#and then turning back like no fuck that here’s Gerri

[jimgandolfini]

this is the funniest sequence in the whole damn show I don’t care what anyone says

#the way that Peter Friedman turns his body and makes that absolutely fucking not face….. #I’ve never seen a more perfect reaction shot #and I’ve never been more in love with a man #ever #and then turning back like no fuck that here’s Gerri #he was suffering so badly up there lmaooo #and then the terrified anxious clapping #and J… so perfect #succession #frank vernon #retired janitors of idaho #gerri kellman #peter friedman #j smith cameron #happy Frank Vernon Sunday

[ichorai]

hell, yeah ; roman roy ; part six.

pairing ; roman roy x f!reader

synopsis ; pain was an old friend for the both of you.

words ; 13.8k

themes ; angst, fluff, drama, slowburn, childhood friends to lovers

warnings / includes ; depictions of mental and physical abuse, major character death, heavy angsty shit, sexual jokes and general foul language, business talk, roman is so in love, connor gets a bit of spotlight for this chapter </3

a/n ; sorry i'm taking so so so long w this series! uni keeps getting in the way of my writing HAHA but i hope you guys enjoy :)

series masterlist. main masterlist.

Bidding wars had never really been fun for you. It was always emails upon emails, calls after calls, Logan yelling, Gerri scrambling, negotiations, bargains, deals—it was all too much.

But this… even you had to admit, this was fun. 

Maybe because it was the first time you were working against Logan and not for him. And being around the Roy siblings reminded you of your childhood—a time where the four of you got along for the most part, even with the bloody noses and scraped knees and the yankings of hair.

Buying Pierce had been something you were starkly against while you were working in Waystar, but with this new thing that the Roy siblings were crafting, you had complete faith that Shiv, Kendall—hell, even Roman, would keep the news station’s values in check.

And, though you weren’t entirely proud of it, there was a thrill, a rush of adrenaline, when the four of you raised your bidding price to a healthy ten billion as a closing offer, knowing there was no way Logan could ever consider outbidding that.

Nan Pierce accepted with little pushback, much to Logan’s fury.

Your godfather yelled at the four of you through the phone later that day, but there was no fear sitting within your stomach, like there usually was when he got angry. No, you were laughing. Kendall and Shiv and Roman—they were stifling their own smiles down at the screen, too.

That night, you stood on your balcony, a lit cigarette loosely balanced between your fingers. You weren’t at all a smoker—in fact, you hadn’t had one ever since you joined Waystar. It was an unprofessional look, in a sense. Not something you wanted to be associated with. 

The goddaughter that smelled of cheap cigarettes. Wasn’t that an unattractive thought?

But you didn’t have to worry about that anymore, did you? Honestly, you weren’t quite sure yourself. You’d just assumed you were no longer part of the company, but knowing Logan…

He always had something up his sleeve. Maybe he’d wait until the siblings lowered their guards to snipe you in the back of the head. Or lure you back with meaty bait. 

You took a short drag, faint grey wisps falling past your lips as you breathed out. 

“You smoking now? Doing a little smokey smokes?” came Roman’s voice from behind you, making you turn your head with a slight grin. “Since when?”

“First one since I was a little baby teenager, I think,” you replied. Roman leaned onto the balcony railing beside you, shoulder pressing flush against yours. “They taste disgusting. Here—”

You took a drag—a longer one, this time—leaned forward until your lips were just a whisker away from his, and blew the smoke into him. He inhaled deep before jerking forward to kiss you, nose nudging yours in his fervor.

“Yeah. Fucking disgusting,” he mumbled against your lips, as if wanting to propel you into something more than just kisses. 

Your eyes lit up with amusement, but you pulled away, leaving a lingering kiss on the side of Roman’s nose. The cigarette wasn’t at all used up, but you put it out on a small ashtray you had taken with you. 

“I just wanted to try,” you said. “Was wondering if I’d like it after all this time, now that I have the freedom to.”

There was a curious glint to Roman’s molten eyes. “And do you?”

“Nah. Like I said—they taste disgusting.”

“Some people like disgusting,” he off-handedly said, and you shot him a pointed look.

A breezy laugh, lost to the wind. “Yeah. I might know someone.”

“You’re a goody two-shoes, you know that?” he commented snidely, but his eyes were far too soft for his words to strike harsh. “But it’s good. We need someone like that. The company, I mean.”

“I know,” you whispered back. “I’m glad we’re doing this.”

“Yeah,” Roman said, his hand lacing with yours. He began tugging you back inside. “Me too.”

Connor wanted the four of you to come to his wedding rehearsal at a fancy restaurant downtown—he texted you multiple different addresses, each text telling you to disregard the last one. Then, he called you (called Shiv first, but she was on the phone, passive-aggressively bickering with Tom), and told you exactly where he was. Apparently Willa wasn’t very happy with the venues they’d booked. He sounded sad—it was always easy to tell when he was sad.

And so the four of you set off for him, though not without Roman’s constant complaints. Spending some quality time with their eldest brother was the last thing the Roy siblings wanted to do—they had far more pressing matters at hand. 

Sandi and Stewy, for one. They wanted to veto the acquisition for more dollars squeezed from Matsson’s hand. Roman was starkly against the idea, not wanting to blow more bullets into his father. Shiv and Kendall were far more willing to listen, though Kendall eventually backed down. It was appealing, you had to admit, especially because you hated Matsson’s guts, but you wanted to put business aside for the moment. Spend some time with Connor—after all, he was going to get married soon. If that ever ended up happening, that is.

Once inside the restaurant’s halls, you caught sight of Willa hurrying down the wide staircase by the entrance, looking a bit frazzled. 

“Oh, hi!” she said, slightly breathless. “So you’re here now, huh?”

“Hi, Willa,” you greeted, embracing her with a loose hug before stepping back. “Are you… going somewhere?”

“You standing up my big bro?” Roman quipped from right behind you. He was joking, but Willa only frowned. “Are you okay? Did something happen?” 

There was a nervous laugh from both parties.

“Oh, yeah! Yeah, yeah, I’m just—I’m having a little drink. Away.” 

Both you and Roman spared each other confused glances.

“Is the dinner rehearsal thing over? He still up there?” Roman asked.

The blonde fiddled with her phone, nearly dropping it. “Oh, uh, the rehearsal isn’t—it’s not done, no.”

“You’re leaving your own wedding rehearsal?” you gently questioned.

She smiled, though it came off only sad and tired. “I think they can manage. I’m not vital from here.”

Roman squinted at her. “Yeah, well… I mean, normally the bride is generally considered—correct me if I’m wrong—I think the bride is pretty vital in a wedding. Don’t you think?” 

“Well! Yeah, but… I should go, though. Have a think about it all. I’m in a bit of a fuzz.” She laughed again, though it looked like she wanted to cry. 

Nodding, you said, “Take care of yourself, Willa. Let us know if you need anything.”

She pursed her lips, eyes soft with appreciation. The two of you had never been quite close, but there was a mutual understanding between you. To be the pedestals of Roy men, the unnamed crutch, the woman on the arm. 

With that, she hurried away. 

“Fairy tale wedding, huh?” Shiv said, eyebrows raised. “Should we even go up? Seems like the rehearsal is over.”

“She said it wasn’t,” you replied, shrugging. “We should go see Con.”

Roman crossed his arms. “Yeah, Shiv, we really should. Why? You got something better to do than see your own brother before his wedding?”

“No, it’s just—we’ve got quite a lot to discuss, that’s all.”

It was Kendall’s turn to query, “What? Sandi and Stewy? They’re baiting us. Just let it go, Shiv.”

“I think they could really help us! We overpromised on Pierce!” she hotly defended.

“It’s a mind game,” Roman agreed with Kendall. “Just—fuck ‘em, okay?”

The redhead looked at you, but you shook your head. “Let’s just go see Connor, okay? We can hash it out after making sure he hasn’t got a gun barrel in his mouth.”

“Sure. Fine,” Shiv said, though it didn’t seem all that fine to her, judging from her pinched expression.

The four of you traipsed up the stairs, spotting Connor instantly—alone, surrounded by near-untouched platters of expensive food.

“Found him,” Roman sarcastically commented, pointing a finger at his oldest brother, who cracked a fond smile.

“Finally,” Connor said. “Took you guys long enough.”

Roman gave him an embrace from the side, saying, “Hey, bro. Hugsy.”

To the other side, Kendall patted his shoulder, another hand thumping on his chest. Shiv only barely leaned down to hug him, telling him, “Dad screwed us.”

“Yeah,” the eldest said. “I heard. But look at you guys—the Rebel Alliance.”

You were last to give Connor a hug, squeezing him tight, pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek. “How’s the rehearsal been?”

A non-committal noise slipped past his lips. “Been good. It’s been okay.”

Roman made a strange, wincing sound, sucking air through his teeth. “Sure. Yeah, I believe you.”

Keen to change the subject, Connor surveyed his siblings—and you—with narrowed eyes. “So this is how it is, huh? Battle royale. Me and Dad on one side, you guys on the other?”

Strange, you hadn’t quite recalled Connor being so in with his father’s business plans. And… the fact that Logan hadn’t shown up to the wedding rehearsal at all.

“You okay, man?” Roman queried, genuine concern slipping over his features. He was always one to wear his heart on his sleeve. “We bumped into Willa on the way in. She seemed all…” He drew up his hands to his face and shook his fingers about.

Pointedly, Connor dropped his gaze down to the table. Untouched food left and right.  “Yeah. It’s alright. I think it’s fine.”

“You sure, Con?” you asked, slipping into the seat beside him, Roman on your other side. 

“Yeah, well, I guess she just—she stood up to do her speech, and then she froze. Said that she couldn’t do it.” There was a laugh, dry and unpleasant and somber. “Then she went to the bathroom for forty minutes with her so-called friends.”

Roman wrinkled his nose and squinted his eyes at nothing in particular. “Oh, no, no, that’s—that’s totally fine. Don’t you worry about that. Just toss her another ten grand—or a snowmobile. Teeth-whitening vouchers.”

Unhappy with the meaning behind his brother’s words, Connor pushed himself away from the table, heading off to speak to Willa’s mom. 

Tossing a glare in Roman’s direction, you sighed out, “Was that really necessary?”

“What? It’s the truth, isn’t it?”

Slumping into the chair across from you, Kendall huffed out, “This is so fucking weird.”

“Do we regroup at my place?” Shiv asked, still standing, impatient to leave even though they’d just gotten there.

Tilting his head, Roman incredulously said, “Shiv. Come on. He’s… he’s looking a little rough. Don’t you think?”

“Well, sure. I’m sorry that Dad fucked us and I’m sorry that we’re late. But we do need to decide fast.” 

“The Sandi and Stewy deal?” you queried.

Shiv let out a frustrated exhale. “Yeah.”

“Well, I think we’re already decided, no?” Kendall said, lifting a shoulder in half a shrug. Roman nodded in agreement.

“Are we, though? They made some pretty compelling arguments.” Shiv tapped her foot against the hardwood floors impatiently.

Glancing over at Connor, who was trying his best to console Willa’s mother, you bobbed your head, hesitant. “It could potentially ruin Matsson. The deal. I’d like to see it.”

Groaning a little too loudly, Roman said, “Sandy’s just a greedy little bitch. She’s got her hand up the ass of the carcass of her dad, and Stewy’s just coming along for the ride. Can we not do this right now? It’s a fucking—it’s a packet of horseshit.”

Trying her best to stay calm, Shiv perched herself on the edge of the seat next to Kendall. “Okay. And what if I want to talk it through? This would help us.”

Kendall arched a brow. “I think we should just rise above it.”

“Yeah, okay, but maybe Dad is not on it like he used to be—and maybe he’s underplayed his hand, and the board are all just hand-fucking-picked Japanese plastic cats just waving it through,” Shiv argued.

“It doesn’t hurt to try,” you added, trying your best to sway Roman by nudging him gently. He merely rolled his eyes and prodded you back, but said nothing more.

It was then that Connor came hurrying back, carding a hand through his hair. He tiredly sank back down into his seat. “No luck. Still incommunicado. I just really hope she’s okay.”

“I’m sure she is,” you told him, rubbing a hand over his shoulder. “She just needs space, is all.”

“Yeah.” As if he’d flipped a switch, Connor straightened and plastered on a smile. “So, what do you guys say? A little bit of karaoke?”

All three siblings grimaced. 

“Or would it be possible,” Roman began, scratching at his jaw, “to do anything other than that, in the entire universe?”

“I think karaoke sounds nice,” you offered. Honestly, you weren’t too keen on doing karaoke when your mind was abuzz with a million other things at the moment, but it was Connor, and he seemed so down about Willa at his own wedding rehearsal, and you just couldn’t bring yourself to say no to him. It was like kicking at an already-wounded puppy.

Connor grinned. “Nice! One in the bag. Come on, you guys. Don’t leave us hanging.”

Shiv looked near ready to bash her head against the table. Kendall was glancing down at his phone—texting someone.

Roman rolled his eyes and groaned again, even louder than before. “Ugh. Fine! We can drink, though, right? I’m not listening to you sing sober.”

Clearing her throat, Shiv said, “Well, I just, we kind of have—other engagements right now—”

“Oh, sure. Everybody’s busy,” Connor crooned. Though, if you looked close enough, you’d see the unmistakable hurt in his eyes. Why didn’t his baby sister want to spend time with him?

“Come on,” Kendall said with an urgent hand slanting over Shiv’s shoulder, phone gone for now. “Let’s give him a drink.”

Clapping his hands, Connor stood up again. “Great! But—not any of your stupid places. Somewhere fun and real and—away from all the fancy dance. A real bar with, uh, with chicks, and guys who work with their hands in grease—sweat dripping down their backs and blood all over their hair.”

“I don’t like these guys. They sound like a medical experiment gone wrong,” Roman piped up, slinging an arm over your shoulder.

“Sounds hot,” you said with a genuine laugh. “Let’s go.”

The bar itself was atmospherically ambient, the lights warm and unharsh, the chatter light and friendly, the television playing a football match at a soft volume. You smiled—it’d been a while since you stepped foot into an actual bar full of people who weren’t aristocratic assholes.

Normal people doing normal things. What was that like?

Roman, on the other hand, looked particularly uncomfortable, shoulders stiff and expression taut. He was only here for his big brother, but his saint-like kindness only wore so thin.

Kendall ordered drinks for the lot of you—whiskey on the rocks for himself, a sealed soda for Shiv since she didn’t trust anything from the bar’s “tainted” nozzles, a fancy beer for Connor, a vodka tonic for Roman, and a strawberry margarita for you. He snorted when you asked for it, rolling his eyes to the side. 

“You and your strawberries,” Kendall said, before heading off to call the bartender. You weren’t quite sure if his expression was fond or derisive. Perhaps both.

You sat beside Connor, peering over his shoulder, where he was staring at the screen with heavily knitted brows.

“Is that—is that Willa?” you asked, eyes widening upon seeing him zoomed onto a map with a tiny blue dot. “Are you tracking her?”

“Jesus, Con,” said Roman, laughing his high-pitched laugh. “That’s low, even for you.”

“What? I have her location shared,” the older brother said, earning quizzical looks from the three of you. “It’s a factory setting.”

Shiv made a noise of amusement. “It’s not.”

“Well…” Connor’s eyes darted back down to his screen, zooming in impossibly closer. “I’m reassured she’s definitely not on her way to Cuba.”

From his other side, Kendall appeared, hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Well, her phone isn’t.”

Connor decided to ignore the comment. “She stopped moving, so… I guess she found a spot she likes.”

“Sure!” crooned Roman. “On another man’s dick.”

The rest of you sighed, and you shook your head. 

“On a much bigger, nicer, harder, younger dick, is all I’m saying,” Roman reassured his eldest brother, patting his shoulders.

“Can we not?” Connor softly said, though he was smiling down at Rome. Even though his words hurt, just the fact that he was there for him cheered him up just a little bit. “Okay? I’m feeling—I’m having certain anxieties, alright? I want to have a good time!”

Once Roman muttered a quick apology, you bumped him off to the side so you can press up next to Connor again, staring down at the blue dot, still unmoving. “I’m sure she just needs a breather. It’s a big deal, y’know. Marriage.”

“I know,” said Con, sucking in a deep breath. There was a profound sort of loneliness to his eyes. “I just thought—I thought it was enough. All of it. It was enough for her.”

“It will be,” you said, nudging him. “Eventually. Just give her time.”

The drinks came then, and you hummed contentedly after taking your first sip. “Fuck. Why don’t they ever have shit like this at the fancy events we go to?”

“Because it’s diabetes in a cup,” Roman replied, but he plucked the glass from your fingers to snag a sip for himself. “It’s literal sugar water. Barely any alcohol in here.”

“Well, I’m not looking to get wasted,” you said, before snatching it back, shooting him a half-hearted glare. “You drank so much!”

“Nuh-uh, there was barely anything in there to begin with!”

“Roman, it was filled to the brim two seconds ago, what are you talking about?”

Before the two of you could divulge into a round of childish bickering, Connor abruptly straightened in his seat. “Her dot is at an aquarium supply retailer. That doesn’t make sense—is that a drug thing?”

Kendall cleared his throat. “No, I don’t think so.”

“You sure?”

Roman snickered. “It is. It’s a drug thing.”

“Maybe she’s getting a pet fish,” you unhelpfully supplied. “A little pre-wedding gift for the two of you?”

Frowning, Connor said, “Now she’s at a dry cleaner’s.”

“Probably getting her panties cleaned from the new dick’s cum,” quipped Roman. The absurdity of the statement made you laugh unexpectedly, but you quickly quietened when Connor stared at the two of you in horror. 

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked, as if he were a parent scolding a naughty toddler. 

“I’m not saying it’s your cum! Your cum, I’m sure, is very washable.” Roman droned on to an incredulous Connor some more, but your attention was drawn to Kendall, whose phone began to ring, and he quietly excused himself from the bar to take the call, face twisted into unmistakeable dread. You briefly wondered who he looked so anxious to talk to, but the thought was quick to banish from your mind entirely when Connor prodded Roman in the shoulder and said your name.

“Okay, that’s enough from you. Y/N, can you tell him to stop? Tell him to stop.”

“Stop it, Roman. Don’t talk about your brother’s cum, you weirdo.”

Rubbing his palms together, Roman shrugged the matter away entirely. “I’m starving. Anything to eat in this shit shack, or what?”

By the time Kendall came back, the rest of you were crowded into a small booth with a dingy little light hanging a little too low over the table. There was a platter of cheesy nachos in the center, which Shiv eyed with distaste. Roman was still looking over the menus, sarcastically wondering aloud from which creature they’d clipped the wings off of.

“Who were you talking to, Ken?” you asked. “It wasn’t Frank again, was it?” 

Kendall’s eyes darted from your face down to the floor. “Uh… no. No, it was—it was Stewy.” 

Something about his demeanor screamed that he wasn’t telling the entire truth, but you kept quiet, watching him with just barely narrowed eyes. 

“Oh, great. What the fuck does he want now?” Roman hissed, peering over the crinkled lamination of the menu he was holding. 

Kendall leaned forward slightly, regarding Shiv with a pointed stare. “Actually, guys, can I… can I show you something? On the comparables. It’s actually pretty fucking intriguing.” 

Your eyebrows rose a fraction. Just a few moments ago, Kendall wasn’t at all interested in Sandi and Stewy’s pitching. What changed his mind?

Nodding in satisfaction, Shiv added, “Yeah, see? It makes you think. Maybe Dad isn’t on it like he used to be. You know, he’s being pushed around by Matsson—hell, even by Kerry. Giving shows to his girlfriend? That’s just—it’s an embarrassment!”

Loudly, Connor exclaimed, “Fuck, she’s in the East River now! She’s in the—oh. Wait, no, she’s just on the bridge.” You popped a nacho in your mouth and glanced over at Connor, who was squinting down at his phone.

“Looks like she’s going on a little trip,” you hummed. “She’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, okay, not to be dicks, Con, but is it okay if we do a little breakout chat, just the four of us? We won’t be long, like—two minutes max,” Shiv said, expression serious and unyielding.

Rolling his eyes, Roman gestured to his oldest brother. “Hey, just—fuck it. Why don’t we fold Con in?” 

“Well, he’s not on the board, so—”

“Yeah, but he has a share. If the deal falls, he loses his payout.”

An incredulous frown pulled at his lips. “Excuse me?” Connor said.

“Oh, okay, so Shiv wants to get us mixed up in some drug deal that will fuck the vote tomorrow,” Roman told him, pursing his lips in an exaggerated fashion.

Holding her hands out, Shiv shook her head. “Uh, no. All we’re aiming for is a small delay. We all want the deal to go through.”

“Right,” you said with an amused snort. “Sure.”

“I, uh… I think I agree,” said Kendall.

Roman’s eyes widened. “Oh, what the fuck? Seriously?”

 “It’s just—looking at the numbers… it’s compelling.”

With a grand scoff, Roman shook his head. “It’s compelling? Wow. You’d find a bag of peanuts more compelling, Kendall.”

You placed a hand over Roman’s jolting knee. “Rome, why don’t we just hear them out?” His eyes met yours, hesitant and conflicted. “And think—wouldn’t it be fun? Fucking Matsson in the ass?”

“Yeah, I bet you’d like that, you freak,” he scoffed, crossing his arms.

“So you guys are just gonna force Dad to grovel?” Connor asked, mouth parted in surprise. “Oh, man. How long will a renegotiation take?”

Shiv’s lips twisted downwards, though it was more of a smile than a frown. “It’s a play. More money is more money, and that’s all there is to it.”

It was then that Roman’s phone, facing upwards on the chipped table, vibrated thrice. The screen lit up with a text notification. 

Dad.

All the siblings had seen it, and Shiv rushed to angle the phone towards her. Roman slapped her hand away, yanking his phone towards his chest. Hiding it.

“What the fuck?” Shiv asked, wary. “The fuck is Dad messaging you for?”

Roman stood frozen, reminiscent of a deer in headlights. “Uh, I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him? Stupid question, Shivvy.”

Kendall stared at his younger brother blankly. “You’re not gonna read it?”

There was a brief pause. “Yeah, I’ll—I’ll read the damn thing. Sure.” A swipe of his phone, a kink to his brows. “It’s just a check-in.”

“Oh, yeah?” Shiv said, skeptical. “A check-in? Oh, yeah. Classic Dad. He just loves to check in on us, see how we’re doing.” 

Backing down, Roman fessed up, “Okay, fine, I sent him a text on his birthday. Just saying, you know, happy birthday, sorry we missed it—”

“I’m sorry, wait a minute!” Shiv exclaimed. “You texted him first?”

Roman frowned. “It was his birthday, yeah.”

“We said no contact until he apologizes!” she angrily pointed out.

“Okay, so then never?” Roman shot back, scowling.

With a tilt of your head, you said, “It was just a simple happy birthday, right? That’s harmless. Right, Roman?” You pressed your foot over his, enough so he could feel the pressure, but not enough to hurt him.

“Yeah. That was it.”

“Nuh-uh. I want to see your phone,” said the red-head. 

A flicker of panic flashed across Roman’s eyes. “Oh, really? Show me yours, then! World’s biggest WhatsApp group of people sharing pictures of your snatch. No, thank you. Fuck off, fuck you.”

“Roman, come on,” Kendall said. “We have to trust each other.”

Memories of Kendall forcefully taking Roman’s phone from you in Hungary briefly crossed your mind. You pursed your lips. He’d been hiding things from you then, who was to say he wasn’t hiding things from you now?

Relenting, Roman tossed his phone onto the table, almost hitting the platter of nachos. He was growing angrier by the second, frustrated by his siblings' shoes pressing against his spine. “Fine, take a good look. I don’t give a shit. It’s just dick pics, anyway. He’s got a real taste for ‘em now.”

You leaned over to read along with Shiv and Kendall. It looked fine to you—since it was just a simple birthday wish, but they seemed much more harsh in their critique.

“This is more than one text, Roman.” There was a crease between Shiv’s brows.

“Okay. What is it? Two, three?”

Kendall rubbed the faint stubble over his jaw. “It’s a bit warm.”

“Warm? Why, what did I say?”

“Take care.”

Scoffing, Roman’s eyes rolled up to the dingy, low-hanging light. “What was I supposed to say? Happy birthday, hope you fall down a flight of stairs, shithead!”

“I feel a little bit weird about this betrayal, if I’m being honest,” Shiv said in a steely tone. 

“Betrayal?” Roman parroted, almost offensively. “The betrayal of happy birthday, Dad. Take care!” 

“You know what?” Kendall chimed in. “I’m feeling a bit betrayed, too.”

Upset, Roman just about slammed his phone back down on the tabletop. “Wow. Great. Fucking family guilt-trip fest.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” you said, pinching the space between your brows. “It’s not illegal to say happy birthday, guys. Relax, okay?”

Connor nodded. “It’s hard. It’s been hard on everybody.”

The five of you sat in silence for a bit longer. Has it been hard? Or did it just feel like it because all of you had been so accustomed to getting everything handed over on a silver platter? 

Finally, Shiv swallowed heavily and said, “You know that he advised Tom on the divorce? Gave him a Dad trick—went and spoke to every pit bull in Manhattan and tied them up. I got Mommed.”

You frowned. So much had happened in the past few months, you’d sort of even forgotten Shiv and Tom were heading for divorce. “Tom did that? Jeez… I’m sorry, Shiv.”

Roman blew out a breath, mildly relieved that the heat was taken off of him for a moment. “I mean, there’s probably one more horrible motherfucker lawyer around somewhere, but, uhm… that sucks. I’m sorry.”

Shiv refused to meet either of your gazes. She didn’t want to be reduced to… Tom’s ex-wife. A shadow of her mother. 

“Guys, I just feel like we need to stick together,” Kendall said, firm. We should push back, and we should all be on board. We squeeze them.”

Equally level, Roman placed his hands on the table. “Okay, but, we want to do Pierce, right? We want an out?”

“Yes. But just with a bit more money,” Kendall agreed. 

“Yeah, that’s the thing—I don’t think Matsson will go up in price,” Roman argued. “He won’t! I know this, because I’ve spoken to him. I really think he might walk.”

 Good, you wanted to say, but you bit down on your tongue.

Both Shiv and Kendall began poking fun at him for not calling Matsson’s bluff.

Exasperated, Roman rubbed his knuckles along his hairline. “Okay, it just sounded like he meant it.” He didn’t look happy with the prospect of blocking the deal. He wanted to be a traitor to his Dad without being a traitor. To have his cake and eat it, too.

Shiv and Roman fell into another argument about whether or not Roman cared over conflict—that he was scared of his own Dad and wanted to back down like a coward.

Quelling his riled-up siblings, Kendall motioned for them to quiet down. “Honestly, though, guys. I think going with Sandi and Stewy is the best thing for us to do. As a team.”

Shiv nodded in agreement. “It’s a play. Buys us a couple weeks and more money.”

“He’ll get it,” Kendall said, trying to sway Rome. “It’s what Dad would do in his prime.”

And was that the goal? To try and imitate the beast to scare him off? A moth with false eyes to ward away predators?

Roman squinted at nothing in particular. Then, he angled his face to look at you. You hadn’t at all realized that your features were immobilized in uncertainty. 

“What?” Roman asked, knee knocking against yours.

“Your Dad’s going to hate us if we pull this.”

Roman laughed, high and nervous. The idea made him nauseous. “Seems like he already does.”

“No, he… he loves you. All of you. But this is… he’ll hate that he loves you, sure, that’s always been the case. But this time… he’ll hate you if you’re the reason he can’t win.”

Something sick twisted within Roman’s gut. He seemed to go all pale and wide-eyed. 

“It’s just a play, though,” Shiv said. 

“Just a play,” Roman echoed, sounding unsure. “It isn’t real?”

Kendall nodded. Shiv, too.

“Fine. Yeah, fuck it. I’m in.” Roman caved, and the two smiled at him. You squeezed his knee. 

With a sharp exhale, Connor huffed, “God damn it. God fucking damn it! You ruined it. You ruined it all.”

Roman apologized, but it seemed to fall upon deaf ears. Kendall tried to calm him down by asking his brother what he wanted to do. After all… it was supposed to be his big night before the big day.

“I wanted to get married tomorrow,” he said, cross. “I wanted to spend tonight with my family and tomorrow with Dad. I wanted to get my fucking money out. But you guys fucked it!”

Feeling mildly guilty, your other hand came up to rub Connor’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, really. You’re an innocent bystander caught in the crossfire. What can we do to make you feel better, Con?”

Several moments passed by in silence as Connor thought about it. What did he want? A giant bowl of ice cream so large you couldn’t see around it? A perfectly-tailored suit from the most expensive store he could find? A vintage bottle of whiskey and a nice book to sit with? They all sounded appealing to him.

“I would…” he finally started, “I’d like to sing one fucking song at karaoke because I’ve seen it in the movies, and nobody ever wants to go.”

