on his tongue and pursing them against the roof of his mouth whenever he can.

You cannot convince me that Roman isn’t a jealous bitch. Like at Kendall’s fortieth birthday party, when he finally gives up trying to get up into his special little secret treehouse club, and Shiv has left him to go ham on the dance floor instead. You finally manage to convince him into relaxing for a fricking minute, making him join you at the bar. If someone tries to grab your waist, though, or butt into your conversation while the two of you are hyena giggling and seeing who can spurt more beer into the other’s face, Roman will full on goad them into fighting him. I mean, chest puffed out, crazed look in his face, hands up by his side until they send a weak shove in their general direction. It only ends when Roman either: near topples you to press a bracing kiss against your lips, or you dragging him off and having to hold him through the brackets of his arms. In the corner of the room, over by the sheets of warbling fire that seems to be coming from a central room, you stand behind his feet and wrap your arms up his chest. You can feel the fury roll off him, allowing him a moment to blow off the steam, until his head finally falls like putty and begins to synchronise his breathing to yours again after you hold your lips against the nape of his neck.

The kisses when he comes back after being held hostage (I am doing this so out of order apologies) omg??? He clambers sombrely to sit beside you on the deck of the boat, looking so out of place and serious as he leans back against the cushions. His siblings make fun of him, and tease him, and although he realises it’s harmless and he’ll see it as a key bonding moment a couple of years down the line, in the inside the typical Roy storm is brewing. He can’t say anything: just hides behind the jokes and snide comments so the words don’t choke him. You just feel his weight fall against yours little by little, until his hand reaches out and takes your own so tightly you know it’s going to bruise. The muscle in his jaw tightens and he squeezes his eye shut in an enduring pain at the sight of his father’s helicopter coming in to land. So, for that kind second before his life comes crashing back down around him again and he has to revert back, to hide behind the brick wall again, you take him over to the railings. It’s just the two of you, the warm sea salt stinging against your grimacing faces, and the ungodly sight of a near-naked Cousin Greg lying stretched out beside the slide below you. After a few goes, you manage to unlatch his claws from the white metal and replace them with your soothing palm, rubbing semi-circles against the back of his hand. You’re here. You’re here, with him. You’re not going to let him go it alone again, if he wants.

And he does. He could cry, he so desperately does. Some of the tension falls from his shoulders as he raises your joint hands to his lips and kisses them, gracing over every inch of skin his mouth can latch onto. 

You both know, in that moment, that it’s enough. It’s a promise. You’ll stick together, no matter what. You’ll love each other through everything, no matter what. You’ll stay around, no matter what or who he becomes.

Which brings me to... kissing him when you find out about the passing of his father. Standing on that boat, on the most joyous of occasions, feeling as if the whole world is shattering around you. Feeling miserable at the knowledge that deep down, some part of you is overjoyed by the news. Feeling even more downtrodden to realise, as the streaky eyes and thousand-stare faces of the Roy siblings flash back and forth in your line of sight as they pass the phone to each other, that Logan will never really be gone. They’re talking to his lifeless, empty shell through the speakers, but it doesn’t matter, because he’s here in this room. He’s staring through their eyes. Talking in their quivering, harsh voices. Pounding through their feet. Tearing them apart as they try to cling onto each other. In their accusations that burst through their mouths innately. In the ordered instructions hurled out to keep business running smoothly. Hidden between the cracks of their voices as they sharpen their words and seethe them out between clenched teeth when the slightest chance of Logan even being dead is raised. He’s here, right now, as you let go of the death grip Kendall and Shiv have on both of your hands and catch sight of Roman rocking backwards and forth on the floor.

Giving a final squeeze of apology to Connor’s arm, you take Roman out of the room before he combusts. The whole air seems to be chilled: still, like something’s lurking unspoken between the threads of air. Like you’re leading Roman through the cold remains of a morgue. He wanders around for a minute, not even hearing the click of the door as you close it behind you. Not even crying. Not even speaking. For the first time in his life, he looks so much like his father. Too much. It scares you. Until eventually he just closes his eyes and trods over to the wall, thumping his forehead down on the cool metal until it burns. He holds his hand out to you, cufflinks gleaming like the edge of a knife past the ceiling lights, as if he’s offering a contract out to you. Apprehensively, your tentative hand creeps out and places itself gingerly on top of his own. He takes it, his dry lips latching onto you until the bridge of his nose is resting now upon your hand. The deal is done.

When you get back to your apartment though, and Romie finds out that Matsson wants him to fly out and meet him in Norway... that’s when Roman gets weird. Devastated. Freaks out. Grieves. You come out from your shower, wearing one of his suit shirts as your pyjama top, and he doesn’t even give a whistle of appreciation. Instead he’s crumpled on the floor by the canopy of your bed, cradling his knees to his chest, swearing into his kneecaps furiously. But you - you, oh god, you’re the only thing that can stop him from being swallowed up by Logan’s fury. You tilt his chin up during a tangled rush of expletives I don’t dare to copy down here, a scowl setting itself into his face like stone. It begins to soften when he realises you’re touching him, when he can feel the scrape of your nail around his jugular. You do your best to warble an unconvincing smile as you turn his head to the side, so you can better wipe your bottom lip against the edge of his throbbing mouth. You mould yourself to him, working at his pace as he winces at first, before slowly falling more and more easily into your grip. His hands loosen from his arms and fall onto your triceps as he deliriously tries to come back to himself through searching through the velvety warmness of your mouth: by swiping against your tongue and choking back his grievances as you pant into his open, waiting mouth.

You wake him up the next day with a fond kiss against the tip of his nose, and for the first time in a long while he smiles before he wakes fully up. The morning light cradles his bleary face as he sleepily runs a few fingers over the edge of your cheek, before cradling himself into your side again. He feels safe, weary, anguished, loved enough to fall asleep again, after pressing a few gentle licks behind your earlobes to try and hear you laugh again. Even through it all, his main concern is you. 

You trace his features while he restlessly dreams, although he squirms from time to time and alludes you to the fact that he’s secretly awake. A kiss here, between the junctions of wrinkles on his furrowed forehead. A kiss there, on the patchy stubble just underneath his left ear. A few there on the dark circles underneath his eyes, until you’re balancing over him and holding yourself up by the hands splayed over his pillow. He just needs to be reminded he’s beautiful from time to time. That he’s perfect. That he doesn’t need to try and be someone else. To encapsulate his father. 

But also like, Roman fucking hates Matsson. The way he looks at you during the whole field trip, like a hunter about to swallow its prey whole. Although the continuous comments about his family, and the two new Co-Ceo’s, and the legacy of his father make him burn down to the pit of his stomach with a white hot fury, he can deal with them if he would just leave you the fuck alone. He doesn’t take kindly to anyone but him looking at his soulmate with such adoration and lust in their eyes, so if that overgrown yeti gives you the up and down check out one more time he might actually just deck him in the middle of the retreat. He bites down on his tongue so harshly that his taste buds begin to bubble and prickle with blood, deciding it best to storm off and collect his thoughts before he lashes out and does something he can’t take back. You finally manage to track him down a little way off the beaten track, winding your way over some cobbled steps to find a branched alcove with nothing but a bench and a breath taking view of the gushing river down below. He’s hunched over with his fingers knotted over his knees, his lips so tightly drawn together that at first you don’t even spot the droplets of blood until he turns with a raised eye to look at you.

He knows it’s not your fault, so there’s no convincing or apologies when you join him. Just Roman finally getting all of that pent up sorrow and distress out. After an awkward moment of bouncing your foot up and down, you decide your best course of action is to just open your arm up to him again, like you used to do when you were children. At first he raises a confused eyebrow, before the realisation dawns over his face, and his features crumble. His lips purse, his throat bobbing as he heaves the tears back down, but he can’t stop his lips from trembling as he falls into your side. That kiss was the sweetest, as he leans his chin familiarly against your shoulder and bumps noses with your own. He frowns, sobbing at the knowledge that he can kiss you, finally, in the way he’s been yearning for all his life, and yet it all feels so wrong. So upside down. So far away from what he had dreaming. The freedom feels like a tether, and yet he juts his chin out and latches placidly onto your bottom lip anyway, the tears trickling down and falling between your mouths. 

It’s an act of defiance. A key sliding into the lock. He still can’t say it, but he won’t allow himself to smother the feeling anymore. The first sip of poison gliding down his throat, and Roman prays as he presses his forehead tearfully against your own, that it would kill the Logan part of him first.

[springtyme]

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐈 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 ♡

Sydney Adamu

Carmen Berzatto

Michael Berzatto

Richie Jerimovich

Marcus Brooks

Luca (the bear)

Gary "Sweeps" Woods

Kyle Garrick

Simon Riley

John MacTavish

Jonathan Price

Eddie Munson

Steve Harrington

Felix Catton

Farleigh Start

Venetia Catton

Roman Roy

Shiv Roy

Kendall Roy

Tommy Shelby

Arthur Shelby

John Shelby

Alfie Solomons

Joel Miller (both hbo and game version)

Abby Anderson

Arthur Morgan

Spencer Reid

Aaron "Hotch" Hotchner

Derek Morgan

Emily Prentiss

Dana Scully

Fox Mulder

Dale Cooper

Wanda Maximoff

Natasha Romanoff

Yelena Belova

Matt Murdock

Sam Wilson

James "Bucky" Barnes

Miguel O'hara

Steven Grant, Marc Spector & Jake Lockley

[happy74827]

Just Words

[Siobhan Roy x GN!Reader]

Synopsis: Words can be hurtful (especially to most) but with Siobhan’s “5-star” personality and ability to not care about anything other than herself, you can’t help BUT spill some words. {GIF Creds: @olliviacooke// I took this off of google (fair warning) so I had to dig deep to find the OP}

WC: 2274

Category: Slight Fluff (?), Enemies to… trope {Trigger Warning: Foul Language (I really channeled the Roy family here), Logan}

I did not expect my first succession fic to be Siobhan… but honestly, I’m not complaining 👀 (fyi: this was a request and I stupidly forgot to “answer” so hopefully the anon who requested lovely Shiv finds this 💀)

『••✎••』

Siobhan Roy… mega bitch. You hated her. Well, that might be an understatement; you despised her. From the moment you met her, she was just a total and complete pain in your ass. Not to mention completely and utterly self-absorbed. She had the attitude and ego of a child.

So when you were made to work with her, you were less than pleased. Logan Roy, the only man who could top Siobhan in terms of being an insufferable asshole, had made you a deal. If you and Siobhan worked together to find a solution to the media shitstorm he was currently experiencing, he would put you on the team that handled the IPO of Waystar. It was the opportunity you had been waiting for, so you sucked it up and agreed.

You and Siobhan sat in the meeting, both of you looking like a pair of miserable children. It made Roman look like a ray of sunshine, and that was really saying something.

Logan slammed the door, causing you to flinch.

"Fuck," he said, taking his seat.

"What?" asked Siobhan, a tinge of irritation in her voice. It’s amazing how her mood could shift on a dime.

"Nothing. I'm just a bit tired of this fucking circus."

"Well, what the fuck do you expect? You made a public promise. If you can't make good on it, why not just say so? Why continue this fucking farce?"

Logan narrowed his eyes at her.

"If I wanted to hear that, Siobhan, I would have gone to my wife's bed. I don't need a cunt in my ear right now."

Siobhan rolled her eyes. "Jesus fucking Christ. I'm a realist. You're the one who wants to live in your fantasy world. Just fucking drop the bomb, tell the truth, and let's move on."

"The truth? And what is the truth? That my son’s a psychotic, drug-addled mess? That Kendall is a sniveling, entitled little fuck? A pathetic, whiny, little shit stain who can't do his job because he's too busy jerking himself off to his own sob story? Is that the truth you want to set free?"

Siobhan stared him down, and once again, you were surprised. You had thought the woman was completely brazen, but there were still limits.

"I'm not your therapist," she said.

"No. You're not. And I'm not going to sit here and listen to a woman with the emotional range of a fucking teaspoon telling me how to handle this situation. Now, I need to get on the phone with my PR team. Fuck off, all of you. Get back to work."

You and Roman both jumped up, quickly leaving the room. Once you were safely away from Logan, you took a deep breath and relaxed a bit.

"Jesus fucking Christ," you muttered, "I don't know how she does it."

Roman smirked, "Oh, she's a special snowflake—a real ball buster. You should see her with Tom. It's a fucking bloodbath."

“Tell me about it. It’s a raging dumpster fire, even saying more than two words to her. I feel like she's going to snap my head off any minute. I’m so tired of her bullshit, and she's the least of my worries. The whole family is a fucking disaster. And I don't have time for any of it…. No offense.”

Roman gave you a half smile. "None taken. You're right; I'm the best of a very bad lot."

"Well, at least you're self-aware."

“You fuckers talking shit about me behind my back?"

You turned and saw Shiv leaning against the wall.

"Always," replied Roman. "And it's fucking hilarious."

"Well, don't let me stop you," she said, rolling her eyes. Her eyes then shifted to you.

"I didn't realize we were having a fucking slumber party."

"Just having a bit of a break," you said.

"Oh, well, that's very fucking nice. I'm glad everyone is taking a fucking break because I've been dealing with our father, who is a raging psycho at the moment. You know, while the rest of you are fucking around, the company is dying. It's falling apart, and everyone is too fucking busy to give a shit."

"Come on, Shivvy. Take a breather. You’re starting to act like Kendall… and that's never a good look," said Roman.

"Fuck off, Ro.”

Shiv glared at him, then glanced back at you. The glare made you want to hide, but you refused to show fear in front of her. You had done it in the past, and it only fed her.

"Well," she said, "aren't you going to say anything? Or are you just going to stand there with your mouth open like an idiot?"

"I think I'll take option B. I'd like to live through this," you replied.

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"I think it's pretty clear."

"Yeah, I suppose it is. I guess I shouldn't expect someone like you to understand."

"Someone like me?"

“Shiv,” warned Roman, trying to interject. Personally, despite his whacked-out sense of humor, you actually enjoyed his company. He was definitely the least obnoxious of the Roy siblings. “Let’s not get into this now, okay? Just drop it."

"No. No, go ahead, Shiv. Let's have it out. Right here, right now. Let's see if you can handle it."

Shiv stared at you for a few moments, then she smiled. It wasn’t her usual smug, condescending grin. It was different, almost sincere.

"You think you're tough?" she asked.

"No. I know I am. It's a little different, don't you think?"

"Okay," she replied, her eyes darkening. She leaned forward, her face just inches from yours. Roman just looked at the two of you as if watching a tennis match. "You're so sure you can handle me. So why don't you prove it?"

"Prove it? Like, what, punch you in the face? Is that what you want?"

"Although, as satisfying as that sounds, I was thinking we all should just move on… maybe have a drink, talk it over? Yeah? No?”

Shiv just looked at you. "Yeah, I'll pass. I'm not here to make friends, and I'm certainly not here to kiss your ass."

"That's good. Because, honestly, I don't see you as the ass-kissing type. Tom, yes. You? Not a chance. You're the type who wants everything to be handed to you on a silver platter. I'm sorry, but I'm not the maid. I'm not going to serve you or kiss your ass. I'm here because I have a job to do, and I intend to do it. That's it.”

"Oh, right. I see. Well, then, why don't we cut the bullshit and just get right to it. How about you go back to whatever shithole you crawled out of and let the real people get on with things."

“Guys-” Roman started.

"Real people? Real people? You think you're real? You think this is real? I hate to break it to you, Siobhan, but you're not a princess, and this isn't a fairy tale. You're not the queen. Your father isn't the king. You're a spoiled brat, and he's… well, he’s Logan. He's not even a king. He's just a bully."

"Is that supposed to hurt me? To insult me?"

"No, but you seem like the kind of person who doesn't take criticism well. You’re doing a terrible job.”

