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romeulusroy · 11 months

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Summer Storm (Roman Roy Oneshot)

Characters: Roman

Word Count: 1,228

Requested: Roman interrupting a baking/cooking session but he’s like completely clueless? - anon

Requested: could you do spending a lazy weekend being fluffy spent with Roman Roy pls??💕💕 - anon

Tag List: @locke-writes

A/N: I decided to combine these requests, I hope you don't mind!!! This fic is currently inspired by the thunderstorm happening rn lol. I love Soft Roman. I love him, I love him, I love him. I hit a bit of a writers block getting this done, so I'm sorry if it isn't my best!!! Feedback is always appreciated!!! 💜💜💜

The thunder rolls in like the tide. You watch the bright sky darken, the clouds pooling in. The heat, the humidity, the thick, sticky air becomes electric. You hear it first, the tantrum. The growling, low and angry. So angry. So breathless. Don't you scare him, you thought, watching the storm. He never liked them. You don't have to say a thing, though he knows. Drink in hand, he pushes your float towards the steps of the pool. The water is warm, not like it was when you first got in. You drag your fingers all the way there, hands pruned, skin burning from the long day in the pool. His sunglasses are big, covering those puppy dog eyes. He holds it in place as you step out, thanking him with a kiss. Don't be here long. You look up from him, his small frame, his red cheeks, to the sudden wind. Strong, passionate, prickling your skin. Suddenly it had gotten cold. Dark. Even in the city you can smell the Earth, the wet soil, the soaking leaves of home. From far away. You stood there a second, on the edge, dripping, letting him take you in. He wasn't the type to look you up and down. Your relationship wasn't like that. There was love outside of your bodies. Now though, something must've caught his attention. Something about you, smelling of chlorine and sunscreen. What are you staring at? You ask, smiling despite your shaking. You're freezing. You're awfully full of yourself, he defends, sipping his drink. You know, even as you turn around, grabbing a towel, he's watching. He can’t take his eyes off you.

The rain pours in sheets. The sky opens like an open wound without a tourniquet. Patting against the windows, leaving tiny handprints, the rain is angry, defensive, falling with all their mite. He left the glass door open, the smell intoxicating. Clean. Fresh. Stormy. The rain patters down the streets, the empty sidewalks, against the rooftop. Cars below honk their horns, everyone forgetting how to drive in the rain. Their tires plunge through the puddles. You stir the vegetables in the pan, watching the lightning flicker. Flashes so fast you question if they're even real. Ooooh spooky! He laughs, pouring you a glass of wine. He comes up behind you, resting his chin on your shoulder. Are you scared of a little lightning? Watch out, it's got a knife! You take the stem of the glass, taking it in. A white wine, summery. Chilled. Distracted, he takes his chance, slipping the spatula from your grasp. Do you even know what you’re doing? You laugh. This isn’t rocket science, I hate to break it to you. But the asparagus is beginning to burn. Outside the sky cracks like shattered glass. Low, moaning, the wind blowing through the apartment. The curtains blow violently, dramatic. Beads of rain are beginning to come in. Neither of you make any moves to shut it. There is something too familiar, too nostalgic, about thunderstorms. About this thunderstorm, as if you have lived a million lifetimes together, the three of you. There is safety in this idea. Security.

You take a step back, leaving your back against the counter, taking him all in. He’d taken a shower after the pool, his hair still wet. His stubble was shorter, but never gone. His soap, yours, a vanilla scent, mahogany, woodsy. Warm, inviting, opposite the character he forgets he’s playing. He moves through the wound so uncomfortable, as if existence is agonizing, excruciating. He can’t keep still. He nurses his own drink, his tumbler reeking of gasoline. He stirs lightly, as if afraid to bother, to be a nuisance. The oven timer dings and he turns it off, leaving the rest of dinner in the warmth. You resist the urge to wrap your arms around him, to hold him tight and never let him go. But you don’t, because you know he will jump at your touch, any touch, without warning. And it will ruin it. It will ruin everything. So you watch and want. You want him. You want him to feel full and safe and satisfied. You want to wrap him up and never let him go, never let anyone near him again. There are things in this world too precious for mankind. They get used and abused and ruined all because they are beautiful, because they are something otherworldly. He is one of those things. Your Romulus. Your Roman.

Need any help? You ask, already reaching for the oven mitts. The rain has lightened to a steady downpour. The thunder growing fainter. The lightning is as bright as ever. Sometimes it regains its strength, the storm, and it will throw a punch you have not yet braced yourself for. Your vital organs go unprotected. Your teeth sprawl out across the floor. Sometimes it makes him jump, catches him off guard. He is frozen for a moment, before your hand reaches his shoulder, squeezing lightly. Do you need any help? You ask again, nudging him out of the way. He does not object. It is his time to observe you. You reach in, grabbing the pans, leaving them on the stovetop to cool off. The apartment fills with blinding light, just for a few seconds. Maybe less. You both take another sip. It’s his favorite meal. Your favorite to cook. Easy enough, anyways. The breeze cools your back, your neck, your cheeks. You watch the goosebumps on his arms. Want me to close it? The sliding glass door. No, no- you, you like it. No. He shakes his head. He should be drinking water, you think, he’s spent all day in the sun. But you don’t push it, not now. Later you’ll hand him a glass and watch him drink. He’ll be so full of sarcasm, of quips and jokes and anecdotes, but you will get your way.

He gets two plates for you, handing you one. You know, if it wasn’t for me, we wouldn’t even have any vegetables. You give him a fork and knife. Oh yes, where are my manners? Thank you Roman Roy for this delicious meal. Where would I be without you? You kiss his cheek, making him smile. He shrugs. Probably dead in a ditch, I don’t know. You laugh. Fuck off! You sit at the kitchen island across from him, glancing at him. What? What are you looking at? He asks, chewing. Can’t I look at my boyfriend? You finish your glass, meeting his eyes. No, actually you can’t. It’s illegal. You’re under arrest. You get closer to him, leaning in. Do I get parole? Mmmm no. Who’s my lawyer? Tom. Fuck you! Despite himself, you catch him grin. You’re tired. The sun took everything out of you. What you want is to leave dinner, leave the dishes, crawl into bed beside him where you can listen to the rain all night and fall asleep. You don’t want the day to be over though. It was too good to be true. Even the storm, even the rain could not ruin it. Whatever quiet time you had together lounging in the pool, cooking dinner, whatever peace you created was enough. More than enough. It was wonderful, it was everything you wanted. Who gets to be the judge? Greg. Are you kidding me? Nope.

#requested #writing #roman roy #roman roy imagine #roman roy x reader #succession #succession imagine #succession x reader #roman roy fic #roman roy oneshot #roman roy drabble #he finally gets his steak #i think lol #i cant remember the exact quote

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macfrog · 6 months

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all three dogs

Of course you must learn to love, to love always and love entirely and to be wounded by nothing so much as the violence of your own love. andrew kane, how to be a dog

inspired by this gorgeous post (good idea to read it before you read this), and this gorgeous ask (thank you @iknowisoundcrazy). also shoutout to @mrsmando for being the queen of character study. i am not sure what this is, exactly? is it about joel miller, or is it about some dogs? i do not know. but it was fucking cathartic, so here, i guess. here's how i see joel at his worst.

summary: "dog metaphors are all about devotion, devotion to a person, a concept, a place etc, to be a dog is to be devoted."

warnings: little graphic i guess? blood and guts. violent joel. sarah dies and joel shoots up a hospital to save ellie. angst. i think that's it

word count: 1.3k

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he loves you, sarah says, fork digging into egg.

he’s dependent on me, joel quips, not the same.

i think it’s the same.

when the first dog is born, he gives his heavy head a shake, and his ears flick to life. his fur is still damp from the blood and fluid of his mother’s body. he still smells like her – looks like her, too. he is still connected in some way to where he has been; the umbilical cord coiled and dripping.

she licks and licks and licks until he is clean. watches contently as he pads off into some distant future, where he will lose that boisterous gleam in his eye, the gentle wag of his tail. but for now –

for now, he is brown-haired. brown-eyed to match. he has a daughter. he is bright, and alive, and he makes jokes when they bubble up to his tongue. he is good. he knows love like a first language, as if each swipe of his mother’s tongue on his coat melded it into his makeup.

he does not know the warmth of another man’s blood on his hands. he has not drawn the screams and howls of pain from another’s throat.

she is the sun – his daughter – the most radiant part of his life. his life, which spins on its axis around her. always looking for her, to her, at her. vitamin c, she tells him, and he accepts the glass of orange juice. she tells him to swear and he says, on my life. she tells him he’s lame and he says, i know.

he trots faithful and pliant at her heels. circles her legs and passes over her shadow, waiting to be told different. waiting to be shooed away.

only – when he is told, he doesn’t listen. he can’t. what is a planet with no sun to orbit? what becomes of day, when its light begins to drain?

she digs her nails into his skin. pushes and scratches and begs him with shallow gasps to take his hands off her stomach. to let her go. to go away.

i know, baby, i know i know i know i know –

he tells her she’s going to be okay. because what the fuck else does he know? he’s just a dog. he’s just her dog. all he knows is her.

the sun is being eclipsed. the world begins to darken.

i’m just gonna get her killed, joel weeps, i know it. i have to leave her.

when the second dog is pulled from his mother, he wails in a collapsed heap on the cold tile floor. the world is dim, colorless. the sun is gone. he does not know how he ended up here.

love is akin to violence. it speaks the same language, inflection and cadence blurring between words. he is only as strong as his fists are able to break bone. he has run out of road – a panting, ragged, old dog, tongue hanging lopsided and jumping. ears dented with the pieces of him lost to fighting.

something quakes within his chest, a deep, unstable movement. a shifting of the tectonic plates that make up his bones. he shakes violently, feeling for the thrash of his heart against his chest wall. something in the darkness commands him to act – to move, though it never reveals where to or what from. just fucking move.

and then – the eruption of his temper. like waves on rocks, breaching in violent and unpredictable bursts. spray of black ocean on the jagged cliff edge. i made this decision for your own good, he reasons, stood in the pink-papered bedroom. the snow flutters silently outside. his hackles slowly furl. she scoffs. she knows as well as he does: he’s as good a liar as he was a pet.

but for all his anger, for all the fear he misdiagnoses as weakness – there is a glimmer somewhere on his back. a pale light catching in the broken face of his watch; lighting the kinks of his dark coat. it begins to push him; to stir him like the tide.

something is controlling him again. pulling on his collar. someone is lighting the way.

where is she?

fuck you.

it takes as little time for the dog’s ears to prick as it did for his lungs to suck in a breath. his upper lip twists, canine glinting in the trembling fluorescent light. shining with saliva and the rusted tinge of blood. joel thinks it over less than once. his eyes flood black.

i don’t have time for this.

when the third dog rips his way into the world, he tears everything around him to shreds, too. his teeth are already bared; his claws are already swiping. his eyes are black as ink; he cannot remember that soft-footed pup he once was.

there is nothing left to hide. not anymore. he has existed in the darkness too long to try. his shirt and skin are stained with dirt and sweat and blood. his fur is matted; his fangs are brown and rotten. if she saw him, if her light cast its golden spill onto his bloodshot eyes and mottled coat – she would never know who he is. she would not recognize her own father.

