#Kendall x Rava

[ladysophiebeckett]

in my kendall x rava feelings tonight

[evenlarksandkatydids]

[loveandthings11]

❤️🔥fldksjxbcjs

[paradiscake]

I think it's interesting that Kendall first went to his estranged wife Rava for comfort and advice and then went to his Very Good Friend Stewy when Rava didn't do much for him.

I don't know what this means but I think it means something.

[capricornmuffins]

Majorly in need of Kendall’s improved and sweet birthday please!! 👀🎂❤️

Anything for you, lovely!! Thank you for the inspo as always! ❤️❤️ this is fluffy and also a little angsty because ken and Rava are separated at this point in the timeline and I have no self control. I’m sorry this got so long!

Summary: A happier birthday for Kendall. Set a few months before the pilot.

Some smuttiness under the cut also!

Anyway, Don’t Be a Stranger

“Hey!” Her warm smile greets him when he answers the FaceTime. “Happy birthday, grandpa.”

“Yeah,” he scoffs, unfastening the tie he put on. Too stuffy. “Thanks. 39–fucking prehistoric.”

“Did you get your AARP brochure yet? Or is that the big 4-0?”

“Uh huh. Laugh it up. You’re next.”

“Hey, I still have 4 months to go, so. You’ll always be old first.”

“Oh, that’s nice. You uh—you better have a great present for me. To make up for this fucking harassment on my birthday.”

“Who said I’m getting you a present?” She asks, brow raised.

He huffs a laugh. It’s too easy to fall back into their usual banter—he never knows quite where to draw a line.

“What are the kids doing?”

“Getting ready for school, but they want to say hi—hey, guys? Daddy’s on the phone.”

“Happy birthday daddy!” Sophie practically screeches on the other end. Her crooked smile makes Kendall’s heart constrict. She grows every time he sees her—which is admittedly less these days. He’s burning the candle at both ends, getting ready to take up the mantle at Waystar.

Only a few more months to go til Dad’s 80th. The final countdown.

“Thanks, baby girl. You pick your dress out today?”

“Yes! It’s my new one from Auntie Shiv.” She hands the phone back to Rava so she can do a twirl.

“Wow, look at you! Auntie Shiv picked out a beauty. You look great, sweetie. What’s Ivey doing?”

“He’s here—he wants to say hi,” Sophie passes the phone to Iverson.

His baby boy. His son. His legacy.

“Hey buddy!”

“Hi daddy,” Iverson waves, pushing his too-big glasses up the bridge of his nose. Kendall aches.

“You all ready for school?”

“Uh huh.”

He hears Rava whisper to him offscreen.

“Happy birthday,” he recites dutifully.

“Thanks, bud. Hey—I got a new Lego set for us. It’s that Spider-Man one you wanted.”

“Cool!” He nods enthusiastically, a genuine smile lighting up his little face. “Will you help me build it? Like last time?”

“Sure will. I think you’re gonna like this one even better.”

“Hey, Ken—we have to run—“

“Oh, sure—have a good day at school guys. I love you.”

“Bye daddy,” The answer in unison.

“Hey—one sec,” Rava comes back on.

“What’s up?”

“I know you have them this weekend, so I haven’t asked. But—do you have any plans tonight? For your birthday?”

“Um—“ He wishes he could say he was throwing a cool party, or even just having dinner at Dad and Marcia’s. He should just lie, because his actual plan of working as late as humanly possible and passing out is pathetic even to him.

“I’m sure you probably do—“ she goes on, almost nervously.

“I um—yeah, I don’t, actually. Been a lot going on at work, you know, with everything. So—I was just gonna work late.”

There’s an almost pitying look in her eyes that makes him feel even worse.

“Well, if you don’t feel like being at the office for 14 hours, I was wondering if um—maybe you’d want to come over for dinner? With the kids?”

“I—wait—really?”

“Yeah—I would have asked sooner, but um—I don’t know. I figured you’d have plans.”

“Yeah,” he scoffs. “I’m uh—I’m in really high demand.”

She laughs a little. “You usually are.”

“Yeah—I don’t know about that. But um—sure, that sounds great. Really great.”

“Yeah?” She looks relieved. As if he’d say no to her. “You wouldn’t rather be out with the guys?”

“Come on, no way.”

“Okay,” she smiles. “Okay, good. You think you can get here for 6:30? They usually eat at 6, but I know it’s not easy getting out early around there.”

His mind flashes to the nights he wasn’t home until 9 or later, too coked up to eat the food she’d leave out for him. He screws his eyes shut and lets it pass. Bad, bad times.

“Yeah, no, that’s fine.”

“You sure?”

“I think they can let the birthday boy out early. I’ll be there.”

“Great. I’m glad we’re doing this. It’s been a little while since the four of us had dinner together…” she trails off.

“Uh huh. Yeah, this is good. And hey—thanks, Rav.”

“Yeah, of course. See you tonight.”

It’s his second birthday since they’ve been separated. Last year was spent in a black hole of depression after she left with the kids. She took them to her parents, brought him to rehab, and left him with the promise that this whole thing was temporary. Just so he could completely focus on his sobriety.

They’d get through it, she said, but she needed time. How much more fucking time did she need?

This time last year, he hoped he wouldn’t see 39. The sky fell and fell and fell. He’s better now — rehab and therapy have stuck. He’s learned to live with the pain, like some incurable disease. But the hole in his heart is still there, it scabs over and the slightest misstep reopens the wound. He’s all scar tissue. She still hasn’t come back to him fully, only in late night phone calls and the occasional dinner hand-offs that feel like explicit trysts.

But now, she’s finally throwing him the life vest. He’s fucking taking it.

————

He spends the last hour of the work day anxiously checking his watch. He needs to be en route to Rava’s by 6 and he’s determined to get there on time. He’s going to prove to her that his head is clear, that he can be the man she needs again. To prove what a good father he is.

“Hey, dad—“ he sticks his head in to Logan’s office. “I’m heading out.”

“Bankers hours today?”

“I’m uh—I’m having dinner with Rava and the kids.”

Logan’s face is stony.

“For my—for my birthday.”

“Uh huh,” he looks like he wants to say more, but remains impassive. “Well. Good. That’s fine.”

“So I’ll—I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Well, when you’re done there, if you want to come by for a drink—you know, for your birthday. Marcy and I will be home.”

“Oh, yeah. Sure.”

“Good. Give the kids my love, won’t you?”

He’s no longer looking at him, attention back on his screen. Dismissed.

“Yeah, of course. I’ll bring them by soon.”

“Happy birthday, kiddo,” he says, still not looking up.

“Thanks.”

He feels light as he gets into the idling Mercedes.

“‘Sup, Fikret.”

“Evening, Mr. Roy. To Rava’s as planned?”

“Please.”

He puts on his headphones to decompress from the day, stomach fluttering in anticipation of seeing Rava and the kids. Their absence has taken up permanent residency in his ribcage and he can’t shake it loose. It’s ever-present, the weight of his fractured family. His failure. Loneliness.

