#i don’t have a shiv though

[gregmarriage]

feeling very tom wambsgans in the club tonight

[sammygender]

if i was shiv roy my anger would be biblical

[ladyofpembroke]

Not really a coherent thought but

The ‘Connor’s mom’-ification of Tom is coming :)

[toocabaret]

I’ve been having some Thoughts™️ about the weird meta paradox of gerri kellman’s sexuality. as basically The Older Woman on the executive floor she’s trying as much as is possible to blend in with her male colleagues while also not being perceived to be doing so. muted colours and understated makeup. a competent filing cabinet. her husband is dead and her daughters are nameless. she was sexual once but that’s out of sight out of mind and now it’s just the work. it must be a relief in some ways to become finally unfuckable because you’re over 40. she can finally be taken seriously, but only if she toes the line between being too female and not female enough. trying but not too hard. desirable in the past tense only. an honorary man but still in a skirt. and while the men around her can fuck their much younger assistants and get sports massages and run a sex trafficking ring on a cruise ship, she is the job and only the job and that keeps her safe. for a bit anyway.

the irony of gerri saving the company from the full legal extent of a sex scandal by dating someone from the DOJ??? like i’ll never be over it. even filing cabinets have to flatter and please and fuck when called upon. i genuinely don’t believe any of the other execs could have swung it because they’re not women. she dated laurie (generally unseen unless framed from another man’s possessive perspective) to save the men from going to jail for covering up rape allegations. the irony is delicious. and even though she did that, she’s discarded once she’s framed sexually. Dick Pic Gate was out of her control and yet when confronted with any element of gerri’s sexuality (even her PASSIVE sexuality, even after using it to save his company), logan dismisses her as weak or impractical or failing or whatever other excuse he uses to justify his disgust.

i would argue that roman’s interest in gerri is not in spite of but BECAUSE of her asexual framing. it’s a challenge that he’s never going to win which is ideal for his impotency issues; he can push and push and get the thrill out of it, out of the fucked up power dynamic, but he knows he’ll never have to actually fuck her. it’s all hypothetical: down a phone, through a door, half-joking, covered in sensible skirt suits. gerri’s deliberate lack of sexualizing is counterintuitively a turn-on for roman. and i bet the game of chicken they play is freeing for her too because the fact that she has to be professional and cannot be sensual is part of the fun of it. “roman is weird about gerri”. “it’s fucking disgusting”. not because of their family history, or their professional positions, but because she’s old. because the absence of her sexuality is enough of a presence to be off-putting. shiv patronising her about it as a power play is so weird because she’s talking to her simultaneously like a child and like an old woman, and gerri, agency-less, just has to keep reassuring her “i can cope”.

BUT it’s worse than that because it’s so meta. Because gerri is hot. her actor is attractive and like roman, many people watching find her sexless, no-nonsense framing to be titillating. me included. what if roman likes gerri not because of oedipal issues but just because she’s hot and god forbid we find a woman over 50 hot? but whether or not gerri is hot in the context of the show shouldn’t be a big deal, she should have been able to escape this by now!!! she’s in her 60s she’s a widow she’s tired stop sexualizing her!!! but don’t NOT sexualize her either because that’s problematic too and old women can be hot and old women shouldn’t have to be hot and suddenly i’m making gerri do what waystar does and exist as something sexual and non-sexual at the same time. she has a huge plotline in which she’s essentially a sex object. whether or not gerri is fuckable is talked about as much in the show with mildly-disgusted fascination as it is in the real world!!! she can’t win she’s hot she’s old she’s sexually framed she’s deliberately trying not to be she wants sex she doesn’t want sex she’s covering sex with sex and she’s telling roman to leave her alone so she can just do her damn job because she knows that this is what will bring her down!!! sex scandals historically don’t get men fired but an unsolicited dick pic knocks gerri off her podium in logan’s head forever. even now i’m talking about it at such length because i’ve given it so much thought!!! she’s the only woman in the old guard and she’s one of the most sexualized characters in succession. but only as a joke. in the abstract. never actually. because that would be weird. right?

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

Denim on Denim

A Seams x Grays crossover

Summary: Joel tries to get a haircut - but it turns out he can’t do anything in the QZ without getting into a fistfight, and you’re lucky enough to be in the audience.

Warnings: Mildly spicy thoughts, two sexy men fighting, language, reader was a hairdresser prior to the outbreak and has a nickname related to her job, no use of Y/N, no physical descriptions of reader, very lightly edited.

This oneshot can be read independently of the two series, but for the full experience, I recommend reading at least Grays. This is a post-outbreak AU of Grays, and is set before Seams Joel leaves the QZ. Part of the Shiv's salon drabbles.

Word count: 2.7k

Notes: A whole year after my random thoughts about how Joel's hair looks that good in an apocalypse and a random notif on this post that reminded of it, we finally get Joel to Shiv's salon... or do we? 🤷🏻‍♀️ I had a blast writing this oneshot - it's a bit silly, a bit spicy, I hope you enjoy it ❤️

‘Goddamnit.’

Joel swipes viciously at the curl hanging over eyes, like a boxer at a punchbag. Try as he might to slick it back, every time his shovel hits the dirt, the hair uncoils, bouncing obnoxiously in his field of vision.

He needs a fucking haircut. Tess usually does it for him every month or so, but she’s been in a mood - snapping at him, keeping him at arm’s length, she hasn’t even been to his apartment for two whole weeks.

This time of the year is hard for her. He knows all too well that he’s the same every September. They’re in each of their own time loops, a cage within the trappings of the QZ.

‘You look like you need a trim, bro.’

Joel barely glances up. He knows the guy, they share a surname after all. People call him Ben, or Benny, and even an old man like him knows he’s a good-looking son of a bitch.

They work the same shifts sometimes, and he knows Tess has crossed paths with him at the illegal fight nights. Joel has also seen him a few times at the bar, where he’s usually surrounded by even more good-looking motherfuckers.

Joel knows he’s a damn flirt too. He always has pretty words for Tess when he sees her. He’s harmless though, and he supposes that she deserves sweet nothings from at least one Miller since he’s no good at them.

Realising he hasn’t responded, Joel grunts noncommittally, self-consciousness prickling the back of his neck.

‘I know someone, she was a professional hairdresser before all this.’

Joel ignores him and keeps shovelling.

‘If you tell her you know me, she’ll give you a good rate.’

More shovelling.

‘Alright man, my shift’s up. See you ‘round.’

Five steps, and Joel sighs, digging the shovel into the dirt.

‘Wait.’

Joel stands on the doorway, and stares.

There’s an actual backwash in the corner of the dingy living room - well, living space. There are no doors in the tenement apartments.

‘You waiting for it to say hello back, or what?’

His eyes snap to yours, a scowl drawing his brows together.

Not that you look at all intimidated, one eyebrow arched high and an amused smile sitting lopsided on your lips, which he will admit throws him just a bit. He’s not used to having to work for it.

Giving you a tight nod, he takes two steps into the apartment. He recognises the layout, a mirror of his own, which is a few blocks away.

Closing the door with a flourish behind him, you ask brightly, ‘You’re here for a haircut?’

He’s about to answer when something winks at him, and he looks up, momentarily blinded by the reflection of afternoon light in the cracked mirror that hangs over a battered styling station.

Your apartment has windows that don’t look directly onto the next building, and sun floods the space. Even light is a real rarity in the shithole of a QZ, where everything indoors is dingy. He idly wonders if you had to bribe someone -

Distracted, he catches the sliver of a shadow moving from the corner of his eye a split second later than he would if he was on high alert. On reflex, his fingers find the hilt of his knife and he whips it out in a wide arc, swinging to his left where gunmetal catches the afternoon light.

‘Drop it!’ he barks, the same moment as the other man growls, ‘The fuck are you doing in my home with a knife?’

To Joel’s bewilderment, you chuckle somewhere to his right, amused. ‘C’mon guys. Dramatic, much?’

‘He snuck up on me,’ Joel growls defensively.

‘Frankie, put your gun away, dude’s just here for a haircut - I’m assuming anyway, he never did answer my question.’

‘Yes, I’m here for a haircut,’ he snaps, resheathing his knife. ‘Fuck would I be doin’ here if not?’

‘Fuck should I know, dipshit?’ retorts Frankie, tucking his gun in the back of his jeans. ‘You always bring a knife to your haircuts?’

‘D’ya always threaten to shoot paying customers?’

‘No, we definitely do not.’ You step into the space between the two men in case they get snippy with each other again. ‘Who sent you?’

Your customer crosses his arms, and you can’t help noticing the fabric of his shirt stretching across those broad shoulders. ‘Blondie.’

‘Blondie?’ you frown, confused. ‘Oh wait, you mean Ben? I thought I recognised you. I’ve seen you at one of his fights, with your wife? What’s her name now -’

‘Tess,’ he replies, then promptly looks like he wishes he’d stopped himself before he answered. ‘She’s not my -’ he trails off, and it’s clear he doesn’t like how you’re reading him at the moment, grumbling, ‘None of your damn business.’

‘Hey, you watch your mouth around my lady, old man,’ warns Frankie, ratcheting up the tension again.

Squaring his shoulders, the man seems to grow two inches. ‘Or what?’

Suddenly aware of being caught in the crossfire between your protective husband on one side, and this gruff, silvered stranger on the other, heat bubbles unbidden under your skin, the unexpected reaction from your body catching you off guard.

Biting your lower lip, you clear your throat, and somehow you sound steadier than you feel when you dispense the orders. 

‘Ok, this is enough. Frankie, sit down over there,’ you say, pointing him in the direction of the couch on the other side of the room. ‘And you - since you’re Benny’s friend, two ration cards.’

‘’M not his friend,’ he almost spits out that last word, as if it tastes weird.

You give him a pointed look. ‘Three ration cards, then.’

He huffs, and hands you two from his back pocket. ‘Fine, I’m Benny’s friend.’

You grin. ‘If you’re besties, it’s one.’

‘Don’t push it.’

You back off with a chuckle. ‘Fine, not besties. Maybe next time. Now sit.’

Joel does as he’s told, awkwardly, in the styling chair, a relic from the pre-outbreak days. It creaks dangerously under his weight, and it wobbles, slightly off-kilter. The cracked leather is warm from the sun, which seeps into his skin, and he finds himself wondering when was the last time he went to a hair salon.

Sarah used to love cutting his hair. She always made an afternoon out of it on one of his rare days not working overtime, putting the music on, setting up her Barbie mirror on the dining room table, and having him pick out a hairstyle from a magazine (it never looked anywhere near like the photos). She’d even put a disposable raincoat over him like a hairdresser’s cape. She really wasn’t any good, there’s a reason why Tommy didn’t let her anywhere near his curls, but he always wore her handiwork with pride -

So lost in his thoughts, he reacts purely on instinct when, for the first time in decades, fingers other than his own find his hair.

Swivelling around, he’s out of the chair in a split second, fingers wrapped tight around your wrists. You yelp as he pushes you back against the wall, which he sees from the shape of your lips but doesn’t hear over the blood pounding in his ears.

Joel barely holds you there for a second before he’s yanked backwards by a hand on the back of his collar, and he stumbles, crashing into the adjacent wall. He barely misses the fist heading towards his face, ducking just in time to save himself what would undoubtedly have been a broken nose.

He barrels into the younger man with his shoulder, expecting him to tumble back, and is surprised when he doesn’t budge. Joel’s aware he’s got a few years on him, but he more than holds his own against punks that age on the daily. This guy clearly has a background in combat, and it’s taking Joel everything to stay on his feet.

In the meantime, you’re still plastered against the wall, dazed by your customer’s reaction. Heck, you haven’t even gotten his name yet before he literally jumped you. He’s a skittish one, that’s for sure. 

You smile at the memory of Frankie’s first time with you at the salon - he’d give this guy a good run for his money. Lucky for him, you’ve always been good at wrangling the nervous ones.

Speaking of, the two men are now literally wrestling in front of you. If you had to venture a guess by the grays in the hair, you reckon your customer is pushing fifty. He’s built like a fucking tank though, and he’s giving everything he’s got.

So you decide to watch for a little while. Boys will be boys, best leave them to let off some steam. Leaning against the wall, you get comfortable, and you think wistfully to yourself that Ashton would have loved this view.

You’re not sure how you missed that they’re both wearing denim on denim, and you would struggle to pick out which is your husband if not for the hat on his head. Yes, the damn cap survived the apocalypse with him.

They are remarkably similar in build, though your customer seems to stand just a couple of inches taller. His biceps flex and bulge through the shirt sleeves as he scuffles with Frankie, teeth bared; meanwhile, your husband plants his feet, jeans stretched tight over his adorable little ass, trying to hold the man back long enough to throw a punch.

If the room was warm when they were trading barbs, it’s positively sweltering right now.

All you can see are broad shoulders and fabric bursting at the seams, grappling fingers and clenched fists. Back muscles rippling through denim, teasing slivers of skin and soft bellies when shirttails ride up and jeans fall low. The cheerful afternoon sun kisses their skin golden, casting long shadows across the creaking wooden floor.

And they’re not quiet. Throaty grunts as they jostle, panted breath peppered with cusses, fuck’s and sons of bitches as they wrestle for control.

Suddenly, you’re the one who’s out of breath despite not moving a muscle.

As much as you would’ve loved to stand and watch, you can tell both men are starting to get winded. You don’t exactly want the show to end, entertainment is hard to come by in the QZ, let alone of such a visually stimulating variety, in your own living room. But you think you hear the older man wheeze, their shirts are now stained with sweat, and the frantic energy they started with turns heavy with lethargy.

With a rueful sigh, you speak up, ‘Frankie, come on, that’s enough now.’

He growls, ‘No fucking way. He tried to hurt you!’

‘He barely touched me. It was just his PTSD acting out.’

‘I don’t have PTSD,’ the man protests, shooting you a glare before dodging an elbow.

‘There’s no shame in having PTSD,’ you admonish him. ‘Or in getting help.’

‘Why don’t you give me a hand then?’ he scoffs, tipping his head at Frankie.

‘Yeah, looks like you can use it,’ your husband taunts him.

‘Sure you can’t, asshole? Can’t even take down an old man on your own?’

‘I hope you're hungry, 'cause you're gonna eat your words, asshole -’

Hands on hips, you roll your eyes at the exceedingly average trash talk. ‘You know what? I tried asking nicely - I’m going in.’

It’s a tight squeeze, but somehow, you find a space between the elbows and shoulders and knees, and you wedge yourself in. It’s hot and humid between the two men, who are still trying to get at each other, despite the fact that you now have one hand on each of their chests, trying to pry them apart. Trapped between the two solid walls of chest, their raw strength vibrates through you, through harsh panting breath, the musk of sweat and man, and denim rubs rough on your bare skin where you’re pressed up against them.

It’s not hard to imagine being in this position in an entirely different situation, with the axis tilted, on a softer surface. Heat prickles all over you like needles, and unbeknownst to you, your thighs press together, and your panties start to feel sticky -

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ asks Frankie, incredulous as he looms over you, still grabbing onto the other guy’s shirt.

You bat your eyelashes at him, then crane your neck over your shoulder to wink at the other man. A little spiral of a curl dangles over his eyes as he glares at you, puffs of warm air hitting the shell of your ear. 

Knowing that your best chance of breaking off this nonsense is to wildly offend both men, you purr, ‘Making a delicious sandwich ‘cause I’m famished -’

Frankie flushes bright red instantly, and he roars, ‘Get your filthy hands off my wife, son of a bitch!’

Not that his hands are anywhere near you (a tragedy), nonetheless, the man jumps five feet back, as if you burned him. He may deny Tess being his wife, but the look of absolute horror of being accused of touching you speaks volumes.

You can tell he would have doubled over catching his breath, hands on his knees, if not for his pride. Stubbornly, he stands tall, hands on hips, chest heaving.

‘Bit jumpy, are we?’ you quip.

‘You always that handsy?’ he retorts.

‘Can’t help myself with beautiful curls like yours,’ you wink, and your smile widens when he flushes.

Frankie throws up his hands in disbelief. ‘Shiv, I’m standing right here.’

‘You always are,’ you tease, pressing a kiss to his pinched lips. ‘Now, go take a walk, you've made enough of a scene.’

‘I’m not leaving you here with him -’

The older man scoffs. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not interested in your woman.’

You feign indignation. ‘Hey! That’s hurtful.’

‘You should be, jackass!’ Frankie gripes, and promptly looks as confused as the other man at his own pronouncement.

Taking his hand, you pull him towards the door. ‘Go on babe, you were going to have a drink with Pope anyway. I got everything under control.’

‘Alright,’ Frankie relents, but not before he points a menacing finger at your customer. ‘If he tries anything -’

‘I know where the gun is,’ you finish his sentence.

Pressing one final kiss to your lips and throwing a glare over your shoulder, Frankie turns and leaves - and you preen at the knowledge that he trusts you can take care of yourself.

Once the door closes, you smile. ‘So… should we start over?’

 The man snorts. ‘I’d say.’

‘I’m Shiv,’ you say, but you don’t offer him your hand. He doesn’t seem to be the handshaking type.

He picks up on your perception, studying you with curious eyes. ‘Joel.’

Pushing the swivel chair back to the styling station, you gesture at him to retake his seat, and this time, you make sure his eyes are on yours in the mirror while you stand over his shoulder.

‘Hair’s a bit long, huh?’ you remark, eyeing the ringlet over his eyes.

‘It’s drivin’ me nuts,’ he admits.

You hold up your hands this time, giving him plenty of notice. ‘May I?’

He nods, and you start small, wrapping the spiral around your index finger with a grin. ‘I wasn’t just saying it, y’know. You do have beautiful hair.’

He shifts awkwardly, the chair squeaking, obviously uncomfortable with compliments. ‘Dunno. I’m all gray and shit.’

‘As someone wise once said, grays are sexy as fuck,’ you assure him. Running your fingers through his curls, you study the texture critically, noting the blunt ends and uneven thickness. Nothing a professional haircut can’t fix. ‘Trust me, I’m very wise.’

He hums, unconvinced, but you can see the lines around his eyes crease in amusement. ‘If you say so.’

You wink at him in the mirror. ‘When I’m done with you, Tess will have the hardest time keeping her hands to herself.’

‘What makes you think she doesn’t already?’

It takes you a moment to unfreeze, stunned by his retort. At his arched eyebrow, you burst into laughter. ‘You’re a sassy one, aren’t you, Joel?’

He huffs, half-amused, and shakes his head. ‘It’s a haircut, not a miracle.’

You squeeze his shoulder, grinning when he doesn’t jump at the contact. ‘Trust me, I’m just that good at my job.’

More notes: If you enjoyed this oneshot, I wrote a series of drabbles of Shiv giving other Pedro boys haircuts - you can find them in the Grays masterlist 🩶 I may write more for this universe and some point if inspiration strikes again, thank you for reading!

And if you wanted an inspo shot of Joel's hair, here you go ❤️

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

[ichorai]

hell, yeah ; roman roy ; part two (m).

pairing ; roman roy x f!reader

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

words ; 32.0k

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

warnings / includes ; depictions of mental and physical abuse, talks of sexual misconduct (cruises incidents), mentions of death, a lot of sexual/suicidal jokes and general foul language, a lot of business talk, phone sex & a handjob, degradation, roman’s implied demisexuality, reader's got a tooth motif bcs all the other roy sibs have their own motifs, a lot of morally grey shit

series masterlist. main masterlist.

The Roy’s summer home in the Hamptons was nothing short of grand. That was always the bare minimum for the family, after all. Though you had been preoccupied with work, having a lot piled up because of your time off for Shiv’s wedding—you had dropped quite a few important meetings to come at Logan’s behest. He called for you, and for all his children, to come to the Hamptons and discuss his plans to sell the company.

You stepped into the home, hands buried within your pockets. Immediately, you were hit by an overwhelmingly foul stench. It smelled an awful lot like rotten meat and, strangely, the piss-sodden alleyways in New York. Your face twisted into a grimace as you strode in, finding Kendall wandering aimlessly downstairs.

“Hey, uh, hi,” he said, awkwardly reaching for a hug when you stuck your arm out for a handshake. The both of you gingerly stepped away from each other.

“What’s that smell?” you asked, knowing full and well that Roman and Shiv were still quite angry with him for basically stabbing them in the back.

“Oh, uh, I don’t know. I think they’re trying to figure that out,” he replied, waving his hands around to gesture to the milling workers. “You, uhm, you’ll get used to it. Listen, Y/N, I know you and Rome are close, so I just wanted to ask if you could… talk to him. For me.”

Arching a brow, you tilted your head. “You can’t talk to him yourself?”

“He’s not… he’s being difficult right now.”

“Understandably so.”

There was a melancholic look to his eyes. “I know. Can you just tell him I’m sorry? I want… I want us to be okay.”

Pursing your lips, you gave him a firm nod. “Okay, yeah, sure. No promises that it’d change anything, though. You know where he is?”

“By the beach. With Shiv.”

With a hum of farewell, you started backing off, making your way to the sandy shores not too far from the house. You spotted their figures in the distance, bundled in dark coats and long scarves. When they spotted you approaching, the both of them waved.

“Hey, guys,” you greeted, smiling brightly.

“Hey, fuck-face,” said Roman, giving you a quick hug, before stepping back to allow Shiv to do the same. “We were all waiting for you.”

“Sorry I’m late—work has been kicking my ass lately.” 

Snorting, Roman quipped, “You know you can take a couple days to relax, right? I’m literally your boss.”

“I’m a general manager, Rome. If I stop, that’s a large chunk of Waystar down. I’m trying to keep the company from sinking further into the depths of hell,” you said lightly, crossing your arms. “But it seems like Logan wants to sell it away. What’s our viewpoint?”

The both of them struggled for words.

“If the selling isn’t actually real… like some kind of fucked-up loyalty test, we were just talking about how dad’s going to kill Kendall,” said Shiv, looking none too upset about the prospect. “How that would mean it could be Rome who takes up the mantle.”

That made sense. Connor was not an option, not in Logan’s eyes. He was barely a son to the man, much less the heir to his legacy.

“It could,” you said, careful. “It could also mean you, though.”

 Both you and Roman stared Shiv down. 

Finally, she caved and shook her head with a humorless laugh. “Yeah. Yes, it could be me.”

Sensing that the two of them were on the verge of another catfight, you quickly intercepted, “I bumped into Kendall in the house just now. He wanted me to, uhm, tell you that he’s sorry.”