Shiv stared at you, her lip curled up in disgust. She looked as if she were about to hit you, but the rage was just a facade.

"Well," she finally said, "It's a good thing we're not here to play fucking games, then. So why don't you shut the fuck up and get back to work? Unless, of course, you don't think you can handle it. Maybe you should just go back to where you came from, and let the real people get on with things."

Your nostrils flared. It took every ounce of strength in you not to smack the look off her face. But you knew better. If you started a fight, Logan would take your head off, and that was a fight you couldn't win. So, instead, you smiled.

"Fine," you said. "If that's what you want. I'll do my job, and you do yours. But, just remember, the day is coming when this little charade is going to come to an end, and when it does, it's going to be a lot worse than it is right now."

You didn't wait for her reply. Instead, you turned and walked away, leaving the two of them standing in the hallway.

Once you were back in the safety of your office, you collapsed into your chair and let out a sigh. You had just gotten your first taste of a Roy fight, and it was worse than you had anticipated. The worst part was Siobhan had gotten the last word. It didn't matter that you might’ve won. She had gotten the last good word, and you hated her for it.

As the hours ticked by, you became more and more frustrated. You were angry and bitter. You were pissed at yourself for letting Shiv get under your skin, and you were angry at her for getting to you.

So, when your phone rang and you saw her name, you were tempted to ignore it. You let it ring for a few seconds, then decided to answer.

"Yes?” Your attitude was short.

"Get your shit together," she snapped. “We have a meeting in five minutes. We have a lot of ground to cover."

That was, in fact, false. By the time you arrived, the conference room was deserted, and only Shiv remained. She was sitting at the table, her laptop open in front of her.

"What the hell?" you demanded.

"I'm sorry. Did you want a fucking audience? Because that can be arranged. But, if you don't mind, I would prefer not to have any interruptions."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the fact that we are both here, and we have a job to do. Now, either sit down and help me, or fuck off. I really don't give a shit."

You stared at her, and she looked up from her laptop, raising an eyebrow. There was no audience, and there wasn’t going to be one. So, you had two options. Either walk away and look like an idiot, or stay and possibly get chewed out again. You took a deep breath and sat down.

Shiv just hummed in response, then looked back at her screen. "Good choice."

For the next couple of hours, the two of you worked together, trying to figure out a way to turn the situation around. Arguments arose, shots were fired, and at one point, Shiv threatened to kick you out, but overall, it was a productive session. Logan wouldn’t be pissed, so that was a win.

"So," Shiv said as the two of you left the building, "Did you cool down?"

"What?"

"I'm asking if you cooled down. Do you feel better now?"

"Um, yeah, sure. Why wouldn't I? You know, besides the fact that we were at each other's throats for hours and the fact that we both wanted to kill each other. I'm peachy."

"Mm, peachy." She said the word like it was an insult. "That's a strange choice of words, don't you think?”

“What? The real people don’t use the word peachy, huh? Is it beneath you, Shiv? Do you only use fancy words and proper grammar?"

"Oh, I can be a real commoner when the situation calls for it. It's all about knowing your audience."

"Really? So, is this the commoner Shiv? Should I expect a new side of you?"

"Maybe.” She smiled oddly again. The one that made you nervous. "Maybe not. That depends on you. Do you want to know the real me?"

"No, not particularly."

"Good. Because I'm not interested in showing you. I’m just curious if you have what it takes."

"To what, put up with your bullshit? To put up with a spoiled brat who thinks the world is hers for the taking? Mmm, yeah, I think I've got what it takes."

"Okay, first off, fuck you. Second, you're a piece of shit. Third, I have something to tell you. So, listen up. This is important. Okay, ready?"

You were about to say something, but her expression stopped you. Her voice was low, her tone serious. You nodded.

"I'm a bitch. And, yeah, I have a temper, and I'm not a warm and fuzzy kind of girl. But, that's the thing, I don't need to be. I don't need to pretend that I'm anything other than who I am. I don't have to fake it because I know what I want, and I'm not afraid to go after it. That’s what you need to understand. It's not about what you think you need. It's about what you want and what you're willing to do to get it."

You just stared at her, unsure of what to say.

"So, let me ask you, what do you want? And are you willing to do what it takes to get it?"

You thought about it for a second. "I want a drink. A strong one."

A little comedy never hurt anyone. And judging by her expression, you could tell you had made her smile.

"Well, that's a start." Siobhan had a smirk on her face. "Alright, fine. Let's get that drink. Then we'll see how far that gets you."

"Yeah," you muttered, "I'm sure."

But, as you walked down the street, you couldn't help but think about the question. What did you want?

And what was Siobhan offering?

[wildlunar]

Gold, Vermilion

Roman Roy x Reader

word count: 1900

synopsis: images of his childhood haunt him with every breath; nothing ever leaves, nothing ever stays—except one thing

warnings: mentions of abuse

-

“Colours melt away with age,” his mother once said to him as she grappled hotfoot with the wine-coloured tie that hung loose around his neck. “They deteriorate, lose beauty; and in their place lies only grey.”

These perennial moments in England, between the ages of eleven and thirteen, are the only fragments of his childhood where he recalls Caroline standing close enough for him to touch her, though even then he was too scared to reach out and openly ask for her affection. 

Roman’s eyebrows crease. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Oh darling, don’t frown like that you’ll give yourself premature wrinkles! And it’s just a little witticism. Nothing to worry your pretty little head over.” She smiles—her usual smile, all feline and wry, that doesn’t truly reach her eyes—and pats her handiwork in faux regard. “It’s just my way of saying you should enjoy your youth.”

Though Roman can’t remember any part of his adolescence that he enjoyed, through the dissociation and drug-fueled hazes, at least not like he presumed a normal kid would have had. His mother had only ever cared about appearances. How she and, as an extension, her children were perceived by onlookers and higher society and to be seen as anything other than spectacular was the ultimate crime. And his father, in all his wicked acclaim, has never been particularly great at acting the doting parent especially during times when it would trump his business advancement. 

Inevitably, it was narcissism which robbed him of normalcy and anything akin to parental love, not that he knew that then and still struggled to accept now as he still waited on his father’s open palm like a starved dog. 

England, to Roman, was a sanction to roam free. A momentary let off the leash. Caroline barely spoke to him, which he both loathed and took delight in, he could explore the streets of London without being harassed by photographers or being recognised in the street. Alone, he was, for the first time in his life, alone enough to call himself an only child to passing strangers. His siblings were gone, living with their father for a couple of years before him as everyone knew of Roman’s struggles with change. They also knew he needed a little time to cope with the idea of being torn away from his mother. 

In the meantime, he carried on with his studies for two years in London and then agreed to follow after the rest of his family to America when the time was right. For once, it felt good to be invisible, to blend into society, though with it came a deep loneliness which he struggled to shake off.  

(Y/n) was the only friend he ever had in his childhood. Sure, there had been a few fleeting exchanges with others here and there but none of them were meaningful enough to bring home or stick for more than a few months. Summer, 1993; they meet when London is merely a holiday, a supposed escape from the city hubbub, not that there was ever an escape for him, in a park not too far from their private home. They were six years old then, Roman’s tiny palms holding onto Connor like a lifeline as he watched her and her sister running after their father with a water pistol, laughing in tandem—a real family. 

An onlooker in his own personal film, he eyes her from the swings, languidly sipping apple juice as his brother, ever watchful, sits away from him on a bench, reading a book he can’t remember. Roman’s eyes follow her in a way he’s unused to. He’s never been fascinated by things, he’s never had the attention span for it, though there’s something about her androgynous style and her callousness that makes him undoubtedly absorbed. She’s wearing an outfit that matches many of the boys on the opposite side of the park: black shorts, an oversized faded yellow t-shirt and thickset trainers that from afar look to be the same size as her head. 

When she sat beside him on the swing, breathless yet nowhere near exhausted, he believes he’s concocted an hallucination. Blinking away the vision, he watches, entranced, as she swung her little legs until she was soaring above the clouds, her head scarcely missing the leaves of a nearby tree. She’s good, better than he could ever be.

“Why aren’t you swinging?” She asks, slowing down in order to talk to him.

He peers at her underneath his sunglasses, shrugs, and pretends the reason he isn’t trying isn’t because he doesn’t know how. “Not really feeling it.” 

“Do you want me to push you?”

“Pfft, no.”

The girl cocks her head to the side. “You don’t have to lie. I don’t mind.” The tone of her voice almost sounds like a song.

Roman’s gaze is fixed on the floor, embarrassment seeping into his cheeks and colouring him red. And despite not answering her, she kicks herself off the swing and comes up behind him anyway, placing her hands gently against his back. It’s the lightest touch that’s ever grazed his skin and he desperately fights the urge to flinch away from it.

She doesn’t seem to notice. “I’ll push you and all you have to do is swing your legs at the same time. Alright?”

“Yeah,” he whispers and as soon as she hears his verbal confirmation, she is pushing him with all her might, placing her wings on his shoulder blades and willing him as high as she went. It takes practice but by the time the sun sets, he is able to wiggle his toes against the green leaves and laugh joyously at his achievement. And she is laughing with him, just as proud, as though she’s known him longer than those fleeting hours.

(Y/n) was always there, thenceforth; he would look to his side and there she’d be, picking up shells from the sodden sand or drawing a crude picture of one thing or another, and despite the clear distaste his mother held for the girl, there would always be an extra plate set out for her by the time dinner came around and after five years of fleeting summers together then finally attending the same secondary school and there still no being any sign of her departure, Caroline gave up on the idea of ever being rid of her.

There had actually been times when they got along. Although she was not from the family of an heiress nor held half as much money as the Roys nor his mother’s aristocratic pedigree, she came from the typical British middle class upbringing, never truly understanding either side when it came to the tribulations of money, and because of that Roman thought her lucky. Her father, Richard Keating, was a beloved psychology lecturer at King’s College, who everyone joked had become embedded in the very walls of the place and her mother, Joan, was an indie writer who wrote what he dubbed ‘pretentious whimsy’ set mostly in remote european towns, far away from the city buzz. And Laurie, her older and only sister, who was almost six years their senior and around the same age as his brother, Kendall, was an aspiring artist who everyone knew from the day she was born was going to end up being someone someday.

Coming from such a line of potential convinced her she was the runt of it, for she had no talent for paints or pens and preferred realism over the melody of pretty words. The blood running through her veins beat at a different tempo, much like his did, though he didn’t find this out until much later. All he could see was how bright she was: how her fingers traced the keys of a piano like a long lost lover, the way she walked, the way she kicked a ball, the tone in which she spoke or shouted or laughed at one of his crude remarks. Her light was the only beacon in a childhood where solely scars were birthed, not that he would ever reveal such a thing to her. It was too raw, too close to a confession, and he would rather spend his whole life playing ignorant than ever present his heart to her.

The most colourful piece of clothing he has ever worn consistently is the red and gold scarf that she got him on his twelfth birthday, the birthday before he officially turned his back on England and established himself in New York city as Logan Roy’s favourite washout. Just as they shared most things, the gift was a brother accessory to another scarf—her scarf—of green and dark blue that still smells like her despite him exhausting it from use. 

The paper it’s wrapped in is a parody of itself. They have already started getting each other ‘baby cards’ for every birthday—this one having an obnoxious ‘two today’ scrawled over a crude picture of Thomas the Tank Engine—and the wrapping paper has slowly began to join the theme, a baby blue background with various pictures of the train characters dotted around it. But the absurdity of the enclosure merely masks the gem inside. 

“You always want to wear my scarf so I got you one of your own,” she says in a mock annoyance. “Just so mine doesn’t go missing all the time.”

He held the cloth like others would gold. No one else needed to know they were conjoined this way, no one but themselves. It would be their most exposed secret.

As he grows older, he understands his mother’s words more than he’d like to admit. His face pales, his gaze fades and the patterns of his youth no longer suit his hollow form. He is hugged by monochrome though every winter the scarf remains, a mismatched contrast to his navy tailored coat and white shirts. Shiv calls it a fashion disaster but the memories of it remain a comfort when he reenters the offices at Waystar Royco. 

He catches Keats’ eyes through the glass wall. “Morning,” she mouths over the top of her computer.

Roman returns her gesture with a small wave, placing his coat and scarf over the hanger at the side of his desk. He notices her smile at the sight of it. 

On his desk is a coffee, much like every morning, with a pink post-it-note tapered to the lid. Roman likes to indulge in her idiosyncratic gestures—makes him think about their past with fondness instead of the ever ruling hand of the great emperor—and although most times he takes in the quotes with a scoff and a snarky comment, they are one of the only reasons he dares to get up in the morning. In bleeding black ink the note reads: to better days and almond croissants. 

Bewildered, he creases his brows, looking at her through the glass wall and gesturing to her his confusion. Almost immediately, as if already predicting his every move, she lifts up a brown paper bag, shaking it in his direction and raising her eyebrows cheekily. It was his favourite, she knew.

Rolling his eyes in mock annoyance, he picks up the coffee and treads to her office, returning to her, and as he enters the sanctity of its four walls, he spots her own green and blue scarf draped over the arm of the sofa.

[reveriexxgirlly]

you want a piece of me ? (repost)

Shiv Roy x Fem!Reader SMUT

Prompt: I want Shiv to dom and humiliate me, okay ?

Warnings: oral, orgasm denial, voyerism, fingering, squirting

Word Count: 2.0k

                                  ﾟ+*:ꔫ:*﹤　enjoy !　﹥*:ꔫ:*+ﾟ

“Oh my god, don’t stop. Please, don't- Fuck!"

I felt a sharp pain on my ass. I looked down and saw Shiv peering at me from between my legs with her glossy lips scowling at me.

“God, can’t you shut up? Do you want us to get caught?”

Shiv used the hand that slapped me to grip the fleshy part of my ass and started digging her nails into my skin.

I almost moaned out loud until I caught myself and quickly clamped my hand over my mouth to muffle my sounds.

“That's better.” Shiv said as she began giving me butterfly kisses on my inner thigh while I was trying to catch my breath.

“I’m sorry. I promise to shut up, just don’t stop. It feels so good.”

I responded with a sense of urgency because it was only a matter of time before everyone, specifically Tom, would begin to wonder where Shiv was.

Shiv smirked at my desperation, pleased that even though she was on her knees eating me out, it was her that was in control.

“Good girl.” That was the last thing she said before moving her head back to my center, taking my clit between her lips, and began sucking on it softly.

I clamped my hand over my mouth again and bit down on my palm hard. Stopping myself from letting out another loud moan. 

How the fuck did I get here? I came to this celebratory event for Waystar as Roman’s date, and now I’m in the women’s bathroom with his sister's face between my legs. Why did I let this happen?

I looked down to admire the sight before me. I was leaning against the wall with one leg holding me upright and the other on Shiv’s shoulder. Her eyes closed in complete bliss, as if she was savoring the taste.

Although her suckling made it hard to stand on a wobbly leg, it wasn't enough to make me cum. It wasn't like we had all the time in the world.

I tried moving my hips against her lips to reach an orgasm faster, but she kept pushing my hips against the wall to keep me still.

“Shiv, I need more.”

“Aw baby, you're not the one calling the shots here. I am.”

“We need to hurry, people are waiting for us. Tom is probably wonderi-”

“Don't say his fucking name.”

She gave me a cold stare. I seemed to have struck a nerve mentioning Tom, given the situation. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up Tom.”

Shiv stared at me as she was thinking, tapping her slender and manicured pointer finger on my thigh. After a few seconds her face lit up. All she needed was a light bulb on top of her head. 

“You know what, you’re right.”

“W- what?”

Shiv placed a final kiss on my clit, making me shiver from her light touch. She got up from between my legs and fixed up my dress. Making sure I looked presentable. Then she grabbed my panties from the ground before leaving the stall we were in and throwing them away in the trash bin. 

I stayed in the stall feeling stunned before desperation hit me once I realized I didn’t cum. I walked out to see Shiv standing in front of the mirror, reapplying her lipstick. 