But today he feels hope, because he knows they’re getting back together. She’ll see that everything will work out. They’re just going through a rough patch right now. He has to pay the toll for his sins.

“Thanks Fikret,” he nods as he steps out of the car. Rava’s new building feels tall and looming and unfamiliar.

She buzzes him up and opens the door herself instead of her usual housekeeper. His heart almost leaps out of his chest at the sight of her. She’s casual in faded jeans that hug her perfectly, and a fashionably slouchy white sweater. She’s done her hair and makeup though — he tries not to feel too good about it.

“Hey,” she greets him with an easy smile, the one that sucks the air out of him.

“Hey,” he tries to sound chill, but he feels like he just ran the fucking New York Marathon.

He clocks her taking in his Brioni suit with a flicker of satisfaction.

“You look nice,” she says.

He leans in to embrace her, his confidence growing. Her sweater is soft, tangible against his fingers, grounding him. But the scent of her Jo Malone is still a gut punch, so he’s careful not to inhale too deeply.

She rubs his back, almost absentmindedly, before pulling away.

“Thanks. So do you.”

“Oh, thanks. I’ve been running around,” she waves him off. “The kids are so happy you’re coming.”

“Really?” He smiles, daring to let himself be cheered at the thought.

“Mhmm,” she gives him a funny look. “Did you think they wouldn’t be?”

“I mean—I dunno. We FaceTime almost every day. I’m not that exciting.”

“You’re their dad, Ken,” she reminds him gently. “They always want to see you.”

He nods, swallowing a lump in his throat.

“Hey, guys? Dad’s here!” Rava calls out up the stairs. The sound of barreling footsteps echoes from the second floor.

“Don’t run down the stairs, please,” she adds. “This spiral staircase is a fucker,” she says to him.

“Architectural Digest’s wet dream, though,” he notes.

“Hi daddy!” Sophie appears at the top of the stairs, consciously making an effort to walk slowly.

“Hey, there’s my best girl,” he opens his arms to her. She hits the last step and launches herself into him.

Iverson follows behind, nudging himself into Kendall’s side.

“Hey, slugger,” he ruffles his hair, pulling him in for a hug.

Sophie wraps her little arms around his neck and looks at him earnestly, the way she has since she was a toddler.

“Daddy, we’re making you a present. Me and Ivey have to finish it. Okay?”

She reminds him so much of Rava, all soft eyes and self-assurance and abundant affection.

“Whatever you say, wild honey-pie.”

She kisses his cheek, making him want to sink to the floor and weep.

Iverson stays quiet, looking at the ground. His boy, a piece of his soul, who’s so much like him in every way he almost wants to shake it out of him, like a fucking genetics Etch-A-Sketch.

“How was school today, guys?”

“Good. We learned about presidents. I said that you know the President in real life,” Sophie informs him.

“Oh yeah? You remember meeting him a few years ago? When you were like—“ he puts his hand down by his knee. “Yay high?”

“Uh huh,” Sophie nods. “He was weird.”

He and Rava both snort.

“Yeah, uh—he is kinda weird, huh?”

“Grandpa likes him,” Iverson comments.

“Yeah—Grandpa likes everyone.” He means it as a joke. Rava raises an eyebrow, and he shoots her a look.

“Hey,” she intercedes. “You wanna guess what’s for dinner?”

“Uh—how about….” He looks between Sophie and Iverson. “Spaghetti worms?”

“No!” T hey giggle.

“No?” He smiles. “Huh, okay. Dirt cake?”

“Daddy,” Sophie rolls her eyes fondly.

“Okay, okay. Tell me.”

They both look at Rava and shrug.

“I had Margareta make your favorite filet. You know I’m hopeless with a steak.”

“You—you did?” He prickles with pleasant surprise.

“Well yeah! You have to have your favorite meal on your birthday,” she smiles.

Fuck, he loves her. This feels like how it used to be. He wants to say fuck the dinner and lay her down on the countertop—

He exhales heavily, expelling the pent up emotion from his lungs.

“You are fucking hopeless with a steak.”

“Little ears,” she nods to the kids, but there’s a glint of humor in her eyes.

“That’s a bad word,” Iverson informs him.

“I know, I’m sorry buddy. That doesn’t mean you get to say it, okay?”

Iverson nods.

They spend the next hour at the dining room table. His appetite has returned more recently, particularly now that he’s clean. It’s been a long time since he’s tasted a homemade meal, usually preferring takeout sushi if he isn’t at a business dinner.

“No steak for you, Soph?” He asks.

“Her friend Avery Bancroft is a vegetarian, so…” Rava offers.

“Oh, right. That Bancroft?”

“Uh huh.”

“Red meat is gross. It’s all bloody,” Sophie wrinkles her nose.

Iverson picks at his plain pasta.

“How’s your pasta, Ive?” He asks.

“Good. I put butter on it now.”

“Awesome, bud.” He thinks that’s the right answer.

“Mom, Ivey and I need to go finish daddy’s present.”

“Okay, go ahead.”

“Can’t wait,” he calls after them.

She clears their plates, and he helps stack the dishwasher, despite Margareta hovering nearby.

“You want some coffee?” She asks.

“Uh…yeah. Sounds good,” he smiles.

He sits down at the island as she sets to making them coffee. She doesn’t ask him how he takes it, but still makes it perfectly.

“You remembered,” he notes.

“I’ve been making your coffee for like, 15 years. Have you figured out how to use your machine yet?” She teases.

“Fuck off,” he laughs. “And no. Carla handles that…”

“Helpless,” she rolls her eyes. He tosses a sugar packet at her.

“What’s new with you? How’s work?” He asks, trying to keep things on neutral ground.

“It’s good—you know, the usual. Taking on more projects lately than I normally would.”

“What, you strapped for cash?” He jokes, trying to keep the bitterness out of it.

“Ha ha. No, I just…need to throw myself into things right now.”

“I uh—I get it.”

“But hey, I got you something.”

“You—you got me something?”

“It’s um—it’s nothing crazy. Just a card.”

She procures an envelope from the basket on the granite counter, simply reading Ken.

The card is simple, almost generic. Not much like the Husband birthday cards she used to thoughtfully pick out for him, making sure the words aligned with her feelings perfectly.

But he opens it, and lottery tickets fall out. He chuckles, remembering the year she started adding them to his birthday gifts as an inside joke. They were engaged at the time.

Happy birthday, Ken. I’m so proud of all the work you’ve put in this year. I hope 39 is happy and healthy! Love, Rav

Love.

He’s touched. He holds the lottery tickets in his hand. If you win, you have to leave Waystar and start a rival company, she used to say. They’d spend all night coming up with names and business plans.

“Never did win any of these.”

“Maybe this’ll be your year,” she smiles sadly.

“Thank you, Rav. You didn’t have to.”

She shrugs. “It’s still your birthday.”

“Dadddy!” Comes Sophie’s voice from the top of the stairs. “Close your eyes!”