Roman’s features twisted. “Well, tell him he can stick his apologies up his ass.”

“I’m not a fucking messenger! Tell him that yourself.”

Rolling her eyes, Shiv jerked her head back to the house. “We should probably get back inside. Dad’s gonna be here any minute by now.”

It was on your trek back that the three of you bumped into Kendall, who was wearing sunglasses even though the sky wasn’t all that visible through the gloomy clouds. Both Shiv and Roman didn’t hesitate to duke out their frustrations on him, asking why he changed his mind on the takeover so quickly. 

“You do realize how fucked you’re going to be once you’re no longer of any use to him, right?” asked Roman to his older brother. “He’s got you eating fuckin’ humiliation gumbo on TV, and then what? Nothing.”

Snickering, Shiv added in, “Dad’s gonna play a merry tune on you and then throw you out the fucking window. You know that, right?”

“He’s like a sex robot for dad to fuck,” said Rome.

“He’s like a beaten dog.”

“He’s both of those things—and also a piece of shit.”

To your surprise, Kendall stood by and took all the insults his siblings lobbied at him, expression permanently fixed into one of unadulterated misery. A part of you felt bad for him, but another part of you knew he’d brought this upon himself.

Shiv stepped closer to him, each one of her words saturated in venom. “He’s a fucking narcissist who repeatedly puts his self-interest above everything else, and then tries to justify it with half-assed appeals of the rigors of the fucking market.”

“You’re a fucking prick,” Roman finally tacked on after Shiv’s mini-monologue. He glanced over at you. “Y/N, you wanna throw a punch?”

“What were you thinking, Kendall?” you quietly asked. “In what world did you see yourself winning against your father? And even if you did win, it’d be at the cost of your siblings. Would you kill them for your own personal gain? And not to mention that you relapsed and you’re not getting the help you need. You didn’t even thank Roman and I for picking you up from that addict’s shithole. We got you out of there because we were worried for you. We care about you. And you threw that right back in his face.”

Your words lingered heavily between the four of you. 

When Kendall remained as silent as a statue, Roman let out a loud groan, rolling his eyes to the side. “Come on! Fight back, you fuck-bag.”

“Guys, I just… I…” Kendall paused to look off into the waters. “I can’t get into it.”

“Oh, you can’t get into it? Shucks,” Roman mocked. “Fuck you. Come on, man. Treat us! Why did you actually back out?”

Shame flooded his features. He completely disregarded Roman’s question by telling his little sister, “I’m sorry, Shiv. About the wedding.”

There were tears in her eyes. Her father had made her cry after ruining family therapy, and now her older brother was making her cry after ruining her wedding. 

“How dare you apologize to me?” she asked, a sharp edge to her tone. With that, she rotated on her heel and strode off. 

You and Roman followed after her, your arm linked with his.

“You look like shit, by the way,” Roman murmured to his brother as he brushed past him.

By the time you got back to the house, you caught sight of the cooks dumping the expensive food they’d been preparing and laboring over for hours straight into the trash. When you wondered aloud what was going on, one of them quietly answered that they’d found the source of the smell—a dead raccoon covered in maggots, rotting in the chimney. Logan demanded all the food be removed because it’d been sitting around in the stench, calling for pizza to be ordered instead. 

When lunch rolled around, you sat between Roman and Kendall, feeling incredibly tense. The atmosphere between the siblings had yet to clear, and you weren’t quite sure if it ever would. The chatter died away when Logan cleared his throat sharply to quell the commotion and greet the family.

He began with a blunt address of the bear hug situation, which you noticed made Kendall’s foot tap against the floor in agitation.

“I guess the question is… do we really want this fight?” he asked. “Or is now the moment to cash in and fuck off out of the casino?”

Silence. He was met with dead silence.

“If we do fight, I need to tell the board who I want to take over,” said Logan. “So, please—I want you to speak freely.”

His words made Shiv tip her head back and scoff-laugh. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law?”

“Come on! We’re pals here. Let’s fuckin’ have it out!” gruffed Logan as he surveyed the table.

As if to purposefully push her father’s buttons, Shiv crossed her arms and pointedly kept her mouth shut. 

Tentative, Kendall spoke, “I think you should fight, but, uh… you’re the one who built it all. The man, the myth, the legend.”

In a condescending tone, Roman crooned, “Aw. That’s adorable. You’re always lookin’ out for Pops, aren’t you?”

“But is he saying Dad should stay on because that’s what Sandy and Stewy would want?” asked Connor with a frown, ever the conspiracist. “How do we know he’s not a double agent?”

“Nice to see you, too, Con,” mumbled Kendall.

Shaking his head, the older brother said, “Hey, Ken, I’m just saying what others are thinking.”

“It’s possible,” Shiv added, narrowing her eyes.

“Should we frisk him for a wire? Burn him? See if he’s a witch?” joked Roman, scratching at the back of his head.

Interrupting the banter, Logan said, “He’s taken his medicine.”

“Taken his medicine?” Shiv parroted in an affronted manner. “Is that it? Dad—you beat Roman with a fucking slipper in Gustav until he cried for ordering lobster, remember? And Kendall tries to kill you and he’s only five minutes out in the cold?”

You remembered that day. When you’d casually told Roman that you preferred lobster over crab. How he tried to order it for you instead of what was already on the table, and how an already ticked-off Logan was tipped over the edge and lost his shit, taking his frustrations out on Roman. The memory of the actual beating itself was hazy—all you could recall were thuds and muffled whimpers, fearful tears on your cheeks. The purple bruises on his face didn’t fade away for a long while. He would try to joke about it, but you never found it funny. You had apologized over and over again, until Roman told you to shut up and forget about it, nonchalantly adding that he wanted the lobster, too. That it wasn’t just for you.

But it was. It was all yours, had Roman been successful in acquiring the crustacean for you. You didn’t need to know that, though.

Trying his best to shrug off Shiv’s words, Roman tilted his head to the side and quipped, “Well, it’s not polite to order the most expensive item on the menu when you’re not paying, Siobhan.”

Logan could dump a billion dollars into an incinerator and that would barely even make a dent on how much wealth he was hoarding, you wanted to say. You kept your mouth firmly shut, biting down on your tongue.

As per typical Logan fashion, he brushed off the call-out of his abuse to his son. “We’re not doing memory lane here. Come on, spit it out. What do you all think? Stick or sell?”

“Well, I think you’re in the prime of your life,” chimed Tom. “I think another decade is just what the doctor ordered.”

From beside you, Roman’s knee nudged into yours as he began miming choking on a dick. You smiled, almost laughing out loud, but caught yourself before you did. 

“I, uhm, I think selling seems cool…” began Willa.

“Hey, Dad, Willa thinks selling seems cool!” snorted Roman, which made Willa fall uncomfortably silent.

With a disapproving stare, Connor bit out, “Asshole.”

“You,” said Logan. It took you a moment to realize that he was staring directly at you. Heat prickled at the back of your neck. “What do you think?”

You sat up straighter in your chair. “You’ll be rich enough to live a thousand lives if you sell. You’ll still be rich enough to do so if you stay in the game. The only difference is, you lose your legacy if you go with the former.”

Scrutinizing you, Logan dipped his head and took a sip of champagne. “Mmh, wise words, sure. Not your opinion, though. Not what I asked for. Those are just facts we all fuckin’ know. Bah—don’t waste my time. Fucking useless. Leeching off of me while your parents are parading in a nameless exotic country, drinking their brains into toxic liquid that leaks out of their ears.”

Shame curled within your stomach, and a blistering flush spidered through your skin. You could feel all eyes on you, including Roman’s. You were no stranger to Logan’s verbal abuse, but it’d been a long time since he brought up your parents' and their neglectful nature. The wounds were reopened, and stung much worse than you remembered.

Drumming her fingers against the table, Shiv said, “Dad, I think it’s possible that you’ve somewhat chilled the atmosphere of free-flowing debate here.”

“You know, Kodak was trading at about a hundred dollars a share back in ‘97. Yesterday, you could pick it up for about three bucks. That could be us. If we cash out, we could walk away with ten billion.” Logan glanced at his youngest son, noticing how he’d shuffled his chair closer to you. “Roman. What do you think?”

Swallowing, Roman shrugged. “I dunno, Dad. I fuckin’ love money, but I’m really scared of you, so…” He made a high-pitched noise, barely passable as a laugh. “Yeah, uhm, honestly—I’m not sure I’m willing to give my strategic advice in a public forum when I could just be a, uh, a player in any future moves.”

There was obvious exasperation in Logan’s eyes. Disappointments, the lot of you were in his eyes. Without another word, Logan stood up and began to hobble out of the dining room, pizza left untouched. 

“Uhm, Dad?” Roman called out after him, confused. 

He didn’t respond.

Roman patted your back twice before getting up as well, following after his father. Shiv was hot on his heels.

One by one, Logan had told them through the door he had closed behind him. He wanted his kids to come in one by one, alone, so that he could have their unfiltered opinion.

Roman went in first, but not before squeezing your hand, and slipping through. When he emerged only ten minutes later, his face was despondent. But his lips were twitching upwards, and you could immediately tell that he was just faking it.

“He’s dying,” he joked with faux anguish. “Riddled with cancer.”

The way Shiv’s brows kinked told him that she didn’t find it all that funny. “Rome.”

“What? It’s a joke. It’s funny. Dad’s got cancer. What’s not funny about that?” You patted his back and nudged him over to the couches, where Connor and Willa were sitting.

The eldest son rolled his eyes. “Sick puppy,” he called Roman.

“No, but seriously, he asked me to run the company.” Dead silence. “I’m kidding. Or am I?”

It was then that Logan called for Shiv to go in. You took Roman’s arm, leading him off into another room, where it was quieter.

“Hope you’re not planning on molesting me back here,” Roman languidly commented, but didn’t fight off your grip. “Nobody would believe me after what I said about Dad—I’d be like the boy who cried wolf.”

“Rome,” you said, partially exasperated, partially somber. “What did he say back there?”

The man across from you scratched at the back of his head. “Honestly? Nothing.”

“Hm?”

“I mean—I explained to him that it’d be smart to sell some shit, keep some shit. Financialize the company. I don’t know. Couldn’t really gauge his reaction—then he just said okay and told me I could go.” Your friend rested his hands on his hips. “Do you think that was smart? Do you, uhm, think he thinks that was stupid?”

It took you another moment to shake your head tentatively. “I think you did the best you could, given the ultimatum. Besides—you wouldn’t really want to run this shitshow, would you?”

He stepped back in an affronted manner. “What do you mean? You don’t think I can do it?”

“It’s not a matter of whether or not you can do it, Ro. It’s about if you want to or not. And I know you wouldn’t. It’s not… it’s not you. You’ve always said the company was like a cage for you.”

The way Roman squared his shoulders told you that he was growing defensive. “Yeah, well, it’s like a fuckin’—a good fuckin’ golden cage. An amazing cage. A cage where I can roll around and throw shit at people. I’d like to stay here for the rest of my life.”

“Do you? Really?”

“What, is this some kind of reverse psychology bullshit Dad put you up to? Just—” He stepped back when you reached out for him. “Fuck off.”

With a huff, you shook your head. “Roman, you need to pull your head out of your fucking ass and realize that I’m the only friend you have. If you can’t trust me, you’re fucked.”

There was a tense beat of silence between you.

Then, he narrowed his eyes on you. “If you stab my back, I’m going to kill you, then throw myself off the highest building I can find. It’ll be like a Shakespearean tragedy.”

“Okay, Rome.”

“I’ll put your head on a spike. Keep it as decoration.”

Slowly, he let you wrap your arms around him. “Okay, Romeo.”

“I’ll pluck your teeth out and wear them around my neck like a string of pearls.”

“Love you, too, Ro,” you said, hugging him tight.

“Yeah, whatever, fuck-face.” He buried his nose into your neck, inhaling sharply. “I knew you were going to molest me.”

The family reconvened later that night, where Logan announced that he decided he was going to keep the company, claiming his ambitions to be the last man standing. Then, he pronounced Roman and Kendall as co-chief operating officers, much to everyone’s dismay.

“We need to stick tight—tighter than ever now,” Logan defended when Roman began to protest. 

“But he—no. No, I’m sorry. Excuse me? He… he tried to help your oldest enemy to take over and now he’s getting a fucking promotion? Is that what’s happening?” Rome asked from beside you, arms crossed over his chest. 

The old man nodded. “That’s my decision.”

“Well, it’s bullshit,” Roman declared.

Quiet settled over the group. 

Like a dog being kicked, Roman withered away beneath his father’s contemptuous stare. You put a hand on his shoulder. 

“And you’re going to name a successor?” Connor asked.

“After some consideration, I think we just need a name to flag privately to big investors for now. I mean, it could be anyone. I’m not going anywhere. Could be a stuffed fuckin’ shirt. Could be Y/N, for all I know.”

Did he just compare you to a stuffed shirt—?

“Gerri,” said Logan. “It could be Gerri. We might as well say it’s Gerri.”

With a quirked brow, Shiv said, “Congratulations.”

Her godmother tilted her head and shifted in her seat. “Wow. Okay. Thank you.”

“It won’t be Gerri,” Logan rudely clarified. “But Gerri’s fine. Just so we’re clear.”

She was an expert at hiding her disdain, clearing her throat slightly. “No, yeah, I think we’re very clear.”

With that, Logan dismissed himself, calling for Kendall to follow after him. His number one boy.

It was clear that Roman was still upset. He pulled away from you to go sulk about to his sister.

That night, when the moon shone brighter in the Roy’s summer home than it ever did in the city, and you were buried under a thick blanket, you felt the mattress dip beneath another person’s weight. You didn’t need to open your eyes to know it was Roman.

“Shut up,” he gruffed when you smiled ever so slightly, even though you hadn’t said anything.

You hummed pleasantly when he curled his arms around your form like a koala would a tree. The two of you fell asleep that way, breathing each other in and dreaming of necklaces made of teeth.

The acquisition to take on PGM was a bad fucking idea. One of the worst you’ve heard, in fact. When Logan brought it up to you and a few other managers during a meeting, you didn’t hesitate to go bee-lining for Roman’s office, demanding him to tell you every single detail.

“So, you think this is, like, not good?” he asked, voice high-pitched and unstable. Just earlier today, he’d been telling his dad and Shiv what a great idea this was.

“No, Roman. It’s not fucking good. I’m sorry, I don’t know about you, but I don’t want the most trustworthy news source in America right now to be adopted into a fuckin’... fascist, right-wing, conservative dick jerking fest!” You drummed your fingers against his table. “Ro, this can’t happen. It could very well tank Waystar, and news media outlets in general. Reliability goes down, money goes down, our rivals go up. The political climate couldn’t handle such a change like this—”

Pulling at his face, Roman shook his head. “Fuckin’ political climate. Everything’s about the political climate these days. Fuck!”

“Roman, I’m being serious,” you said, brows furrowing. 

He sucked in a deep breath. “Fuck. Ugh—fuck! You are… you’re so…” He made an unintelligible noise while shaking his fists at you, nose wrinkling. “You’re right. God. I hate saying that. Feels like I just took a bite out of a rock. But even if you are, I can’t just stab dad in the back like that.”

Shoulders loosening, you nodded in understanding. “What’re you gonna do?”

“Tabitha is friends with Naomi Pierce. I’ll ask her to get me in touch,” Roman said, lips pursed to the side. It didn’t go past your notice that his stance on the Pierce situation was still left ambiguous. 

Your eyebrows raised a fraction. “Tabitha? You guys still going steady?”

“Uh-huh. Yup. Never better,” he replied, a tad too quickly.

“Really?” you asked. To none of his surprise, you read him like an open book. “You must really like her.”

“Mhm.”

“But not like-like her?”

Roman clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth in distaste. “What are you, nine?”

“You didn’t say yes,” you said in a sing-song voice. Then, you sobered up to seriously tell him, “Oh, Ro, she’s a great catch, sure, but if you don’t have romantic feelings for her, then don’t string her along like that.”

Rolling his eyes to the side, Roman tried his best to sidestep the topic. “It’s none of your beeswax, you prick. Anyways—you’re coming to Hungary, right? Corporate retreat and all that jazz.”

You didn’t feel like the conversation about Tabitha was quite over, but you let it slide for now. “Yes, Roman. Not really looking forward to it, now that I have to deal with an entire acquisition worth billions hovering over me.”

“Just relax for now—it’s not concrete, even if dad says it is.” Roman stood up from his desk to go pour himself a drink. “I’ll save you a spot on the plane. Next to me, if I’m feeling nice. Next to Greg if I want to be entertained by watching you kill yourself in front of him.”

“Thanks, Romeo,” you dryly said.

“You’re welcome. Okay, you can go away now. I wanna jerk off in front of the window without you watching this time. If you stay, I’ll fuck you against it, and that’d be my one-way ticket to a stern finger-wagging by HR.”

With a snort, you got up from your chair, heading for the door. You couldn’t help the way your cheeks burst aflame at his words, even though you knew it was just light-hearted banter. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, you fuckin’ slut.”

“Bitch,” he shot back, just as you stepped foot out of his office. 

“Whore!” you yelled over your shoulder, loud enough to have a few employees turn their head curiously. 

Roman watched you go through the glass windows, shaking his head with fond amusement.

The estate in Hungary was surrounded by forests and clean air—a stark contrast to New York. You were walking alongside Roman down to the hunting grounds, hands shoved into the pockets of your jacket. The rifle slung across his shoulder kept bumping into you, and you would push him away with a mild grin each time it did. He wasn’t very good at walking straight, eventually colliding into you mere minutes later.

The amicable atmosphere was effectively killed when Kendall approached the two of you, solemn-faced as ever. 

“Hey, guys,” he greeted in a monotone voice. “Listen, I have a question.”

Both of you stared at him, waiting for him to go on.

After an awfully lengthy pause he continued, “So, uh, did you guys get a call from that biographer?”

Right. You’d been in the middle of discussing with Tom how he’d landed a top position at ATN when your phone began to ring. You politely excused yourself to take the call, surprised to hear a woman claiming to write an unauthorized biography on your godfather—and she wanted you as a source. Though you had many opinions on a man, you knew that voicing them would be nothing but trouble for you.

Roman rolled his eyes. “I mean, yeah, obviously. I’m the interesting one, after all.”

When you laughed, Roman grinned along with you. 

“I got a call, too,” you admitted. “Did you?”

Tilting his head into a nod, Kendall mumbled, “Yeah. I did.”

“Well? Are you thinking of talking to her?” asked Roman.

“I don’t know,” Kendall said. “Maybe. You guys?”

“No… but if you’re going to talk to her, then I guess I have to talk to her, too. Just to correct your bullshit,” Roman responded.

Two seconds of silence before you huffed out a sigh. “It's a messy business that I don’t want to involve myself in. If Logan finds out, which I’m sure he will, I’m not going to let myself be killed because of it.”

The two started talking about Pierce. Both of them sounded so awfully fake about the entire ordeal that you wanted to bash their heads together and force them not to speak through a brown nosing filter. Their conversation came to a halt when Roman’s phone began to ring, and he stepped away to answer privately, much to Kendall’s chagrin.

“Hey, Kendall,” you broached, rocking your weight back and forth on your heels. “If you talk to that writer, Logan won’t be as forgiving to you this time. He’ll slit your throat in front of everyone to see.”

The man who you onced looked up to as an older brother stared at you with a dead expression. “I know,” was all he said. 

Once Roman came ambling back, Kendall began to interrogate him about the call. Defensive, Roman lied—you knew he was. He had an obvious tell: the way his nose would twitch and his left eye went all squinty. The older brother told him he was full of shit.

Before they could break out in another argument, a Hungarian hunter came up to the three of you, claiming that the truck was ready to take them out into the wilderness. 

“Let’s go murder a terrified mammal,” quipped Roman, taking your hand and leading you away from Kendall.

The hunting party returned to the estate with four boars. You took no part in the killings, having stayed in the truck to speak to Gerri on the phone. Apparently, she had very strong doubts about adopting PGM, and wanted to know if you felt the same. You were Logan’s family, she had said, and he listened to family more than his own general counsel. 

You told her you would if you could, but Logan was adamant on taking on PGM. No amount of needless peddling would sway his mind. 

Hours later, when the sky was dark and the table was laid out with all sorts of fruits and glasses of spiced wines, everybody was seated for dinner. You sat between Roman and Gerri, speaking to both of them in hushed whispers about nothing quite important.

The amicable atmosphere was shattered when Logan stood up to address everybody. 

“Someone has spoken to Michelle Pantsil.” The biographer. 

Both you and Roman glanced at each other, knowing that it was neither of you. Was it possibly Kendall? Had he been lying to the both of you again? Or had it been someone else? Tom? Greg? Gerri? Frank?

“We’ve got rats on this ship,” continued your godfather, rounding behind people’s chairs in a menacing, domineering manner. “And Pierce—who’s got my back, hm? Who’s really behind me? Anyone wanna own up? Hm? Anyone want to rat out a rat?”

Ah. So it seemed Pierce knew of Logan’s moves now. You didn’t dare chance a glance at Roman, knowing it was him who had told Naomi.

Logan began to sharply question a few people at the table, demanding to know if they had anything they wanted to say to him. It shocked you even further when he barked out an order for everyone to put their phones on the table—both company and private.

“Is that really necessary?” asked Gerri. “I’m not even sure if that’s legal to demand people to—”

“Yeah, well, we’re getting down to brass fucking tacks,” spat Logan, eyeing everybody darkly. You did as he said, placing both of your devices onto the table—you had nothing to hide. From the corner of your eye, you spotted Roman slipping his phone beneath his leg.

When he caught your gaze, his head dipped forward a bit and his eyebrows pulled together. Shut up, his eyes seemed to tell you. Even without verbalizing it, he still somehow managed to be rude to you.

You narrowed them back at him, wordlessly telling him not to worry.

“Karl, do you like the Pierce deal?” Logan queried.

“I do. Yes, I do. Yes, yeah.”

With a dry chuckle, Logan shook his head. “Bullshit. Boar on the floor.”

The two men began their back and forth—Logan commanding Karl to stand in the corner whilst the former sputtered out indignant protests. It was embarrassing and humiliating, and he was going to do it all anyway.

“Tom.”

“Me? Uh, Pierce?”

“Yes,” said an exasperated Logan.

