#shiv who do you think you’re talking to

[gregkinz]

Shiv does not know a single goddamn thing about Greg if she thinks threatening him is the way to go?? like Greg will not fucking listen if he’s threatened, but if you are kind to him or promise support then he’ll do whatever you want. Greg stopped being team Ken in season three because Kendall stopped being nice to him. his grandpa threatened to take away his inheritance so Greg stayed with Fun Uncle Logan. Tom promised to look after Greg and kept that promise, Tom took Greg with him in season 3, Tom takes care of Greg, so obviously Greg is going to stay Team Tom and some empty threats aren’t going to get him to switch sides. Shiv tried to catch Greg with vinegar instead of honey and that’s why he fucked her over lol

[thespoonisvictory]

thinking about how nate’s voice shook when kendall was talking to him, when he said “I don’t know what you think this is. I’m not gil. You’re not logan. That’s a good thing.” it was immediately brushed off by kendall, then upstaged by the roman and gerri and tom and shiv of it all, but something about it sticks with me. how many people there are that do care, maybe. that were there before, that loved these kids but got burned and pushed out when they couldn’t keep up.

thinking about all of the side characters that haunt the peripheries of this show, not allowed in because the past is perpetually blurry, and there’s nothing they can do but watch now, where they were once players in this awful family’s life. rava, stewy, nate, arguably tabitha, exes mentioned by name. people who loved or love the siblings, but it’s not nearly enough. the roy family is a gravity well of a thing, a whirlpool that you either don’t put a toe in or accept your fate of getting swept away into it. 

I’m just fascinated with the group of people that loved them but knew that that wasn’t currency worth much in their family. that chose to leave, to stay out of it, but loved the kids anyway, hopelessly. 

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

Grays II

Frankie Morales x f!reader

{ Grays - Part I | Grays Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: E (18+ only)

Summary: Leaning in close, you hiss in his ear, ‘You’re getting laid tonight if it kills me, Morales.’

Warnings: Insecure Frankie in need of self-love comes with his own warning, Reader is a hairstylist and has a related nickname, matchmaking elements, meddlesome mother, lots of teasing, not-quite-friends to lovers dynamics, mentions of hair, gratuitous descriptions of the male body, oral sex (F and M receiving), protected sex, dirty talk.

Word count: 8.5k

Notes: It's here - 4 months later! First of all, thank you so much for the love for Grays Part I. I still can't quite believe the reaction to Frankie and Shiv, you guys sure know how to make a writer feel special 🥰 This one was so much fun to write, and nervous as I am posting this follow-up, I'm telling myself to let go of my insecurities and just enjoy it because that's what it's all about. I hope y'all will have a good time at this wedding with the gang 😘

Francisco Morales likes to think of himself as a reasonably competent man. 

He can pilot a helicopter under intense enemy fire. He can take out a target from miles away in the tightest of spots. 

But he can’t do his fucking hair.

He glares at himself in the mirror. He can’t put his finger on it, it just doesn’t look like how you did it. He’s already washed it out and started over twice, and for a second, he considers driving to your salon. A quick glance at his watch tells him it’s far too late for that now.

Leaning over the sink, he says to his reflection, ‘Focus, pendejo. You can do it.’

He’s a pilot for fuck’s sake. He’s a man of procedure, he can follow steps. He just needs to break it down.

Hair half-dry - check.

Hair mousse applied - check.

Now he just needs to dry his hair all the way and style it - but the how is where it gets hazy. 

Frankie closes his eyes and casts his mind back to your salon. He’s sitting in the chair and you’re standing behind him. He wills himself to recall what you were doing with your hands, but all he remembers is the scrape of your of your fingertips on his scalp, the ghost of your breath on the back of his neck, and then -

Don’t be gentle, Francisco. C’mon, harder, deeper - don’t hold back.

He scrubs a frustrated palm down his face when his cock twitches in his haphazardly ironed dress pants, not for the first time… hell, not even the fourth time since he left your salon on Wednesday afternoon.

‘Goddamnit,’ he bites out, dropping the hairdryer with a clunk and grips the porcelain sink. He needs to calm the fuck down. 

He didn’t ask for - this, whatever this is. You’re you. You’re Shiv. The loudmouth with the wild hair he’s known since fifth grade. The fourth wheel at guys’ drinks when Will can’t make it. A relentless tease on a good day, and downright insufferable when you get enough tequila in you.

And quite possibly, the only person who’s ever driven him to the brink of unconsciousness with just the touch of their bare hands.

Frankie pinches the bridge of his nose. Maybe you’re right. It has been a while since he’s been with a woman. He just needs to get laid at the wedding, get this weird tension out of his system. And then hopefully, he’ll be able to go to sleep without being kept up by you telling him to go harder, deeper -

By the time he gets his head out of his ass, it’s too late for second-guessing. He rakes his fingers through his hair, sets it with hairspray, and quickly rubs the beard oil he bought in town yesterday into his whiskers. He takes a moment to look himself over while he clumsily does up the tie he borrowed from Pope.

This is as good as it’s gonna get.

He’s the designated driver tonight. By some miracle, he’s only five minutes late when he cruises into Pope’s driveway, where all three of the boys are waiting and sipping on beers.

‘Damn Fish, you look good,’ crows Santi as he climbs into the passenger seat, patting him on the shoulder. ‘You should get your hair cut at Shiv’s from now on.’

‘Only if you keep paying for it,’ retorts Frankie while he backs out of the driveway. He pauses as he changes gears, and adds in a grumble. ‘She’s making me use shampoo and conditioner.’

Pope barks in laughter, twisting in his seat to give Benny a knowing grin. ‘Someone had to, you caveman.’

The younger Miller brother ribs good-naturedly, ‘You ready for some action tonight, Fish? I brought some extra rubbers just in case.’

Meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror, Frankie rips into him mercilessly. ‘You know your small ass condoms don’t fit me, Benjamin.’ 

The car erupts with playful jeers, and the corner of his mouth lifts into a crooked smile as he palms the steering wheel.

‘That’s some fighting talk, Fish!’ goads Santi, punching him on the arm.

Will joins in the banter. ‘You better watch out, little bro. Big Dick Morales came out swinging tonight.’

Benny grins. ‘Ok, I see how it is. Let’s make it interesting, Fish. Whoever picks up a one night stand first wins a hundred bucks.’

Frankie shrugs in mock nonchalance and quips, ‘I mean, I can use the cash. Shampoo ain’t cheap.’

Benny chuckles and clasps his shoulder. ‘You’re on, man.’

It’s eight on the dot when you lock up the salon. While you did RSVP for wedding drinks - opting out of the sit-down dinner earlier in the evening - you hadn’t planned on actually going. But it seems like the whole town did, you’ve barely had two customers walk through the door all afternoon. 

So you let Ashton go home early, and after a quick snack, you take your time getting ready. Might as well have a Saturday night out - your first in many months.

The hotel is just a short Uber ride away. When you climb out of the car, you bite your bottom lip at the unfamiliar tension humming under your skin.

Nerves.

You’re nervous.

And worse, you know exactly what you’re nervous about. 

Or more precisely - who.

‘Pull it together, Shiv,’ you mutter under your breath. Steeling yourself, you stride into the hotel.

From his vantage point at the bar, Benny watches in amusement as Frankie glances towards the doors of the reception hall yet again. He doubts the pilot even knows he’s doing it, or at the very least, he doesn’t think that anyone would notice.

Grabbing his beer, Benny sidles up to his friend. ‘Looking for something, Fish?’

Frankie takes a sip of his Coke and feigns nonchalance. ‘Yeah, looking to win that hundred bucks from you.’

‘Dunno ‘bout that. I don’t see you trying very hard.’

‘Biding my time, Miller. Just make sure you have enough cash to -’ 

When Frankie breaks off in the middle of his sentence, Benny doesn’t need to look to wager a guess what caught his attention.

Turning around as you approach, he flings his arms out to give you a hug, eyeing you up and down appreciatively. ‘Babe, look at you all dressed up! Doesn’t she look nice, Fish?’

In lieu of an answer, Frankie stares intently at some invisible spot over your shoulder until Benny elbows him right in his stomach, jerking him out of his trance. ‘Fish?’

Frankie clears his throat and stutters. ‘Um. I - I don’t know.’

You arch an eyebrow at him. ‘You don’t know if I look nice?’

Benny has to stopper his mouth with beer so he doesn’t laugh out loud at the panic on Frankie’s face as he fumbles for a response. ‘I mean. Um, nice… pants?’

‘It’s a jumpsuit, Morales. Try to keep up,’ you reply and take two steps towards him, which has him backpedalling so fast that he upsets the table behind him, sending half-empty glasses spilling wine all over the white tablecloth.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he growls at you like a cornered stray.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you pull him upright by his tie. ‘Is he ok, Ben? He’s even jumpier than usual.’

‘Well, it’s a funny night for him. Watching his ex get married and all.’

‘I swear to God, Benjamin Miller, if you don’t shut the fuck up -’ 

‘Pipe down, Morales, we’re just messing with you,’ you shush him, tugging on his slightly skewed shirt collar to set it straight. ‘Can’t believe you own a tie.’

‘Borrowed it from Pope,’ he grunts without making eye contact.

Smoothing the lapels of his slightly crumpled suit jacket, you probe, ‘You’ve been using shampoo and conditioner like I asked?’

Frankie huffs a dry laugh. ‘I don’t remember you asking.’

‘Someone’s mouthy tonight,’ you tease. ‘And the beard oil?’

He concedes with a sigh. ‘Yes, Shiv.’

‘You look good, Francisco,’ you grin and reach up to push his curls back from his eyes.

He looks away as he admits, ‘Took three fucking tries.’

At least he holds still when you make small adjustments to his hair, shoulders stiff with hands stuffed deep into his pockets. You catch yourself missing the way he leaned into your touch in your salon, and you have to forcefully push that thought away as you push your fingers through the roots to boost the volume. His curls feel softer already than you remember them, with a noticeably healthier sheen. 

After a final rustle to loosen up his fringe, you wink at him. ‘Mark my words, the bride will rue the day she dumped your ass when she sees you.’

A voice from behind you interrupts. ‘It’s a bit too late for that now, isn’t it?’

Trading a look with Frankie, who gives you a sarcastic thumbs up, you put on a smile and turn on your heels. ‘Mrs. Morales, it’s been too long!’

‘I see you haven’t dyed my son’s hair like I requested,’ she says by way of a greeting, drawing you into an embrace.

Frankie’s taunt is so quiet that you nearly miss it. ‘Told you she’d come after you.’

Without skipping a beat, you elbow him in the ribs, ignoring his pained oomph from behind you. ‘You look wonderful tonight, ma’am.’ 

‘You can’t sweet talk your way out of my question, young lady.’

You cross your arms with a sigh. ‘I didn’t dye it because he looks good with the grays.’ 

‘Well, I don’t think so.’

‘In my professional opinion, he does,’ you retort pointedly.

‘If he looks so good, why is he still single?’

Frankie throws his hands up in exasperation. ‘Gee, thanks a lot ma.’

You turn to Benny, who has been silently watching you two spar. ‘What do you think, Miller?’

He dithers, eyes darting around in desperation until he spots Santi and his older brother coming back from the bar. ‘Look! Here are the guys, let’s ask them!’

‘Ask us what?’ asks Santi, giving you a kiss on the cheek and a glass of bubbly.

‘Do you think my son looks good with the grays?’

Your eyebrow twitches when Mrs. Morales carelessly ruffles his hair to emphasise her point. To your surprise, Frankie bats her away with an irritated ma!, before hastily rearranging it.

‘Your honest opinion, if you please,’ you add.

The boys hum and haw, sipping their beers and shooting uncertain looks between you and Mrs. Morales, clearly uncomfortable being caught in the middle. Upping the heat, you narrow your eyes at them, and Will folds first. 

‘Yeah, I mean - he looks good,’ he mumbles, avoiding the Morales matriarch's glare.

‘Pope?’ you prompt.

‘Cabrón rocking those grays,’ he nods supportively.

‘Ben?’

‘Uh huh,’ he replies vaguely, but at your menacing glare, clarifies, ‘Yes, I meant - yes, ma’am.’

Mrs. Morales scoffs. ‘They’re men, what do they know! I don’t see him catching any girls’ attention.’

Ah, that’s the easy part. You look around, scanning the crowds - and bingo, you see a brunette staring openly from across the dance floor. You hold up a finger for dramatic effect. ‘Excuse me for one second.’

Frankie looks ready for the earth to swallow him whole by the time you return with the said woman in tow. Pointing straight at him, you ask, ‘Lucy, this is Frankie. Do you think he’s hot with the grays?’

To her credit, she’s a good sport, and plays along with a cheeky wink. ‘Yeah, he is. You wanna dance, handsome?’

‘Yes, he absolutely does!’ you answer quickly before he can get a word in.

‘What the fuck, Shiv?’ Frankie seethes through clenched teeth, literally digging his heels in, but to his despair, his shoes skid uselessly on the tiled surface as you push him towards the dancefloor with this complete stranger. 

Leaning in close, you hiss in his ear, ‘You’re getting laid tonight if it kills me, Morales.’

‘Have fun, Fish!’ calls out Pope impishly, which earns him an emphatic middle finger. 

You beam at Mrs. Morales smugly. ‘And that’s how it’s done.’

‘You better keep it up, young lady,’ she says over her shoulder as she turns to leave.

You raise your drink. ‘Don’t you worry, Mrs M. I promise you - he’ll be leaving with his future wife tonight!’

Santi is minding his own business, sipping on his beer as he stakes out the ladies, when a hand shoots out from nowhere and snatches the bottle from him.

‘What the fuck, man?!’ he bristles indignantly.

Frankie polishes off the drink in one mouthful, before slamming it onto the table and demanding, ‘Where’s Shiv? I’m done. I’m not fucking dancing with anyone else.’

Pope jerks his thumb to the other side of the room. ‘She’s arguing with your mother.’

Frankie flops into a chair, the dress shoes that he never wears are pinching his feet and he fights the urge to kick them off. He folds his arms across his chest petulantly, one palm over his mouth as his eyes wander across the hall to you, where you’re gesturing madly at his ma, embroiled in an impassioned discussion, probably still about his damn hair.

You’re all dressed up tonight, which is new to him - he’s only ever seen you in jeans when you go out drinking with them, and he’s certainly never seen so much of you. The ‘jumpsuit’ (he learns something new every day) is black and cut low both front and back, and fuck, all he sees is soft skin and the dip of your curves and red lipstick -

Pope must have nipped to the bar while he wasn’t looking, and a fresh bottle of beer appears under his nose. Glancing up at his best friend, Frankie mutters, ‘Thanks.’

‘You can’t marry her, Fish.’

He chokes violently at the casual non-sequitur, spraying beer everywhere. ‘What the fuck, Pope.’

Santi beams. ‘You got that look on your face, man. I’ve seen that look before.’

‘I don’t have a look on my face.’

He chuckles, mostly to himself. 'Damn, I really should've seen this coming.'

‘What are you even on about -’ Looking up, Frankie spots you making your way over and panics. ‘Shut the fuck up, pendejo.’

‘Why aren’t you dancing, my little debutante?’ you ask when you come within earshot.

Santi chortles and takes his leave, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Good luck, Fish.’

You sink into the empty seat next to him and he deliberately twists his body away from you, drinking deeply from his bottle to drown out Santi’s words ringing in his ears. 

‘So, I heard you have a bet going on with Benny. I want splitsies if you win.’

Frankie rolls his eyes, staring resolutely anywhere but at the swell of your cleavage. ‘No.’

‘40/60.’

‘Fuck off, Shiv.’

‘30/70?’ you counter-offer.

He sighs. ‘You’re impossible.’

Ignoring him, you jump up with a happy squeak when someone Frankie vaguely recognises as a girl who used to be in your class approaches with a shy smile. You pull her close by the crook of her arm and ask, ‘Morales, you remember Sadie?’

He tries not to scowl too openly as he too gets on his feet. ‘Sure, hi Sadie.’

Herding them towards the dancefloor, you grin, ‘Go dance, get reacquainted.’

As he passes by you, Frankie grits his teeth and curls his fingers into the meat of his palms to crush the urge to reach out and touch you. 

But it’s easier to fall into your well-rehearsed roles, to toe the line that has been drawn in the sand since you were teenagers. And easier is certainly the safer option when it comes to you.

So he throws you a deliberate glare over his shoulder, with a deadpanned, ‘I hate you.’

You blow him a kiss and grin wider.

Frankie can’t hold back a relieved sigh when the interminably long song finally ends, and the woman he’s dancing with - he won’t even pretend he remembers her name - tucks his phone back into the pocket of his jacket after tapping in her number. ‘Call me, gorgeous.’

He stopped counting after the eighth woman you shepherded his way. This is it. He’s not above hiding in the toilets if that’s what it takes to make this stop.

Except he’s not quick enough. He spots you out of the corner of his eye, marching straight towards him with a fresh glass of water and a look of purpose on your face.