Roman just about banged his head on the table. You flicked at his ear, before turning back to Connor. “Karaoke. Yeah, we can do that, Con.”

The room was illuminated with hazy shades of purples and blues, the lights hidden behind indents in the wall. It looked modern and sleek—an upscale to what was typically seen in the movies. Connor didn’t hesitate to make a beeline for the karaoke machine, fiddling with buttons and remotes and smiling to himself when he managed to get it up and working without asking for help. Shiv and Kendall wandered around cautiously. Roman was quick to toss himself onto the long, spacious couch, hanging off of the seats as if he were melting. You curled up beside him with a pleased hum, nose brushing over his lower cheek, scratchy with barely-there stubble.

There was a bit more dilly-dallying—Connor was concerned about Willa’s blue dot disappearing completely. The siblings were quick to brush him off, reassure him, tell him he wasn’t going to ever do better than Willa. The usual.

You sipped on a glass of champagne that Kendall handed you. There was more chatter—amicable and light and teasing. You poked fun at Kendall’s lame hat whilst Shiv plainly told Roman that his shoes were a size too large for his feet. That his feet were small and dainty and he would fall over if they were any smaller. More drinks, more giggling, more stories. You learned that fresh-faced college Kendall once puked on Stewy’s bed and cried at the foot of it after drinking too much. You told the siblings that you once slept with Angelina from accounting during your first year at the company, to which they responded with shocked snorts. There was a point where Roman grabbed your face and kissed you and kissed you until the rest of the siblings began faux-gagging, and Connor complained that it was like watching his siblings make out. Goddaughter-and-son incest, he’d said. 

It was fun, maybe. The closest to fun you could have with Roy siblings.

And it was gone in a second, like a candle snuffed in a hurricane. 

Logan was coming. Connor invited him because he loved him and he loved all of you and—

It hurt. Simple as that. It hurt to see the people he loved so… so torn.

The smiles melted away, and the laughter buzzed down. It was tense again. Family turned business once more. Connor finally put on a song to sing while he waited for his father to come, but your ears rang with white noise, so you didn’t quite register which song he was brokenly following along.

You were scared, you realized. Scared to face the man with the knife in his back. Roman worked his jaw and he complained some more. Not that you really heard what he said.

At some point, his phone began to ring, vibrating in his pants, pressed up against your leg. You raised a brow and scooched back so he could take it out to check. 

Logan. Dad. Of course. Roman’s hands shook, but only a little bit. Enough for you to see. Shiv grabbed it and hung up for him, not liking how long he hesitated. You stared at the black screen for a bit longer, your own fingers twitching.

Connor continued to sing. He finished three songs—maybe four—until the door creaked open. No knocks.

Colin came in first, then your godfather, then Kerry. He nodded, almost polite, with a casual greeting hanging in the air. It was eternally strange, the way Logan smiled at you. Warm, maybe. You didn’t know.

“Shit,” Roman said, almost amused, mostly… unprepared.

Chancing a glance to Shiv and Kendall, you noticed their stiff upper lips, their frozen postures. 

“Can we go somewhere else?” Logan asked, glancing around the large room. “These lights, er…”

Shiv shook her head in exasperation. A roll of her eyes. “We’re not going anywhere.”

There was little resistance to Logan. “Fine,” he easily acquiesced. With that, he took a seat in a velvet black chair, across all the siblings and you. Kerry jerked to sit next to him, which made Shiv recoil with a sneer.

“We won’t be needing you, Kerry. Thanks.”

Roman nodded. “Yeah, this here is a family fuck-fuck.”

There were a few glances around, Logan and Kerry looked at each other but neither moved. 

“Let’s get this figured out, and I can let you get back to your fun,” said Logan, ignoring them.

“Might be a wasted trip,” Kendall sardonically replied, tongue sharp. “Wanna give us a blast of New York, New York and fuck off?”

“I wanted to say something,” their father said.

Shiv retorted something else, and Kendall snickered under his breath. The buzzing in your ears grew louder.

“I guess I just wanted you there, a bit,” Logan said. “At my party.”

It was a play. Was it? Yes, of course. But if it wasn’t… 

But it was.

“Holy shit,” Kendall crooned. “Did Dad just say a feeling?”

“Well, you know. I thought maybe it would be nice,” said Logan. 

With exaggerated motions of his hands, Kendall exclaimed, “Oh, fuck! Now it’s all coming out! Oh, my God, Mr. Melodrama here! It’s like a fucking telenovela!”

Connor gestured between Kendall and his dad. “Come on, guys. He’s trying.”

Logan smiled, calm. “Y/N, dear,” he began. Your eyes snapped up to meet his and your spine seemed to grow rigid. “I had a lovely chat with your father. He was… surprised that you’re no longer holding Waystar together. Wouldn’t it be a shame, considering all the money he’s invested into the company? You’re setting millions on fire.”

The siblings all looked at you, curious. You swallowed, finding your throat painfully dry, despite all the champagne you’d been sipping prior to Logan’s arrival.

“If they expected me to stay at Waystar my entire life, they were always bound to be disappointed,” you responded, careful. “I won’t be tied down.”

A twitch of the old man’s mouth. Down or up or perhaps it hadn’t moved at all. “A shame. You worked so hard to compose acquisition branch details on Pierce just under a year ago. So much paperwork.” He shook his head. “And all of you—you knew I wanted Pierce ever since then. When I lost out, it wasn’t a good feeling.”

Fed up, Shiv finally leaned forward and hissed out, “I’m sorry, can we just cut the shit? It’s obvious why you’re here, Dad!”

Unsuspectingly, Kerry chimed, “Your father wanted to address the personal stuff and not just launch into business.”

Shiv’s jaw clicked. “Well, see, this isn’t personal, Dad. This is a business decision. This is about the money.”

Logan bobbed his head. “Look, you’re smart to ask about the money. You are. But Matsson—he won’t go there. You haven’t been around this, but I’ve got done a good deal and you’ll get enough to do whatever you want. I do ATN, you do Pierce. It’ll be a fresh start for all of us. It’ll make things better, and it starts there. All you have to do is… vote yes and support the deal.”

There was an uneasy shift next to you—Roman looked torn.

“You can separate the personal from the business,” Kerry offered. “Reset your dynamic as a family.”

Shiv snorted. “Oh, super! It’s gonna be just like how it used to—summer vacay and road trip musicals!” 

Hesitant, Roman supplied, “It just… it may be more complicated than that, dad.”

“I guess you’re still in the honeymoon phase,” Shiv told Kerry, cold and sarcastic. “Getting your own show on TV… amazing.”

The dark-haired woman glanced around, seeming to shrink further into her seat.

“No?” Roman asked, his attention piqued. Anything to latch onto to make everything feel less—tortuous. “You’re not going to be on TV now?”

Shiv laughed. “Has he fucked you on that?” 

Kendall nodded. “That’ll happen. The fucking. But congrats on losing your betrayal cherry—”

“Enough!” Logan said. It wasn’t loud, but heavy with finality. Your pulse skipped a beat, scratching down your ribcage almost painfully. Logan looked tired. “I though you’d be interested in an apology, but that’s enough.”

Incredulous, Shiv held a hand out. “Wait, what? An apology? We missed that, I think.”

Logan fixed an intense stare over all his children. “Look, I don’t do apologies. But if it means so much to you, then… sorry.”

In all your years of living, you’re not sure you’ve ever heard Logan apologize before. Was it genuine? Was it real? There was a long, terse silence. Roman stared at his father with his mouth slightly agape. You wrapped your arms around your stomach and stared at the door. Connor was looking down at his shoes. Kendall aimlessly observed Logan, finding that the apology he’d yearned for so many years of his life seemed to fall incredibly flat.

Shiv just about glared at her father in a challenging fashion, lips pursing tight. “There is nothing you could say to me now that I would ever believe.”

“This deal push could be worth a hundred mil to us, Dad,” said Kendall. “How many sorrys do we get for that?”

Kerry was starting to say something, but Roman butted in, looking incredibly troubled. “What are you actually sorry for, Dad? Are we actually doing this? Because I think, you know… seriously, what fucked all of this was when… it all happened with Mom in Italy.”

Logan averted his gaze to the carpeted ground. “Yeah, okay. I’ve had certain thoughts about that. With the best of intentions, I got the structure of the holding company, and the ownership structure of the family trust. There is a lack of clarity, and maybe you got a—”

“Amazing,” Shiv deadpanned, cutting her father off. “You sure you’re not having a seizure?”

For the first time in a very long time, Connor raised his voice at his baby sister. “He’s trying, Shiv! You said you were interested in an apology!”

Shiv glared at her father again. In a less harsh tone, she asked, “Anything else, Dad?”

There was a long pause. You wondered if Logan was haggling for words. 

“Come on, Dad,” Kendall goaded. “What are you sorry for?”

It felt like bullying, almost. In a severely twisted way. 

Kendall continued on, “Are you sorry for fucking ignoring Connor his whole life?”

“Bit strong,” protested Connor.

“Hitting Rome when he was a kid?” Kendall pointed at Roman, who shrugged.

“Oh, no—I mean, everyone hit me. I’m fucking annoying.” 

You frowned at Roman’s words, wrapping an arm around his waist. 

“Having Connor’s mom locked up?” Kendall continued on. 

Something twisted in the eldest Roy sibling’s expression. “Can we not do a whole show trial here?”

Finally, Shiv hissed out, “Okay, what about advising Tom on my divorce? Yeah? I mean, that took effort. That was above and beyond.”

“Tom asked me for advice,” said Logan. It didn’t go past everyone’s notice how he ignored all the rest of the hurtled accusations. “I recommended someone he could speak to. You weren’t around. If you’d been around, I would’ve offered you the same advice. But I can’t help you if you don’t see me.”

Shiv was hurt. It was clear as day, even if she refused to show it. She built up a wall, a front, brick by brick, and spun her hurt feelings into a low-flamed fury.

“Bottom line is, if we ask for more money, Matsson walks. I know that.”

“No!” Shiv asserted. There was something firmer in her tone this time. Angrier. “You don’t know that! You don’t know him! You don’t fucking know everything! Just because you say it doesn’t make it true! Everyone just fucking agrees with you and believes you so it becomes true—and then you can turn around and say oh! You see? I was right! But that’s just—that’s not how it is. You’re a human fucking gaslight!”

The silence that stretched across the room was thin. You were afraid to breathe, and so you bit down on your tongue.

Logan nodded and nodded. The brothers were quiet.

And so you felt compelled to say something. Sick with nerves, but compelled nonetheless. “Matsson has been fucking the company since the very start of negotiations. It’s only fair if you… bite him back.”

Logan watched you. There was something in his eyes that seemed to soften, but it was near imperceptible. Maybe you were simply seeing what you wanted to see. “I can’t take that risk,” he finally said. “Look, I just wanted to get us all together. What you kids don’t realize… this is a good deal. The world likes it. It makes sense. But deals have a habit of disappearing because pricks like Matsson get pissed off or snubbed. This… this is fucking real.”

You turned your head away and stared at the door once more. You wanted to leave. Crawl into bed and stop thinking about it all. Beside you, Roman was biting down on his thumb. A nervous habit.

“Okay, I think I can speak for everyone when I say this… go ask him for more money, Dad.” Shiv narrowed her eyes at her father.

“Why?” Logan asked. Are you not satisfied with what you already have? was the unsaid, lingering question hanging in the air.

Kendall tilted his head up. “Just good business sense. Gotta make our own pile. Right, Dad?” 

“Yeah, I just have to listen to my gut. I just gotta go with what my gut says,” Shiv piled on.

“Oh, come on. Jesus.” Logan pulled at his face, tired. In a span of five, maybe ten minutes… he seemed to age a decade. Finally, finally, the nice mask slipped. He leaned back in the velvet seat and spat out, “You’re such fucking dopes.”

Roman’s nose twitched and he shifted so he could lean further into you. You let him.

“You are not serious figures,” Logan went on. “I love you… but you are not serious people.”

His eyes were glassy for a second, but you weren’t exactly sure, because he stood up and hurriedly strode out of the karaoke room the very next second. No goodbyes. Kerry followed close behind him.

The hazy purple lights were beginning to make you nauseous. 

Everybody sat in silence for a little while longer. Let the conversation marinate. Shiv poured herself a drink and smiled into the rim, expression victorious.

“How was it for you guys?” she asked the group. “Fucking Dad, that is.”

“Amazing. Just over too soon. I could’ve kept going,” Kendall admitted.

Roman abruptly stood up, scratching the back of his head uncomfortably. He made a noise of disgust.

“Rome, we’re kidding, man,” Kendall said.

He began to pace around, like a caged animal. “No, I know. It’s fine. It’s cool.”

Connor also stood up, shrugging on his jacket. “Well… I’m going home. ‘M tired.” 

“G’night, Con,” you said. He reached over the couch to give you a one-armed hug from behind. “She’ll come home. Willa.”

“It’s fine,” Connor said. 

Kendall arched a brow. “Really?”

“Yeah.” There was a nod and a tap of his shoe. “The good thing about having a family that doesn’t love you is that you learn to live without it.”

Shiv’s face crumpled. “What? Con, that’s not—”

With a shake of his head, Connor scoffed. “You’re all chasing after Dad saying, “Oh, please, love me, love me, I need love, I need attention!””

“I think that’s the opposite of what just happened,” Shiv argued. 

“You’re needy love sponges,” Connor pressed. “And I’m a plant that grows on rocks and lives off insects that die inside of me.”

Shiv laughed, Roman huffed, and Kendall stayed silent. 

“If Willa doesn’t come back, that’s fine. ‘Cause I don’t need love. It’s like a superpower,” he said. “And if she comes back and doesn’t love me, that’s okay too. I don’t need it. Thanks for the party.” With that, he stepped out of the karaoke room.

You jolted out of your seat, ignoring Roman’s questions as to where you were going. You rushed out the door after Connor, nearly tripping over your own feet in your haste.

“Connor!” you called out. The older man halted in the middle of the dimly lit hallway.

“What? I’m not looking for pity, Y/N—”

You shuffled forward the last few steps and put your hand on his elbow. “Con, I just… I wanted to say—” You shook your head and wrapped your arms around him. “You’re my brother. I know you are. And… even if you don’t need love or whatever you were on about in there… I’ll still love you anyway. Okay? I don’t need you to need my love. You’ll have it.”

There was a momentary pause before Connor jerkily moved to pat your back and hug you back. Loose, but solid.

“You’re just a kid. A kid with my kid brother,” he said once he pulled away, rubbing his palms up and down your forearms. His eyes seemed to be watery and tired, but he laughed right from his belly. “I love you, too, kid.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course.”

The two of you grinned at each other. 

“G’night, Con.” He let you go when you stepped back. “Big day tomorrow.”

“Yeah…”  Connor nodded. “Big day.”

He walked off, and you watched him go. When you heard the door open, you turned to see Roman peeking his head out.

“Hey, Rome,” you greeted. “I love you, you know that?”

His eyes roamed over your face, and he smiled back. It was lopsided and slight. “Mmkay. Yeah, me too, fuckface. You feeling okay?” 

“Yeah. Should get home.” You craned your neck to lean forward, affectionately pecking his cheek. “You coming with?”

He shifted his weight from foot to foot. Eyes to the ground, then to the walls. Not on you. 

“Not… not yet. I’ll come in a bit. Just need to grab something from my place first.”

His place was barren. Everything in his place, you had in yours. You probably had more of his clothes in your closet than his own. You regarded him with a curious look, but decided not to press further.

“Okay, Rome. You have the key. Just don’t jostle me awake when you climb into bed.”

He guffawed. “I’ll sleep on the floor then, your royal majesty.” 

“Thank you.”

“I was joking. Just so you know. You prick.”

“I know. I wouldn’t want you to sleep on the floor, anyway. A waste of body heat.”

He kissed you then, surging forward to chase after your lips. You hummed in pleasant surprise, but kissed him back with just as much vigor. His lips were a darker shade of pink when he pulled away.

“See you at home, Roman.” After a final pat on his cheek, it was your turn to walk off. 

Roman wrung his hands nervously. There’d been a text to his phone while you were out talking to Connor—from his Dad. He glanced back at the door, where Shiv and Kendall were still speaking to each other inside. He rolled his shoulders and began to slowly walk out of the building, careful not to bump into you.

He was going to go pay his father a visit.

The top spot at ATN. Was it a tempting offer in it of itself or was it just tempting because his father was goading him to lick off the silver platter?

When he told you, and of course he told you, you just about blew up—in the most professional, stick-in-ass way possible—warning him not to take the offer with a strained voice and wide eyes. Not even consider it. ATN wasn’t where he wanted to be. His father was offering him a cyanide pill, obscured by a layer of fucking strawberries and cream.

The next morning, he numbly got dressed for Connor’s wedding. Got into the car after you, pinching your thigh once he clambered in next to you. His father called him on the way there, much to your dismay, telling him to come with him to meet Matsson, despite Connor’s wedding being literal hours away.

Roman turned him down. But he didn’t turn Logan away when he told Roman to fire Gerri since, apparently, he was beginning to lose faith in her. 

You were pretending not to listen to their conversation, but he knew you were. He could tell by the way your jaw seemed to twitch at the prospect of cutting Gerri loose. 

“Shit,” he breathed out once Logan hung up on him. “That’s fucking… bullshit.”

You drew your eyes away from the window, regarding him with narrowed eyes. “Don’t do it, Rome.”

Everything felt crowded and tense all of a sudden. Roman squared his shoulders defensively. There was a stinging quip on the tip of his tongue, but nothing seemed to come out other than a rather passive, “Mmh.” 

The rest of the drive to the wedding venue was silent. But your hand came to lace with his, and that made him feel just a bit better. 

Once there, about half a dozen cameras swarmed the two of you coming out of the car, taking several candid shots, much to your irritation. It was only expected, what with Connor being in the run for president and the whole wedding being a PR move, anyway. But you gave them a smile nonetheless, made a show of kissing Roman’s cheek and walked off to greet other work acquaintances and wedding guests. From the corner of your eye, you could see Roman trying to talk to Gerri with a rather terse look on his face. You tried not to pay him any mind. He was digging his own grave.

Half an hour later, the wedding planner announced for family and friends to start boarding the boat. The few businesswomen you were chatting to kissed you on the cheek and told you they’d see you soon. You waved them goodbye and made your way onto the boat. Kissed and hugged and congratulated Willa. She looked beautiful in her wedding dress, even if she didn’t appear all too happy wearing it. After a short conversation, you moved on into the boat.

It was lavishly decorated, screaming luxury and American patriotism. There was a concerning amount of blue and red strewn everywhere. They weren’t being very subtle, were they?

You made your way onto the second floor, greeted by Kendall in a pair of sunglasses.

“Hey, loser,” he said, nudging you in the side. “You look nice.”

“Thanks,” you replied, giving him a quick once over. “You look shitty. Hiding your terrible eyebags behind those shades, are you? Not doing a very good job, by the way.”

He seemed unfazed by your jab. “You excited for the wedding?”

“Neither Connor nor Willa seem too hot about it,” you told him with a mild grimace. On your way to the boat, you heard Connor yelling at his wedding planner about the cake being inadequate.

Kendall shrugged and pulled a nonchalant expression. “It’ll blow over. They’ll be fine.”

“I know. It just feels so… fake. All of it.” You jerked your head toward a frilly blue, red, and white banner. 

“Yeah, well, yours won’t be,” he said, scrutinizing you behind those ridiculous shades of his. “With Rome, I mean.”

“Wow! Yeah, well, we aren’t quite there yet, I think.” You laughed and rolled your eyes to the ceiling. “Besides, I can’t guarantee that you’re even invited to this hypothetical wedding. Who knows? I can never tell with you guys. You’re always five minutes away from ruining each other’s lives or being best friends.”

“I’ll crash your wedding if I’m not invited. It’s my baby brother, dude. I have to be there,” he said. You couldn’t tell if it was a joke or not. 

“Good to know,” came your lighthearted retort. “I’ll be sure to save a slice of cake for you.”

With that, you bumped your fist into his bicep and walked off. Then, you spotted Roman out on deck, phone in his hand. You stepped out just in time to hear him bark out, “Don’t listen to this if you don’t want to—but I’m not… I’m not, uh, totally okay with… are you kinda just being shitty with me, Dad? ‘Cause… your son is getting married, and you can’t fucking just keep expecting me to bend over for you and being cunty, so I’m just asking. Yeah—that’s the question, actually. Are you a cunt? Okay. Give me a buzz.”

There were a few seconds of silence after he hung up. You approached him from behind and slung both your arms around his waist, resting your chin on his shoulder. 

“Hey, fuckface,” he said. He sounded tired. Distressed.

“Hey,” you quietly said in reply. “I’m proud of you.”

“For calling Dad a cunt?”

“Yeah.” You huffed out a laugh. “I really am proud of you.”

Roman leaned back against you and hummed. “I just got on this boat and I already want to fucking leave.”

“That’ll break Connor’s heart.” 

“I know. I’m his favorite brother.”

“I think Shiv is his favorite brother, actually.”

The two of you laughed, and he didn’t bother arguing back. 

“Come on. I think Kendall and Shiv are looking for you,” you said, tugging him inside.

The two of you greeted the three other Roy siblings, where Connor was giving a rundown of his plan for Logan. 

“Okay, so the idea is that Dad will pop by, be dockside, and you guys will just be up here. I think that’s cleanest,” Connor told all of you.

Shiv pursed her lips and tilted her head. “Oh… okay. You really think he’s going to pop by?”

“I spoke with Kerry,” Connor said with a smile, crossing his fingers. “He’s hoping.”

With a nod of thanks, he gave you and Roman both a quick hug, before rushing back downstairs to be with his wife-to-be. 

“Well, someone’s gotta tell him,” said Shiv. “We should tell him.”

“We should,” Kendall agreed. Both you and Roman nodded. 

“Well, Shiv, you are his favorite,” you offered. 

The woman’s face regarded you as if you’d just stabbed her in the back. “No, come on—really?”

“He likes you,” Kendall insisted.

“Fine,” she sighed with slitted eyes. “I’ll be the wedding Grinch. Fuck you.”

The three of you watched her go with muted snickers. 

Then, Roman’s phone began to buzz. He fished it out of his pocket and let out an annoyed groan upon seeing Tom’s caller ID. 

“Oh my—ugh,” Roman hastily pressed on the green answer button, “Hello? Fucky-sucky brigade, how can I help you? Yeah?” 

You leaned onto the fancy leather couches next to Kendall, who was staring out the window, watching the gentle waves roil over the surface of the harbor. “Hey, Ken?”

“Mmh?”

“I’d invite you, you know.” 

Kendall’s eyes left the waters to look at you. “What?”

“To my wedding. Before I said I couldn’t guarantee you a spot—but I’d want you there.”

Something akin to gratitude flashed across his face. Before he could say anything, Roman’s panicked voice echoed over, and the both of you snapped your heads towards him.

“What?” he said into the phone. “Tom, what are you—?”

“What?” Kendall asked, immediately on his feet. “What’s happening?”

You followed suit, the two of you hovering over Roman’s sides. 

His palms grew white over the phone. “It’s—uh, Tom. Apparently Dad’s sick. Uh, what do you mean he’s sick? Sick, like—Tom? What’s going on? Are you still there?” 

“Where is he now?” you asked, brows furrowed. Roman could only shake his head, equally clueless, pulling the phone away so he could put it on speaker.

“Is he okay?” Kendall immediately asked. “Who’s with him?”

There was a lot of rustling and rummaging. It felt as if your heart had crawled its way into your throat. 

“It—it seems bad. Very, very bad. I’m so sorry to call you like this,” Tom’s voice crackled through.

“What?” you croaked. “What is it, though? Like, a fever?”

“Can you put him on the phone?” Roman asked. His voice shook and his brows were pulled tightly together. 

Again, Kendall asked the same questions, “Who’s there? Tom, what’s going on? What happened?”

“Ah—” You could practically see Tom scratching at his head. “He was short of breath and he went into the bathroom. And, well, uh, someone heard something and we were concerned, and they went in there.”

Kendall used his hands to gesticulate to nobody in particular. “They broke in?”

“They broke in, yeah. They had the key and they got in, but he’s not responsive.”

“Not responsive?” you parroted, eyes widening. This was far worse than just… sick. “Like—is he conscious?”

The brothers started to blurt out a multitude of questions, concerns exponentially heightened. 

“Is he talking? Can he talk?” Kendall asked.

“Is he breathing?” Roman’s shoulders were hunched over, as if he was trying to shrink in on himself. 

There was a brief pause. Uncomfortable and festered with fear. 

“They’re doing chest compressions,” Tom’s voice pierced through.

Your lungs seemed to contract in panic at his words. The room felt all the smaller. 

“Oh!” Roman exclaimed in a mixture of both shock and anguish. “Fuck.”

Kendall only pressed on with his queries. “Has his heart stopped?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you guys have the machine on board? The heart thing?” Roman asked.

“The defibrillator,” you said, clutching both your anxious, wringing hands to your chest. 

How had the day turned on its head so quickly?

“Is Siobhan there?” Tom’s voice was patchy and unclear. It was hard to hear over Kendall’s barrage of frustration.

“No, she’s not,” said Roman.

“Karl said that maybe he’s breathing,” Tom claimed.

Leaning forward, you hissed out, “Karl isn’t a medical professional, Tom. Who’s trained in there?”

“The, uh, the people. The attendant. I’ll put you on speaker—here’s, uh, Karl, here—”

The older man’s voice buzzed through, “That captain has been informed. The cabin staff are receiving medical advice from their service.”

Both Kendall and Roman barked questions over each other. Faintly, you heard an additional third voice in the back of the call.

“Is that Frank?” you asked. 

Tom cleared his throat. “Yeah, so—Frank thinks you guys should speak to him.  And I can—I can hold the phone near him if you’d like.”

Roman bit down on his tongue, angry. “Why does Frank think that, Tom?”

“I guess if it’s a last chance, you know. I think it’s the last chance.”

A shudder and a glare from Roman to the phone. “What the fuck do you mean, Tom?”

“You think he’s gonna die?” you whispered, eyes stinging as you stared down at the screen, watching the seconds of the call tick by.

“He’s… he’s not in good shape. They’re doing chest compressions.”

“Well, should they be doing that?” Roman just about yelled at the phone. You placed a hand on his hunched shoulder.

Frank began talking again, “They’re getting advice, they know what they’re doing. But I think you should talk to him. I’m not sure he’s breathing.”

The two both spluttered angrily. In denial, in frustration, in utter devastation.

“We just heard that he was breathing two seconds ago, Frank. You shouldn’t be doing CPR on someone who’s heart is still going! What the fuck is going on, Frank?” Kendall gritted out.

“I’ll put you by his ear,” Tom said. “I’ll put you right by him. He’ll be able to hear you if—if he can.”

If you hadn’t been so hyperfocused on the call, you would’ve realized that your entire body began to simultaneously tremble and tense, like a plank of wood caught in a hurricane. 

“Uh, you might wanna get Shiv, so she can—” 

“Yeah, we’ll—we’ll get her,” said Roman.

“Okay, I’ll put you by him now.”

“Is he okay?”

“No, Rome, he’s not okay.”

“You can speak now. Go ahead.”

There was a blistering silence. Roman gestured for Kendall to take the phone first, but he shook his head. He turned to you, but you weren’t even looking in his direction, clamoring for your own phone to try and contact Karolina. Your hands seemed not to work in coordination with your mind, because you struggled getting your phone to unlock, and then struggled even more to open up the right app to get to your contacts list.

This left Roman to speak to his maybe-dead dad on his own. He hurried around the room, as if there was going to be a corner on this wretched yacht that would make this somewhat easier to say. He ended up crouching by the end of the leather couch. 

“Hey, Dad. I, uh, hope you’re okay. You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.” Was he reassuring himself or his father? “Because you’re a—you’re a monster, and you’re going to win. ‘Cause you just—you just win. That’s what you do. And you’re, uh… you’re a good man. You’re a good dad. A very good dad. Uh… you did a good job. No—no. I’m sorry, I don’t know how to do that.”

With that, Roman unceremoniously stood up and shoved his phone right into your palms, tugging away your own. “It’s your turn.”

Your shaking grew all the worse, but you put on a brave face and held it up to your face.

“Oh, uhm—hi, Uncle Logan. You, uhm… oh—I wasn’t prepared or this, you know, I would’ve… I would’ve, if I’d known, I wouldn’t have…”

It occurred to you that you managed to say absolutely nothing in the precious few seconds he had left. This sent you spiraling into another bout of anxious trembling. You only barely registered Roman’s own shaking hand on your side.

“You were so—such a big role in my life. So important. And—and, and, I really couldn’t have done anything without your help. Thank you. For everything. I… I love you, Uncle Lo. Really, I do. And I love your kids like my own siblings, and—and Rome, I’m—I love him. I promise I’ll, uh, I’ll take care of him. I just—uhm, I can’t really, there are just so many things you…”

Your nails scratched over your chest as you heaved out a shuddering breath. Realizing you couldn’t finish, you made your way over to Kendall and handed the phone to him with teary eyes.