Clearing his throat, Tom hesitantly said, “Well, there’s a lot of factors, but uhm, yes. Personally, I like it. I do.”

“Boar on the fucking floor, over there,” gruffed your godfather, pointing over to where Karl stood. 

With no protest, Tom pushed away from the table and slunk off. 

“Gerri! Stand up! Tell me about Pierce.” 

Her gaze stayed on her untouched plate as she got onto her feet. “Well, to be perfectly honest with you… I’ve, uhm, I’ve had a few doubts.”

“Honesty,” Logan finally said. “You see, everybody? Do you see? Honesty. Greg, stand up! Did you get any orders from my brother? The fucking Conscience of the Prairies?”

Everybody watched as Greg stammered out a near incoherent response. He was sent off to stand next to Tom and Karl, as well. This seemed to be Roman’s breaking point, because he burst into a fit of giggles.

“Roman!” barked his father. 

This brought him back to sobriety. “I like it, Dad, for real—”

“Stand the fuck up!”

With a bitter murmur beneath his breath, Roman got up to his feet. With discreet motions, you silently swiped the phone from his chair and placed it beneath your leg so it wouldn’t be seen by his father. 

Desperate to divert the attention away from him, Roman said, “Kendall took a call from the biographer.”

Logan rested his hands upon Kendall’s shoulders, which made Roman bristle even harder. His older brother droned out, “We all got a call, Rome. Y/N, too.”

“Okay, yes, but you—you seemed like you actually wanted to talk to her.”

“To smoke you out for Dad.”

Roman’s nose wrinkled. “What? Fuck you! Why’d you get to smoke me out? I was smokin’ you out!”

As you watched Logan’s fingers curl into Kendall’s shirt, you couldn’t help but think of him as a meat puppet of sorts. So damaged and broken and directionless, ready to heed every single one of his father’s words. 

“Why don’t you tell us about your mystery call?” 

“Oh, the phone call?” Roman propped a hand on his hip, risking a glance at you. Then, he violently began to scratch at the back of his head. “Yeah, sure, it was Frank. He meant to call you, he wants to know if the plan to overthrow Dad is still happening. ”

Finally pulling away from Kendall, Logan’s voice rang out across the room like a slap to the face. “Someone spiked Pierce. Which one of you boars did it?”

He yelled for the three men in the corner to get down on their knees, claiming it was a game. Your godfather, now more of a monster than a man, called for everyone to get up and cheer, “Boar on the floor!” as Tom, Greg, and Karl scrambled about to eat a sausage that was tossed to them in order to prove their loyalty. He demanded they oink and squeal like real piggies would.

It was cruel and animalistic. And Roman was filming with his personal phone, a sadistic smile on his face. 

You would’ve berated him for it, if not for Kendall cornering you against the wall when everybody else was distracted by the Boar on the Floor spectacle. 

“I know you took Roman’s phone. I saw you,” he said, eyes flickering down to your pockets, where you had hidden away the mobile.

“Fuck off, Kendall,” you responded with a daggered edge. “You touch me, and I’ll bite your fucking head off.”

“I thought you were smarter than this,” he told you. “Defending my brother—do you know how many times he’s fucked you over? How many times he’ll keep fucking you over?”

Curling your upper lip in contempt, you spat out, “Get the fuck away from me, Kendall. What’s wrong with you?”

Suddenly, his hand shot out to grab Roman’s company phone from your pocket, prompting you to shove at him, trying to grab the phone back. The commotion caught the attention of everyone else, Roman included. 

He was quick to step forward, pulling you away from his brother so he could try to yank the device away himself. 

“What the fuck? Give me my fucking phone back, asshole!”

“What are you hiding? What’s the code?”

“Are you fucking serious? My code is, uhm, fuck you—”

The two of them began to tussle, arguing indistinctly as they pulled at each other’s hair and limbs. You stepped back, burying your face in your hands in utter exhaustion. 

When Kendall locked Roman in a chokehold, Roman finally keyed in his PIN, shoving his older brother away with a labored breath. 

“Okay, you got it! You fuckin’ happy? There’s nothing in there. Now give it back—give me my fucking phone!” When he began advancing on his brother again, Colin stepped in to keep him at bay. “What, are you going to touch me, too? Grab my fucking balls—I will drop you, you cocksucker!”

Finally, Kendall opened up Roman’s call history, not at all to see Naomi Pierce at the very top. He didn’t hesitate to tell his father.

“Dad, it was Roman. Roman talked to Pierce.”

Panic weaving through his tone, Roman shook his head. “Dad—I didn’t… I didn’t betray you.”

“Then what’s this call from today?” asked Kendall, holding up the phone. “Why are you talking to her?”

For a moment, Roman’s eyes flickered over to you. “Come on, man. I wasn’t trying to fuck the deal. I was trying to land the deal. I was trying to help—I thought it would be a… a nice surprise.”

His words struck you across the face like a slap. Roman had told you that you were right—that acquiring PGM was a terrible idea. You’d thought he was on your side. And now—it seemed like he was doing it all for his father’s favor. The best of both worlds, blew right up in his face.

“Roman,” began Logan, “you’re a moron.”

Crackling silence.

Kendall cleared his throat. “Boar on the floor?”

Having enough of him, you snapped, “Shut the fuck up, Kendall.”

“Y/N was helping him,” said Kendall. “Tried hiding his phone from the table.”

Logan swung his heated, intense gaze onto you. It took all you had within you not to flinch away. 

“I didn’t know what Roman was doing. I just didn’t want to get him in trouble.”

Your godfather shut his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “How sweet,” he spat. “The two of you are perfect for each other. Fucking morons!”

“Dad,” said Roman, voice warbling. “I am not a moron. She isn’t, either. Y/N, tell him—tell him why you thought PGM was a bad idea.”

Everybody’s eyes were on you. Suddenly, your throat went dry, and all words flew out of your vocabulary. You shook your head, a defeated sigh falling from your lips. Roman’s shoulders drooped with the weight of shame and loss.

“How much is a gallon of milk?” Logan suddenly asked his youngest son, advancing on him until he withered beneath his father’s glare. 

“What?”

“How much is a gallon of fucking milk?”

Confused beyond his mind, Roman said, “I don’t know. I mean, who the fuck knows, Dad? Literally nobody knows! Who gives a shit?”

“Greg! How much is a gallon of milk?”

The lanky man stammered out, “Uh, I mean, like, regular milk, or—?”

Burying his face into his hands, not unlike you had done earlier, Logan sighed out, “I am surrounded by snakes and fucking morons! You’re a bunch of silk-stocking fucks! Who backs me on Pierce, huh? Who?”

When he was met by silence, Kendall answered in everyone’s stead.

“None of them do, Dad. They’re all against it. Karl’s lying, Tom’s lying, Gerri’s playing both sides, Y/N is very clearly against what you’re doing.”

Hot shame curled within your gut. Though you were steadfast in your beliefs against taking PGM, disappointing your father figure was never a pleasant sensation, no matter how terrible he was.

“Uncle Logan, I’m sorry—” you began, but he was quick to shut you down.

“Don’t go sucking my dick now, girl. It’s too fucking late. You’re lucky your brainless parents are major shareholders, or I would’ve fired you a dozen times by now. Do you know that? How fucking worthless you are?”

Tears pricked the corner of your eyes. You wrapped your arms around your stomach, training your gaze onto the ground. 

“Here’s the news,” Logan said, addressing the entire group now. “We are going after it. And what’s more… I will win.”

With that, he stormed off, disappearing somewhere in the vast house. 

“Hey,” Roman tried to speak to you, but you maneuvered away, disappearing up some stairs, where your room was waiting for you.

It took a lot of indecisive thought, but you left the door unlocked.

To none of your surprise, Roman came crawling into your room when everybody was asleep. He slipped into the empty spot beside you, slurring out a litany of nonsensical apologies mixed in with how much of an asshole Kendall was.

“You’re drunk,” you whispered, pushing his face away. You hadn’t the heart to be angry at him. Not this late at night. Not when he was just as upset as you were about what had transpired during dinner. “Go to sleep, Rome.”

“Give me a kiss g’night. And tell me you forgive me.”

“Ro—”

“Just—just fucking do it! Don’t ask me stupid questions.”

Shifting in the bed, you leaned forward to press light kisses to both his fluttering eyelids. “We’re good, Romeo. I don’t know. I’m mad at you, but not as much as I’m mad at Kendall and your dad. I’m your only friend, remember? I love you, asshole.”

“Yeah. Shut up.” His hands curled over your waist and pulled you close. “Say that again.”

There was a laugh in your voice. “What? That I’m your only friend?”

He prodded your side with a stiff finger. “The fuckin’... the love thing.”

A part of you contemplated telling him to fuck off. But the wide, warbling brown of his irises told you that he was desperate to hear it. Desperate for any crumb of affection he was offered. “Mhm. I love you, Ro. I do. Now go to sleep.”

He lazily blinked at you, as if he was a cat. “Don’t be mad if I puke all over you.”

“I won’t be mad.”

“I’d be mad if you puked all over me. Why wouldn’t you be mad at me?”

“Go to sleep, Rome.”

“Night. You smell good, you know? Like if a unicorn had sex with a bouquet of flowers.” Without warning, he sank his teeth into your neck, and you had to physically pry his teeth from your skin to keep him from using you like a chew toy.

Muffling a yawn, you murmured, “Go to sleep before I euthanize you.”

It took him another hour to finally drift off, but when he did, the two of you slept better than you had in months.

Roman was terribly hungover the next morning. Headaches and droopy lids, barely registering your voice telling him to get up. When he finally rubbed the sleep from his eyes, he noticed that you were already dressed for the day, having gotten ready while he was passed out. 

“Everyone’s waiting for you, Ro,” you gently told him, brushing his hair out of his face and then taking his hands to tug him off the bed. “Go wash up. Come on, stinker.”

He let you push him around, handing him the toothbrush and a cup of water to drink once he was done washing up. You turned to give him some privacy to change, but his fingers just couldn’t seem to button his buttons right.

“These fuckin’ things—like they’re made of soap or something—”

With a light sigh, you rotated back around. “Come here, you big baby.” You straightened out his collar before slipping the buttons through their respective holes with ease. 

“Dad’s killing me. He’s cutting my fucking balls off.”

You watched him with a sympathetic gaze. “He won’t do that. He doesn’t see you as a threat.”

“That’s not the compliment you think it is.”

“I wasn’t trying to compliment you.”

Roman watched as you fastened together the last button for him, but you didn’t step away, staying close by him.

“If I was capable of any sudden movement, I would totally pounce on you right now. I like your shirt—is that a new shirt?”

“I’ve had it for four years,” you deadpanned.

“Hm. Old shirt. You should throw it out.” To his relief, you smiled at him.

Patting his cheek once, you asked, “Are you okay? How are you holding up?”

“I don’t know. I’m fucking terrible. But I should be asking you the same. Dad took a beating on the both of us.”

Memories of last night made your nose wrinkle in distaste. 

“I think everyone was just… caught up in the heat of the moment. I don’t think your dad meant everything he said.” He did, you knew he did.

Shaking his head, Roman slunk away to go put on his shoes. “He thinks I’m a moron. The worst of his seed, or whatever the fuck. How am I supposed to get him to take me seriously? Grow a mustache and read the Journal? I’ll fucking do it.”

“Don’t grow a mustache. You’ll look like you came straight out of a shitty European porno.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Ignoring him, you sat down beside the disorderly man, pulling on your own dress shoes and knotting together the laces, before helping him tie his, because his fingers suddenly decided not to work this morning. “Gerri told me I should convince you to go to management training. Because, you know—tada. Your only friend is one of the company’s head managers. Lucky you.”

“What, she and Dad want you to be my teacher? Sounds like a sexual fantasy to me.”

“It probably won’t be me. Might be a lower-level manager. But I’d come to visit! Get you in the spirit of things.”

Roman snorted. “Ugh. I don’t want to go back to classes. I’ll kill myself.”

“Don’t be dramatic. Let’s at least have some breakfast first.”

A week later, Roman was enrolled into the management training program, much to Gerri’s relief. She’d thanked you for convincing him, and you told her that it barely took any effort at all. Really, he just wanted to become better in his Dad’s eyes.

You were swamped with work as usual, occasionally checking your phone to see a long strings of texts from Roman, complaining and whining about the torture they were putting him through (they made him watch a video about ethical conduct in a workplace). 

When Roman called you the first time, you declined because you were in a meeting. You declined the second time as well, because you really had to concentrate on filling out important documents. By the time your phone rang again, you were in between tasks, and picked up with a grouchy, “What, Roman?”

“Yowza, who put that stick up your ass?” his voice came through. His high pitched laughter followed. “It’s fucking hell here. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Sorry,” you replied, pinching your brows. “It’s been terrible up here, too. I’ve got a lot of shit on my plate. This acquisition really isn’t helping.”

“Are you coming?” he asked.

Blinking, you shifted the phone in your palm. “Coming where? To your training?”

“Well… yeah.”

“Mmh, I’m sorry, Ro. I really would, but I’m just up to my head with work. But I’m proud of you! Really, I am.”

“Oh, you are? Fuck you,” he snapped.

You took no offense to his bitterness. “Fuck you back. This is good, what you’re doing, Romeo.”

“Yeah, I know—I’m gonna grow up to be a real little boy and learn the price of an egg, and do… phone sex with my girlfriend like a normo.”

Laughing, you knocked your head back with a grin. “Y’know, phone sex is more kinky than anything. If you wanna be normal, you look her in the eyes during missionary sex and tell her you love her.”

“Pfft. Yeah, right. Do people actually do that? That sounds disgusting.”

“Yes, people actually do that. Have you ever considered that you’re the disgusting one?”

“Don’t be mean, this is my first day of training, you bitch.”

From his tone, you could tell he was smiling, too.

“Seems like you’ve been complaining to me more than actually paying attention.”

“I can’t help it. The videos are too fucking long. It’s like trying to teach Beethoven how to play hot cross buns on the piano.”

You laughed, and Roman felt a certain warmth pool in his chest.

“You can do it, Ro. I believe in you.”

“Thanks, mommy,” he teasingly replied. 

Your phone began to buzz with another call. “Ah—sorry, Rome, I gotta go. See you later, okay?”

Before he could say his grumpy goodbyes, you’d already hung up. To your surprise, your screen displayed the called ID of your godfather. Your palms suddenly grew clammy.

When you answered, his voice was soft and amicable—a stark contrast to what it was like in Hungary.

“Hello, dear. Hope you’re well.”

The rest of the call went surprisingly fine. Logan wanted you to go over to his office to run through some analytics and, apparently, he wanted to apologize to you in person. Mend the broken bridges, he had said. You weren’t entirely sure if there was another game he was playing at, but you couldn’t say no to him. He was your top boss, after all.

Just as you slipped through the glass doors with a hesitant smile, a loud bang sounded from somewhere on the floor. You flinched, eyes widening. 

A gunshot.

Terror wrapped its dark hands around you when security guards quickly took you by the arm, guiding you around bends and corners, before finally leading you into a panic room. Logan came in behind you, looking mildly distraught.

“Are you okay?” you asked, helping him sit down and giving him a loose hug. 

“Fine, fine. Where’s Siobhan? Kendall?”

“I don’t… I don’t know.”

When you felt down your pants for your phone, you let out a frustrated sigh when you couldn’t find it anywhere on you. You must’ve dropped it during all the commotion to get to the safe room. You settled into a seat across from Logan, watching the news on the television, your leg bouncing up and down with agitation. 

A few minutes later, Shiv showed up, embracing her dad with a chaste kiss. She gave you a hug as well, cheek pressing against yours. 

“Do you know what’s going on?”

“No, I don’t. Where’s Tom?”

She pulled away to call her husband, and you slumped back into your chair. 

Down on ground level, Roman was still in his training class, watching his partner begin to present his idea for a new ride, when a man burst through the doors, calling out Mr. Roy!

Well, there goes his chance to pretend to be a normo.

“Just in case you get a news alert on your phone, there’s been an incident at ATN.”

Roman’s brows quirked downwards. “Is my dad okay?”

“It’s been suggested that it could be a concerted attack against the family. Do you want us to take you to a more secure location?”

“Yeah, of course I want that—get me the fuck out of here!” The guard began ushering him out of the class, down the hall to a more ‘secure’ space, which was clearly just an inventory room. “So, uh, does an attack against the family include, like, godchildren, too? Or just, uh, direct blood-related shit?”

“I don’t know yet, sir. All we know so far is that there was a gunshot in the building.”

Panic began to settle in Roman’s chest. He fished out his phone from his pants and called you. No answer.

He texted you, over and over again.

Hey Fuckface You heard about this shooting bullshit? I thought they only went for schools nowadays. Answer me Bitch Right fucking now Can you pick up? Hello  Helloooooooooo 🖕 Hahaha funny joke! Now fucking pick up

It didn’t quite occur to Roman that he should probably call his siblings just yet. He was far too caught up with the idea of you lying on the ground somewhere, bleeding out to death. Certainly not a pleasant thought.

He called you again, and nearly threw his phone across the inventory—safe room when you didn’t pick up.

What the fuck Please answer me it’s not funny anymore If you’re dead I’ll kill you I’m being serious Hello? Please answer You can’t be dead it’s literally not possible

He called a third time, and there was no response. Growing increasingly worried, Roman finally called his twin sister, who responded after the second ring.

“Hey, Rome. You okay?”

“Yeah, whatever. Is Y/N okay?” he hurriedly asked, itching at the back of his neck.

“She’s fine. Here with me in the safe room. I’m fine too, by the way. Thanks for asking.”

“Fuck off, just put me on the phone with her!” 

A second later, your voice came through, and Roman nearly melted onto the floor in relief.

“Hello? Rome? Are you okay?”

“You fucking bitch! What the fuck is wrong with you? I thought you were fucking dead! Why didn’t you answer any of my texts?”

If not for the situation at hand, you would’ve laughed at how worked up he sounded. “I lost my phone when the gunshot sounded out. Sorry, Ro. It happened so quickly. They’re saying it was a suicide. But I’m not really sure—Gerri’s filling me in.”

“So you’re, like, okay? Actually okay?”

“I’m okay.”

“Ugh, fuck you. Go to hell!” he barked into the phone, right before hanging up. 

You stood, still stunned, handing Shiv’s phone back to her with a quiet word of thanks. 

Curled up in the corner of the inventory room, Roman found out that he and Brian had won for best pitch for a ride in the class. He smiled a little, then followed out after his partner to make sure that he wasn’t fibbing.

“I slaughtered them, you know? Everyone in that fucking training class grovels at my feet now,” Roman told Tabitha on the phone. “They’re jealous! And that’s all there is to it. Anyways, um, how are you?”

“Good!” she told him. “I’m about to get in the bath.”

“Oh, yeah?” Roman took a long pause. “Uh, y’know, Y/N told me that phone sex is kinda… kinky. You wanna…?”

On the other side of the line, Tabitha smiled, putting her phone on speaker. “Mmh, alright. I’m making the bath real sudsy.”

“Is that because you’re dirty?”

“I am. I’m a dirty, dirty girl.”

“Yeah, you are. And I would love to fuck you.”

She laughed, light and airy. “I’m so wet for you right now.”

A long pause. Roman winced. “Uh, that’s not… well, you don’t have to be so specific.”

“I’m… being sexy?”

“Yeah, it’s just—could you not do that thing? With your voice? It’s, like, breathy and unnatural.”

Sucking in a frustrated lungful of air, Tabitha shook her head. “That’s what I sound like when I’m turned on, Roman.”

“I know, I just… I don’t like it, so—” He made his way to the bed and laid down. “Let’s just be normal. Let’s be normal. Casual.”

“Normal? Okay, I was just trying to get into it but…”

“No, I’m sorry, yeah, you’re right.” He cleared his throat, trying to lower his voice. “Um, I’m fucking you in the pussy. I’m fucking you hard.”

Tabitha pursed her lips. “Amazing. What are you gonna do next, change your water filter cartridge?”

Rolling his eyes, Roman sighed out, exasperated, “Jesus fucking Christ—oh, look at that, I’m coming! I’m coming! Ah, wow, I came! Thank you! Hooray! Bye.”

Abruptly, he hung up, not unsimilar to what he did to you earlier to you in the day. Guilt suddenly flushed through him—he probably should give you a call. Say he’s sorry.

It only took one ring for you to pick up, and he could tell that you were smiling on the other end. “Hey, Romeo. Didn’t think you had the emotional capacity to talk to me after thinking I was dead.”

Roman rubbed his left eye. “Fuck you. So are you, uh, okay?”

“You already asked me that, Rome.”

“No, like—mentally or whatever. Must’ve been scary. Ooh.” He made a ghost-esque noise, but cringed upon realizing that that probably wasn’t appropriate.

Nonetheless, you scoffed through the phone. “It was jarring, but I’ll be okay. How’d training go?”

“I mean, it’s fuckin’ bullshit but I won the stupid ride pitch thing. They should have it built.”

There was some rustling of sheets. Roman wondered if you were clambering into bed. He wondered what you were wearing. 

“You really think they’ll build you the ride after your first day in management training? Don’t be stupid.”

“I’ve got money. They’ll build whatever I want them to fuckin’ build.”

“You know who you sound like? Like Joffrey Baratheon, from that show I made you watch. The one you never paid attention to unless there was a pair of tits on screen. Spoiled little shits, the both of you.” 

With an affronted gasp, he said, “You can’t talk to me like that. I’m technically your boss.”

You giggled. “Don’t pull the boss card on me, Roman. You’ve slept in my bed more times than in your own. That’s fucking… that’s like power play, right there.”

“Yeah?” Roman could feel a rush of blood go straight to his dick, which began to strain against his pants. “D’you think we’d get in trouble if we ever…”

There was a long moment of silence. Static filled in Roman’s ears.

“If we what, Roman?” you asked, voice quiet. 

Clicking his tongue to the roof of his mouth, Roman blurted out, “I tried the fuckin’ normie phone sex with Tabitha.”

“And?”

“She got turned on.”

“Uh, congratulations?”

“I didn’t like it.”

“Oh. Why not? You like your sex dirtier? Wrong?” You began to chuckle, but it tapered away when Roman went silent on the other end of the phone. More rustling blankets. “Oh, fuck, Roman. You’re an idiot, you know that?”

You could hear the sound of his belt unbuckling. 

“What else am I?” His voice was breathy. Whiny, almost.