He doesn’t exactly know what came over him. He could probably blame it on the one and a half beers that he downed, or being pushed to the end of his tether. Whatever it is, there’s something he has to say to you, and it can’t wait.

You push the glass into his grasp. ‘Here, hydrate.’

‘Shiv -’

You’ve already swivelled around, your focus somewhere else. ‘Where is she? She was literally just behind me -’

‘Shiv -’

‘Mind you, she’s a sweet girl, but clearly not the brightest tool in the -’

His patience snaps, and he barks, ‘Shiv!’

You spin around, brow furrowed in confusion, and snarl back, ‘What?’

Frankie pauses, and you blink as his warm eyes hold yours. On an exhale, he says, ‘You look nice tonight.’

You’re vaguely aware that your jaw has gone slack, but only because his eyes follow the movement, dropping to your mouth. He considers you for a moment, head tipping just slightly to the side as he watches you. Then, satisfied that he has your attention, he brings the glass of water to his lips, throwing his head back as he drinks. 

Your breath catches in your throat when his Adam’s apple bobs with his swallow, before he leisurely swipes his lips with the back of his hand.

Except in your mind, it’s not water that he’s wiping from his mouth.

In a perfectly mirrored imitation of what transpired between you earlier in the evening, he takes two measured steps forward, prompting you to back up against the table behind you. The tinkle of glasses falling over hardly registers in the back of your mind. 

The fabric of his suit is cool on your skin, brushing your bare arm as he looms over you, so broad and warm. Though his front barely makes contact, your peripheral vision gives and all you can see is him.

‘What are you doing?’ you croak the same words back at him, hating the way your voice shakes.

Frankie smiles - really smiles at you, with no colour of the usual irony or sarcasm. Warmth settles into the creases in the corners of his eyes as he holds up the empty glass. ‘Just putting my glass away,’ he says coolly, an edge of cockiness at your tragically obvious reaction to him.

You feel your cheeks heat up as he does just that - the back of his hand bumping into your forearm as he moves, the breadth of him pinning you against the table. He doesn’t pull away, clearly basking in the way the tables have well and truly turned -

‘Hi! You must be Frankie, I’m Jan.’

Frankie squeezes his eyes shut in irritation at the voice behind him, nostrils flaring as he collects himself. A resigned smile tugs at his lips, and he tips forward, his words grazing your ear. ‘Catch you later, Shiv.’

You only let your knees buckle when he’s safely out of sight.

You’ve barely stepped back into the reception hall from a much needed bathroom break to clear your head when someone grabs you by the arm, tugging you onto the dancefloor.

‘Benny!’ You reprimand, stumbling over your feet. ‘I’m busy.’

‘Relax, Shiv. Frankie can survive on his own for a second.’

‘You’re just jealous that he’s hogging all the ladies’ attention.’

He scoffs, palms on your waist as he sways to the music. ‘He has an unfair advantage, ok? How do I compete with the bride’s ex?’

Clasping your hands around Benny’s neck, you catch Frankie’s eye over his shoulder. You wink at him casually, having somewhat recovered your bravado - it’s easier to pretend from a distance anyway. He rolls his eyes at you over Jan’s head, but he doesn’t look away, watching you with a hint of something you can’t quite make out.

Glancing up at Benny, you ask a tad bashfully, ‘I know we give Frankie a hard time about all this, but is he - ok?’

‘Why don’t you ask him yourself?’

You hesitate. ‘Well, we’re not exactly that kind of friends.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know, the kind who sit around having heart-to-hearts and painting their nails.’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘What kind of friends are you, then?’ 

‘I don’t know, he probably doesn’t even count me as one,’ you admit. ‘He barely tolerates me on a good day.’

Benny shoots you a cryptic look, but before you can quiz him on it, he changes the subject abruptly. ‘Can I swing by the salon tomorrow morning? I have a promotional shoot at half past eleven.’

‘As long as you bring donuts and coffee.’

He twirls you around. ‘Deal.’

Frankie slinks out of the hotel, somehow managing to dodge both you and his mother on his way out, which he takes as a win.

It’s cold outside. He inhales deeply and feels it burn down his throat. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he watches his breath mist in front of his face, savouring the quiet.

‘Hey.’

His shoulders stiffen. He knows he should’ve been the bigger man. Should’ve sought her out first, to congratulate her.

Should’ve, could’ve, would’ve.

When he turns around eventually, she smiles brightly at him, her engagement ring catching the lights.

Closing the space between them, he presses a kiss to her cheek. ‘Congratulations. You look beautiful.’

‘Thank you,’ she replies. ‘I’m glad you came. Your mum too - it was a long way to travel.’

His gaze falls to his shoes. ‘Yeah, well. You know she loves you.’

‘How are you?’ she presses on, always one for polite conversation. ‘Are you seeing anyone?’

Frankie shrugs but doesn’t answer.

‘Just because it didn’t work between us doesn’t mean I want you to be happy.’

He nods slowly. ‘I appreciate that.’

She points behind her. ‘Well, I should go back inside.’

‘Of course. I’m happy for you,’ he says. And he means it.

The hotel doors swing open, and Frankie looks up at the sharp clack of heels on the concrete. You pause at the sight of them by the curb.

‘Are you leaving, Shiv?’ the bride laments as you walk over to give her a hug.

‘I am, I’m afraid, gotta open up shop early tomorrow,’ you pull back. ‘Come by the salon any time, my treat.’

Once the bride is out of earshot, you turn to Frankie, hands on hips. ‘Alright, no more shirking, Morales. Get your ass back in there, your mother is on my case again.’

He folds his arms across his chest. ‘Oh no, I’m not going back in there without you.’

You sigh dramatically. ‘Am I the only one in this town who’s not scared of your mother?’

‘You should be,’ he snorts, then nods towards the parking lot. ‘C’mon, I’ll give you a lift.’

Taken aback by his offer, you hesitate. ‘Um - I thought you were the designated driver for the guys tonight.’

He brushes off your concerns with an easy shrug. ‘I’ll come back to get them after I drop you off.’ 

Typical Frankie - he walks off without even glancing back to see if you’re coming with him.

You smile to yourself and follow.

You must be drunker than you realised, because you’re staring. Again. For what must be the fifth time in the ten-minute drive.

It’s a lot of staring, even for you.

His jacket lies abandoned in the backseat, his tie jostled loose and the top two buttons of his shirt unfastened, sleeves bunched up to his elbows. You watch from the corner of your eye as his left hand grips the top of the steering wheel steady, fingers flexing every now and then on straight stretches of road.

As if you’re not already discreetly squeezing your thighs together, he’s also rubbing his right palm idly on his leg, the innocent rustle of fabric against skin getting you far too hot and bothered under the metaphorical collar. 

And then - your eyes trail higher - settling on the heavy bulge at the top of his spread thighs.

Fuck. You’re definitely drunk.

You mull silently to yourself that you actually prefer him in his beat-up jeans and threadbare t-shirts before catching yourself. You weren’t aware you had any preferences when it comes to Frankie Morales. And you have no business doing so.

Clearing your throat, you break the tense silence. Well, tense for you, anyway. He seems completely oblivious to your inner strife.

‘I’m sorry you didn’t win the bet.’

His lips quirk, but he keeps his eyes on the road.

‘I had another five girls lined up for you, you know.’

He scoffs. ‘No, thank you.’

You reach over to punch him on the arm playfully. ‘C’mon, you know you enjoyed the attention, Morales.’

‘You don’t know me very well, do you?’ he peers at you.

You make a face of disbelief. ‘If you hated it that much, why did you go along with it?’

Cruising into your street, his truck rolls to a smooth stop outside your salon. Frankie kills the ignition, then turns towards you. His answer is simple, and hits you right between the ribs. 

‘Because you wanted me to.’

You force a chuckle in a weak attempt to lighten the mood. ‘Since when did you care about what I wanted?’

He smooths his palm over the steering wheel and holds your gaze. ‘Sometime when I wasn’t looking.’

It would be simpler to pretend you didn’t understand what he means. To brush off this pull between you as a champagne-induced episode that you could sleep off. If you did, you could still show up at Tuesday nights drinks next week as if nothing has changed, and carry on.

It would be simpler. So you ask -

‘Do you want to come in for a nightcap?’

Frankie follows two steps behind you as you grapple with the keys on the doorstep. Once inside, the salon is quiet, and you strategically turn on the lights by the backwash, the semi-darkness making it more homey than it would have been if fully lit up. 

‘I would invite you upstairs -’ you pause and add hastily, ‘I don’t mean upstairs like, upstairs in that way - it’s just that my apartment is tiny, and the backwash is the closest thing I have to a couch. Are you okay with beer?’

‘Beer’s good, thanks,’ he answers. ‘Need a hand?’

You shake your head vehemently. ‘Oh god, please no - it’s a disaster upstairs. I’ll be right back.’

The rickety stairs creak loudly under your heels, and once you let yourself into your studio, you fall back heavily on the door, taking a second to catch your breath.

You invited him inside. 

He said yes.

You leap into action, shoving all your dirty laundry into the already full hamper. You try not to think too hard about why you’re cleaning up, you just hope you’re not making too much of a ruckus while you’re at it - because you have a boy waiting for you downstairs. 

Francisco Morales, of all people.

Despite having been in each other’s lives since high school, you’re pretty sure you’ve never been alone with him. Not even once. There’s always a buffer with Pope on his side, Benny on yours, and Will in the middle. And while some find Frankie hard to read, you’ve always known exactly how to act around him. You have an unwritten playbook - you bait him with cheap jokes, more often than not joining forces with Benny to gang up on him. He rolls his eyes and snaps at you to shut up. It’s the longest running show in town.

But this? Alone, after his ex’s wedding, in your salon? You’re going off-script and off-piste. Dangerous enough on a good day; outright stupid after a night of drinking.

Frankie is quick to help when you reappear, armed with beer and a bag of ice, using the backwash sink as a makeshift cooler. Your shoes clatter onto the floor as you settle in the chair next to his. Hugging your knees, you hold out your bottle, which he clinks with his.

‘Did you have fun tonight?’ you ask, rather mundanely.

‘As much fun as one is expected to have at an ex’s wedding,’ he answers with a sardonic smile. Taking a sip of beer, he adds, ‘Gotta admit, you winding up my ma pretty much made up for it.’

‘That never gets old,’ you smirk. ‘Although, I promised your mother you’d leave with your future wife tonight - so that’s a bust.’

You startle when Frankie chokes on his beer, his eyes visibly watering as he thumps a fist on his chest. When you ask if he’s ok, he won’t meet your gaze, downing more of his beer.

Not thinking anything of it, you move on. ‘You know, she sent a bunch of customers my way when I first opened up the salon.’

His voice is still a bit tight from his coughing fit. ‘And I’m sure she’ll deny it till the day she dies.’

‘I can’t figure her out,’ you admit. ‘I can’t decide if she hates me or not.’

‘She doesn’t hate you. She just doesn’t understand you.’

You hum, unconvinced.

He nudges your knee with his. ‘She was really proud of you when you opened the salon, you know.’

You toss him a sidelong glance. ‘You talk to your mum about me?’

He’s ambiguous in his answer. ‘She asks after you sometimes.’

‘And how would you have anything to say to her? We’re not exactly bosom buddies.’

Frankie concedes with a wry smile, ‘Benny talks.’

‘Ha!’ you laugh, echoing his words from a few days ago back at him. ‘Benjamin fucking Miller.’

He goes quiet for a second, looking around your salon as if taking stock. ‘It’s pretty amazing that you’ve built all this.’

The unexpected compliment catches you blindsided. You reply diplomatically, ‘Ashton helps me loads.’

Frankie’s eyes widen in feigned surprise. ‘Are you going humble on me now? What have you done to Shiv?’

‘Shut up,’ you grumble good-naturedly, adding, ‘Ben tells me you’re doing really well yourself.’

‘Yeah. I got promoted at work last month, and I’m saving up for a house,’ he replies, a hint of pride in his voice. ‘Things are looking up.’

‘You’re actually acknowledging your achievements?’ you gasp in mock outrage. ‘What have you done to Francisco Morales?’

With a shrug, he leans forward to put his empty beer bottle in the sink, but he doesn’t sit back. Instead, he sways even closer, one palm landing on the leather of your seat next to your knee, eyes darting to your lips. His voice is deep as he rasps, ‘Can I kiss you?’

It would be so easy to say yes, but when have you ever made things easy for yourself? 

Instead, you blurt out, ‘Why?’

Frankie looks amused, like he expected this from you. Slowly, not wanting to spook you, he gently plucks the beer that you’ve barely drunk from your grasp.

‘Because all fucking night, while you were throwing woman after woman at me, I just wanted to have a drink with you.’

He leans in close. 

You stop breathing.

‘Because since Wednesday, every time I wash my hair, I get hard thinking of you touching me.’

Closer still.

Your lungs ache.

‘And because when you told me to go harder, deeper - I nearly lost my fucking mind.’

He’s hovering over you now, and you can almost taste the bitter sweetness of the beer on his breath. He smirks at you, but there’s only warmth and mischief in it when he teases, ‘Speechless for once?’

‘Shut up, Morales,’ you breathe and grab him by the collar of his shirt.

And then you’re kissing him. You’re kissing Frankie, and he’s kissing you back.

It’s messy, and disorientating, and you clumsily fumble over each other until he’s sitting up in one of the chairs, with your thighs on either side of his narrow hips as you straddle him. He’s licking up into your mouth, sucking on your bottom lip, his hands gripping your sides almost painfully hard.

‘Is this really happening?’ you garble into his lips, ripping off his tie and undoing his shirt buttons as fast as your shaking fingers allow you to.

‘If you want it,’ he mumbles back, loath to pull back from you even for a second to shuck off his shirt. ‘If you want me.’

He kisses you wet and insistent, but he doesn’t push you, waiting for you to make up your mind. Reaching behind you, you tug on the tie that holds your jumpsuit together with a decisive pull, letting the fabric ripple down your bare front and pool around your waist.

Frankie bites his bottom lip so hard it goes white. ‘Fuck,’ he cusses, his grip on your hips twitching as he stares at your tits. ‘Can I, please -?’

‘Touch me, Francisco.’

Your poor second-hand Ikea bed that Benny helped set up when you moved in was not made for this.

This being the way Frankie effortlessly tosses you onto the mattress, his arms flexing with an easy strength that goes straight to your head, as you stare giddily up at him.

His hair - your handiwork - has been well and truly undone, errant strands falling over his eyes as he watches you, his broad frame looming over the foot of the bed. He pulls at his belt, which falls open with a careless clink, and he makes quick work of his now crumpled trousers, kicking them off impatiently.

Your head is swimming, yet somehow, you muster the strength to shuffle towards the edge of the bed, rearranging yourself to sit on your haunches, knees folded neatly beneath you. Boldly, you reach out to slide his dark boxers down his hips, and they fall around his knees and onto the floor. His cock springs free, half-hard and heavy, and Frankie swallows thickly as you tilt your face towards him.

‘I want to suck your cock.’

His eyes close as if he’s in pain, nostrils flaring at your words. Taking advantage of his distraction, you wrap one careful hand around his length, and he jerks violently at the first velvety slide of your palm against him. 

‘Fuck, Shiv -’ he chokes, eyes flying open at the contact, pupils completely blown. He protests weakly, ‘No, stop, need to get you off first -’

You shoot him a lopsided smile, pumping him slowly, your pulse racing at the way you feel him swell in your grasp. ‘Can we not argue this one time?’

You lean forward and, holding his gaze, flatten your tongue and lick your way up the underside of his cock. His breath stutters, one big hand moving to cradle the back of your head, his eyes wide and almost frantic as you press open-mouthed kisses on his sensitive flesh.

With an insolent grin, you tease, ‘You’re a big boy, aren’t you, Morales?’

He whimpers, and you know you have him.

His size is obvious by sight, but you really feel it in the pressure bearing down on the hinge of your jaw as you sink down on his cock, fighting to squeeze the girth of him into your mouth. The guttural groan from Frankie makes your pussy clench, and he tastes like he looks - clean, and all man. 

There’s no way you can take all of him, but you’ll be damned if you don’t try. He’s hot under your touch, muscles pulled taut with tension that you can feel thrumming under his skin as you take your time with him. Focusing on your breathing and relaxing your throat, you bob patiently up and down on him, slicking up his length with your spit, working him slightly deeper with every stroke - until you’re so full of him that you gag, hard.

Frankie is slack-jawed when you release him with an obscenely wet pop, spit trailing from your lips to the swollen tip of his cock, eyes wild as swipes his thumb across your puffy bottom lip. 

‘You’re beautiful,’ he declares, almost solemnly.

Slinking down his front, one hand securely around the base of his cock, you take him between your lips again, moaning at the salty taste of his precum, which makes him quake above you. As you swallow his length and pump your fist in tandem, your spit wetting your fingers, you peer up at him through your lashes - nothing could’ve prepared you for the utter wreckage that you find on his face. 

