Succession Imagine - Blog Posts

subby romey getting overstimmed,,? in a nice way? 🫠

of course nice. we’re all nice here, right? looks around the room

Roman is a crybaby. Hey, to an extent, he deserves to be, and it kind of validates you, because he’s not uninterested in making you cry about half of the time. But he’s also mean, so mean, and he takes your kindness like a snippy dog at first.

It’d start off with him burying his face in your hair. You’re jerking him off on the couch as Truly, Madly, Deeply plays. What? It’s romcom night! He’s not really watching anyways, he’s got his eyes closed and his pants pulled down to his mid-thigh, still dressed in his work clothes aside from the shoes he’d kicked off as soon as he walked through the door. He’d make little whines and mumble stuff and slowly stutter his hips up to fuck your hand in return. he tries to imagine it’s your hole — any of ‘em, really.

“Thank you, baby, good job, taking over like that,” you encourage when he slams his hips in a nice little rhythm that still stutters and falters, but it’s almost like he thinks he’s fucking you. He cums like he is, with a quick, “oh ff-fuck,” mere seconds before he creams your hand, pulling back to make sure your palm catches it as it spurts out the tip. It drips down his dick and onto his balls, but at least it didn’t hit your face or his shirt. He thanks god his instincts saved him some minor embarrassment.

But your hand doesn’t stop. you keep on keepin’ on, even as he softens. He squirms, and jolts when you lean to cup his balls.

“Fuck you, what am I, your joystick?” he whines as you massage his sack and jerk his cock.

“Just one more. I barely got to enjoy it the first time, you came so quick.” He moans at that, thighs clenching.

“Don’t be mean,” he mumbles, kissing down your neck to your collarbone. It’s more for him than you, really. He likes your taste, breathes deeply in shaky, sharp breaths. He sounds like he’s getting hurt, like someone just knocked the breath from his lungs. He softens, a little more than you like. You straddle him.

“What do you want,” you say it as a soft demand. It’s less of a question. “Speak, use your big boy words.” It’s like you’re talking to a dog — a very beloved dog, one you let sleep at the end of your bed.

“In the whole world, or—?”

“You know.”

“This’n,” he slips his hands under your skirt. Feels around, finds your pussy lips, pulls them apart at the front through your panties. His eyes can’t see through fabric, and he doesn’t lift the skirt, he’s just being sort of sweet, you think; innocent, almost. Which is surprising when you consider that he’s basically the devil any other time.

“What’s ‘this one’? Hm?” you ask sweetly, like coaxing his obedience, like making him say it out loud is comparable to making a dog do a trick.

“Your cunt? Pussy? The slip-n-slide in? Do you just like hearing dirty words?”

“You know what to say,” you say, kissing the arch of his nose and then the tip. God, you don’t ride his face enough, you gotta do that more often, utilize his assets.

He whines and bucks his hips, cock jostling and jumping. You’re so beautiful above him. Why does he think he can treat you like this? You’re not one to joke with. You’re a goddess. Your presence is so unique. Irreplaceable. You’re strong, tough in ways he’s not sure he can really replicate. He’d have to either kill himself or become the next unabomber if you left him. There’d be nothing left of him, no remnants, not a scrap.

“Your royal hotness, may you please stick my teenie-weenie in your peeeeeerrrfect puss-puss?” he has a giggle, a drunken one. Your feet curl under the backs of his knees. He likes their warmth, he likes that it makes him feel both big and strong while also being your fucking accessory. You can climb all over him if you want.

“Nope. Try again,” you allow him a second attempt, knowing that he’s still high off of having just came and still twitchy. You grind down on his soft cock.

“C-Caaaaann…I please, please use your pussy?” His hands grip your upper thighs.

“My what? My what pussy? Is it nice?” you decide to coax, tease him, playfully bully him even, into being sweet.

“No, it’s mean—,” he says, half-joking. “Yeah, yeah your pussy is nice. It’s…pretty. It’s warm. Your pretty pussy.” All the blood is rushing from his brain back to his oversensitive cock at the thought of it.

“Good. Nice boy,” you clumsily fumble on his lap to tug your panties down and off. “Real good job.” Your skirt is lifted, held in your hands.

He’s salivating. Literally feels his mouth water a little bit. His eyes are staring, just completely entranced by your pussy, gentle hands softer than you can imagine spreading your pussy lips and drooling over your clit.

He grabs his dick, lines it up with your hole. You’ll allow it, you’ll clench over his pulsing, leaking tip begging to be let in and grin as he lets out some breathy, sharp exhale. His brain is marshmallow fluff, a fluffernutter sandwich, and his hips twitch up to try at slipping the tip inside, just the tip, please.

“Uhn-uhn,” you angle your hips in a position where his tip is still pressed against your hole, but you know he can’t get in. “You can’t handle that right now.”

“Fuck you,” he mumbles, so immature. “Yes I can. I’m — do you think I’m some cuck, king of celibate town?”

“Yes.”

There’s a moment of silence where he kind of cedes his case. Like yeah, okay, you might be just kidding, but you’re kind of right, so I give up. He’s all pouty and twitchy. You roll your hips, his tip slips from the home it’s made, edging at your pussy, and the girth of his cock spreads between the puffiness of your labia. It has you both a little surprised by how good it feels.

“This is cruel and unusual punishment,” he whines, hips twitching up and down in an almost embarrassing fashion, slightly out of control in his own body from having came mere minutes ago and now this. Yeah, maybe he can’t handle being inside, but he wants to be close to you. You’re ruining his whole ‘romance’ thing.

“Then it’s perfect for you,” you say, riding his cock — except, his cock between your pussy lips. He grips tight, whining, bucking his hips beneath you as you try to keep a steady pace. His eyes look watery.

“Mean. You are mean tonight, bitch,” his voice wobbles. It’s so, so silly, because you know he’s exactly where he wants to be right now, and it puts you in a nice position. He’s all yours right now, and you like, kind of can do whatever the fuck, and he’ll just nod his little head and pucker his lips for a kiss.

His hips twitch and twitch as you rub back and forth on his cock, and fuck — the tip prods your hole again, just a little. Your hole flutters, because he’s just leaking, and his cock is so hot and throbbing against you. You give some small mercy, your hands caressing his face, thumbing over his eyes and eyebrows down to his scruffy cheeks, kissing him sweetly and chastely. He follows you, tugs you back down, and you allow it. Perfect moment to let his tip push in, right?

He gasps into the kiss but doesn’t — can’t stop kissing you. You think you feel him trying to mumble your name through his lips mashing against yours sloppily and desperately, you think you feel wetness around your mouth and a little dribble of drool as his tongue puppy-dog kisses you.

“Told you, you couldn’t handle it right now.”

“Huh?”

You just snicker. He’s out of it, and even just the tip has his balls drawing up, fucking ready to blow his load.

“Nothing, Romeyrome,” you kiss a speckled mark on his cheek near his nose. “Go ahead, get it over with,” you encourage.

“Get it — ffuck, fuck, over with? You’re so romantic, I’m buying you a Nicholas Sparks novel to compare notes with.”

He whines as you laugh, partly because of your laugh, because he made you laugh. You reach down to rest your warm palms on the throbbing base and oh fuck, he can’t take it. He jerks his hips, grabbing your free hand to kiss the inside of and mumble your name into. He playfully gnaws at it until his head falls back. His eyes still look up at you, even when you look away.

You run your hand down from the base of his cock, your hips still wiggling with just the tip in, and you cup his ballsack, rolling them with your thumb and squeezing them gently.

“Let me in, let me just cum inside, I can’t hold back anymore,” he pleads, breathless.

“No,” you grin, “you can’t take it, honey. Just the tip.”

But he’s a tricky boy, tricky — the minute he gasps, clearly cumming, he lifts his hips off the bed, holding your hips down, pushing all the way in, nice and deep. You decide, okay, that’s his choice, next is mine, right?

You ride him as he cums and long after, and fuck, he’s making almost pained noises. He’s crying, actually, haphazardly gripping your thighs.

“Please, please, can’t you just, fuck, you’re milking my load out of me, fuck you, you — you fuckin’—,” he can’t finish his sentence without an awful, heartfelt little whine, loud as can be, like a pitiful puppy. “Incubus,” he finally finds the word, his thighs twitching beneath yours, hips stuttering up.

“Cum for me, too, what — what do you, can’t you just tell me what to do,” he’s so desperate in his pathetic babbling that it’s sweet.

“Just enjoy it, Roro,” you soothe. He’s so sweet. You can’t resist planting little kisses across his face. He leans into them all.

“Can’t stop, Jesus, can’t fucking stop—,”

“Then don’t stop, get it all out.” You kiss away a few stray tears, and he’s already came once outside of you and once inside, but from how he grips your hips and tries slamming up into you from beneath, you’re pretty sure he came a third time.

There’s a pause. You stop only for a moment, and he’s practically wheezing trying to catch his breath. It’s been a while, you get it; cumming three times in a row, not having to hold back for some fucking fulfillment of a role or whatever, it exhausts you both.

“You gotta let me eat your incubus pussy now.”

“Nooo,” you say, the way one would scold a puppy. “You need to go to bed, honeybunch. That’s that. Doctor’s orders.”

“The doctor’s a quack, let me at it. You drained me dry with your cum-sucking vampire-pussy, so can’t you just let me…sate you?”

You kiss him on the lips.

“I’ll use my face washcloth to clean you up if you drop it.”

He shuts up real quick. Makes a motion of zipping his lips and throwing away the key.

I heart natural dialogue😍

okay so what if a kieran culkin character wore as many hand accessories like the bracelets but also rings as kieran and then fingered you rougly? what if?

girl ya smart let’s get into it

i’m gonna go with roman the love of my life light of my day fire of my loins because we see him wearing bracelets a couple times, especially when he’s in barbados and in the gym. and…im gonna go with post-s4. like, future rome and you. because i’m a softie and i like imagining him happy in the future. so SPOILERS for s4 of succession, beware.

You’ve come with Roman to a vacation home—a villa, really, in Rome. His dad gave it to him, it’s his now. That’s weird, right? Your dad dies and you get a villa in Italy, specifically for you, that’s weird to him. Maybe he’s just sensitive, you keep giving him those puppy-dog eyes like he could crumble at any minute, especially in the jet on the way over. You almost yank his arm off trying to stop him from carrying your luggage.

