666sachertorte666

Latest Posts by 666sachertorte666

They need more esims!

⋆ eat your young pt. 1

Felix Catton x gn!reader x Oliver Quick - 18+ mdni

⊹˚. ౨ৎ

They dangle on the leash of their own longing; their need grows teeth

warnings: smutty, nsft/nsfw, Oliver and Felix being creepy, mild somnophilia, non-con participation in masturbation, Felix jerks off, reader gets relentlessly objectified, dark themes, sexual fantasies, mentions of oral sex, mentions of cum, mentions of crying during sex, Oliver and Felix both want to make you their plaything, reader gets ejaculated on lmao, reader is implied to be shorter than Felix, 18+ MDNI

note: whew, baby. I genuinely like this one, and I hope you guys do too :> There'll be a second part involving the much anticipated threesome tee-hee. I'm working on making a male!reader version of this too! Kisses <33 male!reader version here

wc: 3.5k

⊹˚. ౨ৎ

Midnight draws closer, the world around the castle long swallowed by complete blackness. As though the only things to remain are its cold walls and the surrounding gardens, guarded by the looming beast at the labyrinth's heart.

Warm light spills through the crack in Felix’s bedroom door, casting an amber glow onto the hallway's floorboards outside. At its edge, with his head resting on the wooden door frame, stands Oliver.

Shrouded by the night's darkness, his eyes fixate on your figures lounging on the bed. A fiery glint within them, like a flame licking at the sight in front of him. Burning him from the inside out.

It nearly scorches the surrounding air, illuminating the corridors in a hellish red—or maybe that’s just Oliver’s mind playing tricks on him.

He rolls his shoulders back, muscles flexing and twitching beneath the thin fabric of his tank top.

You and Felix are both half bare, sprawled out across the bedsheets in underwear due to the merciless summer heat. The two of you are making sure to keep your banter hushed and giggle into the pillows to avoid waking the others.

But Oliver knows you want to be watched; that's why you left the door open after all. To lure him in, like a lone moth begging a bright, shimmering light to swallow it whole.

And it worked; you have his full, undivided attention now. You've sparked a ravenous, horrifying hunger deep within him. A need to belong, to join. To burrow his way in between the cracks and crevices of the castle walls.

He watches you clamp a hand over your mouth to muffle your laughter as Felix just leans back, a satisfied grin on his face. It’s a picturesque sight, really, the both of you lazily draped over Felix’s bed.

So effortlessly beautiful and utterly mesmerizing as dim, golden light bathes your bodies.

He should've known that, where Felix resides, he was bound to find more gorgeous people. But he could've never imagined that someone could match Felix's mind-bending ethereality.

Venetia's best friend, so sweet and astoundingly kind, but more than often found at Felix's side instead of hers.

Oliver almost feels bad for her, but he's not certain that it's a conscious decision on your part. Felix has a way of wrapping people around his finger with seductive ease. Perhaps Venetia has less of a say in your visit than everyone lets on.

"Oh, I stay here every summer." You showed him around the premises along with Felix, excited to meet his new friend.

"It's always been like that." He nodded, playfully nudging you. "Part of the family at this point."

Maybe that is what is so inescapably intriguing about you. You've managed to carve your name into the castle's foundation and remain an anomaly among the countless faces that come and go.

There's something about you that has somehow allowed you to stay. 

So, Oliver naturally came to the conclusion that you were one of the missing pieces within his puzzle. The one thing to grant him fulfilment and bridge the gap between him and Felix. So useful and so sweet.

After all, he sees the way Felix looks at you, even if you may not notice. Glances that linger far too long, dopey smiles, and a feverish intensity in Felix’s gaze he’s never seen before. Sorely out of place among those angelic features, almost alien.

"Just make yourself at home." You'd both smiled so sweetly when you said it that Oliver could barely sleep that first night. Your presence quickly clawing its way into his consciousness to join Felix on his throne.

Haunting his dreams hand-in-hand, even during waking hours, it's unbearable—hours upon hours of pitiful fantasizing about you and Felix. He wishes you'd both just give in and accept that intrinsic craving gnawing at your bones.

Just let go and devour each other, as it should be. How delicious it'd be to watch you two press against each other, glistening with sweat and whispering filth, as teeth sink into skin in relentless fervour.

What a spectacle it'd be. He feels dizzy just thinking about it.

Your sweet face stained with hot tears as Felix pounds into you, and Oliver tenderly wipes them away to lick them off his fingers. His thumb in your mouth, your lips wrapping around it as you whimper and whine, looking up at him through your lashes. God, it'd be the death of him. 

He wants—no, he needs—for it to become reality. Otherwise, he'll really go mad in this godforsaken place. Oliver's eyes flutter shut as he palms his painfully hard erection through his flimsy boxers. 

Well, they're actually Felix's, but what does it really mean for something to belong to someone? Surely, Felix wouldn't mind sharing something as miniscule as underwear if he already so graciously took Oliver in for the summer, right?

He won't realize they're gone anyway, so who's to say Oliver can't indulge himself? He's here to enjoy his summer break after all and share with you all.

You wear Felix's clothes all the time, so who can really blame him for following suit? He just wants to fit in, really.

He slinks away from the doorway, silently skittering back to his own bedroom to settle in for what is ultimately bound to be another long night for poor old, lovesick Oliver. 

You two are wrecking him, reducing him to a needy, clingy mess.

⊹˚. ౨ৎ

Felix leans against the edge of the open window, revelling in the cool night breeze caressing his skin. A sloppily rolled joint is loosely clasped between his index and middle fingers as he stares into the blackness outside.

He takes a slow, absentminded drag from it, holding the smoke in until it makes his throat itch. He blows it into the wind and lets it get carried away, disappearing into the night. 

Hopefully, the smell doesn't wake you up; he'd hate to disturb you when you look so serene, your chest rising with measured breaths as you cradle his pillow. It's cute—unbearably so.

Felix swallows thickly; shame burns in his chest as he tries to suffocate the thoughts with another deliberate drag. It's all futile, though; he's been trying to will these feelings away for years now, with no hope for success. You're just so sweet and so irritatingly platonic in the way you act towards him.

It drives him up the fucking wall.

Everybody wants him; people bend over backwards and throw themselves head first into self-destruction to get a mere slither of his attention, and you just got him wrapped around your finger since the first time he laid eyes on you as a kid.

You're entirely inescapable. 

Usually, being so used to getting every last one of his needs and desires fulfilled, someone playing hard to get just plain kills his interest. Why should he fight for someone's interest when there are countless hot people practically pouncing on him?

All he has to do is snap his fingers, and he gets some cute guy sucking his dick or multiple chicks littering his neck in love bites. Never once in his life did he have to beg for someone to covet him. 

Except for you. Unattainable in a world in which he gets everything he could ever possibly ask for. The sheer cruelty of it all is enough to strip him of any rationale.

Every person he fucks ultimately reminds him of you. Whether it's the way they look up at him, as if he's holy, or the manner in which they say his name, it all just leads back to you, and he can't fucking break free from the chokehold you got him in. 

He doesn't even remember their faces; they're all blurred by his sheer need to replace them with you. All of them sound like you in his head, crying out his name and begging him to slow down. 

He takes another drag, groaning at the heat pooling in his abdomen.

It doesn't matter how many people he sleeps with or how many people bend to his every will, because none of them are you. And he's slowly growing insatiable, itching and aching to feel you and to taste you.

Adoration grows teeth and claws, boiling over and oozing down over his deprived heart to singe it with obsession. 

You shift in your sleep, sighing blissfully. He watches your shirt ride up—his shirt—to expose more and more of your soft skin.

Is the universe testing him? Could the dear devil himself be tempting him to complete his transformation into the horrible monster he so longs to be right now?

And you're wearing his boxers too, too exhausted to run back to your room to grab your own. So, of course, Felix offered his clothes. Because he's kind, and perhaps because it's truly a precious sight to behold.

He licks his lips, his darkened eyes fixated on the way they hug your hips and thighs. As if they're made for you, not for him.

There's a part of him that never wants to wash them, preserve your smell, and bury his face in them.

He's done it before, but he's still riddled by the guilt he felt after cumming on a pair of tight briefs you'd borrowed from him. It was the hardest he'd ever climaxed, though, and he simply can't get rid of the urge to do it again.

He chews on his lower lip, the joint in his hand now completely forgotten as his shorts grow unbearably tight. A warm, fuzzy feeling crawls down his neck and along the expanse of his shoulders. His judgement being clouded by the weed.

It's almost painful to be so close to you in such a vulnerable state.

What have you done to him?

It's all too much for him—the anguish from restraining himself in such a way is excruciating at this point. Something animalistic lingers beneath his skin, snarling and scratching at his bones to break free. So eager and so monstrous.

He quietly walks over to the bed, careful not to rouse you. Completely silent as he looms over you, tall, larger than life, and shrouded in darkness. If he wanted to, he could so easily overpower you and make you his right here and now. 

But that's not the point.

He wants you to choose him and to crave him like all the others. The only way he'll be satisfied is if you beg and tear yourself apart for him, just as he does for you every night. He wants you to crack your rib cage open to offer him your heart, still beating and oozing blood. 

The mattress dips beneath his weight when he reassumes his position next to you, his large frame easily filling the free space and almost curving around yours. For a few moments, he just lies there, savouring the feeling of casually sharing a bed with you, the proximity, and its near domestic idyll. Tracing your features with his eyes in complete adoration.

Would you wake up if he tried to wrap his arm around your waist? He so desperately wants to hold you close, breathe in your scent, and never let go. Maybe waking up cradled within Felix's arms would finally make you realize how seamlessly you two fit together. 

How perfect he is for you.

You shift in your sleep, dragging the hem of your shirt further upwards in what Felix assumes is an instinctual attempt to keep yourself from overheating.

Oh, you poor thing.

He hesitates for a second, reaching out his hand and letting it hover above the bunched-up fabric before gently freeing your entire torso. Merely to help you cool off, of course. He wouldn't want you to feel all sticky and gross in the morning from sweating all night.

Well, it depends on what kind of sweating. Ew, gross, Felix. Don't think about that, he winces.

Nonetheless, he lets his fingers ghost over your stomach, softly tracing the boxers' waistband. Fuck, he just can't keep his mind clean with you looking like this.

He sucks in a quiet breath through his teeth before shakily pressing his warm palm to your crotch and rubbing up against it ever so slightly.

Your breathing falters for just a moment, a weak mewl falling from your lips at the welcome pressure. Felix nearly groans when you unconsciously buck your hips into his hand to chase after the pleasant feeling.

Felix Catton is a weak man, quick to indulge in his compulsions, especially when it comes to you. You're like that one crack in the dam, threatening to split it open and flood the lands of composure in him with pure, shameless debauchery.

He spits onto his other hand, swiftly slipping it underneath his own waistband and wrapping it around his agonizingly hard dick. Fuck, the things he'd do to you if you just let him.

The heat radiating off you crawls up his arm, making his hair stand up and sending waves of white-hot need washing over him. This is so wrong, so utterly wrong in every way, but fuck, it feels so good.

He simply can't find it within him to stop, far too spellbound by the way your brows furrow when he lets his fingers run along over your core.

He laps up every sleepy whimper and gasp he pulls from you, biting his tongue to keep his own moans from spilling out.

Though he can't help but let his mouth hang open when he pictures your plush lips wrapped around his girth, your eyes big and so full of adoration as you look up at him. Tears stream down your face as he fucks your face, hitting the back of your throat and forcing you to swallow every last drop of his cum. 

You'd be so, so good for him. 

Felix lets his head fall back against his headboard, drawing blood from biting down on his lower lip in a desperate attempt to stay silent as he releases all over his fist.

A coppery taste spreads throughout his mouth, but he's too dazed to care. Mindlessly observing the wet spot on his underwear, it grows larger as he catches his breath.

God, he made such a mess. 

He pulls his hand out from beneath, spreading his fingers to watch the cloudy, viscous fluid stretch between them. 

He watches it glisten in the dim light before leaning over and carefully smearing it on your waist, drawing a heart shape as though he's simply doodling in a notebook. His thumb gently digs into your flesh, trying to massage it in.

Ultimately, though, you'll seemingly be waking up feeling a bit sticky after all. Hopefully, you won't question it too much, or he might have to come up with some sort of lie.

Good thing Felix lies with a vexing, graceful ease.

Felix wriggles the soiled boxers off, carelessly tossing them into one of the room's corners, and lifts himself off the bed to grab a fresh pair. He looks over his shoulder, making sure you're still fast asleep as he slips them on.

You haven't even moved an inch.

He smiles, amused and comforted by your ability to sleep through all that. He should be feeling deeply ashamed, ablaze with the flame of gut-wrenching remorse, but he doesn't. 

Instead, his appetite has just grown ever more ferocious. As if someone has released him from the shackles that bound his wrists and ankles. Itching to get more, feel more. He's growing greedy. He's merely had a lick of what could be, savouring its heavenly taste on the back of his tongue.

For tonight, though, he'll let you rest. He wouldn't want to rob you of your beauty sleep. Not yet, at least.

Those nights will come, and he'll make sure of them.

Felix makes sure to keep the window open, crawling back into bed with you to settle in with his chest pressed to your side and his arm languidly slung over you. Your quiet snores softly lull him to sleep with a satisfied grin plastered on his face.

He'll have you caged in between his arms soon enough; just you wait, darling.

Such a beautiful, tranquil summer night, he muses.

⊹˚. ౨ৎ

Oliver feels as though the sun has grown even harsher, grilling him alive as he tries to get comfortable on the crickety deck chair. They're not very luxurious—a very noticeable exception among the obscenely extravagant furniture inside the Catton estate.

But, nonetheless, they're still quite cosy; the problem is how tense and jumpy Oliver himself is at the moment.

You're lounging in one of the ponds, skin wet and glistening in the late afternoon sun, as you casually chitchat with Venetia and Farleigh. All three of you stretched out on your apparently designated pool floats.

Farleigh nearly caved Oliver's head in when he tried grabbing his. Lesson learned. So, like the sweetheart you are, you generously offered him yours that day. 

"Don't be afraid to grab it whenever you'd like too. I don't mind at all." You smiled at him, and Oliver swears a halo encircled your head then. "Doesn't really belong to me anyway."

Oh, but it does. Because they all adore you, and he's sure if you merely asked, they'd buy hundreds of those pool floats without batting an eye.

Elspeth cooed over you just this morning, going on and on about how wonderful you look today. And you do, of course, but it's just so curious to see the Cattons so enamoured with some common person. She's totally infatuated with you.