His lips are pulled back, baring his tidy teeth into a snarl as he very clearly struggles to hold himself back from fucking your mouth. You feel every bump and vein in his cock with each descent, the wet squelches filling in the gaps of his low grunts and moans. His grip in your hair stings as he starts panting in earnest above you, and somehow he gets even harder on your tongue, making it harder to breathe - 

‘Stop, stop,’ he wheezes suddenly, pulling back in a hasty retreat that has you whining at the sudden loss of him. ‘C’mere.’

He practically hauls you up against him, kissing you deeply, delving into your mouth to taste the bitterness of himself on your tongue. The world tilts on its axis when he tips you back onto the bed, and holding himself above you, he peels the jumpsuit off, leaving you in just your panties.

‘Gonna eat you out, baby,’ he drawls by your ear, trailing one palm up your body, which stops at your tits and squeezes. ‘Get you good and ready to take my big cock. How does that sound?’

‘Fuck, yes, Frankie, please,’ you beg.

There’s no shyness when he pushes your legs up and apart, and instead of taking your panties off, he hooks a finger under the thin fabric and pulls it to the side, his eyes darkening as he stares down at you.

‘So pretty,’ he praises you lowly. Holding your breath as he sinks onto his front, you breathe heavily in anticipation as his shoulders slot neatly underneath your legs. ‘Look at how wet you are for me. All this from sucking my cock?’

You nod frantically. ‘Frankie -’

Straight to the point as always, he ducks his dark head and drags the broad of his tongue over your clit - and you’re gone.

Admittedly, you have not had the best experiences with your exes. There was always too much gratuitous moaning and too little finesse, and afterwards, they always act like they deserve a medal for failing to get you off. But even if your past lovers had been more adequate in the field, you’re sure it still wouldn’t have prepared you for this. 

Frankie goes about it with a quiet focus that veers on reverential, the intensity in his dark eyes watching you makes your knees weak. He’s obviously picking up signs and reactions from you and adjusting his game plan accordingly, the pilot in him clearly in the driver’s seat. 

Not that he’s silent - far from it, you feel the reverberation in your core with every satisfied  hum deep in his chest, and the occasional, muttered fuck, so wet, want more in between licks and groans. But there’s nothing performative or showy about it, just a forthright competency that has you hurtling towards a toe-curling orgasm.

‘Frankie,’ you whine when you feel it about to hit. ‘Frankie Frankie Frankie -’

‘Eyes on me,’ he slurs against your sopping folds, and you listen - for once - watching him watch you fall apart on his tongue, thrashing in his hold as he grips you harder to keep you in place while he laps you up, until the burn of his patchy beard on your inner thighs makes you arch away from him from overstimulation.

Your pussy is still fluttering when he sinks two thick fingers into you, and he hisses at the way it clenches around him as he fucks you, leaving his digits slicked and slippery.

‘So tight, baby,’ he declares through gritted teeth, working you open for him. ‘Gonna feel so fucking good on my cock.’

You point towards the nightstand. ‘First drawer,’ you pant.

Needing no further prompting, Frankie yanks your panties off and flings the soaked scrap of fabric over his shoulder, then lunges at the cupboard where the condoms are. You scrape your nails over his thighs as he kneels over you, his usually steady hands visibly trembling as he tears into the wrapper and rolls the rubber over his heavy cock. He watches you with hooded eyes and settles between your legs, kissing you desperately as the swollen tip of him nudges at your entrance.

‘Ready?’ he asks, nose skimming yours sweetly.

You wind your arms around his neck, holding him close. ‘Fuck me, Frankie.’

The first push is a tight squeeze, and you can’t help the wince at the slight pinch as he sinks into you slowly. With a grunt of effort, he buries face into the slope of your neck and breathes, ‘Fuuuuck. You ok?’

‘Give me a second,’ you gasp, feeling your walls throb tightly around his length. ‘You’re so big, Frankie.’

He tangles his tongue with yours lazily in a deep kiss, before brushing his way down your throat and sucking on one nipple, making you cry out. He murmurs against your skin, ‘I know, but you’re doing so well for me, baby.’

Shifting your hips, Frankie groans when you slide him in deeper, the friction making you quiver beneath him. ‘Move, Frankie, please.’

He starts carefully, his strokes measured and deliberate, making sure you feel every inch of him as he draws back then sinks back in, exhaling shakily. ‘You feel so fucking good.’

‘Harder,’ you demand when you feel your pussy relax around him. ‘Fuck me harder.’

‘Shit,’ he growls and snaps his hips, drawing a squeal from you as he hits somewhere deep inside. You wrap your legs around his waist, bracing yourself as he drives into you again and again and again, the bedframe hitting the wall with each thrust.

‘So good, Frankie,’ you plead in between hard pants. ‘Keep going. Don’t stop -’

Looking up at him, you admire the way his hair falls over his eyes, swaying with his movement. Absent-mindedly, your fingers wander into his curls and his reaction is instant - he cries out, arching into your touch, his hips faltering as he seems to lose his rhythm. ‘Oh fuck, baby, been thinking about those hands all fucking week, just wanted to feel you touch me again -’

As wrecked as you are on his cock, you smile at his confession and slide your hands languidly in his locks, dragging your nails on his scalp, your chest swelling with pride when you watch his face - dazed and completely wrecked - fucking you so hard that you’re sure the bed is about to break.

When he finds his voice again, it’s your real name that slips past his lips. ‘Gonna cum so hard, oh fuck - I’m gonna -’

Frankie’s thrusting frantically into you, eyes screwed shut until his hips stutter and then - after one perfect moment of stillness suspended in time - shudder after shudder thunder through his body, your name a broken record as he spills into the condom, his scratchy baritone moaning into your neck as the frenzied energy bleeds out of him.

His weight pins you to the bed as he catches his breath, and you play with his curls gently, basking in the rumbling purr in his chest as you run the strands between your fingers. Eventually, gathering himself, he rolls off you to let you breathe, tying the condom neatly and tossing it into the trash can.

For a second, Frankie lies on his side, watching you quietly. You watch him back, casting your gaze over the curls stuck to his sweaty forehead and his broad outline backlit by your nightstand light. Before self-consciousness can settle into the small distance between you, he cracks a smile and quips, ‘You did say I’d get laid even if it killed you.’

You laugh, which makes him grin. One strong arm reaches out to tuck you into his side, securely beneath the duvet. You hum at the tickle of his beard on the back of your neck and the steady rise and fall of his chest behind you.

Right on the cusp of sleep, you sass, ‘Guess you’ll have to split the winnings with me after all.’

Any other day, you would’ve woken up if you heard someone on the stairwell. Hell, you’d hear if they were knocking on the salon door downstairs.

When you’re rudely shaken awake by frantic knocking on the studio door, you realise it’s because your hearing has been impaired by the side of a very warm body smooshed into your ear.

‘Shiv! Open up! I need to leave in fifteen minutes for my photoshoot!’

‘Shit,’ you croak, throat dry, limbs flailing as you try to sit up. ‘I forgot about Benny.’

‘Fuck him’, grouses Frankie, pulling you back into his arms, eyes still closed.

‘I can’t, I promised to help him with his hair. Fuck, do we need to hide you, or -’

‘The door’s thin, Shiv, I can hear him. And we put two and two together when you guys disappeared last night. We're pretty, but we ain't dumb!’

Frankie lets you go with a grumbled Benjamin fucking Miller under his breath, but he visibly perks up when you stumble out of bed naked.

You half-jokingly shield your boobs from his view. ‘Are you perving on me, Morales?’

He smirks, leaning back into the pillows with his hands folded behind his head while he eyes you appreciatively. It’s not fair how his triceps flex deliciously with the movement. ‘Why bother covering up? I’ve seen everything already.’

Trying - and failing - to shoot him a stern scowl, you pull on a robe and yank the door open, nearly careening backwards at the sight of Benny’s grinning face right in the doorway. 

‘Since when did you bang paying customers?’ he demands in lieu of a good morning.

You roll your eyes and usher him downstairs. ‘He’s not a paying customer. He’s on Pope’s tab.’

Benny flops into his usual chair, making it squeak, one eyebrow up as he does the air quotes. ‘Well, I guess we now know what kind of friends you guys are.’

‘Shut up, Miller,’ you gripe, but your mouth twists into a grin, giving you away as you set up.

‘Damn, that good, huh?’ he laughs. ‘I mean, Fish does have a rep, but I've never had insider confirmation.’

You point your styling scissors at him menacingly. ‘Shut up, or I won’t be held responsible if my hands slip by accident.’

Benny feeds you a sugar donut while you work quickly, trimming the ends before styling it, going for a tousled bed head look. You hear the water pipes run upstairs and the carpeted floors creak when Frankie gets up. Trying to play it cool, you only briefly glance up, catching a glimpse of him in the mirror as he makes his way down the stairs in his rumpled shirt and trousers, zipping up the fly when he reaches the bottom.

‘Morning, stud,’ sing-songs Benny, which earns him a slap on the head. ‘Ow! What the fuck, Shiv!’

Frankie loiters behind you for a second, scratching the back of his neck, before pulling you to one side. Not that it affords you much privacy anyway, with Benny wriggling his eyebrows impertinently at the two of you in the mirror.

‘I - uh -,’ he starts haltingly, one hand rubbing at the silver patch in his beard sheepishly. ‘I had a really good time last night.’

‘Yeah, me too,’ you smile.

His voice dipping lower, he asks, ‘Can I take you out to dinner sometime?’

Benny, being the shithead that he is, interjects loudly. ‘Hey lovebirds, I’m kind of on the clock here, if you don’t mind -’

‘She’ll get to you when she gets to you, Benjamin,’ snaps Frankie, one hand on his hip and the other pointing a stern finger at him.

Something about him being so assertive sends heat running up and down your spine. Stepping into his space - beaming when he doesn’t back away - you smooth a palm over the front of his shirt, unintentionally catching the rabbiting of his heart underneath.

‘I don’t know,’ you shrug nonchalantly. ‘Do you intend to come back as a cash-paying customer?’

His eyes flash with want, one hand closing around your hip and he leans down to let his heated words brush by your ear. ‘Not if I can keep paying in other ways.’

Reaching up, you run a hand through his curls, preening at the way he closes his eyes at your touch. ‘Alright then, take me to dinner, Francisco.’

Peering around you, Frankie barks, ‘Miller, I’m cashing in on our bet.’

‘Fuck’s sake. I was hoping you’d forgotten about that,’ he gripes, digging into his wallet reluctantly.

Swiping the bill from Benny, Frankie winks at you before pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth - chaste, but charged with meaning. ‘Looks like you paid for your own dinner, Shiv.’

With a roll of your eyes, you shake your head and playfully push him towards the door. ‘Get outta here before I change my mind!’

‘Yeah right - as if you would now that you know what you’ll be missing.’

You’re not sure which makes your jaw drop - his cocksure declaration or the roguish confidence with which he walks out the door. In either case, Benny howls with laughter as you struggle to stay on your feet, your kneecaps having been rendered completely useless.

Just as Frankie climbs into his truck, Ashton whistles to a stop outside the salon on his wheels. Jaw dropping at the sight of the disheveled pilot nodding at him through the windscreen, he abandons his bike right on the curb and dashes into the salon, the door banging against the wall as he rushes in.

‘Excuse me - what the fuck did I just miss?’ he demands frantically.

You roll your eyes. ‘Calm down, Ashton, it’s not what it looks like -’

‘It’s exactly what it looks like,’ interrupts Benny as he starts singing. ‘Shiv and Frankie sitting in a tree, F-U-C-K-I-’

He breaks off with a yelp when you stuff a donut into his mouth to shut him up, sugar flying everywhere as Ashton picks you up and spins you around, squealing like a banshee the entire time.

‘You guys are the fucking worst,’ you laugh, out of breath by the time Ashton lets you go.

Glancing outside, where Frankie is still parked watching the whole embarrassing episode, he gives you one last wink and an amused grin before he pulls away from the curb.

In an almost exact repeat of the scene from a few days ago, Ashton joins you at the window, and the two of you watch, shoulder to shoulder, as Frankie smoothly steers his truck out of your street.

‘He even drives sexy,’ sighs Ashton dreamily. Nudging you in the side, he adds slyly, ‘You’re in so much trouble, Shiv.’

You grin. You know you are - and luckily, it’s not a spot of bother that you’ll be in a hurry getting out of anytime soon.

Notes: I'm so excited to have finally completed this little two-shot. The two of them have been hanging out in my head all these months, it feels amazing to finally yeet this part into the world! Thank you so much for reading, I hope you had as much fun as I did with these two 🥰 Reblogs and comments are always greatly appreciated ❤️

Now that I've got you here, if you want more of Shiv, I wrote some silly little drabbles of her hair appointments with our handsome Pedro boys for a recent milestone celebration. There are also some fun thoughts that came out of an impromptu Grays sleepover we had last week 🤍

I'm sure we'll see more of Shiv and Frankie somewhere down the line. For now, thank you again, I love you all so much ❤️

[dragonnarrative-writes]

Transferrable Skills

Part 1

Your therapist warned you about superstitious thinking. You've been working on it. In fact, you've been very good at catching it, challenging yourself to relax, and letting things go. Even before this big work trip, you consciously avoided the "unhelpful" rituals and reminded yourself that the little ones were just to make you feel secure, not to actually influence the future across an ocean.

"I'm very nervous," you had told Señor Snuggly two weeks ago. Your worn out stuffed lizard hadn't said anything back, of course. "That's normal, because it’s an international flight. So I'm going to give you a hug good-bye, and you're gonna stay here to watch the house. I know it's not going to change anything, but I'll feel better knowing you're here."

At the airport, you realized that you had forgotten your toothbrush. It had satisfied the part of your brain that was looking for one (1) thing to go wrong. Superstitious thinking, but the kind that helped you to relax and listen to music until you boarded.

Now, forced to sit on the floor, surrounded by shouting men with guns, your brain is stuck on your lopsided stuffed animal and blue toothbrush. Of all the things that could pop into your head, why those?

You almost let out a nervous giggle at the mental image of Señor Snuggly using your toothbrush as a shiv to save the day. And then the idea of what would happen if you started laughing right now almost startles you into another burst of giggles. You clap your hands over your mouth and curl into yourself a little bit more.

Next to you, your boss throws you a sympathetic look. "You okay?"

"No talking!" The nearest assailant yells in heavily accented English. You're pretty sure the attackers have been speaking Russian, but you could be mistaken. He brandishes his gun. "You want to die?"

"She needs to go to the restroom," your boss answers.

"No, I don't," you protest. You really, really do, and have for the last two hours. But being escorted out of the room alone seems like enough of a Bad Idea that your bladder can wait.

"No, she does not," the man confirms. "Shut up. Do not talk."

You meet your boss's eyes and try to silently convey, Why are you trying to get me killed?

His doughy face says back, I am a white man who goes to the gym once a week, and I really like the John Wick movies. I have delusions of being a hero. If one man takes you to the bathroom I have the mistaken belief that I can overpower two men with guns to save everyone. Also you're a black woman, so don't you have super powers? I believe in you, queen.

You may be projecting.

Ten minutes later, just as you're wondering if you should suggest a group field trip down the hall to the bathrooms, a series of gunshots rings through the building. The energy in the room goes from nervous to frantic in an instant. Your bladder shuts up. The Russian men start shouting and waving their guns, apparently too agitated to speak English. Two hostages start crying because no one else speaks Russian, just English, French and your half-forgotten, informal, Mexican Spanish.

Another three Russians come bursting in the room, snarling something you can’t understand. They grab at a couple of people, force them to stand at gunpoint and gesture to the rest of you. And then everyone is up and kind of moving in the direction of the door. But you can’t get out of the door because they’re blocking it, but they’re really agitated that the room is still full of hostages. And then some people are being pushed back down to the floor. Your boss ends up sitting back down again. A hard hand closes on your arm before you can get down, and you and four others are dragged out.

The leader says, “You all are dignitaries, yes? Your embassies will send money or they will watch you die.”

This is, potentially, the worst possible scenario. None of the five of you are even remotely important, let alone dignitaries. You’re not 100% sure about most of the others, but you’re an aid. An aid to an aid, really. The blonde woman with the remarkably sharp bob is a personal assistant. Today’s conference was about health data management, of all things.

You decide you’re not going to die with a full bladder. You look to the man holding your arm in an iron grip and point to the upcoming door on the right. “Can I please go to the restroom? I’ll be quick.”

He asks the leader something in Russian, and then you’re being shoved through the bathroom door. He doesn’t follow you into the stall, but it’s still so awkward to pee knowing that there’s a man with a gun waiting for you. You’re so glad you aren’t on your period - opening the wrapper on anything right now would feel louder than it has since middle school.

The door to the restroom opens just as the toilet finishes flushing. You hear a scuffle, an aborted shout, and then something heavy hits the floor. You freeze, heart racing. But then there’s no more sound.

You wait for what feels like an hour but must only be a minute before calling, “H-hello?”

You don’t get an answer. Unlocking the door and easing it open, you peek out and stifle a gasp. The man who had escorted you is on the ground, a pool of blood growing around him. His gun is gone.

You’re halfway through washing your hands before you realize you’re on autopilot.