“Okay,” he plays along, covering his eyes. He can’t see the smile on Rava’s face, but he knows it’s there.

He hears their footsteps come into the kitchen.

“Okay, open!”

Sophie is proudly holding up what looks like an art project, a poster with all kinds of construction paper shapes glued to it. There are 7 or 8 pictures of him and the kids, and a couple of the 4 of them, glued haphazardly around the construction paper. Stickers dot the borders.

At the bottom, I LOVE MY DAD is written in Sophie’s messy handwriting. They’ve both signed their names.

Kendall can’t speak. He feels like he’s been broken in half.

“Do you like it?” Iverson asks, proud of his handiwork.

“Guys—“ he chokes out. “I love it. This is so great, thank you. Wow. Come here.”

He scoops them both into each arm and hugs them against him. They nuzzle into him and he tries desperately not to let his eyes well up. He might be failing.

Rava unexpectedly joins the hug, wrapping her arms around all of them.

“We saved the best for last,” she says.

“There’s more?”

“Cake!” Sophie and Iverson chorus.

———

After they eat cake, and the kids have showered and gone to bed (Ken even got to tuck them in), he and Rava are sitting on her couch.

“This is the best birthday I’ve had in a while,” he says. “Last couple of years have been—“ he doesn’t need to finish the sentence. She knows. “Thank you.”

“I’m glad we could do it.”

“And, hey, this place looks great,” he looks around the vast living room. His unofficial, non-legally-mandated child support is clearly doing it’s job.

It’s surreal that she has a whole

new home, with new furniture and art on the walls and sculptures on the coffee tables. But he still sees traces of their life before—there are scattered pictures of him with the kids, of his arms around a radiantly pregnant Rava, of him holding Iverson in the hospital when he was born.

He thinks of his own home, their home, that still carries her ghost. He can still smell her on his sheets, hear her stilettos on the marble entryway, feel the indent on her side of the bed.

“Oh, thanks! Yeah—I actually brought in a decorator this time around.”

“What? Given up your interior design side hustle?” She’d always insisted on decorating their previous homes herself, filling them with familiar touches.

“Yeah, I just—I didn’t have it in me for this one,” she shrugs. There’s sadness behind her nonchalance, and he feels it in his bones. He can fix this.

“Rava—it doesn’t—it doesn’t have to be like this,” he looks at her earnestly, trying to reach her the way he used to.

“Ken,” she sighs.

“Seriously—hasn’t this little trial separation gone on long enough? I mean, come on.”

“You’re doing so well. You’re sober and getting ready for the big job—I just—I think you should stay focused,” she puts a hand on his knee.

“I am—I’ve turned things around. I’m good. I’m in a really fucking good headspace.”

“I know,” she pats his knee. “I meant it—I’m really proud of you. I want you to be happy.”

“But I’m not—I’m not like— happy happy. Not without you. Or them.”

She closes her eyes and sighs. When she opens them, they’re glassy.

“You still have them, Ken. They adore you.“

It’s a small comfort.

“I know, but I mean—are—are you happy? That they have to FaceTime me every night instead of us all being together? Do you like going to sleep alone every night?”

“Well it’s not ideal, obviously, but—“

“Because I fucking hate it, Rav. It’s been awful without you.”

She looks pained. “I’m sorry. I am. Believe me—this hasn’t been easy for me either.”

He wants to dispute that, but then he remembers the first few months of their separation. When she’d call him at 2 am. They’d stay on the phone in silence until she fell asleep. Sometimes he’d hear her crying quietly.

“I can do both, now. I can focus on being the big boss and you guys. That’s all that matters to me.”

She brings a hand gently to his face, cupping his cheek. He leans in to her touch.

“We can’t keep doing this,” she protests, but it’s half-hearted.

He leans in closer, eyeing her lips. He wants to suck her in until she’s absorbed into his bloodstream.

“Do you—do you still love me?” He asks tentatively. He’s both confident in and terrified of her answer.

She pulls back a little, removing her hand.

“That’s not fair.”

“No—I’m sorry. I know.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Okay, sure. But it is. I mean, do you still love me or not?”

She bites her lip, nodding imperceptibly. He catches it nonetheless. His heart leaps. She still loves him. He feels that pesky glimmer of hope again.

“That’s—that’s never been the issue.”

“Then what the fuck are we doing?”

“We’re doing the right thing.”

“How? That doesn��t—that doesn’t even make any sense? How can us not being together be the right thing?”

“You know why.”

“I’ve done everything you asked. I went to rehab. I’m sober. I’m in therapy.”

“Ken,” she clutches at his hand. “I’ve already gone through one devastating breakup here, okay? I can’t do it again.”

“But we wouldn’t break up again. I’m better now. We’re still not—I mean, we’re not like, really broken up. We’re just taking a break.”

“Okay Ross,” she laughs a little.

“Hey,” he leans back in, close to her face. He looks into her eyes. “I still love you. Okay? I love you.”

“You can’t just say that,” her voice wobbles.

“It’s the truth, baby.”

He can see the walls crumbling within her. He leans in even closer, forehead resting against hers. His lips a millimeter away from brushing hers.

“Ken, please,” she whispers. “Don’t.”

He pulls back, stinging like she’s slapped him.

“Okay, fine. I won’t—if you don’t want me to. I’ll stop. I’m—I’m sorry.”

She searches his eyes and he feels heat rising in his cheeks. She always makes him feel raw and exposed.

To his surprise, she grabs his face and brings her lips to his.

He hungrily grabs at her and she climbs clumsily into his lap. Her hands run through his hair while his travel up and down her back. He can feel her smile into the kiss, making him do the same.

This feels good, this feels right. He can feel himself coming back to life.

He skims his fingers under her sweater, making her shiver. She begins to undo the remaining buttons on his shirt as he moves to the button of her jeans. He’s already hard as a fucking rock as she wiggles out of her jeans, grinding against him. The feel of her wet cotton panties makes him moan in her ear.

“Rav,” he growls, fingers threaded in her hair, gripping at her scalp.

She pulls off his shirt, running her hands over the planes of his chest, down his stomach, like she’s reacquainting herself with the feel of him.

“Touch me,” she whispers, nibbling his earlobe, the spot she knows drives him crazy.

He indulges her command.

They end up on the floor of the living room (the couch was nowhere near big enough) while the kids still sleep peacefully upstairs.

They’re spent, panting and sweaty. Her hair is stuck to her forehead, and he brushes it aside. She shoots him an almost-nervous smile. He squeezes her into him.

“That was—“

“Yeah—wow.”

“That was fucking interstellar sex. Holy shit.”

“Yeah—what was that new move? Have you been using it lately?”

“Oh, yeah. I’ve had a lot of dates to practice it on.”

She narrows her eyes, and he basks in her hint of jealousy.

“With uh—with Pornhub. And my right hand. Or your nudes.”

She laughs, whacking him in the stomach. He grunts exaggeratedly, curling in on himself. “You should delete those.”