But now you’re settled in, it’s warm outside (maybe too warm) and you’ve gone to a market nearby to buy some meats and cheeses for snacks, and a peach wine despite having real (expensive) wine in the cellar. You’d tease him in a couple weeks of staying here, bully him for getting ‘fat’ all the while sucking his dick by the pool. But that’s later, in the future, and for now, you’re in the room he always stayed at when they vacationed here, ‘his room.’

“It’s very…red,” you’re shocked, not that you don’t like it, just surprised by how red it is. His room in Barbados was a teal and beige, all blue paired with the natural stone. Here, it’s a deep red, very fitting for Italy and the whole ‘Rome’ aesthetic, but weird, with a similar stone texture surrounding, the same as outside, almost stuccoed.

“Yep. Red. Very emo eye my father had, maybe he was trying to get me in with Gerard Way,” he teases his past self, and you can almost implicitly tell that Logan picked it out. You can’t imagine Logan redesigning a house without making it a part of some psychological training routine.

“I’d think you were a Frank Iero, personally,” you quip with a grin.

“Oh thank you, thanks. For that. I uh, I’ll try to ignore your emo mumbo jumbo and act like I’ve never heard those names before,” he says, trying to active ‘above’ the emo scene. He opens a little drawer in his dresser and like muscle memory finds a shitty little box against the front panel, the cheapest thing in this whole house you’re sure.

The top is lifted and placed onto the dresser with a familiar movement, a limp wrist and body twisting to face you as he rolls a single bracelet down his arm, past his wrist. He holds his arm up for you to see, the plastic bracelet covered with teal and dark blue beads with a few large notches of white stone.

“Nice. Never knew you liked accessories so much,” you comment, not sure if this is a joke, or?

“Didn’t really, I guess? Just kept ‘em. Mom hated it, Dad hated it. Look, Shiv,” he says, holding up a bracelet with orange, pink, and beige beads, with ‘S-H-I-V’ in white letter blocks, not quite centered. He drops it back down in the box and rummages around.

“Aww. Big bro was such a sweetie,” you say despite Roman being barely older than Shiv. You hold yourself back from asking invasive questions, like how old she was when she made him that, and how old she was when she stopped. Maybe she sent him bracelets in military school, maybe her friends had a crush on him—you doubt it, he was a little too lanky and annoying to be the typical rich girl’s pre-teen crush.

“Yeah yeah, sure, sure I was. Ooh, pretty,” he holds up a ring and gives you the box, using both hands to put the gold band on, a lapis lazuli in the center. It still fits his forefinger perfectly on his right hand.

You peek through the box like a treasure chest as you hold it in your hands. There’s so much of him in here you’ve heard about but will never have been there to see. It makes you wish you were born at the same time, same place, and spent every second together. It might’ve been worth him bullying you through your many awkward phases to see him in all his breakout teenage glory watching Fight Club and Tetsuo the Iron Man with ten or twenty bracelets down his arm.

“Want one?”

“Oh—uhhh, no, thank you,” you squeak out, lost in your thoughts, not sure how to politely respond.

“Uh-huh. I think I’m supposed to give you fuckin’…Tiffany and Cartier before I make you wear my sweaty rope cord bracelets,” he says before putting one on. I mean, he’s given you plenty of expensive jewelry before, he just kind of feels like he should give you more before you have to wear this junk, even for play. The rope cord bracelet he stretched over his hand is a dark green color, it looks good with the tan he has from Barbados. The strings that tighten it hand down against the beaded bracelet, and you don’t think about Roman in this way, in Italy, as a teen on summer break. You’re sure there’s a copy of Sex, Lies, and Videotape bound to be in this room.

“Oooh,” he sounds in awe of a three-bracelet band of dark green, light green, and white crystalline beads, rolling them down his arm. He holds up a pear-shaped ruby ring—which looks like a real ruby, which is shocking because why the fuck would that be in there? “Here, for you, m’lady.”

“Thank…you,” you say, not sure how to respond. Is he giving you this? Maybe just telling you to wear it? You put it on your middle finger, hesitating, almost putting it on the finger beside it, which could lead to a big insinuation that you’d prefer to avoid.

“You’re welcome, wow, how excited you sound,” he sarcastically quips, putting a stack of silver rings on his ring finger, one from Miansai, with a flat onyx at the top. The other looks sort of like a screw-fastener, like a dirty, used up attachment to some screw or bolt, with a hole big enough to fit around his ring finger. There’s another similar to it that he puts on his thumb, with what you think is black spray paint on it.

“You wanna look s’more in my little box of horrors?” he asks, rolling a couple thick red rubber bracelets, four or five down his arm, and a black leather cuff. He seems punk. He’s not, he’s a fucking born-and-raised billionaire who pissed the bed at fourteen, but he seems…like a guy, a regular guy from your high school or home town or something, someone who wears AC/DC shirts from Spencer’s.

“Uhn-uhn, I’m good,” you say, twisting off the ruby ring.

“No—what? Keep it on. You keep that, ‘s yours now, unless you hate it?” he seems confused and genuinely offended. You thought it was time to put it away but he’s giving it to you? You make a quick noise that sounds like an ‘oops’, like ‘oh fuck, I thought wrong.’

“You’re sure? I mean, is this—?”

“Real? Yeeesss, duh, would I put a fake vending machine ring on you? Jesus. C’mere, let’s bang on my childhood bed,” he jokes, urging you to sit down with him. He plops down and he’s weirdly solid, the bed bounces from the force of his weight suddenly falling almost limp on it, feet barely on the ground. His hand gently pats against the comforter.

“Didn’t you say your dad bought this after he divorced Caroline?” you ask incredulously, questioning his idea of ‘childhood’.

“Yeah, okay, ‘childhood’ is relative, Freud,” he rolls his eyes and grabs you by your waist, slamming you down into the bed face-first. “There we go, see? See what happens when you don’t listen? Ya get slammed. Face first into my dusty old mattress.”

“Mmfhm,” you mumble, tucking your forearms under your chest.

“Is it nice down there?” he asks with a half-grin, still sitting up, twisted around to peer over his shoulder at you still lying face-down.

“Mmyup,” you reply, raising your head up to look up at him.

“Looks comfy. Watch out, comin’ in hot,” he says, plopping on top of you as you squeal. His arms wrap around you, laying himself on you like dead weight and squeezing you tight.

“Roman! Rome, you’re like, a thousand pounds, oh my god—,” you say, a little breathless from beneath him.

“I can’t believe you’re calling me fat when you’re the one who fed me a metric ton of brie,” he mumbles into your hair, sniffing it deeply. You smell good. He lays there for a few moments until you speak up.

“Speaking of, we gotta fix dinner, fatty, now get up,” you say, kicking your legs at the back of his thighs, occasionally hitting his ass. He could stay here forever.

“Fuck you? Come on, lemme jump your bones and hump you right here. Just the tip,” he giggles and scoots back, practically crawling off the bed and reaching his hand down to help you up. “Fiocchetti again?”

“Penne instead?” you barter. He makes a little ‘mm’ noise in agreement.

Heading downstairs, fixing some simple penne with a tomato, basil, and garlic sauce, it’s all pretty simple with Roman. Without a chef doing everything for you like in the penthouse back in New York, it’s a lot more—normal, relaxed. Almost domestic. The pear-shaped ruby on your middle finger seems, in quick glances, like it belongs on your ring finger. It seems only natural, almost like you’re living in a sitcom as the ‘cringe married couple next door’ stereotype. Everything has been weirdly easy after the death of his father, almost like he’s happier—which oversimplifies so much, but he seems so open now. He’s even began rewriting some of his old screenplays. He dubs you his ‘editor.’

You ate in the kitchen together, him sitting on the countertop and you standing between his legs. You both finished the pasta off together, nice and full and bloated, putting the dishes in the sink before heading upstairs to sleep in his room, at his request.

You’re in a tank and shorts when he comes up behind you, leaning against you with a pitiful whine, arms wrapped around you. He nuzzles into the nape of your neck, bites your back gently with a growl. “C’mere, wifey-poo,” he says, walking backwards, guiding you both with the occasional misstep and stagger.

“Heeeere we go,” he says, pulling you back on the bed, your back landing on his front. “Mm. You comfy?” he asks, and it’s comical, because he wants to know the minute the two of you fucking land if you’re already cozy. He sure is. He smells toothpaste and your skincare. You used the same toothpaste but he still wants to know if you taste the same.

“Yeah, sure, okay now, release me,” you say, trying to crawl out of his clinging.

“No! Nooo, no-no-no, bad girl, stay down with me,” he demands, one leg wrapping around you, then the other. His face nuzzles into the side of your neck and his hand lays flat against your lower navel. You groan but stay still, freezing up when his right hand slips between the band of your shorts and where your tank top hangs over it. He’s still wearing the two rings on his ring finger, one on his pointer, and one on his thumb, all of his bracelets still on his arm.

“You ‘kay if we…?” he asks. He so rarely asks. It’s weird here, it’s like he’s so different but still obviously your Roman. You can’t help but sputter out a laugh, because Roman’s already awkward enough without asking-but-not-asking for sex. “Fuck you, I’m taking that as a ‘yes.’”

He unentangles his legs from around you and moves them to between your thighs, keeping them open. “You gonna shut the fuck up now?” he asks, but he’s just not intimidating when you’re mid-laugh, so you just respond, “Oh my god, yeah, sure Rome, I’m so scared. Shaking in my boots, really.”

“You should be,” he says, suddenly serious but still not unfunny. His jaw clenches and his eyes are dark. His hand moves your face to his, your cheek smushing under his forceful touch in a way he thinks is so cute (but certainly can’t say now). It looks like he’s about to kiss you—you’re even ready for him to, lips halfway puckered when you hear a noise that can’t be what you think it is, and the wet feeling splattered on your face registers a moment after it happens.

“What the fuck,” you say, eyes wide and confused, a little pissed.