“This is wrong, Romeo. I can’t… you’re dating Tabitha, remember?”

“Just keep—keep talking.” When his hand wrapped around his hard dick, weeping with pearly precum, Roman wondered if he’d bust his nut right then and there.

After a few seconds of silence, you tentatively continued, “You’re disgusting, Rome. What’s wrong with you? Touching yourself to my voice when your girlfriend was left high and dry for you.”

He began to stroke himself, eyes fluttering shut. A strained moan fell from his lips. Neither of you had ever ventured this into this territory in your relationship before. Sure, sexual jokes were always passed back and forth between the two of you but this was—this was real. Wasn’t it?

“Mmh, I don’t want you to cum yet, Ro.” You clutched the phone close to your ear. 

A choked noise emitted from his throat. “I can’t—I can’t hold it—”

“Hold it.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to cum with you.” More rustling on the other end as you kicked your pants and underwear down, dragging your finger around your clit. 

This seemed to send Roman into another fit of whines—the thought of you fucking yourself on your own fingers to him made his mind go all hazy. 

“Romey, tell me,” you whispered. “Out of all those times we slept in the same bed together—did you ever imagine fucking me while I was asleep? Like a sick little pervert?”

A groan climbed up the back of Roman’s throat. His pace slowed down, trying his best not to cum prematurely. “Yes, all the fucking time. Yes—” His words died on his tongue as he moaned again, and again, and again—

“God, Ro.” You stifled a gasp when you plunged two fingers into your throbbing cunt. It’d been a long while since you’d had the time to touch yourself—it was no surprise that you were already on the brink of an orgasm. “Have you touched yourself to me before? I’m sure you have. You sick fuck.”

The vein in Roman’s forehead popped as he bucked his hips into his fist. “Fuck, yes! Yes, please, Y/N, please—”

“Please, what?” You moaned yourself, grinding into your palm. “You wanna cum, baby? I wanna hear you make a mess of yourself. Like the dirty fucking pervert you are.”

With those words, Roman toppled off the edge, spurts of warm cum dribbling from his throbbing cock, soaking his fist with its sticky mess. He fucked himself through his high, whining with overstimulation at the sound of your own choked sighs.

Breathily, he whimpered, “What else? Please, what else? What would you do if you were here with me?”

“Mmh, if I was there, I’d make you lick your cum off of me. I’d ride your face until you pass out—oh!”

A creak of the bed as you arched your back, crying out his name, cresting over the peak yourself. 

More silence. Labored breaths.

You swallowed heavily, skin glowing with a faint sheen of sweat. The haze of your orgasm was beginning to dissipate, and you were coming back to your own senses. “Fuck—I’m sorry, Ro. I don’t... I don’t think we should’ve done that.”

He blew out a shuddering breath. “Yeah, we shouldn’t have.” His chest rose and fell unevenly. “But it was fucking amazing.”

“It was.” You ran your tongue along your teeth in thought. “I’m gonna go, uhm, clean myself up, Ro. G’night.”

“Mmh. Night.”

“This doesn’t change anything, right? We’re still best friends?”

Roman screwed his lips up to the side. “Yeah. Fuck, yeah. Totally. BFFs for liferz, or whatever cheesy fucking bullshit you need to hear.”

You scoffed. Things would be okay with the two of you. They always worked out in the end. “See you soon, slut.”

“Hey, Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Romeo.”

“Mmkay, bye, fuck-face.” 

With that, the call ended.

Weeks later, the Roy family was to spend the weekend with the Pierces at their family estate. You figured the reason why Logan had called you to his office right before the suicide was because he wanted you to come along and play mediator—the Pierces were a rather articulate and fanciful family. According to your godfather, they aligned much more with your and Shiv’s politics than his. It reminded you how you were nothing but a pawn on the chessboard for him to maneuver. 

Regardless, you knew you couldn’t say no. Even though he knew you didn’t support the Pierce acquisition, you were a valuable asset and that could potentially be beneficial for both parties. Besides, the Pierces were a powerful family. Having them as allies would be good for you.

You were lounging on the couch beside Shiv and Tabitha when Roman strode into his father’s house, bowing down dramatically.

“How was summer camp?” she teased her twin. 

“Hm? What’s that? Didn’t catch what you said. I’ve been down in the salt mines for so long with my fellow Johnny Lunchpails, I no longer speak One-Percent,” he said when he bent down to kiss Tab’s cheek.

Snorting, Shiv retorted, “You were slinging candy apples, Rome, not digging the Panama Canal.”

“I’ve seen the world for how it really is, Siobhan, and it has changed me! I’m a kettle corn shoveler, here to show you frilly clit-flickers the truth. Hullo, Y/N. You look lovely.” He patted your cheek thrice, and you swatted his hand away before the fourth. A part of you had been worrying for the past few days about your relationship with Roman. Would things change after what had happened over the phone? Or was it all just… no big deal?

To your relief, the two of you seemed to be just the same as before. 

“Hey, Rome. Nice to see you’ve been so… humbled. Tell me, if I were to ask you to do my laundry, would you know how?”

Tabitha cracked up at your words and she nudged at your knee humorously. 

Roman rolled his eyes, muttering something about how he wouldn’t want to touch your tighty whities anyway, and scuttled off to greet Marcia and Connor. Only then did Logan come in, Kendall in tow. His little meat puppet.

“Alright. Cars are waiting—but first, some announcements. Frank, if you wouldn’t mind?”

Logan’s right-hand man stepped forward to address the group. “As you all know, the good news is that the Pierces are entertaining our offer, but bad news—they’re inquiring about your moral character, hence this weekend.”

“They want to look us in the teeth,” gruffed Logan.

Frank nodded. “Right. They want our 24 billion, but they also want to be able to ensure the integrity of their news outlets into the future.”

“Mmh, to ensure everything goes smoothly, we’ve prepared a few do’s and don’ts for the weekend,” said Gerri, pointedly staring at Roman. “Topics to stay clear of: Ravenhead, ATN, Israel, Brightstar, and the Cruise’s rumor mill. Steer onto: gossip, investments, art, movies, literature… tittle-tattle. Wider cultural interests.”

“Oh, and two drinks maximum,” Frank added. “They’re not big drinkers.”

Tilting his head, Roman drawled, “That’s okay. Nobody here has any glaring substance abuse issues that almost brought down the company, right?” He lolled his head over to Kendall, shooting him a wink.

Logan went through a few more details about Tom and ATN and Rhea, which certainly raised a few apprehensions. 

“Thanks for all your help,” said Logan. For a moment, his eyes landed on you. You wondered if he had considered that you’d purposefully sabotage this weekend to stop the deal from going through. Or maybe he knew you were his loyal lapdog, no matter how far he kicked you. Or maybe he simply wanted you there for diversity points. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time. “We need this. Bagging Pierce is the key to our proxy defense. And the defense is life itself. See you at Plymouth Rock.”

Once the helicopters landed onto Pierce's land and everyone was filed out into the vast green fields, Logan turned to his group and gestured for them to smile. He’d even gone out of his way to brush a stray piece of lint off of your coat for you whilst passing by. 

“I am smiling!” Roman haughtily protested when his father gave him a pointed glare.

“Yeah, not like a pervert,” said Shiv.

You grinned, laughing out, “That’s just how he looks, Shiv.”

“Hardee-har-har,” Roman spat out. Then, he watched as Logan linked arms with both Marcia and Shiv. “Wow, Jesus. Look at Papa Smurf. Should I be doing that with you guys?”

Both you and Tabitha glanced at each other, before walking onwards, flat out ignoring Roman. 

The Pierce family was waiting not too far from the helicopters, greeting everyone with apprehensive yet kind smiles. 

The woman who spoke had soft eyes and a round face. Not at all intimidating in stature, but you knew better than to judge a book by its cover. “Welcome to Ternhaven! Our city on the hill. I’m Nan Pierce—it’s nice to meet all of you. I think we’re going to have fun getting a look at all of you, won’t we?”

Both families drew nearer as everybody exchanged polite greetings. You shook hands with about half a dozen people, trying your best to keep up with names and faces. Once at the estate, someone had taken off your coat and offered you a glass of water before you’d even taken three steps inside. 

It was certainly a beautiful home. It felt more lived-in than Logan’s houses, with its abundance of paintings and framed pictures on the walls. The furniture was warmer and cozier—a stark contrast to Logan’s preference for sharp edges and monochrome colors.

Roman came up to your side and pointed at a Latin phrase inscribed into the archway. 

“In veritate triumpho,” he read aloud. “This wine is triumphant? No—your vagina trumpets!”

Passing by, Gerri sharply hushed him just as your shoulders began to shake with mirth.

“I triumph in the truth,” you told him. 

“Honesty is the best policy around here,” said a dark-haired man, appearing from seemingly nowhere. You heard Roman mutter Jesus H. Christ, beneath his breath, but you discreetly pinched his side before he could say anything else. You faintly recognized the man as Peter Pierce—a cousin of Nan. He’d been overly enthusiastic with his handshake, watching you with gleaming curiosity, complimenting you on your outfit. 

You weren’t blind. You knew attraction when you saw it—and Peter wasn’t doing a very good job of hiding it.

“So… where’d you learn Latin?”

“Self taught,” you told him, smiling politely. “I’m not fluent. I just know a few bits and bobs here and there. Tried to learn during my college years.”

Before Peter could respond, Roman motioned gagging. “Barf. I’m gonna go see who Tabs is flirting with. See you nerds later.”

He slipped away, leaving you alone with Peter, much to your chagrin. 

The man was nice enough, sure, but he was being very obvious with the way his gaze lingered a tad too long on your chest. And when it wasn’t there, he was ogling your lips. It was a bit unnerving. 

“I’ve heard a lot about you, you know,” said Peter, arms crossed. 

“And I know next to nothing about you,” you airily responded, trying your best to keep your smile natural, though it proved increasingly difficult with each passing second.

“Well, that can be remedied, no?” he asked. 

You internally cursed at his forwardness. “Sure, yeah. Sounds great.”

And off he chattered, prattling on about his time with his company and what he studied during university, occasionally asking for your experiences as well. You only paid him half a mind, keeping the other occupied with observations of everybody else in the room. How Shiv had somehow managed to insult someone already, how Connor was talking about his presidential campaign with someone who so clearly didn’t agree with his views, and how Roman was guffawing at something Naomi and Tabitha were discussing.

“And what about the tabloids on you?”

“I’m sorry?” you asked, snapping your attention back onto Peter. 

“The tabloids about you and Roman. A lot of them discuss the two of you as a pair.”

Shrugging one of your shoulders, you shook your head. “Those are just baseless rumors.” You thought back to how you and Roman jerked off to each other through the phone. Not baseless at all, it seemed. “Roman and I are friends.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”

Peter smiled. A part of you felt bad for stringing him along in such a way. He seemed like a nice enough guy, if you didn’t count all the uncomfortable ogling. “I just feel like we have a connection, you know? Do you feel it, too?”

“Mmh. Yeah, I’m feeling it.” You chanced a glance to Roman, who was staring straight at you with an impish grin. He saw right through your little facade—he knew you were miserable, and he was enjoying the shit out of it.

“That’s so good to hear. I knew you were different the moment I set eyes on you.”

“Wow. You really do have a way with words. Edgar Allen Poe up in here,” you joked loosely, trying your best not to sound deadpan. 

“You like Edgar Allen Poe, too? God, you’re like—fricking perfect for me. Excuse my French.” To your horror, Peter reached out to clasp your shoulder, steering you to a more quiet part of the room. “Tell me more about yourself. Things I don’t already know from the tabloids. What was it like growing up around the Roys?”

They were more of your family than your actual parents. They were the bane of your existence. They were everything to you. 

Before you could vocalize any of your thoughts (or, some poor, watered-down rendition of them), Logan shepherded the Waystar side of the group into another room for a short, private talk. You let out a long sigh as soon as you were far away enough from Peter, feeling your muscles loosen up. God, that man really did make you stiff in all the worst ways. 

“I think it’s going pretty well,” Roman said once everyone began filing through the door. “I mean, nobody’s fucked Nan or killed her cat by accident, so I think we’re doing pretty good.”

It seemed Logan didn’t quite agree, because he stormed up to his daughter, angrily demanding, “What the fuck did you say to Mark? Making cracks about his PhD?”

“It was a joke! He laughed.”

Frowning, Logan continued on, “He’s a yes, Shiv. He’s solid. Why are you even bothering him?”

The group began to then argue about Maxim, who Connor was supposed to persuade into the yes territory of the acquisition—which he was clearly failing.

“Cut the horseshit, know your roles!” barked your godfather. “Shiv, I want you on Nan.”

“Okay, Dad, we don’t have to be so schematic,” she protested, but her words went largely ignored.

Logan rounded on Roman, standing beside you. “Romulus. When you laugh, please do it at the same volume as everyone else. We didn’t get you from a hyena farm.”

“Thanks, Pop,” said Roman. You frowned, rubbing his shoulder comfortingly.

“The good news is that Nan seems to be spending money in her head—but she could still be swayed by her family, so every cousin counts,” Gerri added.

“Everybody, stay in your lanes. Who’s on Peter?” asked Logan.

“I got it, Dad,” said Kendall.

Quirking a brow, Frank said, “Actually, Peter seems to be rather taken by Y/N. I think it’s a good idea for her to keep him entertained. He’s worried the rest of us are barbarians.”

You crossed your arms uncomfortably, but nodded with a tight-lipped smile. “Yeah, uh, sure.”

“Pimp her out, why don’t you,” scoffed Roman. 

“Good. Everyone got their person? Let’s go, people. Stay focused, stay sharp!” barked Logan, and everyone began to pour out of the room at his dismissal. 

Roman clapped a hand on your forearm. “Hey, uh, if Prickly Pete there does anything—” He made an unintelligible noise while pulling a sour face. “You know the drill. Stop, drop, and roll.”

“That’s for a fire, Ro.”

“Yeah, but it’ll freak him out enough to leave you alone.”

You spared him a sarcastic smile, shaking your head. “Great advice. Thanks.”

“No, but seriously—just say you have to go to the bathroom or something. I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”

“Okay, Sauron,” you chuckled, shoving him away. “Go. Go and use your wily charms to seduce Naomi into making a terrible decision.”

It was his turn to offer you a lopsided grin. “That’s what I’m best at. Influencing women into years of regret.” With a click of his tongue and a wink, he was off.

 When you turned around, Peter was already waiting for you with an expectant expression. Ugh.

This was going to be a long weekend.

The Pierces were a strange family. Who the fuck recited poetry as grace before dinner? Nonetheless, you clapped with a polite smile once Naomi was done with her little poem. Roman rolled his eyes none too discreetly and you kicked at his leg beneath the table. 

On your other side, Peter didn’t hesitate to dive into yet another lengthy conversation once everybody began eating. 

“I like to have three novels and a memoir going at once,” said the man with a flirtatious smile. “It’s like natural selection.”

You forced a laugh—one that sounded genuine to everyone but the Roys, who knew you well enough by now to know that you weren’t amused at all. 

“Hm. I think it’s rather redundant to pit literature against each other in such a competitive fashion. Art is art is art, no?” you responded, quirking a brow as you forked a portion of salad onto your plate. 

You’d hoped that your comment would deter Peter from talking more, but your challenge seemed to only invigorate him. 

“A bit of healthy competition in a given field never hurt anyone. Pushes people to create better things,” he said, leaning closer to you.

“Mm, well, respectfully, I disagree. I think art—literature, especially—can blossom organically, just for the sake of it. The idea that creativity flourishes under competition is, frankly, just capitalist propaganda,” you said. 

To your dismay, Peter tilted his head and quipped, “Isn’t that a bit ironic, coming from you? Goddaughter of one of the richest men in the world?”

Your eye twitched. Beneath the table, Roman nudged your foot. 

“It doesn’t matter who I am. My point still stands, no?”

“I suppose we can just agree to disagree. I still enjoy reading several pieces at once… maximum efficiency, right?”

Another fake laugh.

To your surprise, Roman swooped into the conversation, “Yeah, I hear you, brother!” he chirped, trying his best to sound like an intellectual normie—he wasn’t doing a very good job, so far.

Peter spared him a glance, which made him lean even closer to you. “Are you a big reader?”

“Me? Oh. Yeah, big time.” No, he wasn’t. Roman couldn’t even remember the last time he picked up a book and read past the first page. 

“Can you recommend anything Oprah isn’t pushing? Any new fiction?”

For a moment, Roman’s panicked eyes met your goading ones. He began to laugh, but cleared his throat when he realized that Peter was genuinely asking. 

“Oh, right, yeah, sure I can… I, uh, rather enjoyed The Electric Circus.” 

“The Electric Circus?” echoed Peter in a rather pretentious manner. “Who’s the author?”

“Oh, uh, shit! Who was it… it was uh, Timothy Lipton. Yup. That’s him.” Roman was a terrible liar. You were getting second-hand embarrassment just listening to him. 

Catching wind of her brother fumbling, Shiv asked, “Yeah? What’s it about, Rome?”

“Uh, it is… about a young man making his way through the world. Except in two different time periods, so it kinda switches back and forth between—uh, yup! And—and the circus part is like, you know, a metaphor.”

Shiv narrowed her eyes. “For what?”

“Ugh. For the anxiety of modern life, Siobhan.” Roman only ever called his sister that when he tried to provoke her, or when he was exasperated with her antics. “Ask Y/N. She read the book. Ask her.”

Incredulous, you swung your gaze from your food to him, brows pulling together.

“You’ve read The Electric Circus?” asked Peter. His phone was in his palms. “I’m not seeing it on Google… Are you sure that’s what it was called?”

You began to fumble with your words, internally cursing Roman for throwing you under the bus, as well. God, he was going to owe you a million favors from now on. 

“See, uhm, it was a private little thing, uh—it hasn’t been published yet, exactly. Roman and I were just, you know, we were given the pages because we, uh, we were thinking of funding the novel ourselves! So, yeah… I don’t know why Roman would go and recommend that to you when it isn’t even available to the public yet.” You spared Peter a sweet smile whilst simultaneously stomping on Roman’s toes beneath the table. He retaliated by pinching your thigh.

“Oh. I see. Maybe when it comes out we can talk about it over a cup of coffee, then.”

Roman snorted. You sent him a half-hearted glare.

“Sure. That’d be great,” you told him before the man-child on your other side could come up with a rude retort.

Thankfully, Peter was quick to move on to another topic. Something about how mediocre the movies have been getting as of late. What an asshole. 

The conversation was cut off not too soon later by the white nationalist elephant in the room, as Rhea had so eloquently put it—ATN. Logan had vehemently denied sharing their fascistic beliefs, though the Pierces were clearly still skeptical of your godfather. Hell, even you were. 

There was more tense silence when Logan was questioned on whether or not Tom would stay on as head of ATN. The matter was never resolved, as he excused himself with a lame excuse of his sick dog having arthritis, pulling Shiv out of the room with him. 

You and Roman exchanged confused looks. 

By the time they came back, Tabitha was telling one of the Pierces about her willingness to help out her friend. “I’m thinking, like, if they can’t have a baby in six months, I’m just going to offer them my womb. Why not, you know? I’m young, I’m hardy.”

“Wow, Tabs, that’s really nice of you,” you told her genuinely, sipping on some water.

“Good for you,” agreed Marnie Pierce. “I had a friend who did that, it was so great—”

And then there Peter went, butting his fat head into the conversation where it was clearly not needed. “Uh, but if it isn’t too rude of me to ask, what about you two?” He gestured to Roman and Tabitha.

The blonde woman chuckled. “Oh, you mean us planning to have a baby? No, we’re not planning for a baby, because that would require us having sex!”

“Woah!” exclaimed Roman. “Hey, now.”

Peter grimaced. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Yes, you did,” said Marnie, and Peter only shrugged sheepishly.

“No, no, no, it’s totally fine, it’s just not our thing,” Tabitha replied. “We’re kinda like eunuch besties. It works for us.”

Scratching the back of his head, Roman cleared his throat. “She’s joking. Obviously. She’s kidding. We’re actually quite relentless in that regard. Just… fuck city out here.” 

You almost choked on the water you’d been sipping, the memories of a certain call you had with Roman resurfacing to the forefront of your mind. 

“You okay, Y/N?” Peter asked, lightly patting your back. 

“Fine. Just down the wrong pipe,” you winced. “And, you know, the idea of Roman and Tabs going to pound town doesn’t exactly whet my appetite.”

“Oh, don’t be jealous,” said Roman. “It’s unbecoming.”

Before you could snip back, the table fell quiet when Nan Pierce asked who would be taking on the company after Logan. Your godfather purposefully skirted around the topic, evading a solid name entirely.

Then, Shiv made the terrible mistake of announcing herself as the next CEO.

“Wait, uh, what’s happening?” Peter queried.

“Mmh. I think my life just ended,” Roman responded, looking every bit as shocked as you.

More flubbering from both Logan and Shiv. They were fucking themselves over, you could just feel it.

“You know what, maybe this dinner was a little bit premature. Seems like you guys are still working some things out,” said Peter. 

“No, uh, this is just some family hijinks,” Kendall tried to protest.

Marcia leaned in closer to Logan to ask, “Is this true?”

That seemed to be the last straw for him, because he yelled out, “Will you stop?”

More tense silence. Your foot rested over Roman’s, which was bouncing up and down rapidly beneath your heel. His hand rested on your knee, gripping a tad too tight.

“Well. I was just thinking that it’s such a beautiful, clear night out. Mark—would you like to guide us on a little after-dinner stargaze?” Nan asked.

And with that, came the end of the dinner.

“Did you guys know?” Tabitha asked both you and Roman as the three of you pushed away from the table to head outside. 

“No. No, I didn’t,” said Roman, still in shock.

You had a feeling, sure—there was no way it’d be Connor. Not Kendall, because of his recent endeavors with trying to take over the company, along with his substance abuse. It was between Roman and Shiv, and it didn’t take a genius to see that Logan didn’t think his youngest son was all that competent. That left only Shiv, after all.

“I didn’t know,” you simply said. 

The three of you strode out, leaving only Shiv and Logan left in the dining room.

“Those stars were really nice,” Tabitha said, lounging on the bed as Roman aggressively rummaged through the luggage in search of his toothbrush.

He was growing increasingly agitated about the idea of Shiv taking over the company, channeling his frustrations out on the poor suitcase for not presenting him his toothbrush on a golden pedestal. With a groan and a hand carding through his hair, Roman kicked at its side, sending the bag skidding against the wall.