“Easy, killer. You know I’m fragile right after I cum.”

“Mhmm,” she grins.

“You think they heard us?” He nods at the stairs.

“Nah. They’re hard sleepers.”

“They get that from you. A fucking freight train crashing into the bedroom couldn’t wake you up,” he recalls, making her snort.

“Iverson is like you though,” she says. “He has trouble falling asleep sometimes. Gets jumpy. He needs to be woken up gently.”

“Yeah, there’s no waking you up gently. I used to have to practically toss you onto the floor. Dump water on your head and shit.”

“Shut up,” she laughs again, resting her head against his shoulder. “You never did that.”

“How would you know? You fuckin’ slept through it.”

He grins at her laughter. It’s the kind he used to be able to pull from her easily. He wants to drink it up, snort it like powder.

“Okay, stop. We’re actually gonna wake them,” she’s wiping tears of mirth from her eyes.

“Should we—“

Before he can say should we go to bed, his phone vibrates from the pile of their clothes. Her smile fades a bit.

“Sorry, one sec—“ he rummages for his pants, pulling his iPhone out of the pocket.

“Fuck. It’s Dad. Just—just let me get rid of him,” he promises, pleading with his eyes. Her smile is gone, replaced with a resigned look on her face.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Are you still coming?”

“Oh—shit, sorry. I forgot. I’m still at Rava’s.”

“Uh huh. Marcy and I are going to bed. So don’t bother.”

“Fuck. Sorry dad. I’ve been spending time with the kids—“

“Right, sure, sure. Good.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh huh. You have a good night, kiddo.”

“Uh—thanks, Dad. Hey, um—“

Logan’s already hung up.

“Well, fuck. Whoops.”

“What’s up?” Rava asks, covering herself with a blanket from the couch.

“I told Dad I’d stop by tonight, after this. But—“

“Oh. Right.”

“Yeah it’s—it’s fine. Whatever. I’d rather be here, obviously. I just didn’t think we’d—“

“Yeah, I—me either. Maybe we shouldn’t have—“

“Hey, no no. I wanted to. You have no idea—“

He reaches for her before she can slip out of his grasp again. She looks hurt.

“It’s just—it would have been nice to—I don’t know. Not make plans with your dad overlapping dinner with us. That’s all.”

“Hey, come on. It wasn’t like that. I told him maybe I would, if I wasn’t—if you didn’t want me to stay long.”

Her eyes soften. But she picks up her clothes and starts to get dressed.

“Rav,” he can feel the magic of the last hour fading away, and he clings to her arm. “Please. Let’s just—let’s go to bed.”

She rubs a hand over her face. “I don’t want the kids getting the wrong idea—“

He feels the air deflate from his lungs, crushed.

“Right,” he scoffs.

“No—Ken, not like that—“

“Uh huh. No, sure. Sure.”

“I just—I don’t want to rush into things. I’m trying to set boundaries.”

“Oh, yeah, well. I’d argue that me being inside you is not a great fucking boundary?” He spits.

“I know, I know. I just—when I’m with you—you know? When I’m with you—“ she trails off, looking anguished, grabbing at his hand.

He sighs, anger releasing.

“I know.”

“It’s been so hard,” she wipes at her eyes. “It’s not fair. It fucking sucks.”

He’s caught off guard and a little indignant. She thinks it’s been hard? His anger flares up again, withdrawing his hand.

“This whole fucking thing was your idea. You wanted this.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t—want this. This wasn’t in the fucking vows, you know?” she sighs, defeated. “I can’t rehash this all again.”

“Uh huh—maybe pass it off to your therapist. I’m gonna go.”

“Kendall,” she puts a hand on his arm. “I don’t want to ruin this—tonight felt like we were a family again.”

“Yeah, it did.” He feels cagey, like he needs to pace.

“Can we not—can we not leave this angrily? Please?”

She looks down at the ground, still wrapped in the blanket. She chews a nail nervously—an old habit. He feels a pang of guilt, and his anger deflates.

“I’m sorry. I’m working on not reacting emotionally,” he parrots his therapist calmly.

“I know. It’s okay.”

“I’m gonna—I am gonna go, actually. I’m sorry. I just—I’m sorry, Rava.”

“I know,” she placates. “You’re okay.”

He nods, willing it to be true. He takes her card and the kids present.

“I’ll um—I’ll see you Friday. For pickup.”

“Yes—let me know what time works.”

“Yeah, will do.”

She cautiously wraps her arms around him, rubbing his back. He sighs, returning the hug.

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. Happy birthday.”

Late that night, he’s laying in bed. He feels shitty. He’s hovering over their text thread, wishing he was in bed with her. He fucking hates all of this.

He clutches the kids gift close to him, like if he holds it tight enough, their belief in him will rub off.

As he debates calling her, because he’s desperate for her comforting words, he sees that she’s calling him.

“Hey,” he answers in surprise. “I was—I was thinking about you.”

“Me too. I um—can we—“

“Uh—yeah. Yeah, of course.”

“Okay,” she sounds relieved.

He closes his eyes and lays the phone down next to his head, each of them falling asleep to the sound of their breathing.

[lochlanratliff]

episode three kenrava ‘a psychopath who might hypothetically be the man — who loves you’ kill me

[stewy]

1.02 | 4.04

[gmaybe666]

the girls are fighting !!!!!!

pt 1. of 'argument'.

THUNK

for context on their fight, this takes you to the initial comic that started it all

[bxbu-chuu]

Hey!! Just posted the first chapter of a 4 part series I’m doing looking at Kendall’s different relationships through the lense of their attempt’s to help an overstimulated Kendall.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/46926376

[thinkatoryprocess]

Ch 2 of "hope is the thing with feathers," Naomi/Kendall, future Naomi/Rava. Kendall Roy dies in a swimming pool in Tuscany and leaves a miraculously pregnant Naomi behind; Rava can't stop herself from reaching out. In this chapter, they read Kendall's will, Naomi and Rava have their first real conversation, and Naomi has a very difficult conversation with Stewy.

[evenlarksandkatydids]

rava and kendall were most likely together in 2002 can you imagine how many times rava had to go see 8 mile while it was in theaters?

[loveandthings11]

“There were takes where he actually does lay down in traffic” 😭

He wants them there but he just keeps pushing them away stop this is killing me 💔 Natalieeeeeee!!