“Told you. Be fucking scared, I’m serious,” he says a moment before he licks his own spit, both hands on your head keeping you from moving away as his tongue trails the top of your nose, under your eye, the apple of your cheek, a little lick to your eyelid when your eyes flutter shut, and your lips. It turns into a kiss, slowly, his tongue forcing its way in your mouth, one hand encouraging your jaw to stay down, tugging your mouth open. Your face is covered in his spit by the time he’s done.

“Here. Help me out a little,” he shoves his fingers in your mouth, his pointed and middle, down to the base where you feel his gold ring on his pointer. “Gooood, that’s good. What a beauty. You make it so fuckin’ easy.”

You gurgle around them as they trigger your gag reflex. “Shhh-sh-sh-sh,” he shushes you, feeling around your mouth for a little longer before slipping them out.

His wet fingers leave snail trails grabbing the inside of your thigh from behind. He knows you. He knows you don’t wear panties under these shorts. He knows you’ll jolt a little and get all squirmy if he doesn’t keep you against him, your back to his chest, your ass to his dick. Roman knows you so well, he knows the color of your childhood bedroom, he knows where you keep the hair ties on your arm when you take them off, he knows your weak spots and how to make your brain get fuzzy.

“Shut the fuck up, I got you,” he mumbles into your hair, huffing the smell of your shampoo and conditioner, trying to get every note of you. His fingers slip beneath the fabric of your sleep shorts, and you’re not usually one for keeping them on—too uncomfortable usually—but they’re nice and soft and loose. Not gonna inhibit his ability to feel around and fuck around, so no reason to do more work than necessary, right?

Roman’s pointer and middle fingers play with your clit, not roughly and not with much of an intention to get you off, just playing, for his own enjoyment. You twitch and whine, but he only presses a couple kisses to your head through your hair and your neck. You feel his bracelets against your lower navel leading down to your cunt.

“Give it, come on. Give it to me,” he demands brattishly, thumb rubbing your swollen clit then trailing down to massage your labia. You open up, and he’s right after all, you do make it easy for him. He slips his pointer in your pussy and rubs your clit sweetly, nice and hard so that your hips can twitch as his legs prevent you from grinding up into his touch. You feel the gold ring at the base of his index, and after a few moments he slips in his middle finger. He can’t help but comment on it with a shocked, giggly little noise, “Tight fit, huh? Yeaaah, that’s alright. Just little ole me stretching you out. Never fear, Romey’s here.”

You moan when he wiggles his fingers against that one spot, and fuck, his fingers are thick, and what he lacks in experience (and dexterity) he makes up for in excitement. It’s almost sadistic, his legs wrapped around you and keeping you down from behind, his left hand popping your tits out of your tank top and grabbing them. But it’s reverent all the same, how he never grabs too hard, how he massages your tits from base to the tip of your nipple instead of pinching your nips, how his free hand grabs yours and kisses the finger where the ruby ring is adorned.

“R-Roman,” you breathe. “Fuck me, fuck, please.”

“Uhn-uh, don’t wanna. Saw you looking at my hands earlier, so you’re gonna give ‘em a nice fuck-and-suck,” he says, grinding his dick against your lower back in time with his fingers, slowly sliding in a third and hearing you wince. “Oh, you’re fine. They’ll fit.”

It’s disgusting, the wet noises are fucking embarrassingly loud. It all feels like a book, the cliche of getting fingered in one of his childhood bedrooms. Three fingers deep and the two silver rings at the base of his ring finger against your hole, holding you down against him and keeping you still, it’s straight out of a porno.

“Shit, are you — are you, fucking—?” he’s shocked when your pussy gushes with that telltale flutter. “You’re cumming on my hand like a bitch in heat from a whole lotta nothing. Didn’t even have to try.”

You whine, laying your head back on his shoulder, nose nudging at his ear, breath huffing at his neck. His dick is twitchy and he can’t resist humping it into your ass through the back of your shorts, he can’t help but shudder visibly, breath audibly stuttering against the crook of your neck. The two of you are so intertwined, your head leaned back with him leaned over to bury his face in the crook of your neck where it meets your shoulder. It’s intimate, a weird comfort, like how he always stares at your tits with that weird look, and how he takes deep breaths every time you hug him.

“I can’t take it, I can’t Rome, ‘s—,”

“Yeah, but you can though. You can, actually, you just squeeze reeeeal tight and milk my fuckin’ fingers like a bitch. You’re actually a pro, if I remember correctly,” he quips, and it would often be followed by a sadistic giggle, but his dick has drained all the blood in his fucking brain and he’s too close to worry about appearances right now.

And you do take it. You squeeze his fingers and he fucks you through it, three thick fingers fucking you through it, one thumb against your vulva and the heel of his palm moved to slap and grind against your clit. His other thumb brushes against the back of your hand, held in his free hand. You would be a little embarrassed of how noisy you are if not for how brain dead you are from how good it feels. You don’t even hear him moaning behind you, it hardly registers that he’s grinding his dick against your ass and lower back, hips stuttering.

When it’s all over, it seems a little ridiculous. His fingers kept inside, your tits still out, him breathing hard on your neck — the fact you’re in a villa that he now owns, in Italy, the fact that his dad died and he just kinda whisked you away to process at his own pace, away from a cold, dark, and worn Manhattan that his past still seems to haunt. You sputter out a little giggle. This isn’t really something you anticipate in your five year plan.

“What? I make you cum your brains out and you still think it’s funny to bully me?” he snarks, burying his face in your hair from behind, nuzzling into the side of your neck like a puppy ready to nap.

“No, just — what the fuck is this. Like, I’m in Italy, with you, and…it’s just different. A lot’s changed since I met you.” It’s true. A lot of shit has become a whole lot better, and a few things have become a whole lot worse at times. You have new stressors, new insecurities, new challenges; but you have Roman. Someone who takes you to Italy and makes jokes about knocking you up about of wedlock and then forcing you to elope with him. And has the chef make you your favorite breakfasts, better than anyone ever could. Sometimes he goes to markets with you and picks around at stuff, or goes to thrift shops and makes gross jokes about how everything is contaminated, inappropriate jokes about poverty, showing his pretentious socioeconomic class — but he still goes. He brushes your hair and has nicely trimmed (or rather, bitten) nails. He knows your favorite flowers and has them imported when they’re out of season. Everything is pretty weirdly domestic.

“Mmh,” he makes a little noise, wiggling his fingers in your cunt to feel you squeeze in oversensitivity. “Yeah. You’re,” he pauses, makes you think he’s gonna say something profound. His response doesn’t have to be said, it’s pretty fucking obvious from his everything that he loves you more than life itself. Change is whatever, nice, but his life technically only started when you came into it, and is on pause when you aren’t watching him. It’s horrible and codependent, but yeah, so is he. “Gonna drip on the bed. God, you hear that? Creamy, creamy girl. You creamed on my fingers so hard it got your fuckin’…neurons firing shit up in there, thinking these philosophical thoughts.”

He takes his fingers out, wiggling them around more as he extracts them, and your cunt squelches. His fingers are soaked, a thick ring of cream around the base before his rings. He turns your head to the side with his left hand and cranes his to face you, keeping eye contact as he licks his fingers one by one. It isn’t sexual. It’s more of an ‘I own you, your pussy is so fucking owned’ move, in his own playful manner, that little glint in his eye as he cleans them, savoring the taste. He kinda regrets not eating you out.

“Gonna be good?” he asks.

“Why?”

“‘Cause I want a kiss but I don’t kiss bad girls. Kiss-kiss?” he puckers his lips. You peck them with a quick ‘mwwwwah’. “Good,” he lightly smacks his left hand against your face, his right hand rubbing against the front of it to gross you out, the spit-slick fingers making you gasp in shock and mock offense, making him giggle in return.

He gets up out of bed with a groan of, “Hoooooly shit, ow.”

“You’re old as fuck, Jesus,” you giggle at him before noticing the large stain on the front of his pants. “Holy shit, did you—?”

“No. No, I pissed myself, the fuck do I look like, a bed-wetter?” he defensively quips, his load visibly staining the front of his pants.

“Yes,” you reply quickly. I mean, he did wet the bed for like, a long time, and then started wetting the bed again as a trauma response as an early teen, not to mention the adult ‘accidents’ he fails to keep hidden.

“Okay, fuck you, say ‘thank you, Daddy’ or something, I just made you cum,” he retorts, walking to the dresser to change, removing his bracelets and rings with heavy clinks and thuds onto the top of the dresser.

“Maybe you should thank me for making you cum,” you surrebut, the sharp look he gives you in return being nothing but play, like two puppies tugging on each other’s ears. “Thaaaaank you, Daddy,” you mock, half-genuine but you’d never let it show.

“You’re welcome, shithead,” he complains, changing into some soft briefs and a tee that he stole from you years ago, climbing into bed with you. Tonight, he chooses to do the ol’ reliable, sleeping facing you, noses nuzzling and breaths intermingling until one of you nudges downwards and sleeps on the other’s chest, an unspoken routine.

“Thanks. By the way,” he mumbles, not even fully said. “Even though you didn’t even try. Just born with a really nice pussy and perfected your moans at whatever pornstar school you attended. You lucked up, you’re the load-blow queen. Princess,” he corrects himself, thinking the title ‘princess’ seemed a better fit.

“You’re welcome, prince Romulus,” you let out one more tease, letting him nuzzle your hair as he has been all night, kissing the top of your head.