It takes everything in you to fight down the urge to freeze in place and make yourself inch around the body to the door. When you poke your head out, the hall looks so normal that it makes you dizzy for a second. You try to decide what to do through the anxiety fog. You can’t hide in the bathroom with a dead body, and you probably can’t go back to the big room with everyone without getting shot. You have no idea where the other faux-dignitaries were taken. Apparently, there’s at least one person going around killing people in bathrooms.

You try to think of what your therapist would say in this situation. All of the options feel bad, she would say. So you can’t not do anything because it feels bad. Thank the anxiety for trying to keep you safe, then try to pick the least awful course of action.

“Fight, flight, freeze, fawn,” you whisper to yourself. Fighting is right out. “Flight, freeze, fawn.” There’s a body pouring blood right behind you. “Flight, fawn.” No one is around to appease. “Flight.”

Another gunshot and shouting. It sounds like it’s coming from the left, so you head right.

You shuck off your sensible kitten heels and fervently wish your otherwise sensible pantsuit wasn’t pastel purple in this very beige hallway. Not that a thicker-than-European-average black woman mincing around in a Swiss hotel and conference center would be inconspicuous in a black suit, your mind counters itself. You try to force your brain to shut up, with mixed success.

You wander a good five minutes, reminding yourself not to panic at every locked door you try. The halls are so quiet that you half convince yourself that you’ve gotten out of immediate danger. So of course, right as you’re about the round the next corner, one of the Russians appears, reeling backwards. And then he collapses, a knife sticking out of his neck.

You can’t really worry about that, though, because right after him comes one of the largest men you’ve ever seen. He must catch sight of you out of the corner of his eye, because his head snaps to look at you. You barely register the assault rifle in his hands because his eyes bore into you through the top half of a human skull.

Oh, I’m glad I already peed, you think, staring into the eyes of Death.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” the man says, growls really. “What are you doing here?”

“I… bathroom? Please don’t kill me. I’ll cooperate.” you squeak out. Oh, fawning! Cool.

“Price, I’ve got one of the hostages,” he says, nonsensically. “I’ve cleared the east wing.”

You jump when his walkie-talkie - of course it’s a walkie-talkie - squawks back an “Affirmative. Status?”

“She’s up and walking,” the man says, not taking his eyes from yours. “Seems uninjured.”

“Stow her somewhere safe.”

“Negative,” Death says. Before you can panic because what the fuck does that mean? he says, “Bringing her back with me.”

“Copy.”

When he takes a step toward you, you stop breathing. Everything in you is screaming RUN and DON’T MOVE at the same time. His second step in your direction results in a full body twitch. You get the impression that the gun is pointed at the ground, but the only thing you can really see is bone white over a black mask and what might be really pretty brown eyes, but the shadow from the overhead light really makes it hard to tell and your vision is going a bit darkaroundtheedgesandohI’mstillnotbreathingthat’snotgreat.

You’re shocked into gasping when a gloved palm touches the side of your face. The rough material helps you settle into your body, just in time to start hyperventilating.

And that’s when things get weird, because Death says, “Easy, lovie. Settle, f’ me, yeah? Deep breaths, like we’ve practiced.”

Your brain latches on to the familiar command to settle before you can even question why it’s familiar. The way the man makes a long, low shushing noise makes you so suddenly weak in the knees that you stagger where you stand.

And then it clicks. Holy shit. You know this voice. You know these commands. You’ve been listening to and learning them at least once a week for the last six months. He doesn’t even sound that different from over the phone or on a video call.

“There you go, that’s good,” Simon, the dominant you’ve been seeing online, tells you through his skull mask. “Keep breathin’. In through the nose, out through the mouth.”

It’s the second time in your life you’ve been surprised out of a panic attack. “W-what the fuck? Si?” you gasp. “What are you doing here? Did you kill that guy?”

“Questions are gonna have to wait,” he says. “Keep breathing. In for four, hold for two. In for two, out for eight. Can you do that?”

“Why are you in Switzerland?”

“Breathe,” he rumbles. “Settle.”

“No,” you hiss, even as your shoulders relax another fraction. The corners of your eyes start prickling with tears.

“This is a double red light situation,” Si says, staring into your eyes. “I know you’re scared, but I’m going to get you out of here. You trust me?”

“You are wearing a skull on your face.”

“And you’re wearing a purple suit,” he answers. “There are people who want to shoot both of us. You get one more outburst, then you’re breathing and following me. Acknowledge.”

What the fuck? “This isn’t a scene!”

His eyes bore into yours. “Might surprise you, but I’m aware. Acknowledge.”

A distant shout makes you flinch. You relent. “Acknowledged. Four in, hold two, two in, out eight. Follow.”

“Good girl,” he says, patting your cheek once. “Stay behind me.”

[leviathanspain]

If you want to could you write a roman roy x reader? I think fluff would be nice but honestly anything you choose to write would be great. Thank you!

saving all my love

roman roy x reader

synopsis: a snippet of your life with roman roy, the love of your life

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“i simply don’t understand why-“ your argument with an overseas investor was coming to a close. you had fought valiantly to keep the deal, but the investor was stubborn. you turned from the gigantic window where you had been directing your comments at, to see your husband approaching your office.

“you know what?” your words bounced off out into the hall just as roman opened the door. you threw your hands up, “fuck you!” you screamed, grabbing your earpiece and throwing it onto the ground.

“hey ro-“ you glanced up slightly before slamming a heel over your earpiece. you stomped on it a few times, for good measure. “piece of shit-“ you spat, a sense of calm washing over you.

roman had a smile on his face as he draped himself onto your office couch. “that was so fucking hot.” his fingers trailed a path on the couch, “i wish you’d stomp on me like you did that earpiece..” he dramatized a moan and you laughed, smacking his arm.

“down, boy.” you gave him a look before pursing your lips, “i’m not that upset-“

“clearly.” he remarked, eyes shifting to the shattered piece of tech on your carpet. rolling your eyes, you continued, “we’ll get more investors. we always do.” you faked a smile and roman scoffed, “that’s the spirit!”

you chuckled weakly, “it’s not funny, roman..” you let out a small sigh, “it’s just hard.” no one ever said this job was easy. when you had first started at waystar, before you even laid eyes on roman, you had been warned of the roy family and their ‘vicious tempers’. you easily navigated the family, but corporate america wasn’t as easy.

you sat beside him on the couch. a feeling of vulnerability washed over you and you put your head on his shoulder. roman grabbed you, pulling you into him tightly, “you know you don’t have to work, right? you can useless at home, waiting for me to come home from work and pump you full of babies.” he teased, a finger poking your cheek.

you laughed, “as if you wouldn’t like that.” you looked at him coyly, and roman shrugged, “i just don’t like to see you stressed, that’s all.” there was something sweet about his words that made you tear up a bit. you kissed his cheek, before going back to resting your head on his shoulder.

“greg?” the lanky, towering man seemed to shrink just as you spoke. you cut him off in the middle of his unsolicited pitch to roman. he had been rambling for an hour, roman clearly uninterested but per your request, didn’t scare him off. although greg amused you, he was insufferable.

“yeah?” he looked down at you, and anxiously waited for you to speak.

you shifted your head in roman’s lap slightly, a hand reaching up to pull your sunglasses down a bit, “please find another dick to suck, i’ve already called dibs on this one.” you gripped roman’s thigh, earning a crude little comment from roman as greg stared in disbelief.

roman raised his eyebrows, “go on, egg boy.” he waved a hand to greg, who mumbled slightly before walking off.

roman looked down at you just as greg walked away, “talking about sucking dicks-“

you sighed, “i’m in my bikini sunbathing ro, maybe tonight-“ you never got little vacations like these. even if these getaways with only family and those close meant that waystar was in more shit, you still enjoyed them.

roman smirked, “i wasn’t talking about sucking mine. but since you’re offering-“ you laughed, nudging him back on track.

just as roman was about to speak, the only daughter of the roy family approached. she had a glass of champagne in her hand, and a pair of sunglasses sat on her head. shiv was modest, even on vacation she wore some kind of suit or romper.

“i never see her like this.” she looked at roman, a small smile as she looked down at you, “unless you’re with my brother. remind me again why you married him?”

you smirked, looking up at roman before giving an answer, “i just love a man who’s good with his hands.” shrugging slightly as you gave your answer, you adjusted yourself before going back to your sunbathing.

roman lifted his hands at shiv, nodding, “oh yeah! mhm!” he kissed his hands and tipped his head back for a little laugh.

shiv rolled her eyes, stepping back slightly, “i’m just saying, you could do so much better.” she paused to look at you, and you didn’t say anything but smile, as if you were following her joke. but it was nothing short of a jab to roman.

you loved roman, and it was horrible that everyone always tried to make you think otherwise. it was always the same argument with your own family at christmas, who thought you weren’t good enough for someone with deep, deep pockets like roman. but none of that had mattered enough to make you rethink your marriage.

roman waited until his sister had been far away enough to speak, “i got a little surprise for you.” his voice got a little sing songy and you laughed, “what is it?” you sat up, raised an eyebrow as you whirled around to face him.

roman leaned back into the seat, thrusting his pelvis out, “show me how bad you wanna know.”

you rolled your eyes and smacked his leg, “i’ll cut it off if you don’t tell me.”

“ouch, baby.” he joked, before pulling you into his arms, bringing his mouth close to your ear, “i got you a new investor. even richer than the last.”

you couldn’t help a little gasp, “are you serious?!” you looked at his face, eyes searching in his eyes until roman nodded, “mhmmmm!”

you squealed, “oh my god, roman! you’re literally the fucking best-“ you kissed him roughly, pulling away to whisper in his ear, “whatever you want tonight, i’ll fucking do it baby. anything.” you trailed your tongue down the shape of his ear and he shuddered, letting out a low whistle, “you’ve already married without a prenup, y/n.”

you pulled back and smiled widely, “i love you so much, roman roy.”

[the-west-meadow]

Normal People

Lukas Matsson x (fem)Reader, Roman Roy x (fem)Reader

word count: 3k - read on Ao3 here!

NFSW: 18+ ONLY

You first met him at Kendall’s birthday party.

Roman was being obnoxious. All he could talk about was finding Lukas Matsson. He and Shiv were relentless in their pursuit of the man. It was all business, no pleasure tonight. So while Roman and Shiv stood with their heads together, compulsively sipping vodka tonics, you slipped away unnoticed to try and have some fun before the night was over.

You found your way upstairs, where for some inexplicable reason Kendall had built a replica of his childhood treehouse. The inside was bustling with people yet the two buff men outside wouldn’t let you enter without an armband. Dejected, you started to turn away, when you heard Kendall’s voice from above.

“Hey! Let her through, she’s cool!”

He was pointing right at you with a grin. The guards moved aside, letting you in.

Upstairs, Kendall greeted you with a hug.

“Nice treehouse,” you said.

“Thanks. It’s pretty infantile, right? Sort of the vibe I was going for.”

“Definitely. You nailed it.”

“Hey, I need a favor while you’re here. See that guy over there?”

He nodded over his shoulder to a tall blonde Scandinavian-looking man slouching alone in a plush leather chair.

“Who is that?”

“That’s Lukas Matsson. He’s pretty disgruntled and I need someone to keep him from wandering. I can’t do it anymore, I need to mingle. Also, Roman cannot know he’s here.”

“Roman’s entire purpose in life tonight is to find that guy.”

“Please don’t tell him he’s here. I’ll owe you one. Seriously.

“Don’t worry. Roman’s driving me fucking crazy at the moment.”

“Amazing. You’re amazing. Let me get you a drink and I’ll introduce you.”

Kendall stepped away. You glanced curiously in Lukas’s direction. He glanced up from his phone, met your eyes, and did a double take. He stared at you for a long moment across the room.

Kendall returned with your drink, breaking your gaze.

“Let’s go. You’re about to meet one of the weirdest rich guys out there.”

Drinks in hand, you approached the man. He kept his eyes fixed on yours.

“Yo, Lukas. Meet my good friend Y/N. I promise she’s not going to network you to death.”

Kendall clapped him on the shoulder.

“You guys have fun.”

You thought you saw Kendall wink, but it was too quick, and then he was gone.

“Kendall thinks I need a babysitter tonight,” Lukas said. “Too many sharks in the water.”

“Thankfully I don’t have any interest in what Kendall and his family does. I’m just along for the ride.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a writer.”

“What do you write?”

“Words, mostly.”

Lukas cracked the smallest grin.

“Is that, like, meaningful for you?” he asked.

“I don’t really care if it has meaning or not. Mostly it keeps me entertained.”

“Cheers to that.”

He raised his beer bottle and clinked it against your glass of gin and tonic.

“So you know all of the Roy siblings?” Lukas said.

“Too well.”

“Which one’s your favorite?”

“Do I have to have a favorite?”

“It’ll say a lot about you. I’m still figuring out who I’m talking to here.”

You considered briefly.

“I think I relate to Kendall the most.”

“Daddy issues?”

You laughed. “I’m not going there. But if I had to pick a favorite… Roman is the most fun to be around.”

“So you like fun.”

“You don’t?”

“I don’t relate to what most people think of as fun.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Partying. Getting drunk. Rollercoasters.”

You burst out laughing.

“What?” he said.

“Rollercoasters?”

“People find them fun, right? You tell me. What’s fun to you?”

“Not rollercoasters.”

Lukas considered you with a curious, calculating look.

“I’m starting to think you’re not a normal person,” he said.

“I could tell you weren’t normal the second I looked over here.”

You gave him a sly smile. He set his beer down and folded his hands in his lap.

“I’ve got to get out of this treehouse,” he said.

“You don’t think the treehouse is fun?”

“I’d like to find out what your idea of fun is. You still haven’t told me.”

You gazed at him for a long moment. Then you heard an all-too-familiar voice over your shoulder.

“There you are. Both of you.”

Roman was leaning over you with his hands on the back of your chair.

“This is a weird pairing. What are you guys even talking about?”

“Rollercoasters,” Lukas said.

You smiled, catching his eye once more before you stood.

“I’ll let you guys talk.”

“I’ll see you later, though, yeah?” Roman called. You glanced at Lukas, who had put everything together in an instant.

“If you can find me,” you said as you left.

When you glanced back over your shoulder, Lukas was staring at his phone again and Roman was sitting cross-legged in your chair, trying unsuccessfully to get his attention.

Not long after, you found yourself in Italy, lying poolside beneath the mild northern sun. Eyes closed, you felt a shadow pass over your vision and cracked your eyes open. Roman sat in the neighboring beach chair, squinting in the light.

“I forgot how much I hated the sun.”

He leaned back uncomfortably in the chair.

“So, I have a mission for you. For both of us.”

“What?”

“Guess who lives right across the lake.”

“Who? Stop making me ask questions.”

“Our old buddy Lukas Matsson.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

“Who?”

Roman grinned.

“You know who. You’re literally blushing.”

“It’s the sun.”

“I know you’ve been wondering how big his dick is.”

“Roman, what the fuck?”

“Hey, it’s fine. I mean, you still haven’t seen mine. It’s only healthy to think about other men’s dicks every now and then.”

“Jesus…”

“Look, seriously. I need your help. I have to convince him to make this deal. But I don’t think he likes me all that much. If you’re there, maybe he’ll perk up enough to listen to me. I mean, the man’s practically comatose.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“I need you to get him a little hard, metaphorically speaking. He’ll want to show off his big dick in front of you by making this deal.”

“Stop saying ‘dick’. This is sounding really fucking weird.”

“Like I’m trying to whore you out to him?”

“Yeah. Exactly that.”

“Come on. You don’t have to do anything. Unless, you know, you want to.”

He wiggled his eyebrows. You gave a sigh.

“When are you leaving?”

“Soon. Now, actually. Can you put some clothes on? The bikini might be overkill.”

“God dammit, Roman.”

You stood up and grabbed the towel from the back of your chair. He grabbed your hand gently.

“Hey.”

You paused, gazing down at him, the quirky smile flashing, eyes obscured behind his dark sunglasses.

“You’re my secret weapon.”

You were on the boat less than half an hour later, speeding across Lake Como in the warm air.

“That’s his place,” Roman said, indicating the approaching villa. Tall cypress trees swayed in the lake breeze, revealing a stuccoed exterior and red tile roof. A hidden paradise nestled at the foot of the Alps.

“You’re shitting me.”

Roman grinned.

Lukas was waiting for you on the dock. He was barefoot, in a black t-shirt and white linen pants. His dark blue eyes glinted in the light reflecting off the lake.

Roman disembarked first, turning to lend you a hand. You felt Lukas watching the two of you.

"There you are, you tall motherfucker," Roman said, stepping forward to greet him. He shook Roman’s hand, then turned his gaze to you.

“You remember Y/N, right?” Roman said. “I think I interrupted your little party in the treehouse.”

“So you two are together?”

“Well, we haven’t fucked yet if that’s what you mean,” Roman said.

Lukas glanced at you. You rolled your eyes discreetly.

“I feel like I shouldn’t ask,” Lukas said.