“Ro,” Tabitha called. “I have a meeting on Monday, and I’d really love to deal with your neuroses and talk about it and everything but, uh, if you’re gonna lose your mind in here, I might just see if Naomi would let me crash in her bed.”

The man pulled on his face. He hummed once, then twice, as if he was deliberating over something.

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s fuck.”

A disbelieving smile danced across her face. She thought he was full of shit. “Yeah, totally. We do the sex so well, so that’s a brilliant idea.”

Clenching his jaw, Roman clambered onto the bed. “Alright. Come on. Come here, you hot fucking piece of shit.”

He tried kissing her, but his nose knocked into hers the wrong way, his hand gripped at her shoulder at an awkward angle, and his lips fell onto only the upper corner of her mouth, barely even counting as a kiss. 

“Woah, easy there, wolfman!” She burst into a fit of laughter, and Roman pulled away with a string of insecure apologies, rubbing at the bridge of his nose, which throbbed from the impact. 

“That was awesome,” he bit out, lying face-down on the bed next to her. “I’m so fucking good at this. Sorry.”

“Yeah, you were, like, squeezing my shoulder really fucking hard—”

“Wasn’t that sexy? How I just took you? Bet you orgasmed like five times in a row.” Roman rubbed at his eyes. “Do you want to, though? Like actually?”

She smiled. “Mmkay. Do I want to…? Make love?”

He frowned. “Nope. Wow. I just—” A groan and a sigh.

Features softening, Tabitha reached out to rub at Roman’s back. “Hey. I’m not… uninterested in solving you.”

Roman turned to face her. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think we can make it, like… I don’t know… wrong?”

Tabitha was supposed to be dead. Which—and Roman thought this was quite obvious—meant that she wasn’t supposed to be wet. Now, there were a million and one ways for them to have sex and have it be wrong (like how it felt with you, maybe), but he’d suggested for her to play dead because… well, because he didn’t want it to feel like he was having sex with her. 

The very thought of fucking Tabitha didn’t sit quite right with him. He liked her a lot, and she was fucking hot as shit, but Roman just… couldn’t. He just couldn’t! Maybe she was right. Maybe they were better off as eunuch besties.

And so it came as no shock to both parties when the dead woman sex didn’t end up working out. Tabitha murmured that the morgue was closing for the night—and that she’d go wank off in the bathroom with her electric toothbrush as a makeshift vibrator. Roman apologized to her again, and curled up in the middle of the bed.

What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he have sex with his girlfriend, like any other fucking person would?

After five minutes of wallowing in his own shame, Roman dragged himself off the bed and did what he knew how to do best: he ran straight to you.

When there was a knock at your door, you were ninety percent sure it was Roman. The other, more terrified, ten percent anxiously wondered if it was Sleazy Pete coming to talk your ear off some more about the latest developments in artificial intelligence. 

To your relief, it was Roman, clad in a loose white shirt and soft, dark pants. 

“Hey, Romeo,” you greeted, pulling him in and glancing out the hallway, making sure nobody was around to see. “Man, am I glad to see you. I was really scared you were somebody else.”

He made a high-pitched, humorous noise, crossing his arms as you softly shut the door closed. “Peter? Oh, no. He’s too high and mighty to come chasing after you so early. He’s the kind to date the same person for ten years, accidentally cum inside one time and knock them up, which then keeps them chained to his side for the rest of his life. You’re good for now.”

“For now?” You were ready to make another quippy retort, when you noticed the way Roman scuffed his bare feet into the carpet, hand scratching at the back of his head. Something was bugging him. “What’s going on? What happened?”

“Huh? Nothing happened. Fuck off.”

Biting at the inside of your cheek, you reached out to him, holding both his hands within yours. “Rome.”

He parroted your name in an equally emphatic manner. 

You sat down on the bed, steering him to sit beside you. “Is this about Shiv?”

Oh. Right. He’d been so caught up with his guilt and shame over Tabitha that he’d momentarily forgotten about that other part of his life that was just majorly fucked over. 

Roman shrugged. “She fucked up bad, huh?”

You laid down, which prompted him to follow you, his head leaning on your shoulder. The two of you stared up at the ceiling together. 

“We all make mistakes. I think your dad probably led her on with a carrot painted with faux gold. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Your long-time friend made a noise of agreement. 

Comfortable silence stretched thinly between the two of you. Roman faintly noticed that your hair was damp—you’d probably taken a shower after the walk. After inhaling sharply, he caught a whiff of your body spray: sweeter than fucking cotton candy and it almost made him want to puke. Key word being almost—Roman rather liked the smell. Especially on you.

“You smell good.”

“Mmh. Thanks.”

You arched your back, bones popping with your movement as you mumbled under your breath sleepily. Something within Roman stirred. 

“I tried to have sex with Tabitha.”

Suddenly, you weren’t all that sleepy anymore. “Oh? How’d it go?”

“I…” Roman winced. Saying it out loud made it sound so much worse, for some reason. “I pretended she was dead.”

“What?” There was a mildly shocked laugh to your tone.

“Consensually!” he vehemently tacked on. “But, you know, she was fuckin’ dripping for me, so… took the experience away, I guess. I don’t know. I like her a lot. I just don’t… I don’t…”

“You don’t want to have sex with her?”

Another shrug. Roman blew out a drawn-out exhale. “Yeah. I dunno.”

“That’s okay, Rome. You don’t need to have sex if you don’t want to, and you shouldn’t feel bad about not wanting it. That’s literally the definition of consent.”

A part of Roman seemed to melt with your words. Your affirmation that there wasn’t something wrong with him (or, at least that one trait of his, he knew there were several other parts of him that you’d consider highly immoral) relieved him more than he’d care to admit.

“Well… I do want it. I just don’t want it with her, maybe?” His voice went all soft yet high-pitched at the end of the question.

Suddenly, you turned your head to him, your nose only a hair’s breadth away from his. 

“Well, Ro,” you began, husky and low, “who would you want it with?”

He didn’t need to say it. You knew already.

“Who do you want to touch you?” you murmured, hand reaching out to skim over his chest, his stomach, grazing over the very top of his pants and toying with the band of his boxers. “Who do you want to make you feel good, Romeo?”

A low whine caught within his throat when you leaned forward to kiss up the column of his throat, nipping at the skin lightly. All of his sanity seemed to fly straight out the window when your hand dipped within his boxer, tugging out his semi-hard cock, languidly stroking along the length. He moaned, chest rumbling with the sound.

Your eyelids hung low as you nosed along his jaw, which strained with how hard he was clenching his teeth. “Mmh, you’re a dirty little pervert, aren’t you? Sneaking away from your girlfriend to rut your pretty cock against me. You’re a mess and I’ve barely even touched you, Rome.”

It’d been so long. So fucking long since someone touched him this way. Since he’d let someone touch him like this. Since he wanted someone to touch him like this. It was all you. Just you, and only you.

And so, it was no wonder that he was nearing his orgasm already, twitching within your grasp as he whined louder. He murmured unintelligibly, pleading for something he didn’t yet know. 

“Can you be a good boy and cum for me?” you susurrated, planting kisses over his jaw, his cheek, the bridge of his nose. You didn’t dare kiss him on the lips—you weren’t quite sure if that would be too far for your peculiar relationship. 

When he came, a loud groan erupted from his throat, which was quickly muffled when you clapped a palm over his mouth, his eyes flew open to meet yours, pupils fully blown, almost eclipsing the molten brown of his irises. You stroked him through his orgasm, murmuring a mixture of degradations and praises all the way.

You pulled back when he began to jerk his hips away with overstimulation, panting against your palm. The sticky spend on your hand glistened beneath the lamp’s warm-hued light, and you brought it up to your face to kitten-lick his cum off his fingers, humming in satisfaction. The sight nearly made Roman pass out. He swallowed hard, propping himself up on the bed on an elbow.

Voice hoarse, he croaked out, “Thanks. Do you, uh… do you need…”

Yes. You wanted it so badly—you wanted him. 

But you knew Roman wasn’t really in the right mindspace to reciprocate anything at the moment. And the guilt that weighed heavy in your stomach would’ve only been worsened if you’d pressured him into anything that he might’ve been uncomfortable with. 

Baby steps. The two of you had been taking baby steps in your relationship ever since you were, well… babies.

“I’m fine, Rome,” you told him, ignoring the drenched throbbing between your thighs and crawling up next to him to lay down. “You can repay me in the future.”

The haze from his orgasm was beginning to clear away. Roman’s nose buried into your sweet-smelling hair. “With, like, a fuckin’ Baskin Robbins coupon or my tongue up your vagina?”

A soft laugh and a shake of your head. “Both sound wonderful,” you told him, curling up into his warmth. A wave of sleepiness overtook you. It’d been a really long day. “Night, Rome.”

“Night, fuck-face.” 

You might’ve simply hallucinated it in your sleep-addled mind, but you could feel a faint brush of lips on your forehead, along with a whisper of thanks. You fell asleep with a smile on your face that night. Roman had taken a picture (with the flash on, which made for quite unflattering lighting) and sent it to you the next morning, giggling his amusing hyena-giggle while the two of you were in the bathroom—with you brushing your teeth and him perched up on the toilet seat lid. It was a tender moment of picturesque domesticism—a life that didn’t quite seem right for the two of you, unless it was with each other.

The rest of the weekend at the Pierce’s estate was uneventful. Everybody had gone home thinking the deal wasn’t going to go through—Shiv had told you her dad fucked everything by refusing to name her as the next CEO.

But, to everyone’s surprise except Logan’s, Nan Pierce ended up calling only a few hours later that she’d sell. You weren’t quite happy with the turn of events, but you supposed that’s just how it was with Logan. 

He always won.

Argestes, a business conference for important folk all over the world, was just under a month later. It was a rather prestigious event, the itinerary always decked with the most ludicrously rich and fanciful activities, with only limited invites handed out. 

This was to be your sixth annual year attending. 

You arrived with Roman practically draped over you, much to the press’ delight. After he made a snide comment about how manipulative you could be when it came to business, you bid him adieu, off to fraternize and mingle with potential allies you might need in your pocket. You were just grateful not to bump into Peter Pierce—the last thing you wanted to do was have him glued to your side for the rest of the weekend. 

The next day, when you’d just barely stepped out of your room, you got a frantic text from Roman. It was a link to a journal article about the cruise incidents, followed by a series of question marks and an indiscernible mash of emojis. The last text gave you the room he and his family were in. 

You rushed off to meet them there, checking your constantly buzzing phone along the way to see texts fly from dozens of people: Shiv, Gerri, your colleagues, your friends, your coworkers alike. This wasn’t a good look for the company, that was for sure. 

When you finally got there, Roman quirked a brow at you. “Have you read this? Tell me this isn’t the greyest shit you’ve ever read.”

“Give me a second, I’ve barely even woken up, much less had time to read the article.” You settled in beside him, opening up the link to begin reading. From across the room, Logan was skimming through a physical copy, glasses on the very tip of his nose as he mumbled under his breath. Shiv was on the other end, waiting for everyone to finish reading. 

Finally, you reached the end of the article, slumping back with furrowed brows. “This is, uhm, serious stuff but it’s also really unclear what’s actually being thrown at the wall here.”

“Maybe this, maybe that bullshit,” Roman uttered.

“Rome, careful,” said Kendall.

“Is this one of those things I need a woman to explain to me why it’s bad?” His head knocked into yours. “You tell me—is it bad?”

Offering him a shrug, you huffed out a sigh and scrolled all the way back up to read it again. “It’s bad, it’s fucking awful someone had to go through this—but in all honesty, I expected far worse for a journal article to blow up this much.”

Growing frustrated, Logan ripped his glasses off. “What’s the protein?”

A man you only faintly recalled as Hugo Baker, part of the Parks and Cruises sector, replied, “They found a woman, Keerson. She was working the cruises back in the mid nineties, and name-checked Lester McClintock.”

Gerri nodded. “She says Uncle Mo asked for sex with her and the other dancers to get their contracts renewed.”

“So they fucked?” Logan asked.

“It says sexual exploitation,” clarified Shiv.

“Said subject of the article is dead,” you chimed in. “So the blame on Mo will effectively be shifted onto Waystar. Negligence of ethical conduct, cruise malpractice, so on and so forth.”

A moment of silence filled the room.

“Well, what can we do about it?” Roman queried. 

Gerri said, “There’s not a lot of specifics. It’s not detailed. Cold hard facts: it’s one woman in the nineties, not twenty women four years ago.”

This made Kendall’s face sour, as he pulled the bill of his cap down lower over his face. “Great. I’m glad we’re so good at doing victim math.”

“Yeah, well, Gerri’s just saying it doesn’t necessarily punch through,” Shiv defended.

The older brother gestured to his phone. “Sure, but… this is not okay.”

“We know it’s not okay, that’s why we’re preparing a corporate response,” the redhead bit back. 

The conversation moved on to PR, which Gerri claimed to be Preston. This was met with Shiv’s vehement disapproval—they were three disgusting, old white dudes who, in her words, would just claim the women to be money-grabbing sluts.

“Call me sociopathic but isn’t this a tiny bit quaint in comparison to the past few years?” asked Roman. 

You bit down on the inside of your cheek in thought. “I think they’re hyperfixating on this right now because they see it as a gap in the chainmail. Mo is dead. He’s not around to bear the weight of blame on his shoulders.”

“We’re being punished for the sins of others,” claimed Logan. “No one real gives a fuck.”

You narrowed your eyes at the hot take. 

For once, you seemed to agree with Kendall when he shook his head. “No, no, we can’t be seen to minimize. I think we need to loudly and quickly say that this is not okay.”

“The question is, what would make it go away the fastest? Do we say it’s something and fix it, or say that it’s nothing and fuck off?” Gerri asked.

“Something,” pushed Kendall. “There has to be consequences.”

To your frustration, Shiv shook her head. “Nope. Condemn and move on. It’s just good advice.”

“Not to be the only frilly-pink feminist in the room, but this isn’t something to sweep under the rug. It may not seem that serious at first glance because of the vagueness but a few dozen women’s lives were ruined, and that’s just barely what we know because of the NDAs. If we ignore it now, it’ll come back to bite the company in the ass later down the line. The least we can do is compensate them, no?” you said, crossing your arms.

Sinking into a wooden chair that creaked beneath his weight, Logan threw his hands up. “This is bullshit. It’s all about me! It’s not real, it’s not honest. They don’t give a flying fuck for these poor bitches. They hate me! And I won’t be giving them the satisfaction of giving in. So no—condemn and move on.” 

You wanted to bury your face in your hands and scream. But you didn’t. You stood still and expressionless. 

They started discussing the panel for later that day. The original plan was for it to be Kendall and Roman up there, but having a woman up there would be much more… fitting given the well-timed article’s release. Shiv haughtily refused, but softened upon her dad asking her if she would. 

She’d think about it. 

And with that, the group began to file out. 

The hours trickled on by and before you knew it, there was only ten minutes until Roman and Kendall were supposed to go up for the panel. You were helping Rome rehearse through what he was supposed to say, even though you didn’t agree with the direction they were taking with simply condemning—it was better than not addressing it at all. 

It was all going smoothly until Shiv burst through the doors, declaring that she wanted to be up there for the panel, much to both Kendall and Roman’s dismay.

“Come on, man. It’s panicky as fuck,” said the eldest of the three. “It looks… kind of fucking cheesy, to be honest. Like we’re throwing our token woman at it? The woman who’s not even in our company?”

“Well, it can’t be two men up there right now. It just—it can’t. Right?” Shiv rounded her gaze to you, and you shrugged half-heartedly. 

“I don’t know, Shiv.”

Standing up, Hugo suggested, “Well, the audience is just expecting Roys, so—maybe we stick at two and someone relaxes.”

Logan’s gaze fell on his youngest son. “Romulus.”

“What? You want to pull me? That—that looks like a humiliation,” your friend heatedly defended. 

“We could just say you got sick,” Hugo said.

Both you and Roman made eye contact and you nodded at him to defend himself.

“No. No, you can’t just fuckin’ bump me ten minutes before the panel. That’s bullshit! Fuck that. Respectfully, dad, why is Shiv even here?” he hissed.

“I was invited,” Shiv replied in a serrated tone.

Roman crossed his arms. “Yeah, well, no, I need to be out there. We need to hang together. You know, like, family.”

Rolling her eyes, Shiv drew herself to her full height. “Oh, so you wanna get Connor on the line, get him to come down here, too? Let him dog-pile on so no one’s nose gets put out of joint?”

“I’ll put your nose out of joint!”

“Oh, yeah, you should say that on the panel—!” Shiv pursed her lips. “If you wanna know what I really think—I think you should drop both of them and I’ll do it solo.”

This time, you were quick to say, “Shiv, I love you, but you’re not part of the company yet. To shove you up there alone would look like fucking… empty wokeness. Like we’re smothering the problem with estrogen and calling it a day.”

Roman nodded. “Pretty desperate, Shiv—exploiting the situation for personal gain, hm?”

The three siblings bickered some more until it grew quite cumbersome and repetitive. 

Two minutes until the panel.

Logan held up three fingers, and that was the end of that.

The panel was… certainly a panel.

It was a lot of dancing around the subject between Kendall and Shiv. You were pretty sure Roman had only said a grand total of two short sentences. 

“We’ll do whatever it takes, you know? We’ll do whatever anyone wants,” he had said. 

From where you were watching on a screen backstage, you face-palmed with a sigh.

By the end, Shiv had made the fatal mistake of implying that Logan should step down from his position, going so far as to call him an old dinosaur. 

It was a shitshow, painted over with glitter and rainbows. In all honesty, it was an embarrassment to even associate yourself with the company at this point. There went all your business schmoozing and fraternizing for the past two days—right down the drain.

“Nice. Bring your daughter to the slaughter. Did you tell the old dinosaur what you were going to do?” Roman asked his twin once the three siblings returned to the room you were in. 

“Hey, I’m sorry, ‘We will do whatever anyone wants?’ What the hell was that?” Kendall asked.

Shrugging, Roman clapped both his hands on your shoulders from behind, squeezing your tensed muscles. “Fuck it, right? It’s just words. There’s no press, anyway. Who gives a shit?”

It was then that Logan walked in, Marcia and Gerri in tow. Roman’s hands slipped away from you to go pour himself a drink and stand by his father.

“It was too much, Siobhan,” said their stepmother. “Dinosaurs?”

Ducking his head, Kendall nodded. “It was over the line. Shiv was over the line.”

Brows cinching, Shiv protested, “Oh, I think it was pretty clear that I was talking about—”

Roman interrupted after taking a long sip of champagne. “No, it was clear, yeah. You tortured the old dinosaur. Barbecued him alive—!”

In a blink of an eye, Logan swung around and back-handed his son straight across the jaw, bellowing out, “Don’t fuck with me!”

The hit rang loud and true across the room. Flesh on flesh, skin on skin, father to son, boot to dog.

Roman fell back with a muffled noise, and you were immediately shooting out of your seat to curl a protective arm around him, placing yourself between him and his aggrieved father. Commotion sprung out—Kendall vehemently yelling at Logan not to touch his brother as if he were a valiant hero, Gerri trying her best to quell the situation with reassuring words.

But all the noise was drowned out in your ears. It was just you and Roman.

It was like you were children all over again, watching with watery eyes as young Roman tried his best to pick himself up after Logan’s frequent beatings. You hadn’t even noticed that your eyes had welled up with a warbling film of stinging tears, heart slamming against your ribcage with staggering, uneven jolts. 

He hunched over, working his jaw and spitting into his palm a second later. 

A tooth fell past his lips, flecked with blood and spit. You could feel your lips twitch downwards as you tried your hardest not to cry.

Kendall flanked to his left, his hand on his brother’s shoulder, and Shiv stood in front of him.

“Rome—you alright?” they both asked. “You okay?”

He worked his jaw again, then shrugged off Kendall’s hand. He was in no mood to be coddled by anyone but you.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m fucking fine! Just fucking—leave me alone. I’m fine.” As you began to lead him away, he called over his shoulder. “It’s just a tooth. I’ll get another one.”

Once it was just the two of you in the hallway, Roman dropped the act. It hurt like hell, and he felt safe enough around you not to have to put up a front.

You tugged him into your room with a mildly haunted expression, fingers gripping far too tightly into Roman’s arm. He walked into the bathroom to rinse his mouth out. The water ran a dark shade of pink. 

As he gingerly began brushing his teeth with a spare toothbrush you handed him, you studied his reflection. He stared back, hating how worried you looked for him. 

“You want me to call a medic?” you asked, voice small. “There’s a few on site.”

Roman squinted at nothing in particular, humming. His tongue ran along the part of his gums that throbbed the most. It tasted like copper. A familiar taste. Nostalgic, even.

“No.”

“Do you need to be alone?”

“Fuck, no.”

You rolled a tissue into a tightly-packed bundle, telling him to bite down on it to stop the bleeding. He did as you told, but not without complaining about it tasting like ass. It actually tasted like nothing, but Roman wanted to make you smile. He hated seeing you so worked up.

With that, the two of you made your way out of the bathroom. You made him sit down on your bed and wrapped your arms around him, clinging onto him like a koala to a tree trunk. The both of you slowly kicked off layers of your clothes, trying your best not to break hold of each other in the process. Shoes first, then jackets, then pants, then button-ups.

You were left in a dark short sleeve and your underwear, and he’d tossed off all his clothes except his boxers. 

“The Argie awards are in an hour,” said Roman. His lips brushed against your collarbone as he rested his forehead onto the slope of your shoulder.

“I wouldn’t have stripped down to nearly nothing if I was planning on going.”

“You’re gonna miss dinner. You’ll starve to death—and you won’t be allowed to blame me for it.”

“I have a banana somewhere in here. Plus—room service is only a call away.”

“Mmh. Mmkay.”

The tooth was still curled inside his clenched fist. 

“Wait,” you murmured against him, crawling off his lap to grapple for your wallet that you’d left on the nightstand. Roman murmured unhappily at the loss of warm contact, rubbing his palms up and down your legs. “I don’t really carry cash around these days but… I always keep a few spare coins in here.”

He watched as you fished through the slits, brandishing first a dime, then a nickel. Another dime.

Then you pulled out a quarter, grinning widely.