“Okay,” Kendall said with the phone by his nose, blinking helplessly at the ground. “Hang in there. Yeah? Uhm…”

“It’ll be okay,” Roman softly whispered to him.

“It’ll be okay,” Kendall repeated into the phone. “We love you, Dad. Okay? We love you. I love you, Dad. I do. I love you, okay? Uh—and… it’s okay. Even though you fucking… I don’t know. I can’t—I can’t forgive you.”

You sniffled and wiped a stray tear with the sleeve of your dress. 

After a few final words, Kendall handed the phone back to Roman. Tom’s voice crackled through again, asking for Shiv. 

“Ken’s gonna get Shiv,” Roman said, voice small and child-like. Kendall nodded and staggered his way out of the room.

There was more commotion on the other end of the line. 

“What’s going on now?” Roman asked. 

“I, uhm—there’s, I’m not so sure—” Tom’s glitchy voice replied. “I think he’s gone, Roman.”

“What?” you asked.

“I think—I don’t know, I think there might not be a pulse, they’re not—”

A few seconds passed, with only scuffling noises on the other end. Shiv and Kendall appeared through the doorway just a minute later.

“They think he’s gone,” Roman told his sister as he handed the phone to her. “They think he’s dead.”

“What?” Shiv asked, her eyes welling up almost instantaneously. “No! I… I can’t have that.”

Tom spoke a few words to his wife, telling her that he was putting the phone back by Logan’s ear. Shiv strode away to ramble to her father in a semi-panicked fashion. She called him Dad at first, which spiraled into whisper-cries of Daddy, and angry curses intermingled with a multitude of I love yous.

You tugged at your face, aching with all the tension you were carrying. Roman’s hand was on your arm, but he left your side half a minute later to take the phone away from Shiv, who seized up with incoherent noises through blurred tears. He hugged her, but she didn’t return it, frozen on the spot.

The siblings all asked him more questions. 

“Is he okay at all?” Kendall asked.

“He’s not okay, no,” replied Tom. “He’s not.”

Shiv sucked in a shaky breath. “Is he gone? Tom?”

A brief pause.

“They say his heart stopped and his breathing stopped, too. For a while, maybe.”

“Okay, but that doesn’t mean he’s dead, medically!” Roman asserted. “Right?”

You didn’t have the heart to tell him that it did mean exactly that.

“I don’t know,” came Tom’s calm voice. “They’re still doing chest compressions.”

Kendall began to order Tom around, then Frank, then Jess. Something about getting the best doctor in the world. The best airplane medicine expert, whatever that meant. He disappeared out of the room to go up to the deck. You took a seat on the couch and sank your face into your palms.

When Kendall returned, his face was solemn and set in stone. “Frank thinks he’s gone,” he said.

Roman sank down on the ground, right by your feet. Shiv took a seat next to you.

“Why didn’t you come and get me?” Shiv sniffled, looking up at her big brother. 

“I—Shiv, I did. We did,” Kendall said.

“No, but I was right out there. How long was it happening before?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m—I wasn’t thinking—” Kendall shook his head.

Roman drew in a sharp breath. “There was no time. I promise you, there was no time at all.”

Kendall took his little sister’s hand and repeated his apologies. The sight made more tears spill over your cheeks.

“I’m sorry, guys,” you hoarsely said. “He’s not even my dad.”

“No, it’s…” Roman patted your knee. “He was. He is. Kind of.”

“It’s just—on the phone Tom said that Kerry spoke to him. Quite a bit,” Shiv said, voice bitter.

“I don’t know,” said Kendall. “I don’t—we don’t know if he could hear us.”

Another sniffle. Shiv nodded a bit. “Yeah. I’m just sad, I guess.”

Roman shifted uncomfortably, looking up at his siblings and you with large, worried eyes. “Uh—do we know if he was on his phone at all? Like, if he checked his messages or anything?”

Faintly, you recalled Roman leaving a voice message for him. Right. Roman had called his father a cunt. And you’d said you were proud of him for it. Nausea pressed fervently against the inside of your stomach. Roman drew in a sharp, stressful breath.

“Rome, it’s okay,” Kendall assured him. “We’re okay. You did good.”

The words didn’t sit with you well. You did good—as if it were one last performance before the curtains closed. The circus monkey and the ringleader. 

“Yeah, I know,” he quickly replied. Roman’s expression crumpled. “I don’t know if—I just don’t know. Like, if I said… I just feel like I didn’t—did I even say I loved him?”

Kendall nodded. “I think so, yeah.”

“I’m pretty sure I didn’t,” Roman asserted. The grip he had on your knee tightened. “Do you know?”

“Ro, hon, I’m—” The words lodged in your throat as you reached out to brush your knuckles over his cheekbone. “He knows.”

“No, but I really don’t think I did—” Roman jerked away to lean closer to the phone Tom was calling through. “Tom, could you put me back to his ear for—ergh, fuck it. Never mind. I don’t know. Maybe just keep the line open.”

If Tom replied, you didn’t hear.

Instead, you glanced out the doorway, where you saw Connor speaking to some other wedding guests. He didn’t know.

“Oh, fuck. We need to get Connor. We need to tell him,” Roman said, following your gaze. “Can you do it, Ken? I don’t think I can. I mean, I could, I definitely could, I just—”

Kendall nodded solemnly, and stood up. Shiv offered to go with him, rising to her feet and drawing in a deep breath in a fruitless attempt to maintain her long-gone composure. 

“Thank you,” Roman said from the ground. He crossed his legs and leaned against the side of your shins. In turn, you placed your hands on his shoulders and squeezed reassuringly.

“I don’t remember the last thing I said to him,” you mumbled, voice filled with irritating tremors and warbles. “In that karaoke room. I don’t remember any of it, and I wasn’t even drunk or anything, I just—”

Roman pressed his cheek against your thigh, shutting his eyes. “I think you were okay. I don’t know. Maybe he heard us. And you have such a nice voice, y’know? Maybe it was good for him. If he heard it.”

The two of you sat in stuffy silence for a few minutes more. 

The three other siblings came to fetch the two of you sooner than you would’ve liked—whisking all of you upstairs to a more secluded room. Connor had tears in his eyes when all of you filed in, face wrought with anguish. “What happened?” he asked, sounding utterly devastated.

Roman apologized over and over again, but made no attempts to explain to him. Instead, he reached forward to grab at his oldest brother’s arm in a strange sort of semi-hug as Kendall filled Connor in on what happened.

“Well, actually, we don’t really know that he’s gone,” Roman asserted to the rest of you, drawing away from them. 

Both Kendall and Shiv began to clamor over the likelihood of Logan’s death. They seemed surprised that Roman was clinging onto such hope that he was alive. You watched Roman with such sad eyes that when he looked at you, he found himself growing even more upset.

“What?” he asked you crossly, brows drawing together. “Why are you looking at me like that? He—he could still fucking be alive! We don’t know! Are you going to trust, what, like, fucking Frank and Karl’s word on it? Don’t look at me like I’m crazy!”

“Right, well, you sound delusional, Rome,” Shiv tried telling him. You could tell she was trying to lay it easy on him and be nice, but it didn’t quite sound that way.

The siblings argued some more. Roman kept denying that Logan was dead, while Shiv gritted out that he’s gone. 

“All I’m saying is that we don’t know for sure. And—and until we do know, it’s just not a very nice thing to say, is it? So just fucking stop!” Roman yelled the last word out, and it ricocheted across the room like a bullet would. 

They all fell silent for a moment.

“Okay,” Shiv said. She looked to be on the verge of crying again. With quiet, reassuring words, Connor wrapped an arm around his little sister and let her lean against him.

“Roman,” you said, making his eyes snap to you. They were red and looked so tired. You were sure yours looked just the same. When you spread your arms as a non-verbal invite, he surged forward and buried himself into your embrace. The two of you held onto each other as if you were both lifeboats for one another in this vast sea of fucking nothing.

Kendall, disillusioned, went back to staring out the window.

“He didn’t want us together,” Roman choked out, forehead drooped onto your sternum. “He fucking—he told me to end it, and I didn’t listen, and I just never listened to him…”

Both your hands rubbed up and down his back. “I know. I know, Rome. I love you even if he didn’t want me to.”

Your words made Roman’s shoulders curl closer to his chest. Closer to you. “Fuck. Me, too, okay? Me, too.”

Half an hour later, the boat began moving away from the dock, much to all of your chagrin. 

Hugo had also come into the room, acting as a liaison. He told the lot of you that the plane-folk were starting to draft a statement to release to the news. The siblings angrily called them to ask what was going on—which did little to sway them.

Not too long after, Gerri came in to offer her condolences. Her presence made Roman all the more turbulent, and he lashed out at her, telling her to fuck off. 

Shiv asked her godmother if maybe they could stay up in the air a bit longer to give everyone some more time to think—and Roman told her to fuck off, too. At that point, you stepped in to say that it’s probably best not to delay the inevitable. Thankfully, Roman didn’t tell you to fuck off at that.

“Just to say,” Kendall said once both Hugo and Gerri hurried off to answer calls and get more information, “every single thing we say and do today… it’s all going in the memoirs, going in the fucking congressional record, it’s coming up at board meetings, it’s going in SEC filings.”

“God, Kendall,” you said, pinching the space between your brows. “Your grief is not a fucking spectacle, okay? It’s not—none of this is meant to be a performance. You can… you can be a fucking human being for once, okay?”

“No, but, listen, I’m agreeing with you,” he said, holding out a hand. “If we tell them to circle the plane around to buy us time, then some fucking rumors start up, and we get crucified for being cold-hearted, or—I don’t even know. We’re highly liable to misinterpretation right now. What we do today will always be what we did the day our father died. So I’m agreeing with you, Y/N. We shouldn’t delay the inevitable.”

Nose flaring, Shiv shook her head in a frustrated manner.

“So, you know, let’s grieve and whatever,” Kendall continued on, “but not do anything that restricts our future freedom of movement.”

“Okay,” you whispered, nodding in agreement. “Okay, Kendall. We’ll be careful.”

The siblings stepped out to discuss drafting statements themself, and you told them you’d arrange transport off the boat to the airport, where they’d be landing. 

Before you reconvened with them, however, you dropped by to see Connor one last time.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered with a frown that felt strangely childish, enveloping him in a hug. “I’m sorry your dad died, and I’m sorry I won’t be here to see you get married. Everything’s gone to shit and I hate that I can’t do anything about it.”

“It’s okay,” Connor said, rubbing your back comfortingly, not unsimilar to what you did with Roman. “It’s okay, kiddo. I appreciate you coming here to tell me.”

You pulled away, using the back of your palm to brush away your tears. “I got you, uhm—as a wedding present, I got you an oil painting kit. It’s not much, but I thought it’d be fun to try it out with you one day. I guess I just didn’t think—I thought I’d be able to give it to you after the ceremony, but… I don’t think I’ll be around. I’m sorry.”

Connor nodded, and smiled at you sadly. “It’s like you haven’t changed at all in twenty years, you know that? I feel so fuckin’ old.”

“Have a happy wedding, Con,” you told him. With that, you turned on your heel and headed off, breathing out a sigh of relief upon seeing a smaller boat right by the one you were on, ready to take you back to land.

One boat ride, one helicopter flight, and one private car later, you arrived at Teterboro Airport, where their plane touched down. Logan was announced dead at arrival. Roman balked and nearly puked up what little he’d eaten on the boat—you rubbed his back and told him everything was okay as he dry-retched nothing in the airport bathroom. There were already dozens of news reporters and journalists flooding the entrance-way for the impromptu press conference the Roy siblings were holding.

Before the sun was down, the news was spilled at the hands of Shiv. It was short and concise, over in no more than a minute. Questions, questions, and more questions—none of which were answered.

“Are we going to go see him?” Roman asked once it was all over. The plane was in view.

“Do we have to?” Kendall replied.

“I mean, he’s not going to be angry if we don’t,” Shiv replied. The rest of you smiled in silence.

Then, Kendall opened his arms, and the four of you leaned into a brief group hug. You kissed Shiv’s cheek and told her to get home safe. She nodded and took her leave. 

Roman jutted his head in the direction of the plane. “I’m gonna go see him. You coming, Kendall?” 

The oldest scuffed his shoe into the concrete pathway. “I’m gonna—I’ll watch him come down from here.”

“Okay,” said Roman. There was no surprise in his tone, but it lacked any sort of harsh judgment. 

“I’ll come with you,” you told Roman, taking his hand. “If you’re going to go see him, I’ll come with you.”

“Didn’t expect anything less,” he replied, eyes soft and sad. 

With a nod of goodbye at Kendall, the two of you left him to stand by the airport exit. 

“Do you think he would’ve been okay with us being together eventually, though?” Roman asked after a while, growing increasingly nervous as you neared the plane. Even now that his father was dead, he was still grasping for his approval.

There was a moment of contemplative silence. You wondered if you truly knew the answer to that, or if you were simply feeding into the kind-hearted caricature of a man Logan often didn’t live up to. 

“I think so,” you replied. Roman squeezed your hand. “I think he would’ve been proud of us for sticking together, even if he didn’t want us to at first. He would’ve respected you for it, eventually, because you didn’t take his shit.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” You beckoned to the stairs leading up into the plane’s cabin. “You ready?”

“No.” Roman’s jaw squared. “I’m scared, I think. But I have to go see him. You don’t have to come, you know. You don't have to be so fucking good all the time. You can just leave if you want to.”

With a contemplative hum, you nodded once after barely giving his words any thought. “I know I don’t have to be here. I know it all, Rome. But I’ll come with you anyway. Anywhere you go.”

Roman raised your conjoined hands, kissed your knuckles in an appreciative manner, and led the way inside.

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[ereardon]

Snowed In || Sunday [Jake Seresin x OC]

A Jake Seresin AU miniseries

Summary: When a massive storm shutters every airport in New York, you receive an unexpected call. Jake Seresin, the ex-boyfriend of your college roommate, is stranded at JFK with nowhere to go. Somehow you find yourself hosting Jake for a long weekend in your studio apartment. What happens when you realize that maybe your long-standing hatred for him was covering up something else? 

Pairing: Jake “Hangman” Seresin x OC [Ella Finnley]

Trope: Forced proximity; enemies to lovers

Warnings: Cursing, references to cheating, eventual smut

Wordcount: 4.4K 

Masterlist here; Part two aka Saturday here

Jake reeled back from your slap, his face pink from the cold and the heat of your palm as it smacked his perfect tanned skin. His clear green eyes were wide with shock. 

“Ella, I—”

“No.” You shook your head, hair whipping at your cheeks. “What the fuck, Jake? You can’t run down the street like an inmate who escaped from Alcatraz and then just kiss me. You can’t spend eight years hating me and making fun of me and then turn around and say actually, no, that was all a facade, it’s because I’m a five year old boy who doesn’t know how to say he has a crush.” 

You could feel heat rising to your face despite the cold and your voice echoed off the nearby buildings. The few people who were within spitting distance turned their heads at your raised voices. 

“Are you doing this to embarrass me?” you demanded and to your horror, a small tear rolled down your cheek. You were surprised it didn’t freeze as it trailed downward. “Pretend to like me so that I fall for your charm and then when it’s over you just leave? Or maybe if I come onto you then you’ll back away and mock me. Is that it, Jake?” 

“Honey, no, absolutely not.” Jake stepped closer, holding out one hand hesitantly before pressing it to your cheek, thumb sweeping away your tears. “Ella. I meant what I said. No ulterior motives.” 

“I don’t believe you.” 

Jake sighed, running his hand through his hair. The rush of cold air hit your face hard as he removed his hand. You had to give it to him. He looked distraught. If Jake Seresin, golden boy, was even capable of looking that way. “I don’t blame you,” he said after a moment. His eyes searched yours. “I’m sorry, Finn. For letting you think that I spent the last decade hating you. Couldn't be further from the truth.” 

“What’s the truth, Jake?” you gasped, air freezing in your lungs on its way down. 

“I think you know,” he whispered. 

You shook your head, backing away. “No. If there’s one thing the last twenty four hours has shown me, it’s that I don’t know you at all.” 

And then you were turning around, taking off down the street, following the path you had just chased Jake down but in reverse, eyes watering from the speed and the freezing wind whipping at your face and Jake’s voice calling after you was just a whisper that got picked up and sailed away in a gust.

You burst through the double doors of your apartment building. Gerry looked up, surprise lacing his weathered face. “Miss Ella. Everything OK?” 

You shook your head, heading for the elevators. “Do you believe in timing, Gerry?” 

“Yes, I do,” he replied as you pressed the button, finger shaking. “Met my wife at a New Year’s Eve party forty-three years ago. She was there with someone else and I was too. But it didn’t matter. It was the right place and the right time and everything since then has worked out in our favor.” 

You looked up at him. “That’s not helping, Gerry.” 

He smiled. “So he loves you.” 

“Never said that.” 

“Don’t need to say it,” he replied. “I can see it in your face.” The sound of the doors flinging open turned both of your attentions. Jake stood, barely winded, cheeks pink, eyes wide. Gerry added, “I see it in his, too.” 

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. Gerry held out one hand, pressing it open. 

“Goodnight you two,” he said. “Stay warm.” 

You stepped inside. “Goodnight, Gerry.” 

Jake stepped forward slowly, entering the elevator, his eyes trained on you, your eyes glued to the buttons on the far right wall. It was an agonizing ride up in silence. The heat from Jake’s gaze alone was enough to thaw you and by the time the two of you had ridden up five floors you were a melted puddle. 

After you unlocked the door and stepped inside, Jake stood, hesitating, on the threshold. 

You frowned. “What?”

He sighed. “I’ll leave, Ella. I’ll get out of your hair. But I just need to say one more thing.” 

“Where would you go?” you demanded. “It’s midnight and the city is practically shut down, Seresin.” 

Jake put his hands in his pockets. “I bought a unit in One57 last month.”

Your jaw went slack. One57 was one of the unbelievable skyscrapers on 57th Street aka Billionaires’ Row. It’s the most expensive building in the city, towering over the base of Central Park. Your eyes narrowed. “You’re fucking with me.” 

“I’m not.” 

“How could you afford that?” you demanded. “You can’t even afford a hotel.”

Jake smiled sadly. “Ella. I never said I couldn’t afford a hotel. I said you were my only option.” 

“That wasn’t true then,” you replied. “You have a fucking twenty million dollar condo sitting forty blocks north of here that’s probably filled with furniture that you’re not allowed to touch.” 

“It was partially true,” Jake said. His voice was much calmer than yours. His eyes were soft. Begging. This was Jake Seresin begging, you realized. “I spent years thinking that you were the one that got away, Ella. I had to come back and make sure of it.” 

Your breath caught in your throat. “And?” 

Jake stepped closer, crossing the threshold into the apartment. “Ella Finnley. I’ve enjoyed myself more the last two days than I have in the last five years. I came back because I thought that maybe there was a chance you’d be able to see me more as more than the douchebag that I was in college. That maybe you would be willing to look past who we were and focus on who we are now. You don’t know this, but I never stopped thinking about you.”

All you could feel was your heartbeat in your chest, the pulsing in your fingertips and neck and near your ear. Was this really happening?

“You’re intelligent and you’re so fucking sarcastic and you don’t take anyone’s bullshit and I couldn’t believe that when you opened the door on Friday that it was really you and that someone else hadn’t scooped you up years ago. And I thought maybe this was it. Maybe this was my chance to be happy.” 

“You’re rich,” you whispered, the words still sinking in. “You’re telling me that you, Jake Seresin, aren’t fulfilled?” 

He shook his head. “None of that shit matters, Ella. The money, the cars, the nice restaurants, the fancy clothes. You get sick of it after a while. I’d rather come home to this apartment every single night and sit on that uncomfortable couch with you and watch you read romance novel after romance novel and eat ramen noodles than go home to an empty apartment overlooking the park. Any fucking day.” 

“Jake.”

“It’s OK,” he whispered. “You don’t feel the same and I get that. Maybe I was stupid to try.” 

You stepped forward, closing the gap between the two of you, your chest practically grazing his as you breathed unsteadily. He was so fucking beautiful that it made you uncomfortable. “You are stupid,” you replied and Jake grinned. “That was never a question."

“I’ll get out of your hair,” he murmured, “and you’ll never have to see me again if you just answer one question.” 

“What is it, Seresin?” 

“Do you believe I changed? If not for you, just in general? Because that’s all I ever wanted, Ella. To be the kind of guy who was good enough.” 

You looked at him. How many times had you snuck sidelong glances at Jake Seresin while he and Suzannah were together? He was hot, even back then. Bronzed, muscular but not beefy, sweet Southern accent rendering anything he said charming with a side of cocky. Maybe you had only told yourself that you hated him because it was better than admitting the alternative. 

That you wanted Jake Seresin. But he hadn’t been yours to have. 

And now here he was, standing in front of you, begging for a chance. Asking if you saw his growth and change. Admitting that he had spent years of his life bettering himself so that one day he could stand in front of you a changed man and receive a simple acknowledgement. 

“Ella,” Jake whispered. “Tell me to go and I’ll go. I think this was a mistake.” 

“The mistake would be leaving before you convinced me why I should give you a chance to start with.” 

Jake smiled. “Convince you, huh?” 

You nodded. “I don’t know if you know this about me, Seresin, but I’ve been known to be stubborn.” 

“Is that so?” 

“It is,” you said slowly, reveling in the way Jake’s gaze never left yours. “So go on, Seresin. Why should I believe anything you’ve said in the last thirty minutes? How do I know it’s not some elaborate prank?” 

“You don’t,” he said. “None of us do, Finn. Life is a big cosmic joke. I’m just doing what we’re all doing. Trying to find that one person to spend your life with. Trying to find the person who makes you excited to get out of bed, the person you can’t get out of your head. The one person who sees you after everything you’ve done and still sees your potential, even when it was a bad day. The person who wants to celebrate with you on the good ones, too. The person who has more faith in you than you have in yourself.” 

“That’s a lot to put on a person, Jake,” you whispered. 

“I know it is, honey,” he murmured, raising one hand, skimming it along your cheek. “I can’t expect you to feel all those ways about me. Especially since up until yesterday I think you hated me. But tell me the truth. Do you feel differently about me right now, standing here, compared to yesterday when I showed up at this same doorstep?” 

“Yes.” It was automatic, the way the word tumbled out of your mouth.

He grinned. “Then anything is possible, Finn.” 

“You mean falling in love with you, Seresin?” 

“Maybe.” 

You shook your head, laughing. “You’re still cocky.”

“I’m working on it,” he murmured, hand sliding from your cheek, fingers wrapping slowly around your neck, thumb pressed tightly under your ear. “What do you say, Finn? Want to give me a chance?” 

“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?” you said softly, closing the gap between the two of you as Jake’s fingers on your neck tightened and suddenly his lips were on yours, his hand on your waist bending you backward from the force of his kiss. Jake swiveled you around, closing the door with one hand, pressing you against the wall both gently and firmly at the same time, his free hand locked behind your head, cushioning you. 

Jake slotted one thigh between your legs, pressing upwards gently until you found yourself moaning into his mouth as he grinned. “Fuck,” he murmurred, pulling back two inches, resting his forehead against yours. “You have no idea how long I’ve thought about that.” 

“Ten minutes,” you replied. 

Jake pulled back further, shaking his head, tracking one thumb pad over your swollen bottom lip. “Ella. Try ten years.” 

“Jake,” you murmured. 

He shook his head. “It’s OK if you don’t feel the same way,” he said quietly. “But if you want to stop, tell me and we stop.” 

You reached out and grabbed his collar, tugging him back in. “Don’t stop.” 

And then Jake’s mouth was on yours, his hands roaming over your chest and settling on your waist, pulling you in tightly before reaching down and hoisting you into his arms as you giggled. You didn’t even care that Jake’s shoes were tracking dirty snow into the apartment or that your jacket was brushing against the comforter as Jake sat you down gently on the edge of the bed. He stepped back, shrugging off his jacket and kicking off his shoes and you did the same, pulling your sweater overhead, locking eyes with Jake as you unbuttoned your jeans, shimmying out of them before settling back on the bed in a pair of lacy black panties and a matching bra. “Fuck,” he murmurred, closing the gap between the two of you, his mouth hot on your neck as his fingertips pressed against your side. “God, you’re gorgeous.” 

 “You going to compliment me all night, Seresin?” 

Jake pulled his lips from where they had slid down to the tops of your breasts. “Yes,” he said confidently. “And you’re going to like it.” 

You flushed. “Then at least take your pants off.” 

Jake smirked, standing up and unbuttoning his pants, sliding them off. With one hand he grabbed the back of his shirt behind his neck, tugging it overhead in a single motion. You couldn’t help it. You gasped. Jake Seresin looked like a marble carving that would sit in the Louvre. 

He was stunning. 

Jake leaned in, shifting you further onto the bed, his lips grazing your breasts before dipping lower, trailing a wet line of kisses down to your navel. “Like what you see?” 

“Shut up,” you groaned, but the words turned into a string of moans as Jake’s mouth landed on your panties, warm breath heating between your legs. He knelt on the floor next to the bed in his tight briefs, fingertips scraping along your sides, one hand squeezing your breast before he slid the silky material to the side, exposing your soaking core. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, leaning back to admire you. 

“Jake,” you whined, and he felt his heart start to rapidly beat in his chest. 

“I got you,” he murmured, sinking down, pressing his lips to your core, tongue darting out, spreading flat against your folds, tasting you for the first time. He hummed against you and you wiggled, but his hands held your hips steady, tugging you forward, consuming you. He was everywhere: his mouth on your clit, his tongue in your folds, his fingertips dragging along your hip bone under one sank deep inside of your walls, curling at the top, beckoning you to come. 

And you did. Unraveling at his touch, your moans filling the air as Jake plunged his fingers inside of your wet cunt, tongue lapping at your folds until you cried out. “Fuck!” 

Jake stood, hands still on your thighs as your chest heaved. Finally you pushed yourself up onto your elbows. There was an obvious tent in Jake’s tight black briefs. 

You smirked. “Want some help with that?” 

He leaned forward, pressing his lips to yours harshly, with one arm scooting beneath you and tossing you to the top of the bed as you let out a yelp. “You’re going to be the death of me, Finn,” he murmured, lips suctioned to your neck as you lifted your hips, brushing your soaking core against his hips. He was hard and you were desperate for him, your hand reaching out and grabbing him. Jake’s head collapsed against your neck as you smoothed your fingers over his bulge. “Fuck, Ella,” he whispered, voice thick and husky. “God, I want to be inside you so badly.” 

You pulled your hand away, shimmying off your underwear. “I need you.” 

Jake sat up. His green eyes were wide. “Sweetheart. You have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear those words come out of your mouth.” 

“Don’t make me beg, Seresin,” you whispered. 

“Wouldn’t dare.” 

Jake crawled out of his boxers and you had to stifle a gasp. His cock was thick and long, practically dripping with anticipation. He pulled your legs so your hips were closer to where he was kneeling on the bed, running the tip of his cock along your folds as you whimpered. 

“Condom,” he muttered.

“Top drawer.” 

Jake leaned over, opening the box as you undid the hooks on your bra, flinging it onto the floor in the living room. He sat back, seamlessly rolling a condom over his cock, fisting himself a few times, eyes trained between your legs. Finally, Jake lifted his gaze to you, hand still sliding up and down his length as he panted. “I’ve thought about this so many times.” 

“Please,” you whispered and Jake hinged forward, sliding the head of his cock against your entrance until it hooked inside of you, pressing in slowly as you moaned. “God, yes, oh, fuck!”

“Doing so good,” he murmured as your legs spread further to accommodate him. “Almost there baby.” 

Jake pushed the final inch in, stuffing you full. Your eyes flew open. Jake had one hand pressed to your cheek, the other resting on your leg, pulling it higher over his hip. Your mouth opened as he pulled back, pushing into you again, setting a soft, delectable rhythm. It was just you and Jake and the sounds of your body slowly coming together and backing away, over and over as his cock brushed your inner walls, begging you to come against him. 

“God you feel so perfect,” he groaned, fingertips pressing your thigh back further, letting his cock slide deeper inside of you. “I could live in your pussy.” 

You cried out as Jake brushed against your g-spot. He shifted his hand to your clit, pressing down gently and your eyes widened, Jake’s hips snapping against yours as his fingertips swirled on your swollen clit. “Oh, my God,” you breathed.    

“Come for me, please,” he begged, chest glistening with sweat as he thrust harder into you. “Please, baby, need to feel you coming while I’m inside of you.” 

“Oh, oh fuck!” you screamed as Jake pressed down, hard, against your clit, your vision going white for a split second as you broke apart along his length, shuddering, cursing as Jake grabbed your hips, driving his cock against your fluttering walls. 