“Oh, it’s all me. Not her fault.”

Lukas led the two of you to a patio shaded from the sun. His property was quiet, beautiful, secluded. It was strange to imagine him padding around the villa in his bare feet, alone. He reclined on a wicker sofa while you took a seat nearby.

Roman was looking at his phone, suddenly serious.

“What is it?” you said.

“I gotta take this. Sorry, guys.”

He stepped away, leaving you alone with Lukas. He reclined on a beige sofa, glancing at you with his hands folded in his lap.

“I was wondering if I’d see you again,” he said. “Where did we leave off?”

“I don’t remember. It was a long night.”

“When you said Roman was your favorite, I didn’t realize why.”

“It’s pretty complicated.”

“Sounds like it.” Lukas paused. “You guys really haven’t fucked?”

“It’s just… not like that. I know it sounds weird.”

“How long have you been together?”

“About a year.”

He let out a low whistle.

“So does that mean… I mean, are you guys exclusive?”

“So far. Yeah.”

You gazed at each other silently. Roman returned, phone in hand.

“Hey guys, I gotta run. But I’ll be back. Is it cool if she stays?”

“It’s fine,” Lukas said. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just family stuff. Kendall,” he added, glancing at you.

You nodded, unable to tell if he was bluffing or not.

“Try not to talk business without me,” Roman said. He turned and jogged back towards the dock. You heard the boat engine start as he sped off across the lake.

“Fun,” Lukas said.

You looked at him in confusion.

“We were talking about fun.”

He was gazing at you, broad shoulders in the dappled sunlight, his eyes calm.

“Do you want to see the rest of the house?”

You followed him inside, bare feet on the cool terracotta floor, a warm breeze moving through the open rooms. The villa was exquisitely decorated, a blend of modern art and traditional Italian motifs. Green and gold curtains, plush beige sofas, a gleaming oak dining table.

“You live alone?”

“Yeah. To be honest, I don’t like living with other people.”

“I know what you mean.”

“You and Roman don’t live together?

“Let’s stop talking about Roman.”

You paused in the doorway of a bedroom that opened onto a patio overlooking the lake. The sheer curtains lifted in the breeze. You felt Lukas glance at you.

“The downstairs is all for show. I live upstairs. Do you want to see?”

The upstairs was a loft with exposed beams and skylights. In contrast to the overblown downstairs decoration, everything here was black, white, grey. This was where Lukas’s preference for Scandinavian minimalism became apparent. He was so tall that he had to stoop in certain places. You peered into his office, sparsely decorated with a wooden desk, MacBook and high-end stereo system.

“This is where I get my thinking done. I really don’t like having visitors in general. Present company excepted.”

His bedroom was adjacent to the office. Again you lingered in the doorway, hesitant to enter his private quarters. He leaned on the doorframe across from you and folded his arms. He looked straight at you.

“So,” he said.

“So...?”

“Kendall’s birthday party. I had every intention of inviting you back to my room.”

“Roman ruined your plans, huh?”

“Pretty much. But then he brought you here.”

You went silent, gazing back at him. The blonde stubble, heavy brow, hard blue eyes. Something in him both frightening and compelling. Impenetrable but vulnerable. He was tan from the summer sun, calm and cool. He seemed curious to see what your next move would be. And he was willing to wait you out.

You meandered into the bedroom, glancing around at his possessions. A shelf full of books: classics, modern novels, books on tech. A stray pair of headphones. A solitary person’s existence.

He followed you in, taking a seat on the edge of his bed. You turned around to face him.

“Roman brought me here to help make the deal for his dad,” you said.

“I know that. I don’t care. I’ve already made my decision.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

You stepped up to him, feet nearly touching. He watched you with the faint smile of someone who has been alone for a long time observing a newcomer in their space.

“Let’s not fuck around any longer,” he whispered.

Almost before he had finished speaking, you leaned down to kiss him. He kissed you back, long, deep kisses, like he had missed you intensely in your brief, inexplicable absence from his life. His hands slid up your back. You sank onto his lap, straddling him as his hands moved lower, exploring your unfamiliar form.

You ran your hands through his hair, along the back of his neck, across his broad shoulders. You slid your hands beneath the sleeves of his t-shirt, feeling his toned arms. You kissed his neck, the sound of his rasping breath in your ear.

“Did you think of me at all?” he whispered.

“I couldn’t stop,” you breathed.

You felt a throb as he grew harder beneath you. You pushed him back onto the bed and ground against him as he swiftly unbuttoned your shirt then shed his own. He pulled you down against him, kissing your neck, your shoulders, his stubble brushing your skin.

“You really haven’t been fucked in a year?”

You shook your head, gasping at his touch, unable to speak.

“Time to change that.”

He deftly changed positions with you, so that you were lying half-dressed beneath him. Now you had a full view of him, his bare torso, ruffled blonde hair, the intensity in his eyes. He unzipped his pants and slid out of them.

“Oh my god,” you said, unable to stop yourself. Lukas grinned, breathless.

“What?”

“You’re fucking huge.”

He tugged your pants off, gripping his cock, and without any further delay, slid swiftly into you.

You let out a long, vocal moan. It had been too long. Everything in you had been aching for him. He watched your every reaction, the slight grin on his face, his eyes glittering. You bucked against him, running your hands over his lean body as he slowly, firmly pounded into you. You gripped his forearm for dear life.

“Fuck, Lukas”

“Yeah? Is that good?”

You groaned in response as he leaned into you, his hot, sticky skin against yours, running along the length of your body with his bulk. He gripped your wrists, pinning you lightly as he pulsed in and out of you. You sank your teeth into the muscle of his shoulder, and he held you down harder.

“You feel like you want to come,” he murmured.

“Mmhmm.”

“You’re so fucking wet.”

You dug your fingers into his back, feeling your entire body tense up.

“It’s been so long. You’re ready to fucking burst.”

He slid his thumb into your mouth and you bit down on it. There were starbursts behind your eyes. His voice in your ear.

“There you go. Let me hear you. I want to hear you.”

That was it. You let go, back arched, thighs tensed, warmth spreading across your body as you let out a half-moan, half-scream. You heard Lukas groan and stiffen, his hand twined in your hair.

You stayed like that for a long moment, breathing into each other’s mouths. Finally he rolled off of you, shining with a light cover of sweat. You lay side by side, recovering.

“Fuck,” you whimpered.

“Is that what you wanted?”

“Fuck yes.”

You felt his fingers brush along your forearm. He was gazing at you from his pillow.

“You can come closer. If you want.”

You gladly complied, feeling his arm encircle you as you found a place against his chest. Your eyes traced his unfamiliar body. A tuft of blonde chest hair, a scar below his ribcage, a small birthmark near the belly button. But you didn’t touch him further. This was still new, the boundaries not yet established. Perhaps Lukas didn’t want to be touched in a tender, loving way. Perhaps you didn’t either.

“I wish we had more time,” he murmured. “There’s a lot more I want to do with you.”

“I was very pent-up,” you said, half-apologizing.

“No, it’s fine. It’s good when it’s fast sometimes. Plus I’m not great at seductive gestures.”

“This is only the second time we've met and you made me come. That just doesn’t happen.”

He gave a slight laugh, a low sound deep in his chest. He stroked your shoulder with his thumb briefly.

“I mean I’m not a normal person. Some things people want from me, I just can’t give them.”

“You’re talking to someone who’s been dating Roman Roy for a year and a half. I go without a lot of things.”

You gazed down his body, his skin soft and tan in the natural light.

“Plus, there’s probably a lot I can’t give you,” you murmured. “Remember, I’m not normal either.”

“I don’t care. I don’t want normal. I get bored easily.”

From the open window, you could hear the sound of the lake lapping against the shore. Then, growing in the distance, the high whine of a motor.

“Well,” said Lukas with a note of finality.

“What do we do?”

He turned on his side, looking straight at you again with that penetrating gaze.

“I think we need to see each other again,” he said.

“Okay.”

Without another word, he sat up, sliding into his pants. You savored the sight of his torso as he pulled on his shirt. You dressed quickly then met him in the doorway, where you paused. He brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, then leaned down and kissed you once, warm and deep. He held your eyes for a long moment. He looked like he was about to say something, but instead he smiled slightly to himself and started down the stairs. You followed, eyes lingering on the back of his neck, his shoulders.

Roman met you on the green lawn. His hair and clothes were windblown and disheveled but he was grinning.

“Hey kids. Have fun without me?”

“Just showing her around the property.”

“I bet you did. Hey, I know it was shitty for me to run out like that, so if you want to talk about the deal another time, we’ll get out of your hair.”

“We don’t need to talk about it. I want to do it.”

Roman raised his eyebrows. “Well, shit. Are you sure, man?”

“Yeah. It’s fine. I’m sure.”

Roman grabbed his hand and shook it with a grin. “I guess we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other.”

“I guess we will.”

Lukas’s eyes flashed in your direction. You smiled slightly and looked away.

On the boat ride back, Roman was strangely silent. He had a secretive grin on his face and his eyes were obscured behind his dark glasses. Then he unexpectedly turned to you, grabbed your face between his hands, and kissed you on the mouth.

“It worked. It fucking worked.”

He held your hand the rest of the way back to his mother’s villa. It was the first time in a year and a half of dating that he had done so.

[princesssmars]

i love your shiv nsfw fic!!! you're so good at writing them, could you write another shiv roy x female reader smut fic? it's so hard finding them these days

no strings

a shiv roy x reader.

you're time studying abroad is nearly over, and you luck out with a job working for a luxury boating service. this summer the billionaire roy family is vacationing, and the youngest daughter gives you an exciting proposal.

wc : 1.391

contains : fluff. semi angst. smut. talks of fxfxm threesome. exhibitionism : tom watches you and shiv go at it. oral and penetrative sex (receiving).

a/n : anon why did i literally have a dream with tom and shiv the night you sent this...and you are so right why is the shiv tag so dead omg i came a year after the show ended thinking i’d be fed 💔 also thanks for saying i’m good every time i write smut i laugh bc i’m a big baby.

when you signed up for a summer job, you sure as hell weren't expecting this.

at least you had the excuse of this not being a very croatian or italian custom. coming here to study was something you did on a whim, and wouldnt be the first time you made a crazy decision just because, you still had flashbacks to the time you skinny dipped with people who you had just met at a bar an hour earlier.

thankfully over the years your exploring ways had toned down to a reasonable amount. after all, you couldnt be a luxury stewardess who was always getting in to trouble. the clients did insane background checks, seriously, one old bastard asked what it was like going to such an average kindergarten.

but for now, it was fine. it paid well, you only had to serve rich pricks for a few days at a time, and it was helping pay off your student loans. plus if you bat your eyes at the right people you got a considerable tip.

your coworker and friend, petra, suggested you do a little more for some extra money, but you shrugged it off with a laugh each time. the last thing you wanted was to have some crazy millionaire getting too attached to you and causing trouble in your normal life.

but your final semester has ended, you’ve made plans to move back home to jersey at the end of the summer, and that only leaves you with a few more jobs until you’re done with this job. you tried, you really really tried to keep your wits about you, but one of the clients is contacting you before the family lands to the boat with an offer.

a threesome. with her and her husband. no strings attached.

the service you worked for normally declined telling you the names of who your team will be working for, even going as far as to lock your phones on the boats to make sure you weren’t posting them during their private time.

but even you, now living halfway across the world, knew about this family. the roys, owners of one of the biggest media conglomerates of the past era. it was hard not to see reports in the morning from atn news, or the insane amount of advertising you’d see about their international mediterranean cruises.

(well, after their recent scandal about sexual misconduct in the fucking senate, you had a feeling you wouldn’t be seeing too many ads anymore.)

you were sure it was the daughter of the family calling you, recognizing her voice over the phone and being confirmed when she met up with you before she got on the boat. she was gorgeous and a little scary, enjoying the scent of her perfume when she slides the nda over to you to sign.

it was exciting, working on the boat and seeing her eyes occasionally trailing your figure. maybe it would’ve been more enticing if every time her husband looked at you he didn’t look like one of those hanging cat posters. shame, he was cute.

you’re cleaning up one of the tables after the family had eaten a crazy short dinner. you’re still reeling after witnessing how dysfunctional these people were when your phone buzzes on your pocket, courtesy of shiv pulling a few strings. the text from her is just her cabin number and a time that’s ten minutes ahead. short and to the point.

when you knock on the door you can hear a conversation on the other side come to halt, fast footsteps coming to the door before yanking it open. you’d seen her earlier in the day but got did shiv look gorgeous, ginger hair framing her face as the soft lighting of the room illuminated her bare shoulders.

she’s smiling at you, all sickly sweet as she leads you into the room before locking the door behind you, telling you to just sit on the bed. the bed is large and soft, and your mind wanders about how these people can have whole hotel rooms on the ocean and still be so unhappy when a throat clearing knocks you out of your thoughts, the husband sitting in a chair across the bed to your left. he gives a little smile and a wave and you do it back.

“this is tom. he’s just gonna watch us for a while, ok?” she checks in with you, crossing her legs as she sits next to you, softly moving your hair behind your shoulder. you nod. “good. tel us if you don’t like something.”

you try to nod again but her palm is on your cheek and bringing your face to hers, soft lips kissing you like she’s starving. her tounge is in your mouth, and when you try to move your body to sit on her lap she’s pushing you back, resting your back on the bed. you can faintly hear the fabric of tom’s clothes as he moves on his seat.

she urges your pants down your legs, barely waiting for you to kick off your shoes before she’s rubbing you through your panties, biting and nipping at the skin of your neck as you left out small moans into the air.

“sure you don’t wanna touch her, tom? she’s so soft, so pretty.” she licks a line up your throat and to your mouth, swallowing your moan in her mouth. her husband doesn’t reply and you don’t dwell on it for long. you’ve heard of exhibitionists before, looks like her husband is one of them.

you bite her bottom lip and revel in the groan you feel in her mouth and chest, your own muffled noise escaping when she stuffs a finger inside you. she’s using her thumb to rub at your clip while she thrusts, pulling away from the kiss to look at your face.

it feels good but it’s not enough, which you make clear when you beg her under your breath to give you more of anything. thankfully she doesn’t seem to be in a teasing mood, not thanking any time to push her second finger inside of you.

“oh, fuck-“ your leg kicks out and you fist the sheets as you focus on the pleasure. it’s clear she’s done this before, skilled in the way she hits your g spot at just the right angle and rubs your clit. her head turns to likely look at her husband, while yours flops on the bedsheets.

you’re so distracted you don’t notice them having a small chat, mind on cloud nine. you do notice when she dips her head to kiss your chest that’s exposed after she unbuttoned your shirt, then dips lower, and lower, and lower-

when you feel her mouth circle your clit in your mouth you let out an airy moan, feeling the ball in the pit of your stomach grow. she eats you out just like she kisses you, sloppier than you expected for someone that’s looks as polished as she does. her hands are squishing the fat of your thighs, and when she shakes her head from side to side in your pussy you cum, trying to soundproof your moans into your arms as the other clutches at her head.

she helps ease you down from your high, placing kisses on your clit and your thighs and even cleaning you up with her mouth as you let out fast shaky breaths. you’re given maybe a few minutes of relaxation before she’s tugging your pants back up, buttoning up your shirt before giving a quick pat to the top of your thigh.

“that was fun, huh?”

you laugh, nodding your head since you can’t find the words. you push yourself up on your arms, staring up at the woman above you as she smiles down at you. your eyes drift to her husband who’s still sitting on the armchair, face flushed and taking in quick breaths like he’s the one who just got fucked instead of you.

“yeah, yeah it was fun.”

you collect yourself, fixing up your hair in the mirror on the wall as shiv leads you to the door.

“saw in your file you’re from jersey. maybe we’ll call you sometime once all this shit blows over, yeah?”

this summer couldn’t end fast enough.

[wambsgansshoelaces]

Could you maybe do a headcanon on succession S/O who still sleep with a stuffed animal? 😭

remember the stuffed animal I won in vegas that I named jeremey? he’s in bed with me every night LOL

thank you for requesting anon, I love you very much <3 I hope you love it!! I think this is my favorite headcanon drabble I’ve written :) enjoy xx

stuffed animal (succession main cast)

Kendall

ᝰ when you first move in, your stuffie makes its presence known on the bed you and ken share

ᝰ ken obsessively makes the bed every morning

ᝰ so he comes back from work and sees the stuffie perched on top of the folded back duvet

ᝰ “who’s this?” he asks, climbing onto the couch next to you

ᝰ you notice your stuffie cradled in his arms

ᝰ he leans into you and holds it out in front of you both

ᝰ you tell him the plushie’s name

ᝰ and you talk about how you’ve just always had it

ᝰ and it helps you when it’s around

ᝰ he pats the thing on the head

ᝰ you both settle into living with each other

ᝰ it’s the happiest you’ve ever been

ᝰ and as the years go by, you get engaged, then married

ᝰ and your collection of stuffed animals grows and grows

ᝰ whenever he leaves you for more than a day at a time, he comes back home with a stuffed animal for you

ᝰ among other things, anyway

ᝰ and years and years later, when he has your kids cradled in his lap, he tells them the story of each and every plushie in the house

ᝰ because he remembers them all

ᝰ the first one that came with you, and then every single one he bought you after it

Roman

ᝰ at first he thinks it’s weird

ᝰ and he makes fun of you

ᝰ but he doesn’t actually think of you any differently

ᝰ “it’s an emotional support thing, ro.”