“I’m supposed to slip this under your pillow while you’re sleeping, but I have a feeling you’re not gonna let me get up for the rest of the night,” you whispered, crawling back to him and throwing a leg over his waist. He curled his own legs around you as well, leaning his weight into you. His head throbbed, his jaw throbbed harder, his heart throbbed the most. 

The cool metal of the quarter fell into his free hand. Then, he unfurled his fist. You stared down at the bloody tooth with unsure eyes.

“You have pretty teeth,” you told him after snapping out of your initial frozen state, pressing your nose into his uninjured cheek. “Even when we were kids, you had the prettiest pearly whites.”

Roman smiled, even though it ached to. “I remember you chased me around for my tooth once. Like a fucking freak.”

“Hm. You loved it, Romey.”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever,” he said, trying his best to be dismissive. Then, he craned his arm to place the tooth on the nightstand. 

You yawned, and he followed closely after you.

“It’s only eight at night. We’re falling asleep at fuckin’... fucking granny hour,” he grumbled.

A giggle, cut off by another yawn. “I don’t blame us. It’s been a long day. Sweet dreams, Romeo.”

“Night, fuck-face.”

“You know I love you, right?” you whispered. A light kiss to his throat as he swallowed.

“Obviously. You’re infatuated with me. Obsessed, even.”

If one was infatuated-slash-obsessed with the other, it’d most certainly be Roman.

You hummed and grinned into him. You didn’t deny his words, merely huffing with amusement. “I’m going to take your tooth and sell it on EBay for a hundred bucks.”

I’m fucking in love you, he wanted to scream.

“Fuck off,” he said. “It’s worth a million bucks at least. Shut up—stop fucking smiling, you freak. Go to sleep.”

You settled against him some more, and drifted off a few minutes later, listening to his heart beat from his throat.

You weren’t entirely sure what had transpired during the last few hours of Argestes, but there was one thing made clear: Nan Pierce had called off the acquisition entirely. You had no idea what to think of the entire situation anymore. You were just… tired of it all.

Not long after, a team had called you in to record a video message for Logan’s big fiftieth anniversary at Waystar. You were given very little time to figure out what to say, and so your message was short and sweet:

“Hey, Uncle Logan. I think we all owe you a bit of gratitude for giving half a century of your life to the large, ever-expanding field we call media. You’ve always been a constant figure in my life—heh, more constant than my own parents. I couldn’t imagine where I’d be without you. Congratulations, and I look forward to the next fifty years working by your side.”

It wasn’t over the top, and only slightly sugar-coated with falsities. 

Once you stepped out of the recording booth, Roman shot you a grin. “Cocksucker,” he teased. “There you go—something you and Rhea can bond over.”

You prodded his chest with stiff fingers. “Shut up,” you fondly told him.

“How’d you even get all that in one fucking take? They had me say ‘I love you, Dad’, like, ten times in a row.”

Before you could retort back, the two of you bumped into Shiv, who was typing away furiously at her phone. 

“What do you guys reckon—you think Dad is boning Rhea?” she asked.

With a snort, Roman strode away to pour himself a cup of coffee. “Can’t wrap my head around that. Too steamy. Too hot.”

“You are a walking Freudian complex, you know that, Ro?” you asked him, bumping his hips with yours so he’d move over as you fixed your own drink. “I don’t wanna think about it, honestly. Who my godfather fucks is really none of my business.”

“You’re just jealous. You want daddykins all to yourself!” said Roman in a sing-song voice, which made you purposefully step onto his toes. “OW!”

The hot coffee jostled over the rim of his cup and some of it sloshed onto his chest. He sent you a glare and you kissed his cheek with a sweet smile before moving off to sit next to Connor.

“Yeah, yeah, but we should, like, talk about what this means. We’re… we’re all sensing the shift, right?” asked Shiv.

“Gerri says she’s the new thing,” said Roman as he took a seat beside you, obnoxiously leaning back to drape both his legs over your thighs.

Connor lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “Well, it just so happens that Gerri was the new thing a while back.”

“Mmh—Logan made it clear that she was more or less there as a placeholder,” you said, sipping on your cup, watching the siblings over the rim. “Come on—there’s no way Logan is handing the company over to a woman, much less a woman older than fifty. It’s a shame, because Gerri really could’ve been a great CEO had she been given an actual chance.”

It didn’t go past your notice to see Shiv’s face contort with dismay at your words. Not too long ago, she’d been under the impression that Logan was handing the company over to a woman—her. 

“I just think we need to be careful,” she said.

“Awh, what’s wrong? You all wedgied up because Rhea stood on your back and worked your arms like an elliptical?” asked Roman, which made both you and Connor snort with amusement.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m just saying, we should probably have a plan. You know, in case Dad does something rash.”

It was then that Connor was called away to record his message, and Kendall sauntered in just a minute later. His jacket and pants were noticeably rumpled and a pair of sunglasses sat on the bridge of his nose. Only assholes like Kendall would wear sunglasses indoors.

“Hey, what’s up?” he greeted everyone.

“You’re wearing the same clothes as yesterday—you want us to think you got laid. Nice try.” Both you and Roman giggled like schoolgirls, which only had the older man rolling his eyes. 

“Well, have fun discussing killing Rhea—” you began.

“There wasn’t anything about killing—” protested Shiv.

“I’m gonna head out. Gotta get some work done before the flight to Dundee. Which, is so fucking over the top, by the way. Even my parents are going for this. They weren’t there for any of my birthdays in the past twenty years, but sure, let’s go to Uncle Logan’s celebration for his fiftieth year working at Waystar.” You nudged Roman’s legs off of yours so you could stand up. 

Rome’s eyes widened. “Your parents are coming? Damn. Rhea really went all out, didn’t she?”

You frowned. “Feels more like a personal affront to me than anything. Not looking forward to seeing them, but whatever. See you guys later.”

They all murmured their farewells and you patted Roman’s knee softly before heading out.

Dundee was cold. So cold that you had to wear two layers of thermal socks, and your toes were still cold. Roman made fun of you the entire way into the hotel room, joking about icicles forming beneath your chin. 

Once you were finally inside, you cranked your heater up as high as it could go, shedding all your layers off with a grateful moan. It’d been a long flight, and you were exhausted.

Roman laid down on your bed, lazily turning his head to follow your movements as you flitted to and fro around your room, unpacking your essentials.

“There’s better ways to warm up than hanging your wrinkled button-ups,” he quipped. One of his brows quirked upwards in an almost seductive manner.

You laughed at that, fishing out articles of clothing from your luggage. “You’re all bark and no bite, Roman. Besides—you literally brought Tabitha to this event. Where even is she, anyway?”

With a shrug, he remarked absentmindedly, “Oh, she’s off exploring all the joys of Scotland.”

“So… grass and sheep?”

He laughed his hyena-laugh. “Yeah, grass and sheep.” Then, he propped himself up on an elbow to face you properly. “Did you bring a date?”

“Ugh. Didn’t want to bring one. Not with my parents coming. It’ll be a nightmare.”

Something in Roman’s eyes softened. “I would’ve been your date if, uh, if I hadn’t already asked Tabs. To be fair, I asked her before I knew about your parents. I can kick her back to America right now if you ask.”

You paused in your ministrations. “Stop it. I like Tabs. She’s nice. And I wouldn’t have wanted you to be my date out of pity, anyway.”

Roman lifted his shoulders in a slow shrug, lips pursed. “It wouldn’t be pity if I wanted to.”

A beat of silence. 

You blew out a sigh. “I’m really here for the image. I’ll say hi to my parents, and then avoid them for the rest of the night.”

“I can help you with avoiding them.”

“Hm?”

“Gerri wants me to secure funding for Waystar to go private. As a… back up plan, in case everything combusts into fuckin’ flames. She wants me to target Eduard. Seduce him, or whatever. You can come with—butter him up with all your oozy corporate rank and that—that pretty face on your face. He wouldn’t be able to resist if we double-combo him.” Roman shot you a lopsided smile that only lifted one corner of his lips. You pushed away the urge to coo at the fact that he called your face pretty. “Or… you can flit around with all of Dad’s cocksuckers and awkwardly bump into your parents two hundred times before the waterworks break out and you make an embarrassment of yourself in the middle of the celebration.”

Done with putting away your clothes, you made your way to the bed and sat down beside him, your shoulder pressed up flush over his. 

“You’re a lifesaver, Rome. Yeah, of course I’ll come.”

“Yeah, yeah. You can repay me with a blowjob.”

You laughed, but a small part of you wondered if he was serious.

“Any other ways I can repay you? None that could, uhm, potentially warrant a lawsuit?”

Roman scratched at his chin in thought. “Yeah, actually—what if we got, like, married?” His voice went all soft and high-pitched. Lilting. Tentative. 

Your eyes widened at first, then narrowed thinly. “What?” you asked, partially incredulous. He was joking, right?

Right?

“Not like—” He gestured aimlessly. “Not like that. Not actual marriage. Like something equivalent to that—like me chaining you down in the basement, or something. Like me kidnapping you and keeping you hostage.”

“Romeo, what the hell are you talking about?” You sat forward, your face all the closer to his. “In what world is that equivalent to marriage?”

Nervous anxiety clawed within his stomach. “Jesus Christ, I’m not talking about marriage. Just something on that fucking level of us being tied together. I don’t know, you chop off my dick, I chop off your tongue, whatever the fuck. You know, like, you eat me, I eat you—like they do in Germany.”

You were pretty sure that’s not what they did in Germany.

“You know what I mean.” His eyes were pleading, asking you for something you weren’t quite sure of.

“I… I don’t think I do?” You took one of his hands. “Rome, what’s going on? You’re being… weirder than normal. Did something happen with Tabitha?”

Because he was in love with you and he had no idea how to say it. 

The answer to Roman was simple: he just wouldn’t.

Hastily, Roman pulled away from your touch. He rolled off the bed in one single motion, almost tumbling over his own feet as he scrambled to the door. He tried to ignore your crestfallen expression watching him put more distance between the two of you.

“No, nothing happened with Tabitha. Just, uh—just think about it. I’ll text you the details to meet Eduard. Bye!” He was already halfway out the door with his last word.

You screwed your lips to the side in puzzled exasperation, and blew out a heavy sigh.

The pub was nearly empty, save for a snogging couple near the back, and a few scattered about the seats casually sipping their ale as they watched the soccer match on the mounted television above the bar. Amongst them was Eduard, standing out like a sore thumb with his crisp suit and his dark, slicked-back hair. Just the sight of him seemed to cost money.

“My God, you smell like cotton candy—I almost want to lick your neck. Don’t you want to lick his neck, Y/N?” Roman asked instead of greeting him like any regular person would.

You shot him a half-hearted glare before sticking your hand out. Roman had always been one to overstep boundaries. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Asgarov.”

“Oh, please, Eduard is fine. And the pleasure is all mine,” he languidly drawled, eyes darting up and down your form as a pleased smile curled the corner of your lips. He firmly clasped your palm in a handshake. “I’ve heard much about you—general manager… the glue of the company, some people say. But Roman never mentioned that you were so beautiful.”

A large part of Roman’s insides bristled with hostility, an emotion he couldn’t quite put his finger on, but he plastered on a strained smile anyway. “Yup, yeah, forgot to mention. But, uh, yeah, thanks for coming, man. My dad’s going to be very pleased when he sees old friends and whatnot…” He waved the bartender over to order himself a pint, and added on a non-alcoholic beverage for you—he knew you didn’t like to drink during the day. Then, he caught sight of the television. “What’s this? Who’s playing?”

“Scottish,” replied Eduard, taking a sip of his own beer. “I’m thinking of getting in.”

 Your eyebrows raised a notch. “Mmh, smart choice. Lots of buried money in European soccer leagues.”

Eduard spared you a warm smile.

A frown crossed Roman’s features—he was starting to regret inviting you, even though he’d been the one to suggest you flirt him up. 

“Scottish kicky-ball,” he remarked. “Looks like two eunuchs trying to fuck a letterbox.”

His foul comment went largely ignored by the two of you. 

Eduard was certainly an attractive man, you thought once you watched his tongue draw out to run along his lips in thought. “I’m liking the look of Hibs,” he said, eyes trained on the television, flitting down to glance at you for a second. “Or Hearts. I’m undecided.”

“Hearts?” asked Roman. “That’s my dad’s team. The only childhood relic he can stomach.”

Hazy memories of seven-year-old you peeking over the expensive leather couches to see what your godfather was watching on screen came across your mind. It always cycled through the same three channels: ATN, soccer, and old black-and-white English films from the fifties. You never stayed for long, always darting out of the room in fear of him turning to see you there, watching along with him. But from the little that you did catch a glimpse of—you could only barely recall the green insignias and jerseys of the Hibs on the screen.

“I think he was a Hibs fan, no?” you asked, thanking the bartender when he slid your drink over. 

Roman scoffed. “Pfft—I think I’d know which team dad likes.” You didn’t bother trying to argue with him. After all, your childhood memories weren’t exactly the most reliable source.

With a half-minded hum, Eduard said, “I’ve got an agent in Spain. I buy the club, he loans me nine shit-hot players. Climb the ladder, take the second Champion’s League space, UEFA goes full European super-league, flip it, walk away.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but it sounds fucking slick, dude,” Roman replied, sipping on the frothy part of his drink. “Slicker than cum on a dolphin’s back.”

“You want in?” asked Eduard.

“Mmh, maybe. But before all that—can we talk about what we talked about before? You know, a major injection, or even taking us private. Have you talked to your dad?” asked Roman. 

A smile and a nod. “It’s a conversation we can have—I have total, three-sixty latitude to work on my father’s behalf.”

“Great. Yeah, cool. No, me too. Yup.”

He didn’t, but you wisely kept your mouth shut. 

“Weird, how much we’re the same,” said Roman, playfully punching Eduard’s shoulder.

“Yeah, you guys are practically twins,” you quipped, smiling over the rim of your glass. “Couldn’t tell the two of you apart.”

The dark-haired man tilted his head. “Buy them with me. We’ll split it fifty-fifty.”

“I, uh…” Roman spared you a look, silently asking you if he was being stupid with his rashness. “I don’t really see a downside, other than zero knowledge or interest in Scottish football. But, yeah! Hearts. Sounds fun.”

“Hibs,” you said.

Roman wrinkled his nose. “Hearts.”

“Hearts, it is,” said Eduard.

It wasn’t Hearts. 

After Kendall’s laughable rap song about—what was it—stanning his dad and calling him the OG, Roman had broken the news that he’d bought the Hearts club as a present for Logan on such a special day.

Logan fixed the three of you with a blank stare. 

“The Hearts?” he echoed.

Roman spread his arms, wiggling the tips of his finger in a sad rendition of jazz hands. “Mhm.”

“Hearts Football Club?”

Roman nodded.

Shiftily, Logan looked towards you. He always looked to you for clarification when he couldn’t understand his son—which was quite often.

“Uhm, Roman bought the Hearts for you,” you said, voice small.

“It’s your team, right?” Rome asked.

A beat of silence.

“I’m Hibs,” said your godfather.

You fucking knew it.

“You’re Hibs,” parroted Roman, his shoulders beginning to droop. “Really? Are you sure? I thought you were Hearts—I’m pretty sure you were Hearts, dad.”

Scratching at his chin, Logan softly said, “You know what, maybe you’re right. Hm. How would I know what team I’ve supported all my fucking life? Who knows—maybe I supported Kilmarnock. Or Fucklechester Rangers? I mean, how could I possibly know?”

Roman recoiled as if he’d been kicked. Eduard patted his shoulder, and brushed his hand along your lower back as he slipped away, chest burning with secondhand embarrassment. 

“Sorry, Uncle Logan, there’s just been a, uh, a miscommunication—” you said, hastily tugging Roman away. The two of you wove through the crowd until you got out of the large room, into one of the quieter halls. 

You chewed on your bottom lip, watching Roman frustratedly pace back and forth in front of you. Just as you opened your mouth to speak, he snapped out, “I thought he was fucking Hearts, dude!”

“... I told you, Ro.”

He scowled. “Ugh. Shut up.”

Before you could ask if he could maybe switch somehow, two figures pushed through the doors, coming to stand in front of you. You tore your gaze away from the flustered man, fixing your eyes on—

Fuck.

“It’s lovely to see you, Y/N,” said your mother. In her hand was a glass of wine, half empty. “You’ve grown quite a bit. Have you gained weight?”

She reached out, but you immediately stepped back, closer to Roman. 

After getting over your initial shock, you cleared your throat and tentatively responded, “Hi, mom. Dad.”

The couple gave you an awkward onceover. It’d been years since you last saw them, with maybe one or two texts exchanged every year for the holidays. Though, even that wasn’t a guarantee.

“We, uhm, we saw you rush out with Roman here and thought we’d say hello,” said your father, sparing you a terse smile.

“Wow.” Roman, unsurprisingly, inserted himself into the conversation. “And the parents of the year award goes to…”

“You thought you’d say hello. Jesus—I haven’t seen either of you in fucking forever and the first thing you do is nitpick at my appearance?” you growled, fists clenching by your side. “Listen, if you want to be in my life, then be in my life. But you can’t pretend that everything is okay when you see me and then promptly waltz off and disappear for another decade or two.”

Your mother sipped at her wine, at a loss for words. They glanced at each other, both wearing a mildly guilty expression, but had really nothing to defend themself with.

With an angry scoff, you stormed back into the room where Logan was about to give his closing speech, shoulder roughly knocking into your father’s as you brushed past him. 

Roman scratched the back of his head, left alone with your parents. 

“For the record, Y/N is doing fucking great without either of you. You know—crunching those numbers, being a goddamn messiah for the lower-level employees, fucking the boss. All that jazz.” He grinned and hum-laughed when their eyes widened in shock, and sauntered in after you. It wasn’t exactly that white of a lie. You’d given him a handjob and the two of you technically had phone sex—would those two activities put together constitute as one whole traditional, in-person fuck?

He’d come in to stand beside you and Tabitha just in time to hear his father make the announcement.

“... And I shall be appointing Rhea Jarrell as my Chief Executive Operator.”

The crowd burst into applause. Roman clapped with a faux-surprised expression. When he glanced at you, you were wiping the corner of your eyes with the back of your palm and hastily clapped along.

Once the cheers began to mellow away, Roman stopped clapping to lace his fingers through the gaps of yours, squeezing tight. Your eyes watered even more at the contact, but you squeezed back in gratitude.

There was an interview of  James Weissel on the television: a whistleblowing interview tossing Gerri, Kendall, and Tom into the stinking shitpot that was the cruise incidents, accusing the three of covering up McClintock’s actions. Logan had shut it off before anybody could finish watching.

Whilst everyone was busy prattling off about how bad of a situation this was, Gerri seemed to be the one lighthouse amidst the storm.

“I say we tell the truth,” she calmly said, adjusting her glasses to sit higher up her nose. “The family knew nothing of this. We throw Mo overboard. Mo, bad apple. Jim Weasel, bad apple. Spies a book deal—sotto voce, backed by Sandy and Stewy. All corporate fuckery, no real concern. In terms of historic shit? I say we give up Bill. He should’ve let us know what he discovered rather than cleaning up without telling us the details.”

Bill had been the old Tom before Tom was, well, Tom.

And so there was the strategy: letting Bill take the fall, and kill him off. It wasn’t… a decision you necessarily felt good about, but it was the least messy the situation could be.

Things felt like they’d be smoothed over, just for a little bit.

But then Siobhan came in, phone clutched tightly in her hand. “Gil is going to call for hearings.”

This stirred up quite a murmur in the room. Both Kendall and Frank sat up in their seats with incredulous questions on the tip of their tongues.

“Yeah, Senate Commerce. Probably House, too.” 

Gerri was on her phone in an instant. “Buckle up folks,” she said while scrolling through the news. “We’re going to get an invite to the national latrine. See who’s going to take a public dump.”

“Mr. Fuck is going to Washington,” Shiv sighed.

It was then that Logan let out an ear-splitting bellow of rage. It shocked both you and Roman into flinching. 

“NO! I CAN’T HAVE THIS NOW!” he screamed in distress.

There was a long moment of silence. 

In a leveled tone, you asked Shiv, “Who’s testifying?”

“Uh, well… well, they’d want Dad.”

Kendall quickly protested, “No, we can’t—we won’t let that happen—”

“Protect the egg chamber!” said Roman. Nobody could quite tell if he was being sarcastic or not. 

It was then that Hugo suggested Gerri and Tom to testify. The group went back and forth for a little while longer on what the play would be, but it was quite clear that everybody was already settled with Gerri and Tom going up there. 

To your surprise, Logan called for you and Roman out of the room. 

A part of you wondered if he’d beat Roman over the head with his fancy business shoe for buying the wrong soccer team. You certainly wouldn��t put it past him, especially in his already-agitated state. 

“I need both of your help,” he told the two of you once you were out of the room, lingering by the foot of the pristine staircase. 

“Need someone to run to the store for smokes?” Roman asked, his hands propped on his hips.

“This’ll go on all night… and it might not be okay,” your godfather said.

This made you tilt your head. “Will this really sway the shareholders into folding? It happened under our noses three decades ago, and the perpetrator is dead.”

“The very fact that we’re being called to testify will spook the shareholders. I’m on a knife’s edge.” He grunted softly as he lowered himself to sit on one of the lower steps of the cold staircase. “Ten bad minutes on camera, and that could be it. The end.”

Roman’s brows raised. “The end? Come on, Dad.”

“I need the two of you to chase down the sovereign wealth money,” said Logan.

You and Roman glanced at one another. Was he being serious? 

“Right. Uhm… I mean—that’s… it’s a cool idea, but it’d be a stretch, no?” Roman tentatively brought up. 

Logan leaned forward, shifting his weight onto his elbows, which were resting upon his knees. Though he had made himself physically smaller, he’d always be the biggest presence in the room. “We need that central Asian money. It’s a time out from the responsibilities of being a public company. That’s a fucking lifeline, if I’ve ever seen one.”

“They’d be taking on a massive amount of debt. That’s a… huge responsibility, Uncle Logan.” 

The older man snorted. “Which is why I’m making you go with him. Make sure he doesn’t fuck up. Keep it under wraps. And bring Karl and Laird with you, as well, for the financial matters.” There was a pause as he studied the two of you. “Can you do it?”