Could it be that, with time, they simply forgot that you're not really one of them? Felix did say you're part of the family at this point, whatever that means to people like him.

Oliver lets his gaze wander the length of your legs. Your feet dipped into the cool water, your head leaning back and your sunglasses sitting on top of your nose, threatening to slip off any second now.

Farleigh, the whole reason he's been feeling so fidgety today, shoots you a mischievous smirk before splashing you with a handful of pond water. You yelp, nearly tipping your float over from the icy shock.

He chuckles at your reaction, which sounds how sandpaper scratching against Oliver's brain would probably feel like. Grating and violence-inducing. 

As soon as you regain your composure, you move to return the favour, but with two handfuls. Farleigh gasps in mock offence, jumping off his float to wade over to you as you laugh and shout at him to fuck off. 

Oliver purses his lips, scowling at the playful scene unfolding in front of him. He looks at Felix, dozing in the chair next to him, with the book he's been pretending to read all summer resting on his belly.

He chews at the inside of his cheek, a malicious idea suddenly popping into his pretty head. 

He nudges Felix, who lifts his head to drowsily raise his brows at him. "'S matter?" He mumbles.

Oliver, as nonchalantly as he can muster, nods his head in your direction before setting his little plan in motion. Big, innocent eyes as he peers at Felix.

"Seems like Farleigh got himself a little crush, eh?"

"What?" Felix's brows knit in confusion before he peeks over the rim of his Ray-Bans to see Farleigh shove you off the pool float and into the pond. 

A huge, goofy smile is on your attacker's face as he watches you resurface. Your face lights up with an unbridled but light-hearted thirst for revenge. Farleigh is quick to play along, pretending to fear his impending doom as he allows you to chase him out of the water and across the chalet gardens.

Both of you are giggling and squealing like children; it's sickening.

Oliver notices Felix's leg begin to bounce up and down impatiently, his jaw tensing when you tackle Farleigh to the ground. You laugh when he pokes your side to escape your clutches.

It's a horribly childish display, really. And entirely unnecessary. 

Felix nearly seethes, his chest rising and falling in tandem with an agitated sigh. Oh, is that jealousy Oliver's smelling?

Putrid and foul as it pollutes the air around the two of them, like toxic fumes rising from their pores. Their skin almost turns green from their relentless loathing, with half a mind to gruffly put a stop to your games.

"You really think so, mate?"

"Sure looks like it, doesn't it?" Oliver mutters, a theatrically naive lilt to his voice.

Felix just hums in response, bitterness and disgust written all over his otherwise flawless features. Plush lips contorted into a vague frown as he silently lights a cigarette.

Oliver turns away, pretending to yawn, in an attempt to conceal the pleased smile on his face. 

He just managed to successfully plant the seed of resentment and faux competition deep within Felix's mind. And he knows Felix can't stand not getting what he wants, much less when it comes to losing to Farleigh out of all people.

There's something about facing defeat when it's at the hands of someone you've deemed trustworthy your entire life.

If he could, Oliver would absolutely pat himself on the shoulder right now. Excellent work, mate. One step closer to achieving his goal.

And you're ever clueless to the web Oliver's silently and meticulously stringing up around you and Felix, wrapping his string around your neck and leaving you both none the wiser.

This might be easier than Oliver expected.

⊹˚. ౨ৎ

Part 2 coming soon :> !!

Please consider reblogging this if you enjoyed it! Likes are very much appreciated but sadly don't do much for writers and artists on Tumblr. By reblogging, you're telling us you'd like to see more and help our work reach more people that might be interested! Thank you so much :> ♡

⊹˚. ౨ৎ

11.01.2024

by the way your voice always matters in the fight against injustice. every single time you speak out against an injustice it matters. it sheds light on it. it empowers others to speak up. it matters

Is there anything I can do to help Palestinians besides call my representatives and beg them to stop killing people?

This is a great question. There are a few things you can do—just off the top of my head:

BDS (Boycott, Divest, Sanction) https://bdsmovement.net/

Direct Action https://www.palestineaction.org/

Urge your University/School/Organization to put out a statement denouncing Israel

Organize a Protest/Participate in a local one

You might already be doing this but while calling your reps, tell them that as a voter, you're unwilling to support them in the upcoming election unless they urge the White House to take a stand against Israel and stop funding them

Share art/writing/films around Palestinian culture

If you're part of a union, ask them what they're doing to urge their industry leaders to take a stand against Israel + pressure the White House OR urge them to start a strike/walkout/etc if they're not doing anything already

Talk with your friends IRL about Palestine, whether in an activist capacity or watching a movie or literally anything

Reach out to a mosque to see if you can help them with anything

See if your city/state council has put out a statement in support of Gazans. If not, try to push them to do so.

Donate to Palestine Legal or Direct Action if you have some money to spare

KEEP TALKING ON SOCIAL MEDIA!!!!!!!! PLEASE!!!!!!!!!!!!

I know some of these don't feel like they have as big of an impact on helping Palestinians, but we do need to make an effort not to forget their humanity in the face of continued erasure and the media's sensationalist rhetoric.

Talking on social media and posting—while not seeming like a lot—does SO much. I know in USAmerica, it's like yelling into a void, but political analysts are saying that most of the "Global South" has completely lost any amount of goodwill it may have had the past few years. Hopefully, countries will start to put sanctions and embargoes en masse on the US and Israel soon.

Our goals here are BOTH short-term and long-term. We hope for the life and liberation of the Palestinian people, so anything that you can think of might help at some point in the future is encouraged to at least try.

If anyone else has any more ideas, feel free to reblog and add on. Thank you for asking, and here is to a liberated Palestine where Palestinians can live and thrive without fear.

don't use "ftm" it's outdated and offensive. it implies that the trans person was their agab, which we never were. i was always a boy, never a girl who became a boy.

i'm 35 years old. i've been IDing as trans or something similar to trans for nearly 20 years. i was probably calling myself FTM while you were playing tag during recess, anon.

i WAS a girl. i IDed as a girl early in my life. i recognized myself as a girl, called myself a girl, lived as a girl, and was a girl. who then IDed as a man. hence, F t M.

spend more time worrying about yourself instead of strangers on the internet, anon.

sorry not sorry if this comes off as needlessly hostile, but i've been getting a lot of shit from a lot of teenage trans kids about the language i use to describe my own goddamn experience, and i'm growing real fuckin weary of it.

i have elder trans friends who call themselves transsexuals and transvestites and trannies. are you going to seriously go to a 60-year-old trans person who survived the reagan years and tell her she's not allowed to use certain language to describe herself because it might offend the delicate sensibilities of some teenager on the internet?

do yourself a favor and log off, find some real-life trans people who are over the age of 20 or 25, and spend time talking to them instead of getting all holier-than-thou at random strangers on tumblr.

this broken design, ch14

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader

summary: That familiar analytical gleam in your eyes lives in Hannibal’s mind as he sinks his teeth into his prey. Despite your departure hours ago, Hannibal sees you sitting across from him at the table. Dining alone has never bothered him; yet, right now, he can’t help but desire your company—your scintillating conversation, your sharp wit, your clever smirk. Indeed, his table feels uncharacteristically empty. Hannibal stares at the chair across from him—the same chair he’s grown accustomed to seeing you sit at—and takes another bite. Flavor explodes on his tongue, yet you are what dominates his thoughts.

Your experience in criminal profiling means that you've met a wide variety of people from all different walks of life. You've stared down hardened criminals and fought for your life against people hellbent on killing you. Even so, something about the FBI's new target, the Chesapeake Ripper, seems to elude you.

Then you meet Hannibal Lecter: an enigmatic jigsaw of a man with jagged corners and misshapen pieces.

Fortunately, you've always been rather good at puzzles.

read from the beginning here.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

Your stay at the hospital is hellish, as you’re constantly accompanied by a mind numbing boredom that refuses to leave. You understand that you have to give your body time to heal—you’re suffering from a gunshot wound, after all. However, you have absolutely nothing resembling entertainment to occupy your time with. Instead, you’re left to slowly decay under thin sheets and the nurse’s observant gaze. Your side still burns, but with each passing hour, it gets a little better. 

Before you can die of boredom, however, you get a visitor. You glance at the clock, only to find that you’ve been deceived. It’s only been a few hours since Jack’s visit. The thought troubles you. Time is taunting you. 

The door to your room slides open suspensefully, before revealing a familiar face. Beverly stands in the doorway, an inappropriately devilish grin on her face. It only takes a few seconds for you to see through the happiness in her smile, straight to the tightness behind the gesture and the stiffness of her posture. She’s been worried for you. The thought makes you feel extremely guilty. Truly, you’ve been a rather horrible friend as of late. Sure, you’ve had a lot of other things going on. Still, Beverly has always made time for you. Why weren’t you able to do the same for her?

“Hey,” Beverly says. Her gaze flits about your form with disinterest and you’re once again reminded of your gratitude for Beverly’s honesty. She’s one of the only people who never looked at you strangely—with fear, apprehension, disgust, pity. “Missed ya.” 

“Missed you too, Bev,” you respond, sending her a smile that probably looks more tired than relieved. She seems to appreciate the thought nonetheless. Beverly looks around the room for a moment, before settling in the same chair that Hannibal was sitting in only moments ago. Somehow, she seems to add a sort of brightness to the rather unremarkable space. You tap your fingers against the sheets restlessly. “You just missed all the fun—Jack tore me a new one.” You sigh. 

“Hardly,” Beverly huffs in amusement. Her gaze flits from the wall to meet your eyes with an uncharacteristic sincerity. “Jack was worried about you, you know. He’s had a rather short fuse for the past few days; it was driving everyone crazy at the Institute.” 

“The past few days?” You manage to ask. You’re hoping you misinterpreted that statement. Surely you haven’t missed several days. Surely you weren’t knocked out for that long. 

Beverly’s expression is sympathetic and you feel any confidence you had promptly fade from existence. “You were unconscious for three days,” she says. You don’t know what to say, so you opt for pinching the bridge of your nose and pretending not to notice the pain in your side or the fatigue clinging to your form. “We were all worried, of course,” Beverly continues, as if trying to keep you distracted from the admission.  “Me, Jack, Price, Alana-”

“Alana?” You interrupt. 

“Well, of course,” your friend says with furrowed brows. Somehow, Beverly’s remark reminds you of your friendship with Alana—the friendship that you had been purposefully avoiding for so long. Ever since she kissed you, you’ve been avoiding her. That’s surely a justifiable course of action, but hearing about Alana’s concern for you makes you think of all the memories you have with her.

After all, Alana was your first friend at the Institute. She stuck up for you in front of Jack, when you were a nameless rookie and he was the intimidating superior officer that you were afraid of speaking out to. Alana was your psychiatrist for a while, too. Dr. Bloom is different from the majority of the medical professionals you’ve worked with. She doesn’t treat you like an endangered animal in a zoo exhibit. She never once tried to poke or prod at you—manipulate you in the way so many others do. Alana was really a breath of fresh air during your time of need. 

“I need to talk to her later,” you murmur. You intend for the remark to be a note to yourself, but your companion hears it anyway. 

“Sure,” Beverly answers unobtrusively. “Hey, tell me about it?”

It doesn’t take you long to understand what she’s getting at. “Gideon?” you ask, unable to keep a bit of suspicion from your voice, “Why?”

“I’ve heard bits and pieces, rumors, but I want to hear it from you,” Beverly admits. “You don’t have to tell me right this instant. Just…” She breaks off, evidently unable to find the words. 

“It’s fine, I’ll tell you,” you respond. You think you owe Beverly this explanation, if only for how neglectful of a friend you’ve been the past few weeks. You tell her as much and she waves the remark off, which only incites more guilt within you. You’ve been entirely negligent and neglectful—something you seek to repair in the coming time. 

Somehow, reliving the kidnapping is actually helpful. By recounting what happened, you can start to come to terms with the events that unfolded. Looking back on it now, you realize that you had no choice but to kill Gideon. Indeed, just as Jack said, he would have killed you first. After killing Chilton and Lounds, there’s no telling what he would have done next—except, you realize with mounting dread, go after Alana. 

“That’s… very shitty,” Beverly admits once you’ve explained everything, seemingly lost for the right words. You relate to the sentiment. Truly, the entire situation is beyond words. 

“I know,” you say, acknowledging the remark before choosing to push the conversation onto lighter topics. You glance around the room with irritation. “Now I’m just stuck in this fucking room. I’m dying of boredom.” Beverly laughs, her eyes gleaming. 

“You’re going to love me for this,” she smirks, a mischievous gesture that reminds you of how cunning she can be. You send her a quizzical look and she makes a show of rolling her eyes. “I brought clothes. Just change into these and they’ll never notice you leaving.” She glances at the door behind her before looking back to you, waiting to see what you’ll say. 

“You’re my savior,” you remark sincerely. Beverly smiles triumphantly, before offering you a hand. You take the proffered assistance and she steadies you as you leave the mattress. To your surprise, you’re able to walk on your own—albeit with less speed and composure than usual. You step into the bathroom and close the door behind you, before finally taking off your damned hospital gown. The thing is horrid and you take immense pleasure in shoving it into the absurdly small trash can in the corner of the room. Thankfully, you took a shower this morning, so you won’t have to put clean clothes on over dirtied skin. The clothes Beverly brought don’t fit super well, but they’re leagues better than that drab hospital gown. You stare at yourself in the mirror for a few seconds, unsurprised by what you see.

You look different. Haunted, hallowed. Your face almost looks more gaunt, your eyes more dull. You didn’t emerge from captivity unscathed, that’s for damn sure. The wound ripping the skin at your side is proof of that. There’s also a jagged scar cutting diagonally down your face, reaching from the edge of your temple and falling dangerously close to your left eye. You bring a hand up to the cut, wincing at the brief pain the motion incites. 

A harsh knock on the door rips you out of your self-inflicted torturous reverie. You take a deep breath and regard your reflection one more time before leaving the bathroom. You stand in front of Beverly and she looks you up and down. 

“Not bad,” Beverly says. 

“Jack is going to kill me if he finds out,” you realize aloud. 

“Which is why he won’t,” Beverly responds confidently. Her eyebrows furrow at your statement, as if the very suggestion of failure is laughable. “Find out, that is.” You click your tongue and grin at her; she then grins back. Once the elevator doors open, the two of you walk through the long hall and towards the exit. Your departure is painfully slow, but within a few minutes, the two of you are standing outside of the hospital building. The afternoon sun is bright today and the sunshine warms your skin. You feel a relieved smile growing on your face. Beverly says she’ll pull the car up to the driveway and walks off towards her car. Moments later, you’re successfully seated in the passenger seat of your friend’s van. 