“Ella, oh fuck! Jesus Chris, I’m gonna come!” And then he was filling the condom inside of you, collapsing so his chest was pressed against yours, his hips stuttering as he tried to slow his rhythm. “Fucking hell,” Jake whispered, rolling off of you gently, tugging off the condom and disposing it. He turned back, running one hand up your side. “You’re perfect.” 

And even though you were two orgasms deep, it had been almost a year since you had been touched before Jake. So when you leaned in to kiss him and his cock twitched against your bare leg, you smiled, pulling away. 

“What’s that look, Finn,” he asked. 

“Lay back,” you whispered, raking your fingertips down Jake’s rock hard abdomen, his cock already hardening against his thigh. 

“Oh, shit,” Jake muttered as you leaned down, taking his length into your hand, dribbling a ball of split onto the tip, massaging it over the head of his cock with the pad of your thumb. He laid back, eyes squeezed shut as you took him into your mouth, Jake’s fingers buried in your hair as he gasped, releasing himself against your throat, filling your mouth. When you pulled back, swallowing, wiping one thumb over your lips, his eyes fluttered open and he shook his head. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” 

After showering, the two of you fell into a tangle on the bed. 

“This is so much better than the couch,” Jake whispered. 

“Go to sleep, Seresin,” you complained, his hand spread warm against your lower stomach. 

Jake pressed a kiss to your bare shoulder. 

Sometime just before sunrise, you woke up and looked over. Jake looked peaceful, golden hair spread out on the white pillowcase, one arm slung over the side of the bed, slumping down toward the ground, bare back and ass cheek visible from where he had thrown the covers off. Never in your wildest dreams had you imagined you’d be asleep, naked, next to Jake Seresin. That you would be able to tolerate being alone with him at all. 

But two days had changed everything. 

***

The sound of yelping woke you up a second time. The room was bright, light streaming in from the windows. You couldn’t tell yet if it was the brightness of snow or the winter sun blaring through. 

Next to you, the bed was empty. 

There was the yelp again, coming from the kitchen. Jake emerged a minute later wearing a pair of boxers but no shirt, carrying two cups of coffee. The minute he saw you sitting up, the covers pulled up around your bare chest, he grinned. “Morning Finn.” 

“What are you doing in there?” you asked. 

“Frying bacon,” Jake replied, setting down the coffee mugs on the nightstand to your right. Just as you raised your nose to sniff in the air, he grabbed your face with both hands, landing a kiss right on your lips. As if it was the most normal thing in the world. Like the two of you had woken up together for a hundred weekends in a row. When he pulled away, you felt your breath catch. Was this what it was supposed to be like? “Stay there,” he commanded. “And don’t you dare get dressed.” 

You leaned back, the sheets tucked beneath your arms, and grabbed one of the coffee cups as Jake scurried back to the kitchen. A few more yelps later and he emerged with a plate of bacon, two muffins and scrambled eggs. “Where did you get this?” you asked, picking up a piece of bacon and sliding it into your mouth. “Fuck that’s good.” 

“Snuck out while you were snoring.” 

You slapped his bicep and he chuckled. Jake was so muscular it didn’t even affect him. You let your fingers linger there for a moment before pulling them away. “I don’t snore.” 

“You do,” Jake said, a piece of bacon sticking out of his mouth. “It’s cute.” 

“No snoring is cute.” 

“Anything you do, Ella Finnley, is adorable.” A blush crept up your neck toward your face. You realized for a moment you had no makeup on. You couldn’t remember the last time you were this close to a man without makeup on. 

“Wait.” You frowned. “You went out this morning?” Jake nodded. “What about the snow?” 

“It’s gone.” 

“What!” You rushed out of bed, practically tripping on a corner of the rug, smashing your hands against the window. 

Jake was right. The streets which the night before had been layered with snow, were clear. Instead, they had been replaced by the usual threads of traffic: honking taxis and black town cars and every Toyota under the sun filled with Uber drivers. The sidewalks were congested once again. 

It was like the storm had never happened. 

You looked over at Jake, eyes wide. That was it. The magic of the snow was gone, replaced by the smell of the subway steam hot on the grates and hordes of pedestrians cluttering Fifth Avenue. 

Jake got out of bed, grabbing his henley shirt from where it was folded on his suitcase and handing it to you. You blushed, realizing for the first time that you were butt ass naked, standing in the middle of the room. The shirt was soft as you pulled it overhead and smelled like Jake: coffee, cinnamon, vetiver. The sleeves were long and you balled the excess fabric into your fists. 

This was the part of the movie where the princess turned back into a pumpkin. 

“Jake, I—”

“I’m staying,” he said, his words overlapping yours. 

“What?” 

“In New York. I’m leaving San Francisco,” he said. “That’s why I’m here. I’m moving my company’s headquarters out of the Bay and into the city.” 

“Company?” 

“I own FreeTek.” 

Your head felt heavy. Congested. FreeTek was one of those Forbes 100 companies. The kind with billion-dollar valuations and IPOs that they had billboards for in Times Square. It was a tech company that also helped to build schools in Africa and Central America. 

Your eyes boggled. Jake reached out, one hand cupping your neck gently. “Ella. I don’t want this to be a one-time thing.”

“We don’t even know each other, Jake,” you replied. “You’re just some guy that my roommate used to fuck.” 

He looked hurt, lips pressed into a line. “We know enough,” he said. “And what we don’t know, we’ll learn.” 

“It’s not that simple.” 

“It could be.” 

“Fuck, Seresin, I don’t know, OK. Two days ago I hated your guts.” You looked up at Jake and he chuckled. “One really good fuck can’t change everything.” 

“Really good, huh?” 

“Don’t be so proud,” you said. “It had been a while. I probably would have gone home with Raji, the bodega guy in about a week if you hadn’t come along.” 

“Does Raji kiss you like this?” And then Jake’s lips were on yours, his hands traveling down your back, pulling you in tight, holding your chest to his. 

When the two of you broke apart, he brushed the hair from your face before letting go, taking a step back. 

“I waited ten years, Finn,” he said softly. “What’s another week or another month?” 

“What do you think is going to happen in a week or a month?” you asked. 

Jake grinned. “You’ll realize the fairytale doesn’t end here, Ella. You and me, that’s how this story ends.” 

You shook your head, reaching out, wrapping your arms around Jake’s neck, tugging him in close. “God you’re a conceited dick, aren’t you?” 

“Yes.” 

You rolled your eyes as Jake smirked. “Alright, prince charming. Let’s go see this palatial apartment of yours.” 

Jake slipped his arms around your waist. “Is it bad I’m hoping there’s another storm so I can trap you inside again and have you all to myself for another weekend?” 

You looked outside. The sky was perfectly clear. Blue skies and small puffy clouds as far as the eye could see beyond the buildings. It was as if the snowstorm had never happened. 

And then, so fast if you had blinked you would have missed it, a snowflake drifted in your field of vision, hovering in the air outside your fifth-story window. 

You grinned. “Be careful what you wish for, Seresin.” 

Jake kissed the top of your head.   

Tag list [using my list from The Off-Season since it's my most up-to-date Jake list but if you're not interested in these types of fics just let me know!):

@double-j @topguncultleader @momc95 @hangmandruigandmav

@teacupsandtopgun @xomrsalliej4787xo @xoxabs88xox @blue-aconite @seresinhangmanjake @eminyourjeans @shawnsblue @babyminghao @sadpetalsstuff @angelbabyange @taytaylala12 @wkndwlff @mygyn @oneelleandaneye @averyhotchner @rosiahills22 @djs8891 @rxmtoon @valkyrja-siren-blog @horseshoegirl @abaker74 @clancycucumber230 @theharddeck @redbarn1995 @shanimallina87

@memeorydotcom @joaquinwhorres @bobfloydsbabe @gretagerwigsmuse @djs8891

@blackcatdhisgf @buckysteveloki-me  @eli2447 @bellaireland1981 @seresinslady @hookslove1592 @shotclock24seconds @fanficfandomlove @ryebecca @onceupona-happilyeverafter-love @t8r-tots

#jake seresin #jake series #jake x oc #jake seresin fic #jake seresin fanfiction #hangman fic #hangman smut #hangman series #hangman #hangman imagine #top gun au #top gun fanfic #top gun smut #jake seresin smut

[netherfeildren]

Someone's Wife in the Boat of Someone's Husband .3

Series Masterlist : Moodboard

(Joel Miller x F!Reader)

Content Warnings: Premature ejaculation 🤭; Thigh riding; Age gap; Angst

Rating: Explicit 18+

A/N: Chapter’s up early this week as I’ll be away this weekend :) Happy reading!

Word Count: 5.4K

Read on AO3

.3

We tell ourselves stories in order to live. 

Joan Didion, The White Album

He should stop staring. He’s going to freak you out. He’s aware of this…kind of. Actually, he’s not entirely sure he’s aware of anything right now – thinks that all the blood in his entire body might be concentrated at his dick at the sight of your bare, wet skin in the tiny, red bikini you have on. 

He’s worried he might be on the verge of a heart attack or something – something equally life threatening. After all, he is forty now, and forty year old men are very at risk for those kinds of things, or so he’s heard. This is almost targeted of you, if he really thinks about it. Why would you do this to him? Why are you trying to give him a heart attack? He doesn’t think he’s done anything to deserve this kind of punishment.

Joel knows he’s being obvious, that if he doesn't look away soon someone’s going to notice, but the day is hazy with bright heat and humidity, and he’s not in his right mind at the moment. Tommy’s already nudged him twice. But he thinks he’ll probably have to be dragged away kicking and screaming if someone wants to get him stop looking at you because Jesus fucking Christ. 

You’re playing in the water with Gerri and Sarah and Andrea’s girlfriend. Andrea’s laying out on a towel at the water’s edge, and his brother is right next to him, and his wife is… somewhere, he doesn’t know where, but anyone could notice, and for fuck’s sake his daughter is right there. He should not, should not, be sporting an erection at the sight of you right now. This is the most inappropriate time in all history to be turned on. He shifts on his heels, trying to adjust his hard cock as subtly as possible by tugging on the waist of his belt, but he hears Tommy snort beside him. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Joel says under his breath. 

“You’re so fucked, man.” He claps him roughly on the shoulder and goes to join the girls. 

Joel knows. He’s fucking aware. He’s fucked. He doesn’t think there’s anything he can do about it anymore. He knew the moment he ran back to his room last night to frantically jerk off in the restroom after your conversation. He’s extremely fucked. 

But all he can think about right now is that he would like to smell your hair, he would like to taste your skin again. 

Every time you jump or laugh or splash water at the girls, your tits bounce in the confines of that tiny, little bikini, and he’s left over here almost panting. He’s officially become the perverted old man ogling the twenty-something-year-old girl in her bathing suit. He can’t find it in himself to give a fuck, much less to stop. 

You are, undoubtedly, the most gorgeous thing he’s ever laid eyes on in his entire life. 

You bend down to listen closely at something Sarah’s saying to you, and the look in your eyes is so bright, filled with laughter and the most focused attention he’s seen his daughter receive in such a long time, that his throat goes tight and pinched for a second. 

You tilt your head, and the thick mantle of your hair slides over the slope of your bare shoulder, leaving it exposed. It’s a beautiful shoulder. He wants to lay a kiss on it, bite the edge of your clavicle, leave himself imprinted on your skin. 

Sarah’s chattering on and on, and as you throw your head back to laugh at something she says, the loveliest sound he’s ever heard, your eyes suddenly meet his, take in, what’s probably, his glowering stare. He doesn’t look away, he can’t. He doesn’t care anymore. He wants you to see him staring at you. He expects you to look away, to be angry or call him out for ogling you, to storm off. 

You do none of those things. He watches a swallow pass through your throat, your wide eyes on him. His dick gets harder, if possible. You’re looking back at him. You’re looking back at him. 

He wants you so badly. 

Your eyes flit back to Sarah, you smile again at something she says and pass a hand over her wet hair, nodding, but then your eyes come back to him. They’re almost smoldering in the sunlight, the heat in them calling to the heat he feels rising in his blood. His temples throb in tandem with his heart, he can feel his pulse in his entire body, and he thinks you might read the intensity in his gaze, in his countenance, because your eyes flutter shut, and he watches a shiver move through your body. You turn to say something to Gerri, and then you’re moving towards the bank and out of the water, gathering your towel and things. The cut of your bathing suit bites into the soft flesh of your ass when you bend for your things, and he takes a step forward. Gerri and Tommy have taken over playing with Sarah now, the two of you forgotten. You start to walk towards the house, and he’s going to follow you. He knows he is. He watches you make your way up the path, reach the sliding glass door, step into the shadowed interior. He waits a beat, another, another. He can’t help himself. He has to go after you. He has to find out if you want him to follow you.

He thinks you do. And then he’s moving. Following your path up the stone steps to the house, and slipping through the door into the dark interior. His gaze moves to the window towards where the cars are parked, Eva’s SUV is gone. Of course she’s left without saying a word, without telling Sarah where she was going. He doesn’t care about that right now. He moves towards the back of the house and your room, pauses once he’s outside your bedroom door, fingertips resting on the handle. 

He doesn’t think he’s ever wanted anything more, in the entirety of his life, than he wants to step through this door right now. It is a physical ache inside of him. 

And he thinks that if he doesn’t do this, he might die. 

His fingers press down on the handle, and he slips inside without knocking. You’d left the door unlocked. 

The room is shadowed when he steps inside. You’re on the other side of the bed, and he’s caught you just as you’re slipping a dress over your head — catches the peek of baby blue lace wrapped around your hips as the dress flutters down around your thighs. You jolt a little at the snick of the door and the click of the lock as he turns it behind him. He presses back against the door and lets his head thump against the wood as you turn to face him. 

Your dress is white, with a soft lace edge at the vee of the collar. He can catch the slight gleam of the water’s moisture still clinging to your limbs, even in the dim light of your bedroom. You’re not saying anything – he doesn’t think there’s anything that could or needs to be said in this space. The two of you have been expecting this, he thinks. It tastes of inevitability, of necessity. This was going to happen because it must happen, because it was always going to happen. 

You press back against the wall, mirroring his own stance, but he sees your fingers are knotted in the hem of your dress at your sides. It looks a little like you’re restraining yourself, like you’re holding on for dear life, and that fills him with the deepest sense of satisfaction – the idea that you too feel this desperate need to hold yourself back from this thing that you have to have … yeah. 

The two of you study each other for a second. He watches the slow rove of your eyes down his form – he hopes you like what you see, feels a small pinch of self consciousness in the space behind his ribs, too old, too weathered, but when your eyes come back up to meet his they flare bright with heat, and that’s it, he stalks towards you. He’s sure that the look in his own eyes must seem ready to devour because yours go all wide and doe-like, suddenly, a little like prey, and he knows he shouldn’t like that as much as he does, but the idea of you succumbing to him makes him harder than he’s ever been. 

You put a small palm up just as he’s about to reach you, holding it at the level of your belly, and just with that, he stops immediately. He watches the quick rise and fall of your chest, the slight quiver of the tops of your breasts peeking out above the white lace. He’s going to get his mouth on all that soft flesh, in just a second, and bite it. You take a slow deep breath, and then you lower that staying palm, and he’s on you. Big hand wrapping entirely around the delicate architecture of your jaw so that he can tilt your face up to his, other hand wrapping entirely around the back of your head. The small bowl of your skull fits entirely in his palm. 

He’s touching you, he’s touching you, he’s touching you.

He looks at you through his lowered lashes as he brings his mouth down on yours, and when he finally reaches you, when he finally feels the soft press of your lips against his, hears the tiny sound of your gasp as the two of you make that contact, he keeps his eyes slightly open. He needs to see this, he needs to bear witness to this moment, with eyes open. He thinks he hears himself let out a choked, almost pained sound. 

He has to hear the sound you make when you come for him. 

He holds you there for one second, and then opens his mouth to slot your full upper lip between both of his and sucks on the soft flesh gently. You moan for him at that, the sweetest fucking sound he’s ever heard in his entire life, and your mouth falls open, and then he’s licking inside of you, tasting the inside of your mouth, dragging his tongue behind your top teeth and angling your head back further to deepen the kiss, to devour you more fully. He steps closer, presses his front along the entire length of yours so your chests are smushed together, your tits pressed up against his hardness. Fuck, he thinks he goes slightly dizzy at the feel of you, at the sound of your next moan, wanton and ragged and all for him. You smell so good, like coconuts and suntan lotion and the midday heat.

Your hands come up to clutch at his hair, and the feel of your hands on him has the feeble thread of his control snapping completely. He feels a deep growl reverberate in his chest, and he slides his hand down the back of your neck and spine to wrap around your waist and hoist you up higher. You mewl for him, little fingers twisting and pulling at his hair. He slides his hand lower, clutches a handful of your lush ass to pull your pelvis into him, and he feels your thigh hitch against his hip as the two of you devour each other. Again, his hand slides down to wrap around the back of your leg while he eats at your mouth. He doesnt think either of you have taken a single breath since you first touched. His fingers dig harshly into your thigh, and he hitches it higher up against his hip, rolls the length of his cock against your soft center. Your head falls back at that and you moan, soft and drawn out for him. 

“Joel,” you gasp, “Joel, I don’t – I don’t – please, please–”

“I know, I know, baby. Fuck–” He wants this so fucking badly. He rolls the hot furl of your pussy onto his hard length, practically fucking you through your clothes. He can feel the searing heat of your core through his denim, and he licks a long, wet swipe up the delicate column of your throat, tilts your head back further with his uncompromising fingers wrapped around your jaw to get at the soft spot behind your ear. He has you caught and pinned here between the wall and his body like a butterfly, clutched in the grasp of his fingers – he does not plan to let you go. He slides his hand back up further to grip your ass. He can feel that the cut of your panties is high across your ass cheek, and he slips the tips of his fingers beneath the lace edge as he shifts so that he’s sliding his thigh between your legs and pressing his cock into your hip, still licking and sucking on your neck. 

“You’re gonna come on my thigh. Okay?” All you can give him is the warbled sound of his moaned name. He bends his head to bite sharply at your nipple over the soft material of your dress and you gasp, eyes flying open at that. “D’you hear me? You’re gonna ride my thigh ‘nd let me watch you come.”

“Yes – y– okay.”

He tightens his grip on your ass to slide you harder and faster against him. “Gonna hump my thigh, and let me watch that pussy get wet for me.”

“Oh, God. Joel–” Your eyes roll in your head, lashes fluttering at his words. He feels you bear down harder on his thigh, thinks he can almost feel the slick wetness of your cunt seeping through his jeans. 

“You’re wet, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you moan. You press your face to the space beneath his jaw, and he can hear the stuttered gasping sounds of your breaths, feels the hot slide of your tongue giving the edge of his jaw wet, little licks, and then the gentle bite of your teeth at his pulse. Fuck, he’s going to come. Now, he’s going to come right now. 

He quickens the roll of your hips, slides his hand further beneath your panties, towards your center so that the tips of his fingers press over the cleft of your ass, applying pressure down towards your cunt, grinding your clit into his hard muscle, and you give a sharp gasp and shiver at that, press your face tighter to his neck. He feels a full body jolt snap through your spine and limbs, and he can feel the fucking slick wet of your pussy smearing against his finger tips. He presses his cock as tightly as he can into your hip and comes in his jeans, like a goddamn teenager. 

“Shit– shit, I– I–” He clutches at you more tightly at the same time that you wrap your arms fully around his neck, and it’s almost like you’re trying to climb him. Your entire frame trembles and shakes with the aftermath of your orgasm, your gasping sobs right at the shell of his ear. 

“That was so–” you breath, press a tiny kiss to his earlobe that has him growling, at risk of getting hard again already, “That was so – I don’t–” your voice cracks. 

“It’s okay,” he shushes, passes a palm over the back of your head and down to tangle in the ends of your hair. He grips the long strands and turns his head to bring them up to his nose and breathe in deeply. “It’s okay, you’re okay, baby.”

“Joel–” you gasp. He hates the way you say his name. It sounds too lovely – like the worst thing that’s ever happened to him “We shouldn’t–”

“Please, don’t say it yet,” he begs. “It’s okay… stop your trembling, sweetheart,” he soothes you. Your panting starts to settle at his continued petting and cooing. He has you hoisted so high he’s practically carrying you, one leg wrapped around his waist and the other dangling over the thick expanse of his thigh so that he can feel the soaking wet apex of your cunt at his belly. He hopes there’s a wet spot on his shirt. 

“It’s alright,” he says again and presses a long kiss to the hinge of your jaw, continues to stroke his hand from the crown of your head down to the base of your spine and back up, again and again, another kiss to the swell of your breast. “It’s okay, don’t get scared. It’ll all be fine,” he says, trying to keep you calm. He doesn’t want you getting worried or anxious. He’d never let anything bad happen to you. Even now, he knows this already. 

You pull back to look at him then, your big eyes wide and wet, long lashes clumped together. Your mouth is kiss swollen, and there’s a slight flush to your chin from his beard, a bright gleam in your eyes from your orgasm, messy hair. He made you look like this, debauched and just fucked. He wonders what he could make you look like if he actually fucked you for real, if he wedged his cock inside that tight cunt and made you come around him.

The two of you stare at each other for a moment – he loves the feel of you in his arms. The look in your eyes is almost shocked, but he leans forward slowly to press his lips to yours again, and you allow it. A soft noise hums out of you as your eyes flutter shut, and you let your neck fall back to open yourself to him. He kisses you slowly this time, licking languorous and deep into your mouth, savoring the sweet taste of you so that he might imprint it in his mind for later consideration. You taste so fucking good. You’re so soft, so pretty, smell so good. He wants to keep you forever. 

He gives you one more small kiss before slowly pulling back to set you down. Your bare feet touch the floor, and he cups the bends of your elbows to make sure you’re steady when he hears someone pass by on the other side of the closed door. He thinks it might be Gerri’s sister, calling her name, and you freeze at the sound, at the reminder of the others, as the reality of what the two of you have just done sets in.

Your eyes go wide, and you bring your hands up to cup your cheeks on either side of your face, your pinky fingers slotting over your mouth and pressing into your plush lips. 

“Oh, God–” you whisper, your eyes flutter closed, shuttering your horrified look away from him. “Oh, God. We – we shouldn’t have done that, Joel. That– we’re so–” You’re shivering now, and he moves to wrap his arms around you again, but you turn away from him quickly, spinning to face the wall and hug your arms across your chest to wrap over your shoulders. We shouldn’t have done that, we shouldn’t have done that, you whisper over and over. 

He places a palm on either side of your head, caging you between his arms and bends to press his mouth to your ear, you whimper, and he’s pretty sure it’s unconsciously, but you shift back slightly, pressing your back further into his chest. “Listen to me,” he whispers into your ear, your breathing is quick and overwhelmed, “Listen to me, you have nothing to worry or feel bad about, do you understand me? This was on me. I don’t want you anxious. I don’t want you feeling bad. This was all my fault.”

You shake your head, but he presses on. “Don’t say no, don’t disagree with me. Let this be what I say. It was my fault. Please, baby, I don’t want you upset about this, okay?” The thought of you worrying or feeling guilty about something that he’d come here looking for feels like a spear through the heart. He can’t bear it. 

A voice sounds in the hall again, and you jolt, skittish as a rabbit. He passes a soothing hand over the crown of your head again, and you turn your head slightly to look at him out of the corner of your eye, give him a small nod. “Can we talk later?”

“Y– yes, okay,” you stutter. He presses another kiss to the edge of your jaw, can’t help himself, and you turn your head more, like you also can’t help yourself, to give him your mouth. He kisses you, full and slow, just one more time. 

“Do you need anything? Can I get you somethin’?”

“No – I’m okay,” you say, turning back to face him. “I’m just going to–” you reach beneath your dress to pull your soaked panties down your legs. You grip the swell of his bicep to step one foot out of them and bring your other foot up to catch the dangling fabric from around your ankle. “Sorry–” you give him a shy look as your eyes meet his, and his mouth goes dry. He’s already fully hard again in the uncomfortably wet confines of his jeans. He needs to get out of these things, the cold, soaked fabric chafing against his overly sensitive skin. 

He nods, swallows, “We’ll talk later–” you nod also as you move towards the en suite. Depositing your ruined panties on the corner of the bed as you walk by, and as you turn to go into the restroom, and he moves towards the door to leave, he picks up the discarded, wet lace and pockets it. 

It’s his now. 

-

You brace yourself over the bathroom sink and stare at your face in the mirror. You’re not crying and it surprises you. The one thing you could always count on yourself for, was the promise of your readily available tears, at all times. Your mother liked to call you a weeper in a long line of weepers, and it was true. As much as you hated it, it was true. It has always been extremely easy to make you cry. If you were happy, angry, frustrated, anxious – anything. Your tears were a steady monument of your character, always, and it was tiresome and embarrassing and unavoidable. 

But you’re not crying now. As you take in the bright, feverish look on your face, your swollen mouth and just fucked hair – no matter that he hadn’t actually fucked you – you look like he had. There’s a mark from his beard burn on your chin, and you can see the angry marks around your jaw and throat from where he’d gripped you so hard, starting to settle in. The sight makes your dripping sex clench for more. You want more, and you think that there is a large part of you that feels his call like violence, and maybe you’ll try to say no next time, but you will likely not succeed. And that part of you also whispers that as much as you want to lie to yourself and say that this is wrong, that it goes against everything you’ve always been terrified of all your life, that it’s like everything your mother was – it’s also not. And, even more concerning, you don’t care nearly as much as you’d expected yourself to. And you also want to do all that and more with him, again and again and again. 

And as you take in your reflection in the mirror, you think that you’ve never looked more like your mother than you do in this moment. 

-

The only good thing about the situation you now find yourself in, wet panties, still, hours later, even after having put on new ones, and a tight and achey stirring low in your belly, your breasts heavy and sensitive – fuck, you’re a mess – is that you’d all be heading home in a few hours. You need to get away from him, immediately. You feel like a rabbit on the verge of flight, a savage and hungry predator fast on your heels. 

“What is that? Are those bruises?” Gerri says suddenly, from her spot across from you at the table. 

“What? No – where?” Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

“Just there… on your jaw?” She sets her fork down and reaches for you, gently brushes her fingers along the place where you know his marks lie against your skin. You didn’t think they’d become so noticeable so soon – it’s only been a few hours. “What are those?” she insists, “They look like finger marks–”

“Oh, I’m not sure… I hadn’t noticed. Maybe from when we were playing in the water. I don’t know,” you stutter out, rushed and panicked. 

“Gosh, honey,” she tilts your chin to the side. “They look like they’re going to bruise. Don’t they hurt?” Joel and his wife choose that exact moment to walk in, Sarah bursting in after them. 

“What’s happening?” Eva asks.

“Think we were too rough with her,” Gerri says, and you hear Joel splutter, “In the water. She’s got a bruise on her jaw.” 

Eva approaches and she hums low in her throat, “Look at that…” she says, “They look a bit like finger marks don’t they, Joel?”

“Can I get you anything? Ice or something?” he says as he lifts Sarah up into his arms.

“No, I’m okay. I hadn’t even noticed them… really guys. I’m alright.”

“Maybe you should get some ice on them,” Gerri says, concern in her eyes. “We shouldn’t’ve been playing so rough, honey. I’m sorry about that.”

You can’t help but shoot an anxious look at Joel, you’re sure you’re wearing your guilt like a blaring sign on your face. “You know, maybe I will get some ice.” You move to stand, and you see Joel step closer to you out of the corner of your eye, but he stops himself as you turn to flee into the kitchen.

-

As you walk down the hall, back towards your bedroom, a hand shoots out of one of the doorways and yanks you inside a dark room.

“Joel– someone’s going to see us,” you gasp. He turns you towards him, gently tilts your head back, his fingers whisper soft on your jaw. He clicks his tongue, his brow pulled down into a frustrated frown. The weak afternoon light trickles in through the curtains, and all you can take in are the shadows of his face, his features washed in the blue hue of the drapery. His strong brow, pulled low, his mouth, soft, enticing – dangerous. It’s a little like he’d been sculpted by someone who’d peered into your mind when you were being created, pieced together in the image of everything that could ever tempt you into weakness. “Was too rough with you, sweetheart. I’m sorry.” With your head still angled back he bends to press the softest of kisses to the sore skin, then runs his nose along the edge of your jaw to breathe you in. You can’t help your fingers from digging into his forearms, trying to pull yourself closer to him. The sensitive tips of your breasts brush against his hard chest, and a shiver wracks through you. You feel, suddenly, so cold, while he is so warm – the only source of warmth in the whole world, it seems like. You try and swallow the sound of his whimpered name that creeps up your throat, but it escapes anyways, warbled and pathetic. 

“I know,” he whispers into your ear. And you think that he really, really might know. You think he does understand. Whatever it is that’s happening here is undoubtedly happening to the both of you, and the realization of that is both a comfort and a threat, all at the same time. At least you aren’t alone in this, at least he is here with you, but his co-conspiracy makes it all the more dangerous, seductive, damning. 