“We should be getting back. You were right, we were gone for too long.” Shiv said nonchalantly.

“But...” I couldn’t finish my sentence, feeling foolish for what I was going to complain about. I looked down at the ground in shame.

“But what?” Shiv said turning to look at me with a bored expression.

“I didn’t get to cum.” I said quietly, glancing up at her and seeing Shiv pout her lips mockingly before she cupped my face with both hands and forced me to look up at her. 

“Baby, don’t worry. We’ll get to that later.”

Shiv said with a mischievous smirk, that both confused and worried me.

“Come on.”

Shiv said before she taking hand and pulling me out of the bathroom. We were walking through a crowd of wealthy people bickering, when Shiv finally spotted Tom. She let go of my hand and walked toward him.

“Shiv!” Tom said excited to see her as if she just arrived from a long trip when it’s only been 20 minutes.

“Hi honey.”

Shiv leaned up to Tom's face, who wanted to kiss her on the lips, but she avoided it and kissed him on his cheek instead. He was a little embarrassed by this, but considering she was eating me out a few minutes ago, I was grateful.

I cleared my throat before speaking up. 

“Hi Tom, where’s Roman?”

"I think he’s at the bar getting a drink with Logan.”

“Where were you guys?”

I was about to respond when Shiv beat me to it.

“Y/N and I were just in the bathroom talking.”

Tom was nodding at Shiv, then an announcement was made for everyone to take their seats since the speeches were about to begin.

“Shall we.”

꘎♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡꘎

It had been a few minutes since we all took our seats. I sat next to Shiv on my right, and there was a reserved seat for Roman on my left. It’s then I began to wonder where he was.

“What up, cum dumps?”

We all whipped our heads at Roman, walking up to our table, who looked so proud of his vulgarity. While Tom and I stared at him in bewilderment, Shiv rolled her eyes in annoyance.

“Hi Roman. Where were you?”

I said as he was taking a seat next to me. He looked at me, and his face lit up like he remembered that I was his date.

“I was talking to ol’ daddy about business, nothing too major.” Roman said, brushing off the situation like it was nothing.

“The better question is where were you? I didn’t see you around the room for like 30 minutes.”

I could feel the tension in the air when he asked that question, but of course, no one but Shiv and I could feel it.

“I went to the bathroom with Shiv.”

“What took you guys so long? Were you flickin’ each other’s clits in there?”

“Roman!”

Shiv scolded him, and Roman pretended to look scared of his sister’s irritation.

“No we were just talking, I didn’t realize how much time was passing us by.”

I said, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. I didn’t want Roman, out of all people, to catch on to what was going on between me and Shiv.

Before he could question me any further, the party planner spoke into the microphone. I let out a breath of relief, but during his speech I remembered the wetness between my legs, feeling it between my thighs. I hoped it wouldn’t seep into my gown, so I crossed my legs to try to prevent that.

I was squirming in my seat, and Shiv must’ve noticed because she leaned back into her chair and placed her hand on my thigh.

I tensed at the action and straightened my posture. I could see from my peripheral vision that it made Shiv smile.

Luck played a huge part in this situation. We were close to the stage, but behind us were walls from the sides of the room. Tom faced away from me, Shiv, and Roman, who paid no attention to me. Switching his attention from the person speaking on stage to looking at his phone. Not to mention the large white table cloth covering what went on underneath.

Shiv used her fingers to slowly pull my gown up to my hips. The action fed into my anticipation, although I worried that people would happen to catch on to what was going on under the table. 

Once the fabric gathered on my hips, she placed her hand on top of my thigh and lightly gripped the flesh to uncross my legs. I felt the cold breeze of the air conditioning brush against my wet lips, making me feel exposed in front of all these people. That’s when I thought back to when Shiv threw away my panties earlier for this purpose.

She started teasing me by running her fingers through my unshaven pubic hair, which was covered in my slick. I bucked my hips into her hand as a sign to give me more, resulting in a pinch in my inner thigh. I squeaked at the sharp pain but covered it with a cough. 

I turned to look at her, and her attention was on the guest speaker on stage, still smiling at our current situation. She glanced at me, noticing my teary eyes and the pout on my lips, and decided to give in. 

Shiv’s fingers landed on my clit and rubbed slow and tight circles. My pussy was so wet it spread everywhere from my lips to my clit, so she didn’t need extra lubrication. 

It continued until the entertainment for the night started, an interpretive dance which meant that loud music would be blaring throughout the room. So Shiv took the opportunity to slip her middle finger into my dripping hole. 

Unlike her gentle touch on my clit her pace started to get a more aggressive. The wet sounds of her fingers slapping against my pussy were being masked by the orchestra. The louder the music got, the faster and harsher her pace would be. 

There were moments when I wanted to scream, but I made sure to bite my bottom lip extra hard to prevent any sounds from escaping my mouth. I almost failed when Shiv added her ring finger into my pussy. 

It was starting to become too much, and her rough thrusts into my slit were resulting in her palm repeatedly slapping against clit, bringing me closer to an orgasm. 

I squeezed her wrist between my legs to let her know I was close. She seemed to get the hint and started going impossibly faster than before. My orgasm finally hit me, but this time felt different. I felt like I had to pee but I didn’t want to cause a scene so I relaxed as much as I could and let my pussy gush all over her fingers. 

I shivered from the aftershocks of my orgasm. I pushed Shiv's hand away when I started feeling overstimulated, and Shiv got the hint and pulled away. She grabbed her cloth napkin and wiped her hand. I noticed that not only her fingers but her wrist were wet. I looked down and noticed that the bottom hem of the tablecloth was drenched. I had squirted under the table and all over the cloth.

I panicked and pushed my dress down and back into place. I looked around the room to make sure no one witnessed the event that happened under the table. I felt relief when I saw that everyone appeared to be unbothered and slightly bored. I turned my attention back to the stage, and the rest of the ceremony continued as planned. 

꘎♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡꘎

When the event was over, I waited for my Uber on the curb in front of the building where the event was held. Roman offered to give me a ride as long as it was back to his place. I eagerly declined and hoped it would be the last of any invitations from Roman Roy.

“Y/N!” 

I heard someone call my name and turned around and saw Shiv lifting up her dress a bit as she was speed walking towards me.

“Shiv, what’s up?”

“I forgot to give you this.”

She handed me her business card. I was confused until I turned the card over and noticed her personal number written in pen. I started blushing at the thought of our future meet-ups being similar to tonight.

"We should definitely make plans to meet up next week because I think owe you more than one.”

She was pleasantly surprised by my answer and smirked before she leaned in, her lips nearly touching my ear.

“Can’t wait.”

She whispered before she kissed my cheek and again on the other one so it would seem like a normal goodbye gesture to others.

Shiv gave me a final wink before she walked away to her ride back home with Tom. 

I turned back around to wait for my ride and thought further about ways I could return the favor. 

[itsasainz]

the poison drips through | Roman Roy x Reader

Summary: grief is a natural instigator of reflection; Logan’s funeral forces you to look back on your own grief, and your relationship with Roman.

Word count: 7.3k

Warnings/tags: death of a parent (Logan Roy, reader’s mother), discussions of abuse (physical, emotional), grief and breakdown, mentions of addiction, depression and associated mental health struggles in a parent and in reader, implications of suicide, toxic and/or abusive familial relationships.

a/n: roman roy has a special place in my my heart. he’s awful, he’s product of his environment, I can’t justify his actions, I love him, it’s confusing, I don’t know. I binge watched all of succession in seven (7) days.

masterlist!

You’re not sure how old you were when you first met the Roys, but you find it strange to think of time pre-Roman, pre-Roy, when you were free of proxy-politics, hidden slights and subtle digs. You must have been a preteen, maybe twelve. It would make sense—the second summer after your father moved to New York, when he bought the house in the Hamptons. Your mother had stayed in London that summer, leaving you and your siblings to battle the sweltering Long Island heat alone with your father, who worked most of the summer anyway. Had it been the Sailing Club or the Golf Club where you’d first met Siobhan Roy? You aren’t sure, but you remember the bathroom where you’d run into her, and how a five minute conversation had turned into five weeks of friendship. It had gone beyond that five weeks—even when you got back to the UK, you’d found ways to keep in touch, and spent holidays together when you were in the same place; you’d grown accustomed to Kendall’s strange attempts at seeming “hip” and cool, and Roman’s whining and jokes.

Shiv had been, and is your friend—in many ways, your best friend—but you’d always had a sweet spot for Roman. It wasn’t until you moved to New York more permanently, right after you graduated, that you actually befriended him, your work at his father’s company at first forcing you into the odd work dinner or late night at the office, but routines were formed, at some point. Thursday lunches together, Monday morning coffees. At some point, he’d stopped seeming like Shiv’s whiney older brother, and become funny—most of the time. Roman, you had, at some point understood, took time. But most of your relationship with him came after Greece.

The first time you went on holiday with them—beyond the Hamptons or British countryside—you were twenty-three, and had found yourself on a ten-day trip through the Greek islands on Logan’s oversized yacht. It was that ten days that you realised that you were in, not particularly intentionally, but in nonetheless. You remembered everything about that trip; the private jet that took you to Thessaloniki, the starting point of the trip—you’d fly back to New York from Heraklion, with the entire family, who were coming from various outposts across the globe. To start with, though, it was just the two of you, walking on the scorched tarmac of Thessaloniki’s international airport, leaving the gleaming private jet behind, already feeling slick with set in the hot, midsummer air. You had appreciated the perks of a private jet that day—no queues, no crying babies or seats reclined into your knees—and didn’t have to think twice about where your luggage was, because everything had been taken care of by a team of people you barely saw, working like ants under the foliage. A refreshingly air conditioned car had brought you smoothly to the port, where a smaller boat, already stacked with your luggage, had taken you quickly to the gleaming palace on water that was the Roys’ yacht. The boat was like a small, disturbingly empty, city; an almost utopian place, gleaming and shimmering under the Mediterranean sun, a labyrinthe of rooms and decks and corridors. Despite the surplus of space, it was split between a select few; Logan Roy, of course, his four siblings and their own guests, a selection of board members and his third wife, who you’d met only once or twice before, Marcia. That day was languid, a steady flow of arrivals as the hours passed and the yacht sat just outside of the port, watched by the locals and tourists alike, most likely speculating about the owners of such a gratuitous yacht, carelessly waiting for all the world to see.

You and Shiv had been greeted by Connor, in his pre-Willa days, already in his forties though; Kendall had appeared at first without your notice, but the sound of his children, still babies then, had alerted you of his arrival, alongside his then-wife, Rava, who you still respected wholeheartedly. Roman had been next, harder to miss, making sure to “jokingly” insult everyone aboard within five minutes. You weren’t sure whether to feel flattered when it took him a minute or so to come up with an insult for you, but that train of thought was quickly lost to the arrival of the man himself; Logan Roy came with a fleet of people. He spoke about three words to you directly on that first day, but you supposed that wasn’t so bad—you were hardly novel to him anymore, given how your recent promotions had drastically increased your time spent with him and Kendall. Roman, however, was a different matter entirely.

You’d seen him around an awful lot, and spoken to him maybe twice, never for longer than a passing comment or introduction, though he knew of your friendship with his sister. And yet, here you were, on holiday with his family, and he was suddenly fascinated. Over those ten days, between your hours spent gossiping with Rava and his hours spent talking business with his brother and father, you somehow found time to get attached to the youngest son of the Roy dynasty.

Roman was a piece of a work, there was no denying it. He was insulting, defensive, childish, et cetera, et cetera, but he was often funny, too, and within days you had understood him well—he, like Kendall, Shiv and Connor, was driven by his father’s approval, but as is the way in any family, each of the siblings had manifested the same fears and motivations in different ways. Shiv’s fear of intimacy made for relationships with people who depended on her—for money or status—but who she could keep at an arm's length, and cast aside if they got too attached. Roman more openly craved connection, but his fears and traumas came to light in a more physical expression. The jokes at his expense had swiftly enlightened you to his troubled relationship with sex and affection, while, even this early on, Kendall’s addictions were beginning to form cracks in his determinedly “hip” façade. Most of these things you had already understood, but an extended amount of time on a vehicle that you can’t exactly leave had opened it all up to you—unlike the Hamptons, you couldn’t piss off to the other side of the island or back to the city, but only to the other side of the yacht, and even for a big yacht, it never allowed you to genuinely leave. The thoughts that would later become a strange, fucked up mantra began to formulate on that holiday; before you’d put it into words, or understood what you were asking yourself, the statement was swirling around your consciousness; the poison drips through.

Each of the Roy siblings was broken and damaged in a way you’d never seen before, but your long standing practice of people-reading and your love of untangling the dynamics within groups made the holiday a sort of project—by the end, you’d created a map in your head of the different events and people that made up the complex web of Roy troubles, built off the foundations laid by your friendship with Shiv and many brief interactions with her extensive family over the decade. It was an incomplete map—there would be things you didn’t discover until his death, a decade later, and things you would never know, but that initial map, fraction of what it would become, was the starting point for your relationship with Roman.

Your morbid fascination with the family, and apparent loyalty (though you only realised it years later) met with his intrigue with you. Shiv never brought friends on holiday, he disclosed on the third or fourth day—as such, everyone was trying to work you out, your game, your presence, beyond the limited stuff they already knew. But at the end of the trip, it wasn’t Shiv who you’d spent the most time with, but Roman.

You’d thought of it as a ten-day deep-dive into the family, one that wouldn’t be repeated and that would have few repercussions—for you, anyway, but something had been pushed into being on that yacht that would change the trajectory of your life.

Upon your return to the company, tanned and rested from your break, you found that your routine at work changed a little at first, and then a little more, and then completely. A week after the end of the holiday, Roman had barged into your office at around lunchtime, insulted a photo on your desk and dragged you out for an overpriced lunch to discuss work stuff—a legitimate offer, you later found out from Gerri, about an actual deal that he genuinely wanted to pick your brains about. The work-related talk had lasted maybe fifteen minutes before the two of you were side-tracked by something entirely inconsequential and spent the rest of the hour essentially gossiping. His coarseness surprised you a little, though it shouldn’t have, and you remember your initial reservations about his overt slights and hyperactivity—though nowadays you’ve grown to love both. The deal—the one he’d wanted to pick your brains about—had gone better than anticipated, partially, it was said, due to your counsel. So it became more regular—Thursday lunchtimes became your lunches with Roman, and he would stop by your office for discussions almost every day, uncharacteristically invested in his work, according to his siblings. You started to move up through the company too, taking on more responsibility, spending more time with the family, getting closer to the top.

At some point, you and Roman had become friends. You gravitated towards each other at galas and occasionally went for drinks after work on a Friday night. But, despite your time together, there was something odd about the dynamic—neither of you particularly spoke about your pasts, your childhoods. There was a certain shame you had about your upbringing—you knew it was entirely unfounded, that you’d been better off than the vast, vast majority, but then again, you spent most of your time with multibillionaires these days. Generally, you avoided discussions about family wealth, and guarded the inner-workings of your family, and all its troubles, in a way that is far more impossible for a family of the Roys’ calibre—you had your own secrets, a great many things you refused to discuss, and he knew that. In turn, Roman didn’t seem to want to delve into what it was like to grow up with the mighty Logan Roy as a father; so neither of you pushed it, and the subject of who you were pre-Roman began to fade; it would take a couple of years for it all to be disclosed, and even then, most of your big revelations about your relationship with him seemed to come in times of crisis.

You were friends. Work friends, really, but edging into the ground of the simpler terms; you were friends. You were, perhaps, his only one, or one of very few, and he was one of a fair few on your part, though he and Shiv were almost entirely separate from the company you kept outside of Waystar; you’d sometimes wondered what they’d think of the people you spent your Saturday nights with, or the clubs you frequented. But for years, he was your friend, and only your friend.