The car ride is quicker than you expect. It’s been a while since you’ve gotten the chance to catch up with Beverly, so you’re happy to hear her amusing anecdotes and exciting stories. Truly, it feels as if only a few minutes pass before she’s pulling into your driveway. Your friend puts the car in park and turns to regard you, a conflicted expression on her face. You feel rather the same in that regard. You haven’t been home in several days now and, somehow, it almost feels as if you’re intruding on someone else’s life. You’re preoccupied with the past, as you listen to the cicadas humming in the trees nearby. What if you hadn’t gone after Alana? Would Gideon have killed her? He very well could have. Despite your near certainty that you did the right thing, you can’t rid yourself of the guilt and regret. You should’ve done things differently. You should’ve-

“Hey,” Beverly interjects, her voice cutting through the rushing static in your ears. Her concerned eyes meet yours. “Don’t beat yourself up about it—any of it.  You did the best you could.” As always, Beverly knows exactly what to say. She knows not to tell you that you made the right choice. She knows not to remind you of Gideon’s criminality. Her hand reaches out to clasp yours and you lean over the median to embrace her. Beverly hugs you back and, for a moment, it feels like everything will be okay.

Even despite Beverly’s reassurances, there is blood on your hands as you wave goodbye to her and step into your home. The scar on your face burns with recognition, remorse. Crimson pools color the ground at your feet and your victims follow your every step, taunting you from the shadows. You are haunted by the events that transpired and the choices you made. You had spent so long in a false state of overconfidence, thinking yourself immune from it all. As you walk into your bedroom, a blaring sound greets your ears. You walk over to your alarm clock and disable the alarm, both satisfied and unsettled by the silence that follows. How long did you spend ignoring the shrieking alarms in the recesses of your mind? 

Darkness draws the curtains over the day. Sleep comes easily because, despite it all, you’re exhausted. Unfortunately, your slumber doesn’t feel much longer than the blink of an eye, and you wake to find your skin soaked with sweat. Your stomach growls and you resign to eating a small breakfast before tackling your hygiene. Once you’ve eaten, you choose to take a shower. The hot stream of water tickles your skin and you have to be careful not to let the water fall directly on your wound. The last thing you need is a burn on top of a gunshot wound—that would add insult to injury (literally). Your shower takes a bit longer than normal, mainly because your left arm is restricted in movement. By the time you’re turning the knob to stop the water, your left side is burning from the exertion. You grit your teeth and step out of the shower, grabbing a towel with your right hand. What follows is a rather awkward toweling-off, as you struggle to dry off without aggravating your injuries. You take several minutes to carefully rebandage your wound, before turning to the pile of fresh clothes on the counter near the sink. 

The act of changing into clean clothes proves to be more difficult than you initially expect. The most minute of movements can further irritate your injury. Even the attire you chose—a simple shirt and your most comfortable sweatpants—seems to cling to your form. It feels as if your skin is stretched far too tight over your bones. Despite your expectations, you only feel worse after the shower. 

You’re not out of the bathroom for more than two minutes before you hear the doorbell ring. Dread coils in your chest and you walk to the door, opening it before you think of the potential consequences. The door swings to the side to reveal Hannibal standing on your doorstep. A drop of water slides down your temple. You bat at it with your hand, before regarding Hannibal. 

“Hello,” you manage to say, trying your best to suppress the several different emotions threatening to surface. Your heart is pounding uncomfortably within the confines of your ribcage. You feel your nails digging into your palms as you come to terms with the situation Hannibal has just forced you into. You can’t exactly turn him away at the door—especially knowing that he loathes rudeness and could easily kill you for the offense. Although, in reality, he could kill you regardless. Why are you still allowing this to happen? Why are you still complicit? 

"May I come in?" You bite the inside of your cheek. He is only asking to maintain the pretense that you have control over the situation.

"Sure," you acquiesce guardedly. The wound at your side stings in remembrance. Trepidation makes a home in your chest. Seeing Hannibal once more forces your mind to conjure images of him in surgical attire, slicing through your sutures and putting them back when finished. A not insignificant part of you wonders why it took you so long to come to terms with the danger that Hannibal wields with ease. How many times have you invited him into your home? You've been a fool. 

Hannibal is unaware of your thought process. He's regarding you with mild interest, as if he'd like to dissect your thoughts. You have no intentions of actually speaking on those thoughts, so he'll just have to keep wondering, you think wryly. His voice cuts through the air. "Your departure from the hospital yesterday-"

“What about it?” You interject, stepping past him to close the door before returning to your original position. If Hannibal is annoyed by the interruption, he doesn’t show it. You’re skating on extremely thin ice here. The most minute of gestures could send you into the icy depths of his anger. Sure, you’ve grown accustomed to feeling like that in Hannibal’s presence. That sentiment seems to be amplified today, though. You’re inexplicably taken back to your days at the Academy. You were a wide-eyed recruit, once—filled with the optimism and naïveté of someone who hadn’t seen the field. Instructors taught you everything you needed to know about criminals: how to apprehend them, how their minds worked. 

None of it could have prepared you for what followed. Your first mission left you with a nasty bruise on your jaw and blood-spattered clothes. You hadn’t spoken for days after, and remained shut up in your house until Jack Crawford forced himself inside and sat next to you. At the time, you hadn’t known the man at all. You expected him to chew you out, to start yelling at you for your uselessness. Crawford did nothing of the sort. Instead, he simply… spoke to you. He recalled his training days, his first mission when he stared down a murderer of seventeen innocents. You found solace in knowing that you weren’t overreacting, that the Head of the Behavioral Analysis Unit himself expressed similar feelings once upon a time. 

“This job isn’t for the faint of heart,” Crawford had remarked “You have to come to terms with the fact that some people are past saving.” The thought troubled you. (It still troubles you.) 

“Even if we can save them?” You choked out, your voice raspy from neglect. If the man was surprised by you breaking your silence, he never commented on it. 

“Even then,” Crawford sighed. At that moment, he looked wizened beyond his years: a man who had seen his fair share of violence and maleficence. Crawford turned back to you, a determined look in his eyes. “We deal with monsters here, who are infinitely more cruel than you thought possible. They will come in different shapes, sizes, personalities. But there’s one thing that every single one of these people has in common… They’re all dangerous.” 

“But that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” Crawford asked. “I know you’re talented—I keep an eye on all the recruits. You could be a member of the Behavioral Analysis Unit within a few years. You have a good eye, a good feel for how this works. Excellent shot.” The praise barely registered to you in your tortured state. Now, it brings a ghost of a smile to your face. “But this work… it changes you.” Spoken from experience, judging by the resigned look on Crawford’s face. 

“You can leave this behind,” Crawford continued, his lips set in a thin line. “Get another job. Have a normal life.” He pushed himself up to stand over you. You still remember the look on his face in that moment: how his eyes gleamed with firm resolve. “Or you can walk out of this door with me, back to headquarters.” It hadn’t taken you long to come to a decision. After a few seconds, you got to your feet and followed after him. 

Now, as you stand across from a killer in your entryway, you wonder if that answer was a mistake. Where would you be, if you weren’t here? The thought is pointless to consider. It’s far too late for contemplation. 

Hannibal says your name and you’re snapped out of your trance. He’s staring at you expectantly, but you haven’t the faintest idea what he is looking for. “You were assigned to bedrest for three more days,” Hannibal eventually says. 

“And?” You ask, moving past him to walk into the living room. Hannibal follows behind you, a silent shadow at your back. A shiver rolls down your spine as you walk the short distance with your back to him, almost entirely vulnerable. You move to sit on your sofa and Hannibal takes a seat at the armchair across from it. The positioning reminds you of your sessions with him. You grit your teeth. 

“Does Jack know that you’ve returned home?” Hannibal asks, raising his eyebrows slightly. His gaze pins you to the sofa. 

He’s playing dirty with that remark and he knows it. “What do you think?” You ask, unable to keep a slight hint of sardonicism from leaking into your voice. Hannibal only raises his eyebrows. You sigh and lean back against your sofa. “Of course Jack doesn’t know. He would murder me, to put it lightly.” The thought prompts some guilt to rise in you. You forget the feeling when Hannibal inexplicably rises to his feet and rounds the coffee table, standing over you. 

“Your wound needs consistent medical attention.” He demands. 

“It’s fine,” you argue, “It doesn’t even hurt.” That is a complete lie. Hannibal seems to know that, if the skeptical pinch to his lips is anything to go by. He was a surgeon, after all. You had forgotten— tried to forget , your brain supplies. The air between the two of you is silent. The way Hannibal looms over you now makes you nervous. You don’t know what to say to break through this seemingly insurmountable tension. 

“Allow me?” It’s phrased like a question, yet you feel as if you can’t say no. You nod, not trusting the words that could fall from your lips. Hannibal takes an impossible step closer and you push yourself up, maneuvering so that you lie across the couch. You pull up your shirt, feeling strangely self-conscious. Still, Hannibal is—was—a medical professional. This isn’t anything he hasn’t seen before. 

Hannibal hums and looks down at the bandage covering the wound. You’re sure he will get a good idea of the wound’s progress without lifting the entire thing off. His fingertips glide across the skin near the bandage and your skin prickles. For what seems like an eternity, his hand lingers. Just as you’re about to let out a sarcastic quip, he lightly tugs at the edge of the bandage and lifts it up. 

“See?” You say, feeling the need to break the silence settling in the space. Hannibal’s gaze is focused on your wound with intense precision and you have to wonder just what he’s looking for. You’ve seen your fair share of bullet wounds, but you’re not usually this involved in the healing process. You can't remember the last time you got shot in the field. It must’ve been a few years ago, at least. 

Hannibal is staring at you now. His eyes shine crimson in the light. He clearly doesn’t believe you. You sigh. “Fine,” you acquiesce, “It still hurts. But you have to understand, I was going crazy in that hospital room.” You meet his eyes to further emphasize your point. 

“And the truth comes out,” Hannibal murmurs. He’s staring down at his hand, which you’re still holding for some reason. You’re quick to release your grip. “As it is wont to do.” That latter remark is murmured under his breath and it is clearly meant as a note to himself. You hear it anyway. The statement is foreboding, and you almost have to wonder if it’s an omen. “Do you have fresh bandages for tomorrow? You should change them daily.” 

“Yes, I do,” you respond detachedly, smoothing down the bandage he had pulled up to investigate the wound. You hastily pull your shirt back down, feeling strangely exposed. “And I changed the bandage this morning.” You had to shower, after all. 

For a fraction of a moment, you swear Hannibal looks disappointed. You’re quick to dismiss the notion. There is nothing he would get from bandaging your wound in such a manner. It’s not like he can steal your kidney again, you think. You resist the urge to roll your eyes at the dark humor you seem to be using to cope. 

“I will see you tonight for your appointment,” Hannibal announces, smoothly exiting the room before you can so much as raise an objection. As you walk towards the front door, you begin to recognize the remark for what it is: a demand. You have no choice in the matter. Arguably, the luxury of choice was ripped from your hands when you embraced complicity. You have no one but yourself to blame, you think begrudgingly.

The rest of the day passes without incident, thankfully. You spend most of the time resting off and on. Your wound still hurts, but it’s a marked improvement from how it felt when you first woke up. You desperately want to make yourself busy by cleaning your house, but your side protests any activity more strenuous than walking. You eventually settle for watching something on television, allowing your mind to drift as the bright colors assault your vision. 

Before long, it’s time for you to leave for your appointment with Hannibal. You contemplate changing into more formal clothes, before remembering how laborious the process of dressing was this morning. Besides, Hannibal already saw you earlier. There’s no point in trying to pretend that you’re well-collected and composed, you huff. Mind made up, you grab your car keys and leave the house. 

Since you’re dreading the session, the drive passes particularly quickly. You’re so preoccupied with your thoughts this evening that you don’t realize Hannibal has been waiting for you to enter his office until he says your name. You get up from your seat in the waiting room and follow him through the doorway, your heart in your throat. For some reason, you get the feeling that you won’t be making it out of here alive. Your eyes flit about the office and you see the space in a new light. Anything and everything sharp can be a weapon. The only exit to the room is the door you just entered through. 

There’s a hand on your shoulder and you’re briefly jarred back to reality. Hannibal motions to the chairs and you follow his direction. Unsurprisingly, the chairs feel impossibly close today. If you were to really sprawl, you would likely hit Hannibal. You cross one leg over the other and try to subtly shrink into the back of the chair. Hannibal’s speech greets your ears, but your thoughts reduce his voice to a frantic rhythm. There’s a distant screeching sound reverberating in your skull and your skin feels as if it’s buzzing. You let your hands rest on your thighs, intimately aware of the fact that you are entirely unarmed. That thought makes you pause. Why should you be armed? The tension in the space is stifling and Hannibal’s gaze is intense, but there’s no need for a pistol. 

“What would you like to talk about?” Hannibal asks. You frown internally. You’re not sure what to talk about. You almost don’t want to talk at all. Hannibal must recognize that, because he falls silent, too. 

You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you instead retreat to your mind palace. The gilded white pillars are tinted with crimson. There are muddied footsteps tracking through the foyer. A clock ticks hauntingly, creating a loud rhythm in your ears. You walk down the hall, only to find Abel Gideon’s corpse. You’re thrown back to captivity, to a gunshot ringing in your ears and the horrible thump of a corpse hitting the ground. Your neck aches in remembrance. Abel Gideon’s body looks the same as you left it: a bullet carving a hole through his temple, a shallow cut near the back of his neck. The flooring is red and Gideon’s blood almost seeps into it, creating a murky crimson that is nearly indistinguishable from what it was before.

Abel Gideon was but one man. One criminal, one villain, one monster. There are dozens, hundreds, thousands more. You contemplate the thought as you continue down the hallowed hall of your mind palace. Garret Jacob Hobbs, Franklyn Froideveaux, Abel Gideon… They were only the first tumultuous waves on a pitch black ocean, swirling madly about. You can feel the beginnings of a harsh wind whipping at your skin, rustling your clothes. The skies are dark. The storm is yet to come. 

Before long, you realize you have to leave. There is only so long you can stare off into space before Haninbal will grow suspicious. You close your eyes for a few seconds, before opening them again to find yourself back in Hannibal’s office. You’re restless. The chair threatens to swallow you in its embrace. Your fingers are tapping against the arms of the chair, your foot tapping against the ground. You need to move. You need to escape. You need to- 

It is a twisted irony, you think as a single word slips from your lips. You’ve spent so long pretending, feigning ignorance. You think back to that fateful moment all those months ago, when Hannibal took you to his residence. You saw the antlers, remembered the fanciful food at the dinner parties. It had felt as if fiery flames were stitching your every nerve together, igniting one horrid realization within you.  Ironic, how one word will send your world aflame once more.