Sever (Kendall Roy Oneshot)

Character/s: Kendall, Logan mention

Word Count: 1,515

Inspired By: Absence by Rio Romeo

Tag: @locke-writes

A/N: Nervous to post!!! I thought I might try writing like I used to with my absolute favorite trope lol. I don't know how it'll go and tbh I expect this not to go well, but what can ya do? I didn't make it as dark as I used to write, but I'm definitely up to giving it a try! Let me know what you think my loves!!! Feedback is always appreciated 💜💜💜

Resentment sleeps between you. Like a baby, its breath is slow and deep. Peaceful. Blissfully unaware. It pushes you to the opposing edges. There is an ever growing abyss in the middle of the mattress. One wrong move, and you’ll slip. Sometimes, in moments of bravery, you’ll hold your hand out. Pebbles will crack off, falling down, and you hold your breath. You never hear the eventual plop of it hitting the bottom. It goes on forever, the only infinite you can count on. You’ll grip the side, watching the inky black as it stares back at you, and you’ll wonder where it all went wrong. When the crack, so small, so insignificant, tore itself in two, into this. He remains incurious. While he sleeps his body is unmoving, unphased by what lies between you. He remains still, content, his back turned to the cavity, to the truth. This is not a feeling of dread or fate, merely a glimpse. A recurring nightmare that you will fall in. beneath you will collapse. You’ll call for help, but he will choose not to hear you. Lately, it seems, you're going unheard. Your concerns, your fears, your feelings, your screams. You will cry out and no one will be there to grab you, pull you up, hold you. No one will be there to tell you it’s okay, you’re okay. Instead you will fall for forever. One day, however long that takes, centuries later, you will land next to those pebbles and every bone in your body will shatter. They will combust. Turn to dust. You will be a pool of yourself all because he is choosing not to see reality for what it is. Because he thinks this is okay. Because he thinks you’ll get through this. You can’t get through this. It’s too late. It’s always been too late. 

It’s not only resentment. Resentment is the product. The product of ignorance, of anger, of dismissiveness and stupidity.  His own ego. A perfect concoction. A deadly poison you drank with enthusiasm. Everyone in your life knew before you did. They could see that crack, that hairline fracture, but you didn’t listen. He wasn’t always like this, you’d tell yourself. Maybe, maybe not, but it’s what you have to say, over and over, until the words are carved into your skull. Part of you is still fighting for him. Making empty promises to yourself. If he comes home, if he comes home and flashes that familiar smile, you’ll give it another try. If he remembers those flowers you like from that one shop. If he brings you coffee in your mug, the only mug you drink it from. If, if, if. He never does any of this. He never will. You’re trying to resuscitate something that is already dead. Dead and buried, you throw yourself on to the casket. Begging him, it, anyone who will listen: please, this one time, this one time let him show you that you are more important than any of this. All of this. This whole world. Instead he is door slamming and muffled screaming and highs and lows that are unpredictable. He is kissing young, hot strangers and drinking into oblivion. He is exactly the man you married. He always has been. You’ve been fooling yourself the whole time. 

You pretend to be asleep, pulling the covers over your head. His alarm is loud and furious, like his father. He dresses and redresses, caught in a loop. Forever burdened to live the same morning over and over. Insecure, unsure, there is a pile of dress shirts on the floor. A pile you used to pick up, rehang. A pile that used to disappear before he came home. A pile you’d like to set fire to. Forever trying to impress blood that wouldn’t care if he swam or drowned. He hums to himself, tying his tie, checking himself over. You count the minutes until he is gone. Dressed, shaved, cologne so thick you could choke on it. He picks up coffee on the way when there is a perfectly good, perfectly expensive machine, sitting in the kitchen. His phone, fully charged, is already vibrating with missed calls, missed texts, missed connections. You used to wonder if he had your number blocked or muted, every opportunity to reach out going straight to voicemail. Now you don’t wonder. Now you don’t call. Now you wait for him to leave, for the front door to carelessly bang shut before you start your day. You step over the pile of clothes in the walk in closet. You ignore the double sinks in the master bathroom. You leave the bed unmade. Instead, you make your coffee. From the machine. With your favorite mug. You linger in the kitchen, living room, what would have been the nursery. All the places untouched by his presence. This is more your home than his, but it is both your names on the paperwork. Both your names in the engraved wine glasses. Both your names in those vows. You sip and sit and picture a life much happier than this one. 

Maybe in another lifetime. 

When you’re done, you wash it by hand, leaving it in the sink to dry. It remains the only proof of your existence. Undisturbed the rest of the house remains. Even the cushions you curled into have resumed their correct place. This house isn’t the only thing rejecting you. Like a foreign organ, a transplant, everything and everyone knows you don’t belong. He doesn’t want you here, why should they? Back in the bedroom you dress. The clothes wait and watch, but you can’t stand to touch them, look at them. More proof of his failings. You could tell him all the ways he was important and impactful until your lips were blue. He wouldn’t listen. He needed to hear it from them, from him. Your side of the walk-in closet is pristine. You take down a few shirts, a few pairs of pants, moving mindlessly. You remember first moving in, wondering how you could fill this huge space? Now it felt cluttered, suffocating. His things were everywhere. He was everywhere. You found it in the corner, unused. He always promised a big getaway, wherever you wanted, just the two of you. How many years was that? You hoped against hope, every anniversary, every birthday. He had the means, just not the care. You wanted to stop, but you couldn’t. The dreams you had for your marriage, your life, they’re still alive. Naive, stupid, it didn’t matter. You were both. You don’t have time to fold them all, the want. You never expected it to go like this. You never wanted it to. But one more night in that bed would kill you. Your spirits, your desires, every foolish idea and notion about what love is and was and will be. One more night against that drop and you might just fall in. 

Toothbrush, toothpaste, soaps and conditioners and scrubs. You live two totally separate lives. You only seem at the beginning and the end. He is the sun. Sunrise, sunset. You grab everything you can, zipping it shut. On the edge of the mattress you wonder if you should leave a note, to explain. Explain what? Haven’t you said everything you can? Haven’t you cried and asked and put it every possible way and still, still he has not done one thing to show you that he is listening, that what you say matters. Absorbed in bloodlines and successors and medieval rituals his father loves, the bloodshed. You can’t do it anymore. You can’t be second, or third, or fourth in line for his attention, his priority list. You’ve put up with it for far too long. You know your silence, the absence, will be more impactful than anything you have ever or will ever say. You gave him his ultimatum and he refused to change. Now it is your turn to act. Rolling the suitcase out, you turn off the light. If you didn’t know it, if you were a stranger looking in, you’d never even know you existed. The things you’d need were packed away. The only thing that remained of you was your mug. That he could keep, as a reminder. Next time he chose them over someone he was supposed to spend his lifetime loving, caring, hearing. Next time, when he tripped over himself to impress his father. If there was a next time, that mug would stand for everything he ruined. He messed up. He ignored. Next time, he should think twice. You leave your keys on the table, watching the crack in the mattress shrink just a bit. It can’t be fixed, this can’t be fixed, but it knows you’re doing the right thing. 

So many years you spent married to Kendall. So many years you could never get back. But you’d have more after. After him. After this, you’d find real love. Whatever this was, whatever it had been, you were kidding yourself. You know this now. Will he?

Pyrexia (Roy!Sibling x Kendall Roy)

Character/s: Kendall, Connor, Shiv, Rome, Logan

Word Count: 1,387

Requested: Hii! I love all of your baby Roy sibling fics, especially your new one with Rome. I love protective Kendall so so much, especially in the election so when he sticks up for Shiv against Tom. Could I request something with protective Kendall (maybe the other siblings if it suits) where they look after you while hurt or comfort you or something similar? If not that is fine!! Thank you so so much <;3 - anon

Requested: ohohoh!! Maybe roy!sibling being very sick to the point where they go into self-isolstion mode not contacting anybody and their siblings worry about them? Adore your fics and I always get really excited when you post a new one!! Hope you are recovering well from the tattoo! - anon

Warning/s: sickness

Tag: @locke-writes

A/N: I hope you don't mind my loves, I combined your requests. I hope you like it!!! Thank you for such kind words my loves!!! My tattoo is healing perfectly!!! Feedback is always appreciated 💜💜💜

Your mother used to run the bath ice cold. She’d guide you in, even as you shuddered, even when you cried. She placed a stern hand around your shoulder, ever so lightly pushing you deeper into the water. She’d pour it over your head, warning you to close your eyes. You played with cups, filling and refilling, too old for toys. You’re never sure how long you stayed there. She’d leave you there, the bathroom door shut, until your teeth were chattering. Clicking out of your skull. Sometimes it was one of your siblings who stood you up again. Your mother had fallen asleep, drink perfectly in hand, on the couch. Sometimes she would leave the house, forgetting all about you. Rarely would she find her way back to you, years it felt passing you by, wrapping you in a towel. Those times were your favorite. Falling into her, smelling her perfume and favorite drink on her breath. Mostly though, it was one of your siblings pulling you from the bath. They’d pick out mismatched pajamas and tuck you in beside them, hushing you to sleep, wet hair sinking into the pillow. You’d still be shaking, freezing, and they would wrap you up tight in as many blankets as they could get. 

A cold bath will break this fever, you can still hear her voice. So clear, so sure, so far away. You weren’t sure if it really did work, if any tricks she pulled out of nowhere actually worked, or if it just made her feel like she was doing something, but you tried again anyways. It made you feel like you were four years old again. Chubby little hands splashing through the water. Despite yourself, the ache in your little bones, you could find a small ounce of joy. This time it was your tub, massive and pristine, filling up. Your wet pajamas falling off your body, drenched in sweat. You had to hold on to the edge just steady yourself, dizzy, lightheaded. You weren’t about to be sick, there was nothing left in your stomach. Please work, you begged whoever would listen, please let this work. You grit your teeth, stepping inside. All the way up to your chin, you sink deeper and deeper. Holding your breath, you dunk your head under, the cold kissing your burning cheeks. It makes you shiver. 

You catch your breath, leaning your head back. You half expect to hear your mother through the door, her shrill voice, on the phone, talking nonsense. She’d stick her head into the doorway, checking if you moved a muscle. You lay completely still trying not to grin. They weren’t always happy memories. She wasn’t always there when she should have been, but this you could laugh at. How ridiculous it all was. Forgetting about your child in the bath? How many pills was she on? You think of your brothers and sister pressing the back of their hand to your forehead, looking at you with startled eyes. You were so fussy, pushing them away, beginning to cry. You just wanted to feel better. That was all. You wanted to feel like yourself again. You remember little, everything is a haze. Kendall called Connor over when you stirred in his bed, when you became hysterical. Big brown eyes watching you, fearing for you. They’d always calm you down. They’d always find a way. He never minded that your hair was wet, that you’d whimper in your sleep, in your fever dreams. You were his baby. Always. 