You press yourself back, away from him. Wrapping your hands around the thick of his biceps to keep him held at bay. What a joke, you think, as if there’s anything you could actually do to restrain this man if he really set his mind to it. A butterfly attempting to subjugate a mountain. But he stills, lets you hold him where you like. 

“We can’t do this.”

“It feels a little like it’s already done, doesn’t it?” he says gently. And you know he isn’t trying to hurt you, but his words still feel like a bolt of fire zinging through your bones because he’s right, it does. It feels done, set in stone, unchangeable. For how could you have been touched by him now, and never again experience it? You don’t think anyone in all the world would have the strength to stay away from something like this, no matter how hard they tried or how far they ran.

“You don’t understand–” and you think you sound like you’re begging, but you aren’t sure who it is you’re directing your supplication at, nor what it is that you’re pleading for. 

“What is it that I don’t understand, sweet girl?”

Your eyes flutter shut, and you finally remember your promised admonishment from before, “Please, don’t call me that.”

He says your name softly – a terrible sound. “What don’t I understand?”

How to tell him, without spilling your blood at his feet? How to tell him that you had been put together wrong and disjointed and gnarled and that you’d been raised by people who weren’t right and who had, in turn, spawned you not right as well? There was no way to do so with your dignity intact and your shame still hidden. “I need… I need to protect myself,” you say slowly. “I– I’ve been hurt before. I–” This is a humiliating truth to confess. Your words are stuttered, your breath coming in anxious little huffs. He sweeps his thumb over the wing of your cheek, it’s alright, take your time, he whispers, and it makes you feel incredibly stupid and childish that his words settle the fluttering of your heart, just a little bit. “I am easily hurt,” you say, “And it’s always been– been difficult for me to talk about how I feel, and ask for the things I need, and that makes it easy for people to– to– I guess, be careless or take advantage of that part of me – even if it’s unknowingly or accidentally. And I think I just– I just wish that–” you have to look away from him, you can’t say all this while you’re looking at him. A frustrated sound claws out of you, “I don’t know… that someone would find me, someone that would be gentle, that they could just tell – just know that I need to be handled with care sometimes. And I know, I know it’s my own thing, my own issue, and that a person should be able to just ask for the things they need, set boundaries – that maybe I need to grow up or be stronger. I know it’s a lot to ask of someone else, or too much, but still – still I wish I didn’t have to ask. I wish someone would just know. I wish someone could know me well enough – so well – that they just knew what I needed without me having to ask for it.”

He’s quiet for a moment as he studies you, and then: “It’s not too much to ask.” He shakes his head as you start to object, to explain that you know it is, that you know you need to grow up, develop tougher skin, a stronger backbone. “It isn’t,” he says firmly. 

His eyes are so deep and so warm – understanding. You can see that he understands you. “I’m asking you to not make me ask right now, Joel,” you say quietly. “We need to stay away from each other. You’re married and I can’t– I need to protect myself. I can’t do this with you, I cannot become someone who gets between a marriage.” 

-

He wants to argue, to make you understand that there is no marriage, no relationship in the real sense of the word beyond a title, beyond a piece of paper, to get between. That what you and he have here, now, is greater, more meaningful, realer, than anything else he’s ever experienced in his entire life, even now, even this soon. He knows already, he can already feel it, but he can also see the devastation, the desperation in your eyes. And so he has no other choice but to give you this, to give you what you need. All he can do is swallow his protests, force himself to nod, and accept your rejection. 

Chapter .4

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

#someone's fic #joel miller #the last of us #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller/reader #joel miller/you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller imagine #joel miller smut #joel miller angst #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us fic #tlou fic #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction

[jaebeomsbitch]

All I Want Is You (R.R.)

Summary: Roman learning to heal through the pain and eventually realizing he’s capable of so much more than just being a Roy. He learns to love and laugh and eventually gets married! 

Warning: Mentions of Logan's death, Roman's insecurity, and one mentions of his eating disorder. GN! Reader except literally one line just hinting.

A/N: I had this idea of calling Roman "Roro" and it turned into this. I just love him so much, he deserves the world.

Nicknames had been spilling from your mouth all day, you loved to annoy Roman. Calling him any and everything, “Pookie, honey, Romey bear,” especially in front of board members. You loved to rile him up, he’d sometimes lash out but for the most part he’d play it up. Following you around calling you equally embarrassing nicknames, it had become a game of sorts. Trying to see who could embarrass the other worse.

You’d have a sickening display of affection as you feed him an hors d’oeuvre at some company party.  Whispering how “sweet your love bug was for you,” Gerri would clear her throat asking to pull Roman aside. They’d talk in hushed tones as he sighs and comes back to you. Muttering a half-assed apology but he has something urgent to take care of. You usher him away, knowing he’s here on business and not to entertain you even though he promised you’d have his undivided attention. 

You muck around taking a champagne glass joining Willa and Connor in a conversation about cryogenics. You pretend you’re interested, nodding your head as you tip your head back gulping the alcohol. It was going to be a long night.

You drink a couple more glasses before leaving them, walking toward a window to watch the view. You couldn’t even remember where you were. Roman had told you to pack a bag and an hour later you were shoved into a private plane. He was too busy talking logistics to inform you of where you were going or what you were doing. 

Cousin Greg tries to make conversation, asking some absurd question you’d probably see in a “how to make friends” blog. You relent because watching Greg squirm is entertaining. You answer asking him an equally absurd question, watching as he juggles the question in his head as he stumbles over his words. Your gaze unlike most people doesn’t move from his face, you like the way it makes people nervous. He gives you a non-answer mostly just stuttering noises as his eyes dart around the room for an escape. His eyes landed on Tom before excusing himself. 

You can’t help but chuckle, Roman walks up to you. What the fuck was that all about? Was Greg trying to put the moves on you? He laughs but a piece of himself feels uneasy. He never likes the feeling of falling which is why he never allows himself to feel it. He’s always surrounded himself with faux relationships, ones he could pull around the room as arm candy to appease his father. Not that he was ever happy with Roman’s endeavors or conquests.

But you were different. You had this ability to pull him apart like a lobster at dinner. You broke him limb from limb, throwing the pieces of shell in the garbage as you exposed the soft tender meat of his heart. He’s panicked, panicked that you can be ripped away from his hands like his favorite toy. Panicked that he’ll have to watch his dad stomp on the piece of plastic destroying you into a million little pieces. He doesn’t think he’d recover if you left so he stays cowering in the back of his cage. 

Slowly you unravel Roman, even when he asks stupid questions. You let him win on most occasions, you want seafood for dinner but he wants steak? Steak it is. Something about being with you is everything he’s ever wanted and not just because you let him win. You made him feel something he’d never was allowed to.

His father never had high hopes for Roman’s partner. However he didn’t feel any particular way about you. Didn’t say some mean comment, didn’t embarrass you in private, he watches you with a scrutinizing gaze but you don’t buckle. You had nothing to hide because to the Roys you were just another fling. 

To Roman however you were everything. You were the reason he wanted to wake up in the morning, you were the reason he stopped counting calories as he joined you in a midnight ice cream snack. Laughing as he smears ice cream across your face because you called him your “precious little prince.” He tells you to fuck off, rolling his eyes as his ears turn red. Blood rushing up his face at all your praises. He was so unused to it, unused to the feeling of someone being proud of him. 

You were never shy with Roman, always showing him off. Calling him your trophy husband as you twirl him around. Slapping his ass on the airplane, joking that his was better than yours.You show him off with pride to your parents, after you’d mentioned they were at the same restaurant as you were. He noticed their judging gazes, recognizing his face from the newspaper but you beamed. Holding his hand tight, teeth on full display as you press yourself into him, cheek resting on his shoulder as your parents say something you’re not paying attention to. 

Roman doesn’t know how to act, he’d never made it to this stage. Most people weren’t willing to accept someone with sexual trauma, always leaving him because he was too emotionally scarred. They’d always give him the line that they weren’t fulfilled but you were always willing to wait. So he nods, cracking an occasional joke until you’re waving goodbye on the sidewalk and you follow him into the Escalade. 

You help him through the after effects of a panic attack. He’d never done that, never really cared what people thought of him unless he could benefit in some way. So teary eyes, that he tries to pretend is caused by the window cracked open, he asks how that was. He looks away afraid of what you might say, afraid that you might end it right there because your parents hate him. 

“Roro, I could give a flying fuck what they think. All I want is you, okay?” You try to reassure, reaching for his hand. He blinks away the tears, silently nodding. Someone wanted him? Even when he’s wholly broken, even when he can’t fulfill every boyfriend duty, even when he has to abandon you at boring parties? He’s afraid of the feeling in his chest, it feels like he just jumped off the balcony of his penthouse, free falling, waiting to hit the ground. He shoves away the feeling of doubt and plays those words over and over again in his head, a small smile forming as he stares at the city passing by. 

He lets himself grow attached to the silly nicknames, attached to the feel of your skin under his hand, the feeling of his fingers running through your hair, the way you massage his scalp, the way you hold him in bed. Your sleepy eyes blinking at him as you whisper a new nickname before cuddling into his chest. 

He liked the domesticity of you in his apartment, he’d usually feel disgusted only ever liking the feeling of being alone. But somewhere he grows accustomed to the way you leave your shoes at the entrance, seeing your toothbrush next to his, and even though he complains, the way you take half of his closet. He liked seeing your clothes together, promising he’d either upgrade the closet to fit both your needs fully or buy a new penthouse. He wanted you to have a say in the building, he was ready to let go of his “bachelor” pad, wanting you in every trace of the new home. Wanting you to be in the fiber of the new apartment so even if you left he could never forget what you shared. 

Soon enough the Roys lump you in with Roman like you’d always belonged. You were practically married without the certificate, Logan would give Roman shit about it. Telling him you were a fine piece of ass and that he should lock you down before you realized the mistake you made. 

In all of Roman’s sureness the doubt creeps in but you’re there through his fathers death. You’re there to console him and let him cry. You let him be vulnerable in a way he was never allowed, never judging, just reassuring. You’re there when Gojo buys Waystar. You’re there to enjoy him even when he’s lost. When he realizes that all his sacrifices were for nothing and that his entire being was bullshit. 

“But you’re not bullshit to me,” you whisper. Forehead leaning on his back as you hug his abdomen. He lets himself be held, no quip on his lips as he leans into your hold.

“Roman… it’s just you and me forever and always,” you finalize. You knew in your heart it was always Roman. You were two broken puzzle pieces that somehow fit together and in your brokenness you made each other better. In your time together he transformed into the phoenix you knew he was. He opened his eyes to the abuse he endured and refused to continue the cycle. 

You spent almost a year on a self healing journey, traveling the world together now that he had stopped nipping at your hand. He let you pull him out of the cage and he was free, completely free. He was fearless to love, you both relished in your time together even though his smart mouth got ahead of him sometimes. You find ways to be intimate figuring each other out. You live in the ups and downs of the relationship. Realizing that he never needed to be in a loveless marriage like his parents. 

He proposes unsurprisingly to everyone. The Roys finally have something to look forward to in the life of mundane nothingness. They Pat him on the back for ‘finally not being an idiot and making the right decision.’ He surprisingly offers to take your name, says he’s ready to shed the Roy name and try out a new skin. Kendall calls him a cuck for even suggesting it, that was his legacy after all. They might not have the company but they’d always have the name and blood. You knew Roman wasn’t serious, knew that calling you a Roy would elate his little heart so you deny him. 

The word fiancé is always at the tip of his tongue, he loves the word. Loves that he’s finally able to say it. When you become his wife he becomes unbearable but you’re the same. Going to restaurants and talking about the “ole ball and chain” making him late when in fact, it was him fixing his hair that made you late. Nonetheless you whip your hand around showing off your wedding ring set at everyone that glances at you, holding your head high as you walk with him. Roman was yours and you were his and somewhere you forgot where he ends and you begin. 

—side story—

You notice the way his eyes light up when you call him ‘Roro’ because no one has ever called him that, so it was special to you.  Also because he remembers the day in the Escalade when you didn’t outright but basically admitted your love for him. His siblings take to jokingly calling you Scooby Doo because he was 

“Roro Roy” to you. It starts after you ask him to pass the salt, “Roro, pass me that please.” The Roy siblings turn to look at you and Roman. They were used to your nickname antics, sometimes jumping in with their nasty names but this was new. Seeing Roman beat red as you kiss his temple, unaware of Shiv and Kendall’s knowing smiles. Connor looking at Roman with a small smile before turning back to Willa.

“Roro raggy, Roro shit the bed” Kendall would joke in a fake accent, that just sounds horrible. The table laughs, including you.

Roman quips back something stupid but you were happy. Happy that you had a nickname and that you were a part of their lives. That Roman gets to be an uncle to Shiv’s little boy. 

#roman roy #succession #roman succession #succession roman #succession spoilers #succession season 4 #succession fic #roman roy fic #roman roy imagine #roman roy au #roman roy lives on #roman roy / reader #roman roy x reader #roy siblings #mentions of the roy siblings #kendall being kendall #gn!reader #mentions of tom wambsgans #greg hirsch #logan roy #roman roy is my baby boy #cheesy #just roman and reader being cheeseballs #domestic fluff #succession fluff #slight angst #not really

[torterracotta]

When I heard Gerry Duggan get asked on Cerebro, white boy to white boy, about the unfortunate optics of announcing and then immediately murdering the least white team of X-Men in years, I knew we'd be in for some shit. Man, did he deliver - after some evasive waffling about how ORCHIS is meant to be fascist, and how the story's point is to put the collective back of mutantkind even more against the wall than it was any of the last six times something like this has happened.

And, honestly? That's fair! This year's Hellfire Gala is ultimately the first part of a larger story, and history shows it's not going to last forever — hell, does anyone remember what the status quo was immediately before HoXPoX? At least this time most of the characters have implicitly just been sucked into Mother Righteous's magical Poké Ball, rather than outright killed; if anything, that's an improvement. I was fully content to just think "hey, not for me," and get back to ignoring everything beyond Immortal and Sabertooth, secure in the knowledge that certain topics are bound to be handled poorly when almost everyone in the room is white, when Duggan said three words that stopped me in my tracks:

"Keep the faith."

See, that struck me, because for a lot of us, this entire era of comics has been about nothing but faith. I've been reading X-Men, and engaging with fans since I was eight, and I've never seen the kind of collective buy-in from other marginalized readers that I have with Krakoa. X-Twitter (or, I suppose, X-X) has been Blacker, queerer, more disabled, less homogeneous than the fandom has ever been, all of us buying in to the implicit promise that this time things would be different. Sure, the line was headed by a presumably straight white guy, but there were other voices in the room for a change, and it really felt like they were going to be listened to. We thought we'd moved past clunky metaphor, past queerbaitimg and awkward racial gaffes. Storm and Kwannon were getting to do stuff, Arakko was full of amazing characters of color, Cyclops and Wolverine were probably fucking, we were hooked, and we turned out.

It's hard to overemphasize just how wild this was to see in real time. X-Men has always been allegory, sure, but it's traditionally allegory by and for the majority. For years, the readers who might really feel that resonance, those of us who have been hated and feared for the unforgivable crime of being who we are, we were afterthoughts, tolerated at best. We got scraps, "representation" from creators who seemed to be offended by the implication that we would ever want something other than being fetishized tokens. We were, as Hickman so succinctly put it, told that we were less when we knew we were more. And then, out of nowhere, Krakoa made us inescapable.

The two biggest X-Men podcasts, X-Plain the X-Men and Cerebro, are hosted by queer people. X of Words has been rocking the Black, queer experience like no one's business, Mutant Watch has been a joy to listen to and to be on. Not just podcasts, either, in everything from criticism to fanart to cosplay, voices have been elevated that were previously silent. I mean, hell, I've gotten paid to talk about comics, that shit never would have happened four years ago.

All of that was based on faith.

Faith that we were being celebrated, for once, instead of just used. Faith that for whatever growing pains there might be, things were going to be better.

And let's not fuck around here, there were growing pains. In the first year alone we dealt with everything from blatant whitewashing, to queerbaiting — any Sunspot fan can go into detail there, assuming you can get one of us to stop crying for long enough. While that was going on, we watched Bryan Edward Hill (the only non-white writer in that initial wave) put out a book that was, let's face it, at worst aggressively mid, only to be excoriated by certain portions of the fandom, and dropped by the office, while significantly worse books managed to hold fast — er, hold on. Not to say that Fallen Angels was without sin, mind you, the book was packed with enough orientalism to make Chris Claremont blush. But, at the same time, Wolverine's first year ended with him doing what he does best: trying so hard to be Japanese that I had to check to make sure he wasn't Marvel's editor in chief.

Through all of that, we kept the faith.

Things didn't really get much better, of course. Arakko was a fascinating concept, and felt like it damn near doubled Marvel's characters of color. And yeah, the ending of X-Factor was one of the most poorly handled racist messes I've seen this side of… well, any given day on Twitter. Sure, the whitewashing has never stopped, to the point where everything from X-Corp to this week's Hellfire Gala has had to be hastily edited between previews and release. Maybe we keep dealing with stuff like butchered AAVE, even more queerbaiting, Kate Pryde's funeral, the genocide of almost all of those Arraki characters, and whatever the hell was going on with Lost in Way of X. Maybe there's a very real argument to be made that there's something insidious about three straight years of voting to determine if characters like Monet (who, by the by, has been retooled from "basically Superman" to "Black woman with anger powers") deserve the honor of being written by a white man who's stayed writing with his foot in his mouth. I mean, hey! All my white friends in the scene say he's nice, just like Williams, or Howard, or any number of other crusty crackers who are still proud of tripping over the bar Claremont left on the floor in the 80's!

And dammit, we kept the faith!

Even before the issue dropped, the Fall of X has had a lot of us wary. After all, all of the promotion leading up to it has been white guys saying the minority allegory has had it too good for too long, which, whatever, press copy. We all know they've gotta sell books — they, in this case, being the almost exclusively white, almost exclusively male creative teams attached to all of the books in the line. Sure, as Duggan said, the 616 has a fascism problem, but it’s hard not to see this as a deliberate step back from the almost double digit number of non-white creators these past few years — almost as if Marvel has realized they can make space for a fourth ongoing by their favorite white boy if they just throw out a Voices special every couple of months as a containment zone for the darkies. And, hey, considering how good ol’ C.B. got his foot in the door, I can’t even fake surprise. At this point, it’s a minor miracle any time a person of color is tapped for anything that’s expected to last beyond one issue.

In this issue, as a reward for keeping the faith, we got to see something astounding, something that'd bring a tear to the eye of even the most cynical reader — a team that was only half white. My god. And sure, their brutal murder in favor of a team with Kate "Hard-Arrr" Pryde and the Kingpin(????) was only a pit-stop between the resurrection of the suddenly ashy Ms. Marvel and Lourdes Chantel being killed off for the sake of a white woman's angst yet afuckinggain, but ain't that the dream that Malcolm Ten or whoever died for?

The Krakoan era, ultimately, has been the same as every other. Empty promises by white men who show us time and again that there was never any point in expecting anything better. Any meaning we've found, everything of worth, has been what we've made for ourselves.

We've spent years keeping the faith, Gerry, while you and yours have continued to let us down. What the hell do we have to show for it?

#xspoilers #Hellfire Gala 2023 #X-Men

[vieramars]

Making this its own post bc it wasn't getting seen as a reblog

Re: a very niche oddly specific fluffy TMA au

So I'm in a swing dance club and I started thinking about what if the characters of the magnus archives were all in a swing dance club. Absolutely no regard for canon, just all the characters hanging out having a time.

Half the characters do not know how to dance. Some are really good at it. Elias is the club leader who thought having a position of authority would be fun but now he's stuck managing a room full of chaos gremlins with fear powers.

Half the playlist is mechs songs. Nikola insists on doing live music every few meets.

Jon watches tons of videos on swing moves in order to learn them and is constantly watching his feet to make sure he's doing the steps right. He's a follow and almost exclusively dances with Martin. Even though he helped form the club he perpetually has new awkward member energy. Still, once he's had plenty of time to practice a move, he can do it perfectly nine times out of ten.

Martin is a much more confident dancer than someone who'd just met him would think. He's a lead and his musicality is on point. He's really good at songs with tempo changes, and his favorite move is probably swing kicks.

Tim and Sasha are terrifying on the dance floor. Sasha's the lead and every dance she's trying to beat her own record for how many times she can spin Tim consecutively. They prefer open position and every other move is a basket turn. 

Michael showed up one day and just became part of the club by being there, then later invited Helen along. Both of them like to dance with pretty much everyone, and both of them love sliding doors. Sometimes involving actual distortion doors. Their dance moves are reality bending and they always have the flashiest outfits. Michael is ambidancetrous (comfortable leading or following) and Helen is a lead.

Agnes wears very thick gloves so that she can dance with people without burning their hands. To avoid accidents she's also very good at no-contact moves. Sometimes she brings Jack over for club meetings. She's a lead and her favorite move is sugar pushes though she also likes line dances and does the best charleston out of the whole group.

Daisy and Basira are inseparable. But they are both leads. Rather than dancing with other people they just solo jazz and line dance together.

No matter who she's dancing with or what moves they're doing Nikola is killing it. Her favorite dances are steal dances where everyone's rapidly switching partners. She's always the fastest to find a new partner and get back into step. She does everything with a flourish and is an expert at dips of any kind.

Melanie and Georgie are just vibing. Probably the calmest dancers in the room despite being far from the calmest people. Georgie can dance the entire length of the meeting without taking a break.

Gerry mostly only dances with Michael, Mike, or Tim because they can match his energy the best. He loves fast-paced songs and complicated moves, and can absolutely fuck it UP at the shim sham.

Mike Crew also really likes fast-paced dances and loves spinning his partner until they might as well be in the vast for how dizzy they are. Dancing with him comes with a spin at your own risk disclaimer.

Oliver is more of a slow song enjoyer, and he joins Jon and Nikola in the live music performances. While Agnes is the best at many variations of the charleston, Oliver is the best at the cowboy charleston specifically, and he can do it while playing a fiddle.

Peter Lukas REFUSES to dance except for rarely when Elias convinces him to, in which case they have a vibe that's somewhere between overly formal ballroom dancing and Morticia and Gomez doing the most. 

Jane Prentiss is mostly here for the snacks and the vibes but she joins in for warm-ups and line dances. The only person she'll dance together with is Agnes cause they both prefer the least amount of physical contact possible.

Annabelle Cane is the main dance instructor and she's a phenomenal teacher. She knows all the moves by heart and she's rocking the roaring 20s aesthetic. If she's leading a line dance, everyone's in perfect sync.

If I missed anyone lmk, this is all coming directly out of my brain so some characters might've gotten lost in the stream of consciousness. I'm open to asks about dance pairs, who leads/follows in that pair, and what songs they would pick if they had the floor 👀

By the way, dance pairs do not equal ships! I do ship a few of these pairs (and it makes sense to me for couples to gravitate towards dancing together), but anyone can dance with anyone!

#the magnus archives #tma #tma au #tma swing club au #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #sasha james #tim stoker #michael the distortion #helen the distortion #agnes montague #daisy tonner #basira hussain #nikola orsinov #melanie king #georgie barker #gerard keay #mike crew #oliver banks #peter lukas #elias bouchard #jane prentiss #annabelle cane #i have many thoughts about this #it lives rent free in my head

[blasphemous-lies-and-deceit]

For the kiss asks:

GerryMichael (or DoorKeay) for either

Throat, inner thighs, or palm

Pretty please with a cherry on top? I'm making you an icecream cup

Hell yeah ice cream!

This prompt was also suggested by @starrypawz ...glad the samebrain is still going strong in this corner of the fandom

~*~

Michael had to admit, somewhat begrudgingly, that sometimes he overdid things.

Once he had reached the point of accepting that he couldn't be fired from the Institute, and Gertrude simply didn't care, and Gerry outright encouraged him, his personal style shifted drastically. He still loved a good sweater vest, cherished every jumper he made with his own hands, but letting loose with his fashion was freeing in ways he couldn't even say. Bright button downs, patterned cardigans, unique charity shop finds that he'd hoarded for years, never working up the nerve to wear them. But now he had no reason to hold back.

Unfortunately sometimes his common sense was held back as well.

"I hate this dress!" he announced as he burst through the door of their flat. Gerry looked up placidly from his vegetable chopping, raising an eyebrow at his outburst.

"First of all, that's my dress-"

"Pfft," Michael blew a raspberry at him as he struggled to kick off his knee-high boots.

"Second of all, while it does make your legs look fantastic, that's not what I personally would have picked for you." Gerry turned away to wash his hands as Michael collapsed forlornly on the couch cushions, legs hooked over the armrest. The tight fabric immediatly rode up his thighs, as it had been doing all day. The whole ensemble had been a struggle to keep together, mildly uncomfortable, and he'd barely had anyone to show it off to. It was all such a waste. "I think a longer skirt would have been the better choice, love."

"I wanted to look like you," Michael admitted sadly, swinging his legs idly. Gerry hummed and made his way over to him with his hands on his hips, examining him from a higher vantage for once. "You always look so cool and confident in this. I thought I would too."

Gerry's hands landed on his knees, pushing them apart as he leaned in over him. Michael's breath caught in his chest as he blushed, staring up at him with wide eyes and a suddenly pounding heart.

"It takes a surprising amount of skill to wear short skirts," Gerry said, his tone conversational and casual as if his hands weren't brazenly sliding down his thighs. "I'm sure you figured that out today, didn't you?" Michael nodded breathlessly, desperately hoping his hands would keep going. "Did you do the deodorant trick?"

"What's the deodorant trick?" Michael asked weakly. Gerry's smile turned wicked as his hands shifted, sliding along the inside of his thighs.

"Putting it on your inner thighs helps reduce chafing. Although-" he raised one of Michael's legs up, sliding it over his shoulder, eyes warm with intention- "that does make this better."

Michael didn't have to ask what would be better, because it was so obvious as Gerry lowered his head and began kissing the inside of his thigh. He gasped in delight, arching back against the cushions. The skin there had felt hot and irritated all day, and Gerry's lips were soothing and cool, the piercing through his lip a hard contrast that made Michael moan. Gerry echoed it back to him, his kisses light and fast as he moved up and down the length of his thigh.

"Wasn't kidding about your fantastic legs," he murmured, rubbing his cheek against his skin. "Fucking legs for days. Miles long. Wrap me up in them and I'll be a happy man."

"Stay there and you'll make me a happy man, too," Michael sighed, cinching his leg tighter as Gerry turned his attention to his other thigh.

"One of us has to make dinner," Gerry reminded him with a sigh, reluctantly extracting himself with one last kiss. "Why don't you get changed into something more comfortable?"

"Why don't I just lay here with my legs spread and you forget about dinner?" Michael shot back, not moving an inch as Gerry tried to move away. "What if I make you forget about dinner?" That certainly seemed like a possibility, due to the absolutely longing look Gerry was giving him, mixed with fond exasperation. Michael shifted his hips enticingly, and Gerry groaned.

"Bit of a bastard, aren't you?"

"You could have a bit of bastard, if you like," Michael offered teasingly and spread his legs wider. Gerry looked deeply tempted, and Michael encouraged him further by fumbling for the side zip and pulling it down, revealing the lacy pants hiding beneath the skirt. "Come on..."

Gerry groaned in defeat, resting his head against his knee and smiling down at him. "You're not allowed to complain when dinner is late, then."

"Imagine how much I would have complained if you left me here like this," Michael pointed out with a laugh. Gerry laughed with him, and climbed up onto the armrest, obviously intent on crawling up to kiss him properly. Michael welcomed him happily, and was even more happy when the skirt finally came off.

#gerrymichael #tma fic #gerry keay #michael shelley #doorkeay #the magnus archives #slightly spicy under the cut

[corn-fanfiction]

SAVIOUR COMPLEX (PT. 2)

Rated: M

TAGS: language/ drunk and disorderly content/ Mark Hoffman being a c*p/ reader is normal and likes to do normal things/Mark is protective bc it's his job but he's also problematic/ because he's a cop

(Pt 1)

The next day, you go into work as normal.

Scratch that- you do everything as normal. Brush your teeth, get dressed, eat a bagel and have some coffee, lock your door as normal.

What is not normal is the car idling outside your apartment. The windows are somewhat tinted, but you can still see the silhouette inside. You grumble, sigh, duck your head. But you still hear the car door open and close as you try to flee.

"Y/n! What the hell are you doing?"

You stop, turn.

"Walking to work. Same as I always do."

"You're in witness protection and you think you're gonna walk 15 minutes to work?"

"What happened to keeping out of each other's way?"

"Get in the car."

Your eyebrows shoot up in shock.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm just trying to do my job. Get in the car."

"Look, whatever happened with you at work is none of my business so don't take it out on me. I'm walking, unless you wanna arrest me I'm not getting in the back of that car."

For a split second you see something flash across his face that you realize is him actually considering it. But he drops his hands from his hips, mutters something, then gets back in his car. You're half worried he'll roll next to you the entire time, but he speeds off, presumably to the restaurant. Whatever, you think. 15 minutes of peace.