ᝰ and he gets that

ᝰ he doesn’t actually mean anything mean that he says

ᝰ honestly he isn’t even mean about it

ᝰ he loves you very much; he just takes every opportunity to tease you

ᝰ one night, though, you come home from work really, really late

ᝰ roman’s already snoring softly in bed

ᝰ usually you both stay up for each other so you can fall asleep together, cuddled up

ᝰ but it’s so late you’d texted him earlier and urged him to go to bed

ᝰ reluctantly, you had

ᝰ you change, wash your face, brush your teeth

ᝰ you get into bed with him, doing your best to press up against him

ᝰ but then you realize he already has something in his arms

ᝰ it’s your little stuffie

ᝰ and he’s clutching it, nose buried in its head

ᝰ your heart warms

ᝰ you feel all warm and fuzzy watching him like this

ᝰ so of course you get your phone and take a picture

ᝰ it’s your wallpaper for the foreseeable future

ᝰ the next morning, when you have to leave for work, you make your way to his home office to say goodbye

ᝰ he gives you a kiss

ᝰ and you notice his new best friend perched in his lap

ᝰ it’s no longer your stuffie, it’s his

Shiv

ᝰ she never really said anything about it

ᝰ she doesn’t really *think anything about it

ᝰ it’s not like it interferes with your relationship

ᝰ she knows it relaxes you

ᝰ so one day she comes home with a stuffed animal of her own

ᝰ “it’s cute,” you tell her as she sits in bed with you that evening

ᝰ “i thought yours could use a friend.”

ᝰ she kisses your cheek

ᝰ “i also just want to know what it’s like,” she admits, holding it to her stomach

ᝰ you laugh

ᝰ now it’s a cute thing between the two of you

ᝰ even on work trips, your two plushies sit waiting for you on the hotel bed

ᝰ side by side, attached at the hip at this point

ᝰ just like you and her are

ᝰ most of the time, neither of you are really using the stuffies

ᝰ you’re just cuddling each other

ᝰ sometimes with one caught between you two

ᝰ but most of the time they kind of just sit with you

ᝰ but you have no complaints

ᝰ even when you and her are old and wrinkly, and the plushies don’t sit in bed with you, they’re proudly displayed side by side on top of one of your dressers

ᝰ it’s a running gag in your relationship

ᝰ but it’s not even a gag

ᝰ because you both love the stuffies dearly

ᝰ because they remind you of your other half

Tom

ᝰ he thinks it’s cute

ᝰ he thinks you’re cute

ᝰ when he first sees it, despite whether it has a name or not, he tells you it looks like a “mr. cheezit”

ᝰ “how can anyone look like a ‘mr. cheezit’?” you ask him

ᝰ he shrugs

ᝰ “he just does. why do you have him, anyway?”

ᝰ “i dunno. he helps me sleep.”

ᝰ he nudges your hip with his

ᝰ “you need another man to sleep?” he asks teasingly

ᝰ now he has a personal vendetta against mr. cheezit

ᝰ not really

ᝰ but it’s really funny

ᝰ the two of you are laying in bed together one morning, having a lazy day in

ᝰ he has an arm around you, his hand stroking up and down your back

ᝰ in your sleep, mr. cheezit had ended up on tom’s side of the bed

ᝰ when he notices, he scoffs

ᝰ “this guy again,” he murmurs to you, “i can’t get rid of him.”

ᝰ you laugh

ᝰ tom kisses absentmindedly at your brow

ᝰ “i’m being serious! he’s trying to steal you from me, i know it,” he says faux-seriously

ᝰ “i wouldn’t leave you, tom.”

ᝰ “he’s going to try and kill me one day, just wait.”

ᝰ obviously, he doesn’t

ᝰ mr. cheezit is the first stuffed animal your firstborn gets

Greg

ᝰ doesn’t really care when your stuffie joins you both when you go to bed

ᝰ he literally has a closet of all his childhood stuffed animals

ᝰ and is emotionally attached to all of them

ᝰ “my mom keeps trying to convince me to get rid of them, but i just physically can’t,” he tells you

ᝰ so now all the stuffed animals are on rotation

ᝰ a different one is with you both each night

ᝰ sometimes before you fall asleep, greg’ll tell you about how he got the night’s stuffie

ᝰ most of the time it was from an arcade

ᝰ he tells you about how he’s always wanted those giant stuffed animals they only put as prizes for the rigged games

ᝰ so while you don’t think you’ll ever be able to actually win one from a game, you can get one off amazon

ᝰ the next day, you surprise him with a massive squishmallow

ᝰ “i think i’m going to die,” he says seriously

ᝰ he gives you a sweet kiss in thanks

ᝰ instead of your pillows, now you sleep on the squishmallow

ᝰ it honestly feels much better

ᝰ like your sleep is always heavenly

ᝰ farther down the line, after you both get married and you move, greg tells you he thinks it’s time to get rid of some of the stuffies

ᝰ obviously he doesn’t even THINK of getting rid of your favorites

ᝰ so instead he gives a bunch of the ones who’ve been collecting dust a good wash and asks you to help donate them

ᝰ you end up going to a children’s hospital together and giving them all away

ᝰ the two of you end up making it tradition

ᝰ every year, you organize a toy drive for the local hospitals

ᝰ you wouldn’t have it any other way

Stewy

ᝰ he thinks you’re adorable

ᝰ “sweet, someone new to sleep with.”

ᝰ you smack him lightly on the chest

ᝰ he chops you in the side

ᝰ you both dissolve into a fit of giggles, holding on to each other

ᝰ one morning, you and him are curled up together in bed

ᝰ he’s scratching at the nape of your neck, playing with your hair

ᝰ he has the stuffed animal held to his chest in a vice grip with his other arm

ᝰ you kiss his chest, falling in and out of consciousness

ᝰ you have to leave home and go on a business trip a few days later

ᝰ if he could, he’d quit his job and just come with you

ᝰ but you’d managed to convince him not to, thankfully

ᝰ the kiss goodbye is long, soft, loving

ᝰ he presses a million kisses to your crown before you’re gone

ᝰ you text nonstop

ᝰ he makes sure you eat, drink water, that you stay in safe places

ᝰ he also sends you a bazillion photos throughout his day

ᝰ there’s even a series of him taking your stuffie around new york

ᝰ your favorite is the selfie of stewy and your stuffed animal cuddled together in bed

ᝰ one night, you’re both on the phone

ᝰ “you know, i can’t sleep without it when you’re gone.”

ᝰ referring to the stuffed animal

ᝰ “really? why not, stew?”

ᝰ “it smells like you.”

[motions1ckness]

“Don’t Call me Kid.”

Summary: Roman get’s a bit too drunk at Kendall’s birthday. (03x07)

Content: established relationship, f!reader, angst, age gap, degradation, insecurity, verbal abuse(?), humiliation, mention of Logan Roy

{This is my first fic so i hope you enjoy!)

*Update:pt 2 “SweetHeart” is up rn!!

Roman had you on edge the whole night. You had never seen him this snide or aggressive before. You blame the immense amount of alcohol he consumed, mixed with him talking to Mattson. So, when you caught Shiv getting more agitated with Roman, you knew he was spewing bullshit.

Though you didn’t feel the most compassion for Kendall, you had spent the night with Shiv and Roman and you couldn’t help but pity the man. It was his birthday and his siblings showed up for Mattson, not him. Time had passed from your arrival, and you stood at a distance from them, far enough that you weren’t in the conversation but you could still see what was happening. Roman sat while Shiv stood in front of him. You could tell he was getting under her skin but thought it was best to stay out of it. In doing so, you had to act like you were listening to this brainless celebrity talk to you about god knows what.

You get snapped out of your head when you hear Shiv call for you, wanting Roman's power trip to end.

“Can you get over here and deal with your mess?” You walked over to them and noticed they had also roped Kendall in this mess.

You took a second to study Roman’s face. He was refusing eye contact with you. Probably out of shame and not wanting to face the consequences. His eyes appeared dark, and his demeanor was unfamiliar. He’s just drunk. He’s just drunk. You tell yourself, hoping you didn’t just find out who you were really dating.

“Oh great. Are you trying to get me in timeout or something?” Roman joked, his eyes flicker over you for a moment. “Whatever, you know Kendall, I already talked to Mattson, who hates you by the way,” He laughs at his own demeaning remark. Everyone is uncomfortable. Kendall turns to Niaomi, who's trying to comfort him by holding his arm and rubbing his hand between hers. You couldn’t stand the way Roman was acting. Sure, he makes quippy remarks all the time, but this time he was just being an asshole.

You clear your throat slightly, uncomfortable with the situation, “Roman, I think you should stop.”

Your eyes lingered on him the whole time, hoping adding yourself into the conversation would defuse the situation and you two could forget about this.

When Roman heard your voice, he finally met your eyes. Turning to face you and sneered “Oh I’m sorry sweetheart, did I hurt your feelings?” You knew Roman was in defense mode but you couldn’t figure out why. No one was attacking him.

The heat from your face felt more apparent. “I’m just saying, I think you’ve had enough tonight and we should head back.” You hoped this offer would be enough and you'll deal with this in the morning. Roman rolled his eyes and leaned back further in his chair. “No, 'cause you know what, I’m having fun at this depressing shitfest. Why don’t you and Shiv talk about what lipstick has the cuter packaging or whatever.” He said with a shrill mocking tone attempting to dismiss you from the conversation.

Shiv scoffed, beating you to a response, “What the fuck Roman? If you’re going to take anything away from this pathetic conversation, listen to y/n," Shiv looked at you with her best attempt at a comforting grin.

Roman glared at her “Oh fuck off Shiv. You’re such a fucking cunt.”

The conversation wasn’t de-escalating and you felt your blood boiling. You were sure everyone could see how much you were seething. “Rome enough. You’ve had your fun. Now let’s go before you embarrass yourself anymore,��� You weren't sure if your response was too harsh, but you remained patient with him long enough.

Roman snorted, now full attention on you because you fell into his game, “That’s fucking rich coming from you. You’re always so goddamn sensitive about everything.” He kept a cruel smirk on his face, waiting for your retaliation. Roman knows you hate arguing, but he wanted to push you tonight. Wanting to pull a reaction out of you, lose your composure. Shiv, Kendall, and Niaomi are still present, just speechless. You and Roman had been arguing more since Logan started stringing him along. The three of them felt stepping in would only worsen the situation and decided to stay quiet, not wanting to escalate it anymore.

You fought the urge to reveal any weakness. “I’m not being sensitive Rome, you’re being a dick, Let’s go.” You were biting the inside of your cheek, trying to abstain from your anger. You tried to grab the glass out of his hand before he quickly yanked it toward him.

His grip on the glass tightened as he swirled the last bit of champagne. “Yeah, right, perfect fucking y/n. Trying to control everything.” The tension was evident. Roman wasn’t backing down, not caring if you were the only person that loved or understood him. He just wanted to inflict damage on you at that moment.

Your body was stiff, arms crossed against your chest, hiding your tightened fists. You tasted how the inside of your cheek was bloody, trying to suppress the growing anger, taking a shallow breath from your nose. Trying your best to remind yourself, He’s just drunk. He’s just drunk. “I’m not controlling anyone. Please Rome, you’re drunk and acting insane-”

His eyes narrowed as he took a sip from his glass, muttering under his breath, cutting you off, “Well, maybe if you weren’t so young-”

“Excuse me?” Stumbling over your words a bit, trying to comprehend what Roman just said. Kendall tried to step in, but Niaomi and Shiv decided it was better to leave you two.

He put down his glass, adjusting his view, maintaining intense eye contact, “I’m just saying, maybe this would all make sense to you if you knew how the world works. But you don’t.” His lips curled into a slight smirk like he was proud of what was said.

You felt your breath quicken. Yes, you were younger than Roman and the rest of the company, but you had repeatedly proven you were qualified for your position. You weren't aware Roman acknowledged your age gap enough to bring it up in an argument. “My age has nothing to do with this.” You couldn’t think of anything witty to say in retaliation. You felt so betrayed.

Roman leaned closer to you, the alcohol taking full effect. He didn't understand he was jeopardizing your guy’s relationship with this. He pressed on, “Sure kid. Keep telling yourself that.” Maintaining that pretentious smirk on his face.

All you could do was shake your head and mutter, “You know I hate when you call me that.” Tears had been prickling in your eyes at this point. You refused to cry fuck, fuck, fuck.

Roman rolled his eyes “Welcome to the real world sweetheart. I’m not going to change who I am, so don’t fucking expect me to. I'm not getting any better. Get over whatever savior complex you have that makes you think you can fix me. It’s not going to work.” With that, you felt a new layer added to this betrayal. And Roman felt it too.

You had no control over emotions anymore. Your heartbeat was already beating furiously and irregularly. Your limbs had lost feeling, and you knew your lip was quivering. All you could feel was the stab in the heart Roman left and tears pooling in your eyes and down your cheek. “Fuck you, Roman.” You didn’t need to say anything more. You wanted to, but you knew you still loved him. You made a straight path to the nearest exit. You didn’t give the staff your phone, so you texted your driver you’ll be out in 5.

All you could hear over the horrid music calling from behind you was “See you around, kid.”

[fiberslut]

Always in Powers

Pairing: Lukas Matsson x roy!reader

This is just a headcanon about being the youngest Roy sibling

You’re just holding a meeting while some unknown number pops up on your phone. You excuse yourself and answer to that number to hear Marcia’s voice. ‘Your father needs you’ she says, ‘I’m sorry, I think you’ve got the wrong number, I don’t have a father’ ‘He’s offering you to be the CEO’ ‘What happened to Ken and Rome?’ ‘Let’s discuss about it when you’re here, next month is your father’s birthday remember?’ ‘As I said, I don’t have a father’ ‘See you soon’ and then she hung up

You have no idea what does he want. He’s ignored you for 22 years of your life but now he wanted to see you? and offering you to be the CEO of Waystar?

At a very young age, you’ve lived in the same house as Connor, Kendall, Roman, and Shiv. But one day your father hit you for some unknown reason, your mom knew about it, fired a restraining order against Logan, divorced him, and moved you two back to your mom’s country.

From that day on, you would go by her last name.

Since your mom is a very famous actress/model in your country, that made you’re also in the limelight too.

You hate Logan. Hate how he treated you and your mom. Hated how he never fought to get you back. Hate how he never calls on your birthday. Hate how he never said ‘Happy birthday kid’ to you. Hate how you would have no one to celebrate Father’s Day with.

That’s why you always work so hard, and be able to graduate double degree from Harvard Business School and Harvard Law School at the age of 22. And since you’re famous (thanks to your mom) you have a lot of celebrity friends, which helps with your clothing company to be successful and to be accepted worldwide.

Now you’re in Italy for Caroline’s wedding. But Logan wants you to go with him and Roman to talk about business with this Matsson guy.

He is a very interesting guy. Not like what you have in mind about tech bro.

Lukas couldn’t stop looking at you while talking with Logan. Rome sees it too and he’s not happy about it.

While you’re on the boat back to the wedding venue, some odd numbers appear on your phone, you answer it and it’s Lukas. ‘How did you get my number Mr. Matsson?’ Rome hears that and signal you to hang up the phone, while Logan is smiling in a victorious way.

‘He’s not going to give you CEO’ Kendall says, ‘From what Roman told me, he’s obviously using you to woo Matsson’ ‘No he’s not, he promised me’ you argue back, ‘He promised me too’ Shiv adds

From that day on you’ve talked and texted with Lukas every day. You find him so laid back and funny not like any guys you’ve dated.

You are Roman’s favorite, he’s the only one who visits you every year, so since you’re back in New York, you usually hang out at Roman’s place.

‘What are you smiling at?’ Roman asks ‘Don’t tell me it’s that Swede again, aren’t you dating that Denmark prince?’ ‘He’s a Count and no we’re not dating’ ‘It’s creepy, Matsson is too old for you’ ‘Um, I don’t think you should be the one to lecture me about what is creepy or what is not huh Mr. send-your-dick-pic-to-dad’

When you’re free of meeting, you will fly to Sweden. You and Lukas have developed a serious relationship. ‘What if I buy your dad’s company?’ He asks. ‘There is a cheaper way to impress me Lukas’ ‘No I’m serious’ ‘Then you should buy ATN too’ ‘Wouldn’t that destroy him?’ ‘That’s my point’

You were at Connor's side when you heard the news. That Logan is dead while he's on the plane to meet Lukas. You felt empty, just blank, not any hint of sadness. You saw Kendall, Roman, and Shiv were crying and saying I love you Dad at the phone. They're devastated at the news and couldn't do the interview, so it was you to do it.