Your fingers prune. The cool settles. Your cheeks are still burning, your forehead on fire. You don’t remember climbing out, draining the tub. You don’t remember settling there on the bathroom rug, towel wrapped around you. Your muscles ache, your joints flare. Even if you wanted, the bed was too far. Besides, you’d been camped out on the couch in front of the tv for days. All your things remained untouched in the living room. Your phone, put on silent, in between the cushions. Cups lined the coffee table, an army of half-finished drinks. You think you’re dreaming when you hear his voice again. Y/n? Y/n? Come on kid, let’s get you up. Gentle hands guiding you up, those familiar eyes startled, scared. You forgot you gave him a key. He holds you close, your skin dry. How long were you asleep? He waits while you get dressed, painstakingly slow. Everything hurts.

You don’t have the energy to ask him questions, you can barely pull your shirt over your head. Why was he here? How did he know you were home? Wasn’t he supposed to be at work, with dad? Patiently, he waits outside the door, checking in every few minutes. You must look awful. His expression looked pained, as if looking at you made him hurt. I tried a cold bath, you start, but never finish. He nods, bringing you into the living room. You’d collected every blanket you could only to kick them all off, too hot for your own skin. He sits you down, trying to figure out what to do first. Indecisive, he grabs your phone and all the cups, putting them in the sink, grabbing a charger. You hadn’t noticed all the missed texts. From him, from Connor and Shiv and Rome. all of them worried about you. I’m sorry, I was so tired, I didn’t- It’s okay. His tone is so gentle, so tender, his expression melting into an understanding smile. No one’s upset, we were just worried, that’s all. 

He gets you capfuls of medicine, orange and berry-flavored. Thick, syrupy, sticky. You feel like you’ll throw it all up again. He tucks you in, pulling the covers over you. You look so small, so little, like you did when you were a child. You sleep the same way: restless. The fever dreams are vivid and scary and every time you wake up, he’s there. He’s always there. The tv changes, and his jacket is left on the other side of the couch. There’s a bowl of soup before you that is first steaming and then cold. He’s on the phone, speaking quietly. To your brothers, your sister, even your father. They are all worried. Just a fever, he assures them, though the lines on his forehead tell another story. Every once in a while he places his hand to your forehead. Slowly, so slowly, you seem to be cooling down. You’re not eating or drinking, just sleeping. In and out. The lighting has changed, the sun has set, and though you insist, he has no intentions of sleeping. 

Kendall should have known. He should have known because you always do this. You didn’t want to bother anyone when you weren’t feeling well. You didn’t want to worry anyone. It was easier to self-isolate, to crawl back to sleep and re-emerge when you were back to yourself again. He cleaned up the kitchen, the bathroom, and threw in a load of laundry. Anything to get this nervous energy out. Finally you calmed down a bit, your dreams becoming less and less vivid. He still remembers those long nights when you were a kid. Your wet hair, your baby breath, the colorful pajamas. How he’d sit and wait and worry until your fever broke, until the coughing stopped, until your shivering subsided. Your mother would check on you in the morning, but he watched you all night. He was your big brother. He had to protect you from everything. He should, at least, but he can’t. So he waits. He checks on you. He gives you more medicine, hating to wake you up. He assures everyone that it’s nothing, he’s got it handled. Even Logan, so unlike himself, was as concerned as he could be. No one had heard from you in days. They’re getting better, he says, and you are. He’s thankful. Grateful. Relieved. In the morning you’ll eat something. You’ll drink tea and water. You’ll talk with him about work, about Rava and the kids, about your family. You’ll laugh and for the first time since he got there he’ll see you through the sickness. You’re getting better. He wasn’t there in the beginning, but he’s glad he could be there now. He’ll  always be there for you.

Being Roman's Favorite Sibling Would Include:

Requested: I looooved the "being connor's favourite sibling" headcanons and I was wondering if you could do some for bwing roman's favourite sibling as well? :) xoxo - anon

A/N: He is so baby boy. He is so little man. How much I love little man. Lol anyways!!! I hope you like it my love!!! Thank you for requesting!!! Feedback is always appreciated 💜💜💜

Being Connor's Favorite Sibling Would Include:

Roman didn't like that you were born. There were enough of you running around, he didn't need another sibling. Especially not one as young as you considering he was almost a teenager by the time you were born

Still, there's not much he could do. Like the rest of your siblings, he looks after you. He starts to like you when you're about six months old. That's when you start to look and act like a little person and not, in his words, some gross little flesh monster

You immediately love him from the start. Roman is your everything. He's the one you want when you cry. He's the one you want to sit next to. To play with. To follow around and copy. He secretly loves when you'd take his sunglasses and a pair of his shoes and walk around your little toddler walk pretending to be him

"I'm you, Romey."

"You're not as cool as me."

From a young age you call him Romey. Everything is Romey. Even when you're upset or fighting or anything, he will always be Romey

He likes you now that you can walk and talk and go to school. When your other siblings can't, he'll walk you home from school

"Guess what I learned today?"

"Brain surgery."

"Noooooo Romey, I learned how to multiply."

"That's helpful too, I guess."

All you wanna do is hang out with him, be his little shadow

You know that your father is not a good man. When you fall off your bike and get hurt you don't run to Logan, you never have, instead you go to Roman. He's not very sympathetic, but he'll sit you on the counter and clean you up

"I want the dinosaur bandaid."

"You can't always get what you want."

He gives it to you always, not wanting you to be upset

You're the only one who can go near him after Logan's hit him or berated him. He tends to self-isolate and pushes everyone away. Only you can open the door and come inside and wrap your arms around him. He doesn't push you off, he can't. That would be like acting like your father. He lets you stay as long as he needs and when he's done, he tells you he's okay. Somehow you always know when he's telling the truth and when he's lying

"I'm sorry about Daddy."

He makes it very clear if Logan ever touches you like that you go to him. Not Connor, not Kendall or Shiv, him. He has this terrible feeling that Logan can't differentiate between you two, that he sees you as an extension of Roman instead of your own little person

The older you get the closer you become. You pick up on his sarcasm, his wit, and annoy your siblings to no end when you gang up on them

"Kendall's gone crazy."

"He's been crazy for a while, you're just noticing?"

"Can you guys please stop talking about me?"

"You're forgetting I grew up with him."

As a joke, and maybe not as a joke, he has you in his phone as Mini Me. Mini for short. He'll call you on the phone and text you and you're always Mini

"Mini, where's Shiv?"

"How should I know?"

"Mini get out, the adults are talking."

"I'm an adult!"

"Not with that attitude."

You guys tend to stick together. Roman was right after all. Logan goes after you like he does with Rome. You're a teenager the first time you show him what's been going on since he left the house. Your eye is bruised and swollen shut. You try to put ice on it and get rid of the swelling, but it's too late. When he sees you, he loses his cool. You have to hold him back from going to your fathers study

"Please don't go after him."

"Y/n-"

"Please. It'll only make things worse. You lnow this."

"Fine. Fine, okay? Fine."

From then on you have more sleepovers at his apartment. He makes up a bed on the couch and you stay up and watch movies with snacks

"Isn't it past your bedtime?"

"Do I look five years old?"

"Four and a half."

"Fuck off."

Your first word was a swear courtesy of Roman. It was most likely fuck, but he swears he can't remember. It was the best day of his life listening to you say fuck over and over again, giggling in that little baby voice. He tries to play it off like he doesn't care abut really, it'll be etched into his memory forever

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine, Romey. Dad does it all the time."

It makes him feel sick knowing you were going through all that and he wasn't there to protect you. You protected him and you're the baby sibling. It's his job to look after you, to protect you

You guys fight all the time. Not in a mean way or a serious way, more like calling ewchother stupid and dumb and pushing and shoving. You never go too far, you never do anything to hurt one another, just as a means of disagreement

"You're so fucking stupid."

"Me? Are you kidding?"

"See! Can't even tell when I'm being serious."

"You're never serious, Romey."

Whatever you accomplish, he's always quietly cheering you on. He's not going to be as outwardly affectionate as Connor is. It's just not in his nature. When you get your degrees and find your place at Waystar he visits your desk multiple times a day

"Look at you becoming a corporate pig."

"I learned from the best."

You and Roman actively make fun of Tom and Greg

"Did you see what Tom was wearing?"

"Fashion disaster, I know."

"Why is Shiv even with him?"

"Daddy issues. Mommy, too."

You stick up for Roman when your siblings make fun of his lack of dating/sex life. It's none of anyone's business

When you do start to date and bring people home and find that someone special, they know they have to get through Roman for things to be serious

"Where'd you find this one? A back alley?"

"Please be nice, I really like them."

"Are you paying them? Are they paying you?"

Say what he will, he's happy you're happy. It hurts watching you grow up. You were his Mini Me not so long ago. Now you're taking part in the company and finding love and you've got your own place. You showed everyone that despite being the baby of the family, you're a force to he reckon with

He loves you. He loves you more than he loves himself. He doesn't say it, and when he does it never comes put right, but you're his baby. You always be

Succession Preference: Baby Roy's Relationship (Non-Roy Characters)

Requested: loving all the baby roy content!! but i am curious: What are interactions with baby roy and greg like? does she bully him, too? does she just give him the sad “welcome to the shit show” smile? is she envious that he never had to grow up like this? - anon

A/N: These relationships are based on this particular fic/headcanon set. They're my favorite Baby Roy, and I think it really complicates some of these relationships! I know this was more of a question rather than a request, but I just couldn't get it out of my head!!! Feedback is always appreciated 💜💜💜

Tom doesn't like you. You don't like Tom. The feelings are mutual. Not only do you think he isn't good enough for Shiv, which he's not, but you two have a lot of unspoken tension and hostility that's there just because you're you. Tom thinks you're a fuck-up. You're an addict and an alcoholic. You have been since you were a kid. With all the money and opportunities you and all your siblings have had, and yet you turn out like that? Rehab after rehab. Overdose after overdose. Not even your own father could stand you in those later years. He understands why he locked you in your room for days at a time, why he hired nanny after nanny so he wouldn't have to deal with you. Even your own mother doesn't love you. Tom thinks you shouldn't have any power in the company that you shouldn't have any say. Not after the stunts you've pulled. He still can't believe your brothers and sister still ask your thoughts and genuinely listen to you. You've shown him that you're not a Roy. You're not ready to hold that title. If anyone is, it's him. Not you. But he has to put up with you. You both resort to the silent treatment and talk behind one another backs. It's just easier this way.