but he was always this way, it seems: he has always loved catastrophically.

everything is red. saturated in threat; a screaming, nauseating red. it turns his stomach just to look, to peer down the chamber of his gun. the blinking of the alarm light. the maroon stains on his hands. the metallic smell seeping from the slumped vests. the thick pools he steps through, the footprints following him around every corner. they will catch up to him eventually. they always do.

his paws hurt. pads skinned raw from all the running. his lungs ache, now, too. his throat lurches for breath, closes in on itself and then sticks, choking him. he cannot remember the heat of the sun on his arms. he does not know when he last said her name.

he doesn’t remember when he last said anything. he speaks in growls and barks and bites. when his mouth opens, his lips curl by instinct. he swallows his drawl and replaces it with something sharper. something poisonous. there’s foam lining his gums.

all he has – of this he is sure – is his brute force and the quick snap of his bite. the shattering of bone, the mauling of flesh. the brawn and breadth of his body; the squeeze of a trigger with one thoughtless pull. all he knows how to do is swing.

and so, one heavy boot steps in front of the other. crunching over broken glass and scuffing over bullet shells. whereisshewhereisshewhereisshe. it loops through his head like it used to when he could see color and feel the wind in his ears. like chasing his tail. catchitcatchitcatchit.

where did she go – the moon? which cloud is she hiding behind? how many men do his maws have to tear apart to find her?

and what will she think when she sees him again? his collar missing and his claws dripping crimson. when she feels the rips in his ears, sees the scar on the side of his head. what will she do, when she runs her hand down his dirty coat, and in place of a loving lick or nuzzle of the nose, he sinks his teeth straight into her wrist?

swear to me. swear to me that everything you said about the fireflies is true.

the dog lowers his head obediently. his ears fall flat. tail curls between his back legs. the wind pushes hard against joel’s chest, threatening to take him with it. i swear, he says.

ellie’s gaze falls. she nods once. tightens her fist around the dog’s leash.

okay.

lots of inspo drawn from:

how to be a dog by andrew kane

grit by silas denver melvin

monster theory: reading culture by jeffrey jerome cohen [seven theses]

#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller one shot #joel miller drabble #the last of us #tlou #i’m not sure what this is #i just wanted to write it #this one goes out to all the dog motif posts i see on the daily about roman roy #ouch

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richeeduvie · 24 days

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Kendall (and Shiv) watching Roman and Baby basically do foreplay on the dance floor of their wedding like 😐

The worst of it is the couples table.

Roman and Baby made it so they had a Bride and Groom table. Not one long run of a table for the bride and groom and their family. Disgusting. Absolutely pathetic and just a duo of cringe in terms of puffy romance. But Kendall's watching how they make out at the plate. Because they do very much make out.

Roman's eyes are still slightly puffy from listening to baby's stupid-fuck vows. But he's biting her ears or pressing his teeth against her neck. He's getting panicky and horny at her hand on his crotch and thigh under the table.

Shiv thinks it's a bit too much. But she's still, still hoping that there's some part of Baby and Roman that's real. Messy. Because it's just a little too fucking much, yeah? Yeah, it's Roman and it's Baby but...there's just parts of it that should be messy. Shiv doesn't want to hear about it. But she doesn't want to see her brother's tongue all over her bridal's friends skin.

Roman thinks it's fucking amazing. His wife is super hot and also his best friend and he'll kill himself on live television if she ever makes the choice to leave him. But he'd make fun of the rando-sadman who would clock out his brains on TV. Attention seeker. Maybe it's fitting.

#inbox #hc's #drabble #dog and bone!au #succession fanfiction #roman roy x reader

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hiskillingjar · 3 months

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hiihi just wanted to make a request for maybe like headcanons or drabbles or rlly whatevr medium you prefer abt lawrence strade or ren w/ dollification. i just think that some of the boys r wayyy better at taking care of their dolls than others LOL. strade would probably just use it as an excuse to totally manhandle n beat up an MC more but... i think ren would take care of a "doll" better imo

hrghhhhh i hate you people, you can't keep using this kink against me

since i already wrote a headcanon post very similar to this, i thought i'd just. write some drabbles because i'm insane and i hate working on actual writing lmao

cw for some gory descriptions in law's and strade's parts. as expected. also i posted this on ao3 because why not :P

🥀

"Law…Law~"

Your voice was as quiet as the coo of a dove from where you were sitting, settled down at Lawrence's feet while they attended to potting a new plant, the haze of marijuana smoke streaming from their lips like a slumbering dragon as the humidifier steamed up the wide windows of the apartment, as if they were trying to conceal you (what you had become, what they made you) from the rest of the world, keep you to themselves.

Your brain was as hazy as theirs with similarly strong drugs, administered through poisoned tea in a floral teacup, which left you doped up and thoughtless, vulnerable to any cruel intentions that they had with you.

Not like you cared about their intentions anymore though. You didn't have the brain to.

"Shhh…"

Lawrence didn't look directly at you, but they still smiled as they shushed you, the corners of their pretty mouth curling up into a serene smile, as peaceful and detached as an angel, a benevolent Goddess looking at a lamb left behind for the slaughter by a sadistic master.

Adequately silenced, you let out a sleepy moan in place of any more words, pressing your heavy head against their leg (you barely reached their knee now) and nuzzling it the best you could, what little remained of your brain seeking comfort from them, no matter what the cost might have been (and it could be steep, when Lawrence was the one administering the toll).

Tonight, though, they seemed to be in a good mood. Perhaps it was the stream of smoke from their lips or the still burning joint in the ashtray at the side, but whatever the cause, they couldn't help but laugh quietly as you kept nuzzling up against their leg.

"Oh, there you are." They said kindly. "That's my good doll. My special, little doll…"

They continued to work on their plants, though they were kind enough to reward you with a few head scritches, to let you know they were paying attention to you, and appreciating your sweet, docile form at their feet.

You instinctively raised your head to press against their palm, letting them stroke through your hair even more, chasing after each touch with trilled moans and high whimpering whines.

Lawrence had to smile again, finally looking down on you (their smile never touching their eyes, the stiff grin of a corpse, a girl in the water, a bride in a freezer) as you rose on your injured knees to lean into their hand, admiring the way your hair (a little greasy and matted, they hadn't been taking care of you too well as of late) fell around your bruised face, and the pinpricks of blood that were dotted on your lips made you look made up and pretty, like a figure or a toy.

This was the way you were meant to be, and you knew that. You were meant to be a sweet little thing for them to care for, a doll who'd had their joint popped out by a child who played too roughly with their toys, so docile and so trusting that you would obey whatever order came from them.

Or, at the very least, not put up too much of a fight against it.

"Law…" You whined softly, trying to sit forward on your knees, the infected cuts (you probably had sepsis of some kind, the hack job through your limbs had been done so sloppily, though not like you had the mind to be worried about that of all things) bound with blood-dotted bandages, pain cutting through the haze of pleasurable cotton padding in your head. "Mm, please…"

Lawrence looked at you curiously as you asked for something, the gentle strokes of their fingers pausing.

"Do you want something, love?"

"Mmm…"

They glanced at you, those beautiful, dead eyes dull with a familiar calmness and serenity that deadened their senses and made them all the more irresistible.

In your drugged state, it was easy to fall into a contented and submissive silence despite the searing pain that haunted you whenever you were sober enough to feel it, content to just be in Lawrence's presence and enjoy your life, or rather the remnants of it, as their doll.

You hummed again as they continued to stroke your hair, letting yourself settle at their feet, subdued into quiet submission at their touch.

"Can I have some more tea?" You finally asked after a few moments of quiet, distracted by a sudden searing sensation in what used to be your right leg. "Please…"

Lawrence chuckled softly at your question, shaking their head slightly without even looking at you.

"Oh…doll, I don't think that'd be a good idea…"

There was a subtle edge to their voice now, a lowness and authority that you weren't completely used to, as if they were trying to make a point.

"Remember the last time you had a second serving? Your mouth went numb and you couldn't keep your thoughts in line. I could barely understand you all night, had to shut you up just to stop you from babbling and babbling…" They looked at you again, with a quirk of their head, barely a light in those dead eyes. "Remember that, dolly? Or did you forget?"

"Mm…please?" You pouted all the same as you continued to plead, your blood-pricked lips trembling, watching as they sighed and set their tools down, stooping down to your level and scraping back a lock of blonde hair behind their ear with dirty hands. "It's hurting again, Law…hurting awful."

"Shh…it's okay, little doll…"

Lawrence kept the tone of their voice as gentle as they could, trying to soothe you as they reached forward to stroke over each stump of what used to be your limbs. Your wounds were still bad, made worse by the dirt constantly clinging to their fingers when they attended to them as best they could, but you were, at least, always too drugged to feel the severity of the pain, too drugged from the chemicals in their brew and too drugged from the sleepy calmness in their voice, to notice how bad they'd gotten in the weeks since they'd first done it.

"Okay, petal…okay." They nodded, their long (lovely) fingers stilling. "I'll give you some more tea, but you better not take too much this time, you hear me?"

"Mmhmm," You nodded with a grateful smile, following behind them on all fours, like an innocent, little lamb (being led to the slaughter) as they stood back to their feet and paced to the small kitchen connected to the rest of the apartment. "Thank you, thank you~"

"Of course, darling…of course."

They kept their back to you as they went ahead to the kitchen for your next serving of drugs, clicking the kettle on and spooning teaspoons of herbs into your special teacup.

"I have to do everything I can to keep my doll quiet and sweet on me…isn't that right?"

🦊

"Okay, baby, what does this say?"

Ren asked the question sweetly, the tone of his voice similar to that of a kind teacher speaking to a particularly challenging student as he held the book to your eyes, his golden gaze encouraging and warm.

You screwed up your expression thoughtfully, your bound hands curling into fists in the fluffy tulle of your skirt as you focused intently on the book, trying to put the letters together and make the word he was teaching you in your muddled-up brain.

Ren didn't mind that you were muddled up now, though, especially since he had gone through such an effort to do it in the first place.

In fact, he liked the opportunity to teach you new things, teach you not to resist him when he forced you into girly, fetish outfits, and teach you to be exactly the type of pet he wanted.

One who was just as eager about his teaching as he was.

"Fuh…uh," You sounded out, crossing your socked feet (white and frilly around the ankles) under you as he nodded eagerly at your words. "Ex. Fu-uh-ex."

"Yes, yes, you're almost there!" He said with a bright grin, his fangs shiny and wet as he nodded again. "Fuh, that's an F." He pointed at each bold letter with a claw, sounding it out just as you did so you'd have a better understanding of him. "Uh, that's an O. And ex, that's an X." He looked to you again before pointing at the cartoonish illustration at the top of the page. "And what's this? What does that spell out?"

"That's Ren!" You said excitedly, grinning at the cartoon fox on the thick boarded book before looking back to him, waiting for praise.

"Good doll!" He said with a yipping giggle, covering his mouth with his jacket sleeve to stop it from growing louder. "Heh, that's very good, but not quite. What does it spell, dolly? Use your brain to work it out."