You’re not entirely sure when things began to get muddled, and lines began to blur. After one crisis or another, he had turned up at your door, late into the night, too tired and too upset to take the piss out of your apartment—a sure sign something was wrong—and ended up in your bed. You hadn’t slept together, but had spent the night beside one another, in hushed conversation or drifting into restless slumber. You’d woken up with his back to you, and it hadn’t been brought up again, not even when he turned up at your door a week later. Sleeping in the same bed as Roman became more common, though it was never sexual—it eased slowly from the simple need for company to admissions of wanting some form of affection—you would sometimes wake up to find that you had curled into one another, that in your unconscious states you had found an intimacy that was impossible in your waking lives.

And then, at some point, something had changed. You’d created a setting in which Roman could actually communicate—not without difficulty, but a space where he could say what he thought and attempt to move away from what he felt he should think. The emotional stuff took longer, but with those changes came a definite change in the nature of your relationship—namely, there was a newfound romance to it.

You’d held off the idea of a relationship with Roman for a long time—through all his joking, overly casual proposals, which you suspected were a way of him affirming some need for rejection, assuring himself that he was unlovable by presenting the ridiculous to have it shot down, as expected. But that had changed as he had, gradually, changed. As he became more open, more honest in that mesocosm of your apartment, developing a unique ecosystem of trust and loyalty and, you supposed, love, allowed him to become accessible to you in new ways.

Sex had taken longer. You were, to all intensive purposes, his girlfriend for a long while before you actually had sex. It was tentative, a slow process of breaking down barriers and rebuilding his relationship with a lot of things, in order to create a version of him that was capable of vulnerability. It’s still a work in progress. At some point (a nonchalant way of putting it—your milestones with him may have been muddled, but they were still deeply significant to you), the relationship had been opened for scrutiny at the hands of his family. You had, in some senses, created a healing process that they couldn’t comprehend, and you think that for that they will always resent you, but for the most part his siblings saw someone who made their brother a little happier and a little less skittish, and his father saw someone who could talk business and keep his son in check.

You didn’t know if there would ever be a wedding to commemorate it, and you doubted there would be children, but your ever-evolving relationship with him made you happy, and you knew it made him happy. Sometimes, you just wished that all that progress you’d made with him would translate to other aspects of his life, but such hopes never came to fruition—at the end of the day, he was still the young boy desperate for the approval of his hard-headed, abusive father.

It was that relationship with his father that made his relationship with his siblings so twisted. You and Shiv weren’t so close these days, but there was still amiable respect and remnants of that original loving friendship, but circumstance had torn rifts in the friendship of your teen- and twenty-something selves. In your thirties, that love had been somewhat lost, or changed—you’d probably always feel that friendly love for Shiv, the one responsible for this entire trajectory of your life.

Now, however, feels simultaneously like the best and worst time for a reflection on the ins and outs of your relationship with Roman Roy. Your bed is a mess, sheets tangled from Roman’s tossing and turning, his frame tense as he paces back and forth, pink flashcards clutched in his grasp. You’d helped him write them over the last few days, through the frustrations that he couldn’t get the words right or couldn’t express his true feelings.

It is only natural that on the morning of a funeral, you think of the funerals you have been to before. The one that stands out, the paradox, is the funeral that exposed your true upbringing to him; it wasn’t the wealth—Roman had hardly expected anything quite so extreme as his own family, but rather the people, your people, and how different they were from his.

You’d received the call late at night—UK and US time differences had gotten confused, your uncle thought you were five hours ahead, not behind—and had tried to gloss over the reason you were suddenly going back home for a week. Of course, in registering your time off with work—paid compassionate leave—he had discovered the truth, and insisted he accompany you. So Roman had met your family at a wake—not ideal, but it made sense. Your family, for all their flaws, had an open, friendly attitude; anyone was welcome in your home, and help was always offered where it could be, a notion so foreign to him that he’d never quite managed to grasp it.

Your family had been confused but welcoming of him; the context of your mother’s death was a strange setting to first impressions, but they liked him nevertheless. Your brother found his jokes more than a little amusing, and your little cousin seemed to think he’d hung the moon, which had more than baffled him—he’d never liked kids, even when they looked like you might have when you were little, even (perhaps especially) when they made him wonder about having children with you. That funeral had been a modest affair with a large turnout—most of the neighbourhood seemed to be there, but there was no fancy coffin or grand church; it was a small funeral, as your mother had wished, and as fitted the circumstances.

You remember a conversation with your sister a day or two later; sat in the garden, smoking, she had turned to you, posed that fatal question; What if the poison drips through? You had dismissed it initially, but at some point, probably after another depressive episode after, you had understood it. The poison drips through. But that was then, and this is now. This is not a modest funeral in your mother’s hometown, but a lavish one, in New York City.

No, this funeral is different.

Logan Roy’s funeral is not a neighbourhood affair, but an international one, and your Roman is doing the eulogy—hence the pacing and the flashcards. He is already dressed, and you are still in your pyjamas, but that is hardly the consideration—in this moment, you are simply concerned over whether or not Roman will make it through the eulogy; with every hour that passes, you become less convinced by his claim that he has “pre-grieved” his father’s death. If Roman breaks, the whole world will see it, abuse it, manipulate it; but everyone, Roy or not, should be able to grieve their parent’s death—no matter how awful they were—without judgement or manipulation.

He looks up from his cards— “You’re not dressed yet.”

“We have time.” you chide, but slip out of the tangle of bedsheets and turn the shower on. “Getting there on time is not going to be an issue.”

He dismisses you again, announcing the lines from his flashcards to himself as you shower, still going as you do your make up and dress, eat a little food—as much as you can stomach on a day like this, and make sure everything in terms of logistics will run smoothly, send a quick text to Shiv to make sure she’s coping—you’re sure none of them are—and eventually let Roman know it’s just about time to go.

His composure is already cracking by the time you get to the car. There is a sense of foreboding, and though you can’t bring yourself to iterate the thought, you have a distinct premonition that Roman’s eulogy will not happen as planned. You’re even wondering if he’ll sneak out before it’s his turn to speak, but you push the thought away. Roman would be okay, he always managed to scrape himself out of trouble, somehow.

The funeral is sombre, to no one’s surprise. You end up on the front pew, between Roman and Kendall, though you’re not entirely sure how. The service is long, as Roman Catholic funerals usually are, in your experience, and Roman will have to sit through the rest of it after his eulogy—whether it’s good that he’ll get it over with, or bad that he’ll have to sit with it for ages after is something you can’t decide on. You suppose that regardless of which point in the service he did the eulogy, he will always have to sit with his words.

And then it’s his part, and he doesn’t even manage the first sentence. You realise, the moment that he looks over to the coffin, that it’s over. You’re the first to get to him at the front, pulling the cards from his hands and letting him collapse into you, the cards getting taken by Kendall, the Roys all there to offer some form of support to their faltering sibling. His questions, his grief, are concerned with Logan’s body, lying and waiting in that coffin. It does, admittedly, seem unnatural that such a force could be contained in such a simple box. You feel almost like you are carrying him back to the pew, tucked under your arm, and welcoming him into your side, his body pressed into yours as though you are the only thing keeping him on earth, as if he would be gone without you. You let him cling, you make it to the end of the service without a further disruption, and then tell Shiv you’ll walk him back to the reception yourself, make sure he’s in a better state before you present him to the world once more. You sneak him out somehow, find a long route back that is not impacted by protests or by paparazzi.

The walk is slow, and he comes to himself little by little by the simple process of walking. He calms his breathing, starts to look about, register his surroundings and the events of the last few hours.

“Why’d you take us this route?” he asks. It’s not the quickest route, and it’s too strange a route to simply be about avoiding photos or crowds. He’s frowning, but you don’t seem embarrassed or confused by his line of questioning.

“My grandparents used to say that you should leave a funeral in small groups, and never all take the same route. It was some superstitious thing—like, if you all took the same route back then the soul of the dead would be able to follow you home, and they’d never leave.” You don’t say that you would hate for Logan’s soul to remain here, to follow him for the rest of his life.

He frowns at you. “I don’t think there’s much we can do to stop him from staying.”

You sigh. “You’re probably right.”

“I’ll never escape him, will I?”

“Roman, for the first time in your life you can step out of this sphere. You can look at the world without the oversight of that bastard, and you can pick a direction. You have the choice, the ability to choose for yourself without his consequence. If you want so badly to escape him, then you can. It’s in your grasp.”

He doesn’t respond, meandering toward your destination. Eventually, he formulates a response. “He’s gone, but the rest of them aren’t.”

You don’t push it—it’s for another day. Instead, you hold his hands in the street, and the pair of you head towards the reception.

He’s beside you for the majority of the evening, until you go to get a drink so that kendall can have a word—a bad idea, in retrospect—and you return to find him gone. Kendall shrugs you off, and no one else knows or cares where he’s gone. You call him a few times, wonder if he just needs some quiet, and then feel your instincts correct you; Roman has not gone for a moment of quiet, you know him better than that, and there is no guarantee he is safe or calm or well.

So you leave, try his phone a few more times, and some morbid curiosity leads you toward the sounds of the protestors. Perhaps it’s your gut, perhaps there is something that viscerally understands his masochism and self destruction. You know you’ll find him in that mob, at the mercy of the only people who will show him violence like his father used to. You feel sick with the thought, nauseous with the understanding of what he is doing to himself.

Sure enough, by the time you find him he has been beaten to a pulp, he is black and blue and bloody, damn near smiling with the pain despite being barely able to stand or walk, destroyed by a sadistic crowd. They do not know this man, you think, as you bundle him into a car, they do not understand grief if they can do this to a man who had freshly lost his father.

At your apartment, you sit him against the bathroom wall, on the floor, splatters of blood on his clothes, tainting the white tiles. He’s incoherent as you sort the first aid kit, and find a cloth to clean him up with. You work methodically, sure to keep him conscious in case of a concussion, as you clean and dress every part of broken skin, and treat his bruises with an ointment you find in the bottom of the kit, and strip him of his stained clothes, providing him with a change. You do not leave him alone, for fear of what might happen, and help him into some new clothes, sweaters and top, too casual for him to ever actually wear—you’d bought the joggers over a year ago and seen him wear them twice—before settling him into bed. You know enough about concussions to know you should wake him up frequently to check on him, but for now you let the tears come in waves. You’ve cleaned the physical wounds, and you hope that with every round of tears comes a cleanse, one that will make the wounds of his broken life easier to heal come the morning, as though the tears themselves will act to wash the grit from the graze, or to pick the shrapnel out from the marred flesh of this open wound.

You look around your apartment, out the window at the city below, and an idea strikes you—almost certainly a bad one, but you’re beyond the point of caring. “Rome,” you say, “You wanna go to Barbados?”

-

Caroline’s place in Barbados is lovely, if a little mosquito-ridden, and it feels oddly bonding to care for Roman together with his distant, almost neglectful mother. She loves him, that much is true, but it’s never enough.

You have thought more about your own mother in the last two weeks than in the last few years—not because you’d wanted to forget her, you saw her in everything—these thoughts were more active, like you were searching for the memories that might guide you in how to deal with this, or help Roman to cope. Your mother had been a different kind of a parent to Logan, and her issues had never been sought out—it was like no matter what she did, she would always have been claimed the same way, her life would always have made yours worse, despite anyone’s efforts to change that.

The poison drips through. That had been your sister’s line, and now Kendall’s. You’d experienced some of what your mother had first-hand, and it always made you wonder if everyone is destined to become their parents, to mirror their lives no matter how consciously they tried to avoid it; whether they resign themselves to it, or try so hard to avoid it that they do a full circle, returning to the likeness of their parents, everyone you’ve ever known is the product of their parents; it is biological, cultural, psychological.

It’s no surprise when Shiv arrives, ready to turn Roman to her side of the discussion about the board meeting. It’s late afternoon when you and Shiv find a moment—Roman has disappeared, and you sit on the paved surrounding to the pool, legs soaked up to your knees, weight leant back on your arms. The youngest Roy is somewhere behind you, to the right, probably on a deck chair.

“Do you think—and tell me to fuck off if you like—that maybe this whole deal is a good thing?”

You hear her sit up, and turn to look at her. She’s frowning at you, “How so?”

“I don’t know, ‘cause, like, you guys—all of you—have just been trapped in this sphere of Waystar and ATN and your dad, and all of you are just fucking miserable. What if you—what would be so bad about just getting out? You could free yourselves from all this bullshit, and there’s no Logan to pull you back in, so you could just… be. Just, y’know, learn a bit more about who you are outside of your father’s sphere of influence. Plus, like, Kendall’s gonna break, Roman already has, and you—all of you—are, frankly, pretty fucking fragile at the minute.”

She moves to come and sit next to you, slipping her feet into the pool beside yours. “You don’t understand.”

You shrug. “I’m sure I don’t.”

“We’re never, really, going to be free of it. Any of it.”

She shifts, her head resting on the bare skin of your shoulder, hair ticklish on your neck. You rest the side of your face on the crown of her head. “Maybe, maybe that’s true. But for the first time in your lives, the door’s open.”

The silence stretches out over the pool, filling the air, making you wonder what’s going on in her head. You sit like that for a while and at some point you realise she’s crying— not sobbing, not shaking with the force of it, but just sitting there, letting the tears stream; you don’t think she’s even really blinking, but the stillness remains, you don’t move. She needs this. You know about the scheduled meeting rooms for crying—Roman mentioned it—but this doesn’t feel like mourning. Not for her father, at least.

“Hey, fucknuts,” Roman calls, appearing at the edge of the courtyard, still barefoot in the shorts and top Caroline had gotten him when you first arrived. Shiv swiftly brushes the tears away, smiling up at him. He looks between you. “Ah, fuck—what… nevermind.”

Suddenly, you are plunging through the chlorinated water, lungs straining at the shock, hands splaying out through the cyan waters, in some momentarily suspended, bubbly universe, the tiled walls of the pool reflecting its pale, eggshell blue translucence onto your skin. You burst upward, drawing in a deep breath and flicking your hair from your face as your toes find the floor of the pool. “Argh, fuck you!”

Roman is laughing, Shiv in a similar state to you, and the moment feels distinctly child-like. You wade through the neck-deep water to the edge, and reach up to him to help you out, but he shakes his head. “Fuck that,” he chides, “I’m not that stupid.”

Shiv is laughing now, and you realise that you’re smiling despite yourself. “Rome, come on, at least help the pregnant lady.”

“Yeah, Rome, help the pregnant lady!” Shiv echoes, joining you at the edge and reaching for him. He knows what’s about to happen and submits himself to it regardless, letting her get a grip of his hands and be practically thrown over your heads, crashing sidelong into water. The splash and waves lap at your chin but you and Shiv are too busy laughing to notice; he struggles upright and rolls his eyes through his smile.

“Cunts.” he groans.

Shiv splashes him in the face with some water, and he swears again, splashing her back and catching you in the process. The ensuing water fight is short and chaotic, halted by Caroline’s arrival to tell you all to be quiet. Roman is laughing, the three of you paddling to the shallow end through some half-hearted apologies. Clambering out and grabbing some towels, you meander down to the seats and drinks table overlooking the seas, drying out your hair and letting conversation turn to business. This is where Kendall finds you, twenty minutes later, in a serious discussion about the board meeting.

The next few hours are a rollercoaster. Calls, discussions, debates, the classic Roy egoistical outlook on why each of them are better suited to the CEO position and why they have been groomed for it. Privately, as you meander in and out of their discussions, conscious that you’re not really involved in their family stuff at all, you settle on the idea that perhaps none of them are. Your feelings about the deal are one thing, meant to be separate from your feelings about them, but they intertwine now—the future of the company lies with them, and their capabilities, and their decisions. That’s not particularly your concern, you’ve been starting to manoeuvre your way out of your current position of influence, toying with the idea of leaving completely, selling your shares and heading elsewhere, but the idea of leaving them behind, leaving Roman behind, is too difficult to consider. What if you didn’t have to factor that in? What if you could walk away knowing it wasn’t them you were walking away from?