“See?” The remark crawls from your tongue, wrenching your lips open and sinking into the still air. You inhale sharply as you notice Hannibal’s eyes flash crimson. His posture is still and he almost appears frozen in place, save for the measured breaths entering his nose and exiting his lips. His unblinking, unflinching stare assaults you with horrible, cloying fear. The feeling paralyzes you, leaving your legs locked and your hands clenched in fists. Your heart is humming in your ears. You can’t hear what he says next, but it doesn’t matter. There is no mistaking the expression on his face, the wrath hidden behind that thin-pressed smile:

Hannibal knows.

note: one chapter left for Act One! woop woop!

hannibal taglist: @its-ares @tobbotobbs @xrisdoesntexist @gr1mmac3 @tiredstarcerberuslamb @yourlocalratwriter @kingkoku @kahuunknown @atlas-king1 @pendragon-writes @slipknotcentury @cryinersaved @the-ultimate-librarian @starre-eyes @pendragon-writes @peterparkeeperer

this broken design, ch11

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader

summary: “Dr. Lecter?” You blink a few times, convinced that you’re dreaming. The man’s gleaming eyes and concerned expression seem a bit too realistic to be conjured by your sleeping mind, though. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen him look worried. You quickly decide that you don’t like it.

“Hannibal, please,” the doctor responds nonchalantly. You stare at him in utter confusion. Just what is happening right now? You thought you were dreaming, but this feels a bit too vivid. “What are you doing out here?”

read from the beginning here.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

warnings: kidnapping, canon typical blood/violence/gore, mentions of animal dissection (just the words "animal dissection")

You fall in and out of consciousness. One moment, you’re roughly dragged along the ground past Alana’s house; the next moment, there’s a blindfold secured over your eyes and you’re situated in what you guess to be the trunk of a car. You feel every minute bump in the road and you swear the driver is intentionally hitting potholes, if only to jostle you around more. At some point, you feel your vision fading—even amidst your best efforts to remain awake. You know you need to stay conscious to escape, but your body refuses to obey your commands.

The next time you wake, you’re met with an incessant, throbbing headache. You wearily blink your dry eyes open, wincing as light sears into your vision. Left with nothing but a buzzing silence and your thoughts, you berate yourself for letting your guard down. You had forgotten the nature of the people you were investigating. You’re in danger. You take a deep breath around the gag in your mouth and try to remain calm. Thankfully, your blindfold must have been removed at some point. 

Surveying your surroundings, you find a dilapidated dining room with dusty trinkets lining the walls. There’s a fanciful chandelier hanging over the luxurious dining table, which has seven empty seats. You’re located at the back head of the table—your wrists bound to the arms of the chair you were placed in. There are mere ropes holding you to the chair, but somehow, you can hardly even move, let alone try to get out of them. You must have been drugged—with something potent enough to remove all traces of physical resistance from your system. You can’t do anything more than make your fingers twitch from where they’re resting on the edges of the chair arms. Moreover, when you do manage to move them, your hand twitches sporadically. That’s definitely not a good sign.

It’s hard to stay awake, even though you know you need to be conscious and aware of your surroundings to keep yourself safe. There’s nothing to occupy you except for the monotonous ticking of a clock in the hall behind you, your blurred vision, and your aching limbs. 

At one point, when you drag yourself out of the void of unconsciousness, you find that you have a companion. Frederick Chilton is sitting in the chair on your right. You blink at him blearily and try to get his attention, only to remember that you’re both gagged and nearly unable to move. Upon closer investigation, it looks like he’s unconscious. You don’t stay conscious long enough to learn anything about Chilton’s situation or see your captor. Weirdly enough, your captor has been strangely absent—leaving you to decay amidst molding walls in solitude. Each time you fight off unconsciousness, you notice that Chilton is more roughed up. Your captor has a grudge against him, and it doesn’t take you long to put the pieces of the puzzle together. Ironically, by trying to protect Alana, you only ended up putting yourself in more danger. If you had the strength, you’d shake your head in disbelief. 

The opportunity to speak with your captor finally comes the next time you wake. The man, evidently finished with torturing Chilton for the day—judging by the blood soaking through the man’s shirt—tightens the ropes around Chilton’s wrists. This is your chance. “Gideon?” You feel yourself asking. It comes out muffled because of the gag. Your voice is dry and raspy; your entire mouth is dry and the words almost seem to bounce around restlessly. 

You blink at the figure. It looks like Hobbs. But, no, it can’t be Hobbs—Hobbs is dead. You blink and try to peel away the Minnesota Shrike’s cloying visage. The sickly emerald tones in his eyes fall away to reveal a sharp blue-eyed gaze. Dr. Abel Gideon is looking at you with interest; Chilton is no longer the subject of his attention. You cast a hateful gaze at Chilton’s prone form, feeling a momentary stab of satisfaction at seeing him hurt. You have to rip yourself from those thoughts to focus on Gideon, who is now standing next to you. 

“I must say, you were out for quite a while,” Gideon hums. You can’t tell if he’s speaking to himself or to you. He turns your chair ninety degrees to make you face him. “Perhaps I overdid it with the drugs. I haven’t been at the operating table in quite a while…” His focused musings are eerie. The man is treating you as if you’re an experiment—an animal on his dissection table. Eventually, Gideon sighs and removes the gag from your mouth. 

“Why did you take me?” You ask immediately. That’s the first thing you want to know. You can justify Chilton’s presence here—he worked with Gideon in the past and nearly convinced him he was the Chesapeake Ripper. You’ve never done anything of the sort, however. You’re not a mental health professional, nor have you even spoken to Gideon aside from the single conversation you had through the bars of his cell. 

Unsurprisingly, Gideon doesn’t answer your question. You’re not even sure if he can hear what you’re saying. “Say hello, Frederick.” Your assailant says instead, momentarily stepping aside to make sure you can see the man in question. Frederick Chilton cannot say hello, since several of his organs have been evidently removed and he is unconscious. You grimace. You don’t like the man, but you don’t think he deserves to be mutilated so cruelly. You swallow hard. “Might as well have some fun before I dispose of you properly.”

It takes you a moment to comprehend that statement. You look up, only to find that Gideon isn’t looking at Chilton anymore—he’s looking at you. You take a rattling breath in. Gideon walks away for a treacherous moment. Your heart is racing in your chest, so loudly that its rhythm reverberates in your ears. He’s back a moment later with a knife in hand. His fascination with Chilton is gone. The psychiatrist lies neglected in his chair, unconscious but ignored. For the first time in your life, you envy Frederick Chilton.

“Dr. Lecter is rather fond of you. Perhaps if I…” Gideon breaks off. Quick as lightning, he drags his knife along the skin near your left eye. You scream and writhe in your bonds, but he only smirks. You know that’s going to leave a nasty scar. That must be the point, you think to yourself faintly. He wants to leave a mark on you. “I forgot how enjoyable this was.” You want to kick at him, but Gideon must sense your thought process because he quickly steps out of range. 

You’re left to slowly dissipate in your chair, the uncomfortable sensation of warm blood trickling down your face. At one point, you feel droplets fall from your eye in a manner rather similar to tears. The next time you blink, your vision is crimson-tainted. Your vision doesn’t seem to be affected, other than the blood falling into your eyes. The entire left side of your face is stinging. This time, when you feel your eyes slip shut, you don’t fight it. 

You have no idea how much time passes after that. It’s clear that the drug is still in your system, because you can’t keep yourself awake for more than what you assume to be an hour or two. Chilton remains a steady, silent presence at your side. Each time you wake, you realize that he looks no better than before. You can hardly focus on him, though—not when it’s been several days (you can assume) since you’ve had anything to eat or drink. Your limbs are cooperating with your commands a bit more than before, but you know you’re still nowhere near your usual level of fitness. 

The ugly sound of a chair scraping against the ground jerks you out of your thoughts. Gideon is dragging a chair towards the table—a chair that is inhabited by a redheaded woman that looks far too familiar. It doesn’t take you long to recognize where you know her from—she’s Freddie Lounds, the same reporter who has been dragging your reputation through the mud all these years. Gideon pushes her to a place at the table at your left, opposite Frederick Chilton. Dread stews in your chest. This feels more significant than you can currently comprehend. Gideon stands at the other end of the table, his gaze contemplative as he looks from Chilton to Lounds, before finally settling on you. You immediately dislike the strange resolve in his eyes. 

“Choose.”

“What?” You say. 

“Choose,” Gideon repeats. There is nothing short of complete, utter sincerity in his voice. “Choose who lives and who dies.” You stare at him in disbelief, wondering if you misheard him. Evidently, you didn’t—Gideon is holding a gun in his right hand and seems to be waiting for your command. There’s an entertained smile on his face. He must be enjoying this spectacle—seeing you come to terms with the fact that you will be the cause of an onlooker’s death. 

You glance between Freddie Lounds and Frederick Chilton. Who should live? Who should die? You have both of their lives in your hands right now. Freddie shoots you a wide-eyed look. Frederick looks equally terrified and his eyes are begging you for help. You experimentally tug at the ropes binding your wrists to the chair. Unsurprisingly, they don’t budge. You try to think of a way out of this. It takes you a few moments to remember that you do have a weapon—a dagger concealed in your boot. However, it’s nearly impossible to reach without informing Gideon of its presence. It seems you’re well and truly cornered. You have no choice but to kill. 

You contemplate who to save. It’s a macabre thought, but a necessary one nonetheless. You’re sure that your hesitation would only encourage Gideon to kill both Lounds and Chilton. You take a deep breath. Chilton worked with Gideon on numerous occasions, and manipulated him into thinking he was someone else. Lounds wrote some unsavory things about you, but she’s ultimately innocent in all this. She’s nothing but a bystander—a civilian in the wrong place at the wrong time. You take a shuddering breath in.  

Gideon is waiting expectantly. You return his gaze and incline your head towards Chilton. In a true show of cowardice, you can’t say his name. You don’t want to utter his name—don’t want to succumb to the reality that he will die because of you. The smirk on Gideon’s face widens impossibly, showing crooked pointed teeth and a truly maleficent elation. You watch as he pulls a gun from his belt—evidently stolen from his prison transports—and cocks it. Gideon steps around the table and moves to stand a mere few feet away from Chilton—far too close for him to miss. The gun is steadily aimed at Chilton’s temple. 

Gideon’s finger squeezes the trigger. Your heart is thundering in your ears, but you know what you need to do. Your arms are trapped but, thankfully, your ankles aren’t bound to the chair. You lean forward and kick Chilton’s chair as hard as you can. 

The gun fires. 

Chilton falls to the ground. The bullet resides in the wall behind him, leaving the drywall to crumble around the entrance point. You wait for a puddle of crimson blood to grow on the floor, turning the carpet red. Nothing of the sort is present. Frederick is unscathed. 

“Well, well,” Gideon remarks, putting the gun on his belt for a minute to deliver a slow, mocking clap. The applause echoes in the hollow space around you, creating a horrible rhythm. Freddie’s eyes are wide and the expression on her face is indecipherable; it almost looks as if she’s truly seeing you for the first time. “You think you’re clever, do you?” You don’t elect to respond. 

“Fine,” Gideon remarks. “You’ve made your choice.” 

Gideon cocks his gun and pushes it against your own temple this time. He raises an eyebrow, as if daring you to utter your last words. You stare back at him defiantly, heart in your throat. Just as his finger squeezes the trigger once more, you rock your chair to the side with enough momentum to send you crashing down to the ground. You sense the cold metal of your dagger resting against your ankle, and it only takes a second of manipulation for the dagger to fall down to the floor. From there, you twist and lean back until you can grasp at it with your bound hands. You maneuver to the side and duck under the table to guard yourself from the onslaught of gunfire. With the momentary coverage, you’re able to cut through the ropes binding your wrists to the chair. The effort is rather awkward and certainly hurts, but you’re miraculously able to get your hands free. You idly wonder if Gideon is giving you this time to break free of your bonds, if he wants the thrill of the hunt. The thought makes your stomach turn.  You crawl under the table and jump out at the side. You’re quickly met with the business end of Gideon’s gun and a malicious smirk. You dive to the side and roll, swiftly getting to your feet and wielding your dagger. 

In a gunfight, the person with a dagger is far outmatched. Right now, Gideon has the upper hand, since he has a gun. You need to fight offensively—fighting defensively will get you killed here. You also need to be unpredictable—fight dirty, use common household objects as weapons. Perhaps most importantly, you need to move the fight elsewhere. Otherwise, Chilton and Lounds could be injured in the conflict. Knowing this, you decide to turn and duck down the hallway behind you, confident that Gideon will follow after you. Sure enough, you hear his footsteps follow you through the hall. You sprint down the hall, ducking around corners until you come across a small supply closet. It’s just barely big enough to stand in and you do so, before pressing your lips together and holding your breath. 

“Ready or not, here I come,” Gideon announces, his footsteps echoing in the eerily silent hall. The floorboards in front of the closet creak and you have to put a hand over your mouth to stifle your breathing. The killer pauses in his tracks just outside where you’re hiding. 

You duck down instinctually and a bullet rifles through the closet door where your head had been just seconds ago. Gideon shoots another bullet a short distance from the first and it nearly skims the top of your head as you’re bending down. Eventually, he must decide that you’re not in the closet, because he continues walking forward. 

You take the gifted opportunity and shove the closet door open, before lunging forward and stabbing Gideon in the back of the neck. He lets out a pained hiss and claps a hand over his neck, before turning around and firing at you. That shot seems far too close for you to dodge, but soon Gideon is lunging at you and the thought slips to the back of your mind. You bend low and manage to tackle him to the ground, before making a grab for the gun. Your effort fails as Gideon throws you off of him with ease. Quick as lightning, he pushes you into the ground and chokes you. His gun meets the side of your head and his grip on your neck tightens, effectively robbing you of breath. 

Your vision is beginning to blur. You know you’re near the end; you don’t have much air left. You try to kick out at him, but Gideon doesn’t budge. Your hand scrabbles for purchase on his relentless grip, trying to free your airway. In the scuffle, you somehow lost your dagger. You blindly reach behind you with your free hand, praying that it fell to the floor behind you. To your surprise, your hand closes around something sharp—your dagger. You don’t hesitate to stab upward into his left eye. Gideon screams and instinctively loosens his grip on your neck. His hold on his gun is loose; you twist to the side, ignoring the inexplicable stab of pain in your side when you do so, and rip it from his grasp. Gideon’s left hand covers his eye and his right hand reaches out towards his gun, which you’re now holding. You don’t give him the chance to get it back, instead putting the pistol to his temple and firing. 