You didn’t need to remind him that you didn’t have much of a brain left.

"Mmmm…" You looked thoughtful again, following each time his claw moved with your bright, and yet utterly empty eyes again. "Fuh…uh…ex. Oh, it's fox!" You smiled victoriously, looking into his eyes. "Fox, it's a fox, just like Ren!"

"Wow, good job!" He praised encouragingly (condescendingly), setting down the book and clapping his hands. "So smart, dolly, you did so, so well!~"

You beamed proudly as he leaned forward, a familiar sticker sheet of golden star stickers in hand, and peeled two off to lay flat on each of your cheeks, a reward for being so smart. Your skin was powdery and matte with concealer and blush to hide your bruises, so the stickers almost instantly tried to peel away, but neither of you minded.

It was the thought that counted, after all.

"You're doing such a good job with your reading today, dolly, I think we should give you an even bigger reward." Ren sat back on his knees with a familiar grin on his face. "What do you think?"

"Mmhmm," You nodded obediently, your empty eyes lighting up as he slid off the bed (your bed, not his, but he slept in it with you so often that it might have well have been) and fetched your favourite wand from the bedside table drawer, full of similarly well-used toys in varying colours and sizes.

Ren chuckled at your eager expression and slid the wheel of the wand up, watching intently as it buzzed to life in his hands before his eyes went back to yours and narrowed, a new air of quiet authority taking over his expression.

"Raise your skirts, doll." He ordered, and you did so almost instantly.

The jangling chain of your wrist cuffs (loose and comfortable, almost exclusively there for show) was light and delicate as you pulled the cotton skirt of your dress and scratchy tulle petticoat up your soft thighs to reveal your panties, already slightly damp, desire soaking into the cheesy pink and heart-adorned graphic, reading 'Princess'.

"Good girl," He praised, his voice a soft purr, lowering the rumbling head of the vibrator to the front of your panties (just over the graphic) and watching with a salacious smile as you instantly started to moan and whine at the sensation. "Good doll. Happy to see your best friend, huh?”

“Mmm…” You groaned with a little nod, doing your best to rock your hips forward and chase after the pleasurable vibrations, biting your pink and pouty lips as your eyelids fluttered from the sharp shocks from the wand. “Yeah, yeah…so happy.”

“Mm, it seems like kind of a waste of time to be teaching you, though,” Ren started, sitting up on his knees to cup your chin with his free hand, sliding the vibrator into your panties and positioning it against your already erect clit, eyes sparkling at your instant desperate and high pitched moan. “You know, when I can make you all cute and stupid again just by using this thing, right?”

“Nnhhh…hah…” You groaned, burying your fists into your skirts, your expression screwing up again as he sloooowly turned the speed and intensity of the vibrator up a few more notches, the sensations sharp and quasi-painful…or at least they would be painful, had you not been trained to receive pain as mind melting pleasure. “OHHH! Ah, ah, mm!”

“Ah, there it is.” Ren said airily, giggling as he looked deeply into your fluttering eyes, his own shining with malice. “All those thoughts leaking out of you. My, my, dolly, whatever am I going to do with you if you stay this fucking stupid, huh?~”

“Rennnn…” You whined, trying to shy away from the wand as he slid it up another notch, each jolt of brutal pleasure enough to make your mind wipe and your vision go spotty. “Nghhh, god…”

“I suppose I’m just going to have to take care of you forever, aren’t I?” Ren continued, answering his own question as he leaned closer, rubbing the bridge of his nose against your jaw, scenting you, the soft whisps of his hair tickling your made-up cheek. “I’m going to have to dress you, and feed you, and teach you everything you’ve forgotten, hm?”

“Yesss,” You whined with a deliriously happy smile, pressing closer to him, bound hands reaching up to grab the front of his jacket and pull him in close. “Yes, yes, please take care of me, please…”

“Oh, dolly,” He moaned softly, suddenly straddling your soft thigh and pressing his own groin down against it, giving away instantly that he was rock hard. “Oh, sweet thing, of course, I’ll take care of you…it would be my pleasure to.”

You let out a trembling little giggle, girlish and sweet, as you wrapped your arms around his neck, rutting up against the vibrator as he rutted down against your thigh, breathing heavily as he listened to each of your own ragged breaths.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good, baby.” He mumbled, pressing a wet kiss to your cheek as his free hand drifted away from your face and groped at your chest through the bodice of the lolita-style dress he had wrangled you into that morning. “You’re going to feel so good that you’re never going to want to leave, even if I ever let you have your old brain back…”

“And don’t count on me doing that any time soon, dolly. You’re too fun like this~”

🔨

"Gooood morning, fraulein!~"

Strade's voice was a sickeningly enthusiastic drawl as he switched on the lights, his steps heavy on the wooden stairs, each one groaning beneath his weight as he sank into the depths of the basement, like a demon sinking back into the warming flames of Hell, tired out after pretending to be a human for a little too long.

Not like you were all that clued into his demonic intentions. You were that out of it, your brain slurred and muddled into dumbed-down subservience from his pain and torture.

Maybe there was a mercy to that, a mercy to ignorance so that you would not go (more) insane due to his abuse, his characteristic recklessness from treating his ‘toys’ a little too roughly.

Were demons known for their merciful nature? You didn't remember.

You didn't remember anything.

"Good morning," You slurred through a mouthful of dry, coppery blood, attempting a bright smile as he pushed a hand into your hair and forced your eyes up towards his so that he could inspect you, and get a good look at you in the morning light.

Well, the basement light, anyway. You hadn’t seen morning in days at this point.

"Ah, just look at you." He commented in a voice purring with approval, running a thick finger over your black eye and down the growing bruise on your cheek, dark purple and blue painting your skin like a painting of brutality and pain. "Pretty as a picture, as always. I missed you last night, you know!"

"You did?" You tilted your head dopily and smiled a little bigger, flashing a broken molar at the back of your grin, a reminder of his brutal love (or, more appropriately, lust the previous night. "That's so nice of you to say. I missed you too."

"Mm, it is nice of me, isn't it?" He repeated with a good-natured chuckle, shaking his head fondly. "I'm in a nice kind of mood today." He continued, idly scratching at your scalp with his grimy fingernails, petting you like an animal at his feet. You were all too eager to keen up to his touch as he pleased, be the animal that he wanted. "So nice, I might not beat up that pretty face all too much today. You took an awful lot yesterday, after all." He let go of your hair to tap your broken nose, smiling a little broader at your moan of pain. “Isn’t that right, doll? I think you managed to bruise my knuckles back, actually!”

"Mmmm…" You hummed a low affirmative moan, shivering as the tip of his boot grazed over your purpling knees, marred with bloody cuts and grazes left over from days and nights crawling back and forth the rough cement ground. "That would be lovely..."

"Lovely, eh? Hah, don't think you're going to get off easily though, dummkopf," He let out another laugh, not a smooth chuckle, though, more like the barking cackle of a hyena, his thick brows furrowing in dark amusement as he spoke a language you couldn't understand (though you barely understood him when he spoke English, at times). "I still need to make use of you somehow, ja? So you don't prove too useless to keep around..."

Before you even had the chance to consider the threat behind his words, he reached down with his free hand to unzip his trousers and urged your head forward with another firm grip on your hair. As your bruised cheek pressed against his soft thigh, you couldn’t help but purr in pleasure, just feeling his all-encompassing warmth against you, stifling and boiling hot just like a creature from Hell should be.

"No, no, I have a better idea of what to do with you," He continued, his voice low as you rubbed your cheek against his thigh. "What do you think, doll?" He drawled, a foreign and unfamiliar name (even to him) thick on his poisonous tongue. "Want me to sink my dick down your throat and scramble your brain up even more?"

“Mm,” You moaned in approval, opening your mouth obediently as he tucked his boxers down around his thick cock and pressed into your open, bloody mouth, taking in a low hiss through his teeth at the feeling of your wet tongue, in spite of everything.

Barely moments into your task, as you bobbed your head up and down, your sore jaw manuvered like a puppet on his cock, you found your legs spreading obediently (unconciously, automatically, like it had been trained into you) as he slid the tip of his boot to your cunt (the only place not battered or bruised just yet) and slowly rubbed at it, up and down, growling his approval when your slit left behind a despicably thick smear of pre-cum on the dark leather.

“God,” He mumbled hotly with a rasped chuckle, tipping his head back, his eyes on the single lightbulb hanging from the basement ceiling. “You’re fucking depraved, doll. I’d feel bad for treating you so rough, you know, if I didn’t know you got off on it. Quite the nasty, little toy you are, huh?”

Your eyes fluttered uselessly, like the glass eyes of a baby doll, as he forced your mouth to take his entire length, the lack of oxygen enough to make them roll back into your empty skull as tears ran down your cheeks, glossing the canvas of bruises that he had left behind.

“Mm, nah, actually, I wouldn’t feel bad about it at all.” He mumbled, before looking down at you again, untangling his fingers from your hair and planting a firm smack on your bruised cheek. “You’re just too pretty when I beat you up a little. I can’t resist!”

You yelped when he slapped you again, trying to pull back from the aphyxiating warmth of his cock, but that only encouraged him to force himself deeper, burying your broken nose into the dark hairs at the base and matting them together with your blood.

“Plus, it makes you fight back a little. I like that.” He said again with a heavy sigh, his golden eyes narrowing hungrily. “It’s like there’s a little part of you still trying to resist me, but aw,” He clicked his tongue, giving your cheek another (albeit slightly lighter) slap. “You’re too stupid to let that side of you win now, aren’t you, fraulein?”

“Mmmph,” You groaned, doing your best to nod and squeezing your eyes shut, a new stream of tears running down your cheeks, smearing blood, painting bruises.

“You can’t fight me,” He then said, going back to a pattern of brutal thrusts, bruising your throat and forcing obscene ‘GHK-GHK!’ noises from your throat, all the while rubbing his boot against your cunt. “And you don’t want to. You get off on being treated like a fuck toy too much to fight, don’t you?”

“Mmm~” You moaned, staring up at him with wide, wet eyes as you reached down with bruised and broken fingers, wrists marred with rope burn and the imprints of chains and shakles, to touch yourself.

“Scheußlich,” He chuckled, tilting his head to the side as he watched you. “Nasty, nasty little girl…mmph, you should be careful, you know?” He bit his lip with a sudden dark look in his eyes, puppeteering your mouth up and down his cock a little faster, a little more erratically, his full hips slamming against your cheeks, your chin.

“I might just fall in love with you, if you keep behaving like this~”

#ren hana #ren btd #ren x mc #ren x reader #lawrence oleander #lawrence btd #lawrence x mc #lawrence x reader #strade btd #strade x reader #strade x mc #drabbles #qs #roman roy voice: YEAH WHATEVER FUCK OFF

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impositioned · 5 months

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the dog days are over

[the prompt is post St. Andrews Roman and the 12th song on my 2023 wrapped playlist]

Something wasn't right when he arrived at the Hamptons. He packed everything up, but he had a feeling he left something behind. He was fucking exhausted. It had been planes and cars for the last sixteen hours.