Greg likes you, at least as much as he likes your siblings. He's kinda afraid of you. He's intimidated by you, to say the least. You're an all or nothing person. Growing up, you were in the thralls of your addiction and often got him involved. Could he go into your room and get you a white circle pill from the prescription bottle in your nightstand? Could he get you another drink? Don't tell Logan. Greg wasn't sure what to do. He couldn't say no to you. He was definitely scared of you, so often he did as he was told. Now that you're sober, he's grateful you can have some type of normal relationship. Kinda. Normal for him, at least. Like your siblings, you order him around a lot. He's in the way or just around too much. Who invited Greg? You don't see him as one of your equals. He's just there, Tom's assistant, basically. When it's just you and him, you're capable of having a relationship, but as soon as Tom invited himself, you're immediately turned off. To you, he's an extension of Tom. He's the puppet to his master. You don't have a lot of respect for him either. He does as he's told. There's no fight, there's no push back. When Tom destroyed his office he just let it happen. You have your issues, but you're not a pushover.

Marcia wants to act like your mother. She knows your mother is pretty absent and doesn't want to deal with you, contributing to your issues. She hopes that if she steps up, you'll confide in her, and you'll get your act together. She and Logan talk about your issues long before your siblings ever know. But he's not concerned. He sees no problem with it. You've gotten your temper under control. Secretly, Marcia worries, but without Logan behind her, she can do nothing. You don't like her. She's not your mother, and she never will be. Maybe she genuinely cares, maybe not. It doesn't matter to you. Years she spent watching you hurt yourself, and she did nothing. You come and go as you please. When you are home, she fears she'll have to call an ambulance every time. You and Shiv make jokes at her expense and laugh along with your brothers when they have something to say. She was an accomplice all those years, and you can't forgive her for that. She's just another one of his wives. That's it.

Gerri is a lot like your mother figure. She has the relationship that Marcia wants. She's the one you go to when you have no one else, when your father has iced you out. She's always had a soft spot for you. You're the baby, after all. She's there for your first drink, and hopefully, your last. She watched you grow up. She watched you spiral. She knew everything Logan knew. And he knew everything. It was Gerri on the phone with you after a hospital visit, telling you that she was sorry but your father was very busy, too busy to talk to you. She was the one who called, angry, fearing the worst, while in Norway. She sat in the emergency room while you got your stomach pumped. She was there through it all. Not Logan, certainly not your own mother. She gives Roman the cold shoulder, but she can't bear to let you go. You're like one of her own. She still emails, asking how you're doing. You tell her you're still sober. You definitely go to her for all your mothering needs and approval. When she's around you understand what it would have been like had your mother actually been caring and attentive.

Lukas likes you a lot. When you called them during their getaway to Norway, when you overdosed again and they came running to your rescue, he didn't see weakness like everyone else had. He saw power. He saw someone who had a shitty childhood and did something about it. Granted, it maybe wasn't the best thing, but you did something about it. It was a major middle finger to your father and everyone involved in the company. That takes guts. Far more guts than the rest of your family has, he thinks. You wouldn't meet until he signed the Gojo deal. It's there that he expresses interest in you. You aren't like your siblings. Look at you. You're barely clinging on. You're real. You're a real person with real faults and a hell of a history. He'd like to order you a water and hear all about it. Your siblings make sure you stay far away from him. He's screwed them over now. He is not to be trusted, especially around the baby of the family. Not now, not ever. You don't think you like him. He chose Tom for Christ's sake. Tom, of all people. His judgment must be piss poor if he chose Tom. He's not as smart as everyone thinks. That was a bad move for the future of the company.

Stewy is actually a good friend of yours. You've known him as long as he's known Kendall. You grew up before his eyes. You guys aren't that close outside of clubs and bars. He's a bit of partier himself. Like he says, he likes bad drugs. You two would find one another at a club and spend a few hours together. This was before your family knew about your late nights. Stewy was impressed by your tolerance, forgetting you were still just a teenager. He was too messed up to remember to care. You'd get high and dance, and at the end of the night, you'd throw however much you owed him at him. Money was never an issue. He made the mistake of bringing it up to Kendall shortly after they figured out what was going on. Kendall banned Stewy from seeing you from getting near you. How could he? You partied at all the same places. You'd assured him that Kendall was just being dramatic when he said that. Stewy wasn't your only dealer, but he was the smartest. You didn't get anything laced with him. Now you're not as close. He still says hi, but he still goes out, gets fucked up. As much as you want to, you can't.

Uncle Ewan has similar feelings towards you as Tom. He's called you a "junkie" more times than you can count. He doesn't let you defend yourself and doesn't care what your siblings have to say about it either. He doesn't see you as Logan's child or even as a Roy. As far as he's concerned, you don't exist. You don't matter. When you do see him, he always rubs your sobriety in your face. After Logan passes and you self-destruct at a club, he feels the need to ask you how much you've had to drink that day. Even at the funeral, he says he can smell an entire bar on your breath. If you weren't so afraid it would kill him, you'd punch him. Your brothers have to hold you back after a comment like that. He wasn't ever sure why Logan even had another kid. You weren't anything special to begin with. He didn't even like your mother. He knew, from the beginning, you'd be a disappointment. To Ewan, you have always been and always will be a disappointment.

Succession Preference: Baby Introducing Their First Date

Requested: 2nd preference: how would each sibling react to their baby sibling (reader) introduceing their first date (gn neutral if possible) - anon

A/N: This is just too cute to imagine!!! I love it!!! I hope you like it my love!!! Feedback is always appreciated!!! 💜💜💜

Connor is so excited to meet them. Unfortunately for you, the whole family is over for dinner and insists on meeting your date before you go out. You were hoping to sneak out after drinks, but before dinner. Connor won't let you get away with that, though. He's eager to meet them. Really. Unlike the rest of your siblings, Connor fears no ill intentions. He truly wants to see the best in people, even the people trying to date his baby sibling. When they get there, they're immediately taken into the living room. You have no time to warn them at all. He doesn't intend for it to be an interrogation, but Connor asks them a lot of questions. Are they in school, what do they do for work, do they have any siblings, pets, what is their family like, what are their intentions with you, etc. This is just a first date. You like them, you want things to go well, but this is definitely not the type of deal where they should be meeting your family. This is not going well, not if they're with Connor the whole night. Your date just smiles and nods along. When your brother is satisfied, he winks at you before you go, telling you "they're a keeper". You thank him, getting the hell out of there before he asks anything else.

Kendall doesn't like this at all. He goes to your father, asking if he's heard about this little date you've got planned for tonight. Of course he does. Why would Kendall care? No, no he has to put a stop to this. He thinks his father has lost his edge. He tries to bribe you with money and alcohol and shares in the company for you not to go. You try to remind him that you're an actual, legal adult. That you can see whoever you want when you want and he can't stop you. You also remind him that this is a first date, it could be nothing special. It definitely won't end in marriage. You don't know that, he warns. What are you talking about, Ken? You were never this way with Shiv and Rome. He wants to tell you it's because you're his baby. Shiv would date whoever she wanted and didn't care what anyone thought. Roman rarely dated and when he did it was never that serious. But you? You're his baby. He watched you grow up. He can't let you go that easily. He just can't. He doesn't care if this person is some supernatural genius or the next president or the bringer or world peace, he will not let you go with them. You're just a baby, his baby.

Shiv accidentally and not so accidentally crashes your date while you're on it. You and your date go to a very local, very popular cafe that just so happens to be near Waystar. You didn't even think about if you would run into your family, you just picked it because it was a nice place. Shiv spots you laughing and smiling across from someone who most definitely is not a friend, at least not a friend she's ever seen. Hey kid, she says, dragging a chair over with her. Who's this? Wanna introduce me? If you could crawl under the table and hide, you would. Instead now you have to sit and smile as your sister quite literally interrogates them. What do they want with you, what are their intentions, do they respect that no is a complete sentence, do they know who your father is, etc. You want to die. They have this look in their eyes that screams help me, but you can't do anything. Every time you try to get her to go away and move on, she blatantly ignores the hints. When she's done, you swear it's taken forever, she leaves with her coffee and a wicked grin. Your sister doesn't like anyone wanting to date you. As far as she's concerned, you're too good for them. You'll always be too good for them. All of them.

Roman doesn't like them at all. He doesn't even give them a chance. He makes fun of them, he points out their flaws, he picks on them. They come up to meet Logan just for a second before you go to dinner. You don't know that Roman is there until you come out of the bathroom and see your date being taunted by him. Immediately you defend them, hissing at your brother to stop it. You send them down to the lobby, needing to talk to your brother. What the fuck are you doing? You ask, ready to kill him. He was going to scare them off forever. You really liked them, you wanted things to go well. Them? You like them? Are they paying you? That earns a slap to his arm. What is wrong with you? He laughs. How much time do you have? You just roll your eyes. You'll have a big fight about it after, but for now you have to go downstairs because your date is waiting for you. Roman would never put this into words, but you dating means you're all grown up. He doesn't like that thought very much. What happened to the baby he used to rock to sleep and the toddler he held on his shoulders? Suddenly you wanted a partner? Nope, not on his watch.