Natalie Gold for Entertainment Tonight, 5/21/23

[dramaturgically-strong]

Jesse Armstrong is doing a rewatch podcast. This is what he had to say about Kendall and Stewy's friendship and whether it's genuine:

Interviewer: How close to what you would recognize as a friendship? Or actually are they just ultimately fundamentally always on maneuvers? Jesse: No, I think there is, right? I think if, and when they talk, there's some stuff talking about one of their friends going, maybe being interested in dating Rava, rather. And there's, I think like if Kendall rang Stewy up in the middle of the night and said, I'm having a fucking panic attack, I don't know what's going on, I need to go to the hospital, I think I'm having a heart attack or my kids are in trouble, I need to do this or I need to find the best doctor for this. All the things which those rich people like ask each other for, or human beings ask each other for, I think he'd be there. I guess the question which wealth takes away often is how much inconvenience, how much difficulty would he go to, would he give up a week of his life looking after him if he needed it, would he actually come over, because he's never going to have to babysit his kids or pick them up, because it'd be like “oh dude, no, sorry, but I can get X or Y to do it. That's one of the good but also terrifying things about wealth, is it distances you even from those relationships of mutual aid, because you can always send a basket of fruit or your helicopter with your nanny or your name of this doctor. The deepest level of friendship where you actually give up something of your own that you want to give to someone else to make them better or happier. It's a tough question for anyone to answer. It doesn't happen all the time in any sector of life, and they don't have to answer the question very often.

[happy74827]

Only You

[Kendall Roy x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: Kendall never had anyone that he could truly rely on. But now, he has you, and that's all that matters {GIF Creds: Honestly i couldn't find who made it… just know that I didn't}.

WC: 753

Category: Lime/Spice, Slight Angst

I just finished Succession tonight and my heart literally hurts so much for Kendall, so I had to write this to ease my mind.

『••✎••』

“Kenny…” You sigh into his neck, his teeth nipping at your ear.

His hands travel from your thighs to the dip of your back and up, pulling the thin fabric of your dress over your head and off, tossing it onto the floor.

He grins, kissing down your jaw to the swell of your breasts. You can feel him, hard and thick through his jeans, pressed against you, and you need him. Need to feel him inside you. Need to feel his skin against yours.

Your breath is shallow and hot.

Kendall kisses the hollow of your throat, your pulse hammering against his lips. He takes your chin in his hand and makes you look at him. You stare into his eyes, deep and brown, the color of the earth. He stares right back, and you can feel his heartbeat, fast and in time with yours.

You lean in, pressing your lips to his. He kisses you back, softly at first, but then, hungry, devouring, as if he were a starving man.

You unbutton his shirt, letting it fall to the floor, and push him down on the bed. He pulls you on top of him, and you can feel him smiling as he kisses you. His hands are warm as they caress your body, sending tingles up and down your spine.

He needed this; you knew it, just like you needed it. It was only a matter of time before he broke down before he let you back in. He needed someone to be there for him—someone who loved him unconditionally and would stand by him no matter what.

His touch was gentle and loving. The way he held you, kissed you. It was almost as if he didn't want to let you go. As if he was afraid of losing you.

Your heart ached for him. Ached for the man who was lost and alone, the man who had no one else. Nothing else.

With all the hot garbage and corruption within Waystar, Kendall could always rely on you. You were his constant. His anchor.

He would never admit it, not even to himself, but he was scared. He was scared and alone, and he needed someone.

Roman couldn’t give him that. Shiv could barely stand to look at him. His mother? Well, she wasn't the type.

And then there was you. You had been by his side, supporting him for as long as he could remember.

He didn't know when he had started to notice you, started to love you. But he had. Rava couldn't fill the void in his heart. No woman could. But you could.

You had been there for him every step of the way, no matter what. When the shit hit the fan, when his father cut him out, when his family betrayed him, you were there. You were his light in the darkness.

The night that Kendall told the world his father was at fault for the cruise ship disaster, the full turnaround he did on the presser and the aftermath had been hell. Logan had thrown a tantrum, screaming and shouting and threatening to cut him off completely.

For a little while, it seemed like he would, too.

But you had been there for him.

Kendall had broken down, sobbing, after it was all over. When the weight of it all had finally hit him, he had felt guilty and ashamed.

You had sat with him, comforting him. You hadn’t judged him. You hadn’t told him it was his fault, that he was wrong. You had simply listened.

And that had meant the world to him.

When he had finished crying, when his sobs had subsided, he had kissed you.

He hadn't planned to. But the look in your eyes, the concern, the compassion, the love, he couldn't help himself. It was a soft kiss. Tender. Loving. He had cupped your face in his hands, holding you as if you were the most precious thing in the world.

After that night, everything had changed.

You had become the only thing he could count on.

You were always there for him, no matter what.

Now, as you lay together, the sheets twisted around your bodies, your bare skin touching his, he knew.

He knew the person who would always have his back, who would never leave him, was you.

And that was why he had given you his heart.

Kendall didn't need anyone or anything else.

He only needed you.

Just you and only you.

[muntitled]

𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐇𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐫𝐲 𝐕𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬 | 𝐋𝐮𝐤𝐚𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐧

Lukas Matsson x Fem!Reader | Kendall Roy x Fem!reader

Summary: Kendall had always been a competent, steady boyfriend, but there is always, always room for improvement.

Warnings: Language, Politics, Business, Cheating, Mentions of murder, Smut (+18) Minors DNI, CNC, Rough Sex, choking, degradation, ownership kink, dom/sub dynamics. Roman as his own warning.

I am mentally unwell, and so is Matsson.

Due to your perilous schedule as a political and public figure, arguing with your lover had never really made it past scheduling in the smorgasbord of your career. Perhaps that is why Kendall decided to pick unnecessary fights in the middle of a Swedish trip. He felt, and rightfully so, infinitesimally insignificant when compared to the hellscape that is your established career in the American political sphere.

You can see it in the way his broad shoulders hunch slightly, the way his larger lower lip protrudes into a petulant pout.

You're appalled.

"Kendall, you can't be fucking serious," Your first night on Matsson's retreat was scheduled to be filled with myriad orgasms in myriad uncanny positions. You and Kendall should be christening this luxury suite, but, instead you find your voice has climbed to ungodly octaves to a point that you feared you may shatter the glass wall that displayed the quiet Norwegian woods.

You couldn't give even half a shit as to whether others housed in adjoining tree-house suites might hear your furious bickering.

"You're a fucking child," he says lowly, desperately trying to regain control over the situation but only fumbling it by the second, "Do you know that?"

"No!" You exclaim, "Iverson and Sophie are!" He turns his back to you. Your nails dig into the bedsheets, "Those are your actual children, yeah!? When was the last fucking time you called them!? You're too busy measuring your dick against the Swedes- you're too busy to give Rava a fucking call."

"I have met plenty of selfish sociopaths in my day, Kendall, but this is unfathomable." His shadow falls over you like a second cloud in the already darkened suite's interior.

"Did she put you up to this?" He asks in that manic state of his with his hand pointed outward in condemnation of his most recent enemy.

"Are you aware that you have children together? You will know her for the rest of your life, are you aware of that?"

Kendall is quick to deflect, "Fuck! I can't catch a fucking break. Of course you run to my ex and- and- what? You fucking-meet up at Tasha's. Fucking talking about Kendall's cock-rings over your croissants."

You withhold the urge to laugh by letting a wave of fury wash over you anew. "You didn't even tell them their grandfather died before you dragged us out to fucking Norway, Kendall! That's unhinged! You're unhinged!"