Still, he had been good. He answered their questions, smiled, and said his thank you’s. Things were said, passed around the table — yes, the dog has been tamed, a piece of fucking cake; you should see the other guy. Of course, he avoided Dad’s look when he said this. It wasn’t the last drill at camp. It was the vase in the study before lunch.

He had been good, though. Don't try anything funny, don't embarrass Mo, don't fuck up. Check and check and check. It’s not like he didn’t learn anything there.

He learned to be patient, too. He waited until they all got up to do their backyard equestrianism bullshit before heading to the bathroom.

He could hear the horses through the shower window as he prayed to the toilet and made his offering — shredded chicken and green peas. Things were different. The tiles in the boys' bathrooms at the North End were colder. The sounds of hooves galloping through the fields were heavier than a couple of boots, making their way down the wooden hallway.

He hoisted himself up. A breath escaped him as he finally saw. His wrist is empty and free.

He looked at himself in the mirror and made up his mind. This will be the last time he’d know the temperature of a bathroom floor by his knees. When someone calls out from the other side, it will be by his first name.

“Rome,” Shiv knocked on the door. “You can’t just leave. You promised every time they’re here. Attack mode doesn’t even count because we called a truce until Ken arrives,” she reminded him as he stepped out.

“Well, I can if you don’t stop being a bitch.” The summer games had just begun.

“Time’s it?” She asked, “When will this be over?”

“I don’t know,” Roman shrugged.

He wouldn’t be able to tell. He left his watch at St. Andrews. And he could still hear the horses.

#roman roy #succession #writing challenge #drabble #shiv roy #kendall roy #logan roy #childhood #the dog days just began #nothings really over #the way you can't carry it with you if you want to survive tho #florence and the machine #fanfic #fic

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a-little-nerdy-dude-with-wings · 7 months

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Thoughts & Drabbles on Roman and the Dog pound

TW: Abuse, CSA

The dog pound was genuinely a game for Roman and Kendall

But as Roman felt bullied growing up

Possibly due to

being compared constantly/losing to kendall and shiv

Abused by Logan (possibly more than the others, but probably cause he got into trouble more often rather than just being picked on.) Jesse Armstrong confirmed that Logan physcially abused Kendall and Connor, however Roman was more deeply affected by it. Also Kendall and Shiv constantly weaponizing Roman's abuse to villainise Logan, makes Roman appear even more weak, reducing him compared to the other siblings.

Alluded CSA and being less masculine in appearance and mannerisms.

He has a victim complex, which Kieran Culkin believes, but instead of lashing out at the person behind the actual abuse, Logan. He sees Logan’s abuse as comfort and love and therefore will defend his father, saying he deserved it or he was being annoying.

He sees Logan’s abuse as love as it’s the only attention Logan ever gives him. Whereas Logan has expectations of Kendall to take over and Logan fully ignores Connor.

This causes him to lash out against kendall and Connor who didn’t actually abuse him

However, kendall enjoying locking Roman in the pound isn’t initially malicious, as it was a game for them both

But it does show, that early on they cemented their roles as stronger and weaker dog which is how Logan viewed them. And as adults, Kendall does see Roman as weaker, and Roman believes this too.

So Roman looking back on this dog pound memory and recognising this dynamic and comparing it to everything else, makes him remember it worse than it really is

Making the dog pound and kendall more malicious than reality.

Using less harmful memories and people as the scapegoats for something worse

This is me incorporating Jesse Armstrong and Kieran Culkins thoughts about the dog pound story and Roman’s relationship with Logan abuse compared to Connor and Kendall, along with my own interpretations

#roman roy #succession #Dog pound #kendall roy #logan roy #jesse armstrong #kieran culkin #roman cage story #thoughts and drabbles

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chaithetics · 10 months

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Porcelain and the Shark - The 80th

Pairing: Stewy Hosseini x f (Roy) reader

(reader has anxiety, no use of y/n, physical descriptions or other names but does have the nickname Porcelain/Porce - due to family viewing her that way not because of complexion)

Word count: 5K

Prompt: Logan’s birthday Oc!Roy and their two toddler kids, pregnant with the last one goes to the surprise party. Logan at this point while loves his daughter isn’t too thrilled with the fact that Stewy isn’t in the business or like open to help logan as “family,” so he’s kind of soured on Stewy. And while he loves his grandkids, he’s kind of not happy they’re Hosseini’s and y/n is one too, he’s pretty salty that even though it’s hyphenated she’s pretty okay with just being called Mrs. Hosseini at pre-school pickup. So the dinner is on and y/n is talking with her siblings and tending to the kids and Stewy shows up pretty late due to business, which also pisses Logan off because while he admires it, he also sees it as a slight to himself. Y/n stops it, gently but also pretty much uses her pregnancy and meek daughter rep to kind of disarm her dad’s explosion and barbs. (slight variation on some stuff)

Chapter/content warning: 18+ MINORS DNI, established relationship, implied spice but not really, soft Stewy, dad + husband Stewy, anxious reader, anxiety, mentions/references to drug use (not depicted though), mentions/allusions to childhood abuse, canonical Roy Roy family being Roys...

Authors note: This was one prompt of a few in a single ask so I haven't directly responded to it as it will be a little series of drabbles and to keep the other prompts in there so I don't forget. This is an anxious f (afab) Roy reader. Sorry for the slight delay in this, I ended up changing my mind about which fic I wanted to finish and post, it just made more sense dramaturgically... I hope you you all enjoy this and let me know what you think! Especially the lovely Nonnie that sent this in, I appreciate you!

****************

It’s the day of your father’s 80th birthday and you’re anxious to say the least. You’d always lived with anxiety that you’d struggled to hide but this anxiety was often worsened when your family was involved. Your family were dramatic, toxic, chaotic and abusive. You were wondering why you were even going, especially without Stewy but you reminded yourself that you had boundaries. It would be okay. Connor would be there and Stewy would come, he would just be running late.

You wouldn’t even say anything about how it was a surprise birthday party, you’d leave that to Roman, he would definitely bring it up. Everybody knew that Logan absolutely hated surprises but Marcia had chosen to ignore it. You knew it wouldn’t go well, there was always some drama and you were even more anxious because Stewy wouldn’t be there for the bulk of it. You’d just finished feeding your daughter Matilda and now your focus was turned to getting your three-year-old son, Jonathan, ready.

Jonathan’s giggle can now be heard from the bedroom, clearly coming from the ensuite. You walk into the large ensuite to see Jonathan sitting on the vanity swinging his legs as Stewy styles his hair. You immediately stop to watch the sweet scene, it calms the anxiety that had been growing as a dreadful ball in the pit of your stomach.

Jonathan is looking up at his father in awe with a large smile covering his whole face. Stewy’s face is pure concentration as his focus is solely on his son’s curls he’s easily putting into a style similar to his. You lean against the doorway and watch them, not saying a word as you don’t want to disturb this moment.

“Does it look just like yours?” Jonathan asks excitedly.

Stewy chuckles and while he still has concentration etched into every handsome feature he has a giant smile that’s directed at Jonathan. “Almost.”

You were absolutely in love with Stewy and were just in as much awe of him as you were when you first fell. His playful, teasing nature really shined when he was with his children. They were in mutual adoration of each other. But Stewy wasn’t a manchild, he could be serious. He was intelligent and always quick-witted, he was also soft and patient, the latter being a necessary skill for having spent so long around Roys.

“Mommy!” Jonathan calls out as he finally notices you. You walk over to where he sits. Stewy looks over his shoulder at you with a large smile and then his focus returns back to Jonathan.

“Hi, darling.” You smile at Jonathan, placing a hand gently on his back to ensure he’s securely sitting on the vanity as you give him a little tickle on the side. He giggles which makes Stewy’s smile grow. You lean over to softly kiss Stewy on the cheek, you feel his smile widen as his handsome beard tickles your lips and you let out a small laugh at that.

“You’re distracting me, baby.” He teases.

“I’m sorry, can’t let that happen now can we?”

“Sweetie-” Stewy winks at Jonathan and points at the young boy's dark curls as he continues. “This is my life’s work, my genes- these genes, Jonathan’s my masterpiece.” You giggle at that and Jonathan looks up at you both laughing.

“I want my hair like Dad’s!” Jonathan says as he points up, you nod. You love Stewy’s hair and it made your heart melt that Jonathan had inherited Stewy’s curls. Jonathan’s hair was normally tidy but wasn’t styled back how Stewy’s usually was, your precious son normally had looser, freer curls and you made a mental note to request Stewy doing the same more often.

“So not a silly mohawk?” You ask Jonathan moving your hands to gesture what you mean. Stewy chuckles at that and Jonathan looks up at you.

“No!” He says while giggling.

“That’s what I thought, I was just checking sweetie.” You say with a smile looking down at him. He smiles while Stewy finishes his hair. Stewy then picks him up, turning him around so Jonathan can look into the mirror.

“Happy with that buddy? You look pretty suave.” Stewy says with a smile. Jonathan excitedly nods and says thank you a few times. You can��t help but laugh at the young boy’s joy and how loving Stewy is with him, the complete opposite of what you had with your father.

Stewy then puts Jonathan down and Jonathan hugs you and walks off. Stewy smiles at you and you wrap your arms around the back of his neck and lean your head against his chest.

“Our genes really made a masterpiece.” Stewy says as he presses his lips against yours softly, you lean into the kiss more and it naturally deepens it. You bite his lip a little and moan into his mouth, his hands then come to wrap firmly around the back of your waist, pressing you into him more.

“Thank you for doing that.” You say as you put a hand through Stewy’s soft hair. “He looks pretty happy and-”

“Of course. But don’t thank me for being a parent, remember?” Stewy says as he presses another kiss to your forehead.

“I know. You should have your hair- curls out more often, you know?”

“Oh really?”

“Yes, it’s a formal request.” You say pressing a soft kiss to his jaw.

“Noted, I’ll raise that at the next hair board meeting.”

“I’d appreciate it.” You say with a smile, then your eyes scan to Stewy’s watch. “I guess it’s probably time for you to head off now sweetie.” You tilt your head to give his cheek another kiss.

“I’ll get there as soon as I can okay? It’ll be fine- Connor will be there and I love you, so there’s that as well.” Stewy says kissing your lips another time.

“I love you too.” You say giving him one last kiss before he heads off to work and you leave with the kids to survive another Roy family function.

**************************

Roman hums the Jaws theme song as he walks into the bathroom.

“Uh yes, I thought I smelt shit.” Roman’s voice cuts through as he sees you holding Matilda in one arm with a freshly changed diaper.

“Maybe it’s because you just walked into a bathroom?”

“Yeah, one with a baby that just took a shit.” Roman smirks.

“Rome.” You say tiredly.

He rolls his eyes with a small smirk and walks over, giving you a quick one-armed hug as he leans down to peck a kiss on Matilda’s forehead, he sniffs her head for a moment. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone but he loved doing that, it was calming and he’d take any chance he could to do so.