Venom (Roy!Sibling x Roy Family)

((SUCCESSION FINALE SPOILERS))

Characters: Kendall, Roman, Shiv, Connor, Matsson, Tom

Word Count: 1,477

Tag List: @locke-writes

A/N: This is omg y'all!!! Y'all aren't ready ahhh!!!! That's all I can say :P Feedback is always appreciated!!! 💜💜💜

You watch them, horrified. Kendall stop! You’re yelling, trying not to let them hear the crack in your voice, but you can’t help it. He doesn’t seem to hear. He spits venom at your sister, calling her two-faced, saying terrible things about her. She pretends it doesn’t hurt, pretends it doesn’t kill her. The kinds of things Logan would have said. Stop it, now! None of them hear you. None of them see you. You’re invisible now, like you’ve always been. The baby, underestimated from day one because of your order of birth. Roman says something, something you’re not hearing, but seeing. Watching. About his kids. Low blow. Kendall goes for his neck. There are moments like this where you watch your father instead of your brother. Such an angry, bitter, paranoid man. With his hands around him, you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. His name is on the tip of your tongue. Logans, but that is the wrong man before you. This is Kendall. You get between them, prying his hands off Roman. In doing so, you’ve put yourself in the line of fire. His eyes are so wild, so angry. Get off me! You yell, pushing him away, but he’s too strong. He’s too powerful. He holds you against the glass, his hands around your throat, hungry enough to bite. Rabid. You can’t breathe, fighting him off, unable to make any noise. Finally he realizes it’s you. You, not Rome, not Shiv, you. His baby. He lets go immediately, stepping back, stuttering. You can’t help it, the tears begin to run down your cheeks. You saw fury in his eyes, purebred wrath. If he wanted, he could have killed you. Just like Logan. You push through them, out the door, down the hall and towards the elevator. Kendall calls your name quieter now, defeated, ashamed. You don’t turn back. Sniffling, you wait for the doors to close, trying to catch your breath. You dial the number. I knew you’d call. . . 

They turned on one another. They’d decided he would be their successor. The three of them, after Roman disappeared. You were the only one he talked to on the phone, Caroline losing the power to guilt you. You weren’t her child. That was to your advantage. She put him on with strict warnings not to upset him, saying he was fragile. He sounded softer, beaten down, but as defensive as ever. Ken and Shiv are on their way, you warned. I know. He didn’t have enough in him to fight or to joke. He was all facts. Are you okay? Me? I’m fine. You knew he wasn’t, but you weren’t going to go there to see him. You had plans. For now, you had to take his word for it. You weren’t going to ask him for his vote. Quite frankly, it didn’t matter anymore. They could pretend they still had precedence, that the crown they wore could protect them from a beheading. Their heads rolled just the same when dismembered from a body. In fact, it was the crown that weighed them down. They forgot this, racing with one another about who could get to him the fastest. It wouldn’t matter in the end. When would they realize this? When would they accept it already? I have to go, call me if you want, okay? What are you doing that’s so important? Just meeting a friend. 

What about Tom? Tom? He is nothing. You shouldn’t but you laugh. Your drink is strong, his even stronger. But you trust him, you believe him. He can’t be backstabbing everyone. Besides, the x’s have been removed. Yours in their place. You take a look around the bar. Expensive. Oskar and Ebba keeping to themselves off to the side. They come when he says so. They sit when he says so. Now he’s holding a pen. Would you do the same? Your whole life, all you’ve done is follow. Follow your brothers and sister into any war they brought between them and your father, into every media frenzy and disaster because they convinced you it was always in your best interest. It wasn’t, though. It never was. In the end, it was always you getting hurt, taking the blow, having your name smeared across the headlines. From the moment he saw you he’s been trying to save you. They would hold your head under water and tell you they were helping you be a better swimmer. They were trying to kill you, drown you, just so there would be one less body in the pool. You were doing this for you, for them too. To show them that you weren’t just some lap dog they could order around. You were just as much a Roy as any of them. More so, even. You were smarter, you were savvy. You could get what you wanted, you always had. 

Going in, you were meant to warn them. That was the plan. Always. The deal seemed enticing, it was the cherry on top, but you couldn’t hurt them like that. You would not turn into them. But, then they decided on Kendall. Without consulting you, without even asking. They had decided for the family when there were still two more to consider. You knew what Connor would have done, you all did. He would have put up a fight, but in the end would have agreed. You? You were going to warn them. You were going to put out the fire before the house burned down with them in it. Instead they called you from the car that morning, on their way back, telling you he was next. He would be in charge. Had they even considered you? Roman laughs. The baby doesn’t get to be in charge, ever. Kendall chuckled. You didn’t get a vote or say, it was decided. You bit the inside of your cheek, letting the conversation fall. They spoke around you anyways, making all these big decisions without you. It was fine, you decided, hanging up. It was fine. You would tell them when they got here. It wasn’t technically a secret, they just hadn’t asked. That was all. So, you accepted that Kendall would take over. After everything you’ve been through, after everything they put you through, at least there would be an ending. Your phone rang, but you ignored him. Fine, you though, at least it’s staying in the family. You weren’t about to turn bitter. You weren’t about to turn vengeful. 

And then she threw the plan away the minute she could, believing that Tom would be Matsson’s CEO. You were going to tell them, really. As soon as that glass door closed, you were going to spill your guts. About him, about the deal, about everything. You swear on your father’s grave, you were going to tell them. And then he put his hands on you, around your neck, and any alliance you had was over. Any good graces you had left vanished. You wanted them to burn in that house. You wanted the whole world to burn. You put up with enough. With too much for far too long. He’s been trying to save you since you met, giving you outs from the maze you were in. You couldn’t leave them, they were your family. Now? Now they were nothing. They were strangers. You watched the bruises form in the reflective doors all the way down, listening to him carefully. If you still want it, it’s yours. Good. What about Tom? Like I said, he is nothing. Nobody. All you have to do is sign.

Roman and Shiv came back from that meeting, his stitches bloody. She wears a knowing look, the kind that says she thinks she’s won. He signed in front of everyone, in front of Matsson, who signs the stack of legal documents after. I’d like to announce my CEO. Shiv steps forward, but you come up behind her, around Roman, to Lukas’ side. Please welcome, Y/N Roy. Everyone applauds you as you sign your name. Roman’s jaw hangs open before catches himself, then looks to your sister. Her lips remain in a tight line. Tom looks surprised for the both of them, trying to get close to Lukas, but is unable to with all the cameras. Thank you, you whisper to him. You deserve this. You are the most capable Roy. You would have told them, you were going to, but this tastes so much better. You don’t care that your skin till hurts, still burns from his touch. You don’t care that your brother drifts away or that your sister storms off. You don’t care that Kendall is nowhere to be found. You don’t care about them anymore, they never did about you, not when it came to this.  

You win.

Sunlight / Roman Roy Imagine

Request: I would love to get some sort of a happy ending for Roman!! Maybe post-finale him and his girlfriend/wife/whatever run away from New York and do their own thing?

Oh my gosh love I so agree with you!! Let us give this man a hug and some love pls I beg <3 

Warning: strong language, mentions of smoking, mentions of death, mentions of blood/injuries, Logan Roy being homophobic, sexual innuendo, mentions of childhood abuse!

The vibe I was going for in this is based on ‘Romulus’ by Sufjan Stevens, so I highly recommend listening to it while reading this - it’s one of my all time favourite songs!

(I do not own Succession or its characters, all rights go to creators. Gif credit goes to @924inlegend.)

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°

Roman Roy couldn’t remember the last time he had actually felt the warmth of light, instead of just observing its strands.

He had spent so much of his life withering obediently within the shadows. So many years curled up tight underneath his bedframe, shaking with fear and snivelling into his kneecaps as the cast shadows of his austere room seemed to creep inch by inch towards his toes; the pressure of bone was so tight against the bridge of his nose that he nearly burst blood from his left nostril. That’s where you would always look first: you would kneel down slowly and lift the edges of his silk sheets, as if you were a curious ornithologists trying their best not to frighten the wild nest of a flight-inclined bird. The first thing he would notice, before he caught side of your hand sliding out to grip him across the floorboards, was how the faint light  seemed to make the fringes of your head glow with strands of silver, like warm moonlight falling through the fresh sprigs of silver maples that brushed across the slats of his windowsill. 

It had made him gasp.

He had spent so long living behind the colossal shadow of his father’s form: curled up, deferential, strangled. It was so stifling there, so dank and claggy that he used to become saturated with the feeling. It used to sink into his clothes, his skin, his muscles, until he was so laden that they began to move of their own accord; after long enough time being asphyxiated, his limbs began to seep life from his father, mimicking his harshness with shoving twitches of his arms, moving his choking jaw with Logan’s fury and repeating his apathy. You would stop their movements by touching his hand where he sat, despondent, at his father’s business dinners. Seeing him look so downtrodden, the familiar hunch of his back becoming more and more prominent as he slouched, you frowned, and he made no reply. He was busy trying not to notice the stern gaze of his father, the red hot fury burning like a demon’s wrath in his eyes, warning him to duck his head and behave. 

To try and cheer him up, you balanced your fork above your mouth in a makeshift moustache, and tried do to your best impression of his father’s new chief financial officer Karl. At fifteen, he still had enough life in him left to let a laugh burst out at that, but he quickly stifled it by shoving the back of his free hand against his mouth. He bit down until he could feel the familiar taste of tangy blood run freely against his wiping tongue, and he felt better. But you, oh you, your infectious laughter rang freely into the warmth of the lavender infused air, and filled an adoring Roman Roy with feeling he never wanted to forget.

The slap he received from his father in the kitchen afterwards was the first time he has lost a tooth, yet he still dared to chime in with your giggles until he was gasping for air. 

Weiterlesen

Persecution (Roy!Sibling x Roman Roy)

Character/s: Roman, Jeryd, Kendall, Shiv

Word Count: 1,465

Requested: Hihihi!!! Would it be okay to request? Or maybe just as inspiration or something: i'd love to see the dynamic between roy!siblingreader and roman and how he would interact with them trying/being the big brother to them like connor and kendall are especially takeing care of them or being protective? I have severe roman brainrot rn lol and i love how you write each of them and overall the way you use words and how alive it all feels! ♡- anon

Inspired By: Family Jewels by Marina

Warning/s: sexual harassment, harassment, men being creeps

Tag: @locke-writes

A/N: You know I had to do it!!! You know I had to!!! I can't actually remember all of the election party episode, so this might be a bit off. My apologies!!! Stop my love, Roman makes my brain rot too he lives in there 24/7!!! Thank you for such kind words!!! I try my best :) I hope you like it!!! Feedback is always appreciated 💜💜💜

His hand lingers on the small of your back, on your shoulder, on your body. It burns all the way through. You don’t shake it off though. You can’t. So you smile and excuse yourself, trying to stop yourself from shuddering. It seems wherever you go, wherever you disappear, he is there. He is always there. If not in your presence, then calling, texting, emailing. He is obsessive, hungry, and you have been served to him on a silver platter whether they realize it or not. You sit alone on the couch, nursing your drink, your fourth or fifth of the night just to get through it. His knee touches you, his arm is around you. No one takes notice, not your brothers or sister. No one can save you. He speaks, but only to get closer, so close you can smell the scotch on his breath. He talks mindlessly of his campaign, of the work he and your brother have put into it. That is why you can’t resist. That is why you can’t push him away, throw your drink in his face, call him names that sit on the tip of your tongue. Because your brother has spent too much time building this relationship up, building this man up. You’ve told him time and time again that you don’t like him, that you side with your sister on this, but he doesn’t care. He is not your President yet, though God help you if he becomes him. You won’t be able to escape him. You won’t be able to run. 