"I'm perfectly hinged!" He says, turning away from you, pyjama pants billowing as he grabs his keys and a pack of cigarettes, "I'm like the doors on fucking Downing street, motherfucker," He speaks lowly. Voice simmering. "I'm fucking hinged."

The door slams with finality, leaving you clinging to your robe in front of a backdrop full of trees.

There's a deeply sated sigh that leaves your throat as you haul yourself over the Egyptian linen sheets. Fighting with Kendall had always been an impossible feat- something akin to yelling obscenities at a brick wall smeared with cocaine, but it always left you marginally satisfied after. A part of you felt like you might be saving him.

There is a frown, slight and not at all visible in the low evening light, drifting across your face as you stare down at yourself with disappointment and a hint of disapproval. Kendall was supposed to rip this robe right off you the second you got out of the shower. But, instead, you find yourself turning on your side, staring at the pines beyond the glass.

The sound of the door clicking open, ruins the serenity that had begun to settle.

"I for sure thought you'd gone and blown your head off for real this time, Ken." You mumble monotonously while staring ahead at the glass.

"While all these hungry vultures at my retreat does make me lean into the sound of suicide, I quite enjoy living."

You're quick to pull your unravelled rope across your frame as you sit up against the oak headboard.

"Not Kendall." He says.

Matsson towers enough to hunch slightly and disrupt the flow of the sleek, vertical finishes.

"Why are you here?"

"Well it is my retreat."

He smiles. Or at least you believe that he believes he is smiling. Sharks can't smile, you don't think.

"My house."

Lukas shoves his hands in pockets as he continues to stare at you. His disciplined eyes never stray or drift across your exposed legs, they never gloss over your deadly grip on the tightened robe digging into the plushness across your middle.

He's staring at you. Eyes boring into eyes.

"I've come to deliver a noise complaint."

"Consider it delivered."

He does not leave. Instead, he delves deeper into your space, the space shared with your boyfriend. You watch carefully as Matsson plants himself on the edge of the bed. There is an air of nervousness that bristles throughout the Norwegian woods as he brings one leg up to cross the other. You watch, entranced by how the soft Tom Ford sweatpants crease slightly under his fluid movements. His beige Balenciaga shirt sits comfortably and it elicits a sense of control as he makes himself comfortable in front of you.

The one thing you could never allow yourself to be was intimidated, and intimidation is all you heard from the mouths that affirmed this man. However, the subtle yet suffocating label whoring, the designer sandals…

He was just another man, suffocated by the weight of his own money. He had everything to prove. That gave you control.

"I didn't know when Kendall brought me on this trip that I was to be subjected to an invasion of privacy,"

"I heard you the first time," He says, chuckling in complete condescension, "I am aware you're here with Kendall. You don't have to bring him up the whole fucking time."

"Are you here under work pretences then? I'm not involved in the hellscape that is ATN, nor the Nazi wonderland that is Waystar so I would make a lousy spy."

"I know who you are," his eyes dart away, giving you enough time to break slightly, take heavier breaths and compose yourself, "I've seen the work you are… attempting to accomplish in that flaccid dick of a country," His gaze is back on you, "And while I do applaud you, politics bores me. You're all fucked anyway, I just came here to enquire if you would like to have sex with me?"

The manner in which he says those words, so calmly and succinctly, has you praying for another moment of regeneration while he darts his eyes away.

"You mean the noise complaint was a fluke?"

"In addition to the noise complaint, I would like to sleep with you, yes."

You're practically suffocted with the over abundance of choice. Matsson would be a fun and interesting side project for you to sink your claws into and manipulate with the added advantage of sex.

But there is a darkness lurking behind this man's gaze that promises far too much risk with little to no reward.

"No, I think I'm good. Thanks for stopping by, Lukas. It was certainly not a pleasure talking to you-"

You speak calmly, shuffling off the bed so you can escort him to the door. "Please find yourself outside of my personal and habitual space kindly and quickly-" but the axis tilts, and he does a daring thing by encircling a strong grip on your forearm. You try to lurch your arm out of his iron grip but it's fucking sealed around you like a constricting python. The darkness seems so incredibly poignant. God, all this man holds is darkness.

"I did not ask for myself." He says with a hint of condescension, "I asked for you." Matsson has you locked between his spindly legs while your robe billows open. Your face warms as you feel coolness settle against your exposed stomach but Lukas' eyes never leave your own.

From this angle, there is no chance to look away. Everything is maximised, from the wrinkles running like river channels underneath his bright blue eyes to the slight overbite in his teeth, perhaps his only external flaw.

What a dangerous individual.

"They're Roys." Lukas says, "He's a Roy," You suddenly feel juvenile and bashful, as you take the scolding, "You should know better,"

You're only vaguely aware that the distance between you two has been lessening because the air feels warmer. His breath is mixing with yours and his hand is doing a funny little dance along your forearm. "You should know better," He says.

And perhaps you should have closed the distance, perhaps you should have chased him away. You certainly should not have waited for a pair of irregular footsteps approaching to finally push the lumbering man away from you. Thankfully, he kindly obliged although Matsson's hand stalled, still rubbing against your elbow when Kendall stumbles in.

"Uh, what the fuck are you doing here? What the fuck is he doing here?" Kendall's eyes are tired and bloodshot and you step away from Lukas' gravitational pull as you curl into Kendall's side. Kendall's suede Versace jacket is cool but his skin is warm as you burrow into the side of his neck. Your guilt worsens as you feel Kendall's arm curl around your waist.

You speak into Kendall's ear, loud enough for Lukas to hear, "Matsson is still trying to rape your company, I'm afraid. " You say with a lazy smile.

"Already raped," Says Lukas, shuffling passed the two of you, "Logan was the decision maker, remember?"

Before the man finds himself over the threshold, Kendall speaks up.

"Hey, no more private visits, yeah? Not cool."

You watch with bated breath as Matsson only cracks a toothy lopsided grin before tapping the wood of the doorframe and disappearing.

That evening had ended, like most of the evenings to come, with angry, jealousy-fueled sex. There had always been a distinct animosity between Kendall and Matsson but whatever had been in the air seemed to triple. Kendall kept you close during the entire experience. He kept you under Kremlin-level surveillance but he couldn't be with you all the time. In the moments you found yourself without Kendall, Matsson would appear from out of the shadows like a demon, slinking behind you with a hand ghosting your hip. He watched you from above the rim of whiskey-filled tumblers and even asked for your input whenever conversation within the group got a little political. One such conversation had the unfortunate interjection of one Roman Roy, who saw you as another toy in his toy box.

"What do you need two assistants for anyway?" The grinding of your teeth come to a deafening halt as you turn your head to face the youngest Roy. The smile on your face is amicable, some might even call it polite, but it is a well enough facade veneering the tempest brewing beneath.

"What- does Jess hold your balls while you tell knock-off Maya Angelou here" He points to you, "-to bend her head and suck?"