Gideon falls backward, hitting the ground with a loud thump. You push yourself up to a sitting position before twisting to kneel, desperately hacking and coughing as you regain your breath. You’re certain you’d never been closer to death than in that awful moment, with Gideon looming over you with a devilish smirk on his face. You must’ve bitten your cheek somehow, because there’s the coppery taste of blood in your mouth. It hurts to swallow. Once you regain your breath, you stumble up and brace yourself against the wall. Gideon’s corpse burns into your vision. 

Laughter reverberates in your ears. Garret Jacob Hobbs stands further down the hall, a brilliant maniacal smirk on his face. There is nothing but malicious glee in his eyes. Your first victim regards your latest. You blink and Hobbs becomes Franklyn Froideveaux. Franklyn stares at you with hollow, unseeing pits for eyes. His skin rifles outward, exposing the mess of bloodied organs residing in his chest and stomach.

For a fraction of a moment, the pendulum swings before your eyes. Gideon’s body is still in front of you but, when you blink, it’s gone. You hiss and grit your teeth hard, trying to rip yourself out of this reverie. This is your design. This is your design. Your bullet carved a neat hole in his forehead, allowing crimson droplets to flow down his face and onto the ground. The wound on his neck must be adding to the accumulating puddle of blood. 

There’s a stifled yell from behind you and you’re broken from your thoughts. You turn your back on Gideon’s corpse and run back to the dining room, only to meet the eyes of Freddie Lounds. “Miss Lounds,” you remark, wincing at how raspy your voice is. The effort to speak feels slightly uncomfortable. You continue anyway. “I’m sorry, let me help you there.” You move toward her and use your dagger to cut the ropes binding her wrists. Then, you cut the gag off from where it’s knotted at the back of her head. Freddie doesn’t say anything, but she does rub her wrists with a pained grimace. You immediately feel guilty. Somehow, it feels as if it’s your fault that she’s here. 

There’s a strange expression on Freddie’s face as she regards you. She almost looks… worried. “What’s the matter?” You feel the need to ask. Freddie wordlessly points at your torso. You look down and grit your teeth, feeling a brutal pain ripping the breath right from your chest. 

There’s a bullet lodged in your side—the oblique, you remember from your lectures. You immediately remember the shot from earlier—the one that came far too close to dodge. In the heat of the battle, you hadn’t noticed. Now, you wince and bring a hand down to exert pressure on the wound. Freddie’s staring at you in disbelief. For a long moment, there’s nothing but silence as the two of you remain quiet. Then, Freddie inexplicably moves towards the table and grabs a napkin. She hands it to you and you thank her, pressing it up against your side. Unsurprisingly, the fabric is quickly growing bloodstained. You take a deep breath and try to look over your shoulder, despite the pain it triggers in your side. It seems the bullet didn’t exit your body. 

You weakly grasp at the wall, before slowly sliding down until you’re seated on the ground. There’s a bead of sweat trickling down your neck. Your adrenaline was pumping before, bringing your attention away from the inexplicable discomfort at your side. Now, however, all you can focus on is the throbbing pain. 

“Freddie,” you remark. The reporter raises an eyebrow. “Can you…?” You break off, looking at the phone mounted to the wall in the other room. It’s just barely visible from your current position on the ground. Freddie seems to understand what you’re saying, because she runs over to the phone and dials 911. You raspily tell her to mention Jack Crawford and she does, from what you can hear. 

“They’re on their way,” Freddie says. It’s the first time she’s spoken since Gideon first brought her into the dining room. Your vision is blurry at the edges, but you can still make out the shell shocked expression on Freddie’s face. She looks completely out of her element—startled and disturbed, as if the world has just flipped on its axis. Guilt finds a way into your heart again. 

“I’m sorry.” You manage to say, past the bloody taste in your mouth. 

“Why are you apologizing?” Freddie asks. She’s squinting at you in suspicion. 

“My fault,” you respond through gritted teeth. Somehow, the effort to talk is now met with a harsh twist of pain that bolts through you like lightning. You continue to apply a rather shaky pressure to the wound, grimacing when you see the napkin is now crimson. Freddie gets up and grabs a few more napkins, before squatting down next to you once more. 

“It’s not your fault,” Freddie murmurs, shaking her head and averting her eyes. She looks relatively unharmed—at least, physically speaking. She is justifiably shaken by the events that transpired. Freddie changes the napkin in your hand for a fresh one. You whisper a word of gratitude and she nods, her lips drawn tight in a flat line. 

Time drags on. Everything around you is fuzzy. Freddie hovers over you, a surprisingly worried expression on her face. You try to reach out to her, weakly reassure her that she’ll be okay, but you can’t move. Everything burns. The adrenaline you had earlier must be wearing off, because now you’re intimately aware of all your wounds. Blood trickles down your lips, likely creating a rather gruesome picture—if Freddie’s expression is anything to go by. 

It feels like it takes years for help to arrive. You know it can’t be more than fifteen minutes, yet it feels as if you wait for an eternity. When you finally hear the distant sound of a door getting kicked in, you can’t help but let out a small relieved breath. Admittedly, even breathing hurts. You feebly adjust the napkin against your side. You hear the familiar words of agents announcing their entrance to the building. In moments, there are several agents entering the room. A tactical medic approaches you within moments. There’s blood seeping down your skin and soaking through your clothes. You don’t have the strength to do anything except exert a weak pressure on your wound. Your breaths are harsh gasps and increasingly hard to come by. You blink.

It’s hard to be aware of your surroundings. You manage to fight the urge to remain in this dreary darkness and your eyes flutter open. You’re reclined on a stretcher in an ambulance, with several straps preventing you from movement. Your vision is swimming, but you can vaguely make out faces looking over you. You blink a few times in an attempt to clear your sight; when your vision finally returns to normal, you feel fear strike through your heart. Hannibal is sitting at your side, a sharp gleam in his eyes. His brows are pinched in what you assume to be manufactured concern. There’s a paramedic at your side asking you questions, but the words all sound garbled. When you look back to Hannibal, you swear you see him smirking. A trick of the light, you tell yourself. Your heart starts thundering in your chest and a machine begins to beep incessantly. You don’t want to be so vulnerable in front of the Chesapeake Ripper, but you don’t quite have a choice. Your vision falls to black within a few moments. 

You manage to catch glimpses of the starry night sky, then the white ceiling of what must be a hospital. When you realize you’re being wheeled through a hospital hallway, you can’t help but grow more nervous. You’re tightly secured to the stretcher and you feel trapped. There’s an oxygen mask secured over your mouth and nose. You grimace instinctually from the pain shooting through you, rippling up your torso and down your skin. You try to move your hand, but you can only slightly bend your fingers. Alarms are blaring. 

Several nurses hover over you. They’re trying to speak to you, you think. You can’t answer. There’s nothing but overwhelming pain. Your fingers are twitching again. A tear slides down your cheek. The light above is blinding. Your hand is restless. You can’t stop fidgeting. 

Suddenly, Hannibal’s hand is on your forearm. His grip is incredibly loose but the pressure is somehow—regrettably—reassuring. Before you can contemplate the meaning behind the gesture, you’re slipping into unconsciousness once more. This time, however, you don’t wake. Instead, you’re left to drown in your own dreams and nightmares, removed from reality. 

taglist [comment if you'd like to be added/removed]: @its-ares @tobbotobbs @xrisdoesntexist @gr1mmac3 @tiredstarcerberuslamb @yourlocalratwriter @kingkoku @kahuunknown

"girls, boys, neithers, boths, and in-betweens" is actually rificulously inclusive and will forever be better than any variation of "guys, gals and non-binary pals"

Two’s company, three’s a family - Part three

Summary : As a cupid, an angel of love, your mission was to make sure everyone was paired up with the right person. Yet you couldn’t get your two most ancient clients to finally end up together. And despite the 6,000 years spent on the case, you couldn’t bring yourself to give them up, not oblivious to the reason.

Pairing : Aziraphale x Crowley / GN!Reader x Crowley / GN!Reader x Aziraphale (polyamorous relationship).

Parts : First - Previous - Next (coming next week)

Warnings : Reference to "Red Flags" (Tom Cardy), quick s3x mention, non-con touching (not s3xual), depiction of anxiety, foul language, slow burn, english isn’t my first language.

Words : +3k

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

The sweet light of a summer day pierced through the branches of the surrounding trees. The sky was unexpectedly blue, and the air was just starting to heat up, tingling your exposed skin. It was so enjoyable; as you basked in the environment, you were almost forgetting your clients.

You were currently sitting on the storefront awning across the cafe where the date was occurring. It was going really well, and their bond was amazing too. It took you six years to find your client's perfect match. You won't deny the fact that you were picky; however, you weren't going to apologise for it either. If your clients had to spend their whole lives with someone, you should at least try not to pair them up with the most infuriating person that God ever made (I'm looking at you, Joey !).

But dang, you had to admit, she was fantastic ! They were literally made for each other. They were so in sync, it was truly adorable. When two people were obviously made for each other, it was your duty to make sure Eternity would welcome both of them. Never to be apart. You rubbed your stretched-skinned right arm.

Ooh, you're going to get so much love from this, your numbers gonna skyrocket...

You send a wave of curiosity your client's way, inciting him to question her more; the more interest he shows in her, the more pleased she'll be. He reached out and rested his hand on hers.

"By the way, do you have a favourite film ?" He asked, eager to see if they also had the same cinematographic tastes. She was so cultured and sophisticated; it was really refreshing to encounter someone of her kind. Yeah, she was one of a kind, alright. Oh, how could you have foreseen what she was about to answer ?

"Oh yes, just basically the best movie of all ! A masterpiece of art, really. You may have heard of it." She was trying to hide just how much she was yearning to scream the name of that movie. Anxious even, for some reason.

"Mmh. Interstellar ?" He tried to guess playfully. But she was jubilant; you knew she wouldn't be able to play along. You frowned, becoming fairly worried, wondering if she would implode.

"Mh-hm ! Wrong !" She giggled, ecstatic. Now you're just scared. You gulped in sync with the client as she stood up and slammed her hands on the metal table. As she exclaimed, finally freed from her own guilt, you thought that some people should have a warning of their own. For the good of society.

"It's Human Centipede !" She clapped and beamed.

Oh, for the love of God... Obviously, your guy was rightfully alarmed since he believed he'd never see his mom again. You left your perch and flew their way; right now, you had to prevent him from running away. Both of your hands settled on his shoulder.

"Custom disguise was truly a highlight, but I mostly liked it for the plot." How can someone so cute fill you with so much dread ? Although your hold was already firm, you couldn't help but twist Arlo's shoulders. Yes, Arlo was his name, but he was closer to Denver, personality-wise.

"I'm not quite familiar with the plot, actually." Oh, you poor unfortunate soul. He didn't know, or maybe he'd rather live in full and hurtful denial his entire life than relive that abominable day when his soul was shattered into a million pieces... Mmh, he probably just didn't know.

"In a nutshell, a German doctor sews three people's asses to their mouths." Her wide brown eyes seemed to belong to the deadliest apex predator. Send help, please. Blinking was out of the question; turn your eyes away for a second, and she'll stab you right in the throat. You darted your eyes towards the butter knife. You exclaimed sharply and miraculously removed it. Better safe than sorry.

You exhaled; you felt so puzzled right now. Every human deserves love, despite having a passion for obscure and particular forms of art. But was this truly the best person for him ? The last thing you wanted was their misery. What if her interests were real signs of psychopathy ? Of future abuse ? She didn't give the impression of abusive behaviour.

You squinted your eyes and started analysing her heart through your own. Contrary to humans, your heart was nested in the very centre of your chest and could be used as a filter. Usually you'd pick up the scent—yes, every emotion had a smell, and thankfully it was faint when you weren't using your heart—guide it towards your chest, and find what you were looking for. Your heart is a great multi-function machine and an amazing tool to achieve your goals; you were thankful for it.

A relieved sigh passed your lips when you didn't sense any brutality or cruelty. And what you felt was passion, ambition, eagerness to start something new, quite a bit of lust, and straight-up horniness.

Mmh, you had to admit that this demon of lust was a talented lad.

"The narrative of character growth comes from a genius mind ! The Human Centipede is a wonderful tour de force; you should watch it. Or, we could watch it together, and I'll show all the little details."

You rolled your eyes and smirked. She was just quirky, but she was looking forward to hitting it off with him. But, still, you wanted it to be his choice; you wouldn't force someone into a relationship and spend eternity with someone they didn't belong with. But it might be the only true relationship they will ever have. You looked over to him and were honestly surprised to see him blush and watch her with such attention. Alright. You shrugged. His mind was sent.

You nodded, even though you knew he couldn't see you. You flew away, leaving enough distance to let them take off themselves. You stretched your arm, aimed, and silently hoped it was not morbid curiosity on his part. And finally shot.

Yay ! Right in our hearts!

Nice shot; you praised yourself.

They flinched and smiled brightly. The deal is sealed. Suddenly, the clocks in the watchmaker store struck eleven a.m. You struggle to swallow. Alright, here goes nothing.

You went down to the street corner and called out the invisibility spell. You walked casually through the street but couldn't help but overhear the lovebirds conversation.

"My dream wedding would 100% be themed "Human Centipede"." She laughed so joyfully. Everyone around was looking so distraught but didn't dare say anything. Mmh.

"That would be so cool! Imagine just how much we could save on the catering bill." He burst out in laughter; it was hilarious.

And that's another wedding you will not attend. Thank God they weren't in your department anymore.

Good luck with that, Adriel...

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

You had arrived before Aziraphale, so you would have time to report to Chamuel. Yep, the Archangel of Love himself. No pressure... You weren't the same rank as Aziraphale; he was a Principality. You ? You were under the order of a Principality. Jophiel, to be exact. So meeting up with the Archangel was a big deal.

You rode the escalator while poking random fingers on your chest to calm your nerves and erase all of your emotions. You hoped they wouldn't notice the change. You hoped Chamuel didn't show up during the reunion concerning the Anti-Christ. You hoped that everything would be alright.

You exhaled for a long time, entering the endless building of light. Steadily, you made your way towards your bosses. Impassive. Calm. You spotted Chamuel and your principality, and you stopped a few feet away.

"Hello Y/N ! How are you today ?" What a dashing smile he had—too white to be human. His deep green eyes were scanning your own. His attention was nerve-wracking.