There were many things Roman wouldn’t admit, one of them being that you were secretly, probably his favourite. He wouldn’t hide it but he also wouldn’t loudly admit it in front of his father, that he genuinely loved being an uncle. Or that he found holding and sniffing his niece’s head calming. Shiv had looked down on you for embracing motherhood and it had perplexed Roman at first, he wouldn’t admit this but now he found a weird comfort in seeing you be so gentle and loving to Jonathan and Matilda. None of you had received that and while he was the Roy family court jester, he knew that he was glad that his beloved nephew and niece got that at least.

“So, where’s Jaws at? I don’t see any stranded penthouse swimmers?” Roman quips, pleased with himself at the joke.

“Stewy is working, he’ll come later.” You emphasise your husband’s name for the millionth time.

Earlier in the relationship your father had called Stewy a shark, as if it was a compliment but it had just made you severely uncomfortable. Now your siblings regularly joked about it and Roman very rarely used Stewy’s name, preferring the shark moniker. You loved your brother but you were sure nothing gave him a kick like the discomfort he got out of making his siblings victims to his antics.

“Does he not remember that there are several bathrooms here with impeccable surfaces for snorting his preferred angel dust?” Roman asks as he swipes his fingers alongside the basin, holding his finger up without a spec of dust on it as if to prove his point.

“Rome.” You say trying to ignore the growing anxiety.

“Right, must be some pretty good coke to fuck his memory up that much.” He proudly teases.

“God, stop please, Rome.” You scold him as gently as possible while starting to leave the bathroom with Matilda.

“Fine, fine, fine!” He sighs and then quickly perks up again as he asks with a smirk.“You heard about Ken?”

“Yes, of course, I did.” You knew, everyone did. You walk past Roman as you leave the bathroom to then walk back to where you’d left Jonathan with Connor.

“And…?”

“I’ll leave the snark to you and Shiv.” You say while cooing at Tillie, giving her your full attention.

Roman scoffs but continues to follow you and then he sees Grace and heads over to talk to her. You let him be, glad for a bit of respite from his antics as you see Connor. Who is without a doubt, the safest space of a person in your father’s penthouse.

“Hey, sweetie.” Connor says smiling at you. “Let me take her?” He offers softly. You nod and place your young daughter gently into his arms, he looks down smiling at her.

“Oh she’s gorgeous, you’re so small and cute Tillie. She reminds me of you when you use to sleep as a baby. Just wow.” He looks at you and smiles. “How are you doing?”

“I’m okay.” You scratch your eyebrow. You were so nervous about being here without Stewy “It’s just been weird, having to change my medication during pregnancy and we’ve changed it again now. It’ll take a little longer to kick in is all.”

“Hey, it’s okay, that’s okay. You can spend more time at the ranch, yeah? With or without the kids.” He gives you a large loving smile, it’s genuine. One of the only genuine parts of today. “It’s always nice having you around, you know that right?” You smile and nod at him. You felt out of place often in your family but Connor never did that to you.

Connor could be described in many ways, he was eccentric, to say the least, but he was also kind and loving. He’d spent most of his life being more of a father to you than Logan had and Connor was without a doubt, a better one. Your elder brother sits down with Tillie still in his arms and you pick up Jonathan. Kissing his head of soft curls that impressively resemble his father’s. You sit across from Connor with Jonathan on your lap as you both listen to him excitedly repeat what Marcia had told him about lunch and surprising his grandfather.

“Uncle Roro!” Jonathan says excitedly as he sees Roman come over.

“Hey Jonathan, caused any trouble yet? If Uncle Ken comes, I don’t think anyone would’ve given him a wet willy today so you need to get onto that.” Roman casually suggests to the young boy with his signature grin.

“You’re such a bad role model.” You say as you roll your eyes at your older brother, pressing another kiss to the top of Jonathan’s head as he giggles and Roman smirks as he shrugs at you.

“At least I’m not the one that’s you know-” He mimes the act of snorting something, you all know what the insinuation is. Jonathan has no idea what’s going on and just looks at his uncle with a large innocent, smile.

“Roman!” You practically shout as you gently place your hands over Jonathan’s eyes. Roman just starts giggling like a child which just makes the confused but happy young boy giggle as well. Connor rolls his eyes and gives Roman that gentle parent but not impressed older brother look.

Jonathan immediately goes over to Roman who quickly picks him up. It shouldn’t have been a surprise to anyone that Roman was good with kids as he often acted like one but it still was, he and Connor were the best in your family with Jonathan. Roman had a big soft spot for his youngest nephew and Connor was a natural with all kids. But Connor’s no surprise, he was the father that Logan never was. The one you all cried to, who’d been the only one to do the fishing and camping trips that the Roy kids ever went on.

Roman holds Jonathan for a little bit and then Jonathan comes back to you when Shiv and Tom arrive, Roman leaves to talk to them while you stay seated, bouncing your son on your knee as he keeps talking but then he gets up when he sees Marcia coming over, wanting to talk more about his grandpa’s surprise with her. You didn’t mind Marcia, you knew that wasn’t the case for all your siblings though but she was always polite with you and kind to your children.

Connor gets up as he becomes thirsty, so you sit down on the floor with Tillie and watch her as she crawls a little around the space. You were almost always ignored by your siblings at these family events, Connor would consistently talk to you but that was because you were both outsiders and it was not in his nature to be cruel, it wasn’t in his nature but to be anything but kind to you.

Other than that, there would normally be some teasing from Roman, which you’d already endured so it was safe to say you’d probably hit the quota for Roy sibling interactions for the day. If Kendall came there would possibly be a brief chat, probably a question asking where Stewy was, you wouldn’t expect much conversation from him with everything going on. Lastly, Shiv had not acknowledged you. But that was nothing new. It was typical, during lunch she’d maybe say something pointed that sub in for a form of acknowledgement but that would be it.

Tillie looks up at you and starts laughing as you play a little game of peek-a-boo. You can’t help but feel soothed when seeing her chubby cheeks crease with her large smile and the big brown eyes that match Stewy’s shine at you. You then hear Marcia telling everyone to get into their places for your father’s surprise. You pick Tillie up and stand behind Connor holding her, giving her a few kisses as you sway with her.

Tillie laughs when Logan comes through with the cousin that you haven’t seen or heard of in years. Your father acknowledges Connor first and your heart breaks when you see Connor’s face fall when Logan completely ignores his gift and moves his attention to Shiv.

“Oh, hello darling.” Logan says somewhat softer than his usual, naturally irritated tone as his sight turns to you, looking down briefly at Matilda who you’re still holding. He gives you both a quick hug.

“Happy birthday Dad.”

“Where’s Stewy?” He questions as he looks at you pulling back from the hug, his voice more serious.

“He’s working-” You begin to say before your father cuts you off again.

“Is he coming?”

“Yes. He’s just running a bit late with work. Sorry, Dad.”

“No, it’s ah-fine. It’s fine Porce.” He says before Kendall then comes into the penthouse grabbing everyone’s attention.

They start talking business again so you go back to where you were before and Tillie crawls around while Jonathan eagerly follows his younger sister, sweetly talking to her. After a few minutes, your father calls out that he wants to chat with all of his children, and you feel your heartbeat quicken at that. You look over at your siblings who start heading over to the room, Connor looks at you expectantly waiting for you to join them.

“I need to go and feed Matilda so that I can sit with Jonathan when lunch is ready. Sorry. Just update me later or send a text.” You answer, your opinion wouldn’t matter, it would go how it always does, whatever Kendall, Roman and Shiv wanted. Connor and Kendall nod and head in, Shiv rolls her eyes at your excuse. You decide to head off before Roman has the chance to make an inappropriate comment.

Marcia had been kind enough to have quickly put some equipment into the penthouse to make these functions a bit easier. One of the spare rooms now had a cot in it for Tillie and a good chair for you to feed her in. You make your way to this room carrying Tillie and Jonathan following behind. You feed Tillie while Jonathan sits at the desk and draws. Eventually, the youngest of your children falls asleep after being fed and you put her into the cot.

You head to the dining room with Jonathan, holding his small hand. Connor comes over to check in which you appreciate and you end up sitting next to him at the table with Jonathan on your lap. The conversation goes how it always does. You notice that something seems wrong with Kendall though. You look at Connor and he whispers in your ear what had been revealed during the private conversation of your father with your siblings that you had missed. You sigh at the revelation and feel the ball of dread coming back to haunt you at that. It was only going to get more tense.

About halfway through lunch Stewy finally comes.

He immediately makes eye contact with you and smiles, which you gladly return. He leans down to greet Marcia and kiss her on the cheek, Marcia and Stewy had always genuinely gotten along. Maybe it was another reason why Shiv didn’t like Marcia, she was polite with Tom but genuinely got along well with Rava and Stewy. He then stands by your chair, with a hand on your shoulder, he rubs a few circles comfortingly there as he presses a kiss to the top of your head and then one to Jonathan’s as well.

“Well, look who decided to show up. Where the fuck have you been?” Logan directs at Stewy. Stewy flashes Logan a large smile and dryly chuckles as he nods. You sigh out as

“Happy birthday Sir Roy. Sorry about that, you know how it-”

“Right.” Logan says immediately cutting Stewy off as he narrows his eyes a little at your husband.

You feel yourself freeze up a little at your father’s acknowledgement of Stewy. There’s always a looming intensity when in your father’s presence and even if you were in one of his houses, around your siblings when Logan wasn’t around it was still a shadow hiding the sunlight of freedom and comfort.

But the intensity of your world of a father feels more engulfing right now. You look up at Stewy who has a smirk on his face as he looks at Logan. Your father doesn’t look impressed but he doesn’t say anything more.

Your father had a strong disdain for pretty much all of his children’s partners, Grace was like a mild version of Rome in terms of humour and personality, and your father had always made it abundantly clear that he thought something was wrong with Roman. Rava and Logan embodied what the other thought was disturbing, Logan had a way of believing that Kendall and Rava’s marital situation and every issue was her fault and that applied to everything relating to Sophie and Iverson and you knew for a fact she was a good, present, patient and loving mother and had embodied that as a partner with Kendall as well.

Shiv was the golden child, the favourite. It made sense with that in mind that your father had never approved of any partner she’d had, he openly viewed Tom as beneath Shiv. Logan seemed to go between amused and irritated at Tom’s incessant desire to be liked and to gain Logan’s approval.

Your father also had a complicated history regarding his opinion of Stewy. Stewy’s place in the world made your father view him as still not an equal but not anywhere near as beneath you all as he did with Tom. Logan had initially somewhat approved of the union, he felt that with Stewy’s personality, career and work ethic, it would balance out and protect your timid nature. Your father had always viewed you as extremely fragile, hence the nickname Porcelain and Porce.

But as time went on he had somewhat soured on your beloved husband, this was due to a few different factors that your father was open about. Stewy was a great networker, and would rarely turn down a chance to talk about work or find out work tea from others but he had viewed Waystar as a family matter that didn’t concern him, he didn’t jump at the chance to try and win your father over or do business favours for him which Logan disliked.

Logan had problematic opinions of Iverson and Sophie because of their parentage, he had a weird relationship with your children. He was kinder to them than what you remember him ever being with you and your siblings but you’d read that that wasn’t rare in abusive families. They were favoured as your nieces and nephews as your children had been biological but Logan did have issues with them being Hosseinis and you practically being one as well. As a healthier life and family unit had been created with Stewy and you were around your father less your father blamed that on Stewy. He’d gone from thinking Stewy was a good, protective force to that he was a shark that had manipulated his sweet, mild-mannered daughter.