Roman scratched anxiously at the back of his head. “Fuck, Dad, I want to say I can. But, I’ll be honest—if it’s, like, really important… I mean, I can say I can do it—like one of those firefighters in the movies. But I don’t know if—”

“You act the fuckleknuckle, but you know… people like you.” 

There it was. A narrow slant of light. It wasn’t real—at least, you didn’t think it was—but it was warmth regardless.

Roman’s features twisted. “It’s a really big fucking deal.”

“Nah. It’s getting the right number from the right suit. Getting your dick in there is easy. Getting into bed—that’s the hard part,” said his father. “You can do it. Both of you can.”

You scuffed your shoe against the floor just as Roman’s nose twitched. 

“Yeah. Sure, dad, I got it.”

Logan pushed himself off the staircase, placing a hand on each of your shoulders. The light was warm, and far too addicting. He smiled softly. 

It wasn’t real, you had to remind yourself. It’s never real. But did that really matter? Did it?

“You’re brilliant, my dear. A real force to reckon with. I trust you to hammer the nail right on its head,” he said. 

You swallowed harshly. “I hope we won’t disappoint, Uncle.”

When he pulled away, he began to make his way towards the doors once more. “Keep me close,” he said. 

And with that, he was gone.

Roman let out a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. 

“Why does it feel like we just dug our own graves? I feel like I’ve got fuckin’ dirt in my eyes,” he lamented just as you leaned your head onto his shoulder. “You know, if the company ever kills you off, I’ll quit. I don’t know how I’d do it around here without you.”

“All bark, still no bite,” you quietly told him. “You wouldn’t leave the company. Not on your own free will.”

Like a caged dog: it was only able to escape if their owner opened the door for them.

“I’ll kill myself if they kill you. I mean it—I’ll eat a fucking silver bullet.”

“How romantic.”

“Mhm—we’re like fuckin’... Romeo and Juliet.”

He smiled, and so did you.

“C’mon. Let’s go watch the grown-ass men I bought kick around balls for a bit,” said Roman.

Eduard greeted you at the soccer team’s practice field with a kiss on the cheek, Roman with a firm handshake. 

“It’s good to see you,” you told him with a genuine smile. 

“Good to see you guys, too,” he replied. His expression was well-guarded behind a pair of dark shades. “With everything I’ve heard going down at Waystar, I was surprised you even showed up.”

With a shrug, Roman said, “I have nothing better to do, I promise. I’m gonna cut right to the chase here—do you think there’s any chance you guys have the muscle to take us private? Is that something that’s interesting to you and your dad?”

With nearly no hesitation, Eduard bobbed his head in an affirmative.

Shocked, Karl asked, “Really? That’s…”

Eduard spared the older man half of a grin. “Yes, we’re interested. It’ll look good as part of our portfolio, and we like the news expertise you can share.” Just as Laird began spewing off details to tell Logan, Eduard cut him off by saying, “Actually, Roman, Y/N—can you guys do it? The two of you make quite a team. You and your… bum-boys here can come to Turkey tomorrow? Pitch to me and my Dad?”

You and Roman exchanged earnest glances, as if speaking to each other telepathically. You were sure you could push back your work at Waystar for a few days to settle the privatizing deal. 

“Absolutely. I think we can definitely do that,” said Rome, with a pleased hum. Then, he turned back to fix his gaze on Laird and Karl. “Ain’t that right, bum-boys?”

 “Why Turkey?” you asked, brows raising. “I mean, I can pitch to you anywhere, but why, you know, all the way across the ocean?”

“There’s an investing conference in Bursa. Everyone will be there—we can get into it. Unless you have any objections…?”

Hastily, you shook your head. “No, no. This is great. Thanks for the opportunity.”

“No problem,” said Eduard, watching the ball fly across the field, landing into the goal. “I like you guys. Really.”

The coach called for the team to huddle up, allowing for the owners to say a few words. A part of you wondered if Rome even remembered the name of the FC he had bought.

“Great session, guys. And listen, for Saturday, you have the ability, you have the mentality. Watch that press doesn’t leave you exposed on the turnover, and you fucking got this. Rome?” Eduard turned to your friend, who hadn’t really prepared anything to say.

Roman fixed you with a panicked look, but you nudged him forward with a purse of you lips.

Scratching the back of his head, he awkwardly started, “Uh, yeah, hey guys! Really proud to be associated with all of you. Uh, well, what the fuck can I tell you that you don’t already know? You, uh, you got all this guys, don’t worry about it. ‘Cause you guys are a team, and, uh, when a team… is a team… it can’t actually physically be beaten. It’s impossible. So, go hard, go fast—uh, go you… lovely bastards.” The team glanced at each other and began to awkwardly clap, before Rome looked to you and said, “Anything else you want to add?”

“Me?” you hissed under your breath. “Rome, I’m not an owner—”

“Just say something—!” he whispered back, yanking you forward by the arm.

Stiff, you waved at the litter of sweaty, jerseyed men in front of you. “Hi. Yeah, I’m sure you guys know I’m not one of the team’s owners, but I was there during the business negotiations as Roman’s, uh… co-partner. All I can do now is wish you all the best of luck for your next match—get some rest, eat some good food, keep your eyes on the prize. And if any of you want to get in touch with Waystar Royco for any sort of PR pitches to get your face out there… Coach will have me and Roman’s contact details.” With a smile, you stepped back, shoulder brushing against Roman’s.

“Fuck you,” he muttered bitterly. “Did you rehearse that in your head or something? How’d you manage to perfectly squeeze business into a fucking pep talk?”

You grinned and pinched his cheek lightly. “Go hard and go fast, you lovely bastard,” you mocked, voice rife with fondness, chortling when he swatted your hand away.

Before you knew it, you and Roman (and the bum-boys) were in Turkey, pitching to Eduard and his team. You had tried practicing a little the night before, but Roman had tossed all the flashcards away out of part-frustration and part-cockiness, assuring you that things would be fine. 

Now, as he was speaking, he seemed pretty confident in his own words. The two of you made a good team, after all.

“Look at the cash flow,” said Roman. “We are undervalued. I think tech just had everybody shitting their pants about legacy media, but really, the wheel turns.”

You nodded with an emphatic smile. “It’s true. No matter how much content moves to streaming sites, people will always want to look for something physical. Something you can feel and experience outside of home—hence Waystar’s adventure parks, and films to experience in theaters.” You made great effort to skirt around the touchy subject of cruises at the moment. 

“Most tech is overvalued. We’re profitable. We’re real money,” Roman added, growing more assured of himself with your support. 

“Tech is always changing. Invest in one thing, and it’ll be outdated in a blink of an eye. Invest in things people will always need: news, broadcasting, life experiences… now that’s reliable.” Eduard flashed you a smile, as if he was already sold.

“This is a tremendous opportunity,” said Rome. “This is once in a lifetime. You get to buy into the US media landscape at the very top. The very top.”

Two of the men leaned forward to whisper indistinctly to one another. 

“It’s a lot of debt,” one of them said once he finally pulled away. “You sure you can pull it together?”

“Absolutely sure,” Roman said with a mild laugh, knowing things with money and debt were quite rocky at the moment, before pointing back at Laird. “Jaime here is the fucking master of leverage. He has structured some of the biggest LBOs in history.”

“Guilty as charged,” said the older man.

Before anyone could say anything else, the doors to the room opened, and a few men filed in, murmuring indistinctly to the security. Your brows pulled together upon seeing guns strapped to their forms.

Roman exchanged a worried look with you.

“Are they, uh… are they with you?” he asked Eduard, who got up off his seat to speak to them in hushed tones.

“Rome, they have guns,” you murmured as you placed a hand on his forearm, glancing back at Karl and Laird. “What’s going on?”

The atmosphere seemed to chill when Eduard turned back to the four of you.

“Hey, look, we’re good. We’re good. But, uh… we’re all gonna go with these gentlemen now, okay?” He raised his hands in an almost placating manner, as if trying to tame a nervous mare. 

 Roman pointed at the armed men. “We’re going with them?” He laughed nervously, wondering if this was one big, elaborate joke. “Uh, no… I don’t think we—uh, who are these guys, exactly?”

Genuine fear began to curdle in your stomach when you watched the security walk out. “Dave just walked out. Hey, Eduard? I just—I need you to be honest with me. Are we in danger right now?”

Eduard worked his jaw in thought. “We’re just going to go with them now. Okay? It’ll be fine.”

“No, uh, I just—Can I just ask what this is in regards to?” Roman stepped in, high-strung. “Is this about the meeting? Is this a business thing?” 

Did I fuck it up and put a loaded gun to my own head? he wanted to say, but bit his tongue before he could.

With a sharp tone, you asked, “Our security guy, Dave, he just walked out with them. Where’d he go? Is he coming back?”

“Dave’s not coming,” said Eduard with pursed lips.

“He’s not coming?” Roman parroted. “Uhm… I would actually really like for Dave to come?”

“Dave is downstairs, we’ll go without him,” Eduard said in a calm tone. “Dave is a security risk. It’s better with these guys, okay?”

“Well, I know Dave, and I sure as hell don’t know these guys so… I think I’d prefer Dave—” you began to say, but was quickly cut off when Eduard put a hand on your shoulder and began leading your tense form out the room, Roman hot on your heels.

“It’s all good. It’s all under control,” Eduard murmured, though you highly doubted it. “There could be a situation, but we’re being looked after.”

A frown crossed Roman’s expression. “Oh, great. We’re being looked after. Fucking great. Laird—can you call Dave?”

They pulled out their phones, but the vested men with guns took the devices away just as quickly as it was pulled out. One stood in front of you with an expectant expression, and you complied with no resistance, handing him your phone, though not without a scowl.

“Great. They took my phone, and now I can’t contact my security, and now we’re going to die,” Roman said. When you looked at him, you could see genuine, restless fear dance over his irises. You didn’t quite know what to say, so you simply squeezed his arm as the two of you walked along.

The armed men led all of you to a crowded hotel lobby, where there seemed to be more hostages, more armed folk in similar attire. 

“Fuck,” Roman mumbled under his breath. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. This isn’t business, is it?”

“Doesn’t look very business-y,” replied Karl.

When someone passed by and their gun brushed against your arm, you flinched back into Roman, your lips pulling back in a snarl. “Eduard. Fuck—Eduard, where the fuck are you taking us?”

“Just relax. This is normal,” he said, shiftily.

Roman scoffed. “Oh, yeah. This feels really fucking normal. Is this—are these guys terrorists? Where’s my fucking security guy? Where’s Dave?”

For a moment, Eduard seemed at a loss for words. You could feel dread pile up in your stomach. “It’s just… it’s an administrative action function,” he reluctantly said.

“Mm, yeah, great, and what exactly is that—?” Roman began to ask, before halting his own question when he trained his gaze on a struggle across the lobby. “Oh, wow, look at that. Guy not being allowed to leave the hotel at gunpoint. That’s—uh, yeah. So what’s… what’s this administrative action function?”

Pursing his lips, Eduard finally fessed up, “There’s just a gathering here now, of us and some other investors, and—”

“Men with guns?” Roman impatiently chirped.

“Yeah, yeah, that, and their guys are some kind of… anti-corruption kind of guys and this is like—it’s like their conference. Or, uh, a party of some sort. And we’re all invited.”

Your eye twitched. “That’s really lovely, but uh, what if I don’t want to go?”

A scream from somewhere over the crowd echoed through the lobby. Glass shattering followed soon after. Karl paled and he anxiously picked at a hangnail.

Eduard sighed. “It’s the kind of party where you have to go. It would be… rude.”

Roman stared at the ground, at nothing in particular. “Well, uh, I guess I wouldn’t mind being just a tiny bit rude.”

It was becoming more and more clear that no amount of protests or questions would get you out of this situation—not with every exit manned by armed personnel. The hostages in the hotel were soon herded into a large hall, empty save for bare white chairs for people to sit on. Eduard was led into a different room, and you briefly wondered if that’d be the last time you ever saw him.

You blew out a breath as you took a seat. Roman was quick to snare Laird into playing a multitude of games, like rock, paper, scissors, eye spy, and fuck, marry, kill. You didn’t pay much attention to them, instead trying to figure out what you’d do with yourself once you got out of this situation. One thing was for sure: your therapist was going to have a field day hearing this. 

“Where do you think they’re taking them?” you asked the men beside you when they began grabbing hostages and shoving them out the doors. 

“Doesn’t look like they’re gonna be taking a tour of the spa,” said Laird.

“My advice,” Karl huffed, looking awfully sweaty, “just don’t look at anything. If you don’t look, you’re not a witness.”

You buried your face in your hands. “Wonderful. Brilliant advice, Karl. At least you didn’t tell me to just take it if they decided to shove their dicks into my mouth.”

“Woah!” exclaimed Roman, eyes widening. “That’s not going to happen. Right? That can’t happen.”

You spared him a shrug, slumping back against the chair. Though, you were quick to sit up straight again when Eduard emerged from the doors, making a bee-line for you and Roman.

“Hey, guys. It’s all good. Things are good. So, uh, my president’s daughter’s husband has asked him to take closer control of some key assets. It’s anti-corruption, but it’s a bit of a power-grab. Some Turkish acquiescence, but it’s all in play.”

If you had to be honest, you understood very little of what he was saying. Whether it was because of your panic-hazed mind, or because he was merely being ambiguous, you couldn’t quite tell.

“Not to, uh, make this all about us…” began Roman, tentative, “but are they going to shoot us at any point?”

“No one is getting shot,” assured the bearded man. “Look, it’s complicated, but with the Zeynal here—there’s some interest about the deal.”

Deal? 

Both you and Roman glanced at each other. 

“Uh, fuck. Okay. The deal, sure,” said Rome.

“One thing they wanted clarity on was—how could they be sure the deal wouldn’t be blocked by your government?” Eduard asked.

You stuck your tongue against your cheek when Roman shook his head, “Well, it wouldn’t. My father has a lot of sway. I mean, he can’t lock up his opponents in a hotel, but, well, he kinda could.”

“And you’re the target of another bid? Won’t that be a problem?”

Sandy and Stewy. “Not a problem,” you quickly said. “They’re all bark, very little bite. If the price is right, we can easily reach a settlement before the shareholder meeting.”

With a nod, Eduard patted your knee, and he got up to leave—talk to his associates once more. 

“That went well,” said Laird, mildly surprised. 

“Yeah… a little too well,” Roman mused.

Hours later, Eduard returned, calling for the four of you to follow him.

It was a pitch. A messy pitch—one you clearly weren’t in the right mindspace for. One where the audience had clear smudges of coke lining their nostrils, dusting their tables. One that had a lot of money thrown into the empty promises, accompanied by high smiles and wandering eyes. It made you feel sick, and Roman clearly wasn’t a fan of it, either. Laird seemed to be satisfied with the mutual agreements, though. He heard money, and he immediately thought he was safe.

But the agreements didn’t feel quite real. None of it felt real. It was all bullshit, you wanted to yell at their face. Being held at gunpoint to play business in front of the coked out billionaires was not your preferred method of saving the company, especially when none of the settlements felt cemented. This wasn’t safe money to bet the entire company on—it might’ve not been money at all, in fact.

By the end of everything, the ambassador had arranged for a plane to finally get you out of the country. You fell asleep as soon as you sat down in your seat, the long hours going without sleep finally catching up to you. Roman curled up in the seat beside you, his head on your shoulder. He stayed awake the entire flight, listening to your steady breaths.

The Mediterranean. The Roys were on a fancy yacht in the Mediterranean.

It would’ve sounded like a pleasant getaway, if you weren’t dead-tired, having just returned from being held hostage at gunpoint. You just wanted to go home. Logan, however, wanted you and Rome by his side—and who were you to say no to the top dog?

As the speedboat skidded to a stop by the yacht, cheers erupted from siblings, along with Gerri and Frank, Greg and Tom. Roman slid his sunglasses on as he clambered onto the larger boat’s deck. 

“Here they are! The heroes of Asia!” exclaimed Shiv, a flute of champagne in hand. She was the first to greet you, taking your hand and helping you out of the speedboat. After a kiss to your cheek, you spared her an exhausted smile.

“The lions of Turkey! Welcome back, guys!” chimed Greg. He leaned down to embrace his cousin, but Roman was quick to push his face away. Greg didn’t dare try to hug you after that, merely waving from afar.

Frank clapped a hand on your shoulder. “Back like Odysseus. Did you guys ride out on sheep?”

Snorting, Shiv added, “Yeah, I heard you took down an entire army alone, bro.”

“That would’ve been really traumatizing if you weren’t already so fucked up,” Gerri told Roman, who simply frowned.

“Yeah, who’d you suck off to get out?” Kendall inserted.

Tom smiled widely from behind Shiv. “You were staying at Four Seasons, right? How did you guys escape? Did you—did you build a glider out of a caesar salad?”

Roman squinted at nothing in particular from behind the dark lens of his sunglasses. “Uh, you know what? It was actually fucking scary and we thought they might kill us, but yeah…” The tips of his fingers wiggled in a poor rendition of jazz hands. “Hardee-har-har, caesar salads, har-har. So funny.”

An awkward silence ensued between the small group. You scritched at your neck with a wince, wanting nothing more than a shower and a nap.

“Sorry, dude. Seriously,” said Kendall.

Roman snorted. “Yeah, no. They just raped me a little, but I’m no hero. They stuck their cocks down Y/N’s throat, too. Tell them.”

He nudged you and you shook your head tiredly. “They didn’t do that.”

“See? It got so bad that she trauma-blocked the memories. Shame on all of you,” he said, propping his fists on his hips. 

Feeling mildly guilty, Shiv had the gall to rub her hand on her brother’s shoulder. “Sorry, Rome.”

“It’s fine. I’m just tired, or whatever. It was funny, actually. Karl almost shat in a bucket and I have it on my phone, so we can fully humiliate him in our daily jerkfest later,” said Rome, tugging you to sit down with him on a large white seat.

“So how’d it all go, business-wise?” Connor asked, eyeing the both of you curiously. “Or was that forgotten?”

Before either of you could say anything, Laird stepped in, shaking his head with a wide smile. “Oh, we can’t say anything about that. Confidential stuff. But they—they did good.”

“Oh! Okay. Promising!” Connor exclaimed, shooting the both of you a grin. “Congrats, you guys.”

Unease crackled between the two of you. When you locked gazes with Roman, he merely lifted one of his shoulders in a shrug, lips pursed. The deal probably wouldn’t go through. It was all empty promises, powdered with a layer of cocaine. 

The two of you failed. And maybe that was okay.

Your hand found his, and his head knocked against yours. He drank the beer Shiv handed him, and you drank in the salty air of the sea.

After you’d finally managed to pry yourself away from Roman (or, more accurately, Roman away from you), you had yourself a nice, hot shower, and a long-overdue nap. When you drowsily blinked back into consciousness, it was early afternoon, the sun still high up in the cloudless sky. A part of you wondered how you hadn’t just slept through the entire day.

You cleaned yourself up and changed into loose loungewear, heading down a story of the yacht, where you caught sight of the Roy siblings hanging by the pool (minus Connor, who was discussing matters of the play).

Roman waved at you limply. “Hey, sleeping beauty. You were knocked out for a while. I poked you in all your ticklish spots and you didn’t even stir.”

With a sigh, you curled yourself up into the cushioned spot beside him, Shiv on your other side. On her right was Tom, who had his gaze trained on Greg on the other side of the pool—the Roy’s cousin was… getting his toes looked at by the medic? You weren’t sure, and you didn’t quite want to know.

“You know, if you snuck into my room while I’m asleep and prodded me like a corpse, at least don’t fess up to it. You weirdo,” you said once you finally tore your gaze away from Greg, wrinkling your nose at Rome fondly.

“Don’t act like you don’t enjoy it,” Roman whistled, to which Shiv let out a loud groan of complaint. 

Sloshing water from the pool drew your attention to Kendall. “You good, Y/N? Sorry about—if I was, like, insensitive earlier—”

“It’s fine,” you quickly replied. “They were never going to shoot us, anyway. It was all just… theatrics.”

Theatrics. Puppets and strings.

Kendall smiled loosely. 

“So, uh, how was DC?” you asked the older man as he leaned against the rim of the pool. “They had it on the TV for a bit when we were waiting to give our pitch.”

He nodded, water dripping from his hair. “Yeah, it was—it was pretty fucking real.”

“You did good,” Roman chirped, adjusting the sunglasses on his nose. 

Scoffing, Kendall shrugged his shoulders. “Okay. And what? I did good for—for a crackhead? For a moron on crack?” His voice was lilting with incredulity.

“Nope. You did good, Ken,” he said.

Shiv nodded. “Yeah. You killed it.”

Kendall wasn’t used to genuine praise from his siblings. It was usually edged with an insult, laced with sarcasm or ire. 

“It was Tom that, uh… that didn’t really persuade everyone quite as well,” you said, sending an apologetic grimace to Shiv’s fiance.

“You’re being too nice. He shat his pants and puked all over the floor,” Roman huffed with an amused smile. 

Tom pulled a cross face. “I didn’t—!” He drew in a sharp breath. “You know, a lot of people are saying I was deadcatting. Yeah. So like—dead cat on the table. Everyone’s looking at this dead cat, and not… not talking about your dad.”

Shiv pursed her lips. “Right. Sure, yeah, you drew the fire. Yeah.”

Both you and Roman exchanged humored looks. 

“So, what’s going on with Rhea? She’s out, right?” Roman asked a beat later.

“Mhm. Melted. But she’s agreed not to say anything publicly until after the shareholder meeting,” said Shiv.

You briefly wondered why she backed away, but chalked it up to immense financial risk and potential ethical demise of her career. Good for her. 

“Instead of Rhea, whose big hairy foot is going to slip into the glass slipper?” Roman queried. “Washington Ken here?”

His older brother clambered out of the pool, grabbing a towel to dry himself off. “Me? Uh, no. Nope. I mean—Rome, you brought the golden goose home.”

The two of you frowned at the same time. Roman let out a loud sigh.

“Could be anyone,” you said. “We’re right back to square one.”

“Yeah. Could be. I mean, why is Greg here?” Kendall shot a look over his shoulder to glance at his cousin, peering between his own toes.

Roman snorted. “I always ask that question.” Then, he patted your thigh and leaned against you, enjoying the warmth of your skin against his. “I did think—you know, when I thought they were going to vacuum out my innards and fill me with concrete or something—like… if we come through this, is there a thing where we, like, talk to each other about stuff? Normally?”