You feel a bit more energized by the time you reach work. It's a brisk morning. Smoke curls into the air from a cigarette pinched between the lips of a line cook on a milk crate. He nods to you and smokes to the end of ashes and embers. A bell rings as you enter from the backdoor into the server's alley. You move to your locker, decorated with peeling stickers that had been gifted to you by your previous mentor. When you came in five years ago, you didn't have any stickers for your book or your locker, so you got to pick from the bottom of the bin. A Budweiser bottle, a Limp Bizkit logo, and a Hello Kitty silhouette. Not you at all, but has become you still.

"Y/n!"

You turn. Around the corner, Gerry pokes their head, which is riddled with blue hair and silver piercings. A little younger than you, but you still always thought they were so cool.

"You have a table."

"What?? I haven't even clocked in yet."

Gerry shrugs. "He asked for you."

Your stomach sinks, and you know exactly who is waiting for you.

After you clock in, you fold your apron and fasten it around the front, tucking your book into the pocket. You blow out a puff of air, straighten out your shirt, shake out your hands, then step into the front of house.

Immediately you clock Mark sitting at the corner table of your section. Fury lights you up and you fight the waitressing urge to grab a menu and napkin.

You storm over to him and he looks up from his paper like an asshole.

"No menu?"

"I don't wanna get fired after shoving it up your ass."

“Assaulting a police officer?”

“You can’t be here.”

“It’s my job,” he returns his attention to the paper.

"At the very least, you're taking up a two top."

"I tip."

You scoff. "You're fucking unbelievable."

"Can I get the chicken salad?"

So he's been in here before. Asshole didn't even need the menu.

"White or wheat?"

"Wheat?"

"Toasted?"

"What do you think?"

"Raw, then?"

He smirks and you feel the blood rush to your face. You elect not to respond. He better tip you 200% just for getting on your nerves.

Your other tables are fine. There's one that tips you like shit but you know it won't kill your earnings. And, luckily, Mark does tip well and leaves when he's done. You do get a sense that he's waiting in his car outside. You almost feel bad for the guy. Almost.

And yeah, you know he's only doing his job and he didn't ask for it. But if this is what the first day is like, who knows what you're in for in another month.

God, another month? You should be so unlucky.

Once lunch shift is over and you do tip out, Gerry catches you.

"Hey! I'm pulling a double but do you want to go out tonight?"

You toss the idea around in your head. Gerry is the only one who can get you out of your apartment. Otherwise, you're happily indoors, watching a movie or trying and failing to knit. You also consider the fact that Mark will probably have to sit in the corner grumpily and the idea makes you smirk.

"You know what? Let's do it."

------

You know what you're doing.

You know what you're doing and he hates it.

Sure, being at the restaurant was his own, weird little form of entertainment, but at least he bought something and tipped you well, despite your poor attitude. But this is rude. He has important work to be done, and he can't have your little rendezvouses fucking it up. He needs to shake you, and fast. The best he can do is lie low as Jigsaw until they determine you're no longer in any danger. Not that you are, anyway.

That is, as long as you don't keep getting in his way.

You're going out to a bar which, even though he knows you're safe, is still monumentally stupid because you don't know that. And you're all dolled up for some attention.

Mark shakes his head from inside his car. However much you get on his nerves, he's not a misogynist or anything. Yay, you get to go out and look nice doing it. Meanwhile, he has to babysit you. He just hopes your tolerance is high or you don't drink too much. The last thing he wants is to drag your ass out of that bar and tuck you in at home.

Granted, you're not foolish enough to walk this time, but he knows you'd rather eat glass than have him drive you, so your friend from the restaurant picks you up. He follows.

It's not the seediest place ever, but it's definitely not a bar he'd frequent. He gives you and your friend a moment before he follows in behind you. He finds a high-top table and sits. It's not the kind of bar where someone takes orders, so he just sits and watches you.

You do seem looser than before. Your hair is down and your lips are red and your skirt is tight. You're doing shots with the friend from work- the one with the blue hair. A couple of guys come up and offer to buy you two drinks and Mark straightens a little, awareness on higher alert. But you don't seem bothered, so he decides not to worry about it too much.

An hour passes.

You're on your fifth tequila shot with a beer between and he's starting to get worried. Not that he thinks you can't handle yourself, even if you can't, but from the little speech you gave him in his office, it doesn't seem like your usual evening. Maybe that's a good thing, but he still keeps a watchful eye on you.

Another hour passes.

He glances at his watch impatiently. When he looks back up, you're wobbling over to him and he shifts, ready to balance you or walk you to the car.

"At ease, detective," you slur with a mock salute. "Gerry's taking me home when we're done, so you can skeedadle."

Mark scoffs. "Gerry may be taking you home, not that they seem in any position to be driving, but I leave when you leave. Just act like I'm not here."

"Well, your glaring is scaring people away. I'm having a hard time enjoying myself when you're staring every suitor down like you're my possessive boyfriend or something."

Jesus, is that what she really thinks? Mark wonders. That he's trying to drive people away from you?

"Just doing my job, sweetheart."

The pet name slips out between his lips before he has the good sense to bite it back. He hides his genuine surprise with himself with a sneer.

"And what a shit job it is," you mutter. "Not even gonna buy a drink?"

"I'm on the clock."

"You look like a fuckin' narc, dude."

"Probably because I don't want any drunk assholes to bother me."

You give it a moment to sink in, then scoff, then turn away, heading back to the bar. He hadn't meant it like that, not exactly, anyway. Oh well. It got you to leave him alone.

A third hour.

Mark decides this isn't healthy behavior, because at this point you're going to get alcohol poisoning or something, especially judging by your shit tolerance level. He also just wants to go home and sleep. Fuck his night job, he's tired.

He stands and comes up behind you and Gerry, tapping the bartop between them. Gerry sees him first.

"Ugh, get lost, creep!"

Mark ignores them and turns to you. "I think it might be time to go."

You roll your eyes and the action makes you dizzy. "Fuck you, Hoffman. You're not my fucking mother. If this is how I want to spend my evening, let me."

"I wouldn't give a shit except it's my job to make sure you're safe, and right now your sense of self-preservation has gone out the window."

Gerry looks between the two of you. "Y/n, do you know this guy?"

You blow a raspberry at your drink. "Unfortunately. It's a long story. I'll tell you once he leaves." You shoot daggers at Mark.

Mark sighs, braces his hands on his hips. "Don't be difficult. Remember, I'm a cop. I got no problem hauling you out of here."

You gawk at him. "Do you want to lose your job, golden-boy? Cause that's not how you get back on the team with the other big kids."

You're really grinding on his nerves now. He's actually trying to help you and you're too drunk to know it.

"Okay, that's enough."

Mark makes the mistake of taking you by the bicep and you shrug him off with a surprising amount of strength, but it still takes you out of your seat.

"Get the fuck offa me!" you hiss. The look in your eyes spells out danger and the willingness to make a scene, so he puts up his hands.

"Just come outside, then."

"Hey, buddy. We got a problem, here?"

Mark turns and behind him stands one of the two men that had been hanging around you earlier. Fuck. People are starting to quiet down and watch what's turning into a show. Mark curses himself.

"No problem. Just helping the lady."

"Well maybe she doesn't want your help."

The man steps closer. He's taller than Mark, sure, but also buzzed and therefore too disoriented to really threaten any damage.

Still, Mark needs to diffuse the situation.

"Look, why don't you and your friends go get another drink and let me do my job, alright?"

Mark turns back to face you but the man lands a hand on his shoulder, and when Mark turns around again there's a fist coming for his face. On a sober day Mark would not be faster than this guy but the alcohol has made the stranger sluggish, so Mark is able to catch his fist, twist his arm, and slam the guy's face against the bartop. The bar has gone dead quiet. Mark retireves his badge.

"Detective Mark Hoffman, LCPD," he says to the crowd. Then, to the man he says lowly, "Now, go get sobered up and we'll call this a friendly misunderstanding, hm?"

The man nods frantically and Mark lets him up, shaking off some wayward tequila that the ruckus has spilled. When Mark looks around for you, you're gone, along with Gerry.

"Fuck," he mutters, and sprints out the front door.

You are crouched down, back to the brick of the building as Gerry runs a comforting hand across your back. Mark spots you and approaches.

When you see him you stand and move back.

"Get the fuck away from me, you psycho!"

"He was starting something he couldn't finish so I took care of it. Are you ready to go home, now?"

"Fuck you, pig!"

Gerry comes to stand between you two.

"Okay, let's all cool off for a second. Now does anyone want to tell me what the fuck is happening?"

Mark sighs. He doesn't want to explain himself to anybody else, but if it gets you back to your apartment, he'll do it.

"I'm a cop. She knows me. I've been assigned her case. Now, could we please get in my car so I can drive you both home?"

Gerry looks between the two of you. Begrudgingly, you nod.

"Fine," Gerry says. "But I need to hear more."

------------

Gerry is passed out in your bed. You two have known each other for so long that sharing it isn't a problem at all, and you want them to be comfortable. They were content with the explanation you and Hoffman both were able to offer.

Now, you and Hoffman are on your couch. You have a glass of water in your hand and he's loosened his tie. You both look worse for wear.

"I'm sorry that happened, really. I know you don't like this situation, I don't either. But he put his hands on me."

"You can't just dislocate someone's shoulder because they touch you," you mutter. "Fuckin' cops get away with anything."

"Like I said, I'm sorry. Hopefully he's gonna go home and sleep it off. Better than spending a night in a cell. Speaking of," he stands and groans. "I'm probably gonna go home now. I think I've caused enough trouble."

You watch him with tired, puffy eyes as he goes for his coat.

"I know it's late. You...want to sleep here? Sofa's not great or anything. I don't know how long your drive is..."

You have no idea why you offer it in the first place. You don't like him. He doesn't like you.

But...

Maybe there's something to be said about him taking his job so seriously, even if it inconveniences you. And his apology did seem genuine. And if he really wanted to be a dick, he could've thrown that guy in jail.

Not that it excuses any of it. But still. It's late.

Mark watches you carefully as you go over all this in your head. But he finishes putting on his coat and straightens out the collar.

"Thanks, but I really should go. And you should get some sleep."

"You too. You look like shit."

He laughs. "Well. Goodnight."

"Don't punch any more drunk people."

"I won't."

He leaves. You shuffle up from the couch to lock the door behind him. Your fingers pry between the blinds and you watch as he goes down the sidewalk to his car. Unlocking it, he spots your eyes and gives you one last wave- and he's smiling. You find yourself waving back. Maybe it's the sleepiness or the drunkness. Maybe it doesn't matter. You hate Mark Hoffman, but maybe you hate him a little less than yesterday.

Maybe you'll hate him less tomorrow.

But probably not.

#mark hoffman #mark hoffman x reader #saw fanfic #fanfiction #angst #hurt/comfort

[romeulusroy]

Dependence Pt. 2 (Roy!Sibling x Roy Family)

((SUCCESSION SPOILERS))

Character/s: Connor, Kendall, Shiv, Roman, Logan mention

Word Count: 1,478

Warning: addiction, drugs, alcohol, death mention

Tag: @locke-writes

A/N: I'm feeling angsty, and that means everyone has to suffer :) Y'all thought I could leave this as it was? Never!!! I live to write angst, lol. This is on a whole new level, though, so please, please, pleass be warned!! Feedback is always appreciated 💜💜💜

Dependence Pt. 1 / Dependence Pt. 3 / Dependence Pt. 4 / Dependence Pt. 5

Being The Youngest Roy Would Include Pt One.

Being The Youngest Roy Would Include Pt. Two

The anger was back. Hot, red, like the blood running from your nose. Tasting of iron. Metallic. It was back and harder to control than ever. You were white-knuckling it for as long as you could remember. No one could understand how taxing it was, how much energy you were putting into keeping it together. Managing. It took everything inside you. Every bit of energy and attention and focus. Sooner or later, you’d lose your grip. You’d fall down again, scrape your knee, chip a tooth. You’d hit rock bottom. It was always waiting for you, the only inevitable in your life. The only constant. That, and your fathers hatred. He was gone now. He was gone and so was his meanness, but your anger lingered. It intensified. Towards him, that bastard, towards yourself, a pathetic little kid still seeking daddy's love. That man wasn’t capable of anything close. After the wedding, the boat, after seeing the body for yourself, you went home and you screamed. You tore your throat apart, to shreds, trying to tire yourself out. Trying to outsmart yourself. You were so close to going to a meeting, but you gave it a second thought. The cameras had followed you home, the paparazzi ripping your every action apart before his body was even cold. They would follow you. It would be the second biggest story in the papers besides his death. The cruelty of the headline, the phonecalls you’d receive, one after the other in this exact order: Kendall, Shiv, Connor, Roman, Gerri, Karl, Frank. Everyone would know you were teetering on an edge, threatening to jump. Everyone would hold it against you one way or another, as if the word addict were in lights across your fucking forehead. You had to keep yourself together alone. It was up to you. It always was. They could only do so much. They could only support you so much. Besides, they were grieving, too. It wasn’t right to go crying to them. Let them be, you figured. You can do this. You’ve done this before, and that’s when he was alive. That’s when he taunted your every decision. 

The looney bin, he’d called it. Rehab, you were tired of correcting. Now you’d never have to. 

Your sinuses burned all the way through, as if they’d been lit of fire. You threw your head back, dropping the rolled bill, inhaling through your nose. You could feel the blood move through your veins, your lungs inflate and deflate with air, you could feel the tingling, numbing of your gums. You let out a laugh, feeling it burst from your throat like a balloon. Growing, growing, until it popped. The music, the speakers so loud you could feel the bass in your bones, jolting them with every note. Surrounded, the drugs the most popular thing here. Old friends, friends of friends, friends of dealers huddled together like they’re trying to keep warm. An old spot. Underground, far from the city, from your life. Are you running away? You sister had asked you this once, when you were little and packing a suitcase. It was a pediatric act, full of stuffed animals and thick, chewy, cardboard books. Yes, I am. The memory ends there, with your gap-tooth response. You had more baby teeth in your mouth than holes. You were so little, so small, and yet you knew what your life would be like. What it would turn out like if you stayed a second longer. You were still running. It’s what you did best, your only natural instinct. You leaned against someone, a nameless figure dressed in black, watching the neon lights, waiting for anger to disappear, dissipate. Another drink would help. 

You’re not sure what day it is, if it’s night or day. How long you’ve been here. A few days, at least. You slept a bit, in between songs. You were up mostly, seeking distractions, seeking a thrill. The club is dark, almost black. The lights cut through bodies, slicing them to pieces. There are no windows, no clocks, nothing to remind you of the outside world, thank god. The music pounds into your skull. If you just keep moving, dancing, kissing strangers, you won’t have to think about it. About them. You won’t have to look at those awful pictures Connor sent to the group chat, your father’s body in a fucking kilt. You won’t have to feel the vibration in your pocket from his calls, his questions, from everyone else. You were missing something important, something you hadn’t been necessary for, something big for the company. Your brothers and sister were off somewhere with that blonde freak. Per their insistence, Gerri had left a few voicemails. Checking in, asking where you were, if you were alright. They didn’t have time to worry about you, not this weekend. You were just fine. Better than fine, you were great. 

Someone held you close, talking a mile a minute. You couldn’t hear a word that they said, nor did you care. Just keep going. Just keep going. Your heart beat fast in your ear as if it were trying to crack through your ribs, fight its way to the surface, break the skin, splatter on the floor. Maybe then, you’d feel better. Had they broken dad’s ribs doing compression's? Stop it. You kissed them hard, tasting bourbon, mixing it with your tequila. It burned, the concoction, making you gag, but you did it anyways. Your hands shook as you cupped their face, pushing away every bad thought you’d ever had. You could get more coke, more pills, whatever they were offering. Someone was always offering something. Their condolences, they said with pity. Getting high of your old man. Funny. It made you want to laugh until you sobbed. 

More calls, this time from Ken, Shiv, Rome. At first angry, misunderstanding the situation. The anger, the annoyance in their voices. The silent treatment, really? Were you mad they’d gone without you? The jet could only wait so long, and you weren’t picking up your phone. Why were you acting like such a baby? It’s not like you’d showed any interest in the company, either. Gerri had a few harsh words for you, calling you flighty and selfish, making everyone distracted while they had a multi-billion dollar deal on the table. Then they started to worry. Were you okay? Where were you? Please call them, please. Overcome with rage, you threw your phone at the concrete floor, smashing the screen to pieces. You couldn’t listen to it anymore. Not like this, not when you’d ruined everything. You hated worrying them, like you were still a baby, needing help with everything. This was your bender. This was your life. If you wanted to ruin it, if you wanted to set it up in flames, you would. The last thing you saw was a silly picture of Connor you’d taken. He was making a stupid face just long enough for you get it in film. His contact name flashed for a second, then your phone died. Big Brother. Big Brother was worried, had gotten word of your sudden disappearance. He was calling to check in. You slumped on the floor, cradling the bits and pieces, regret setting in as you came down from your high. What have you done? 

You lay with your cheek pressed against a sticky table, the booth warm with other bodies. They pushed into you. You’d taken more pills, washed it down with more alcohol. Things were slowing down now. The world had gone from so fast, so full, so euphoric, to slow motion. Your breathing was slow, your thoughts even more so. Call someone. Who? There were so many people to choose from. The thump of the music jolted the glasses on the table, threatening to crack them to bits. Too many to count. Too many pills. You knew that now. You could feel it. How weak your pulse had become, how shallow your breathing, how cold you’d become all of a sudden. You’d gotten the guy next to you to give you his phone. A phone call, that’s what you were doing. Yes. You dialed the only number you could remember. It went straight to voicemail. Your words came out slurred despite the panic you suddenly felt. You could barely keep your eyes open, they were so heavy, it was so much work. Your breathing ragged, every inhale taking everything out of you. It was so hard to remember anything. You tried another number. Someone picked up, someone scared, someone frantic, talking to others near them, far from you. Calling names you recognized, begging, pleading with you. You didn’t know who though. The words came out before you could stop yourself, slowly, painfully so. Choking them up, nauseous all of a sudden, your whole body shaking. Daddy, I messed up. I messed up and I’m scared. I took too much. I took too much, I did it again. . .

#writing #connor roy #connor roy imagine #connor roy x reader #kendall roy #kendall roy imagine #kendall roy x reader #shiv roy #shiv roy imagine #shiv roy x reader #roman roy #roman roy imagine #roman roy x reader #logan roy #logan roy imagine #logan roy x reader

[lostonehero]

This is stupid and I just really love Martin ok?

In which I make Martin's mother even worse

Tim sighs. "Why are we even here?"

"Because it's mandatory fun." Sasha snickers.

Jon crossed his arms. "Martin's running later, which isn't a surprise."

"Dude, chill out he literally just moved flats." Tim raised his brow, realizing Jon was saying this because they should all be together.

Jon sighs, his hair tied up in a bun. The heat outside was a lot for summer, and he would rather be inside.

Sasha points to a man with red hair, and his back turned to them. "Tim, where's your bidar?"

Tim followed her, pointing, and he could feel himself grow red in the face. The man was tall and chubby, but the fat was hiding muscle underneath and had intricate tattoos littering his body that poked out from the tank top, and they covered his legs that were shown from his shorts. "What department does he work in?"

Jon swallows that man could crush him, and he just wanted to be carried by him. "I'm not sure he must be a new hire."

Sasha rolls her eyes and approaches the man. "Hey, so my... oh!"

"Oh, Sasha! Sorry, I got turned around in the crowds, and I may have missed the train this morning. I made it, though, and I feel a bit underdressed, but it is quite hot today." Martin looks over and waves. "Oh, hey!"

Jon physically pales he just assumed Martin wasn't.... He wore big clothes and his face was soft. He makes his way over, and he can see the tattoos close up, and he furrows his brows. "I didn't think you would be one for tattoos."

Martin's face falls for a moment. "I didn't get them on purpose, but that isn't important. I'm glad I managed to find you guys. I ran into Elias and his ex husband that wasn't a fun conversation to get away from. Elias did look confused when he saw my tattoos he didn't even say something about being unprofessional. Anyway, I also passed some fun fair food they got from America that looked cool."

Tim nods. "I didn't know you worked out? You could have said something we can go for a run together, maybe even go on a hike."

"I just do some free climbing. It's nothing special, but hiking sounds fun." Martin smiles as Sasha grabs his arm.

"Ooo, show me the booths and spill the tea on what the big boss man was arguing about." Sasha chuckles.

"Oh, alright, yeah, so it turns out Elias's ex-husband is Peter Lukas. You know the Lukas family...."

.....

Martin sighs as he returns to his flat. He's incredibly embarrassed. Everyone saw the carvings, well they called them tattoos. He knew they weren't tattoos. His mother wasn't a kind person and used him as an experiment of sorts. 3 fears all across his flesh, he was an avatar of all of them. Jon was becoming the archivist, and Jonah was keeping him unaware till he couldn't. He knew it wouldn't work out well.

He served the Web the End and the Vast. Not really serving, they treat him like they are coparenting him, not their true nature but due to his mother they were infected by humanity and all three worry for him and don't want him hurt. He likes to think they don't want to lose their capacity to learn and understand. He actually doesn't know the reason, but he really doesn't think it's because of himself. He sighs and takes out his phone.

....

Martin: Anyone still awake?

Oliver: Late shift?

Martin: Not really.

Annabelle: Martin, don't be upset your marks are beautiful. Mother loves you dearly.

Mike: Stop.

Martin: Thanks, Mike, and I mean I know they're a part of me and everything, but also my coworkers saw.

Oliver: Did they push? I know you're working with the new archivist.

Martin: No? Tim asked me to go hiking with him, and that's not an invitation Mike to fuck with him.

Mike: :)

Martin: Mike, I'm serious, or I'll make you share bodies with Gerry again.

Mike: :(

Oliver: To be fair, Gerry does like being out of the book like that. He won't accept my offers, I don't think he likes me.

Mike: That is not the issue.

Martin: I can house Gerry for a bit.

Annabelle: Please do he promised to come to our knitting club

Martin: Are we still good for Saturday?

Annabelle: 👍

Mike: Yeah, promised Simon I make him a hat. Don't know why he asked for eyes on it.

Oliver: Oh yes, I'm working on my crochet plush, and I've made Oliva a little sweater.

Martin: Oh! (He sends a photo of a cat sized spider in a little nest she's wearing a crochet hat, and a little crochet eye is hugged by one leg.)

Annabelle: Such a big baby. I love her.

Oliver: I'm so happy she likes the little eye.

Martin: I think she thinks it's her baby she's got a mind like a cat.

Mike: she won't let me pet her :(

Martin: You tried to toss her in the air

Mike: I was just playing.

Martin: You're lucky she didn't bite you.

Mike: I love her, though she has to know that.

Annabelle: You can tell her on Saturday.

Mike: fuck you I will.

Annabelle: (a photo of Mike curled around a broken spider web, obviously drunk, and Olivia blurred skittering away)

Oliver: :)

Martin: :)

Mike: fuck all of you I'm going to bed.

....

Martin smiles as he shuts his phone off. At least he could trust them with his secrets. They were his family more, so then his actual family was. He shudders, and he knows some his carvings are glowing as he hears a soft oof.

"Sup, Martin." A skinny goth floats above him.

"Hey, Gerry, feeling better?" Martin smiles.

"Anytime out of that book is great. Oh, right, congrats on the new job. I hope you're being unhelpful as shit." Gerry smiles, showing off his tongue piercing.

"I'm trying not to be awful, just clumsy. Besides, Gertrude is dead, and the new archivist is kind of cute. He was also a part of that band we looked up." Martin hums sitting up.

"Dude, no way the Mechanism?" Gerry floats eagerly around Martin.

"Oh yeah, but he completely shuts any of that down. He totally thinks he has to be professional like all the time. He wasn't expecting the promotion, so he's over compensating." Martin hums. "Tim and Sasha are great too, but they treat me with kid gloves in a sense since Jon yells at me. I honestly don't mind it, but I just wish I could tell the truth, but nothing freaky has happened yet, and so they will just think I'm crazy and Jon is playing super skeptic."

"Ooo sounds like an office comedy in the Magnas insistute. I bet Jonah is having a field day." Gerry smiles. "I wanted to ask if I could stick around longer this time. I want to help you out, and I have experience dealing with Jonah."

"Gerry, you don't have to do anything for me. I'm happy to keep you around as long as you like. I know the book is painful, and I don't mind sharing my body." Martin hums. "Just don't borrow it while I'm working, please."

"Oh, absolutely not. I don't want Jonah knowing I'm hitching a ride." Gerry hums. "Anyway, what I want to do is sleep. Oh, how I miss being able to turn my brain off."

"Yeah, yeah, your flimsy excuses for me to practice a normal sleep schedule are getting worse." Martin hums, stripping off his clothes to put on pajamas.

"I thought that was pretty good." Gerry chuckles, tossing back his black hair. "You know I'm so happy I dyed it before I died, and my tattoos perfect also the piercings."

"I'm not getting any piercings." Martin rolls his eyes.

"Damn, I'm 0 for 2 now. Eh, at least you're taller than I was." Gerry chuckles. "Alright, time to sleep, and I'm going to make breakfast, I'm dying for an egg sandwich."

"America ruined you." Martin snickers crawling into bed.

Gerry gasps. "Take that back."

Martin chuckles. "Good night, Gerry."

"Goodnight, Martin." Gerry smiles. "Happy to be back."

.....

"Why are we sneaking into a random basement?" Gerry floats next to Martin.

"Because it's a progression, Jon asked me to look into the statement so I am. I highly doubt I will find a ghost spider, but it shows initiative." Martin sighs as he drops down from the basement window. "I'm also channeling my inner you."

"I'm touched, Martin. Now let's get a matchbook and burn the place down." Gerry chuckles at Martin's eye roll.

Martin turns his flashlight on his phone on. "Besides, we have to find evidence so I can eventually come clean. I don't want to lie to them forever, and I don't want them to end up like Gertrude's assistants."

"Understandable, and honestly, I don't blame you. This stuff is tricky, and I know your three patrons sure as he'll don't want what the Beholder does. I just hope things don't go sideways...." Gerry stops and looks at Martin. "Are you even listening? What has your attention... over..... fuck me."

Martin's light is shining at a woman in a red dress her skin is open pours full of worms. A hacking sound is heard from her. He steps back, and he knows he stepped on the silver worms because the woman cracked her neck to stare at him. "Hey, I'm sorry about that."

"Do you hear their lovely song?" The woman steps forward as worms spill from her lips and her body directly at Martin.

Martin steps back and looks to the window and focuses on the sky, and suddenly, he's in the air flying. "Fuck!"

Gerry takes a breath for his dead lungs. "I would of said warn me before you fly up but fuck I rather this then the worms. I don't even have my body, and I can feel it in my very core. Fuck the corruption."

Martin groans as he flies through the air. "Should I even go home? I don't want Olivia to eat those things if she follows me."

"Fuck no, and I can't believe I'm saying this but go to the archive, make up a story please." Gerry shudders. "I fucking hate the corruption."

......

Tim intercepts Martin. "Dude, you look like you fell from a building. Are you ok?"

Martin gasps. "Tim, I saw Jane Prentiss. I was investigating the ghost spider, and she was there, and she was like a living hive. I need to find Jon, I I have to make a statement."

Tim grabs his arm. "Martin, breathe, please. If you're ok with that, come on." He leads Martin's to Jon's office.

Martin hopes he isn't laying it in too thick, but again, he is panicked from the worms. "J-jon I have to make a statement."

Jon looks up a frown on his lips. "What happened to your investigation?"

Tim huffs. "Dude seriously?"

"Tim, it's fine." Martin sighs. "I went to investigate, and uh, Jane Prentiss was there. Yeah, uh, she was like a living hive." Oh, he just realized the patrons are going to be pissed when this gets back to them.

Jon nods. "Ok, I believe you are you ready to make a statement?"

Martin nods.

.......

The tape clicks off, and Martin sighs. He's so grateful Jon doesn't have the compulsions yet. He would have had to explain everything with his mother and the other avatars.

"Statement ends...." Jon takes a breath and slams a book down on a lingering worm. "Martin, I uh I'm sorry."

"It's ok, I mean, it's not, but you didn't try to fill me with worms." Martin frowns. "I don't want to go home. I'm worried that if I do, she'll find me."

"I have a cot here." Jon gave a rare smile.

Martin smiled back.

......

Jon nearly crashed into Tim. It was late, and it's only been a week since Martin started to live in the archives. He could hear him talk, and he knew Tim heard him too. "I uh you're never here this late."

Tim sighs. "I was dropping off clothes for Martin he wasn't wrong his flat is surrounded by those worms. It's also cobered in cobwebs." He pauses, staring at Jon. "I won't say anything if you don't."

Jon frowned but nodded both men, leaning by the door opened by a crack listening to Martin talk.

"I don't know. I just panicked!" Martin was pacing, but they couldn't see that.