Your sibling didn't have time to mourn Logan's death that much since Lukas invited them and the company to Norway.

You were excited, you and Lukas agreed to make your relationship official at the retreat.

Everyone was so shocked except Roman, he saw it coming since the first day. Kendall totally couldn't accept it, he refused to talk to you all day. Shiv just looked at you in disbelief but didn't say anything.

You love this retreat, you always ask Greg to be your photographer for your Instagram. Lukas hates how you are always with Greg when you should be next to him.

So he asks Greg who he is and insulted him in Swedish in front of his friends. You get mad at him for talking about your family like that. You and Lukas have a fight and you ended up leaving the retreat that afternoon and flying back to New York to help Connor with the funeral.

You haven't heard from him until the funeral day. You saw him with Shiv and that totally sums up everything for you. You ignore him all morning just to end up being pulled away into the dark corner of the church, him kissing you passionately and saying he's sorry and how much he's missed you.

So that week he stayed with you at your penthouse and he proposed to you.

He has you by his side while taking a group photo as GoJo successfully bought Waystar and ATN. You showing your new engagement ring as your new chapter of life is about to start as a wife and an American CEO of Waystar.

[romeulusroy]

Succession Preference: Their Love Language

Requested: hi! i hope you’re having a wonderful day, your writing always makes my day a little better. i was wondering what you think the Roy Sibling’s love languages are (either how they receive it or give it!) thank you so much in advance, please take all the time you need to answer this! - anon

A/N: I absolutely love this request!!! I had a love languages preference for another fandom ages ago, but I never got around to it. Thank you my love!!! I hope you like it!!! Feedback is always appreciated 💜💜💜

Connors is physical touch. he both needs and gives physical touch. He needs to be close to you at all times, he can't help himself. When he's far from you, when he can't get get close to you, he starts to panic, he starts to get these terrible thoughts that you don't love him anymore. He was never hugged or really touched as a child, so in adulthood he's starved for it. His hands are always on you, wrapped around you, in your hands. Even when he can't touch you that way, he's close enough for your bodies to be touching. He just needs to be close. He needs it from you, too. He needs you to reciprocate his touches, his squeezes, his wants. Connor needs it to be known he's needed. If he has a partner who struggles with touch it makes him spiral. It's definitely something that needs to be talked through, that sometimes you just want your space and its nothing against him. Especially at night he gets needy, wanting to cuddle all night. If you roll away from him or if its too hot, he definitely feels a sense of rejection.

Kendalls is words of affirmation. His father and mother rarely told him they loved him, that he was a smart, bright, good person, really anything that pointed out anything positive. He both gives and receives this. Kendall is so affectionate with his words. He has all kinds of pet names for you, he reminds you that he loves you a thousand times a day, he'd keep saying it til he's blue in the face. He could go on forever about what he loves about you, what makes you so unique and beautiful and all these reasons why you're too good for him. He also expects it back. He needs to hear that you love him, what you love about him, that he's doing a good job, etc. Kendall is incredibly insecure. He lives inside his head and his thoughts can be viciously unkind. Having you there to remind him that he is capable of good, that he is deserving of love, that makes all the difference. If his partner isn't used to it or doesn't say what he needs to hear he gets insecure and in his head. He gets a lot of self-doubt.

Shivs is acts of service. Doing something that takes time and thought and energy makes her heart melt, it means you were thinking of her and what you could do to make her life easier. Growing up, no one ever did anything for her. Ever. She was expected to pick up the pieces. Her mother especially, could be ruthless when it came to small, kind acts. She always expected a grand gesture in return and that's not how it works. She both shows her love through this and feels loved by it. If you wash her favorite coffee mug so she can drink from it in the morning, replace the toothpaste, pick up the groceries she needed but totally forgot about, etc. Nothing grand, nothing thoughtless, just small and wanted. It makes her feel seen and heard and respected, all things she didn't feel as a child. She remembers the way you like your eggs and plugs in your phone when you fall asleep. It's how she shows that she cares when words fail her. If she's with someone who doesn't do this she feels like the invisible little girl she used to be. It absolutely kills her to feel unheard, unseen.

Romans is quality time. No one ever wanted to spend time with him growing up. He was mostly either lift by himself, like being shipped off to boarding school, or completely ignored when he was in the company of others. The best attention he got was when his father was abusing him and everyone let it happen. Whether it be sitting in the same room on your phones and watching tv or talking together in bed or going with pre-made plans, if it's with you, he's going to feel loved. He both expects this and shows it, giving you his undivided attention when you're around. That's what is important to him, that you're paying attention to him. If he doesn't feel seen, then the time you spend together means nothing. Even if you're both on your phones, it's a mutual thing. If you're on your phone and he's not, it could lead to hurt feelings. If that's not your love language, if you don't value it as much, it'll make him feel isolated and alone, the worst feelings for this type. It's definitely something that is vital to your relationship and the trust he has in it.

[failbaby]

I get why people are saying Shiv and Roman should be doing more for Kendall as his addiction escalates (and they definitely don’t always deal with it respectfully or appropriately—Shiv blasting his addiction on social media, Roman calling him a “junkie,” etc.) but in their defense like. Shiv made a genuine effort to intervene and he wasn’t receptive. You cannot make someone stop using if they aren’t ready. That has to be a step that they take for themselves.

Shiv and Roman have been watching Logan deal with Kendall’s addiction for years, and the way that Logan approaches the issue is by making it clear that he thinks active addiction is unacceptable and Kendall needs to be sober, period. They know (because they’ve seen!) that trying to force Kendall into sobriety doesn’t do anything except create a personal culture of secrecy, lies, and sneaking around that puts him (and any waiters who cross his path </3) in terrifying, life-threatening situations.

It’s not that they don’t care about Kendall’s addiction, it’s just that they know that the “sober or nothing” approach doesn’t work, and so (as of s4) they’ve stopped pushing sobriety, and they’re trying to help him by just being there until he is able to get sober. Kendall talks about addiction openly with them. They know that he’s using. They know what he’s using. They know that he doesn’t use intravenously. He feels safe talking to them about his use because they don’t freak out or threaten him with institutionalization, and that’s a huge step that could literally save his life.

And this isn’t even really a theory because we’ve seen this play out! When Kendall was on that bender and using untested meth at a complete stranger’s house, he called Roman to pick him up (and not Logan), because he knew that Roman would come get him no matter what, no questions asked. No yelling, no outbursts, no interrogation, no ‘after this I’m pink-slipping you out to the desert’ just “drop a pin so I know you’re okay.” Feeling safe calling Roman for a ride could very well have saved his life. Having “safe people” who will be there for an addict until they can get sober is harm reduction

[richeeduvie]

Thinking about the first time Logan jr is really able to throw a good insult back at Roman (it's all love) and Roman being kinda speechless. He's created a monster... why is he proud? He's looking at Baby like 'who would say something like that?'

You would Roman, you would.

“I don’t know how we can be related. You’re like…a bright, bright light ginger.”

“We can’t be. You’re too ugly.”

Baby Jr puts her hand over her mouth, gasping small.

“You can’t say that! Daddy, he didn’t mean it!”

“What do you know?”

Baby laughs in disbelief. Roman blinks.

“Where the fuck did you learn to hold that mouth?”

“…Roman.”

“Seriously, what kid talks like that?”

Logan Jr takes his little cousin’s hand.

“Let’s go before his head explodes.”

“Okay, you little shit-“

“Roman. Let them play.”

Baby realizes there’s so much of Roman in her nephew that it’s familiar to the heart. Unfortunately. Hopefully Shiv doesn’t catch on.

[topazy]

Teen spirit

Pairing: Carl Grimes × reader, Maggie Greene × sister reader

Warnings: Swearing

Chapter: 5.01

“Did you guys hear that? It sounded like gunshots.”

“And real fucking close to,” Abraham says.

When footsteps approach Maggie and shove you behind her, you have already gotten hurt trying to fight the man who shoved you into the train car, resulting in half of your face throbbing. “Get to the back,” your sister orders, “now!”

When you remain frozen Rosita places her hand on your shoulders and pulls you back to stand with her. When the door to the container slides open, you fear it’s Gareth and his men coming back, but it’s hard to tell because of the darkness. When multiple people step inside, the door slides shut again, locking whoever is inside with the rest of your group.

After what feels like tense moments of silence pass, Glenn steps forward and asks, “Rick?”

“You’re here,” Rick breathes out. “You’re here.”

You come forward to see Rick with his arm around Carl, with Daryl and Michonne with them. Maggie motions to Rosita, Abraham, and Eugene when they step closer into the small crack of light shining into the train car. “They’re our friends; they helped save us.”

“Then they’re our friends too.” Daryl nods.

“Hope!” Carl pulls you in for a hug. “I thought... I thought... how did you get out?”

“Glenn saved me,” gulping down, you let go of him. You were so happy to be reunited with people you’d grown to consider family, but you had hoped your other sister Beth was with them. “How long do you think we have until they come back? These people are worse than walkers.”

Terminus was once run by a community of people who wanted to help survive the apocalypse; now it is run by savages who tricked survivors looking for refuge to come into their homes to rob and kill them. You didn’t even want to imagine what they did with the bodies of the people they killed.

Rick's eyes darken; he reminds you of a feral animal about to pounce. “They’re going to feel pretty stupid when they find out.”

Abraham studies Rick’s movements, and you'll learn the former Sergeant was suspicious of everyone; it’s probably how he survived so long. He tilts his head upright and asks, “Find out what?”

“They’re screwing with the wrong people.”

—

“It was a black car with a white cross painted on it. I tried to follow it. I-tried.” Daryl’s voice cracks a little when he talks about Beth being taken.

“Least we know she is alive.”

Knowing Beth was still breathing gave you faith that you’d be able to find her again once you'd escaped from the hellhole you were currently in. You do your best to sharpen a piece of wood into a makeshift shiv as the chattering from outside gets closer; you all know those assholes are coming back. Finally, a voice shouts through the door, “Put your backs to the wall on either side of the car now.”

You all crowd around the door, ready to bounce on whoever opens it. Rick had already instructed you to go for their eyes first, then their throats. Suddenly the roof of the car opens up and a smoke grenade is thrown down, filling the car up so none of you can see. The door opens, and seconds later you let out a scream as someone grabs you, but strong arms wrap around you from the other side and toss you back. Moments later, the door shuts again.

While the smoke clears, you struggle to breathe. You manage to drag yourself to the back of the car, sit upright, and take long, deep breaths, breathing through your nose. It has been years since you needed to use an inhaler since you suffered from childhood asthma, but the familiar tightening in your chest reminded you of the times you desperately needed it. Maggie kneels in front of you, cupping your face. She asks, “Are you okay? Can you breathe?”

You give her a thumbs up.

“You need to be strong for me; we need to be ready to fight with the others to get through this. Can you do that for me?”

You nod. “I think so.”

When the rest of the smoke clears, you look around the car, trying to figure out who's been taken. Rick, Glenn, Daryl, and Bob were gone.

—

You’re unsure of how much time passed by when a loud explosion went off somewhere close, causing panic within the car. To you, it felt like wasted energy because unless someone came and opened the door, you weren’t getting out, so you remained seated on the ground with your back to the wall while Abraham continued to punch at the door.

“Hey,” Carl says, gaining everyone’s attention. “My dads are going to be back, they all are.”

“They are,” you say in agreement.

Your notice Maggie was looking at the pocket watch your father gave Glenn and instantly felt tears starting to gather. You missed your father so much; he was a good man and deserved so much better.

Hearing a woman’s screams followed by gunfire, you press your belly to the ground and look through a crack on the bottom floor of the train car to see what’s going on outside. “Oh shit.”

“What is it?”

“You guys might want to pass on making so much noise; we’re surrounded by the dead.”

Abraham abruptly stops banging on the door and steps back away from it.

“Let me see.” You move to the side so Sasha can look. “What do you think happened?”

“I think the loud noise brought the dead here. It will give our people time to escape.”

The inside of the train car falls into silence as you all try to listen in on what’s happening on the outside. Until Sasha lets out a frustrated sigh, “What’s the cure, Eugene?”

“It’s classified.”

“We don’t know what’s going to happen. We don’t know what’s coming next.”

“Even if I told you all, even if I provided step-by-step instructions complete with illustrations and a well-composed FAQ and I went red-ring, the cure would still die with me.”

Seeing how nervous he was getting, you offered Eugene a smile and said, “We won’t let that happen. We are all getting out of here.”

“In the best-case scenario, we step out into a hellstorm of bullets, fire, and walkers. I’m not fleet on foot. I sure as hell can’t take a dead one down with sharp buttons and hella confidence.”

“Yeah, but we can and we will,” Michonne says calmly.

Carl gives you a knowing look as things become slightly awkward as Sasha urges Eugene to tell everyone the cure while Rosita says he doesn’t need to. It’s clear that he’s conflicted, standing Eugene puffs out his cheeks. “I was part of a ten-person team at the human genome project to weaponize diseases to fight weaponized diseases. Pathogenic microorganisms with pathogenic microorganisms. Fire with fire. Interdepartmental drinks were had, relationships were made, and information was shared. I am keenly aware of all the details behind fail-safe delivery systems that kill every living person on this planet. I believe that with a little tweaking in the terminal in DC, we can flip the script. Take out every dead lady. Fire with fire.” He pauses for a moment before a smile spreads across his face. “All things being equal, it does sound pretty badass.”

The door is suddenly shoved open by Rick. “Come on! Fight to the fence!”

You use the shiv to slice any walkers that get too close to your throats while trying to keep up with the others. Your shortness of breath from before was taking its toll.

“Over here,” Rosita grabs your hand, pulling you behind her towards a fence before helping you climb over it.

Once on the other side, you do your best to help the others climb over the fence without cutting themselves on it, but while doing so, you begin to feel dizzy. When Carl climbs over, he notices and takes over so you can try and catch your breath. You do your breathing exercises, and luckily they work, and the dizziness ceases.

Daryl pats you on the back. “Are you okay, kid?”

You nod weakly, “Yeah.”

He waits a moment before leading the way into the woods to find the weapons he and Rick stashed before going into Terminus. When they find the spot, Rick begins to dig. “Go along the fences; use the rifles. Take out the rest of them.”

“What?”

“They don’t get to live.”

Surprised by his idea to go back, Glenn says, “Rick, we got it; it’s over.”

“It ain’t over until they are all dead.”

The building was on fire and swarming with the dead; it was very unlikely anyone would have survived, and if they did, they would be running away. You flinch, feeling a hand touching your face, but it’s only Carl. “It looks so much worse in the daylight. What happened?”

“When I was thrown into the car, I landed on my back. I managed to kick one of the men in the balls, then he punched me in the face, hence the black eye.”

All of a sudden, Daryl takes off running. At first, you can’t see where he’s running, expecting the worst. You grip the wooden shiv, but loosen your grip when you notice he’s hugging Carl. She’s alive. Carol briefly talks to Rick before saying she needs you all to follow her.

She leads the way to a small hut that Tyreese was standing outside, holding Judith. Both Rick and Carl sprint towards her, breaking down in tears. It filled your heart with warmth to see them reunite with her.

After all the heartache, it was great to see something good happen.

[cowgurrrl]

Everything Leads to You

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader (plus platonic fem!reader x Ellie Williams)

Summary: Who says grief and braiding hair can’t go together? [2.1k]

Author’s note: I’m not a fic writer but this was really fun to write and I thought other people might like to read it!

Warnings: grumpy Joel (what’s new), mentions of Tess, brief canonical type violence, ellie not knowing about restaurants, grief, lmk if I missed anything!!

“How do you do that?” Ellie asks as she sits across from you, still wrapped in her sleeping bag. You furrow your brows as you pull the hair tight to make sure that it won’t fall. 

“Nobody ever taught you how to braid hair?”

“I must’ve missed that lesson in FEDRA school. Maybe it was between learning to fucking kill Fireflies and running drills.” She snarks, and you roll your eyes. There’s no heat behind it, and she seems to know. 

Ellie has stuck close to your side since you left Boston, asking questions as you trekked to Bill and Frank’s. Joel is on edge. He hasn’t said much to you since you lost Tess, but you hear him mumbling and turning restlessly in his sleep. His shoulders are always square and tense, and he jumps at the slightest noise. You wish he would just fucking say something so you could talk about what happened. You may not have known her for as long as he did, but you still loved her. You lost her, too. 

“I can teach you if you want. It’s not hard.” You offer, and her eyes light up. 

“Really?” She asks. You nod and shake the braid out to start over. The fallen tree you're sitting on wiggles at the motion but doesn’t move more than that.

“C’mere,” You say. Ellie shuffles over as Joel turns from where he’s packing his things to give you a look. “What? I’m teaching her how to braid hair, not make a fucking shiv.”

“That’d probably be more worthwhile.” He grumbles. 

“It’ll take five minutes,” You say. He sighs and stands, wiping his hands on his jeans. 

“I’m going for a walk.”

“Aye, aye, Captain No Fun.” Ellie salutes. You can feel Joel’s eye roll before actually seeing it, and you can’t hide the smirk as he walks away, mumbling something under his breath. Ellie turns her full attention to you as you show her how to divide and pull the hair to make a tight braid. 