You softly squeeze Stewy’s hand as his gaze looks down at you, he squeezes your hand back softly and sits down next to you. Roman hums the Jaws theme as Stewy does but you all completely ignore him as Roman then whispers something to Shiv. Jonathan moves from your lap and climbs over to Stewy’s with a few giggles. You laugh a little and tuck a looser curl that was moved during the commotion to behind Jonathan’s ear, Connor notices and smiles.

Stewy wraps one arm around Jonathan and bounces him on his knee and his free hand holds your hand that’s on the table.

“Where’s Tillie?” Stewy asks.

“Sleeping upstairs!” Jonathan quickly says and Stewy nods, as he looks around the room. His gaze lands on Kendall and he notices something is off, he then looks at you to see if you’ve noticed.

You give Stewy a small nod and then lean over, placing a hand on his shoulder as you quietly whisper into his ear what Connor had revealed to you earlier in the meal. Stewy’s doe eyes widen slightly but noticeably and his dark eyebrows quickly raise and then he glances over at Kendall and your father for a second. Jonathan then begins to talk to Stewy who attentively listens as Jonathan tells him about his day so far and how the surprise went.

You hear somebody say something about the game and you want to leave now. It was never fun, everyone was cruelly competitive and even layered up, and the weather wasn’t super pleasant. It wouldn’t be good for 2 young children. You quickly excuse yourself with the excuse that you’re going to check on Matilda. Stewy watches you carefully and Marcia gives you a tight-lipped smile as you walk off.

Stewy looks at Connor who nods and then Stewy leaves to follow you. But is then questioned by Kendall who goes over to him and both men leave the dining room.

“She knows about the papers right? Did she tell you about the papers?” Kendall immediately asks as soon as they’re out of earshot.

“Are you okay man?” Stewy stops walking as he asks Kendall.

“Something’s off-he’s unwell, acting strange.”

“Are you okay?”

“You know Roy etiquette, don’t ask questions like that on what should’ve been Coronation Day. So?”

“Connor told her, she mentioned it a few minutes ago.”

“She won’t sign, will she? I know she likes Marcy but she won’t sign, right? You can talk her out of it?” Kendall asks looking at him.

“We haven’t talked about it yet. Any advice I give will be Kendall-less by the way.” Stewy quickly responds and Kendall rolls his eyes at that.

“So what, my sister’s tamed you into the good little husband that only barks when asked to or something?” Kendall asks.

“Oh yes, The Taming of the Stew. The best modern Shakespeare adaptation to date. Your sister should get a Tony for that one or something.” Stewy smugly quips back, as he bites for a second at the top of his thumbnail before walking off to the spare room where Marcia keeps the cot. Kendall scoffs and walks back.

“Hey, you okay?” Stewy asks after closing the door behind him and walking over so that he can wrap his arms around you as you both stand by the cot watching your perfect little daughter sleep, completely undisturbed and untouched by the drama downstairs.

“If you think of a convincing reason for us to not go to the game and we leave. I’ll marry you.” You say softly and place your arms over his, making him hold you a bit tighter.

“If memory serves correctly, we’re already married. Happily, I believe.” He chuckles a little and presses a kiss to your shoulder. “So we’re already overachieving frankly.”

“Well, I’ll marry you again. Let you put another bun in the oven-” You start as you sway a little in his arms looking at Tillie.

“Don’t make dangerous promises like that here.” Stewy says, pressing a few kisses to the side of your neck and you let out a small laugh at how his beard tickles. “They were starting to get ready to leave, I’m sure it won’t be too much of a big deal. Especially if your dad thinks you’ll sign Marcy on.”

“Does he think that? Did he say something else?” You anxiously ask turning to face Stewy now.

“Probably. You and Marcia get on better than the others. Kendall asked me to talk you out of it.” You do feel sorry for Kendall over what happened today but you roll your eyes at that and rub your brow.

“Yeah, I think we should go.” Stewy nods at that and you carefully lift Tillie out of the cot and start to get her ready before the three of you head downstairs.

“Porce, are you not coming?” Logan asks as he sees the three of you.

“No, sorry Dad. Tillie had a bug not too long ago and with the wind and that I don’t want to risk it again even with her being bundled up. I think I’m getting a headache anyway Dad. I’m sorry.”

Logan looks at you, his unimpressed gaze softens a little but not by much. You’d had chronic headaches throughout your life, especially your adolescence and you don’t use it as an excuse often so he takes it a bit seriously.

“Well-” He starts.

“It was really nice to see you, Dad, the kids had fun. I’ll bring them back later when maybe things are a bit more quiet later in the week?” You ask, somewhat anxiously.

He’s giving you that look like you are fragile. He has a particular softness for you and Shiv because of his misogyny and the feminity you share, even if Shiv tries to adopt masculinity and fit into a never-ending game of trying to win the patriarchy. But you know he views you as weaker.

“Of course. You heard about the papers?”

“Yes, Dad. We’ll look at them when we have a bit more time and my head’s better. Okay?” He nods and then his gaze moves to Stewy. Logan begins to believe that the headache is something for Stewy’s sake and not because you genuinely don’t want to spend another minute here.

“Show up late and fuck off early, the family man?” Logan asks Stewy, who just sighs. It’s not the first time Stewy has been on the receiving end of Logan’s disdain and he knows it won’t be the last. “Your commitment to your work is admirable, it’s great- sure! Except when it’s fucking over my daughter and family.”

His voice isn’t super loud but the tone is strong and commanding. Connor looks over as he holds Jonathan, walking back a bit so Jonathan won’t hear anything. Shiv’s eyes widen and she watches the scene play out like an eagle waiting to swoop on its prey.

“Logan you know that’s not the-” Stewy says in his best diplomatic son-in-law voice.

“Oh, fu-”

“Dad, please?” You timidly cut in, your widened, doe-eyed gaze flicking between him and Stewy. You look sad and Logan can see it.

Shiv rolls her eyes at this, of course, you cut in with the timid, youngest daughter bullshit she thinks. Logan grunts and nods, ignoring Stewy as he tells you to rest up. You get Jonathan from Connor and say some succinct and painfully tense goodbyes to the rest of your family as you and Stewy leave.

As you’re in the car with Stewy and your children, you rest your head against his shoulder and sigh. The tight ball of dreadful anxiety dissipates with each mere mile away from that penthouse you get. Stewy rubs your arm softly and places a few gentle kisses on the top of your head.

“So, is afternoon naptime, practice babymaking number 3 time as well? 2 for 1 type of deal?” Stewy whispers with a small smile as he gives you another gentle kiss. You let out a little laugh at that and roll your eyes playfully.

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violentdelightsandviolentends · 1 year

Note

happy 500!!

been thinking about roy reader x stewy with 26? 🙊

Risky.

26. "You don't want them to hear, do you?" + 18. "You look so pretty like this." + 23. "Good girl" / "Perfect girl."

Author's Note - this is a drabble written as part of my 500 Followers Celebration!! find that post here. praying we see stewy on our screens again ASAP. combined 2 requests here - thank you sweethearts!!

Pairing - Stewy Hosseini x Roy!Female Reader

Age Rating - 18+

Warnings - smut!! + cursing

Word Count - 640

Masterlist. 500 Follower Celebration Masterlist.

Was it a good idea to let Stewy fuck you in your office?

Probably not.

Did you do it anyway?

Absolutely.

Roman's office was to your left, and Kendall's to your right, the three of you sharing walls. Not to mention all of the desks that sat in the bullpen, hundreds of Waystar employees hard at work.

Stewy cruised into the building under the pretence of a 'business meeting'. No one seemed to question it, knowing that it wasn't far out of the realm of possibility. The youngest Roy sibling talking facts and statistics with her older brothers oldest friend? Checks out.

The minute he entered your office, he closed the blinds and locked the door. You instantly knew this wasn't exactly business related.

"Strip, honey."

Now, in your everyday life, you're not in the habit of letting men tell you what to do. But when it comes to Stewy? All he has to do is say the words.

"Yes, sir," you tease, unbuttoning your shirt and shimmying out of your pants.

You turn to face him, wearing nothing but your panties. He's still fully clothed, but you know better than to question him.

"Wanna bend you over that big fancy desk of yours," he mutters, striding towards you. "You think you can take me?"

Embarrassingly, you can. You've been soaking wet since the minute you laid eyes on him, all broad shoulders and tight trousers. He really doesn't need to do much to get you worked up.

"Always," you wink, bending so your front is pressed to the hard wood.

He comes up behind you and smooths a hand up your back lovingly, before smacking your ass harshly.

"Stewy! You don't want them to hear, do you?"

He chuckles darkly, massaging the sore skin.

"I don't care," he mumbles against your spine, pressing his hips into you. "Let them fucking hear. Bet you'd like that, wouldn't you? Daddy's little princess getting fucked by the opposition? What would your brothers say, huh?"

It shouldn't turn you on, but it does. All you can do is whine in response, pushing your hips back desperately.

"Please," you whimper. "Fuck me, Stewy, please."

"Since you asked so nicely," he teases, pulling your underwear to the side and sliding home in one stroke.

"Fuck," he groans. "Always forget how warm and wet you are."

He grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks your head back, causing your back to arch and your hips to raise. He groans again.

"God, you look so pretty like this."

He sets a steady pace, hips snapping into your ass with every stroke. The sounds that fill the room are downright filthy, and you pray that no one presses their ear to the door. If either of your brothers come knocking, you're screwed.

The hand that's not in your hair wraps around you to rub your clit in languid but precise circles. You clench around him, every thrust pushing you closer to the edge.

"I can feel it baby. You gonna come for me?"

"Yes," you whine. "Yes, for you, yes."

"Just for me, that's it. I want it, honey. Give it to me, come on."

You fall over the precipice, your climax white hot and blinding. Your back arches off the desk, Stewy's strong arm holding you steady.

"There we go. Atta girl. Good girl. My perfect girl. Fuck, I love you," he mutters, finding his own release.

You both collapse against the desk, panting and shuddering. Eventually, you break the silence.

"Love you too, Hosseini," you giggle.

He rolls his eyes, but scatters kisses across your shoulders and up your neck before pressing one to your lips.

"Come over tonight?" he questions against your mouth.

"I'll be there as soon as I'm done here," you promise.

"I'll be waiting, honey."

"I know you will," you wink.

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motions1ckness · 10 months

Text

“Letting it linger”

Summary: Roman invited you to a family dinner where you two find a way to enjoy yourselves.

Contents: smut, established relationship, f!reader, dom/sub interactions, exhibitionism, choking, semi public, roman being needy, mention of sexual turmoil

(i’m so sorry if you saw this before i realized i added the same paragraph twice anyways)

This had to be one of the longest nights you have tolerated. You regret accepting Roman’s offer to be his plus one at this dinner. It wasn’t his fault. If it was up to him, he wouldn't have came.