It’s this spiralling thought process that subdues you during dinner, ignoring Peter’s friend—James? John?—and knocking back continuous cocktails. Shiv frowns at you, “Trying to get hungover before the board meeting?”

You let out a half laugh. “If I drink a bit more tomorrow I won’t get the hangover.”

Kendall watches you for a second. “Clear minds tomorrow.”

You roll your eyes. Caroline glares at you all for ignoring the pitch you’re currently being presented with and you glance at Roman beside you. He’s anxious, he has been since the morning of the funeral, and you get the sense that he—body, mind and soul—is consuming himself, like he’s just destroying the fabric of himself from the inside out, so destroyed by his father’s death. The whole structure of his life, its fabric and its character, has been defined by his father’s presence and absence, and the man’s ability to maintain his presence even through his absence, but that presence, that famed presence, their “dear, dear world of a father” diminishes with every passing second.

Roman’s hand finds yours under the table, slightly clammy, taking you by surprise. His initiation is uncharacteristic. You give his hand a slight squeeze, and in response he laces his fingers into yours, a more substantial hold. Be here, he seems to ask. The world goes quiet—it’s just you, Roman, and your palms against one another under the table.

Like all things, the moment passes, the chaos returns. More phone calls, an equivocal end to the dinner, and you end up at the house, the Roys down at the beach. You lie at the end of Roman’s bed, feet still on the floor, staring at the ceiling fan; there could be any manner of discussions going on between the siblings at the sea, you could wake up to find they’ve drowned one another or something. Knocked each other out with a coconut or some shit. Roman, your Roman, and his grief, his deep felt love and guilt and terror, lost in the storm of this entire shitshow. You think of that day at Connor’s ranch when you saw the scars on Logan’s back, Ewan’s eulogy about his polio and self-blame, the mirror he made his children look in when they cried. Broken people make broken people. It’s easy to think of time as linear—past, present, future—but it’s more of a circle, you think. Infinite, never-ending, always repeating the same old mistakes. Kendall’s distant fathering, Logan’s abusive fathering—were they really so different?

The poison drips through.

It’s difficult to compare your childhood with the Roys’, but you remember those same thoughts, of a different nature—you’d been lucky enough to live in a world where things were talked about, and you had been able to process things as they happened, rather than let them bubble under the surface, but there had always been that idea. Your family history, the mental health troubles, ECT treatments and various crises in your family history, long before your time, and the effects that you had grown up with. You remember the first time you understood that your mother wasn’t quite right. You remember trying to get her out of bed to walk you to school and the realisation that she wasn’t really there, not in her mind, anyway. And in your teenage years, when you felt that yourself for the first time, you remember the terror of becoming her, of losing all feeling until you couldn’t get out of bed for days at a time.

When you took Roman to her funeral, you hadn’t told him how she’d died, too scared it would be weird or uncomfortable. He’d worked it out, and confronted you in the bathroom at the wake. Sat on the bath met, you had unleashed it all on him, and it had been one of the few genuine conversations you’d had with him in those first years. It had been a different kind of a struggle to his—it wasn’t actively inflicted by your parents, it wasn’t an intentional abuse like the kind he had experienced, but an enforced bystander effect—instead, you had had to stand at the sidelines as your mother collapsed in on herself, decaying before your eyes until you gave up and left. Half the world away, you had learned to understand those things, but now Roman had hints of it in him—he was barely even a bystander in his father’s death, but the grief and guilt were parallel.

This deal was his version of moving to NYC. An escape, an out.

You must drift off, because you open your eyes to the muffled chant; a meal fit for a king. Downstairs, you find them, concocting some awful smoothie, cackling like maniacs. As teenagers, it had been one of those games you’d played when their parents were away, seeing who could stomach the most awful of concoctions for trivial prizes and rewards—apparently this is similar, an initiation to a proper CEO position, on Kendall’s part. You make yourself known by handing Shiv a bottle of Tabasco, Kendall groaning and the other two cheering.

Caroline’s interruption only spurs it on, and by the time you’re heading back to bed, the smoothie having been dumped on Kendall’s head, a crown, you can barely stand you’re so tired.

Still vaguely unfamiliar, you wake up with Roman’s face pressed into your neck, his breath warm and ticklish on your skin, arm thrown over your waist and legs tangled together, a position that makes you think he really is comfortable with you, even if it’s taken a ridiculously long time to get here. You wonder if he can hear the air in your lungs or the blood in your arteries, or whether he notices the patter of your heart as you recognise this display of unconscious affection. Eventually, the rest of the building comes to life, and Roman wakes, moves from you with a sort of embarrassment, changing from his Walmart shirt into business attire. You wear the pantsuit you’d gotten with this board meeting in mind a while back, your office fashion being a slight point of pride—you weren’t the biggest fan of the drab stuff people usually wore, and liked to use interesting cuts and shapes to create range in the endless blouses and blazers and skirts and trousers of your work clothes. Subtle, but not boring.

Back in NYC, after a morning of calls and diplomacy and last minute bids for votes, you are greeted with a room full of people in expensive suits waiting and chattering anxiously as board members start to file in. You still don’t know how to vote, whether you’ll side with the siblings or not. Instead of stressing, you wrangle some gossip out of Stewy and do a shot in the bathroom. Zero hour.

With a pencil, you tally up each vote on a Post-It note stuck to the page of your notebook where you were planning to take notes, both Shiv, to your right, and Roman, to your left, glance at the tally every few seconds. You will be the last three votes.

When it reaches Roman’s turn, it is 6-4 toward the deal, he votes against and you are faced with a choice. If you vote for the deal, Shiv’s vote is purely nominal, and the deal will go through whether she likes it or not—you will be the decider; if you vote against, then it is an even 6-6 and she will cast the deciding vote. You look at the faces of each of the Roys, the children who have grown up to get to this moment. It feels ridiculous that it might be your choice. In the end, that is what makes you vote how you do—this is their livelihood more than it is yours, and you want Shiv to have the options in front of her—you can cope either way. So you vote against the deal—not for any loyalty to Kendall, but for one of your oldest friends, to give her some ounce of autonomy when you know that’s something that has been scarce in her life. Perhaps it's cruel to give her the choice between her brother and her husband, but, selfishly, you don’t want Roman to hate you.

“No, I vote against.” you eventually utter out, earning a triumphant nod from Kendall. Shiv glances at your tally, confirming the equal scores, confirming that it is her choice that makes or breaks the deal—literally.

And she breaks.

You see them, the Roy children, through the glass walls that separate the various conference rooms. You see the pain, the anger, the fear; it comes to a head, and all of the raw emotion of the last days is borne into the world, witnessed through the glass. You listen to Kendall’s rage, and for a minute you are a teenager, listening to one of Logan’s tantrums after one of Roman’s misdemeanours. For a minute, you realise how quickly Kendall turns into his father. For a minute, you feel your heart break on their behalf—at the end of the day, they are children, mourning for a father whose love was confusing and hateful.

The poison drips through.

You are your mother’s daughter, and he is his father’s son.

Afterwards, as you stand beside Shiv in a commemorative photograph, it is understood that there is no singular reason behind this. The freedom of her siblings; the power as the wife of a CEO, not the sister; the wishes of her late father; Kendall’s rage; Roman’s breakdown; the inevitable becoming of one’s own mother. When you and Roman leave, despite the knowledge that Roman is emotional and angry and probably confused by a sense of relief, you resolve that you will call her in the morning. You’ll make your exit as quietly as you can, but you will try to book Saturday morning brunches with her like you used to when you were in your early twenties. You’ll text Rava a little more, and try to create some positive influences in the next generations of Roy children.

You think of your parents. Of Logan, of Caroline, of your own siblings and your own childhood. The poison drips through. What if it doesn’t have to?

[shivroy]

my shiv roy fanfiction, melanocortin blame (subtitle: does the dog roam free?), is finally completed! if you do give it a read, please let me know what you thought of it, i appreciate it so so much!! happy succession sunday ❤️

[a-little-nerdy-dude-with-wings]

I’ve been making the joke that Succession should have a final episode which is a Christmas special called Rome Alone for months now. So now I’m actually making it a fic!

it starts off relatively sad but I promise it will be very tongue and cheek full of home alone references and a good batch of Christmas fun!!

feel free to read and follow the story!

[jessicaavon]

Fanfic I’m writing in which Roman ends up in a hospital in Nebraska, inadvertently forcing the sibs into a reunion. Six-ish months post finale.

[vclvetfleur]

Obedient Chapter 20

Roman Roy x fem! reader

Summary: After the embarrassing live interview, you were sent to Logan's office. Shiv feels sorry for you and decides to invite you and Roman to dinner with her and Tom.

TW: implied child abuse, Logan Roy, sexism

WC: 6.9K

Notes: I've been super busy, but I finally updated. And this is the longest chapter I've ever written :))

Chapter 20: Casey Anthony

Roman entered his father’s office, unsure if Logan was going to start berating him, but he wouldn’t be past Logan to do so. He carefully opened the door before sliding his body inside. “Uh-hey Dad, you needed me?” He spoke softly and carefully. He wasn’t allowed to look away from Logan when greeting him. He learned that the hard way when younger. Romans' hands fidgeted before leaning up against one of Logan’s suede chairs.

“Yes. Did you know about this shit?” Logan asked, passing Roman the phone. Logan slid it across his desk, making Roman leave his safe distance from Logan to get closer to evaluate the screen. But he knew what it would be but played it dumb. “Uh- what was I supposed to know?” Roman genuinely wondered. It could’ve been a number of things. Did he know about the article? Did he know your history with them? Did he know you were so fucked up? “Did you know she’s fucked in the head, son?” Logan carefully said, making you and Roman feel small. Roman shook his head no, knowing he should defend you, but was too scared to do so.

“Uh- no Dad… I mean she seemed more normal than all of us… Come on, you’ve met her.” He tried every bit that he could defend in a sly way by making Logan think he actually wasn’t.

“Yes, I did. She’s definitely smart. But I never met her. I don’t know anything about her. And clearly, you don’t either.” Logan tried to sting Roman. Logan wasn’t as annoyed as earlier, knowing this would be dealt with. It was even his idea to send you off to a TV interview after Hugo suggested you do another interview.

Logan knew how smart you were. You were able to talk your way into a lot from what Logan could see. He would eventually use it for his own gain. He knew you were a game piece he could now move around for his own gain and wins. You were definitely smarter than most of his kids, possibly just as smart as Shiv. But you were still a woman. But you had the wittiness Roman had without being disgusting, Shiv’s ideals, and Kendall’s ‘touch with the youth’. You could be useful for women, younger CEOs, and even liberal older individuals. But he knew some would never take you seriously. Until you talked maybe.

“Well- I have another thing. GoJo… What do we think?” He passed it by Roman. As it seemed, Kendall was out so Roman was the best possible option once Gerri was out of office. Shiv could be good, but once again, she was a woman. She was in her feelings way too often, at least Logan assumed so.

“What do I think? Uhm- yea… What do you think?” Roman asked. He wasn’t going to pass a deal his father didn’t approve of.

“I didn’t ask you what I thought. I thought what you thought.” Logan grew annoyed with Roman’s answer. This was Logan’s issue with Roman. He had no opinions. If Logan thought something, Roman followed. He didn’t know how to be his own person. That was why Kendall was always set for greatness. He always knew his stance. Never followed Logan 100%. He said and did as he thought unless beaten into submission. Kendall was tough, but malleable like clay.

“Okay uhm-…” Roman took a minute to think. “Yeah no, GoJo is a great deal. I mean if we took over internet and tech it’d be great. Get rid of the old shit and into the new. I mean no one watches stuff on TV anymore unless it’s streamed and-… uh yeah. No, it’s good.” Roman came to the conclusion. It was only logical for them to go for modernism. They were being outgrown. Newspapers were dying out. Tv was dying out. It’s all about Netflix and websites and whatever all the bullshit was.

“Okay- well… I just needed some insight…” Logan spoke slowly. The news was playing, but it strangely wasn’t ATN. Logan was anticipating your response. He needed to see if this would be a win or an absolute disaster. Before he knew it, the segment started. He leaned in, watching as Jess came up. “Who the fuck is that? I thought you were with the uh- fuck…” Logan forgot how to describe you exactly. He forgot your hair color. He just passed it off.

“Uhm. No Dad, that’s Kendall’s assistant…” Roman reminded as he stared at the television with a growing amount of anxiety. He never meant for this to go this far.

“Oh, uh… yeah…” Logan let out an old man grumble as his words seemed to slide into one another. Logan smiled to himself, knowing this would seemingly get to Kendall. He knew Kendall would have a field day knowing his assistant was backing up the woman he put up false accusations against.

Next, you came through. Roman leaned forward to watch. He watched your face, feeling as though he could be there for you to console you. “Oh please, she’s just a girl, son. Are you that fucking pussy whipped already?” Logan found a reason to pick at him. Roman ignored. It wasn’t worth arguing. Logan never loved anything. Except for dead people who no longer receive his love.

It tore Roman to watch you break down before finally saying what he hadn’t even known. It sent discomfort throughout the room. Everyone who watched themselves felt a sense of heartbreak for you as you recalled everything that had happened. Hugo and Carolina sat in their own office, watching and shifting at the amount of uncomfortable information. It sunk into everyone. This was too serious to be brought up on television. It affected Roman the most. Knowing what he had said and how he mocked your relationship with them the other day set in. He never knew something this horrific could have happened. And to know this was only the stories you were willing to say out loud. You probably had more things hidden under the surface.

“You picked perfectly Roman.” Logan knew what this could mean. It would only mean a gain. Having a victim speak out against other victims or to them now knowing the horrendous things you’ve been put through. It could make you likable. People would listen to you. He knew it and would definitely keep it in the back of his mind. Logan huffed, watching the parents. He worried it’d ruin their reputation. Not what it would do for you. “What the fuck are they doing here? Did they fucking set her up?” Roman asked out loud, putting his hand up to show the screen, and looking over his shoulder at Logan. Logan just watched. “Those fuckers set us up.” Logan grumbled. He knew this was not just an attack on you but on Logan and the company. He wanted to see how this would pan out. And it panned out exactly how Logan wished it would. Roman rubbed his forehead in discomfort watching you scream and insinuate multiple allegations.

But the fact the news network put up people defending a pedophile and their own abuse of a woman who had been working for a company with their own allegations would only sway positively for Waystar. They would think Waystar was a company that would hire a victim. Someone at the company knew pain. She was just like everyone else.

“Roman, when she comes here, let her in.” Logan commanded. Roman wasn’t sure what his father was feeling, but he couldn’t protect you from it. He had to just have this play out the way he has been. It was going to be a never-ending snowball for you. Roman could only nod and wait with his father as they discussed further plans for GoJo and what Roman’s next plans would be. Roman was given the honor of having to handle the case with his father controlling him like a ventriloquist. But for Roman, it was ideal.

You got into the car, laying on Jess’ lap as you sobbed. Gerri was sent a text from Logan to bring you to see him. Gerri couldn’t break this news to you while you were inconsolable. You shook as you buried your head into Jess’ lap. It was like you were a child with your parents. Your inner child was finally allowed to be healed in a slight way. You wept loudly as you couldn’t process them even trying to speak to you. You were fine while leaving, but once the reality of you not even hearing their voice until now hurt. The fact you had forgotten their face killed you. It was like revisiting a dead relative’s grave.

Jess shushed you as she directed you to breath. You. Had to pull yourself together. You sat up, holding yourself, trying to get yourself to stop crying. You looked at Gerri. Her comfort brought you into a calmer state. “You’re okay. You’re safe…” Jess tried to remind you. Before getting to the office, you rid your tears away and did your breathing exercises. You had to put on sunglasses, knowing photographs of you crying would be out. Jess was dropped off before hand and you were pushed through the crowd by security. “Fucking animals.” You mumbled as you were finally able to go into the elevator.