"Panic is such a strong word when dealing with the corruption. I say you acted accordingly." A male phone emitted from the phone neither Tim nor Jon recognized.

"I mean, it does suck we have to reschedule our sewing day until further notice. Actually, the craft club sounds better or avatar tea time." A soft, nervous, sounding male voice answers. "I uh actually it would be good timing they changed my schedule at the hospital and have me working more doubles because suspicious deaths. I can't exactly tell them about fears because I'll be sanctioned."

"Why do you still have a normal job, Oliver? Mother would gladly accept you." A female voice interrupts.

The nervous voice Oliver sighs. "Because I have a doctorate, and I'm not going to waste it because I'm an avatar of the End."

"Fuck off Annabelle." That was Martin's voice but something was off. "I swear you're the definition of insanity."

"Gerry!" Three voices overlap.

"Man, I don't even care if Jonah sees me. Fuck the corruption, also fuck Gertrude while I'm at it." Not Martin chuckles. "Anyway, I'm the one to convince Martin to hide away here so Olivia doesn't eat the worms."

"Oh, that's good. I wouldn't want the baby to get an upset tummy." The unidentified male voice responded fondly. "I will get her to love me."

"She won't." Annabelle chuckles.

"Right, well now, the words out the corruption well attacked, so what have the patrons said?" Not Martin gave a heavy sigh. "Martin won't tell them even though he knows they could feel it when one worm got to him."

"Mother isn't pleased.... you really shouldn't go into the tunnels." Annabelle hums softly.

"Simon isn't worried because you know Jonah and everything, but the Vast gave me a heads up to drop in. I fucking swear if The Vast makes me join the fucking archives I'm going to be pissed I fucking hate being underground." The male voice groans. "Shit I'm giving them ideas. I dunno fuck it I'll visit tomorrow. I'm sure the new archivist would love a statement.... wait is he even that far yet?"

"No." Oliver speaks up. "He's still quite human."

"Huh." The male voice pauses. "He's also still in the dark so..."

"Don't you fucking dare." That was the real Martin.

"But it could be fun." The male voice chuckles.

"Mike, I swear, I will send Gerry to you right now." Martin huffs.

"Oh fuck yeah I'm the threat." Not Martin finishes right after. "We're totally going to paint our nails."

"Almost worth it." Mike huffs. "If it happens, I'll take Gerry."

"I don't understand why you hate it so much, Gerry seems quite nice to spend time with." Oliver seems to have returned to his phone. "Sorry, but would you rather I come by? The End isn't pleased and doesn't mind rushing things with Jane... if you get what I mean."

"Of course we do Oliver, but man fuck I never thought I would ever see the End get upset." Mike whistles. "Anyway, I'll show up tomorrow , and uh, I'll return your scarf. I finally made a new tackier one. I put clouds and stars on it, a pretty fun project."

"Guess I'll have to try harder next time." Martin chuckles. "Annabelle, if you come by, you'll give Jonah a heart attack, which please don't, it's bad enough that we have Peter in our group I don't want him to force himself in." Martin sighs.

"We can watch them divorce live." Not Martin snickers. "Serious though, does anyone know if Peter is ok?"

"He's fine he doesn't know how to accept group calls." Annabelle hums. "He's gotten better at texting, but it's still awful."

"For a man stuck in his 20s, he sure does act his actual age." Oliver hums. "Do you think if I'll ask hell, bring some fish from his boat?"

"If you're willing to listen to him talk about his ship." Mike adds dryly.

"Oh, of course, we love chatting about the sea together." Olivier hums.

"That can mean so many things, and I don't want to know any of it." Not Martin mutters.

"I still haven't convinced him to our crafts yet, but he is making them." Annabelle sounds giddy. "He made Mr. Spider a lovely jumper."

"Pics or it didn't happen." Mike interrupts.

"Already sent in the chat." Annabelle chuckles softly. "Are you sure you don't want a job working with Mother?"

"Oh, he hung up." Oliver hums. "Annabelle, you shouldn't tease him. He likes spiders like Martin does."

"They are cute." Martin adds. "But I have to go, it's late and I have to make sure Jon isn't staying late. He needs more rest than he gets. He has the right to enjoy being human while he is."

A noise of agreement, then Martin hangs up his phone. And the abundance of the door opening and two falling men.

Martin gasps. "Fuck."

Tim and Jon look up at him.

Martin sighs and pinches his brow. "You're both supposed to not be here." He sighs again and shuts the door behind them. "I'll explain, but no interruptions."

The two men barely nod as Martin begins his story.

......

"So the not you speaking is a dead guy that we have statements on called Gerald Keay." Jon blinks.

"Fuck that, Elias is Jonah Magnus?" Tim interrupts.

"Uh, yes, to both er kind of." Martin hums not elaborating, scratching his chin. "I'm sorry I've been in this mess for a long time, so I'm used to these things. My mom did carve my skin as a toddler..."

"That's really fucked up." Tim frowns. "So why here? Why are you pretending here?"

Martin sighs and frowns. "Jonah has this idea of the Watchers Crown, which will be a disaster sure the fears will have a feast, but it will come to an end. It's not some renewable apocalypse it's finite, and honestly, the fears fees are better here than there, but the eye watches and never truly learns, which again is stupid. I don't fault Jonah he is going off what his patron desires, but you can't exactly confront an eldrich horror on why its desires are bad for everyone."

"Could I? I mean, you said it yourself the archivist is more than a job." Jon bites his nail in deep thought.

Martin chuckles. "Jon, you're still human barely touched at this point. You can barely get through one statement a week. You can try to force yourself, but you have to let yourself adjust. You don't even have a hunger yet. Mike will be coming by, and his statement can help since he is another Avatar, but again, you're still so early that being touched by any other power can lead you to be an avatar to them. I never have a choice, and well, you kind of don't unless you want to gouge your eyes out."

Jon shudders and Tim looks a bit sick.

"So if you want to discuss things with the Beholder, keep moving towards becoming the archivist, or you can tall to Jonah, but I don't think he'll be much help." Martin frowns. "I'll try to keep you both safe, but it's not going to be an easy task, especially here."

Tim had a conflicted look before settling on determined. "Fuck it I'm in. I don't know about you guys, but I don't want the world to end either, and I think I would like to pick one of the fears that are infected, as Martin said."

"Oh you have a options then, The Web, The End, The Vast, and The Forsaken but that one happened by accident they have basically bonded to Peter in such a complex way that they are intertwined. All have pros and cons. Mike likes to joke that Peter is Forsaken's special little man." Martin smiles.

"Can I talk to the other avatars first?" Tim hums. "But thank you for not hiding."

Jon nods. "I appreciate not being kept in the dark."

"I'm glad I can help. Anyway it is late and I need to get some food." Martin sighs.

"Monster food or actual food." Tim raised his brow.

"Actual food." Martin rolls his eyes. "And I promised Gerry to grab kebas."

"Is it weird sharing a body?" Jon vaguely motions to Martin.

"Not really. Gerry's a cool guy, and I met him when I was 18. He didn't exactly get a choice on being stuck in the book. Sharing a body gets rid of the pain of existing in that book. I'm happy to help him out." Martin smiles. "It was weird in the beginning, but it's not so bad anymore."

"Can I ask Gerry questions?" Jon leans forward.

"After dinner. He's getting a bit impatient." Marrin chuckles. "He knows I'm hungry and can be little like a mother hen for whenever he is possessing." He laughs softly. "He's like a brother to me at this point."

Tim chuckles. "That sounds about right."

......

A man with black windswept hair and a large scarf covering his neck and lower half of his face. He has a pair of aviation goggles on his face. "Hey, I'm here to make a statement to the head archivist."

Rosie blinks and can smell ozone oozing off the man and a feeling of vertigo making place in her mind. "I uh... i"

A man stepped out behind hee coming from the hall. "It's ok, Rosie. I can handle this." The man smiles and motions for the man to follow.

The man sighs. "Fuck.... fine ok." He follows behind the shorter man, by an inch.

The man sits behind his desk and smiles. "Care to explain why you're here?"

The man rolls his eyes and pulls his scarf down to reveal his scar that travels down his face to his neck, then chest and arm. "I'm not here for you, Jonah. You should already know why I'm here."

"Enlighten me." Jonah continues to smile.

"Fine. Martin got attacked by the corruption following a lead, and he asked me to come by to make a statement and introduce myself to everyone, but you already knew that and wanted me to tell you the actual truth because you can see Martin due to the web." He smirks, knocking the nail on the head.

Jonah scowls. "Will you be interfering?"

"Depends on my mood. I can always ask Simon to drop by." The man smiles wider.

"The Beholder hasn't changed, and I will do my best to complete their desire." Jonah sighs, leaning back. "But you aren't here for that. I suppose I should be happy, but I can't say that I am. Don't kill my archivist." He pulls out a vistor badge. "This should get you inside. Please don't kill any of them they are still new."

The man smiles and takes it, and adjusts his scarf. "Pleasure as always, Jonah. It also makes me so happy to know you still haven't figured out what Martin is." He chuckles as he leaves.

Jonah rubs his temples.

......

"I'm excuse me unauthorized people aren't allowed down here." A woman with coffee colored skin and long curly hair and large glass puts on a polite smile.

Mike pulls up his scarf and holds up the visitor pass. "Oh right, sorry. I just got my pass from Mr. Bouchard, I'm here to talk to Blackwood and uh the archivist."

"Oh! My apologies, my name is Sasha it's nice to meet you." Sasha smiles and hums. "Jon's in his office with Tim and Martin like a little boys club."

Mike nods. "I'm Mike, by the way. Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you, Mike." Sasha smiles and guides him to Jon's office, then knocks on the door.

Jon opens it, revealing Tim crossed his arms and Martin eating a kebab in the corner. "What is it, Sasha?"

"I have a person who is here to see you and Martin." Sasha motions to Mike.

Jon nods. "Oh uh hello come in."

Mike nods and waves to Sasha before the door shuts behind him.

......

Martin gives a warning look. "Mike."

"Martin, you told them?" Mike raised his brow and lowered his scarf.

"I didn't have a choice." Martin sighs. "Why are you here? Are you still going to give a statement?"

"Maybe." Mike sighs, sitting himself down in a chair. "Honestly, I was worried. The corruption is expanding into the buried territory, and that's a nasty fight happening. Thought you got caught into that."

Martin looks between Tim and Jon, then shakes his head. "No, it was a woman named Jane Prentiss, just a lone hive, but I don't exactly come off as an avatar unless I'm using my abilities. She would have followed me home so I just came here. Well, it was Gerry's idea, and I couldn't argue with logic."

Mike sighs. "He's right. This place sucks but it can survive an attack. Anyway, I'm here, and they probably want answers. I don't know how help -" he clutched his head, then scowls. He huffs. "I was joking!"

Tim raised his brow. "What did you do?"

Martin smiles. "Gerry wanted to say hi."

Mike leans back, and his shoulders slack as he kicks his feet up. "Dude, stop shouting. we both know that doesn't do shit. Besides, we both warned you." He rolls his eyes. "Anyway, hello again, it's Gerry, and I'm basically keeping Mike from feeding on either of you. We both know you are not hungry, and if you do it to Jon, you're playing into the Beholders' hands. Yeah, jokes can wait until the Beholder gets common sense."

Martin sighs. "Gerry, you can let Mike back out."

Mike sits up straight and huffs, crossing his arms. "Fucking goth bitch. As I was saying, the in fighting is getting annoying, and The Vast is strictly neutral until well that happened." He motions to Martin. "I'm not exactly good underground, but I'll help out. I'm trying to keep Simon out of the loop, but thankfully, he's busy with his space projects."

"Simon Fairchild?" Jon raised his brow.

Mike nods. "Yeah, he's one of the first Avatar of the Vast, well before they figured out consciousness and whatever and won't exactly let me keep aging like him. Don't really know how it's going to go. I'm still young." He frowns. "However, I am here to help so when the worms do come use, co2 kills them pretty well."

Tim hums. "Could you explain your patron? Martin went over all of them briefly, and if I'm going to have to lose my humanity to keep up with this and stop the end of the world, I would like to know my options better."

"You are not showing him an example." Both Martin and Gerry using Mike's body says at the same time.

"Fuck you guys are no fun." Mike sighs. "Think the sky the vast openness then falling or just too much space no end to it no matter how far yoy go you're still to far from anything. Don't get us mistaken for the Lonely. Even if we are similar, we are quite different." He frowns. "But you have three other options, and you don't seem like the type for the Forsaken. The End might suit you but I don't know enough about you."

Tim furrows his brows. "Alright, I don't know how I feel about following something that sustains off death."

"Oh, Oliver would hate that you said that." Mike snickers. "He would be too polite to say anything, though. Our patrons feed on fear and the emotions surrounding what they are well, the four that have mentioned do the others are strictly fear since yaknow no pretense of a thinking mind. The archivist here might be able to change that for the future of the Beholder, and before you ask, why not Jonah? Because the man is at the mercy of his patron, and is strictly being used as an eye the only reason why the Beholder hasn't tossed him aside is because he's useful and the Forsaken has an invested interest because they adore Peter and they know Peter likes Jonah. Also, I think the Beholder enjoys picking out new bodies for the man, but I'm probably projecting."

Jon frowns. "So I'm the only hope?"

"No." Mike rolls his eyes. "You're a good chance, but not the only option." He sighs. "Whatever, let me give you a statement, and I'll be out of your hair."

Martin gets up and taps Tim's shoulder. "We should give them privacy. Uh, wait, before I go, I can take Gerry back."

Mike shakes his head. "Nah, I'm fine..... please don't tell Oliver." And Martin couldn't tell if it was Mike or Gerry speaking or both.

Martin smiles softly. "You're going to have to tell him." He guides Tim out and sighs.

"So what's up with the Oliver guy?" Tim raised his brow as the door shuts.

"They both have a massive crush on the man, and neither of them are able to confess. Hence why Mike is always adamant to keep Gerry out." Martin snickers. "It's really funny Oliver is completely clueless."

Tim smirks. "Ok, tell me all the freaky tea like now."

Martin nods.

......

Eli: Jonah's busy being pissy about Peter

Martin: Welcome back

Annabelle: Jonah has not figured out your passwords yet?

Eli: Oh, absolutely not, nor has he found any of my hiding spots.

Annabelle: Mother would love to have you.

Eli: That isn't possible. Also, Jonah is terrified of you.

Annabelle: ::::)

Peter: Elias.

Eli: My sailorman! How much longer till we get you back?

Peter: Forsaken is being picky.

Eli: Ah.

Mike: Oh, let me tell him.

Eli: We've tried Mike.

Peter: The Forsaken does not want me to be with you. That is entirely the opposite of my patron. You and Jonah have these debunkabke theories, and I keep..msjeih

Annabelle: Rip

Mike: rip

Martin: Rip

Eli: Proof Peter! Everything you argue, you lose control and phase through objects. Just come home. I already put the marriage papers in our normal spot. Besides, Jonah is insufferable and refuses to admit he misses you.

Peter: A week.

Peter: Elias?

Oliver: Oh, welcome back, Peter.

Mike: Old Jonah took back control.

Peter: Can you let them both in here?

Annabelle: Before Mike answers, I believe the answer is still no.

Mike: This is Gerry, and as much fun as that would be, we've agreed that Jonah can join when the corruption is out of the archives.

Peter: I'll handle that.

Oliver: uh

Annabelle: That wasn't supposed to...

Martin: fuck

Mike: Oh fuck is he there?

Martin: Gerry isn't leaving you for the next three years.

Oliver: I think that's a sign I need to sleep.

Mike: Fuck.

Annabelle: Mother is very confused.

Martin added Tim, Sasha and Jon to the chat.

Martin: Ask them questions

Tim: Spooky Discord

Jon: Tim be polite.

Oliver: No, he isn't wrong.

Sasha: Someone explain why the archives are trapped in a dense fog

Mike: Ah we fucked up.

Oliver: No shit. Peter doesn't get sarcasm or your jokes.

Mike: I knew I was forgetting something.

Sasha: Peter, as in Peter Lukas?!

Mike: Yeah, the one in the same married to Elias.

Annabelle: Currently divorced, nearly married again.

Tim: I'm sorry what

Sasha: Someone preferably not Mike explain. I literally have no idea what's going on.

Mike: Fair

Oliver: Oh, I'll explain. It's good to be distracted when surrounded by the lonely.....

......

Voice call ends

Sasha: Ok, that makes sense.

Tim: Who's Eli?

Jon: Yes, everyone else has been accounted for.

Oliver: So funny story...

Mike: Wait, wait, WAIT.

Mike: Don't tell them - Gerry

Martin: I mean, you're probably right.

Tim: Now we have to know.

Sasha: What is Eli, Elias, or something?

Annabelle: ::::)

Jon: Please tell me you're joking.

Mike: I get why he didn't make Sasha archivist.

Oliver: Honestly, she would probably become Gertrude 2.0

Sasha: Why would that be bad?

Mike: After I died, she trapped me in a book im in constant agonyif im nit sharing a bkdy woth someone. -Gerry

Oliver: She has more blood ok her hands than I do, and I'm an avatar of the End

Martin: She did attempt to kill me, but I was a teenager.

Jon:.... I'm sorry, what?!

Martin: I mean it wouldn't be the first time.

Tim: You get how that's worse, right? Right?

Sasha: Ok, not going to be Gertrude.

Martin: I'm fine, my mom didn't kill me, and neither did she.

Jon: Martin, how many people have tried to kill you?

Oliver: I have a spreadsheet

Martin: Oh, update it Jane needs to go on there.

Oliver: I knew I was forgetting something.

Tim: Why the fuck do you have a spreadsheet?

Oliver: It's better so our patrons don't go on rampages. They tend to be quite protective of their avatars. I guess that makes us possessions.

Mike: fucked up but true

Annabelle: Mother loves us in a way that isn't human.

Martin: To be fair, it's more love than I've ever received from my own family.

Jon: Oh lord.

Eli: Oh boy, new people..... anyway, the old man is pouting because Peter messed up his archives, so I'm back, also because Jurgen Leitner is hiding in the tunnels.

Mike: Fuck me that's where that asshole has been hiding? -Gerry

Mike: I will suffer underground to watch you beat the shit out of him.

Oliver: Bring a camera

Annabelle: I'll let you keep one of my babies if you sent me video.

Mike: kk already on it.

Sasha: Who are you, Eli

Eli: Technically speaking or literally? Because both are loaded answers.

Jon: literally?

Eli: Elias Bouchard, the actual one.

Tim: what?

Sasha: wtf

Jon: bullshit

Eli: To be fair, Jonah has been in control the majority of the time. I'm a passenger in my body during work hours for the most part. Anyway, Martin, can I get a picture of Oliva? I wanna make her out background to piss off Jonah.

Martin : (a picture of a cat sized spider in a green eye jumper seemingly sleeping in a giat web nest)

Eli: Perfect cheers, and I'm out.

Jon: first what the fuck is that Martin, and second what?

Sasha: That looks oddly cute, Martin.

Tim: So Jonah Magnus and Elias Bouchard share a body?

Oliver: Basically, hit the nail on the head.

Oliver: However, just because the Beholder did this for the first time, we still aren't certain that the Beholder is sentient enough to understand that the Watchers Crown is an awful idea.

Annabelle: Normally, the people Jonah possesses are already dead.

Oliver: Fun fact the End doesn't hate this it thinks it's really amusing to watch. The original body of Jonah Magnus lived till 100, which is quite impressive considering the time period.

Martin: To add, Jonah doesn't actually get to choose his new body. The Beholder dies, and it seems the Beholder has a specific type picked out.

Mike: assigned twink at swap.

Mike: fuck I was going to say that - Gerry

Tim: that's hilarious in a fucked up way

Sasha: is Elias ok?

Martin: As far as I know, he's happily married and actually enjoys Jonah's company

Annabelle: it's a polygamous relationship and Jonah is the only reason Elias ever figured out his sexuality.

Jon: huh I don't know what to do with that information.

Tim: that's one way to accomplish that.

Sasha: good for them.

......

#the magnus archives #tma #martin blackwood #tim stoker #sasha james #jonathan sims #elias bouchard

[nyhti]

I recently had an epiphany about the mannequins in Prey. So. For the longest time I wondered where the hell did the idea for Hugo's mannequin girlfriend come from? Like what on earth made Moench put something like that in the story? How do you come up with such a random and out there headcanon like that? I think I know now.

So let's look at the time line: Batman #356 ”The Double Life of Hugo Strange” (1983) Gerry Conway writes a story wherein Hugo creates perfectly lifelike robots of Alfred and Dick and uses them to fuck with Bruce's head. Batman annual #10 ”Down to Bone” (1986) Doug Moench writes a story wherein Hugo, among other things, uses his robots to fight Bruce and Jason. He has also now made a robot version of himself. Last Pre-Crisis Hugo story. Batman: Legends of the Dark Knight #11-15 (1990-1991) Doug Moench writes a story wherein Hugo, among other things, uses mannequins of Thomas and Martha Wayne to fuck with Bruce's head. First Post-Crisis appearance of Hugo and also an edgy reimagining

Are we noticing a pattern? It's honestly a little embarrassing how long it took me to realize that Hugo fucking with Bruce with the mannequins in Prey is all copy pasted from Double Life of Hugo Strange. Moench just re-used Conway's idea, but made it fit the Post-Crisis universe better by having the robots be mannequins with tape recorders inside, because everything had to be sooooooo realistic back then. So if the mannequins of Martha and Thomas are just the robots of Dick and Alfred, who is the mannequin girlfriend? Here's my best guess:

So, Moench used the robots himself in Down to Bone, even created a new robot type – a Hugo robot. Now, we don't see Hugo having a robot girlfriend in Down to Bone, but would you really find it out of the realm of possibility that the thought might have crossed Moench's mind while writing? I mean, look at Hugo around this time. He used to have a good amount of people around him during the 70s and earlier. He had thugs like any self-respecting supervillain, he had his monster men, he once formed a partnership with a racketeer and most importantly he had Magda in Englehart's run. Then suddenly in the 80s he has nothing but robots. Incredibly lifelike robots that talk to him and laugh at his jokes. Doesn't that sound lonely? Now, I will eventually write a post about all my headcanons for what happened to Hugo around this time, because I think about this every day, but to stick to the topic at hand – would you really find it out of the realm of possibility that Moench looked at this profoundly lonely man who could build perfectly lifelike robots and thought, why doesn't he make himself a robot girlfriend? Of course the time wasn't quite ripe yet for a story like that during Pre-Crisis, but during the edgy grimdark 90s? Oh boy, was it time! All he had to do was to turn her from a robot into a mannequin and there we go. Anyway, what do you guys think? I cannot peer inside Moench's mind, of course, but I think my theory is possible.

Also, this is now off topic, but I wanted to talk a little more about Down to Bone and Prey. I used to think these stories, these takes on Hugo, could not be further apart despite being written by the same man, but after reading Down to Bone again for this post and having read Prey again a few months ago, I no longer think so. You can see so much of Prey in Down to Bone and so much Down to Bone in Prey. I already talked about the mannequins, but another thing that I just now noticed was the use of media. As we know, Hugo affectedly used media to fuck with Bruce and to smear Batman's name and you know what he threatened to do in Down to Bone?

Yeah! I find it interesting that Moench had this idea of Hugo using media against Batman way back here, but maybe the story just didn't have enough room for it given that it was only one issue long and most of the time was already spent on Bruce dealing with having lost all his money, home, Jason and Alfred. I'm glad that the smear campaign Hugo launched in Prey was given enough time. Another thing I wanted to talk about was Moench's bad takes on Hugo in Down to Bone. Hugo during Golden Age was about as generic a villain as you can get. Evil genius only after money and power yadda yadda. Listen. I'm not hating on it. It's a classic, but what I'm trying to say is that when Englehart had the divine revelation of giving this character an actual personality and then when Conway topped it all off by giving him an unique goal, I personally considered that an improvement. Moench did not apparently. In Down to Bone Hugo is right back to being a very generic villain. Englehart spent so long showing how much Hugo loved and respected Bruce. How he was willing to ”die” to protect his secret. It was interesting, it was heartwarming and it was fucked up. We see none of this in Down to Bone. The relationship between Hugo and Bruce couldn't be less interesting. There's literally nothing there. No love, no loyalty. Hugo straight up willingly tells Bullock Batman's real identity (which Bullock doesn't believe, of course.) Like what happened? And then the unique new goal Conway gave him? How he got it in his head he wants to be the Batman now? Yeah, you can kiss goodbye to that one too. Nowhere in Down to Bone does Hugo say he wants to become Batman. He only puts on the outfit to frame him. His only goal in Down to Bone was to get his revenge on Bruce. Boring. And to top it all off, just like in Prey, Moench decided to ignore Hugo's well established physical abilities. He doesn't even attempt to fight Batman, but rather runs away like a coward. And don't even get me started on Moench's worst crime of all which was to try to retcon my favorite Hugo story (The Double Life of Hugo Strange) by saying that the Hugo Bruce fought was actually a robot the whole time. I've been writing this for so long I don't even have the energy to go into why I hated this so much and why it was a pointless retcon, so I'll just leave it at this: IT WASN'T A FUCKING ROBOT.

Anyway, love and light everyone!!! ^_^

#hugo strange #there was still one more thing i wanted to rant about but i don't feel like it right now #maybe later #i kinda wanna read prey again

[ironborealis]

Blooding Rite 1/1

The first time Alastor sees a man die, he's surprised.

He'll laugh himself sick much later at the very concept of being surprised at someone dying in a trench, on the front lines of the battlefield, in the middle of what the newspapers are starting to call 'The War to End All Wars'.

Not now though, as he stares at the bloodied remains Lt. James' jaw, hanging off his face as he stumbles back from the radio, his headset miraculously still attached, pulling the entire damned radio down on top of him as he collapses.

Lt. James, from Cincinnati, who moments earlier had been shouting that Alastor best be prepared to go over the top with the antenna, because their reception is absolute dog shit down here what with it pissing rain.

His mind is focused on how this scenario doesn't make sense: He's halfway out of the trench waving a metal baton in the air, desperately searching for a signal, while only James' head is visible -- how did James end up catching the bullet and not him?

There will be time to ponder later about the fickle proclivities of Death, but in the moment he's far too distracted about being tackled down into the trench himself by a blur of gray wool.

Animal instincts take over as soon as his back hits the dirt. Even with the wind knocked out him he's biting, clawing, kicking at the fucking Gerry on top of him. He can feel the kiss of the knife's blade against his palms and forearms as he struggles to protect the softest parts of himself, when he's not being clobbered over the face with the butt of a pistol.

The first time Alastor kills a man is only a few breaths later when he manages to get his own pistol out of the holster and blindly aim for the bastard's temple.

He hits his mark. The Gerry's body sags down on top of him, pushing him deeper into the mud. He's taking large, open-mouthed gasps of air, like a stunned fish out of the water -- at least until the gore coating face starts dripping into his mouth. That returns him to reality in a real jiffy.

He shoves the body off of him, rolling into a crouch as he swipes at his face with his sleeve in a futile effort to clean it. Tries to listen between the thunderous beat of his heart to what is going on around him.

Battle -- gunshots and screaming -- close but not too close, not near enough to him to panic. When he can stand, a quick glance over the top reveals no more Gerries waiting to pounce in the clearing fog, and he can hear his heartbeat start to quiet.

On impulse he pries the Gerry's pistol from his hand, and checks the cartridge.

Empty. Last bullet for Lt. James.

Makes sense, he supposes -- kill the radio operator, cut off communications, then kill the damned fool playing flag pole...

Better luck next time, old chum.

He tosses the pistol down as the sounds of the radio start to filter into his ears.

The radio is still working, that's good.

He pulls the antenna out of the muck and stumbles towards the operator's desk.

Stabs the antenna into the soft dirt on top of the trench.

Rights the operator's desk.

Hauls the radio back onto the desk as gently as he can considering how heavy it is.

Checks his sightlines for any imminent enemy incursions; finds none.

Hauls Lt. James' corpse to lie to one side of the desk.

Reconnects the cable connecting the battery cell to the antenna.

Pulls on the headset.

Ignores the tacky-wet sensation as the ear piece drags across his cheek.

Takes a deep breath.

Remembers that the northerners back at base camp will not understand him unless he talks in that flat, nasal accent they taught him back in special training.

Turns the microphone on and reports in.

"Ni-yen Too Easy, Report. Ni-yen Too Easy, Report." Base command replies.

Microphone's broken. Well fuck.

He slams the headset down in frustration, only for a loud squawk to emanate from the ear pieces.

"Ni-yen Too Easy, was that you?"

Microphone's only mostly broken then... He can work with that.

Pulls back on headphones.

Still ignores the tacky-wet sensation on his cheek.

Uses his pocket knife to start tapping out a message in Morse code on the mouthpiece of the headset.

"Copy that, Ni-yen Too Easy. Gerries sighted on the Eastern flank."

Well, no shit.

He can hear the battle drawing closer.