"I am fine; thank you, Chamuel." Your tone was as neutral as you could manage. Your posture was rigid, trying to stay as still as possible.

"I too hope you two are doing well."

"We are, thank you... Now, how's your heart ? Has it caused you any problems ?" His pale hand suddenly patted your mid-chest, too rough for your liking. You flinched but didn't dare say anything. Mmh. Behind him, Jophiel was looking at you up and down, keeping her distance. She still gave you a brief, tight smile.

"I am fine, thank you." You sounded straight-up robotic.

"Good !" He clapped his hands together and shook them. He took his place beside the dark-blond angel, his vivid blond hair harmonising with hers.

"Your recent results have been quite impressive, Y/N. Very good fuel for the upcoming war". Jophiel praised you while never fully looking your way.

You simply bowed your head, despite how geedy you actually felt. She didn't praise a lot, so you were delighted.

"Even from just a few minutes ago ! You are doing an excellent job. I appreciate the constant flow of love; it almost keeps the Bound together." He laughed heartily. You bowed your head again; you knew he didn't mean it.

The Bound is what holds everything together. Literaly everything. Earth, humans, animals ect. And Love is the fuel it needs to thrive. But when Armageddon starts, all cupids shall stop the love, let the Bound unfold, and fight along side the other angels, filled with the... ugh, power of Love. So cheesy... Help.

"Our sources have also confirmed the punishment of two demons who were prohibited from working on Earth for the remaining years; great job ! The least nuisance in the way, the better.."

Despite his sinister aura, he did appreciate your work. You just couldn't bring yourself to be happy about it.

"Now !" He slapped his hand on your shoulder and made you turn around. You grunted quietly. "I believe you must attend another meeting, right? I wouldn't want you to be late. Go on." He pushed you forward, and you had to catch yourself before reuniting with the floor.

"So... Darachiel and Requiel are up next..." Jophiel said it absent-mindedly, already forgetting your encounter.

Brief and concise, exactly what you prayed for. As you were leaving, you passed Darachiel and Requiel, on their way to their report. They observed you from afar, doing their best not to get too close to you. You just stared right in front of you. You didn't want to hear their gossip. It was almost as if their mouths had only been designed to talk behind your back. You teeth clenched. Focus.

You'll just have to deal with three more archangels, convince them the boy is turning into a saint, and hope they will not mention your role as a cupid. It didn't really bother me that Azirphale and Crowley might find out about your job; it's just that you were quite... private and wanted to make sure they wouldn't realise what your mission was. Be cautious.

You didn't want to lie to them. You sighed. Nevertheless, you comforted yourself, remembering that you wouldn't be alone against them.

Still, your heart echoed through your ears; the drumming was hurting your ribs and chest, like every fibre of your bones wanted to crawl their way out of your throat. You kept walking. Your breath was laboured, and your eyes were watering, blurring the awful images that rolled before you. Your gaze fell down, shielding yourself from the memories and those fucking intrusive fights. Mmh..

"Y/N ?"

The sweetest feather touch grazed your forearm, the concerned voice abruptly grounding you back into the dazzling reality of Heaven. Lost, you revolved slowly, and your pleading eyes searched for reassurance.

"Oh, Y/N..." Aziraphale whispered softly to not startle you.

"I'm sorry, I just.. I've never..-" You had to hold back a sob. The blond shushed, caressing the side of your arms.

"I know, dear... It's a lot." He smiled at you, tender. He delicately lifted your chin to meet your eyes. "But I'm right beside you; you won't have to face them on your own. You are the most intrepid angel I've met; you will blow us all away!" He jested.

"Mmh." You gave him a sheepish smile for an answer.

"Come now." He gestured forward into the meeting zone, not touching you. He walked beside you. "It's going to be just fine. I must confess, I've fooled them quite a lot before." His confession caused me to smirk as well.

Angel ? No, he was quite devilish, alright.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

"Mmh..." Aziraphale moaned, his mouth full of cream. You never thought you could bless someone through your Parfait. Your recipe was Aziraphale's favourite dessert, which he desperately tried to copy but could never get right.

Your afternoon was spent at Aziraphale's bookshop, sitting cross-legged on the comfiest couch, reading your latest acquisition. The anxiety was slowly draining its way out your veins. You turned another page and smiled softly. You have loved astronomy ever since you were created. You didn't have as much knowledge about space as Crowley, but the beauty enticed you so much that you couldn't help but be saddened by its upcoming destruction. You also cooked for the angel to really thank him.

"It's truly fantastic, Y/N." He took another spoonful. "You're sure you don’t want to share your secret ? Confess and feel even better." He teased.

"Confess, huh ? I should rather put a copyright on my recipe, you little thief."

Eden, thankfully on your side, was pushing Aziraphale's thigh, sticking her tongue out to get a lick.

"No, Eden, we were not talking about you- No !" He lifted his arm way up. If he thought it would stop your mini cow, he was deeply mistaken. She put all her efforts into her desperate attempt to steal the sweet, climbing on his leg. Aziraphale made a muffled squeal; Eden had her hooves digging in his flesh.

"Help..." He begged in a strained voice.

You giggled and got up. You took your time, really, dusting a shelf and bouncing quickly on your left leg. His eyes were almost stern as he observed your smug face. You waited a few seconds. You smiled innocently, petted Eden's head, and snatched the glass from his hand.

"Oh ! Y/N !" Alright, that gasp was just comical. Your lips let out a joyful giggle, and you jogged away, tasting the dessert with your fingertip.

"Mh.. Yum ! What a talented cook I am." You contemplated your work. Still, you saw the two hungry fellas in the corner of your eye. Too emotionally drained to play, you turned around and handed back the dessert.

"Thank you." He shook his head but smiled gratefully.

Eden nudged your right arm, demanding a treat as well. As you tossed it to her, you spotted Aziraphale stare your way. You stared back, confused. Caught in the act, he didn't back down and directly asked you what was on his mind.

"Did you hurt your arm ? I never noticed that scar before."

Oh.

You looked down your right arm and saw the tiniest bit of scar sneaking out of your pulled-up sleeve. You covered it back down.

You never thought he would notice that.

"I got cut by a demon claw. It never really healed properly."

"Maybe I could help... Let me see." He reached for your arm. You didn't mean to flinch, but still, you backed away.

"It's okay, Aziraphale. Really, it's fine."

You were charging your charm to chase him off, but the door suddenly burst open, and Crowley entered like he owned the place. He noticed the two of you, and his face went stolid. The three of you stood here for a minute or two before the angel broke the weird silence.

"Hello Crowley, How was your day ?"

The demon found his scrunched expression back.

"Awful. As expected... Some people just apparently can't believe that humans can be bad enough to end up in hell without having to be murderers! Ugh."

He sat nonchalantly on his designated chair and went limp to try and get rid of all of his frustration. He hated having to visit Hell, as one could understand. He didn't belong there. You don’t belong anywhere. You cringed. Mmh. He weakly waved in your direction.

"How about you guys ?" He hummed.

"Mmh, well, Azi' will tell you. I should get going !" You forced a smile and reached for Eden, petting her to calm her. You felt Aziraphale's eyes on you while Crowley tensed up slightly.

"Already ? Have I scared you away or something ?" He asked.

"Oh, don't be silly, Crowley; of course not ! Eden's tired; I've got to put her to bed."

"Well, can't she use the backroom- ?"

"Oh, by the way." Whoosh, quick, unnoticeable charm. "Here ! I finished it !" You threw your book on his lap, earning a grunt. "I hope you'll show me a real one day." The suggestion was true, but you knew it wouldn't happen. You didn't have the right to. Mmh.

"Bye bye ! Smooches !" You sang your way out of the bookshop under the concerned and puzzled looks of your clients.

You waited until you were around the corner before finally collapsing against the facade. Overwhelming—yeah, that's the perfect word to summarise your day. You brought your hands up to your head and rubbed your face. What am I so upset about? Why was your heart aching, burning your skin away? Why did their stares and comments feel like daggers in your back? You just wish you weren't alone. The light did nothing to warm up your frozen face as tears threatened to roll down. Mmh...

No... you didn't want to go back to this... You just couldn't.

The firm grip you had on your shirt snatched a bit of skin and twisted it. It had at least the benefit of shaking you enough to act.

You exhaled sharply and slapped your own cheek to knock some sense into yourself. You have no time. Eden was still rubbing her head on your leg when you bent down to kiss her forehead.

You straightened up, activated your blindness spell, and manifested your bow and arrows. Taking off from the ground and positioning yourself to get a good view of your clients You aimed with your right arm and lined up. Your breath was taken away by the glimpse of a scar that shone in the disappearing sun. You frowned, growled, and struck. Upper arms.

Alright, now shit was about to get real.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

I guess we all have to learn about our own back story, right Y/N ?

Anyway ! I promise we will see more of the ineffable husbands in the next part. You just needed a little bit of time for yourself.

Hope you enjoyed it ! Bye !

Parts : First - Previous - Next (coming next week)

Tag list : @legendary-maddie @kpop-athena @drugs-for-memes @emo-queer-boi @cunning-girl @mochikofi @brain-has-left @cup-of-tee007 @anonymoussherlockandmarvelgeek @somekale08 @liyacreate @msyolocat-blog

Type "I am" in the tags and whatever follows is your gender today...

Sever (Kendall Roy Oneshot)

Character/s: Kendall, Logan mention

Word Count: 1,515

Inspired By: Absence by Rio Romeo

Tag: @locke-writes

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

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

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

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

Maybe in another lifetime. 

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

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

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

Succession Preference: Handmade Presents From S/O

Requested: Preference: How the Siblings react to their S.O giving them a handmade gift? (maybe a bouquet of flowers they thoughtfully picked out at a florist themselves, baked goods, a coffee/tea mug they decorated or a homemade meal?) i hope this sounds good!! ♡ - anon

A/N: This is so cute my love!!!! Thank you for requesting!!! I really hope you like it!!! Feedback is always appreciated!!! 💜💜💜

Connor appreciates your home cooked meals to no end. He thanks you forever. It doesn't matter if it took hours or thirty minutes, Connor won't let you live it down. He brags to his siblings all the time about how thoughtful and caring and considerate you are. You try to shrug it off like it's nothing, but he won't have that. Seriously. The only time he ever got anything home cooked was when he was a little kid, maybe once a year if his mother made him eggs or a grilled cheese. You go above and beyond when you cook. You never mind, you love sharing it with him. He compliments everything, making you laugh. Food is how you show your love. Sometimes, when you have the time, you make extra and send it with him to give to his brothers and sister. They love it, too. It's like they've never eaten before. They're all full of compliments and it makes them like you even more, which doesn't hurt either.

Kendall loves when you bake anything, but especially when you bake something he loves. You've been doing this since you were dating, but now that you're married it's become a rare occurrence. With work and life you don't always have the time. When you do, you like to send him to the office with everyone's favorites. Logan's blueberry muffins, Gerri's lemon squares, Karl's cinnamon rolls. You make extras of Kendall's favorites so he can have them at home and at work, surprising him when he gets home and the Tupperware is empty. It makes him feel so loved, so appreciated. He's a menace in the kitchen, always wanting to taste the raw batter and lick the icing. When you do it, it means you really thought about him, what he likes, what makes him happy. Not many people have done that in his life. But you? You make time for him and his happiness and that is priceless. It reminds him that he is capable of being loved.

Shiv isn't sure what to say. It's perfect. A bouquet of all her favorite flowers and colors in a vase she didn't even know either of you owned. Next to it is a little card with her name wishing her a good day. It sits on her office desk, just waiting for her. No one had ever done anything like this for her. Not her family, not Tom. She wasn't even sure he knew any one of her favorite flowers, and yet you had them all. You didn't sign the card, but you didn't have to. Tears well up in her eyes, but she's quick to blink them away. It's beautiful. She doesn't want to touch it or move it out of fear that petals might fall off. Once word spreads that you got specialized flowers sent to the office, the jokes start flowing in. She doesn't care what anyone has to say about this, especially her father and brothers. She feels so loved and seen, the most she's ever felt in her life. When she gets home she talks lightly of it, thanking you, but you can see the smile she's trying to hide. This small act means the world to her.

Roman is shocked. He doesn't know what to say. You start to feel insecure, like this wasn't something he'd like let along love. Under the ribbon and wrapping paper is a handmade mug with the date you officially became a couple. It was a little misshapen, but other than that it was perfect. You'd picked out the perfect color palette, too. All his favorite colors. No one had ever done anything like this for him before. No one has ever thought about him so thoughtfully. Roman holds out his hands, careful, scared he's going to break it. He looks it over a few times and holds it close before realizing who he's supposed to be. This fucking thing, it's, it's- thank you. That's the last thing he says about it. You catch him using it almost every day, holding it with both hands, hand washing it. He truly loves it. So much. It's his most prized possession. He never says anything about it again, though you catch him going through every cupboard looking for it, mumbling to himself. It's right in front of you, Rome. He breathes a huge sigh of relief. If he lost it or broke it he's not sure what he'd do.

Pyrexia (Roy!Sibling x Kendall Roy)

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

Word Count: 1,387

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

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

Warning/s: sickness

Tag: @locke-writes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Random Headcanons About Baby Roy:

Warning/s: addiction, addiction mention, drugs, alcohol mention

A/N: I think about Baby Roy all the time, lol. I just love them. I thought some fun headcanons would be nice :) Based on these headcanons and this fic series!

Baby loves screamo. Anything and everything screamo. Also any alternative artist! The more raunchy, the better. Any car or room they're in, they're listening to it or humming it or playing it in their headphones. Everyone's come to expect it and ignore it as best they can. Especially Karl and Frank, they hate it. Gerri just shrugs. it's not hurting you or anyone else, leave it be

It absolutely drives Connor insane, especially when you and Roman gang up on him and recite verses. Roman doesn't love your music, but it's so worth it to watch your other siblings cringe and get all uncomfortable

"That d*ick tastes like yankee candl-" I love Ashnikko lol

"Y/n, please."

"You wanna hear a so-"

"No."

Baby unironically plays Where's My Juul?? by Lil Mariko in front of Connor who has no idea what a juul actually is lol

Baby has a wicked sweet tooth. Kendall's been sneaking them candy since they were little, but it seems like you always have something sweet. A lollipop, gumballs, gummy bears, etc.

"You'll get a cavity."

"This is my one vice, let me be."

Shiv is always holding out her hand for whatever you've got. She doesn't ask, she just expects it. You never mind, it's nice to share with her. Besides, it makes her feel like a little kid, too

Baby loves gory movies. Growing up, when all the kids were together, they'd have movie night. When it was your turn, you always chose the goriest thing you could find. Rome would sit with his hands over his eyes and Connor would hold a pillow, But you, Ken, and Shiv would be totally into it

"Just wait! His head gets ripped off!"