“Okay… y/n, before we go in. Logan had told me he would like to see you.” Gerri finally told you. You understood. You knew this would be a possibility. You sighed, laying your head against the metal walls. You got it together before agreeing to do so as if you had an option to even decline.

The door opened, seeing Roman spot you. He shifted before making his way to you.  “Hey-uh-hi, you doing okay?” He stuttered, checking you as if he would find something physical to show himself that you were doing all right or bad. “Uh- yea… I think your dad wanted to see me…” You mumbled. He already knew. He escorted you, trying to see if you were even mentally okay. He knew this would’ve never happened unless you both got involved. And he felt guilty. He felt responsible. Watching you have to relive everything was horrific to watch. He was never even able to talk that freely, even around his therapist even though there were multiple contracts and signed documents that promised secrecy. He couldn’t put himself in that head space.

You entered Logan's office and were greeted by Logan. He played a concerned face, looking up at you. “Hi dear, take a seat. You must be stressed.” He tried to play nice. Even it worried Roman. He looked in between the two of you, with his eyebrows raised. You cautiously took a seat, folding your legs across the other. “How are you? We watched what went down. Must’ve been terrible.” Logan checked in. You looked at Roman before looking at Logan. You decided on honesty. “Well- uh I cried a lot. But I’m glad I said what I said.” You breathed out.

“I bet… uh- well… now- now don’t take this so harshly, but I do think it was a good thing they brought them out there. It proves what we are. Doesn’t it? You’re a smart woman.” Logan put an emphasis on your gender. “You knew these news people don’t give a fuck. They’re savages.” Logan tried to bring your guard down, but it didn’t work. You were worried this would end in you being called a moron or being fired. “Listen- seriously. This is coming from me of all people. This was good. It felt good, didn’t it?” He asked you.

You sat with your thoughts before nodding. “Yeah- it kind of did.” You agreed. “I mean- I thought if I ever saw them, I’d run away and cry, I mean I did yesterday… but it felt good to say it out loud. To finally discredit them in public.” This was what Logan wanted. You finally spoke. You let your guard down. You had no defense up. He could screw with your mind.

“It must’ve been. I mean to deal with…” He let out an exaggerated breath of air, shaking his head. “I mean to deal with that, y’know… How long have they been discrediting you?” He needed to know to shut those claims down for as much money as it took. He was going to make you and Shiv the face for their defense against the Cruises. Who better than 2 women, one being a now public assault victim herself?

“As long as I can remember. I mean they used to tell their friends what a bad kid I was. But honestly, I think after I left they even bashed me on social media a bit. It was just to make me…” You started before Logan cut you off.

“To make you feel guilty. Yeah- who was Liam?” Logan wondered. Roman tried to butt in. “Dad- come on…” he tried to stop the questioning, but Logan put his hand up to stop Roman. “I’m just asking. Come on. It’s therapeutic. Isn’t it?” Logan asked you. You felt too intimidated. But all your business was out at this point. This could’ve been out already.

“Uh- Liam was my dad’s brother. Uh- yea. He wasn’t the only one though. Just kind of- y’know…” You shifted. You covered your face with your hair as you pretended to itch to avoid the intense eye contact from Logan.

“I see… Well- what if I did this for you?” Logan proposed. “We take those bastards down… your parents, Liam, and whoever else.” Your eyes light up. You looked at Logan, shocked, but hungry to not only publicly shame them, but completely ruin them. “I can set you up with the best lawyers… the best whatever. And slip something. Make sure, this kind of stuff can’t happen.” Logan continued. You didn’t need to hear the rest. You wanted in.

“Yes- I’d love that. I don’t even care what else you need. I’ll do it.” You jumped at the opportunity. Not only would it prove whoever didn’t think you were wrong, but it would be such a release to you. “Slow down… I just need you to go up there with Shiv from time to time. That’s all I ask.” Logan continued. This would be pocket change to him. But if it influenced you enough and to gain back such sympathy for the company, he would do it. He didn’t care. He just wanted another win to take home.

You got up and agreed. “Logan, you have no idea what this means. Thank you.” You felt so released from all this excoriating journey. But it would be over. The trail would be fast. You had witnesses, you had documents, and you had photos taken by CPS. You had enough evidence.

“Don’t- please.” Logan tried to be humble. “Just take the time. I’ll do what I need to, and you do what you need to. But while you’re here. What do you think of GoJo?” He wanted you to feel a part of it. But he already had his mind made. He was just hoping you’d agree to further his narrative. You stood shocked, looking at Roman, but he still looked nervous for you.

“Uh- I think it’s great… The network needs to modernize and uh- GoJo needs a lot of tweaking. But it’s good.” You quickly put in your input. Logan nodded, looking off as he thought.

“Alright… uh- well. You both could uh- just. Roman do what you need.” He ignored you. You just left with Roman. You were ecstatic. “Did you fucking hear that?” You giggled, nearly jumping as you stood. Roman knew this was off. His dad never cared about this sort of stuff. He never even acknowledged Roman’s abuse. But Roman remembered his gender, Roman’s assault didn’t matter to his father because ‘boys don’t do that’. But he was at least glad you weren’t sobbing. You were smiling.

“Uh- yea… Wow…” He tried to make it sound as big as it did to you. But a lawsuit against average people was something that lasted such a short time with the lawyers they had. It meant nothing. “Hey, but you sure you’re okay? I mean- that was-uh-that was just fucking-…” Roman tried not to offend you.

You nodded with the biggest smile plastered on your face. “Rome- this is the best thing that could’ve happened. This was a fucking gift sent from God him fucking self… I mean fuck! I don’t even believe in the fucker but wow!” You couldn’t help but laugh at how ridiculous you sounded. “Yeah- cause he’s probably not fucking real.” Roman tried to quickly butt in. “But you know- just… I don’t know.” He dismissed his worries. They were dumb. He should be happy for you. I mean, you were getting something you could only fantasize about. But Roman knew it would come at such a cost. “Look- I love you, okay? Just- fucking- I don’t know. You gotta maybe put yourself first.” Roman tried to express.

“Roman- you have no idea… how long I have been waiting for this. I mean sure Angela and Mick don’t deserve any kind of attention. But this is good. I promise.” You held his hands before pressing a kiss over his rose-tinted lips.

“Alright- I’m just fucking worried- cause y’know… I care and shit.” He almost gagged at the thought of him being this desperately in love. He never saw it ever coming for him. He thought he’d even be single for most of his life or hopping from the next person to the next because they didn’t get him fully.

“Aww- Roman has a cruuuush.” You teased him.

He had a mocking face at you, rolling his eyes. “Fuck off.”

“No- come on- say it.” You continued to test him further and further, but he had walked away from you. He had a meeting to go to. But you didn’t mind. You were just so overfilled with joy. You headed to the break room, finally able to get a sense of peace. Greg hadn’t been in the office to annoy you any longer. He was too busy mooching off of Kendall. But fortunately, Shiv had made her way in to get some kind of weirdly expensive water bottle.

“Oh- uh hey.” Shiv was nervous to confront you. It set in that now everyone saw your victim status. You were fragile. It made you feel weaker for it. “You alright? I mean- I saw what went on. But you okay?” She wondered, taking a seat across from you.

You nodded. “I’m fine.” You couldn’t stop yourself from smiling though. Finally. No more worrying. Just peace. “It was shocking at first, but just- Shiv… it was the most freeing thing ever.” You expressed. She looked at you strangely with a smile on her face.

“Wow- well I’m glad you were okay… uh- did you and Roman want to come over tonight… me and Tom wanted to maybe make you feel more welcomed.” She offered. You felt a warmness fill you, pouting at how sweet of a gesture it was.

“Uh- yea… Thanks, Shiv…” You felt at home. You were a part of yet another family. Granted a very toxic and problematic one, but you had another family. You had lost your little sister to your parents, but you had Jess and Shiv. Shiv never purposely hurt you. Just Kendall. Speaking of Kendall, you wondered how he was reacting to the mess he created.

“Yeah- sure, it’s nothing. Just y’know- I just thought since you and Roman were… yeah…” She sounded disgusted by the thought of her brother in a relationship. “Just thought it’d be a nice thing. Just come by at 8.” She squeezed your hand gently before leaving you alone. You weren’t alone for long before meeting with Roman again.

“Your sister invited us to dinner.” You expressed to him. You were just happy to be involved.

“Oh, fucking great. Now we need to play fucking house.” He groaned at the idea. He didn’t mind being ‘normal’ with you. But he was still upset about the other night. His distain for Shiv came in and out depending on where their hatred lied. But for you, he’d do it.

“It was sweet!” You tried to defend Shiv and this dinner was. But nothing about his family was ever done in the goodness of their heart. He knew it. He did it too. He knew never to trust. Everything was a game. If you didn’t see it as that, you’d lose. Everything was a race. The slowest one was left behind, desperate to keep up. But he was used to it. He never lived a second without being in it.

“Shiv? Come on- she’s literally a fucking uh a fucking killer girl scout. She’s that one girl people always says killed her kid. Fucking-…” He tried to remember her name as you just watched him desperately try to think of insults to throw at Shiv behind her back. “Casey Anthony.” You reminded him.

“Yup. That whore. That’s Shiv.” He made the connection finally.

“You’re being dramatic.” You pushed his concerns away. He was dramatic. It was going to be a harmless dinner. It would’ve been nice anyway. He mimicked your voice, passing your judgment as nothing. He was gonna go anyway. He had to. “Roman, are you going to make me go alone or not?” You crossed your arms.

“Yeah- fucking whatever. We’ll play house.” Roman gave in. You smiled, pressing a kiss over his lips before pulling him off to continue the workday before having to split off at the end of the day. It was nice being able to finally be able to show some kind of affection at work. Or the very least in public. You didn’t need to hide away and sneak around. People were even shocked for Roman. Not that he actually had a partner, but that he was even able to show some kind of affection towards anyone. All of his other partners have had an issue with physical touch. But with you, it was easier. You both read each other's body language well enough.

You entered your apartment, realizing how much you’ve rarely ever been in this space. Most nights you were out on trips or with Roman. And for a brief period, you were with Jess. You hopped into the fairly reminiscent shower. You turned the metal knobs and let the shower head pour out hot water. You forgot how weak the shower head was compared to the nice resorts and hotels you’ve been placed in. You poured your shampoo into your head and scrubbed it into your scalp. You sat there and let the water clear all the soapy bubbles before gliding conditioner through your hair. You spent a while in the shower as your phone blasted music through its speakers. You sang to the lyrics with the passion of a singer on a world tour. You screamed the lyrics, dancing as if you were invoking an emotion in the audience that never existed. “I was enchanted to meet yoooooooou!” You screamed into the wall. Before going into the second verse. You scrubbed your body, holding the loofa as if it were the end of a mic as soon as your favorite lyrics and vibrato of the song came on.

Your phone abruptly died in the middle of another song, cutting your shower short. You wrapped your body in a towel before going to your bedroom/living room. You plugged your phone into the charger before drying yourself off. You put on your makeup shirt, which was an old t-shirt stained with makeup. You sat down in front of your mirror and did your makeup in front of it. You did makeup better without music anyway. It distracted you far too much anyway. You usually put on funny podcasts or YouTube or something dark like true crime to stay focused on your makeup, but you wait for your phone to charge. Along with it being too far and you being too lazy to actually get up and put something on.

You finished up fairly quickly before starting on your hair, styling it simply. You didn’t want to make this as fancy as it was going to be. It was a simple dinner. But Shiv always dressed up in a formal way. You couldn’t imagine her in a regular shirt. Or Tom. You’ve never seen them in regular clothes. She had more reasons to try to remain a ‘professional’ look. If she didn’t she would be seen as less serious as people already took her.  

You finished up before struggling to find something to wear. You just settled on some dress pants and a shirt that you hadn’t worn in months since you’d gotten hired. You had been neglecting your regular clothes as well. You checked the time, realizing how much time you spent before grabbing your bag. You shoved the essentials into it before leaving the house. You ran down to the subway station. You hadn’t been on the train in a while either. It felt strange. You definitely were getting a few stares. You just lowered your head, covering your face with your hair, hoping no confrontation would occur. But 6 minutes into your ride you heard an iPhone camera shutter go off. You looked up and saw a man put his phone down, looking around as if he wasn’t in front of you.

“Sir- can you please just delete that?” You asked politely. He acted oblivious, pointing at himself. “Yes sir, I heard that. Please can you just delete that?” “It’s my freedom.” He said with a snobby attitude. He was clearly some business major douchebag. “Yea- and it’s my freedom to not have men take pictures of me.” You reminded him.

“Is there an issue? Hey man, delete that shit.” Another man who had been standing the entire ride intervened. The man declined before the other guy pressed him enough. “Stupid bratty whore.” He mumbled as he went through the phone to delete the picture as the other guy watched him.

“Woah! What the fuck man?” You rolled your eyes. “Have some fucking respect for the lady.” The other man called him out. You just stood up and went in between the carts to switch carts. You felt uncomfortable being in a space you use to be on daily for 22 whole years.

Thankfully you had just gotten off at the stop you needed to. You left the station, looking down at your phone for the address before making your way over to Shiv and Tom’s apartment. You texted Shiv to let her know you were a block away. You were escorted inside and sent up to their floor. You were greeted by Shiv who was wearing a white pant suit with a black turtleneck. “Hi!” She smiled, bringing you into a hug. “I’m so glad you actually made it. Uh- where’s Rome?” She wondered.

“Oh, I came by myself. He said he’s coming.” You calmed her nerves. She nodded but you pulled your phone out to make sure Roman was actually coming. He texted back to let you know he was in a car downtown at this moment. Shiv just went in on what she had her chefs make you all, but it wouldn’t be done anytime soon.

“Oh my god! I didn’t know you guys had a dog!” You squealed, seeing a large black dog lying down on the ground with a stuffed bear under his head. You walked over, kneeling down. The dog raised his head up, staring up at you with his large brown eyes. “Hi baby…” You said in a soft baby voice as you ran your fingers through its fur and scratched his ears for him. He leaned his heavy head into your small hands as you contagiously giggled.

“Oh-uh yeah. That’s Mondale. He’s mostly Toms.” Shiv tried to interject, but you were fascinated by the large baby in front of you. You always wanted a dog, but in New York, it was hard to have one. Plus, your parents never let you have one. If they did, you wouldn’t trust them around an animal anyway. But eventually, you knew you’d own a variety of pets. The ideas of animals were endless. A dog, chihuahua, Maltese, those cute pug chihuahua mixes, a cat, probably an orange one, a fennec fox, a raccoon, etc. You weren’t the type to think owning such weird animals was okay, but oh my god, they were just too cute to not want one. Realistically you knew the cat and dogs were the only ones you’d genuinely get.

“Who’s a cutie? Huh? You are.” You continued to baby-talk to the dog before finally leaving him alone. “I’m sorry- I just- aww look at him.” You expressed to Shiv.

She smiled, putting her hands up in defense. “No- it’s okay.” She laughed. “I’m sure Mondale very much appreciated the welcome.” She was just happy someone gave him attention. She tried but was far too busy for him. He mostly was attached to Tom or the people who actually took care of him. “Are you doing okay so far?” She checked in with you. She knew your asset value in the company. She did genuinely like you, but she knew she needed to be closer to you.

“Oh-uh, I’m alright. Just a bit of an intense day. I’m glad you invited me over.” You expressed your gratitude. She shooed off the ego boost, wanting to stay humble. But The Roys were nothing close to humble as Roman started his grand entrance into the apartment.

“Sup cunts.” He greeted the room before going to Shiv, giving you a small hug and kiss on the cheek.