The night was driving you insane. The dinner consisted of the Roy and Pierce families. Roman warned you about the pretentious comments and shitty conversation; you were not prepared for how fucking boring it was gonna be. During the first course, Roman rested his hand on your thigh, normal. It quickly turned into his hand resting close to your heat. You shot Roman a look, but he didn’t meet your eyes. It was a game now.

One of the Pierce's wives made conversation with you. Roman was picking at his food, not paying attention. “Well, I’ve never seen that one. What is it about?” You asked. She started talking and you decided to take action. As she was gabbing about the plot, you brought your hand to Roman’s pants and squeezed. The action made him yelp and practically jerk in his seat, “Rome are you okay?” You asked innocently. He sat at the end, only you could see what happened. He became flushed, his gaze surrendering to you as he sat dumbfounded.

It was risky. He needed a response, “Y-yeah, I'm, fuckin' fine,” he shook his head, removing the attention set on him, and the woman resumed her spiel. Roman’s pleading expression shifted to you, hand in the same place. He didn’t interrupt her; instead letting your hand linger. He adjusted his hips to gain more friction. He was rock-hard. His action surprised you, but it was all the confirmation you needed.

You started palming him through his pants, and he gave a slight huff as you wrapped up your conversation. You began moving quicker. You studied the room to make sure you both were above suspicion. Roman became pale from his arduous efforts to remain silent. You leaned over to his ear, “Stop looking like this is happening, you don't want everyone to see how pathetic you are? Especially your father,” you whispered.

You stayed close to his face as he turned to you. His eyes pleaded with you. Your mind explored the 'what if's?' in this situation. But it was the Pierce family, the dinner was crucial. “P-please, let’s go to the bathroom,” he breathed out. You stopped your action, causing him to repress a whine. Were you really about to do this? No one would suspect anything.

You moved your hand to his shoulder and whispered, “Then let’s go.”

With that, Roman wasted no time, excusing you both from the table. He had to follow close behind you to cover his strained pants. Once you two found the bathroom, you wasted no time kissing him against the door. It was sloppy and needy; one of your hands rested on his neck, the other stroking him.

You sped up your movement. Roman threw his head back, parting his mouth slightly. Provoking you to attack his neck and run your free hand through his hair, tugging at it slightly.

“Let’s fucking do it,” he says, panting. This wasn’t the first time you two had sex, just not as a casual affair. Your eyes lit up as you drew away from him, causing his hips to buck from the lack of sensation.

“Yeah, are you sure? Like actually do it?” You questioned. You weren't going to do anything he wasn’t okay with.

He looked at you, his face red and sweaty, and his eyes insisting. “Y-yes, I want this. Please.” He ensures, focusing his attention on tracing figures into your hip, waiting for a response. You studied his face just for additional assurance before kissing him again. Roman cupped your face as he stumbled, pushing you against the sink. His hands moved down and eventually made their way to your breasts. He kneaded them as you did your best to repress the noises, remembering the dinner outside. As you adjusted against the sink, you heard him undoing his belt. Roman glanced back at you while stroking himself. His eyes fluttered as you heard him spurt profanities.

You grab the back of his neck, “You still sure?” You also took this second to prepare yourself. You were about to hook up with your boyfriend in a bathroom. While his family was 50 feet away.

Roman rolled his eyes while forcing your underwear aside and pushing himself into you. You moan instinctively from the new sensation and dig your nails into Roman's neck. He quickly covers your mouth so you two don’t get caught.

He thrusts himself deeper, pressing his forehead against yours,” F-fuck, just keep quiet for me,” as he cut himself off with a low moan. You looked up at him, retaining eye contact. Roman’s eyes stayed on you, his small whimpers made you want him more. He let you both adjust to the feeling as he adjusted his other arm to keep you against the sink. He began a steady pace.

The room filled with sporadic moans as Roman’s eyebrows furrowed, you could tell he was close. He bucked you closer to him, resulting in him throwing his head back and moaning loudly. Roman moved his hand from your mouth to your throat, causing your eyes to widen from the feeling as a gasp escaped your throat from his noisy reaction. He froze for a moment after he realized how loud he was.

His face turned a deeper tint of red. His demeanor altered slightly, “D-do you think t-they heard me?” he asked. He felt worry trickle down his back. His frightened expression became apparent.

You moved your hand to his cheek reassuringly. “N-no, I think we’re all good,” you answered out of breath. You two waited a couple of seconds to make sure you were in the clear.

Roman looked down at where his hand sat, “Fuck,” he began removing his hand from your neck, but you kept it there.

“No, I like it. You wanted me to stay quiet right?” You said with a lustful grin. Roman’s eyes filled with hunger as he kissed you, returning to the previous pace and now applying pressure to your neck.

Roman’s thrusts started becoming more brutal. He was biting your shoulder to help conceal his whines. It wasn’t long until you felt a knotting sensation in your core. You knew he was close behind from the slight shuddering from his hips with every thrust. “Rome-”

He already knew what you were gonna say, “Do it.” he quickly responded, muffled from your shoulder. To suppress your climax, he tightened the grip on your neck, pushing you over the edge. You felt him bite harder, the mix of moans heating against your skin. Roman wasn’t far behind you. His hips started stuttering as he met his climax. You couldn't make out any of the words he was saying. It was a mixture of praises, swears, and moans.

After you both came down, he pulled out of you and put himself away. He didn’t talk to you immediately after, which made you believe he regretted it. You sat on the sink with your legs slightly trembling, thinking Roman was going to ignore you the rest of the evening.

“I think you'll fuckin' need this.” You look up and see a towel being handed to you. You met Roman’s eyes before getting up and started using the mirror, him directly behind you. You quickly cleaned up and adjusted your dress. “You better hope no one heard,” he said, pulling you closer to his hips.

The tension in your face eases, “It’d be your funeral.”

#roman roy #roman roy fanfic #roman roy x reader #roman roy x you #succession #succession fanfic #roman roy drabble #roman roy smut #roman roy fluff #succession smut #roman roy succession

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nanabrainrot · 8 months

Text

Perversion, Submersion [Pervert!Roman Roy]

Roman has been avoiding you or you've been avoiding Roman, he isn't sure and neither are you. The opportunity strikes in an elevator: explain yourself.

Warnings are in place for parts 1 and 2! This is just fluffy and open to interpretation - if you want continuations or drabbles of them, feel free to request more of Roman and this reader after this.

Part I | Part II | You are reading part 3.

WC: 2192

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

It’s not unexpected but it is inconvenient when he finds himself in this position: stuck between the mirrors and four corners with you of all people. The brewing storm outside and unappealing lengthy trek down the numerous flights of stairs made this situation inevitable but undeniably appealing in the sheer amount of coincidences that had to transpire to corner you in the elevator with him.

Since your very brief and uncomfortably soothing sexual encounter with Roman, the churning in his belly was less associated with being called a perverse piece of shit but most days his mind fell back to the velvety whispers into the tip of his head as you crooned to him with sweet words. He had never heard such sincere things said to him, even in his wildest dreams there was a looming sense of craving for confirmation that he was despicable. The way his veins nowhere near his dick throbbed at your sweet words were much less bothering him but rather haunting him.

Your gaze is cold and it feels like it sees through him like mesh; you can touch it but it’s so thin and barely there it should barely carry the name ‘mesh.’ A halo of yellow light bathes you from overhead as you sigh and sit on the floor, kicking off your heels as you stretch your legs against the tiles of the elevator. A pair of kitten heels sit neatly beside you as you look up at him expectantly. The hair falling in your face from the tiring work day of running here and there and struggling to juggle a phone with the lunches of higher ups. A slight stain of coffee on your chest from the morning is dry (and it gives him a reason to look at your tits).

“What’re you lookin’ at? My dashing good looks?” Roman scoffs in that haughty tone though it barely disguises the little crack in his voice at your severe gaze. An expression devoid of smiles nor the tender coos you had last week. The seven days that passed were full of your cold and even voice like it was before you let him suckle at your tit; he felt much less like the context of it was sexual in this moment given how stern and maternal you looked at the moment even from a position below him from the ground.

“You’re not going to sit? I pressed the emergency button but I’m not sure when anyone will come. The storm should blow over soon enough though. It’s almost 7 and forecast said the chance of rain at 8 is only 40%,” you start nonchalantly, rolling your ankles girlishly in your stockings.

“40% is like, almost half, so what do mean blow over soon? And if I sit I bet my ass that this thing will rip my trousers in two,” he starts, “unless you’re into that.”

“Oh it’s my wildest dream,” you chuckle, “just sit, Roman. It won’t kill you.”

The concept of eye contact is grating on the sulci and gyri on his brain. It feels less like an invitation and more like a threat. He preferred not being so level with you, no, he much rather preferred where he was all settled in your chest last week. He’d been craving warmth that wasn’t sexual despite the way he spilled into his hand so quickly like man fresh out o the jailhouse with his first broad in however many rotations around the sun.

But it’s less intimidating at this level; the way your backs press against the glass adjacent to each other under the dim light. Yet nonetheless, words don’t find his ears nor do they press against his teethless: feeling speechless is not a feeling that frequents Roman and whenever it does come up it feels unnatural. Because it is.

The first noise to meet his ears is your yawn, your mouth opening big and wide in a silent huff of air that showed you were tired. The corporate American lifestyle must’ve been tiring for people beneath his level but that’s your fucking problem: your face never really showed tire and the confusion of you finally finding expressions in private with him only served to complicate whatever weird feeling was left squirming in his throat and belly. It left him like feeling halfway to throwing up, like a a worm was wriggling around his uvula, and the breath seemed to catch in the esophagus less like being “speechless” and more like he was choking on a favorite food.

The first touch he feels is your head on his shoulder. The reflective metallic surface of the elevator doors depict a renaissance scene: your beautiful hair pressed against his neck as your tired face was relaxed into the fabric of his suit. The first scene he smells is your breath warmed the air by him enough to let him know you were chewing some sweet gum like a child earlier instead of peppermint like any other woman your age? What was it? Hubba bubba? The thick blocks of gum that felt like bricks of sludge?

“The fuck does your breath smell like that for?” he started, desperate to not be construed as vulnerable or wanton for you. The way his voice cracked weakly and rose an octave at the question only served to expose the vulnerability that he hated.

“It’s gum.”

“Gum smells like gum, mint ‘n shit. Your breath smells like you ate unicorn shit.”

“’S hubba bubba. I like the tape version more than the block, the one that’s sour and blue. Do you know what that is or is it too far from your diet of caviar and escargot?”

“Hardy har har. I know what the fuck hubba fuckin’ bubba is.”

“Explain what it is.”

“Why would I waste the limited air of this up and down box on explaining something to you already know? It’s gum that smells like unicorn shit.”

Your brows furrow as you pull back from his shoulder to do at him. Stern, but not cold like that usual face you always seemed to make.

“Don’t say that.”

“Say what? Is unicorn shit that offensive –“

“That you’re wasting air.”

His face falls a bit, not at all at once, but the way his eyes falter and the muscles at his mouth seem to weaken betrays him: you struck a nerve.

“Do you know what a joke is? Just a quick question.”

“Didn’t like that joke.”