There were a number of things you simply allowed when it came to your courtship with Kendall Roy. You would even shame yourself into admitting that you might have found Kendall's overall emotional incompetence and dysfunctional family quite endearing in the beginning. But, like every magnificent, spine curling orgasm, the magic ebbed away quickly and soon, you were left with nothing but the wetness of his cum, cooling between your thighs.

That is what Kendall and his siblings were like most times.

Cooling, diabolical cum.

"Rome, come on." And therein lay Kendall's consistent, valeant response, of which he chose to defend you.

Rome. Come on.

Simply hearing those words leave his brother's mouth with even the faintest hint of disapproval sent Roman into a frenzy (you could see his pupils dilating and his cock hardening from your spot on a couch adjacent to Roman and Shiv). Matsson's entire foyer was set alight with amicable, drunken murmurs, of which Greg's nervous whimpers were occasionally heard peppered in.

Tom had retired to bed, (whether that would be in the same suite as Shiv, would be a satisfactory cup of tea you would divulge with your girlfriends later.) Matsson and his followers sat in their own private harem in a corner beside you.

"What?" Roman cries, slamming back a handful of ground nuts (an admittedly clever substitute for Swedish alcohol) "I was just asking a question. I know your people like to claim reparations for a lot of shit these days but I'm sure enquiring about the girl my big brother's fucking doesn't equate to slavery."

Although you hated the little demon with every bright blue blood cell running through your arteries, you did admire the sure-fire way he would spit his hateful vitriol.

"I appreciate the faux-concern, Roman." You keep it curt, cute and even forgiving, hoping he might take the win and leave you to down the last of your Hennessey in peace.

"That's your cue," Kendall announces, "Drop it."

"Look at how wet she's getting from my rich white brother finally using his voice to defend her for once." The conversation between the Swedes had long since ceased and your throat clogs as the music tins through hidden speakers. "Kenny so clearly has a type," Says Roman, now facing his brother with his elbows steepled on his knee. "I bet you couldn't wait to dive into that plethora of liberal pussy, could you, big brother?"

Your patience had long since snapped and your words are flying before you could stop them, "Considering you couldn't even get pussy without catching a rape charge or an incredibly disappointed prostitute, I'll assume this pseudo-incest interest you have in Kendall's sex life is normal,"

Roman only laughs, "No amount of sick burns is going to release you from the fact that your fucking a crackhead. Maybe it's the money," he taps the bottom of chin in a flamboyant display of consideration, "Although if it's raping our company that's your main goal, the Swedes might have you beat." Matsson straightens in your periphery, not by a lot but by enough to have a stoney smile cracking across your face.

"ATN is not my vice. Racist Propaganda doesn't get me as wet as it gets you, Roman."

"How convenient. I thought all Leftys held special orgys dedicated to besmirching racist propoganda."

Your response was already loaded in the back of your throat, aimed and ready to fire at Roman with reckless abandon. If it weren't for Lukas' interjection, you would have hoped to leave the little man bleeding all over Matsson's marble floors.

"You let him talk to your woman like that?" The rest of the party had left this specific ring of people behind, but that seemed okay. Everyone within the circle, the important people, were silent as Matsson turned his attention to a floundering Kendall.

"Maybe worry about your situation over there and I'll worry about mine."

"I'm not worried." Says Lukas, with a fierce stoicism that was so unique to him. Your heart rate speeds up ever so slightly as the couch groans while Lukas begins to rise. His friends each hold knowing smiles. Hungry smiles.

"Would you like to know why I'm not worried?" Asks Lukas, advancing with a slow gait. You turn your head just in time to watch Kendall's Adam's apple against his throat. He was speechless as per usual when the discussion didn't involve drugs or stock prices.

"Ask." Says Lukas as he advances. "Ask me why I'm not worried."

Upon you first meeting, you had found Lukas' height to be quite rude and unbecoming. You expected him to duck down, almost out of courtesy for the rest of the world laying low underneath him. As his shadow falls over you and Kendall, you find yourself grateful for this giant man making your boyfriend feel small for once- almost as small as you were made to feel around the Roys.

"Why aren't you worried?" Kendall's voice is still masked with confidence as he peers up at Matsson.

Matsson, who's teeth glint in the low evening light, like a hungry shark. He bends down low. You move slightly out of the way as he whispers into Kendall's ear.

"Because I'm gonna fuck her, okay?"

Absolute silence grows pregnant between the two and you're left to do nothing but watch as the exchange unfolds and Kendall's perceived control over everything and everyone unravels. His mouth opens and closes slightly while Matsson watches with a sadistic sort of pleasure in his eye…

"What the fuck did you just say to me?"

"Nothing," Says Lukas, having returned to his full height. "I didn't say anything. I just asked your-" His blue eyes darts to you and back, "-friend, if she'd like to see my bookshelf in the living room. I saw her reading Bronte earlier," Matsson shrugs, "Thought I might extend the invitation."

Lukas is not one to wait for confirmation, nor is he a man that waits for validation. He shuffles out his foyer, quite comfortably leaving present company behind with his hands stuffed in his pockets. No rebuttal from Kendall needed.

"Where the hell do you think you're going? What are you doing?" You lift yourself from the couch, ironing out the invisible creases on your plaid Chanel skirt as your eyes dart to Roman, now in idle conversation with Siobhan.

"They're just books, Kendall." You sigh softly. "You can't honestly believe I'd be any safer here." You deliver one final gaze at his lesser appealing siblings before following Matsson out of the foyer. The amount of people congesting the dark corridors lessen as you venture further into Matsson's abode. The walls are built with a dark, heavily sanded stone. Something casting a very ominous, yet unmistakably earthy glow throughout the corridor as the mouth spills into a large and defining living room. The colours are dark. The coal walls are all encompassing and Matsson stands beside a low leather couch, waiting rather awkwardly for your arrival.

"There is no library or bookshelf." He says with his hands still stuffed in the pockets of his sweats.

"I figured. You strike me as someone that would keep all their books stored on some gadget."

"Technology and leisure are the two civilizers of man," He says, watching you with bated breath as you slink around his living room, eyeing but never once prodding his things.

"Don't misquote Disraeli, it's not very attractive."

Matsson seems to relax at that, opting to take a step closer to you as he speaks, "I'll misquote Disraeli as much as I want. The 'increased means and increased leisure' part seems a little far-fetched." Your heart begins to hammer in your chance at the advancing man and you turn, whether out of cowardice or bashfulness, choosing rather to examine the sculpture along his mantle.

Your back begins to straightens as warmth radiates from him. He does not move but he cages you in. You would not be able to leave his sphere even if you wanted to.

"We don't have to fuck, obviously. It just didn't seem safe for you to stay in that situation."

You turn slowly and you find yourself slightly jarred by Matsson's proximity. His turtleneck hugs a string and definite build and the hunger in his eyes melts all inhibitions.

"I don't need saving."

"I'm talking about the little angry man." He says, referring to Roman. "I've seen your debates. It's the little nugget of American politics I find myself quite entertained by and I have no desire to wipe a Roy's blood off my floors this evening."