“Wow- how sweet of you to show up.” Shiv was annoyed at the term he used against her. It was more so directed at Tom and Shiv than you.

“Fucking cry in your 4000 thread pillows bout it.” Roman shrugged off her annoyance. He was too focused on your well-being and happiness. If he hadn’t, he would’ve never been here.

“You guys are such a healthy family. I mean- I, of all people, should know healthy family dynamics.” You teased both of them, hinting how the toxicity of their dynamic was a bit much.

“Mhm. Exactly. Just like those fuckers from The Brady Bunch. Shiv, which one are you?” Roman played on with the joke. “Rome- ew.” Shiv dismissed him. She was still so shocked someone like you was willing to be involved with Roman. He was awful. And you were well more put together than he was. Maybe it was just an experiment for you. Maybe you were one of those girls who tried to fix other men.

“You’re the one making fucky eyes at me.” Roman tried to defend his joke. But it only grossed Shiv out even more. “Fucky eyes? I’m not making fucky eyes.” Shiv was on the defense. But you were too entertained to stop the arguing just yet. Roman mimicked the look she gave him, standing by his point before you jumped in.

“Okay Roman- enough. Your sister doesn’t want to fuck you. And if you tell me you’ve thought of fucking her, I’m leaving.” You threatened.

“Thank you. Finally, one fucking sane human being involved in this shit.” Shiv was lucky enough that some normal enough was willing to stand her brother for this long. Credit, she’s shocked Roman genuinely even liked women.

“Oh fucking, please. My therapist said I’m perfectly normal.” Roman scoffed. “Your therapist says whatever he does to please you Rome.” Shiv snapped back. You tried to deescalate this before it ended in a very vicious argument where it would upset the other.

“I’m shocked you both even have one. So, where’s Tom?” You asked Shiv. Shiv shrugged before watching Tom come down the stairs just in time to save you from this.

“Oh great. The fucking normies are here now.” Roman giggled. You glared at him. You were slightly annoyed to be grouped in as ‘normie’ based on your upbringing not being extremely rich and privileged. He tried to apologize with a hand hold and kiss on the shoulder though. You had him completely whipped. “Hey- thank you so much for coming.” Tom tried to play it cool as he reached out to shake your hand. You took it regardless. “Tom, we’ve met before.” You snickered at how formal he had been.

Shiv was already on your side. “Yeah, honey. Come on.” She tapped him on the shoulder.

“No- I- uh- I know. I just thought it’d be- uh- just polite to our guests.” Tom tried to save some sort of face, but Roman made it worse as he stood up straighter and put his hand out to Tom. “So glad we could make it. Tell me your name again? Don’t care.” Roman tried to mimic and make fun of Tom, but Shiv would defend Tom against only Roman.

“You were at our fucking wedding dick.” Shiv rolled her eyes, trying to defend her husband in front of you, knowing it’s what ‘a good wife’ would do.

“Hmm still didn’t care to learn his name.” Roman shrugged. “Have a more memorable wedding next time sis.” You were shocked to hear how vulgar and rude Roman could be. Especially to Tom.

“Roman, he didn’t mean anything by it.” You reprimanded him in a soft tone. “Uh- well. Tom how’s ATN doing?” You asked.

But Tom was stressed about other things to even worry about ATN but had to put on a brave enough face for the crowd. “Oh- it’s been just fine. You know… just- fucking trying to dodge the Nazis out of the building.” He accidentally reminded you of the scandal of them nearly hiring a new news anchor with a white supremacy background.

“What? A fucking Nazi?” You questioned. Roman just giggled in the back, watching how terribly nervous and shaken Tom had been.

“It’s such a long drawn-out story.” Tom tried to die down the topic. “When’s the food ready?” Tom was eager to leave this conversation and move onto something else. “How have you been? It’s been a long day, huh?” He sent over his fake condolence. God, you wish people would stop asking.

“Oh- just fine. Just some family drama.” You simplified it to that.

It always felt awkward around Tom. Maybe because he already had someone who didn’t fit into their world. He couldn’t collect all of you. It felt like there was no gain to have, especially with you being a woman. And being so attached to the man who reminded him constantly of his shortcomings.

“Dinner should be ready in 5 minutes. We’ll set up the table.” One of the chefs informed Shiv and Tom. She nodded and sent them off their way. The table had been set up shortly and you were all instructed on when to finally come in. You sat alongside Roman as Tom and Shiv sat across. Plates of food slowly poured through the door and were set in front of you.

“Thank you for having us again Shiv.” You thanked her once again as she grabbed the bottle of wine off the table and began to unscrew it.

“It’s nothing. Don’t stress.” She popped the cork out and poured herself a glass before setting the bottle down for grabs. You poured one glass before passing it around to everyone else at the table.

“Did you see what Kendall said to the press earlier? He’s completely gone ape shit.” She struck up a conversation with Roman. Roman raised an eyebrow, waiting for Shiv to tell him. “He said the reason we have not joined ties with him is because we’re scared of dad and that dad’s using a victim's trauma for views and sympathy.” Shiv laughed at how ridiculous it was for Kendall.

“But you both are scared of Logan.” You pointed out. Shiv paused as if she hadn’t ever been scared of him. Definitely Roman and sometimes Kendall, but she didn’t think she was. Maybe a little.

“Well- that’s just… that’s not why we don’t support him. I mean he’s trying to put us in jail for something. I mean- Tom might even go to prison.” Shiv explained, but you shrugged. You didn’t see any of that happening. Sure, everything was pretty serious, but how long can this investigation go? Why would they arrest the kids who had no say in it? They didn’t purposely hide evidence.

“I don’t know. I think Ken is digging himself a grave. He keeps bringing up victims this, victims that, it’s starting to seem disingenuous. As if these women aren’t a person with a name and life; just victims.” You scoffed at how disgusting Kendall had been. He refused to even say your name. Just saying ‘victim’ as a placeholder instead. He didn’t view you as a person. Just something to profit off of.

“I’m sorry….” Shiv tried to apologize to you. You shook your head, not wanting to focus on it.

“Ken ever since high school has been a fraud. He thinks reading women talk about hating men is a personality trait.” Roman knew this was the best way to remove the topic off of you and onto him and Kendall. “Can you please start reading books to him at night? I feel like he only listens to you.” Shiv rolled her eyes at her brother's sexism.

“No amount of training can make Roman less hateful.” Tom disagreed with Shiv. “Oh, come on. You’ve seen how he’s been. He’s completely pussy whipped. I’ve never seen-“ Shiv laughed at her brother's expense. “Fucking haha. Fuck you. I’m not like Tom.” Roman decided to fire back. Shiv couldn’t help but laugh at her brother's annoyance.

“Rome- It wasn’t meant anything bad. You just now know what it’s like to be a regular boy.” Shiv continued to prod Roman’s insecurities of not being normal. You held his hand under the table for some kind of comfort, looking at him carefully to show him some kind of support.

“Everyone finds their person at different stages.” You defended. “I mean how old were you and Tom when you both got together?” You asked to get off the topic of Roman. This whole dinner was filled with one person being the main target of the conversation to only be jumped to the next target.

“We met back in college.” Tom smiled at Shiv lovingly as he reminisced back at the time, but Shiv seemingly wanted to forget that part of her life.

“Tell them when you both actually met.” Roman incited the story, chewing on his food amused at what the true tale was.

“That’s not- ugh… I was just a dumb fucking college student. Uh- yea it was finally when I was away from dad, so at a party I threw up in front of everyone and Tom held my hair in the bathroom.” Shiv tried to make it seem as though it was a lot harsher than it truly was. Everyone had those phases in college. It was just the college experience. You were a lot worse a few years ago when you started college. You were sneaking into clubs, doing coke with strangers, acid, molly, ketamine, whatever the fuck you were ever given.

“Oh- that’s sweet of him though.” You tried to praise Tom. Tom appreciated that some kind of good intentions were brought into his actions.

“I guess. I mean it was humiliating.” Shiv hid her face.

“No- I mean seriously. If he was some stranger and he took you home to only help you out, that’s incredibly sweet. He could’ve just ignored it like everyone.” You kept trying to push the narrative. Shiv nodded, looking at Tom finally smiling about the moment they met. Maybe it was sweet of Tom.

“I mean- I saw her beforehand a few times. But I finally went to the party she always went to. And her friends- woo- awful people. But yea- they just left her there. So instead of letting her be even more embarrassed, I carried her to her dorm and stayed with her till she was okay. And then asked her out in the morning.” Tom continued to recollect the memories of him and Shiv. Deep down, he was truly in love with her. It just was hard to love her. Shiv put her hand over Tom’s and squeezed it lightly.

“Well- me and y/n met through a hooker website.” Roman lied as if they didn’t already know how you and Roman had met.

You giggled, but the rest of them didn’t. You always found Roman ridiculous. No one understood how you could so carelessly laugh at the weird disgusting shit he ever said.

“Noooo- come on. It was sexual workplace harassment. Remember? That’s what the tabloids say.” You could finally laugh at what was occurring around you in the media. That’s when it hit Shiv and Tom. You were perfect for Roman. His other half. A more stable liberal put-together version of him.

[bowieandqueen11]

Kissing Kendall Roy Would Include...

Request: idk if the Kendall Roy request is still open but like; i know it sounds silly but just kissing him. Just always kissing him whenever you can reach at the time. his hands while he hands you a glass of wine while youre sittin on the couch? sure. top of his head from behind? you got it. his eyelids when hes slowly waking up? amazing. under the jaw after straightening up his collar? lovely. on the chest after the shower? hot. cheeks so he doesnt cry? the cutest. just how can you stop when its HIM-

BABE I am YEARING god you are so real for this I want to cry I- Also ty ty for doing my job for me and giving me legit all the amazing headcanons inspo ily fr <3

NOT ME WRITING 4.1K OF KISSING KENDALL HEADCANONS LMAOO anyway I went a bit overboard and this took quite a while to write, so please please let me know if you enjoy! :) Thank you!

Warning: Kissing, racy kissing, some heavily implied NSFW, mentions of drinking and smoking and a little strong language! Although not explicit, I’m going to go with 18+ on this one please!

(I do not own Succession or its characters, all rights go to creators. Gif credit goes to @technicolourtelevision.)

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°

Hngghhhh I want to kiss Kendall Roy so bad like?? His little dopey eyes and his sweet as seduction smile and his perfectly squidgy cheeks and those sad plump lips like frick Logan and the cycle of abuse Kendall Roy was invented for kissing pls-

Your first kiss happened when the two of you were sixteen: Shiv and Roman had been shipped off for the day to some yacht event their mother was hosting in England, and so the usually imposing mansion seemed all the more eerie when you slipped into its hall. Trawling through the rooms, you peered through ornate doorway after empty doorway to find nothing other than freshly beaten rugs and expensive looking vases crowding the place. Little did you know, as you snuck into one of the Roy’s ‘entertainment rooms’ in the west wing of the second floor, that Kendall was similarly as bored as you were; finally being given a break from listening in to his father’s conference calls, it wasn’t long until Ken decided to investigate the weird sound of talking coming from down a couple of corridors. He came trawling in to see you looking surprised, sitting hunched up on the floor and watching some kind of 00s looking rom-com on the flat screen television. He smiled fondly, not surprised to see you, and came dawdling over until he was perched politely down in front of the settee beside you. His freshly pressed brown trousers brushed against your own as his knee came to rest against your own, and he didn’t even hesitate to reach into your open backpack and pull out a couple of sweets you had smuggled into the Roy residence.

There had always been something between the two of you, ever since you had met as neighbouring children almost ten years ago now. A stolen glance. A kiss on the cheek when the two of you departed to plod sadly back home. A missed bite on the lip when the two of you waved and ran over to hug each other after only a few days apart. Kendall cradling himself and always beelining straight for your arms when his father had yelled at him again. Even so, while the two of you sat staring at the television screen without even really seeing it, it took Ken quite a lot of courage to try and make his feelings a little better known. Taking inspiration from the way the character flashing before his tired eyes had grasped onto the protagonist’s hand in some desperate plea of true love, Kendall tentatively spread his fingers out like a sprouting vine until they bumped against your own. He didn’t even turn his head when he planted them gingerly down on top of your own, but his fingertips shook nonetheless. It took you a great deal of bravery as well to rest your elbow back on the cushion as if you were going for a yawn, before letting your own fingers fall back down against the nape of his neck. Uncertainly, you hold your breath, and hear Kendall’s hitch as you play with a few strands of the hair poking out just above his cream cable-knit jumper. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see his hand claw where it’s resting on his inner thigh.

Before you can even register your shock, Ken’s torso has turned and he’s leapt at you, clumsily knocking you backwards. Luckily his hands have already shot out to grasp behind your back, so you manage not to bruise yourself against his ferocity, but it doesn’t stop you from gasping as Kendall clambers over your body like a shoot reaching for the sunlight. The overwhelming rush of love gushed through him like the course of a river as he overtook you, his lips frantically latching and smothering and pulling against your own until you couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t feel. All there was in that moment was Kendall, his legs sliding between your own and the throb of his plump lips as they graced over every inch of your mouth they could latch onto.

He only pulled away, most unfortunately in a state of fear driven panic when the door pounded open and the scowl of his father thundered across the doorway. It was the first time Logan had ever caught him in the act of showing true, unforced, fully felt love, and so for a while after that Kendall retreats back into himself. Feeling the lash, feeling the sting of his father’s disdain, he becomes more cautious about allowing himself to indulge in the one thing he’s ever truly wanted in his life.

He tries his best to pull himself away from you - but it’s like an invisible tide, slowly swallowing him whole again until he’s lost in the warm tides, the glimmers of you breaking through the blue bounds like shards of sunlight and free air. He tries his best to smother it, or to drink and smoke the hole in his chest away, but even then it doesn’t do the trick: he has to steal one more kiss from you before he goes away to college, and then he can release you from the hell scape that is his life. A few hours before he’s due to head off for his first term, you enter his bedroom to find Roman rummaging through the last few half-packed boxes, searching for technology he can steal from his brother. You ask him where Ken is, and he gives you a ‘I wouldn’t even fucking bother, I’ve already tried to talk to him’ raise of his eyebrow and shrugs, titling his head slightly towards the bedroom’s balcony. That’s all the invitation you need to slide open the gliding doors and step out into the cold breeze, shivering as a few drops of rain brush off from the drooping trees that dance over the railings.

Kendall’s sitting on one of the lounge chairs: his legs are pulled up to his chest, and his arms are tightly clasped around them. He has headphones on, and as you come to sit beside him, you realise that his chin is tucked into the gap between the legs and he’s crying quietly to himself. He startles when he feels your pressure against his side, but neither of you say a word. You just already know that his heart is broken. And he knows there’s nothing he can do, nothing he can say that will stop him from being the shadow latched onto his father’s shoe. He’s tired. Of his father. Of his life. Of being a Roy. Of not being able to be with you in the way he so desperately begs for at night. So, before he gets into the limo you can see rambling down the stone-spitting drive, Kendall Roy kisses you for the second time. And in his mind, he believes it to be the last. You can taste his salty tears as he tenderly leans his head over, the slight pressure against your mouth making the lines on your forehead deepen. For a moment, your mouth opens in a gasp and Ken takes the opportunity to brush the front of his tongue against your own. But then the limo pulls up outside the front door and honks its horn, and Ken pulls away with a sigh. Before he leaves, he sorrowfully lets his forehead fall against the top of your own, and he sniffles for a few seconds as he desperately tries not to choke on his tears. 

Then he just gets up and leaves. He can’t even bear to look backwards. It just hurts too much, even though he feels his heart being bruised and broken with each step away from you he takes. 

Thankfully for Kendall, you’re not going to give up on him. You’ll stay by his side through thick and thin, keeping as his best friend throughout his adult years. If he can’t allow himself to love fully, and freely at the moment, that’s fine. The time will come for the two of you. The time will come when he’s no longer scrambling for that knife in the mud. The time will come when he’s the victor, and he can bend and snap the rules at his own will and fancy.