“I’ll write that down that it isn’t a crowd favorite.”

“A comedian should know his crowd.”

“And how am I supposed to know you?”

“Cause you sucked my tits?”

“Then act like it.”

Your face scrunches, then relaxes, as it does. The stone look on your face is not past the little glassy look that covers your eyes: guilt. “I thought you didn’t want me to,” you admitted with reluctance, drawing your knees to your chest to rest your chin on it (creating a reflection of your lewd panties creased in the folds of your pussy in the elevator’s metallic shine). He scoffs, rolling his eyes at her; it’s like an excuse. Trying to create a gap between them broader than it already was. Sex was one thing; a one night stand sometimes happens but between his coworker of years? As she cooed sweetly, stroked his hair, pressed kisses to his scalp; his life had been a long stretch of financial comforts overshadowed by emotional neglect if not abuse. Shit, he only really thought he knew how to get off if there was an element of humiliation involved. To kiss and coo at him while he fisted his dick wasn’t an easy task. He had people see his dick through images, but the confidence that bloomed while your acrylic nails glided soothing circles into his skin made it not a moment in his head but in his groin. A feeling that was rare without a long, long relationship of pushing and pulling prior.

Why would you think he wouldn’t want you to? He sighs, deep and hefty, before muttering, “I’m not a slut, I don’t show everyone my dick even if HR says different. I wouldn’t let you see my dick if I thought ‘hey let’s ignore each other Monday I love the awkward emotional blue balls-‘”

“Emotional? Why are you using that word? You’re my higher up; I just didn’t take you for a guy that wants… anything consistent with… with…” your face scrunches more, an obvious habit you had when you were thinking hard, raking through the words on the tip of your tongue, “your secretary. Not even to be a porno cliché, but just… you’re a rich kid and I just work with you.”

You look pretty like this, the dim light over your head as the world’s winds whirred outside the tower. It had slowed to a drizzle yet you were still stuck there. He hated the intimacy of this; your glassy eyes peering over your knees at him. The way you plucked brows furrowed then unknit, the muscles of your t-zone thick with worry. Trying to make sense or trying to make yourself make sense.

“Fuck does that matter? I still sucked your tits,” Roman shrugs.

“Cause I don’t want to get my hopes up, Roman,” you say. The words are harsher than you intended, but they were honest work. Barren and vulnerable. How long you had been his subordinate was just a number, there was no concrete number behind when the attraction started. He wasn’t a classic man’s man, but there was something compelling. He was forever playful, never truly serious, and it was a breath of fresh air from the fear you initially felt when you graduated college; the endless certifications, exams, networking, and connections that you always tended to get a big girl job that still made you less than you would ever see that Roman had always had access to. The difference between a big boy and big girl job were world’s away, but the difference in upbringing never failed to make your stomach drop. Plenty of beautiful woman would love to sleep with a rich man; you had been told one thing over and over again in your youth that stuck like glue: Never love a man for what he has, but love him for who he is. The recessions, the stress, the endless hours alone at home, the tired eyes, and secondhand clothes were just objects; but you had a beautiful example of what life was like when you chose the same person over and over again from the beginning. The illusion of choice gone with the wind by the reality of what is already there; the grass never seemed greener to mom and pop.

In short: you wanted to only marry once, fuck one man, kiss one man, know one man. To love a rich man was to love a temporary one. He could go at any time for the younger piece of ass when father time made your collagen levels run low. When your hair got gray.

When Roman’s bank went dry, who would stay?

“Hope up? What? You like me or somethin’?” he laughs, that hyena laugh. The one that always caught the attention in the wrong way, but it feels like mockery. But to him, you’re mocking him. What is there to love about him? Even the people in his family seemed to feel a tie to him my obligation of bloodline and the shared experience Logan left with them. You had nothing to tie you to him other than getting his coffee and the fact he sucked your tits once.

“It isn’t funny,” you reply dryly, “I think I do, Roman.”

It isn’t funny. The weird way his stomach lurches like he’ll throw up. Like the bile in his belly comes up immediately. The way the thunder booms a little louder.

“Then like me. I already sucked your tits,” he forces a smile but the way his eyes look gaunt is worrying (mostly because he was suppressing the need to vomit in an enclosed space or even worse, on your lap).

“I don’t wanna like you if you don’t like me.”

“Then I’ll like you.”

“You can’t just say you’ll like me, Roman.”

“Then I liked you and I like you. I think you’re a pretty and nice lady with beautiful tits and I don’t care if you think I’m a weird boss because I’m Logan’s kid. Just try it. If you’ve tried a gross food before, you can try something with me.” You grin, but it’s a obscured by your knees in the way.

Impish, skittish, your eyes creasing by the way your smile reaches them.

“You’re not a gross food.”

“I’m a gross guy though.”

“I don’t think so.”

“What do you know?”

“I know I think you’re neat.”

His smile reaches his eyes next.

“I think you’re cute. Tell me more about you and I’ll consider the neat part.”

The elevator moves, a low hum, descending gently until it hits the first floor and the glassy corporate towers had never felt more comfortable.

#nana writes succession #roman roy x you #roman roy x reader smut #roman roy x reader #succession x reader #succession fanfic #SORRY FOR THE DELAY UNI STARTED RAA

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romeulusroy · 3 months

Text

Just Hold Me (Roman Roy Oneshot)

Word Count: 1,243

Character/s: Roman

Inspired By: ace song by lizzie burton

A/N: I may or may not have signed myself up for a sa support group at my college, which is scary and terrifying and I still don't feel like I belong, but I'm sorta proud ☺️ I go in for a screening because there's only one spave left, but hopefully it goes well? It made me think of Roman and all his issues. It just feels good to write again. Please don't feel alone if you've gone through or are going through this kind of thing. I'm always here to talk 💕✨️🌈

Succession Masterlist

You don't have to jiggle it or press upwards. You don't have to fidget or shake or try a second time. It doesn't rattle and the door doesn't fight back. The key fits perfectly. Inside the apartment is warm despite the space. Warm and quiet and dark. You take it in like you always do. The tv on the wall, reflective and massive. The floor to ceiling windows that make the city lights look like stars. Below you can hear the murmur of traffic, cooing like a baby fast asleep. The kitchen is sleek and goes unused if you're not here. The bathroom door is open, only for guests. You drop your coat, your keys and wallet and shoes. You let everything fall down the edge of the couch. There are no indentations. There is no pilling of the fabric. It is not worn the way yours is. This place is sacred. This place is holy. This place is your second home. A golden strip of light throws itself from the doorway down the hall. You don't need this invitation, but it's nice anyways. You follow.

It wasn't a bad date. It wasn't a good date, either. Third or fourth, you weren't sure what counted as one and what didn't. Still, they came with expectations. You blamed yourself, later on. You told yourself you lead them on. You gave them an idea, a want, a false narrative. You invited them over. The door stuck. The couch was frayed. The whole place was small enough all your furniture touched one way or another. Together, all of you. You and them and your things, your sanctuary. You wanted to watch a movie, order takeout. Thats what you did. They grew close to you, wrapped their arm around you. You offered a few blankets. The heater was always unreliable. You laughed. You joked. It was good. You thought things were going good. The story was coming to the end, the resolution, and it should have clicked. You should have told them, explained to them, but you weren't worried about that. It didn't cross your mind like it did everyone else's.

The bedroom is the most lived in. His button down shirt flung on the floor. You step over it. His shoes, his pants, all of it leads from one door to another. His bathroom. The door is shut, but you can hear him humming to himself beneath the running water. He never makes his bed. Says it's better to crawl back in just like the night before. It smells like him. This whole place does. His cologne, his soaps, everything trapped between the linen. You go to your drawer, the last one in the dresser, and pull out a pair of pajama pants and a big t-shirt. You don't fear the door will swing open. You don't worry someone's watching. He's not. You change without a second though, for a brief moment as naked as you'd ever be in his bedroom. You leave your clothes in a neat pile.

It wasn't a third or fourth date kind of talk. It wasn't any kind of talk. You didn't say it unless you had to, and even then you were reluctant. It wasn't fair to compare your story to others, people who had it so much worse. It wasn't right to use that terminology. It wasn't fair to real victims. So you danced around the subject. You made excuses. And when it was time, because it always was, you'd end it. You believed you couldn't ask someone to live without. . . to deprive them of something so natural, so human. It wouldn’t be right or fair. That was asking too much. Even when you really liked them. Even when you really found yourself falling for them, there was always that roadblock. This thing you still can't get over, you might never get over. Please, you'd beg, don't make me say it. You wished they'd just get it without the questions, the accusations, the hypotheticals.

You take your place in the bed, climbing through the pillows and covers. He notices, though he doesn't say anything. Instead, still humming, he turns out the lights. He throws himself into the mattress, half landing on you, making you laugh. Didn't see you there, he smiles. Of course he did. He always does. For a while you're both quiet, staring up at the ceiling, until he moves to his side. You follow, facing one another. Bad date? He asks, his voice small in the black of night. Like you're at a sleepover, afraid of getting caught by the adults if you talk too loud. You nod, your head rubbing against the pillow. Fuck em, he says. Isn't that the problem?

Beneath the blankets their hand slides down your thigh, between. . . You want to jump. You want to grab their wrist hard enough to break it. Instead you smile, standing up, saying something about popcorn. When you come back with a full bowl the credits are rolling. They don't want to watch another. They lean in, filling the gap, kissing you hard. Needy. You do what you think you should, what's right: you kiss them back. But then they're leaning further and their hands find your shirt and you can feel your heart speed up. It feels like it'll crack through your ribcage. Um, you try, I don't- I can't- I think I should probably get to bed. It's late. They look confused, before they assume. I'll join you, eagerly they say. No, I didn't- fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I think you should leave, you blurt out.AIt's the only way to make them stop. Angry. They always leave angry and hurt and frustrated. You really did like them. You really wanted to see them again. They slammed the door and that was enough of a tell to delete their number.

It's my fault, you hear yourself before you realize what you're doing. If only. . . But you let it drop before it becomes something he feels like he has to refute. He doesn't respond. The conversation always goes like this. A date. A rejection. You find yourself coming back to him. Of course you love him. Of course he loves you. But it's just not something either of you can have, not like that. So you date. You try to, at least. You try to find someone who can live without. And in the meantime, you have him to fall asleep next to. In rare moments, moments when you let yourself cry and relive all those terrible memories, moments where your date doesn't listen to the word no, he might hold you. Tight. Like he doesn't know how to do it properly. You're not sure what kind of night it'll be. You're so close you can see the sleepiness in his eyes. Thanks for letting me spend the night. Did I have a fucking choice? You roll your eyes, punching him somewhere close to the arm.

They were angry. They always were. And confused. Confused why you didn't want them. Why didn't you want to go further? Why couldn't you? What was wrong with you? But Rome understood. He got it. You two, it was the same. Different, but the same. So he holds you when you need it, even if he's unsure how, and never questions why you come back. You always come back. Because even when your dates go well, they will inevitably end.

#writing #roman roy #roman roy imagine #roman roy drabble #roman roy oneshot #roman roy fic #succession #succession imagine #succession drabble #succession oneshot #succession fic

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