“You don’t want any hair to fall out because an Infected could grab it and use it as leverage,” you tell her as you redo your hair. She nods and watches your movements closely, trying to memorize the sequence. When you're done and your hair is tied off, you let her show you what she learned and watch as she tries (and fails) to braid her hair. She got so frustrated that you thought she was going to tear the hair out of her head. 

“You said this wasn’t gonna be hard!”

“It takes practice. C’mere, I’ll do it for you.” You say as you open your legs for her to sit between. Ellie settles in front of you, her knees pulled to her chest, as you brush your fingers through her waves. You secretly wish you had a real hairbrush, but do your best to be gentle as you tease days-old tangles out. 

“Has he always been so grumpy?” She asks.

“Probably not, but I can’t be sure. He won’t say it, but he’s going through a lot. We both are. It’s not an excuse, but it is a reason.” You say, pulling a burr from her thick hair. How did she not feel that?

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Go for it.”

“Were Joel and Tess, like, a thing?” She asks, and you sigh. You’re asking the question of the century, kid, you think to yourself. 

“I know they were like family to each other, but I don’t know anything beyond that. They were already partners when I came to Boston and weren’t too keen on labels.”

“You didn’t know them from before?”

“Nope. Tess was in Detroit, Joel was in Texas, and I was in my hometown. Somehow, we all ended up in the same place and started working together.” 

“Why did you come to Boston?” She asks. You take a deep breath as memories shutter through your brain like frames from a movie—the fear and confusion of Outbreak Day. Running north like your lives depended on it because they did. The nights spent smuggling and raiding any medicine cabinet you could find looking for a miracle. That last day full of smoke and blood and screams. You shake your head to relieve the sudden pressure building behind your eyes. Thank God she’s not facing you. 

“That… is a long, long story for another time.” Seems to be enough of an answer for now. She doesn’t push the subject further as you section her tangle-free hair into threes. 

“What did you do before the Outbreak? Like for work.”

“Guess.” 

“Probably something super badass like a fighter pilot or a sharpshooter.” She says, and you laugh— really laugh— for the first time since Tess died. Believing in any sort of afterlife is a slippery slope when death is always at your door, but you hope she can hear your laughter from wherever she is. You hope she knows you're doing your best to keep your promise. You hope she knows how much you miss her. 

“Close. I was a waiter.”

“What’s a waiter?” She asks. It’s weird to think she’s probably never been in a restaurant before, let alone know how they work.

“Waiters were people who worked in restaurants which were like big rooms where people would all eat together, and we had to give people their food and drinks and whatever else they wanted. If you did a good job, customers would leave money, and that’s how you got paid.” You explain, and she turns to look at you, her eyebrows knitted together. 

“The people who owned the restaurant didn’t pay you?”

“Well, they did, but not very much. I think I was getting paid two dollars an hour at my last job.” 

“Two dollars? That’s fucking ridiculous!” She practically yells, and you nod, a smile pulling at your lips. You want to tell her everything about before just to see her reaction. 

“It was fucking ridiculous. Now, turn back around so I can finish your hair.” You push her with your shins, and she turns around, still mumbling about two dollars. She gets quiet as you keep braiding. 

It’s weirdly relaxing, only to have to worry about her hair. Wind rustles the leaves around us as birds chirp above you. The air is cool, and the morning sun shines against her dark hair. It’s almost peaceful. You tie off her hair and smile when she takes the braid between her fingers and traces the crosses. She smiles back as she turns to face you, turning pensive at an alarmingly fast rate. 

“Do you think Joel blames me for Tess?” She asks, her eyes dropping to her hands before she can even finish her thought. As if she’s waiting for you to give her the answer she’s been afraid of since you left Boston. She looks so small and fragile. Like the wind could blow too hard, and it would knock her over.

“I think he blames himself. They protected each other for a long time from everything, and even if that didn’t always work out, they found a way to fix it. Her getting infected was the one thing he couldn’t fix, and I think that’s killing him,” You say, trying to keep your voice steady despite the tears threatening your lash line. This kid has a talent for making you cry. “What happened to Tess is nobody’s fault except the stupid fucker that bit her. She made a choice because she knew we wouldn’t be able to do what she wanted us to do, and we have to be okay with that. She would want us to be okay with that even if it’s gonna take some time.” She opens her mouth to say something more, but Joel coming back into the clearing cuts her off. 

“You two wanna paint each other’s nails while we’re here too, or can we start walking?” He asks as he pulls on his backpack. You and Ellie stand, wiping the dirt from your clothes, and walk over to him. 

“Knowing how to keep your hair out of your face could be the difference between life and death, Miller. I’m teaching valuable survival skills here.” 

“Mhm,” He hums, unconvinced. He looks at Ellie as she pulls her jacket on. “We’re gonna go check something out real quick. Be ready to go by the time we get back.” He doesn’t even wait for her to respond before he turns and starts up the path he came from. You sigh in annoyance but follow him anyway. You walk down to the river bank far enough out of Ellie’s earshot before he finally looks you in the eyes for the first time in three days.

“You know we have to take her to the Fireflies, right?” He questions, crossing his arms over his chest. You scoff and glance up to where you left Ellie. 

“Yes, Joel. I understand why we’re traveling across the country with a teenager.” 

“Good. Now, stop getting attached before you get hurt.” He says, and you balk at him. 

“Are you really that pissed I taught her how to braid her fucking hair?” 

“It ain’t about her hair.”

“Then, what is it about? “

“She’s a job. Something we need to deliver so we can move on with our lives.”

“She’s a kid. A scared kid at that, and you’re not making her feel better.”

“Oh, give me a fuckin’ break.” He groans as he walks away from you to pace, his hands on his hips. You cross your arms over your chest and tilt your head back to look at the puffy clouds. You're mostly trying to find the strength to put up his bullshit, but the view is nice, too. It’s silent as you think, the waves lapping at the rocks, the only sound around us. 

“I know you miss her-“

“Don’t.” He whips around to face you. His eyes are heavy and unreadable, the irises almost black. You wonder how long it’s been since he’s gotten actual restful sleep. The answer could range anywhere from three days to twenty years. You almost want to ask. You almost want to reach for his broken hand and tell him it’s okay. You almost want to wrap your arms around him and just hold him. Almost. You shake the buzzing ache for his skin out of your hand and focus.

“I miss her, too, but we both know she saw Ellie as way more than a job. She wouldn’t have done what she did if she thought differently,” You wait for him to get angry and lash out, but he just stands there, staring through you. “Taking care of her or, at least, treating her like a fucking human being is what Tess would’ve wanted. So, that’s what I’m doing. You can keep doing your stoic, pissy thing if that’s what you want, but you don’t get to control what I do, especially when it comes to her.” He grinds his teeth together for a couple of seconds while he thinks. A red bird swoops down and lands on a fallen tree branch not far and sings at us before flitting away. You had always heard that red birds like that were our dead loved ones coming to remind us they were not far away. You never really believed that, and you still don’t know if I do, but the memory pierces your brain with newfound importance. 

When your eyes meet Joel’s again, something has shifted. It’s slight and minuscule, but you recognize it from his arguments with Tess. He’s yielding without words. He’s trusting you. Your body relaxes, and he nods. The whole exchange lasted no more than five seconds but felt like an hour. 

"We can make it to Bill and Frank's today if we start moving now." He says as he walks past you, acting like your conversation didn't happen. You take a deep breath before silently following him. If he heard that stupid bird chirping at you again, he didn't say anything. In the same way, you don't tell him if you saw the stack of rocks on the shoreline.

*TUMBLR STOP DELETING MY LAST PARAGRAPH*

[communistkenobi]

Now that Succession is over I’ve been reflecting more and more on the fandom that sprung up around it. When I made this post I had Succession in mind, but it was too large of a sidebar to get into, so now I’m making a separate post.

And before I get into anything, both in anticipation of being yelled at and so I don’t have to constantly inserts caveats into every paragraph: this is not a universal or comprehensive description of how people interact with Succession in a fandom setting online, but rather my experience with it on tumblr and the experience of watching my friends interact with it. Additionally, this diagnosis of a narrow slice of the Succession fandom is not a moral or intellectual damnation of anyone who ships characters or whatever. I am talking to myself publicly on my own blog and this post is a sequel to the post I linked at the top, and so the primary focus of this is going to be about the “methods problem” within fandom that I outlined in that original post. If anything, this is an invitation to reflect on your own experiences and extend/adapt/critique the arguments I’m about to make to your own contexts, not a condemnation of those experiences and contexts. If you feel the urge to say things like “you’re trying to censor me” or “let people have fun” I would rather you not do that because I’ve heard those things hundreds of times already and those complaints are deeply uninteresting. anyway

I think one of Succession’s strengths as a show is that it is a drama about a modern corporate empire that is shown entirely through the eyes of the individual Roy family members. There is a particular, deliberate clash between the intensely intimate drama of Shiv and Tom’s marriage, Kendall’s addiction issues and estrangement from his family, Roman’s sexual and romantic problems, Connor’s loneliness manifesting in him “buying a girlfriend,” and the fact that they are wealthy beyond comprehension. They are so far above material need that the only arena of conflict is their personal lives. This comes to a head in S4, when their father dies and their family drama becomes the primary battleground over who will take the throne. Yes, they are fighting over acquisition deals and legal issues surrounding their father’s company, this is the “material” component that has a direct influence on their wealth, but that is still secondary to their conflict as a family. Kendall and Roman deliberately attempt to sabotage the sale of Waystar, both because of their personal desire to “be the boss” and the constantly-cited desire to “do what our father wanted.” Their primary concerns are always either an attempt to appease their dead dad or their desire to replace him with themselves.

This is the most intensified form of bourgeois interiority in fiction - all material concerns are made invisible, shoved to the side to focus solely on individual emotions and relationships, because the Roys are part of the ruling class. Their material needs will never be part of their problems. The individual landscapes of their emotions, desires, and traumas are the only real site of conflict. The army of servants and underlings beneath them, the public that is only ever at the periphery, are part of the massive social, political and financial scaffolding that allows them the time and freedom to act out these hyper-intense psychodramas with their lovers, friends and family. The character-centric focus of the show is itself a commentary on their wealth - they don’t have to work, they don’t have to worry about money, they don’t even have to interact with public infrastructure, and so they are free to focus entirely on interpersonal turmoil and pleasure. This intense, indulgent look into their personal lives is predicated on their wealth, and highlights how ridiculous and out of touch they are. This is an integral part of how the deeply uncomfortable, second-hand-embarrassment tone of the show is maintained.

But this nuance doesn’t get translated into fandom - or is only translated haphazardly - which is likewise deeply character-centric. As a fan of the show for many years I have largely avoided the Succession “fandom” because of its intense focus on shipping and rooting for your favourite characters to win. This is how you end up with people deeply invested in Roman’s character, running cover and damage control for him as he becomes increasingly openly racist, misogynistic and fascistic as the show goes on. In particular, the way that misogyny in fandom intersects with this character-centric method of engagement is that a lot of apologetic discourse about Shiv is reactive, excusing or rationalising her behaviour to an online crowd who finds fault with her behaviour not because she’s wealthy but because she’s a woman. It’s how you end up watching people online defend the actions of a fictional billionaire girlboss, because the dominant mode of discourse in fandom is focused so heavily on the actions of individual characters that said actions become free-floating, divorced from their context. Shiv is not being defended on the ground of her wealth and power (or not always, lol), nor even really being defended from the fact that those things make her an objectively horrible person, but that popular fandom perception of her boils down to “man what a huge bitch.” It’s not that (necessarily) people want to log onto tumblr to apologise for liking a fictional billionaire - although again, that does happen - it’s that fandom misogyny is so individualistic that Shiv’s actions are always discussed at the lowest rung possible, commonly expressed as “she’s a bitch” or “she’s being unreasonable”, and so that is the discursive arena that discussion about this character remains in, never moving beyond the individual. It reminds me of the backlash against Skylar from Breaking Bad - it was impossible to talk about anything else about her character aside from explaining why she’s not the devil incarnate. Yes there are also unironic fans who love the fact that Shiv is a vaguely progressive rich white woman, those people absolutely exist, but even when you want to approach the show from outside of that uncritical angle, I think you oftentimes get painted into this narrow discursive corner anyway because of how stupid fandom discussion tend to be.

And yes it’s all fictional, it’s not real, and people “blorbofying” a Roy sibling or shipping Kendall and Stewy together are not remotely good indicators of their beliefs about the ruling class in real life. I am not making claims about anyone’s beliefs or political convictions because they enjoy a show about billionaires. I also enjoy the show. But the rhetoric of fandom is so intensely individualistic that “shipping” characters in a show like Succession is seen as a regular thing to do. The easiest way to tell if you’re in a “fandom” on tumblr is to see if people are writing ship fic or drawing shipping fanart. I enjoy Succession a lot and talk about it with friends, but I am not “in the Succession fandom.”

And at least with the people I follow who do engage in Succession “fandom,” there is an intense self-irony on display - people making fancam edits of Gerri, someone who is general counsel to a fictional version of Fox News, or AMVs of Stewy, a hot ruthless venture capitalist. It’s funny precisely because of the dissonance between the use of fandom aesthetic forms (ie fancams) and the subject being fandomised. Embedded into these behaviours is an ironic self-distance, a performance of fandom with a wink to the audience that you don’t actually believe in this, that this is a self-ironic indulgence, a way of articulating sympathy for these fictional characters while maintaining the air of being in-the-know, being a good person who gets what the show is “really” about. And I enjoy that! Those posts rule lol. If anything I am in the meta-fandom, I stay on the periphery with friends to enjoy posts about how stressful shareholder meetings are, to celebrate the tomshiv scorpionmarriage win, to know what the phrase tomstar gregco endgame means.

But that self-irony is only possible to express because of the fact that “doing fandom stuff” with Succession necessarily involves an intense and constant form of apologetics for your favourite character or relationship - it is this assumed, unstated default that this self-irony is engaging with. If you were just talking about the plot of the show or its themes, if you disavowed any desire to ship characters together, if you never got into arguments with people about which Roy sibling “deserves” to be CEO, you would hardly be doing “fandom,” or at least you would be doing it in a fundamentally different way, and crucially you wouldn’t need to be employing that self-ironic tone of “alright now we all know billionaires are bad. But isn’t Roman such a cute little baby? Don’t you just want to hug him?”

I remember a popular sentiment being expressed around when Succession first got popular online, saying that Succession pioneered new ways for people to talk about their favourite characters on the internet. “He’s my Disney Princess” “I want to put him in a Pringles can and shake him” “she is a bug I need to study under a microscope” and so on. And I think this is partially a result of 1) absurdist internet humour in general, 2) a memetic mirroring of the show’s brand of humour specifically, and 3) people’s general political instincts running up against fandom engagement, the desire to engage with Succession as a fandom-text without experiencing intense cognitive dissonance, producing ways of expressing love and enjoyment for characters that are fundamentally, irredeemably bad people, people who are direct reflections of and parallels to the ruling class of modern America. It doesn’t even give you the benefit of historical distance the way a medieval fantasy would, where it’s easier to “stan” a king because it’s taken for granted that everyone here doesn’t support hereditary monarchy. Succession is a direct, immediate commentary on contemporary American life in a way that is impossible to ignore, and so to engage with it on fandom grounds requires a certain kind of additional effort, a way of simultaneously performing your real-world beliefs while also letting loose. I know Succession is not the first show to be like this, nor is it the only thing that has impacted the way fandom operates online, but it has enjoyed a five-year popularity whose digital omnipresence has reached far beyond its immediate audience. Most people on twitter remotely engaged in fandom have seen a Kendall Roy fan edit, for example.

So, all this to say: even when it feels like a text is deliberately choosing a character-centric focus to comment on its themes and structures, I think what happens is that this character-centric lens becomes easily and instantly adopted by fandom, but the commentary gets left behind. Which is again what I meant in that original post I linked at the top - character-centric lenses are not inherently bad, or inferior, or lesser to other lenses, but that fandom only ever engages in a very narrow and particular type of character-centrism, a lens that is so adaptable that you can easily import shipping discourse and “x-character-did-nothing-wrong” style apologetics into a show like Succession. If you engage with Succession primarily as a vector to ship characters together, or to “pick your favourite character,” I think you are falling into this fandom mode. Which I’m not saying is inherently bad, I have also done this with Succession by calling myself a romangirl or whatever, I’m just trying to articulate the whiplash I sometimes get when watching prestige drama television about billionaires being murderers and sex pests and fascists and then going online and seeing hundreds of people expressing a desire to wrap Roman Roy in a little blanket. A lot of people are engaging with the show’s themes and also doing this “fandom” thing with it, so you don’t have to choose one or the other, nor am I saying that there are necessarily “low” and “high” classes of artistic interpretation that people permanently slot themselves into, but I do think these modes of engagement are at some level mutually exclusive, because they require the adoption of fundamentally different interpretive lenses when approaching a text