Besides, soulmates always found their way back to each other in the end.

It takes quite a few years for Ken to finally admit you’re the love of life. Until his mother’s wedding in a beautiful, if slightly dusty, hamlet in Southern Tuscany. Like a flower blossoming out of the cracks of a dull grave, he breaks down in front of his siblings on that sun-dried street. How much he ‘fucking loves you’ and ‘fucking misses you’, and that he’s a ‘coward’, so it’s no surprise that when you come wandering past one of the orange backhouses trying to find Ken, Roman and Shiv give each other a look and decide to give the two of you a moment alone before calling for a car. When you spot him sitting alone, shivering, looking as if life had just stomped on him and left him a quivering mess by the bins, your heart just crumbles.

He barely moves when you come to settle down on the dirt beside him. He just stays flopped like a ragdoll, his hands shaking where they rest over his knees. After a moment or two of you just allowing him to settle into a safe silence, he begins to wrangle his hands together nervously: a sure sign that he’s about to start sobbing. So you do the only thing you can think of in that moment, without breaking him into a million pieces. You lean sideways, and press a gentle kiss against the top of his stubble line, the skin warm and scratchy under your touch. He finally musters the courage to take a glance at you then, and from the sheer emotion that wallows in the pained look he gives you, you just know. He can’t hide it anymore. It has to come out, whether he can admit to it or not. Ken opens his mouth, a gasp rushing in as if his whole lungs are about to tumble out, and you jump at the opportunity. Before he can drown you lunge forward and latch onto his lips, right where a stray beam of sunlight is resting. He’s quick to reach up and cup your face, turning his head sideways so he could better wipe his bottom lip against the edge of your mouth. He cinched you to him, a shiver rolling down his spine as a few stray tears rolled their way down the bridge of his nose. The heat of the sun starts to burn against the back of your head but you couldn’t care less, because Ken has started laughing breathlessly, hysterically against your open mouth. It’s almost as if strangled devotions are about to choking their way up his throat, but you quickly silence him once more, and he falls, for the first time in his life, easily against you.

Thankfully, kisses after that afternoon come much more freely - especially the languished ones on your wedding night. I mean, he’s waited far too many years for this moment, so Ken manages to sneak you away from the party and bridal carries you up the staircase and into the newlywed suite of the fancy estate. You bite the edge of his bottom lip as he places you down on the bed, his chest already heaving just from the slightest dance of your hands as they slide under his shoulders and shove the suit jacket off of his shoulders. Messily, hungrily, fervently, he crawls over the duvet and clinks his teeth desperately against your own. Once he’s above you, he uses a free hand to rustle underneath the rustled layers of your dress until he finds the square of bare skin where your upper thigh meets your buttocks. He scratches his fingernails teasingly underneath your panty line and squeezes firmly, making you groan into his awaiting mouth. He smiles, both fondly but with a hint of smugness, as takes your free hands and lifts them up towards his shirt buttons, guiding you to undo them with a heavenly pop after pop. He swears in that moment, as your hands glide out over his abdomen and massages the sides of his pecs, he would be content to die in your arms right there and then.

Kissing to wake him up every morning is literally what bliss must feel like. At six on the dot, you lean over on your side and gently kiss the top of his eyelids until they sleepily flutter awake. Bless his heart, the first thing he does every morning now is automatically smile; his arm reaches out onto your side of the bed before he’s even fully awake, seeking you out. It always makes you laugh, when his hand finally grips onto the side of your waist and tugs you further against him, because it was a little habit that had grown since your childhood years. When Kendall managed to sneak you in through his bedroom window, unable to sleep soundly by himself in his own bed, he would always start out feeling so self-conscious. Lying on his side, he faced out towards the open opaqueness and gilded shadows of his hollow room, his hands bunched up under his pillow. Even though he used to leave nearly a mile between the two of you on the silk sheets, he was so hyper-aware of making you uncomfortable: of scaring you off, if any part of him touched you. By the morning though, he always managed to kick and crawl and scrabble across the bed in his sleep. Although he was still to conscious to hold you fully, you would wake up to feel an intense pressure against the top of your back. Kendall’s head would be stoutly impressed upon your shoulder blade, his hands curled up and tucked against the small of your back and his legs raised against your hips as if he were a child curling up against his mother.

Now, though, Kendall’s finally content. He’s finally able to open up, to indulge himself in the only thing he’s ever truly wanted. He allows his cheeky side, his Roman-esque side to shine through by lulling you into a false sense of security. After a few minutes of you cradling his head against your bosoms and pressing kiss after kiss against the expanse of his head, he’ll jump up and pounce at you. You squeal as you scramble for an escape, trying to kick him off as you throw your hands to the floor and try to run your way towards the kitchen. He’s quicker though: not even a second passes before his arms tighten like a vice around your abdomen and he’s blowing wet raspberries against your throat. So infantile, so uninhibited, he drags you kicking and giggling back towards him so he can latch onto your bag and spoon you for a little while longer. You don’t complain when you feel him settle behind him, the heaviness of his leg as it reaches up and clambers against your own a welcome comfort. So is the feeling of his loving lips wiping a fond kiss against the nape of your neck.

Mhhh you bet those domestic kisses are godlike baby! The whole time you’re sliding around the kitchen trying to dump the takeout the two of you had decided to order on a tired whim onto plates, he’s holding you. His hands are thrumming against your waist as he presses against you from behind, singing into your ear a song the two of used to dance around to when you were younger. Every time you think he’s finally pulling away to maybe, you know, help by getting some cutlery or dumping the empty boxes in the recycling, he appears again to tickle you by licking gently behind your ear. You try to swat him off with a laugh, but that only seems to spur him on; the man is literally so deliriously happy he could cry. This. This domesticity. This fondness. This trust. You. It’s all he’s ever yearned for. Spent his younger years dreaming about. So you bet your ass he’s going to come sneaking up back behind you so he can tremble against your back as he pulls down the back of your shirt and leaves a few hickies proudly littered behind along your shoulder.

When the two of you finally settle at the dining room table to eat, to talk naturally like you’ve done a million times before over the years, you actually manage to surprise Kendall. Using your foot, you catch the edge of his sleek charcoal chair and pull him closer to you until he’s sitting by your side. It makes it far easier to grasp onto him when he shakily pours you a glace of wine and hands it to you, and definitely is a far more satisfying viewpoint to see how his tears well up when you take the wine glass from him and place it passively on the table. Unclenching his hand, you slowly kiss each knuckle one by one, raising them up to your mouth in the way someone may kiss royalty. He’s giddily smiling when you rub your thumb over the back of his hand, and he refuses to let go of you, even while he’s eating. As he turns back to try and cut up his noodles with the edge of his fork, you compassionately pretend you don’t notice him turn his head away from you for a moment, so he may sneakily try and wipe his eyes on the corner of his shirt.

On tougher days: when things haven’t been going well at Waystar, or his siblings have decided to barge in and try to stir up some new unwanted drama in his life, the sweetness and tentativeness of shower kisses are Kendall’s favourite. He will actually melt into a puddle of goo if you hold onto him, allowing him a moment to feel safe as the water cascades down and burns against his clenched eyes. He finds it difficult to be around water, so he may be a little panicky, but the feel of you wrapping yourself around his naked torso always manages to calm him straight down again. That is, until he gulps heavily at the feel of your lips kissing a trail up his inner chest to come tease with soft bites against his pulse point. He’ll wrap his arms around the curve of your spine, running them gingerly up and down as if he can’t believe this is still really happening. 

When you rinse out his hair, he finally comes back to himself and blinks in amusement when you try to wipe away a few of the leftover suds from the tip of his nose with a short kiss.

Bro I mean- it also helps him immensely when he finally just like... snaps. When he can no longer hold back the growing pounding against the dam of his heart, and the desire that’s been eating him alive ever since he was a teenager comes cascading out. In a split second, your hands have been removed from where they were running soapy circles against his oblique muscles, and he’s pinned them harshly above your head. Taking a step towards you, he traps you against the steaming glass of the shower while his tongue explores the inside of your mouth. He pulls away, panting, before lowering himself onto his knees and kissing the inside of your thighs as he lifts one of your legs over his shoulder.

Sometimes you make him jump with your kisses, no matter how well intentioned they are. Kendall hates having to work inside his dad’s old office: suffocated by the smells, the sights, the overwhelming life that still bursts forth from the space and haunts Kendall, even in death. To try and help him relax, you’ll come sneaking in to kiss the back of his head, making him jump a country mile. With a smirk, he drops his phone down onto the desk and leans backwards slowly, raising his arm up until it latches onto the back of your head. Langurous, he leans his head back against the headrest until you fall down and softly press your mouth against his. Even though he can see Gerri and Karl give each other an unimpressed side-eye glance, he honestly couldn’t care less. In the end, Kendall would give all this up: everything he’s worked his whole life to accomplish. In the end, he couldn’t give a fuck if he made his father proud, if he was competent enough to earn being a Roy, if he lived up to the mantle of being the second-born eldest son. Of being the favourite. Because in the end, all Kendall Roy actually wants is you.

Being CEO also comes with its perks, though, like you being able to straddle Kendall’s waist and sit on his lap, the two of you squeezed into Logan’s old chair. His groans can reverberate hoarsely throughout the empty floor after ‘lights out’, only the poor cleaners being left to see the blinds to his office shake as something hits against them. With an unceremonious thump, the tie you had loosened and thrown falls onto a shelf full of open binders, soon followed by Ken’s shirt. He fidgets underneath you, bucking his legs up when you begin sucking against the bottom of his jaw, and it fills you with great pleasure to feel his hands clutching desperately into the meat of your hips.

The sweetest kisses shared are up on the company’s roof. Sometimes Ken is just having an off day, mentally, and needs some time to decompress away from everyone else. No matter where you may be in the building: no matter if you may be in a meeting, or at your desk, or just hanging around the breakroom listening to Tom and Cousin Greg discussing something with heated whispers in the corner, Kendall comes lumbering in looking crestfallen and immediately dismisses everyone in the immediate vicinity. They all scramble off like cockroaches, and Ken reaches out to take your hand. You offer it willingly, knowing what’s going on when he starts fiddling with the edges of your fingers. He folds into you in the elevator, clasping onto you and tucking into your side as you hold him against you, stroking back his hair. When the two of you finally arrive on the wide stretch of beige concrete, and no one can see him be weak, Kendall allows you to guide him down until he’s sitting between your legs. He leans back against your chest, squeezing his eyes shut and gripping onto your legs as he simultaneously feels the sharp sting of the wind and the feel of your lips against his temples. 

Kisses at events are actually the best no joke like those married life vibes are off the chart. When Connor and Willa decide to have another, smaller vow ceremony in front of immediate family, everyone (even Shiv finally relents) thinks the two of you look so cute. Holding each other close at the edge of the country estate’s freshly manicured lawn, the fresh crunch of the dewy grass underneath your shoes is a welcome relief against the burn of Kendall’s hand as it caresses your own, holding it up by his side. The two of you can barely make each other’s eyes, falling into a fit of euphoric, infantile giggles that makes the other wedding guests stop and stare confusedly at the two of you. The kind glow of the varnished barn lanterns brushes over you and Kendall’s blushing cheeks, the lace-like wood work that winds up their edges illuminating over your bodies and making the two of you glow like you were sublime. Like a fool madly in love, he keeps snatching looks at you with that big, soppy smile of his, before pressing a kiss against your forehead. He leaves his chin there, sighing in contentment as he pulls your shared hand over till it’s resting against his heart, and continues swaying the two of you back and forth.

Ken has adopted this adorable little habit of letting you know when he wants kisses. He dips his head and looks at you like a forgotten puppy, taking your jaw in his hands and stroking his thumbs over your bottom lip and man does it just make you melt and indulge him straight away.

I mean my man has a literal lifetimes of kisses to make up for, and I’ll be damned if he isn’t going to grab onto every opportunity he can. Every touch, every caress feels like a fresh spring breeze, like sunlight caressing the curling corners of a brand new flower, like the cascading glimmers of light falling through the vastness of an unsurmountable ocean. It’s a renewal of life. Of hope. And in all honesty, it’s the main thing keeping the real Kendall Roy alive.

[springtyme]

reopening my requests for every character on my character list <3

[happy74827]

Only You

[Kendall Roy x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: Kendall never had anyone that he could truly rely on. But now, he has you, and that's all that matters {GIF Creds: Honestly i couldn't find who made it… just know that I didn't}.

WC: 753

Category: Lime/Spice, Slight Angst

I just finished Succession tonight and my heart literally hurts so much for Kendall, so I had to write this to ease my mind.

『••✎••』

“Kenny…” You sigh into his neck, his teeth nipping at your ear.

His hands travel from your thighs to the dip of your back and up, pulling the thin fabric of your dress over your head and off, tossing it onto the floor.

He grins, kissing down your jaw to the swell of your breasts. You can feel him, hard and thick through his jeans, pressed against you, and you need him. Need to feel him inside you. Need to feel his skin against yours.

Your breath is shallow and hot.

Kendall kisses the hollow of your throat, your pulse hammering against his lips. He takes your chin in his hand and makes you look at him. You stare into his eyes, deep and brown, the color of the earth. He stares right back, and you can feel his heartbeat, fast and in time with yours.

You lean in, pressing your lips to his. He kisses you back, softly at first, but then, hungry, devouring, as if he were a starving man.

You unbutton his shirt, letting it fall to the floor, and push him down on the bed. He pulls you on top of him, and you can feel him smiling as he kisses you. His hands are warm as they caress your body, sending tingles up and down your spine.

He needed this; you knew it, just like you needed it. It was only a matter of time before he broke down before he let you back in. He needed someone to be there for him—someone who loved him unconditionally and would stand by him no matter what.

His touch was gentle and loving. The way he held you, kissed you. It was almost as if he didn't want to let you go. As if he was afraid of losing you.

Your heart ached for him. Ached for the man who was lost and alone, the man who had no one else. Nothing else.

With all the hot garbage and corruption within Waystar, Kendall could always rely on you. You were his constant. His anchor.

He would never admit it, not even to himself, but he was scared. He was scared and alone, and he needed someone.

Roman couldn’t give him that. Shiv could barely stand to look at him. His mother? Well, she wasn't the type.

And then there was you. You had been by his side, supporting him for as long as he could remember.

He didn't know when he had started to notice you, started to love you. But he had. Rava couldn't fill the void in his heart. No woman could. But you could.

You had been there for him every step of the way, no matter what. When the shit hit the fan, when his father cut him out, when his family betrayed him, you were there. You were his light in the darkness.

The night that Kendall told the world his father was at fault for the cruise ship disaster, the full turnaround he did on the presser and the aftermath had been hell. Logan had thrown a tantrum, screaming and shouting and threatening to cut him off completely.

For a little while, it seemed like he would, too.

But you had been there for him.

Kendall had broken down, sobbing, after it was all over. When the weight of it all had finally hit him, he had felt guilty and ashamed.

You had sat with him, comforting him. You hadn’t judged him. You hadn’t told him it was his fault, that he was wrong. You had simply listened.

And that had meant the world to him.

When he had finished crying, when his sobs had subsided, he had kissed you.

He hadn't planned to. But the look in your eyes, the concern, the compassion, the love, he couldn't help himself. It was a soft kiss. Tender. Loving. He had cupped your face in his hands, holding you as if you were the most precious thing in the world.

After that night, everything had changed.

You had become the only thing he could count on.

You were always there for him, no matter what.

Now, as you lay together, the sheets twisted around your bodies, your bare skin touching his, he knew.

He knew the person who would always have his back, who would never leave him, was you.

And that was why he had given you his heart.

Kendall didn't need anyone or anything else.

He only needed you.

Just you and only you.