"This can't be appropriate."

Baby is actually very smart. Despite all the partying, their grades were perfect. Logan had no need to worry. Maybe you weren't showing up to class, but you were there for tests and that's all that mattered. You throw your intelligence in your brothers faces

"Can you even spell egotistical?"

You make endless jokes about your sobriety that none of them like except for Roman. The others shoot daggers at you with a look that says "not funny" You think it's funny though, and that's all that matters

"I'll be at the bar, you guys chat. Kidding! I was kidding, jeez."

"Does anyone else need a strong drink right about now?"

"They say the food is like crack, but I know crack and this isn't that."

"I used to take handfuls of pills to this song. Now look at me, I've become a monster."

Connor is horrified. Every time you say anything, he's speechless. Shiv gets very serious and Kendall spirals, but Rome likes it. If you can't joke about it, what good is it?

Baby has lots of tattoos and piercings. It's the only socially acceptable way to self harm that isn't drugs and alcohol. Logan hates them and Connor thinks they're unsightly, but you don't really care. Gerri always wants to see the new ones you got, though she prefers they be covered up in the office

"I like that one, that one's very cute."

"Thanks, Mommy."

She hates when you call her that. For you, your and Gerri's relationship, it's not at all sexual like it is with Roman. She is genuinely your mother figure. She is warm and caring and only wants the best from you. She can always tell when things are getting bad again

"Oh honey, you don't look so good."

"Mommy, I don't feel so good."

She really does love you. Someone has to. She knows your mother and Logan don't. Someone has to be there for you

Both Karl and Frank are afraid of you. Between the music, the addictions, the tattoos, the piercings, everything is intimidating to them. You're not competing like your siblings, that scares them the most. You want nothing to do with the company

"Think they're rabid?"

"Might be."

You love it, the way they always back away when you get too close, like you're demonic or infected

Baby, I think, would write a lot. Not just your feelings, which are so hard to put into words, but good things that happened, reasons to stay sober

You have a notebook or something that they use to write in. You've brought it to every rehab you've ever been to and constantly reread it over and over. No one knows about it, and if they notice, they don't bring it up. It's yours

Reasons To Stay Sober: Connor, Kendall, Shiv, Rome. Connor, Kendall, Shiv, Rome. Connor, Kendall, Shiv, Rome. Connor, Kendall, Shiv. . .

You have a sobriety birthday and every month you bake a cake. It always turns out shitty, lopsided, and burned and runny at the same time, but decorating it makes you feel like a kid again

You're always wearing your siblings clothes. You're always stealing someone's jacket or socks or shirt or sweater. You like it. It makes you feel close to them

They've just come to expect it

"You look better in that shirt than I do, keep it."

"I was going to anyways."

You have those moments of deep regret and embarrassment and self-consciousness that always end up in tears, but your siblings are there to pick up the pieces

Connor especially will just hold you as long as you need and listen to everything you have to get out

You feel so deeply sorry for hurting them and scaring them so much. You just wanted it to stop. You wanted not to he angry anymore

They tell you they understand, but you know they don't. Not really. They can't unless they've felt the way you have

Baby falls asleep on all the siblings. Even Roman will let them get away with it, but no one else. You snuggle into them and have the best sleep of your life

"Quit moving."

"Don't use me as a pillow, then."

You get away with (mostly) everything because you're their baby and they love you so much. They love you so much it's gross

Connor still prides himself on the way he raised you. There were bumps in the road, but you ended up perfect. Absolutely perfect

They all pride themselves on how they raised you. It wasn't always good, they weren't always there, but they're making up for all that now. Logan is gone. Slowly they're breaking the cycle, for you and for them

Things will get better. You've hit rock bottom so many times and always found a way out. This is that. This is your out

Being Roman's Favorite Sibling Would Include:

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

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

Being Connor's Favorite Sibling Would Include:

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

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

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

"I'm you, Romey."

"You're not as cool as me."

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

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

"Guess what I learned today?"

"Brain surgery."

"Noooooo Romey, I learned how to multiply."

"That's helpful too, I guess."

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

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

"I want the dinosaur bandaid."

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

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

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

"I'm sorry about Daddy."

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

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

"Kendall's gone crazy."

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

"Can you guys please stop talking about me?"

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

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

"Mini, where's Shiv?"

"How should I know?"

"Mini get out, the adults are talking."

"I'm an adult!"

"Not with that attitude."

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

"Please don't go after him."

"Y/n-"

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

"Fine. Fine, okay? Fine."

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

"Isn't it past your bedtime?"

"Do I look five years old?"

"Four and a half."

"Fuck off."

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

"Are you sure you're okay?"

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

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

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

"You're so fucking stupid."

"Me? Are you kidding?"

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

"You're never serious, Romey."

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

"Look at you becoming a corporate pig."

"I learned from the best."

You and Roman actively make fun of Tom and Greg

"Did you see what Tom was wearing?"

"Fashion disaster, I know."

"Why is Shiv even with him?"

"Daddy issues. Mommy, too."

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

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

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

"Please be nice, I really like them."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dependence Pt. 5 (Roy!Sibling x Roy Family)

Alternatively Titled: We Ain't Angry At You Love, You're The Greatest Thing We Lost I am getting this lyric tattooed on my body I'm dead serious

Characters: Kendall, Roman, Shiv, Connor, Logan

Word Count: 1,879

Inspired By: We'll All Be Here Forever by Noah Kahan

Tag List: @locke-writes

A/N: All I have is the snippet to listen to and it makes me sob every time. I'm thinking of moving 1k miles away from my family, from my home, from everything, and every bone in my body wishes they felt the way this song feels. Every nerve in my body wants them to feel this way. I hope they'll miss me that much. Anyways, it reminded me of Baby Roy and the Succession finale. Yes I did cry while writing, what about it lol!! Feedback is always appreciated!!! 💜💜💜

Dependence Pt. 1 / Dependence Pt. 2 / Dependence Pt. 3 / Dependence Pt. 4

Being The Youngest Roy Would Include: Pt. 1

Being The Youngest Roy Would Include: Pt. 2

You’re gonna go far, he says into you, his arms tight around you. You try to stop yourself from crying. Again. Sniffling into him, into his shoulder. Everything about this moment makes you want to turn around. To call the whole thing off. But then, how can you call off an entire lifetime? Your bags linger at your feet, everything you could fit into two suitcases. You didn’t start out like this, the day didn’t start out like this, but as it progressed, as things fell into place, you realized there was no place for you. In their lives, of course. Connor promised you your old room again, if you ever wanted to visit. But this place, this apartment, this city, it wasn’t yours anymore. It wasn’t home. You’re not sure it ever was to begin with. You remember to call me when you land, okay? An,whenever you need someone to talk to, I’m always here. He has this shake in his voice, the kind that tells you he’s doing his very best to keep himself together. Composed. You can’t say anything, the words getting caught in your throat. Instead you just nod, sobbing into his sweater. He holds you tighter, rubbing your back. When he stops, he cups your face, meeting your teary eyes, wiping your cheeks. Pops would be so proud of you. He wouldn’t. He never was. But at some point you have to stop chasing something that never existed, something you can never have. You smile for Connor’s sake. Maybe he really believes it. Maybe he’s just saying it. Either way, you’re glad you went to him. You’re glad you told him. You’re gonna so far, you have no idea. He sighs, as if the words have been sitting on his chest for a long time. As if this is the first time in your life he’s felt real, genuine relief. You want to be held a little longer. You want to be loved the only way a father, a father by choice rather than blood, could ever love their child. Without conditions, without restraints, without a ceiling or a floor. Infinite. Beautiful. You’ll have to let go eventually, part ways, but for now he holds you like he did when you were an infant. Never could he have imagined the life you’d live. It was a fantastic surprise. You were a fantastic surprise. 

You continue to awe him every single day. 

You catch him at the bar, nursing a martini. Your hands begin to shake, but you settle them at your side, sitting beside him. You can do this. He wasn’t expecting you, sliding his drink away from you. You’re okay, you’ll be okay. You can be around it, you have to in order to say goodbye. He notices the luggage before you have the chance to say anything. Going somewhere? You bite your inner cheek. Yes, actually. He turns to you. His stitches have opened, the wound bright and red. Angry. You try to read his expression. There’s a hint of fear. He saw you in that bed, screaming, crying, begging not to be alive anymore. You knew he meant it out of love, but you couldn’t face it anymore. You couldn’t be looked at like that anymore. If you wanted a fresh start, a real one, you had to get away. You had to find somewhere with people who saw you for you, not your mistakes, not your darkest moments. Somewhere inside him, he understood that. Somewhere inside him, he wanted the same thing. Leaving for him wasn’t an option, though. Is that so? What does Mummy think about that? He sips his drink. You don’t want to roll your eyes at him. You don’t want to be annoyed with him. You’re not sure how long it’ll be before you’ll see him again. I, I didn’t tell her. I’m not telling her. He lets your answer settle for a moment. You’re not sure what he’s thinking. You never have been sure. Roman could be so unreadable, so unpredictable. You keep talking, trying to fill the silence, a lump developing in your throat. You’re speaking so fast, almost hysterical. You have to explain yourself. You have to explain yourself or you’ll die. I have to get away. I’m not sure for how long, I just, I can’t be here anymore. I have to stay sober and I can’t do that here. It’s not because of you, because of any of you, I want you to know that. I’m, I’m sorry if that upsets you or makes you ang- But he interrupts you, leaning over, hugging you. Not as tight as Connor. It’s as if he’s afraid to touch you still, afraid to hurt you. Gentle. You feel his muscles tense then relax. Whatever you gotta do, you do. Just don’t scare me like that again. You promise him it will never happen again. 

It won’t. It doesn’t. The hurt from home doesn’t follow you, wherever you go. 

You can’t reach the other two. You try calling, the deja vu twisting your stomach. The last time you tried to reach them, the last time. . . No. Stop it. This isn’t that. You’re better now. Shiv picks up, waiting for you to talk. You don’t care what happened. You don’t care what went down in that boardroom. You don’t care that he’s CEO now, that you lost. She’s your sister. The same sister that comforted you after nightmares, who iced your bruises, who wanted the best for you from day one. Whatever happened couldn’t change that. She gave you so many chances, time after time, and you let her down. You let everyone down. She still cares, she always would. You would, too. The words come up, out, before you can stop them. How much you love her, how much you’re going to miss her, how badly you need this, how much you wish you could be with her right now. You hear her take a sharp inhale in, a shudder in her voice. I’ll come and visit, yeah? Wherever you end up, I’ll be there, okay? You nod. Yeah, yeah of course. You can feel your eyes well up again. She was your big sister, the only maternal figure you’d ever known. It wasn’t your mother who shushed you to sleep at night, holding you close. It wasn’t your mother who gasped at the bruises you gave yourself in a fit of rage. It wasn’t your mother who climbed into that hospital bed with you when you were sick and scared and didn’t want to fall asleep alone. It was Shiv. You're Shivy. Your sister. Do you have everything packed? Always fretting, always worrying. Yes, Mom. You laugh. You know she’ll be a good mother. Maybe she doesn’t think so, maybe Tom doesn’t, but you do. She took care of you your whole life. She’s still trying to. You um, you have your chargers? Extra socks? Do you need me to- I’ll be okay, you interrupt. You’re both quiet for a moment, taking one another in. You can feel her wanting. Wanting to reach through the phone and kiss your cheek, to hold you so close your hearts beat at the same time. Wanting to keep you there forever, not wanting to let go.

She always knew this day would come, though. You’d always had big plans. You could never be confined like the rest of them. 

You couldn’t reach Kendall. It went straight to voicemail. So you sat in the lobby of Waystar, trying to figure out exactly how to put it. Every thought in your mind, every thank you and I’m sorry and forgive me and I forgive you. Everything that’s ever sat between you two into a compact, meaningful message. You didn’t want to worry him, that was the last time you wanted, for any of them. You sat and watched everyone pass by. They were celebrating the new owner, one of the biggest deals they’d ever made. Some on their way to get drunk, others drunk already. Too much champagne. Finally, after a long time, you called again, listening to his voice play the message. Kendall, it’s me, you start. What next? You’re sorry. You’re sorry for putting them through all that you’ve put them through. The alcohol, the drugs, all those scary nights where they didn’t know where you were, if you were okay. All those nights where you weren’t sure where you were, if you’d make it out. You were sorry for calling him that night, for putting the blame on him if anything happened. You were sorry for blaming him. For not being the baby sibling he deserved. He deserved better, he expected better. I’m uh, I’ll be out of town for a while. You forgave him. You forgave him for all those outbursts, all those times he hurt you and Shiv and Con and especially Rome. You forgave him for turning into your father, the man you despised, the man you feared, the man you loved. I’ll be okay. I won’t, I’m not, I’m clean. I’ll stay that way. You loved him. You loved him despite the fear, despite the outbursts, despite the narrow path he chose to take. You loved him, and love him, because he’s your brother. He begged for you to stay awake, stay conscious. He wanted you to live even when you didn’t. That night, he looked like a ghost. I’m gonna miss you. A lot. Thank you for taking care of me, for loving me, for being there, you want to say. Thank you for being the best brother you could given the circumstances. Thank you for protecting me from him, from everyone. Call me when you can. I love you. Bye. 

This isn’t some magic answer to your sobriety. This isn’t a cure. Hell, it might be you running away again. Who knows? But you can feel it, finally. The anger, the rage, the wrath. That burden starts to feel less heavy day by day. It won’t disappear completely. You’re a Roy, it’s in your blood, in your genes. But it gets easier to carry, to hold, to take with you everywhere. You don’t want to cave in, not as much. Sure, a strong drink would help, but you made promises. You made promises you’d like to keep. Promises to yourself and to your family. You’d call Connor when you landed, wherever that is. You’ll tell Shivy, too, so she can come and visit. You’ll check in with Rome and give Kendall another call. Hopefully this time he picks up. Hopefully this time you can have a real conversation, you can talk to him, really thank him for all that he’s done. But you know your place is not here. Your people are, they always will. That mausoleum will be waiting for you like it waits for them. Eternity you’ll get to spend by their sides. Now though, now you have the choice. The choice to get better. The choice to get away. The choice to be free. You’ll see them again, you always will. They’re your brothers, your sister, the people who raised you. You’ll see them again despite the distance.

They can’t get rid of you that easily.