His words end up snapping any and all inhibition as you're throwing yourself quite mercilessly at him. The kiss is silent but so inexplicably charged allowing you to bump into various pieces of furniture in the process of pushing you up against the nearest stone wall. A wall that is cold to the touch, eliciting a surprised gasp which fuels Lukas all the more. He displays wet slobbering kisses down the nape of your neck as he murmurs drunkenly in your ear.

"I like seeing you like this. I like seeing you among my things." The conviction present in his gravelly vibrato has a pool of wetness gathering in between your legs. Your arm circles around his broad back until your pulling, rather roughly at the blonde hair curling at the nape of neck. This had consequently been a morbid mistake because his grip travels to your throat lightning fast, compressing a dangerous weight on your oesophagus as he rips his lips away from your throat.

"You don't get to do that," he says far too casually. "You don't get to assume control when you are here in my house with my things."

Matsson keeps his eye trained on you but your focus in compounded, solely, on his wandering hand tracing the hem of your skirt. "Hey, hey, hey." As you strive to keep watch of his wandering hand, Matsson moves his head into your line of vision.

"My things. Yeah? You're apart of that now."

As his hand inches underneath your skirt you're suddenly flooded with a wave of unfamiliar emotions - fear being the most poignant and defining one.

"I don't want to do this anymore-" You're not sure whether you mean it or not but you're quite certain that Matsson doesn't care. You're suddenly truly aware that you had released something you don't really know how to control.

"Bullshit, you don't want to do this anymore." You finally feel his hand sliding into your panties and your legs wavers underneath you, "Your words say stupid shit," Sings Lukas as his fingers ghost over your swollen clothes, "But your cunt just can't seem to lie." His grip on your throat tightens before relaxing as he brings your head up to his lips. "You're fucking soaked."

"I'll fucking sue you," Although you're unable to assume a single confident tone as his fingers begin to play with your cunt, "I'll fucking take you to court for fucking assault, motherfucker."

"You wanna call Kendall for assistance?" He asks, slyly pushing his middle finger deep inside you with no regard for your strangled gasp. "Here, let's call him together. Say 'Kendall!'"

The only thing able to leave your mouth is a straggled moan as Matsson keeps you pinned to the wall by the throat. The sound of your voice - so incoherent and helpless has him evading any sliver of decency he might have had. "Fuck, you're so perfect." He places a chaste kiss on your cheek before spinning you around until he is sandwiched between your body and the wall. "I have to fuck you."

"Watch the door for me," he says, pulling your hips right up against the bulge in his pants. "Watch just in case Kendall, shows up. Right, sweet girl?"

You're nodding dumbly as Lukas hunches his tall frame while grinding his bulge into your backside. He has your skirt lifted, and his shadow casted over you as he murmurs diabolical things into your ear.

"God, you're a fucking slut, you're such a fucking slut." He keeps a grip on your throat while the unoccupied hand reaches around to lift your shirt haphazardly, "No amount of smart ass comments will ever hide the fact that you're just another whore." The casual air with which he degrades has you simultaneously humping the air while you push back against his bulge. It is in that moment when he finally decides to release his aching cock from his sweatpants dotted with precum.

"Jesus Christ, feel how hard you made me. Feel how fucking turned on I am just because you decided to be a stupid slut." You can feel the head of his cock pressing into you until you're unable to hold in the desperation.

"Jesus- Lukas!"

"What? You want me to fuck you? I think you want me to fuck you but I'm not sure." You're unsure of what he's asking, too blinded by the possibility of a carefully curated orgasm.

"Go on." He says, "Ask me to fuck you. Ask me to fuck your pussy while your boyfriend waits just downstairs."

There are tears pooling in your eyes at the sheer lewdness and the unapologetic quality of this betrayal, but your mouth opens and soon, you're shakily crying out. "Please just fuck me, Lukas."

His cock rams into you with a surety that leaves you winded. He seems as if his patience had been waning as well, what with the haggard sigh that leaves his throat and the numerous disquiet groans that float in the air. Despite yourself, you do keep a half-lidded gaze on the entrance, not put off, but rather spurred on with the possibility of your boyfriend finding you being railed by his latest rival. The thought alone has you clenching around Lukas' cock with your orgasm cresting.

"Whatever you're thinking about, I'm going to need you to think about it again- you're so fucking tight."

There's an animalistic quality to the sex- being bent over for him while he rests against a wall, a firm grip on your throats and your tits as he rams himself into you again and again.

It's far too much.

You wouldn't think there was something so ruthless hiding underneath such a calm veneer but that's all it is. All it always had been. A veneer.

"You're not with him anymore, do you hear me?"

"Fuck- Lukas I'm gonna cum soon," his grip on your throat tightens until it vacuums out any and all air. Your hand encircles his wrist, begging for release but to no avail.

"Tell me," he says as he continues to fuck mercilessly into you, "Tell me you don't belong to him." He finally gives you lee-way to talk and you're gasping out your response, "I don't. I don't belong to him," he nods slightly, brows firing as he bites into your shoulders.

"Fuck- I didn't plan to cum inside you-"

"I don't fucking care- I'm really close." Lukas nods quickly before releasing your neck to drag your cheek until your faces are pressed together in a smouldering kiss. "Fuck I'm gonna cum inside you-"

His words already have you diving headfirst into a groundbreaking orgasm. You're crying out helplessly, until Matsson has enough sense to cover your mouth with one large hand. He fucks you through it, filling you with cum as he groans just as loudly as you had been.

"Fuck," he chuckles quietly, "Kendall is not going to like that."

"Kendall," You breath heavily, safely contained in Lukas' comforting grip, "Is not my Keeper."

Lukas delivers a chaste kiss on your cheek, his stubble grazing against the side of your face.

"I plan on killing them anyway." He says, simultaneously unaware and aware that he's drifting into pillowtalk.

"Every last one of them."

[waystarresourceco]

Harriet Walter on the Caroline-Logan divorce and the impact of Caroline being pushed out of the family (with bonus mentions of Connor, golden trio age gaps, and how the Caroline-Logan custody battle might have mirrored Kendall’s threat to Rava right before the funeral).

“First of all, if you look at the age range of the characters, I must have been a sort of stepmother to Connor. He must have been pretty young. And then there were the three children that were my natural children with Logan. Now, whatever their age span is, 5 years, 6 years, that’s how long plus I must have been living with them. But if you also look at their age range now, that’s how long I haven’t been with them. . . . They’ve grown up without me. It’s open – it was always open as to whether I’d left them or I’d been thrown out or what the situation was. . . . My take on it is that for whatever reasons Logan and I split up - he had affairs, I had affairs – whatever it was, we decided to split. But I would have come off worst. I would have got lots of money and a seat at the table, but I wouldn’t have got the children. And I think that explains something of her toughness and hardness and coolness and remoteness. It’s a kind of defense mechanism because I think she’d like to be more in their lives.”

Excerpt from 2023 GoldDerby interview (x)