His hand is on your thigh, inching down. As if his touch is fire you jump up, dropping your glass, spilling all over him, all over Shiv's carpet. Fuck, you think, fuck, fuck fuck. You apologize profusely despite yourself, picking up the shards. They glitter under the light. The mumble of the crowd never stops, there isn’t a single pause in conversation. You are the baby, the least significant one. These politicians, their groups, they don’t see you. They don’t notice you. No one is coming to help you. He doesn’t seem to notice your distress, instead leaning down, face to face with you, watching you avoid his eyes. He rubs your shoulder, explaining that it was an accident, no big deal. With his finger he tips your head up, smile for me, sweetie. You recoil, apologizing, taking what pieces you have, headed towards the kitchen. You’re unsteady on your feet, too tipsy. You drank too much. You curse yourself, trying not to let the tears that welled up in your eyes fall. You weren’t even supposed to be here. You were supposed to be home, safe, far away from him where he could not possibly reach you. But they wanted you here, they needed you here, the biggest night leading up to the election. You could never disappoint them. Never. So you showed up and you drank and now you’re in this mess. You can feel him behind you, like a shadow, close but not close enough. You catch one look behind you, biting back a scream. He shakes hands, introduces himself, cracks jokes, all while moving through the crowd. You are his target, you always have been. 

From the moment he laid eyes on you, you knew it was over. Too late. You were drowning and they were doing nothing to save you. He spoke to you like you were old friends, touchy from your moment of introduction. Y/n Roy, a pleasure to meet you. A kiss on the cheek. His arm snaking around your waist for the family photo. Pleading with your eyes, but no one to see, no one to understand. Your father was more than happy to serve you to him, proud you’d made a connection so quickly. Oblivious to your disgust, to your discomfort, as always. Still, he hadn’t been that proud of you in a long time, perhaps ever. You thought you could keep up the niceties until he lost, then you would rid yourself of him for good. And then your father died. And then Roman made his deal with him. And now? Now you’re leaning over the sink, trying not to throw up, your hands shaking at the thought of him being near you like that again. He got caught in conversation with a lesser political opponent, his eyes never leaving you. Someone had given him your contact information. First an email here and there. A thank you for being so kind to him. A proposition for coffee, then drink. Texts next. Jokes that fell flat. Apologies for your father. More dates, more events, all of them, he’s hoping, you’ll be there. Calls, too. Pictures. So many pictures. Silly ones, then not so funny. If he wasn’t constantly watching, talking, touching, then he was trying to. You never responded, but that didn’t stop him. It would never stop him. 

What were you going to do? 

You clutch the edge of the sink, taking a few deep breaths. As quickly as you can without making yourself even more nauseous, you cut through the pack, headed towards the bathroom. Without meaning to, your barge through your siblings semi-circle conversation. The tears are falling. All of them look up at you, startled, but you slam the door shut before they can ask anything. Shiv knocks softly, saying your name, trying to get you out. Y/n? Y/n what happened? Can you come out and talk to us? Knees to chest you slide down to the floor, drunk, tired, your skin still crawling. Trying to catch your breath. Y/n, come on, come out. Whatever happened, we can fix it. Kendall sounded exhausted. Rightfully so. You stifle a sob, the words coming out before you can stop them. I didn’t mean- I didn’t- I know this is important to you guys. Mencken. He’s important to them, he’s important to your brother, he was to your father. You couldn’t just suck it up for a little while, you had to cry like a child. Who? What are you talking about? It’s Roman now, his voice close to you. He’s not standing like the others, he’s on your level now. You don’t know how to explain it, you can’t. You fear it’ll sound ridiculous. That you’re making a bigger deal about this than necessary. You’re not sure what else to do. You open every tab, every phone call and text thread and email. Then you open the door just a crack, sliding the phone through, shutting it again. There's a moment of silence that feels like eternity. How long has been this going on? Roman sounds angry. At you? A while. It’s all you can manage, curling into a ball, bracing for the worst. For the yelling, the disappointment, for one of them to bang on the door and demand that you come out right now. You wait, and you wait, but it never comes. It never happens. Instead your brother and sister call after Roman, trying to stop him, but he’s seeing red. 

There’s no stopping him. 

It’s quiet for a long time, but you don’t move a muscle. Your nausea has gotten a little better, your head a little clearer. You call for your siblings, but none answer. What were they doing? What were they saying? You can hear muffled yelling through the door, but the words melt together. Tones rise in pitch. The apartment has quieted. Someone laughs, you think it’s Mencken. More quiet. A door slams. You wince. This is all your fault. Whatever they were doing, whatever was going on, it was your fault. It was all your fault. Then a voice, softer now. He’s gone, kid. You can come out. Roman. He didn’t sound angry, but when did that ever stop anyone? Certainly not your father. When you don’t, you hear him groan, getting to the floor. Through the door, you can hear the weight in his voice. I’m not mad at you, I, I could never be mad at you. A pause. You honestly think I would have chosen him over you? You nod before choking up a yes. It’s my fault, you start, but he doesn’t let you finish. It’s not, it never was. He’s a fucking creep y/n, a monster. I’m, I’m sorry I didn’t notice sooner. He's gone now. He won’t come near you ever again. He’s never been so sure of anything in his life. He would never let fucking Mencken do that to you again. He wouldn’t let anyone do that. He shouldn’t have let it happen in the first place, he’d carry this for the rest of his life. He let you down, your big brother. He let you down for the last time.

Succession Preference: Youngest Sibling Fainting

Requested: I would love either a preference of how each succession character would react to there S/O fainting around them or a baby roy sibling fic were she faints around some of their siblings ❤️Thank you ❤️❤️ - anon

A/N: I combined some of the ideas, I hope you don't mind!! I love this so much it's not even funny like they would all freak out internally I love it. I wanted to show different reasons for the fainting from each sibling, so that's why I chose the preference btw! I hope you like it my love! Feedback is always appreciated 💜💜💜

Connor is so worried. You're sitting outside his ranch when you go pale. It's been pretty hot out, but today takes the cake. You excuse yourself, getting up to go to the bathroom, when you faint. Immediately he's calling out for Willa, his heart going into his stomach. He loves you more than life itself. He's scared beyond belief. You wake up to the two of them above you, each of them using a tone they'd use to hush a crying baby. What happened? What the hell were they doing? Slowly, they get you up, walking you inside, getting you water and an ice pack for your head. You're burning up. Connor can't help but apologize over and over again. Of course it's not his fault, of course, but he won't hear it. It was the sun you tell him, but he's not listening. It's his job as big brother to take care of you, to make sure you're okay. When you're not, and he doesn't notice, that's on him. Connor banishes you to the inside for the rest of your stay, asking you every fifteen minutes if you feel okay, etc. He won't have you fainting again, not on his watch.

Kendall had no idea what happened. It was a side effect of a medication you were taking and telling no one about. Ever since your father passed you hadn't been able to sleep. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw him, his body. You'd been on the plane, you'd been there through it all. You were dizzy, but only a little. You thought you could manage, that you were fine. You pull up in the car outside of Waystar, getting out, when you faint. Kendall runs around the car, calling your name, trying to shake you awake. You're only out for a minute, but it feels like an eternity. You're groggy, scared, unsure of what happened. He gets security to get you some water, holding on to you despite your fighting. You scare him so much he's gone pale. He doesn't stop asking if you're okay until you're seated in the office, someone checking you out, shining a light in your eyes. That's when you tell him about the pills, the not sleeping. He had no idea, though he knows he should have. He's your big brother, he should be protecting you from everything. He should have been there for you, before this. He makes a vow to himself that he'll be better, he has to be.

Shiv knew something was off. Ever since you'd been officially hired by your father at Waystar, you haven't been eating or sleeping or really leaving the office. You'd been tasked with a minefield and every wrong step would cost you your job. You were in the middle of presenting to your father, in front of everyone: Logan, Shiv, Gerri, Karl, Frank, Hugo, Kerry. You lose track of what you're saying in the middle of the sentence, so unlike yourself. That's when the dizziness hits, when you clutch the desk, when you drop. You bang your head pretty hard on the floor, though there isn't any outside damage. Shiv steps up right away, getting to the floor. Everyone is calling your name, questioning what to do, she's the only one who works. She fans you with her hand, calling your name. You're awake before you know it, terribly embarrassed, apologizing to your father. She doesn't let you get up though, not right away. She doesn't care how much work you have or what your father thinks, you hit your head pretty hard, she's surprised it's not cracked open. She needs to take care of you now, cursing herself she hadn't noticed earlier, hadn't stepped in and intervened earlier. You definitely feared losing your job now.

Roman had no idea how to help. You'd been there with him, before the funeral. Unlike his overly enthusiastic demeanor, you couldn't stop from freaking out. You were hyperventilating, feeling sick to your stomach, calling to him from the bathroom doorway that you didn't think you could go. That's when you faint, from getting all worked up. He drops his cards, running towards you. You look dead. Roman is shaking you, yelling your name, about to be sick himself when you open your eyes. He breathes the biggest sigh of relief, doing something so unlike himself: he hugs you. Hard. You have no memory of falling, of the last few minutes. He makes you stay there so he can call someone, anyone, unsure of what to do. Shiv gives him instructions. Through it all he cracks a few jokes, his heart still racing. You scared the shit out of him. He gets you water and gets you up slowly, bringing you to the couch. Shiv and Ken both on their way, coming to check on you, already in the same car. Awkwardly, he pats your leg, threatening to never scare him like that ever again.