Succession Preference: Baby Introducing Their First Date

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

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

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

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

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

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

Venom (Roy!Sibling x Roy Family)

((SUCCESSION FINALE SPOILERS))

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

Word Count: 1,477

Tag List: @locke-writes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You win.

Sunlight / Roman Roy Imagine

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

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

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

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

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

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°

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

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

It had made him gasp.

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

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

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

Weiterlesen

the poison drips through | Roman Roy x Reader

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

Word count: 7.3k

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

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

masterlist!

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

Weiterlesen

Persecution (Roy!Sibling x Roman Roy)

Character/s: Roman, Jeryd, Kendall, Shiv

Word Count: 1,465

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

Inspired By: Family Jewels by Marina

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

Tag: @locke-writes

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

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

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

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

What were you going to do? 

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

There’s no stopping him. 

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

Succession Preference: Youngest Sibling Fainting

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

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

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

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

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

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

Petals (Roy!Sibling x Connor Roy)

Character/s: Connor, Shiv, Roman, Logan, Willa, Marcia

Word Count: 1,315

Requested: hello! is it okay if i request more roy baby sibling and connor? i’d like to see them asking connor to dance at shiv’s wedding (or maybe even at his wedding?)! thank you :) - anon

Requested: your younger roy sibling hcs have been rotting my brain recently and now im imagining 8 year old them making a drawing for connor's birthday that is them holding hands with big hearts and "wish you were my daddy" written in big kid letters (probably with spelling mistakes) and connor just like. sobbing when he reads it. i feel like hed be such a big father role to a significantly younger sibling (i personally imagine them and roman having a around 10 year gap, so thats probably like ~35 years of different between them and connor). and we all know what a shitty dad logan is/was, so i can see younger sibling calling connor after some big fight with logan and crying while begging him to pick them up and let them live with him and it breaks his heart cause logan would never let it happen and he tried but couldnt protect ken and shiv and rome and he just wishes he could at least protect his baby sib but he just cant and it kills him. anyway happy thursday thought haha roy family brainrot - @fromirkwood

Inspired By: Petals on the Moon by Wasia Project

Tag: @locke-writes

A/N: I know the second one wasn't exactly a request, but I couldn't get it out of my head!!! Big Bro Connor is my absolute favorite!! I hope this doesn't rot in your brain too long my love lol. I just couldn't get it out of my head, especially when it was combined with the other request!! Feedback is always appreciated 💜💜💜

Time is a thief, at least that’s what he thinks when he looks at you, spinning with your sister on the dance floor. Your smile is so bright, so wide, your cheeks flushed. You drank too much, no doubt it was Roman refilling your glass without your notice. The song picks up speed, picks up in joy, and you break out into laughter, you and Shivy. It’s as if you’re in your own world and only she’s in it. You spin and jump and sing along, your niece and nephew beside you and the bride. He hasn’t seen you this electric, this alive, so much like your old self, in weeks. Connor considered himself lucky to be able to watch, to bear witness. Just moments ago you were a baby, doodling with your thick crayons, mistakenly calling him Dad instead of Logan. Only recently had he learned that's who he was in your phone, Dad, that Logan was simply Logan. Years pass, but so little changes. He still had all your fathers day cards stashed away, hidden before your real father caught what you were doing. Stick figures, one tall, one small, hand in hand surrounded by flowers and butterflies and other bugs. Happy Fathers Day Connor. Your uppercase letters always slanted, crooked, his name spelled with one N instead of two. It wasn’t long until his figure started sprouting gray hair, graying far earlier than anyone else in the family, and yours grew taller every year. Connor feared you might have forgotten about him, that you were getting too old to need your eldest brother like your siblings had, but you proved him wrong after that night. 

You hadn’t even wanted to go to the wedding. It was so bad. Whatever was said and done remained a mystery. You wouldn’t tell him, tell anyone, just that it was bad. He’d gone with Willa to pick something out for you, knowing you left the house with nothing. You refused to try it on, to come out of the spare bedroom. It wasn’t until the day before when they were getting ready to leave, accepting that there was no way you were going, did you come out with your outfit packed. You weren’t going to miss Shiv's big day because of him, you declared, and it was settled. He couldn’t contain his excitement, grinning from ear to ear. Letting her down, letting him down, just because of your old man, it seemed like a cruel punishment. You sat beside him in the plane, his hand on your knee, trying to disregard the dread in your chest. They’d all heard about your big blow out, they all wanted to know, going to Connor first instead of you. You were the closest, you told him everything. When he had nothing to say, when all he could offer was a warning, it said something, something more than he was expecting: whatever happened got to you. It genuinely hurt you. They imagined the worst, unsure of what to do. He was at a loss, too. Your father could say and do as he pleased, you’d always been the best at ignoring him, especially when he was in one of his moods, but this time? This time was different. It stung more than all of the other fights you’d had with him, and there were some memorable ones. Never had you yelled back like that, never had you stormed out in a fury, never had you sobbed to your brother like that on the phone. This wasn’t the kind of thing that would go away on its own. It wouldn’t heal with time. 

He could almost forget the crack in your voice as he watched you now. That sad, crying child looked so different from the young adult on the dance floor. Eventually you came over to him, asking him to dance. As if on cue, a slower song came on. This was far different than the last time you danced together. You stood on his shoes, swaying, giggling that high pitched giggle, the one that made his heart melt. You were so little then, so tiny, he was scared to let go. Now you swayed on your own, your arms around him as if you’re scared he’ll flee, your face buried into his chest. Thank you for letting me stay with you. It came out mumbled, muffled, but he understood. Anytime, kiddo. You’re a pleasure to have. Your eyes were big when you looked up at him, as if trying to decipher if he was telling the truth or not. His smile, so reassuring, told you he meant it. I’m sorry about Pops. you shook your head, not wanting to hear his name, not wanting your brother to carry the guilt for him. If he was going to apologize you were going to hear it from him. Not anyone else. Connor spent the entire night putting distance between the two of you, becoming your human shield. Logan, it seemed, had completely forgotten about the whole ordeal, kissing Shiv, saying hello to your brothers, like nothing was amiss. They each shared a glance, all looking to Connor for help, for guidance, just like they had when they were little. He knew what he had to do. How bad was it, kiddo? He asks. Bad. It’s all you can say without upsetting yourself all over again. 

He called you his greatest failure. Spineless. A mistake. You don’t remember how it started, only that you were bleeding out on the floor before him and he refused to put the knife down. A plague to the Roy name, a curse, a bad seed. You never should have been born. A loser. Incompetent. He’s not sure where you came from, but you are certainly not his. You should be smarter, work harder, but instead you are nothing, you are nobody. No one has ever or will ever love you. It hits you so hard, so forcefully, it knocks the wind out of you. He means it, he means every word, but especially that. That’s what kills you, that’s what makes the tears slip down your cheeks. That’s not true, you try to spit back, but he’s not listening and you’re crying, and you’re proving him right. He keeps talking. You can’t hear it, though. You’re gone. You’ve retreated into yourself, so far back he cannot possibly get you. You stand there, unmoving, as he gets in your face. No one has or will ever love you. No one has or will ever love you. It plays on loop, again and again until you cannot breathe. Finally you back away, you run from him, slamming each door behind you. Marcia calls out to you, hearing what went down, but nothing can stop you. Through the busy sidewalks, sobbing uncontrollably, you call him. You can’t repeat what he said, you still can’t. You know that would make him furious, all of them, and it is not their burden to carry. A quiet fear has settled in the back of your mind: what if he’s right? 

If he knew, if Connor knew, he would have killed his father. No one said that to his baby, no one ever dared talk to you that way. But he doesn’t, and he never will. You have vowed to yourself that neither him nor your other siblings will know, for fear that they might agree with him. That they’ll show you he’s right. Instead they watch you carefully, ready to intervene should that be necessary. You hold on to him tight long after the song ends, not wanting to let go, to be alone with Logan's words. Connor doesn’t mind at all. He’s his happiest when his siblings need him, when you need him. He’ll always be there to rescue you. Always. It’s his job, you’re his greatest love. You all are.

Being Connors Favorite Sibling Would Include:

Requested: could I request something with Connor and Roy!sibling? headcanons, a fic, literally anything I'm in love with their relationship and how much they love each other. I think a little sibling that loves Connor the way he deserves would be so good for him - anon

A/N: I love Big Brother Connor!!! He deserves the world 💞 Thank you for requesting my love! Hope you like it!! Feedback is always appreciated!!!! 💜

Connor was ecstatic the day you were born. He thought he was done being a big brother, that his job was kinda done. Ken, Rome, and Shiv were grown up, they didn't think they'd need him anymore. Little did he know that you would be the closest to him out of everyone, that you would need him the most

Being a big brother is his favorite job in the world. He wasn't sure what being loved, really loved, felt like until Kendall was born. From the minute he could crawl, he followed Connor wherever he wanted. So did Roman. And when Shiv was born, he couldn't believe it. He'd always wanted a sister and now he had one. She was absolutely perfect

But you? You were his everything. Neither your mother or your father were all that interested, so the responsibility fell on him, not that he would ever complain. He loved it, even when you spit up on him. The other three were grossed out, hating to change diapers and getting annoyed with your crying, but he was more than happy to calm you down, sit with you, rock you back and forth, etc.

Your first words were his name, too, which almost killed him. Seriously, he still brings it up, he's so proud

He loved watching you grow into a toddler. You were a lot more fun. You could walk and talk and play. You loved when he got on the floor with you and played with you. He even dressed up with you when he wanted to play pretend, though mostly he was too tall for the costumes, so he made do with the hats and accessories instead

"Connor?"

"Yes y/n?"

"Why is the sky blue?"

"That's a good question. . ."

He takes you to preschool every day and tries to be there at pickup as much as he can. He loves to hear about your day, what you learned, who you talked to, what you played with, the snacks you ate, etc. He only gets more interested the older you get, when you learn about the planets and dinosaurs and you read all these interesting books. When school started, he was sad to see you go. You'd been his little buddy and suddenly you were all grown up

Every presentation, award, musical, play, game, show, everything he showed up for, front row with his phone out recording, cheering the loudest

He takes you camping, to the park and the movies, wherever you want to go. He thinks it's good for you to get out of the city

"Why doesn't dad ever come with us?"

"Pops is a very busy man. . ."

Connor is constantly sticking up Logan despite the fact that he's never really shown an ounce of love or attention towards either of you. He wants to protect you from that unloved feeling. He needs to, like he has with your siblings

No matter how small it seemed to you, it meant the world to him. Eventually you stopped inviting your mother and father, going straight to him. He'd tell the president to fuck off if it meant he got to spend a second more with you

He helped you with homework, staying up late at the kitchen table going over the same math problem again and again. He never got mad or frustrated, though. He'd take as long as you needed

You could do no wrong in his eyes. When you fought with Ken, when you argued with Shiv, when you pushed Rome, none of it was your fault. None of them could stand it

When you cried he was the first person you went to. When you got your heart broken for the first time, when you wondered why your parents even had you if they were never around, when you had nightmares as a child and when your worst fears came true, you cried to him

The older you got, the more distance you put between you and him. Kids strayed from their parents once they became teenagers, that's just how it worked. Still, he felt unprepared for the days when you wouldn't need him so much

He taught you how to drive and study with you before your test. You weren't very good, but you had no idea. He was ecstatic when you parallel parked the first time. He made you feel proud, even if at first it felt silly

He was there when you walked across the stage for your diploma for both high school and college, cheering the loudest. He made a rule that you'd call him once a week in college and you never missed it, not even once. You'd tell him about your friends, the parties you went to, to the people you were seeing. He wanted to hear everything

Everything you've accomplished, he couldn't be prouder

You go to his ranch as much as you can, enjoying the distance between you and your father. The older you get, the more you realize how he was never in your life and how much Connor was. It makes you sad, thinking he had to step up, take responsibility for his baby sibling. He is adamant that raising you was a pleasure, the best thing he's ever done

He has pictures of you everywhere. Of the others too, but mostly of you. You can't help but find them embarrassing

"I look like an idiot."

"You were adorable." He looks at them every single day, proud as ever

He visits you in the office, taking you out for lunch when he's in the city. He's the only one who doesn't work for your father, but he likes hearing about it from you. He can't believe how grown up you are, how adult you've suddenly gotten. It seems like just yesterday they brought you home. Now you had meetings and deadlines and your own interns to boss around

"Look at you, all grown up. I can't believe it!"

He's the first person you call when anything happens. When Kendall's gone manic, when Dad hits Rome, when Shiv seems off, when you're getting a promotion, a first date, anything and everything. He's always there to offer advice on how to handle the situation. He's been dealing with them far longer than you have

You show him how to use social media so he can see the pictures you post, not wanting to miss out on anything. There are lots of pictures of you and him together

"Who's that?"

"I'm kinda seeing them."

"That's wonderful! When do I get to meet them?"

Forget your mother and father, it's Connor you're worried about when you're seeing someone. They're never good enough for you. He quizzes them on everything, bordering on an interrogation. In the end, no matter what he thinks of them, he's happy you've found someone that makes you happy

You and him go on double dates with your partner and Willa, who adores you. She lovingly calls you Connors Baby. She's glad someone else loves him like he should be, instead of being used and ignored and neglected like the rest do

You're one of the most well-rounded, healthy, adjusted Roys to come out of the family, or as close as you can get, because of him

He always sits by you at family dinners and vacations, between you and Logan, hoping he can be the target for his anger if need be

When you drink too much he takes care of you, especially at weddings, and always saves a dance for you at the end of the night

"Thank you, Con."

"For what?"

"For everything."

You care very little for your father, but when he dies Connor is right there offering comfort. You were never close to him. You never got the chance to build a relationship with him, no matter how warped, like the others. Connor was your dad, you thought so for the longest time when you were little, your fathers day cards addressed to him instead of Logan. You're sad for your siblings who loved him despite it all

You're the only one to attend Connors wedding, cheering and clapping when they kiss. You wouldn't have missed it for anything

Connor has spent your entire life protecting you and for that, you will always be grateful. It's something you can never repay

come watch eurovision we got:

funky uncle squad ready to throw hands with the nearest dictator

human neon conga line

thor in a toyota

pagan wedding rituals

edgar allan poe

token boyband

tiny woman in a box

possessed barbie dolls

xena, warrior singer

matrix cosplayers

glam rock fire lord ozai

cyberpunk ninjas and modern art sculptures

and lastly, europe when the votes come in

Do you know what, at least Käärijä will be the new Verka Serduchka. But Loreen? She'll be hated by so many people now and most won't even remember that she won.

Does anyone remember who won when Verka performed? No. But everyone remembers Verka.