It takes twelve hours before Alastor finally receives the order to retreat to hand off to the runner to give to command. There's no other signalman close enough to lend him a spare headset, let alone relieve him from his post for as much as a piss break.

Twelve hours tapping out updates and confirmations in the alphabet he learned at his mother's knee, hiding under her desk as she worked.

None of them know Morse code like he does anyway.

By the time he's loaded up the radio and jumped into the back of the transport truck his head is throbbing with the mother of all headaches. His ears feel like they're bleeding. He does his best to hide the trembling in his limbs.

It takes hours to get back to base, and even though he's dead on his feet, he's more ravenous than tired, and lines up outside the canteen.

In a few days, once the casualties are accounted for and word spreads from the signal battalion about his field improvisation skills, they'll start calling him 'Radio Demon' because only someone in league with the Devil himself would have decided to stay in that hellhole, at his post for as long as he had, instead of retreating somewhere safer.

They make it sound like some altruistic act for his "brothers" -- in truth, he hadn't been thinking clearly enough to even realize that retreat was an option. If he had, he would have booked it as fast as possible away from the front line.

Tonight, though, the Radio Demon is rewarded for his heroism with a plate of congealed chipped beef on soggy toast and directed towards some damp benches, sitting out in the rain. The storm's onslaught has taken down one of the base's two mess tents, and Command cannot abide the idea of white officers having to eat with colored officers.

Only the finest for all these brave men dying on the front lines after all.

#hazbin hotel #alastor #hazbin alastor #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor the radio demon #the radio demon #hazbin hotel fanfiction #Hazbin Hotel fanfic

[matthewtkachuk]

the seasons are changing and so are we - tyler seguin

a fight threatens your relationship with Tyler, until a sunset boat ride changes everything

pairing: tyler seguin x reader

warnings: angst, alcohol, boats, mentions of marriage, shelb projecting (when am i not?)

word count: 2.3k

a/n: inspired by my own september long weekend with two black labs and some white claws. thanks as always to @antoineroussel for making sure it's coherent and a special shout out to @hotanddistraught for telling me i'm sick <3

“Those things are disgusting.”

They’re the first words Tyler has spoken to you all morning, since you woke up all alone in the spare room of the cottage. The first words spoken without vitriol since the screaming match yesterday, really. 

It had started innocently enough—a mention of how you didn’t want this summer to end during the drive up to Muskoka—that had somehow devolved into you silently crying in the passenger seat with Gerry in your lap trying to lick the salt from your face and the other two’s wet noses poking at you from the backseat. 

When he’d finally pulled into the long driveway of the ostentatious cottage, you’d all but leaped from the still moving vehicle without so much as making an attempt to help with the bags or the dogs. 

Supper had gone similarly—chock full of your silence and malicious noncompliance as you left him to suffer through not only grilling but preparing a side dish, too. 

And then you’d stubbornly side stepped his outstretched hand offering to take you to bed, choosing to spend the night alone in the spare room. 

You spent the entire night reliving the argument in your head, wondering how your wistful expression that you wished the summer would never end translated into unhappiness and a desire to leave the sincerest, most fulfilling relationship you’d ever known in Tyler’s eyes. Tossing and turning, you couldn't escape the way you felt in that passenger seat, the hurt and the anxiety intermingling with the fear that it was all slipping through your fingers.

Fear that somehow turned into anger, a fire lighting within you that he’d taken your words and twisted them until they were unrecognizable before throwing them right back in your face.

Which led you here, cracking a hard seltzer at nine o'clock in the morning which was clearly offensive to your boyfriend who looked on with a disapproving stare.

“Really?” you raise an eyebrow at him. “Is critiquing my drink choice your idea of an apology?”

He brushes past you as easily as he brushes past your words, reaching into the fridge for the orange juice and taking a giant gulp straight from the bottle. You barely suppress a grimace as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his chest tattoos and abs on full display. If you weren’t still so mad you probably would have made a joke about it, but, as it stands, you can barely stomach being in the same room. Especially since he seems content to ignore the issue. 

“We should go out on the boat today,” he says, proving your unspoken point. The B word gets the dogs going and you use the moments Tyler is shushing them to school your features. 

“Are you joking?” The hurt is present in your voice and written clearly across your face. Tyler winces at the sharp sound. 

He says your name softly, and though it’s normally one of your favorite sounds, it does nothing to temper your mood or your outrage this time. 

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you speak, “I’m not going to just let you sweep this under the rug with a fucking boat ride, Tyler.” 

He kind of pauses, then. Almost like he hadn’t expected your outburst. “I’m not—I’m not trying to sweep anything under the rug. I just don’t know what to say.”

All efforts at controlling yourself fly directly out of the window at his words. You slam the now empty can on the counter and grip your forehead in frustration. “You don’t know what to say? How about start with an apology and then let’s talk about how an innocent comment turned into all out war on the fucking highway.”

“I’m sorry—”

He’s the gasoline and you’re the slow building fire that started last night under the itchy covers of the spare room. “Well now it doesn’t mean shit because I had to tell you to do it! So what’s the real fucking issue here huh? I’ve given you everything I've got, Ty, it’s gotta be enough.” You’re referring to his heated comments yesterday, where he’d implied maybe this wasn’t working anymore. 

“It is! It’s enough. God, baby, it’s more than enough. It’s not you it’s me—” You give him an exasperated look, all but ready to push past him and grab your bags, ready to take your chances hitchhiking back to the city. “I didn’t mean it like that. You’re perfect and you’re everything and I’m just some idiot hockey player with a no good hip, past his prime. You could have anyone you wanted-“

“You, Ty. I want you.” It’s honest and earnest, and you’re still fucking mad at him, but you love him, too.

“I can’t give you stability, I can't promise you I'll be home for supper every night. Hell, I can't even give you an entire summer at home. You’ll never be first, hockey will always be at least tied-”

“Do you think I don't know that? Tyler, we've been together for three years, I’m very aware of the limitations of your career. And I love your passion and your drive and your resiliency. I love you and the boys and the life we’re building.”

“I know and I am sorry. So sorry, baby. I let my insecurity get the best of me. 

“If anyone should be insecure it’s me—have you looked in a mirror lately? Or read your instagram DMs?” You’re joking, and the sound of your laugh calms him, soothes his soul, reassures him it’s safe to step into your space and steal a kiss. 

“Don’t need ‘em,” he says. “Got you.”

You lean into his embrace for a minute, fully giving into the love he so willingly offers before you break the spell briefly. Curving your hands alongside his jaw, you brush your thumb over the stubble on his cheek. “You gotta promise to talk to me, Ty. I can't read your mind and I can’t help when I don't know what's wrong. It’s not fair to either of us to hold it all in until you snap.”

“Promise.”

“Okay, I promise, too.” You kiss him quickly, before giving him a little love tap on the cheek. “Now go get the boat ready. I’m going to fill the cooler with beer and my disgusting drinks.” 

It’s a good morning on the boat—the perfect juxtaposition between the cool breeze as you cruise the lake and the gentle warmth of the sun as you drop anchor and Tyler tries (and fails) to catch fish for supper. Despite his earlier teasing, you find him more often with your drinks in his hand than his own, but he just gives you that stupid grin of his when you try to say something. 

Marshall and Cash lounge away on a bench seat, content to soak in the sun rays while their brother alternates between trying to jump on your and Ty’s laps and lounging at the front of the boat where the water crests over the bow. Your Insta stories consist of a short video of the boat cutting through calm waves, a shot of the cold drink in your hand, and one of Marshall looking away from the camera. Tyler reposts each one—every story slightly tilted in the way that all hockey players do when reposting on Insta.

Without the tension hanging over your head any longer, the good mood continues back at the cottage. You giggle and laugh through making supper, feeding the boys more than their fair share through meal prep before lounging on the back deck to enjoy your meals. 

The boys don’t get the invitation to climb up onto the bed until long after Tyler’s made your toes curl and your eyes roll to the back of your bed. 

Truth be told, the next morning you’re not quite sure how any other day of the long weekend could possibly hope to compare to the complete 180 of the day before. Until you’re woken with a kiss and the smell of caffeine and waffles. The waffles turn out to be just eggos, but he gets a solid A for effort, if only because he’s made you a cup of your favorite warm drink exactly how you like it. 

The morning fades into early afternoon as you lounge outside with your boys, your book in one hand and a cold drink in the other while Tyler runs around after the dogs, checking in every now and then like a toddler. “Did you see that babe?” and “what about that babe?” and “look at Gerry, babe!”

The sun is warm on your face, and you’re content to soak it all up while focusing most of your attention on your book. Only most of your attention, because Tyler is running around without his shirt on and there may have been a time or two where you had to read the same page several times over until it stuck. You’re just finishing a chapter when your sunlight goes dark, mere seconds before your boyfriend is tucking your bookmark to mark your page and tossing the book to the side and covering your body with his. 

“You, me, shower then boat. Whaddya say?” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and you nearly choke on your own spit before letting out a sharp laugh. 

The shower is short and quick, less handsy than maybe you were expecting until he slides behind your naked body, gripping and holding your bare skin as you apply hair products in the mirror. 

“Wear that sundress I like,” he suggests, nipping at the skin of your shoulder and dancing out of the bathroom before you can get out so much as a confused ‘okay?’

Undoing the knots holding the boat to the dock is a tad harder than you remember it being while your movements are slightly more restricted in the dress you’re wearing, but you manage to get it done while Tyler starts up the boat. 

Getting on the thing itself is a little harder after you’ve pushed it off the dock a little, what with the yellow lab laying directly in front of the door.

“Move it, Ger,” Tyler says, pushing his youngest back to give you room to hop onto the boat. “Let mom get on board.”

You preen under the sound of his voice, your stomach warming the way it always does when he calls you the dogs’ mom. Grabbing Tyler’s hand, you thank him quietly and have a seat beside Cash in the tiny bit of space not occupied by the large dog. 

When you get out further on the open water, you grab a drink from the cooler at your feet and relax further into the seat, head tilting back to try and catch some of the breeze. 

“This is nice, Ty,” you tell him contentedly before taking a sip of your drink. 

He doesn’t drive much further, finding a little bay and dropping the anchor before shutting off the boat’s engine. 

You look out at the water, admiring the way it reflects the sun that’s beginning to set. He moves until he’s stood at your back, caging you in his arms. He kisses your bare shoulder and then your neck and then your cheek. “I love you.” 

You sigh again, relaxing further into his embrace and leaning your head back against his shoulder. “I love you too. I can’t believe I really thought you were going to break up with me.” 

He kisses your shoulder once more before backing off entirely, and you find yourself missing the warmth even though the early September air isn’t exactly cool yet. A minute or two pass before he speaks, “Well, I don’t really wanna call you my girlfriend anymore.”

You’re confused, a little bit of that earlier hurt finding its way back into your heart and brows furrowing as you spin around, only to pause in your motions with a gasp caught in your throat.  

“There’s something else I’d rather call you if you let me.” Tyler’s on one knee, holding an open ring box and you’re sure it’s a lovely ring but all you can see is that stupid smile on his face and all you can feel is just how much you love this guy. In this moment, every single stupid fight you’ve ever had is inconsequential, utterly unimportant except for the fact that they’ve all brought you forward to this place, this moment, this feeling. 

He starts to launch into some clearly rehearsed speech, and you wonder how long he’s been planning this if for no other reason than all three dogs are perfectly quiet and well behaved despite their dad at ground level which would ordinarily send Gerry into a licking fit.

And it’s all just so crazy, so ridiculous that you say “No.”

“No?” He looks a little nauseous, that same look on his face from yesterday where it’s like he couldn’t comprehend your response crossing his face. 

It’s not what you mean, not at all actually, the exact opposite, really, and so you quickly fire back “No because yes.”

“Yes?” he asks, somehow like he can’t believe it and yet like it’s the exact answer he was expecting. 

You’re crying now, a hand clasped firmly over your mouth, and the other reaching for him as you nod fervently, “Yes!”

“She said yes!” he shouts, popping up and pulling you into his body. Shouting comes from all around you, flash photography nearly blinding you as a dozen of your closest family and friends reveal themselves on nearby boats. The dogs finally lose their cool, barking and jumping and you honestly could not care less about the chaos. 

Not with Tyler sliding a ring on your finger and his tongue in your mouth in an earth shattering kiss, the promise of forever with him on his lips.

#nhl fic #nhl imagine #nhl imagines #nhl fanfic #nhl fanfiction #nhl x reader #tyler seguin fic #tyler seguin imagine #tyler seguin imagines #tyler seguin fanfic #tyler seguin fanfiction #tyler seguin x reader #shelb writes

[wambsgansshoelaces]

thank you @su240210 for requesting 🫶🏽 I love u pookie I’m literally your biggest fan 🫂

anyways here’s your daily dose of the he older/‘other’ women of succession; they don’t really get that much love

how you meet (wlw; rava, gerri, karolina)

Rava

ᝰ you’re a yoga girly

ᝰ even though you started out really slow, you’ve come to really enjoy it

ᝰ the instructors have you model all the time

ᝰ it makes you feel cool

ᝰ but today, you’re coming off of a bit of a depressive spiral

ᝰ so you stay in the back for the sake of relaxation

ᝰ you honestly just feel like lying face down on your mat

ᝰ but when you stretch, your head clears

ᝰ “oh, wow, you’re so flexible!”

ᝰ you look over, and it’s her

ᝰ you’ve never seen her before

ᝰ but you want to see her again

ᝰ you give her a small smile

ᝰ she smiles back

ᝰ you think you get a bit dizzy

ᝰ “how do you do it?”

ᝰ you come out of the pose, laying flat on your stomach

ᝰ “lots of practice. i come here a lot.”

ᝰ “you think i could get there, one day, too?”

ᝰ “sure you can.”

ᝰ “ah, i’m sorry. i’m rava. i’m trying to get out and try new things, put myself out there…”

ᝰ “well, then, rava, i hope you keep coming.”

ᝰ “do you do every class?”

ᝰ “every single morning one.”

ᝰ “i hope you don’t mind a new elbow buddy, then.”

ᝰ “i really don’t. you’re truly always welcome.”

Gerri

ᝰ you’re an attorney

ᝰ your firm is handling some things for waystar

ᝰ this is your first waystar specific case

ᝰ everyone avoids the company like the plague

ᝰ you’ve only heard horror stories

ᝰ even the building is horrifying

ᝰ the lady you’re supposed to meet is late, on top of it all

ᝰ you get sick of sitting and get up to pace the conference room

ᝰ “i’m sorry i’m- oh, hello.”

ᝰ you watch her face flush when you look up at her

ᝰ “y/n?” she asks after a moment, clearing her throat

ᝰ “gerri?”

ᝰ she sits, beckoning for you to do the same

ᝰ “so we’re both in the right place. good! great!”

ᝰ she’s all flustered the rest of your meeting

ᝰ you kind of like it

ᝰ she’s turning pink

ᝰ you don’t say anything, just give her that dazzling smile of yours

ᝰ she thinks you’re gorgeous

ᝰ like blindingly

ᝰ the debrief goes quickly

ᝰ “i know it’s all less than ideal… we have our work cut out for us.”

ᝰ “well, regardless, i’m excited to be working with you, gerri.”

Karolina

ᝰ you’d gotten your nose into some weird waystar business

ᝰ a bunch of shit you shouldn’t have seen

ᝰ not to your surprise, they sent the fucking press army to your house

ᝰ when you open the door, she startles at the sight of you

ᝰ “um, come in.”

ᝰ there’s way too many people in your house right now

ᝰ you kind of just sit in the corner so you can monitor everyone

ᝰ you don’t know if you’re about to be bribed or killed

ᝰ she comes up to you after they grill you

ᝰ you honestly felt like you were being waterboarded

ᝰ “i just wanted to apologize… these things can be kind of rough.”

ᝰ “i really don’t see why i have to go through all this.”

ᝰ you do

ᝰ you just think they were doing it in the worst way possible

ᝰ “if it were up to me, this wouldn’t be happening.”

ᝰ she gives you a soft smile

ᝰ but you don’t really trust her

ᝰ you can’t, can you?

ᝰ “if anyone gives you too much trouble, give me a ring, okay?”

ᝰ she hands you her business card

ᝰ karolina novotney; head of PR

#I love u my requester #rava roy #gerri kellman #karolina novotney #rava roy x reader #gerri kellman x reader #karolina novotney x reader #rava roy headcanons #gerri kellman headcanons #karolina novotney headcanons #succession #succession hbo #wambsgansshoelaces #succession x reader #succession headcanons #request #requests open #ask box open #wlw

[jaebeomsbitch]

Puppy (R.R) Smut

Pt.I

Summary: Sending Roman a present turns into a sexy phone call

Warnings: MINORS DNI! Masturbation, degradation, phone sex?, guided masturbation, dom/sub dynamics.

Authors Note: God was so fun to write this. The virgin Eddie fic is like 90% done!

Roman was used to meeting the world with witty quips and that smug smile on his face. He never registered it as awkward as it is. Everyone around him could see how he was shouldering the pain away. Shoving against it like a football player during practice. 

He doesn’t see you again until the day of his fathers funeral. Until you’re getting the police to open up the fence and drag him up off the floor, pulling him into his Escalade and sitting in complete silence as his driver takes you both to his penthouse.

You gently clean up his wounds, undress him, hand him some pain killers and water then tuck him into bed with a kiss to his forehead. He doesn’t understand it. Why would you randomly come back to take care of him like this? You’d just left like it was nothing, it really was nothing. It was some flirting at best but here you were toeing off your heels and digging through his closet for a sleep shirt. 

You knew he’d never have the courage to ask you to stay. So you slip off your dress and put on his shirt sliding into the cool sheets of his bed and pressing him against your chest like a mother would to a child. It’s not long until he’s uncontrollably sobbing in your arms. He babbles incoherently as you rub his back. You hold him for what seems like hours until his tears are dried and the shirt you borrowed is full of snot. The bandaid on his face falling from his face. 

You stand up pulling a bandaid out from your phone case. You’d have it there for emergencies, in case your heels cut up your ankles. He sits there sniffling trying to push your hand away as you place a blue bandaid on him. It’s got a fat puppy all over it, like snoopy but different. 

You let him tucker himself out until he’s passed out on his bed, his fingers clutched to the shirt you’re wearing, red nosed, and puffy eyed. 

When you wake up he acts like nothing happened but he’s dressed differently. He’s no longer adorned with opulent suits but instead in baggy shorts and a T-shirt. He sips his coffee, that same smug smile adorning his face as he asks “ So how’d you sleep last night?”

You smile, seeing past his façade, seeing that scared little boy from last night. “Better with my kitten” you say in an annoying tone slipping back into teasing each other. You hug him tightly, almost spilling his hot coffee onto your arm. He’s trying not to laugh. 

“Well I’m not a kitten, I’m a tiger if anything. I’ll fuckin’ rip you to shreds” he scoffs sipping his bitter drink, pushing you off of him even though he craves the heat of your skin. 

“Fine, you’re my puppy then” you laugh, opening his refrigerator and grabbing an orange juice. He doesn’t say anything, he eyes you wearily. Sipping his drink but internally his heart pounds against his ribs.

You sip your drink watching him as he watches you like you’re in an old western movie ready to draw your guns. You silently finish your juice washing the cup as Roman makes a comment about how only peasants wash their dishes. 

Before he knows it you’re dressed and ready to slip out of his apartment and probably out of his life again. A part of him wants to beg for you to stay but his fragile ego won’t let him. He’d begged Gerri to stay and she threw it in his face. He couldn’t risk being hurt again and yet as you leave reminding him to call a doctor to stitch him up, his heart aches. 

He didn’t get to ask your name again. Miss Business and Pleasure… He wants to know who you are. Even if you’re just some low level employee at Waystar trying to kiss ass to climb the ladder. He sits on his his couch like Bella in Twilight, memories of the funeral, of his fuck up eating away at his soul. Any obligation to follow your orders and eat breakfast is long gone since you left. He feels that ache in his stomach and welcomes it. He deserves the pain for being useless. Everything was bullshit but most of all Roman was bullshit. 

He was always a pawn in a game he could never win. The court jester sent to fuck clients like a common whore despite his inability to get hard. 

Then there’s a package at the front desk. His mind racing, what could it be? Maybe another condolence gift, fuck em. Who cares? His father was dead and he was finally free of the cage and yet he could feel the familiar press of metal against his skin. He can practically see his siblings taunting him for being a weakling, dog bowl full of chow and water ready for him to dig in. 

The Gojo deal goes through he feels empty and free but chained… to what? Who knows. Like he'll never truly be free of the dog cage he grew accustomed to. The package sits in a pile until he finally decides to open them. Most of them have cards obviously written by personal assistants by rich fucks who can’t take the two seconds to write ‘sorry your dad died :/’ followed by bottles of expensive booze. Like that’s cured the crater in his chest. Maybe they wanted him to become an alcoholic. “34 year old Roman Roy found dead, choked on his own vomit,” he could almost imagine it. Taste the bile in his throat and the burn of the liquor in his chest. 

He gets to the last package opening it without a care. He rips through the tissue paper, the unfamiliar feeling on his fingertips before he registers what it is. It’s a blush pink collar. Why would someone send him a dog collar? Wait, this one was bigger and thicker… there’s a golden name plate that hangs from the middle of it, “Puppy” it reads. The metal jingles as he holds it up closer to his face.

“What the fuck?” He mumbles. 

Fingers searching through the packet until his index finger hits a corner of a paper. He pulls it out, a pink letter addressed to Roman well… to Puppy. He rips open the paper. There’s nothing on the paper, well no words it’s a phone number. 

Before he can think he’s dialing the number like he’s just a normal schmuck. He should probably at least Google search it but the phone is ringing and his heart pounds in his throat. He knows who this is from. 

“Romulus, to what do I owe the pleasure?” You say picking up on the third ring. 

“It’s you” he says, taken aback. 

“So it is. I take it you loved the present” you say, smirk on your lips. That familiar smug tone in your voice. 

“You want me to bark and sit on command too?” He asks, joking around with you. 

“I take it you didn’t see the back of the card” you reply. His hands go back to the note flipping it. 

“Sex dwarf by Soft Cell” it reads and then “send me a photo of it on, Puppy” all in your hand writing. 

“As if I’d do what you told me” he scoffs.

You laugh, “Why do I have a feeling you’re already hard imagining yourself on your knees for me? Crawling around your kitchen on all fours all pretty for me” 

“Seems like someone’s got a sick fetish. You’d like to break me down or something? Too bad I’m more emotionally stable that your fucking Psychologist,” Roman says. 

“We’ll see,” You say smugly over the phone before hanging up. Roman’s heart pounds, what the fuck did that mean? Would he see you again? Would he really have to wear the collar?

Weeks go by, his fingers itch to call you again. To hear your voice even over the shitty receiver of his pissed on phone. He doesn’t though, there’s a certain challenge between you going on. Like whoever contacts the other loses and yet, he knew if you reached out first you’d still somehow be winning. It was Roman who had all to lose in your invisible competition. Maybe it was all in his head?

There’s another box brought to him, this one a matching leash to his collar. His body can’t help it. He flushes with color imagining your red bottomed heels digging into his back, pressing his face to his tiled floor as you call him sick names, the leather biting at his skin on his neck. Before he knows it he’s walking over to his bedroom taking out the collar and matching leash and touching himself imagining it. His head tipped back, imagining the curl of your lips, that look of disgust on your face and then he’s coming all over his sheets. The collar and leash dripping with cum. He takes a photo and sends it to you waiting for a response like a puppy waiting for his owner. 

“See, I knew you liked it” you text, and then it's radio silence. Until his phone is ringing through the silent room. His fingers shaking, pants still down his thighs. 

“If it isn’t my owner,” He says sarcastically, fingers smudging the cum into the leather. 

“Put it on Romulus,” You say sternly over the phone. 

“That’s fucking-” He tries to protest. 

“Put the collar on like a good boy or I’ll have to punish you,” You say. 

“Oh I’m fucking trembling, what could you possibly do?” He says sarcastically. 

“I’m not asking again. Put the collar on or you’re never hearing from me again Romulus,” You say with a finality. He gulps, weirdly turned on by your threat despite jerking himself off less than five minutes ago. He puts the phone down, hands grabbing the collar and tightening it on his neck, his cum smearing all over his throat. 

“I’m not doing it,” He says, trying to sound stern, hand already playing with himself as he grabs the phone. You don’t say anything, his hand grabbing his hard cock and stroking himself slowly. 

“Mhm sure you're not,” You say condescendingly. 

“I’m holding it in my hand,” He quips back, fingers teasing the head of his cock before going back to stroke himself. He tries to keep his voice steady and breath even but the collar is doing more to him than he’d like to admit. 

“I know you Puppy. I know you’re touching yourself right now, imagining me telling how fucking disgusting you are. You’re a sick fuck Roman. Touching yourself while wearing my collar, you want to be owned don’t you? Want me to force you to admit how much you like this,” You say seductively. 

You hear him shudder as he hears those words. You hear him moan as he imagines you towering over him. Calling him your filthy and disgusting puppy. 

“Shit” He says, trying to hide the lust in his voice. 

“How’s it feel to touch yourself with your puppy tag bouncing on your throat? You’re my fucking toy to play with Rome. Let me hear how good it feels to fuck your hand while thinking of me,” You say. 

“You’re disgusting,” he says, not even trying to hide the fact that he’s now wearing the collar. You can hear as he tries to hide how much you’re turning him on, his face flushed.  You can hear the jingling of his collar and a puff of breath with his every movement.

“How did you know I was wearing it?” He asks you.

“Cause you want to be called a good boy,” You chuckle. Chills trickle down his spine, his face red as he strokes himself faster, teeth clenched trying to hold back his moans. He can’t hold back for much longer. You know you can just keep driving him further and further and he knows too. He’s at your mercy, has been since the first night you met. 

“You’re right,” he says. His voice is shaky and weak and he’s breathing very heavily.

“You’re disgusting Roman. You’re a sick fuck, God if you’re father knew you were jerking off with a dog collar on he’d smack you in the face,” you say into your phone. You knew he liked degradation from the way his breath hitched over the receiver.

“Let me hear how good your hand is making you feel Puppy,” You command.

“F-Fuck,” He moans, the jingling becoming more aparrent. His moans are mixed with the squelching of his hand on his cock. His precum dripping out, stomach tensing as he feels the burn in his belly. 

His eyes are closed. You can almost hear the blood coursing through your veins as his breaths get heavier. God what you wouldn’t do to see him right now. Cock in his hand, thighs quivering, head tilted upward trying to hold onto a semblance of himself as he fucked his fist as you tell him what to do. 

“Oh God,” is all he can manage to say. “Fuck- Fuck– m’disgusting,” He pants, the tingle at the base of his spine feeling electrifying. 

“That’s it pup, you’re close aren’t you? Let me hear you. Fuck, wish I could see those big puppy eyes begging me to let you cum” You say breathily. The jingle of his collar ringing in your ears.

His orgasm builds and builds until his thighs are trembling like he just ran a marathon, a mixture of moans and curse words spilling out his lips. He’s in pure heaven, hand stroking over himself as he spills onto his thighs, eyes rolling back, mouth open as moans spill out. 

“F-fuuuck” he pants as he relaxes against his bed. His phone pressed to his ear. 

His phone still pressed against his ear, he struggles to catch his breath. He listens to his own heavy breathing. He can feel the chills going down his spine as his chest rises and falls. His breathing is shallow, short and fast as his brain is completely fried. He can’t think about anything other than the pleasure he just felt. 

“Oh God,” he says again, trying to find words to show how he’s feeling. But he can’t say anything else. Not after what you just did to him.

“Good boy, Romey” you coo. 

“Fuck you,” He pants. 

“You wish,” You chuckle. 

“Now, follow your commands and send me a photo,” You say not letting him answer as you hang up immediately. Roman’s brain is complete mush. Fuck you, who did you think you were demanding a photo? A part of him also wanted to comply. The deep rooted feeling of wanting approval gnawing at him. Why did those two words from you send a shiver down his spine? God was he doing this? What if you sent this photo to someone else? 

Nonetheless ten minutes later your phone buzzes with a text. It’s a photo of Roman, his face cropped out but his neck adorned with that pink collar covered in his cum, his torso covered with a dress shirt, slacks down just enough for his cock to be free. He completely ruined his expensive suit, it’s all painted in his cum. 

“Good boy,” You reply. 

Roman had found himself in a completely different dog cage. One without his siblings cackling at him and forcing him to bark on command. Now you were outside the cage, images of your body clad in lingerie, insults passing through your lips, taunting him from outside of his metaphorical cage. Roman was your wholly devoted Puppy even if he wasn’t willing to fully admit it. 

#roman roy #succession #succession hbo #succession roman #roman roy imagine #roman roy x reader #roman roy / reader #roman roy smut #roman roy x reader smut #romulus roy #sub and dom #sub and dom dynamics #roman is a sub #roman roy x female reader #roman roy au #slight angst #slight fluff #logan roy funeral mention #Spotify