In a strange alien-baby voice, Shiv mocked, “You wanna twalk to each other nwormally?”

Kendall snickered and tacked on, “You wanna twalk abwout the big shit?”

“Yeah, let’s twalk abwout the big shit!”

“We can talk about—our feewings!”

The siblings joking around for a rare moment reminded you of when you were all younger, with missing teeth and scraped knees. When Shiv’s hair would still be done up in a ponytail and yours would be twisted into pigtails. Simpler times—when things weren’t all that simple but you, in your blissful ignorance, had thought they were. 

Though you really didn’t want to laugh, you tried your best to smother down a chuckle, making Roman send you a betrayed glare. 

“Wow. Really? You, too?” He lightly shoved you away, and you and Shiv burst into a fit of giggles when you knocked into her. “How am I the most mature one here?”

“Sowwy, Wome,” you crooned in the same alien-baby voice. He kicked at your foot, then hooked his leg over yours.

The laughter dulled away when the whirring of helicopter blades descended over the yacht.

Logan was here.

“Emotional gunship incoming,” said Kendall.

“Yeah. Send out the distress signal,” Shiv added, the smile on her lips fading away as she looked up to see her father fly down. “We’re under attack.”

Logan was smiling. It wasn’t often that he smiled. 

He greeted you with a chaste kiss to the cheek, and Roman with a pat to the shoulder. It was warm in the light—brief, but warm nonetheless.

When he hoarded the two of you, along with bum-boys Laird and Karl into a separate room, he immediately asked, “Are you two alright? I heard it got a bit tasty.”

Tasty wasn’t exactly the right word for it, you thought. 

“Mmh, we’re fine. I’ve had worse experiences at hotels before,” Roman languidly commented, shrugging it off. 

Logan tilted his head. “Did they look after you? I spoke to the White House.”

“Someone came and told us there was a warship,” you said, pursing your lips. “Felt a bit extreme.”

“Knowing us gun-handy Americans, I bet it was already there,” Roman snorted, pouring himself a drink. “The ambassador took us for a shitty lunch—you know, sorry that you were held at gunpoint, have a cheese sandwich.”

Logan gestured for all of you to take a seat. “So… on the money. What’s the situation?”

“The kids did great,” said Laird, which made Roman audibly gag. “I think, Mr. Roy, you’ll be able to go private. Eduard and his father have titular responsibility for the sovereign wealth but the president’s daughter’s husband, Zeynal, is the key guy now. The two of ‘em killed it with him.”

Shrugging, Roman said, “Well, it was clear Eduard was getting sidelined. Zeynal figured out who we were, and I thought we were gonna be taken to get a fucking chainsaw massage but… nope. We had an hour, we pitched hard, and they said they wanted in.”

“Too modest,” Laird emphasized, brows raising. “This is the perfect opportunity.”

It wasn’t. It never was.

Karl went on to talk about the numbers, and Logan seemed quite pleased. 

“That’s great. That’s fucking fantastic!” announced Roman’s father.

Rome bit down on the inside of his cheek. He winced, and scratched at his head.

“I just… I do have to say one thing, dad…”

Panic flashed across Laird’s eyes. “Roman, we’re good.”

Ignoring him, Roman said, “I mean, we had a good talk with Zeynal and he said, with his mouth, that he wanted in and that’s great and all… but if this is really serious for us, I think I actually do have to say that it feels like it’s… probably horseshit.”

A beat of silence.

Laird’s eyes twitched.

Clearing your throat, you said, “Yeah, I just wanna make it clear that they said they wanted in, but didn’t sign anything yet. I mean, it’s not like we had any documents on hand but… words mean nothing. Uncle Logan, I don’t know if it’s… really smart to bank the entire future of the company on words of drug-addled men taking a piss out of you.”

Logan’s brows raised.

“It was flaky,” Roman added. “There was a lot of shit going on.”

The head man glanced at Karl, who remained deathly quiet, and then back to you. 

“Roman, they want to rebalance their portfolio for, uh, for a variety of geopolitical reasons,” began Laird. “It’s very European-focused, and he wants to tilt Western Hemisphere. It’s all very logical! I know that it’s a lot of money, and that can be very scary, but it makes sense.”

“All due respect, Laird, but I really don’t think they give a shit about adding us to their portfolio,” you said, voice hesitant. “They know we’re in debt. They know we’re in hot water with a large sector of the company. Why would they want in at all, much less hand over a ten billion dollar investment like it’s nothing?”

Roman sucked in a sharp breath. “Sorry that we’re worrying our pretty little heads, Laird, but if they’re rebalancing their portfolio, it’d be fucking insane to do it over one ten-bil mega deal like it’s nothing.”

“Yeah, it’d be more sensible that they invest into several different markets around the globe,” you agreed. “None of this feels right.”

“It doesn’t matter what it feels like,” stressed Laird. “They said yes!”

With a frown, Roman retorted back, “Maybe, sure, they said yes! And there’s a ten or twenty percent chance that you’d make, like, a hundred million bucks with this deal. That’s so exciting! But if we miss, we could be fucked.”

Logan’s expression was hard to read. Anger? Disbelief? Disappointment? Acceptance? You couldn’t quite tell.

Swallowing hard, you said, “If we go through with this and none of it turns out to be real, we’d go straight over the edge. No votes, no political gain, no money.”

Finally, Logan murmured, “If it falls halfway through, it’d be terminal.”

A vein popped out on Laird’s head. “But if it works… just one step forward, and you’d be free.”

You couldn’t help but scoff. “Free from what? Just because we go private doesn’t mean we can do fuck all.”

Before Laird could argue back, Logan fixed his stare onto Roman. “Son?” he asked.

“Dad, I have to say, I’ve done a little bullshitting in my time—and Zenyal was a cokey, lying, 3 AM scotch and see-you-in-the-morning man. He won’t follow through.”

With a frustrated groan, Laird angrily got up from his seat.

Roman shook his head. “Dad, I wish it was real. I really fucking do. But it’s not—and we have to step away.”

When Logan turned his stare onto you, you nodded in agreement with Roman. 

“Karl?” your godfather asked.

The man buckled under the scrutiny. “You can’t lean on this,” he said. “Not now.”

His mind finally made, Logan got up onto his feet. “I’m sorry, Jaime. Keep exploring, keep talking. I cannot pile my chips on something that isn’t solid.”

“Excellent,” sighed Jaime. He looked at you, then at Roman. “You wanna talk solid? Maybe take a look at your kid there. Does he sound solid to you? And—thanks for the support, Karl. I hope you enjoy the king’s favors, because you know what you’re looking at if you don’t go private. Someone has to pay the price. Someone is going to go to jail, and I won’t be around to see it.”

With that, he dramatically took his leave. Roman tilted his head back and rolled his eyes.

“I wanna do the best thing. The most decent thing,” said Logan. His hand was on your shoulder for a moment, before he pulled away. “Tomorrow we’ll get into a discussion about our missteps and how we can indicate how sorry we are to the rest of the world. Get some rest, the both of you.”

As you clambered into bed, Roman unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it somewhere behind him. He’d followed you into the cabin, claiming that there were no available cabins left—and you knew he was lying, because you’d passed by several empty rooms on the way to yours, but you didn’t bother to protest.

“If you wanted to cuddle, you could’ve just asked.”

“Ugh, shut up.”

“You know, I overheard Tom and Shiv speaking to each other,” you said as you fluffed up a pillow to lay on. 

“Ooh. Is Tom the one getting shitcanned? No surprise there,” Roman replied, crawling next to you and laid down on his stomach, head resting on his crossed arms. 

“No. I mean, I don’t actually know who it’ll be, but—” You paused to smile, near-childish laughter falling from your lips. “I heard Tom saying he was excited for a threesome.”

“Ew! What? Ew! Tell me more,” Roman exclaimed, swatting at your arms and you shoved him back, laughing at his tone. “Oh, that’s so gross. Never pegged Tom as the type.”

“I don’t think it was Tom’s idea.”

“Ew!”

The two of you giggled about it some more, before you lolled your head over to face him. 

“Do you think it could be me?” you quietly asked. “Would Logan throw me to the sharks?”

Roman hummed. “Sometimes it feels like he likes you better than any of his own fucking kids. You’re not getting canned. It won’t make sense.”

“Hm.”

He threw an arm over your stomach. “But… it won’t be me, right?”

“I don’t know, Rome,” you told him honestly. “After today… I just don’t know. But I’ve got your back.”

The two of you basked in the comfort of each other’s quiet for a brief moment. You scooched closer to him and shut your eyes.

“You’re a really good friend, Rome.”

Something akin to an amused snort fell from his lips. “Pfft. Friend. I don’t think friends jerk off to the sound of each other’s voices. You’ve had your hand on my dick. Is that what friends do these days?”

“Friends with benefits, then.”

He brushed his lips along your shoulder, light as a feather, barely there. There was a strange ache in his chest. An ache that you also felt. The two of you ached together, unknowingly. 

“Hm. I like the sound of that. It’s like you’re my personal whore.”

“It’s a two-way street.”

“Yeah. You fuck me, I fuck you. You kill me, I kill you. Like they do in Germany.”

There it was again. What was with Roman and Germany?

“Sure. Like they do in Germany.”

It was hard to stomach breakfast with your restless nerves shooting adrenaline through your veins. You anxiously plowed through two apples and started on your third just when Logan stepped onto the lower level. Everybody’s attention piqued, their heads turning, postures stiffening up against the chairs around the dining table. 

When Gerri tentatively asked him who he had in mind as the sacrificial lamb, Logan waved her away.

“Enough. We stick together, alright? Most things don’t exist. The Ford motor company hardly exists—it’s just a time-saving expression for a collection of financial interests. But this exists, because…”

Roman leaned in close to mockingly whisper, “Family.”

“Family,” Logan finished. “We are a family. And so that’s why I think… I think the obvious choice is me.”

A ripple of shock coursed through the small group. Your eyes narrowed, unsure of what game Logan was playing at now.

“No,” Shiv vehemently said. “What? Dad, you—you can’t.”

Logan tilted his head. It wasn’t often he was told that he couldn’t. “Well, I may not be responsible, but the buck has to stop somewhere.”

The rest of the group erupted in protests. Tom, Kendall, Frank. They were all bleating sheep. Roman rolled his eyes.

“It doesn’t work,” Kendall elaborated. “When people find out Rhea isn’t coming in, we’d need stability. From you.”

Logan raised a single finger. “I need one meaningful skull to wave.” Wave didn’t seem quite the appropriate term. Chop off, maybe. Sever was a good one. “If the shareholders’ meeting was tomorrow, we lose. I need to persuade a number of big figures. So… would anyone like to say anything?”

Crackling silence. Across the table, Greg popped a fat green grape into his mouth.

“I’ll take care of whoever it is,” said Logan. “No one will be forgotten.”

Clearing his throat, Kendall ventured out, “Well, I mean, if we’re doing this, I don’t wanna spread shit around. We’re all loyal servants here. But, uh, I say this without malice aforethought, presumably, uhm, general counsel is the center of the web. Sorry, Gerri. I like you, I do.”

Logan reached out to put his hand over the blonde woman’s. “There is no one more loyal than Gerri,” he said, effectively dismissing the idea.

But you saw right through him. It wasn’t about Gerri’s loyalty. She wasn’t a big enough cut. 

“What about Frank?” Roman offered. Everyone was well aware of his disdain for the older man. “How come Frank is even here today?”

Full of ire, Logan’s old friend nodded his head. “Thanks, Roman. I see it. I could take it. I mean, I make sense.”

“Yeah. And after what he did to you? The whole boardroom coup?” Roman lifted a shoulder, convinced that Frank was the most obvious choice.

“Water under the bridge.” Logan brushed away once more. Still not big enough.

After a long while of stammering, Frank finally coughed out, “I would say objectively, considering my, uh, my indiscretion against the family makes me a less compelling sacrifice. Unlike—uhm, for instance, a loyal servant like Karl.”

Instead of defending himself, Karl decided to turn the blade right back around to Gerri. “My thing is, I guess, if Rhea is no more, then sadly, we’re back to having Gerri as named successor. So that fattens her up for the kill, in my opinion.”

“Everyone knows I was just a name on a piece of paper,” defended the woman, laughing incredulously.

“Oh, don’t put yourself down. I think you were always more than that,” scoffed Karl. “And, you know, the old copy book is a bit blotty. Expense accounts… daughter’s first class on the company coin…”

“Karl sounds good!” Tom chimed in. “Sausage thief,” he bitterly muttered, in reference to the entire Boar on the Floor debacle in Hungary.

“Gerri is theoretically kind of perfect,” said Connor.

“No,” Roman was quick to protest. “Nope. That’s bullshit. I disagree.”

Propping his joined hands on the table, Logan asked, “Why?”

“Why? Because that’s my opinion,” Roman said in a defensive manner.

“Yeah… but your reasoning?”

With a hasty glance to you, Roman hastily spun out, “Seriously, Gerri? To pay for cruises? We, what, we take out our senior woman? Haven’t we, you know—kidding, here, but—killed enough women already?”

“It’d look orchestrated. Gerri is just too obvious,” you said, wrinkling your nose. “Sexual misconduct cases three decades ago, and we’d be placing the blame on general counsel and simply wiping our hands clean? Not to mention it’d just make Waystar look more… anti-women if we went down that route.”

Roman nodded. “Listen, I think the obvious choice here is, and I hate to say it because he’s such a swell guy, but—” he made a whistling noise and pointed to the man sitting across from him, “Tom.”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, you're the head of cruises, man.”

Kendall pursed his lips. “I gotta agree with Rome here. Tom, I fucking love you dude, but you shat the bed over Mo Lester.”

“But I was sent in there as the fucking beating man—I took the fucking beating!” 

Shiv shook the back of her head, making no effort to defend her husband.

“You got suckered in by Eavis,” said Kendall.

“I answered the questions!”

“You don’t answer the questions. Okay? That’s, like, rule one.” Kendall patted his brother-in-law’s shoulder. “I’m not beating up on you here, I’m just saying that he got a win off you and you’re kinda the face of this now.”

Lifting her head up high, Shiv said, “Tom looks logical. Cruises, document destruction. It’d be laid out for us.”

Tom’s gaze swiveled to his wife, expression utterly torn. “What?” he croaked out.

“I’m not saying you should be,” the red-head defended. “But I’m just saying you’re like family, but you’re not… actually family, which is also good. Tom, it’s the elephant in the room. We can say that!”

“No, we can’t! There’s absolutely no need to speak of the elephant in the room! There’s fifteen other fucking elephants in this room!” With an angry scoff, Tom threw both his hands up. “If you want someone who’s family but not family, what about Y/N?”

Immediately, Roman let out a high-pitched, “No! Why would it—why the fuck should it be her?”

Tom’s face contorted under the scrutiny. “I don’t know. General manager of Waystar, and goddaughter to Logan sounds like a good fucking steak to throw to the lions.” At your confused expression, Tom quickly backed down. “I’m not actually saying Y/N. I’m just saying things! It just—it shouldn’t be me. What about you, huh, Shiv?”

“Okay, fine. How do I work?” she hissed out. 

“I don’t know!” Tom exclaimed, his voice raising a few notches in volume.

Gerri pursed her lips to the side and mentioned, “I mean, if we’re saying Shiv, we could highlight witness tampering and, uh, that she was going to take over but—I don’t know, it probably wouldn’t work.”

Shiv reared back as if she’d been stung. “Uh, yeah. Too fucking right it wouldn’t work. I don’t make sense, I’ve never been inside.”

“What about both of them? Shiv and Tom? Beauty and the beast,” Roman said.

“Does Tom work?” Logan asked. “Alone?”

A long beat of silence. 

In all honesty, you thought he’d work. The missing documents were more than enough to go off of. 

But Kendall shook his head, and it flew right out the window. “Honestly, I don’t think he’s a big enough skull. No offense.”

“Then how about Tom with some fucking… Greg sprinkles?” Roman asked, gesturing to his cousin, who’d managed to polish off all the grapes on the tray. One of the workers floated by to take the tray away, no doubt to fill it back up again.

“Greg sprinkles?” parroted Greg.

Wincing, you apologetically added, “I mean, you did destroy those documents for Tom, no? It’s—it's an aided crime. It works.”

Connor laughed. “Elmo and Big Bird. I could start to see that, yeah. You could throw in a Karl or a Frank, and you’re golden.”

“What—what precisely are Greg sprinkles?” asked the Roy cousin.

“Greg sprinkles are basically a fantastic garnish for practically anyone seated at this table,” Roman replied with a faux warm smile. “Like a Tom sundae with a little Greg cherry on top.” He popped his lips and Greg frowned.

“No, I object. I do. I mean—I’m more than a sprinkle! What about you, huh? What about Roman?”

“Roman?” you asked, cocking a brow. “How would he be a good candidate?”

“Well, he’s widely known as a terrible person!”

Roman snorted. “Thanks, Toe Jam.”

“There’s another elephant in the room,” Connor interrupted. “What about I just throw myself over the side, huh?”

Shiv laughed quietly, hiding her smile behind her palm.

“Yeah, just—in return for a payout. I’m cash strapped, so just lock me into that sweet, sweet golden parachute and toss me in the volcano!” said the oldest Roy sibling. On he blathered, about how he should be the one to take the fall.

Logan glanced around. “That’s… that’s kind of you, Con. Thank you. We’ll bear it in mind.” He smiled, but it wasn’t quite authentic. It wasn’t real. Connor slumped back, going largely ignored once again.

With that, Logan stood up. “We have half an idea but… yeah. Let’s do this later.”

Off he went, through the glass doors, gone to God knows where.

You and Roman exchanged a look. His was one of relief and gratitude, yours was one of exasperation. Then, Roman leaned forward to snatch the tray of grapes away from Greg, and offered a branch of the plump green fruits to you. 

Dinner left a stale taste in your mouth. Maybe it was because you weren’t particularly fond of the served courses. Maybe it was because of the rocking motions of the boat upsetting your stomach. Or maybe—maybe it was because Logan had finally chosen his sacrificial lamb.

Kendall stood beside his father with pursed lips. Logan nodded to the sitting group. “I’ve decided,” he simply said.

Incredulity danced across Roman’s expression, brows raised. “Ken?” he asked. “Come on, really? Dad, you—no. There’s… what about the… one of the other shitfuckers?”

Your eyes darted from your godfather, to Kendall, who took a seat across from you. He met your eyes, if only for a brief moment. A part of you felt bad for him—after all, to you he was always going to be the eight-year-old boy draped in a suit far too large for him, practicing a speech in front of the mirror for a nameless award he was going to accept one day. He’d make you and Roman sit down and listen to him, four and five years of age, expectantly turning to the two of you after he was done and asking if it sounded okay. Desperate for approval, even if the assurance came from two young kids with missing teeth and bored eyes.

He was practically your brother. You averted your gaze with mild shame burning within your chest.

“Hey, it’s okay,” said Kendall. He looked around the table. “You’re all off the hook.”

Roman leaned forward and asked, uncharacteristically genuine, “You okay?”

Wordless, Kendall nodded. He was trying his best to stave away the frown tugging at the corners of his lips. There were tears warbling over his irises. 

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m good.” 

But he wasn’t. Roman knew, and you knew, too.

Karl cleared his throat. “Is it just… I don’t wanna be rude here—is it just him?”

Gerri tilted her head. “First—uh, second-born son—with his responsibilities, it wouldn’t be a hard sell.”

“Roman,” said Logan. “You’re taking over as full chief operating officer.”

An indignant noise fell from his throat. “Yeah? What with Captain Cautious back in the other room?” 

“No, no. Frank’s going to be responsible for the cruises clean up. You’re on your own. Solo.” Logan stared at his youngest son. “Can you handle it?”

Beneath the table, Roman’s jostling knee bumped into yours. “Yeah,” he unenthusiastically said. “That’s really exciting.”

Kendall spared his little brother a lopsided smile. “No, Rome. It’s great. For real.” Then, he raised a fork. “Eat up, guys. This one’s on me.”

Day three on the boat. You woke up to Roman’s arms wrapped around your midriff, his face buried in the fabric over your chest. He sleepily mumbled and whined when you dragged yourself (and, effectively, him as well, seeing as he refused to let go of you) out of bed. The two of you brushed your teeth together before you promptly kicked him out of your room so you could take a quick shower in peace.

By the time the both of you got down to have breakfast, Greg was the one to tell you that Kendall had left earlier in the morning. 

“Right to his slaughter,” you mumbled to Rome, who’s face twisted with guilt.

An hour later, you were watching Kendall on the television. Shiv and Logan were on the couches, and Roman had both his hands resting on your shoulders, kneading your muscles as if you were a stress ball.

“I have been asked to explain my role in the management of illegality at the firm and associated cover ups. And it has been suggested that I would be a suitable figure to absorb the anger and concern,” said screen Kendall. To your surprise, his words were followed by, “But…”

You and Roman exchanged glances. He stopped working at your shoulders and crossed his arms. 

“The truth is that my father is a malignant presence. He is a liar, a bully, and was fully aware of the events that had transpired on the cruise ships for many years, and made efforts to hide and cover up. He had a twisted sense of loyalty to bad actors like Lester McClintock, and a disregard for the safety of migrant workers, union and non-union workers, along with vulnerable performers and guests.”

“Fuck me,” Roman whispered. Logan silently lifted a finger to his lips to shush him.

The Kendall on screen was vastly different to the puppet Kendall you’d come to know for the past few months. He’d finally broken free of his strings.

“My father keeps a watchful eye over his entire empire, and the notion that he would have allowed millions of dollars of settlements and compensation to be paid without his explicit approval is utterly fanciful. I have with me today copies of records that show his personal sign-off. How much those of us who executed his wishes bear responsibility is for another day.” 

Shiv briefly twisted around to shoot you an utterly dumbfounded look, as if to ask you if you’d known he was going to do this. You sent her an equally befuddled expression.

“But I think…” said Kendall, “This is the day his reign ends.”

With that, Kendall got up and walked off to the side, out of the camera’s view. You couldn’t see it, for Logan was facing the screen, but there was a slight smile on your godfather’s face.

[mlmxreader]

Don't You Shiver | Arthur Morgan x gn!reader

『••✎••』

↳ ❝ you already know what’s up. arthur morgan x gn!reader

"Do you want your hoodie back?" "Keep it. It's yours."

but instead of hoodie it’s one of arthur’s jackets? pls and thank u mwah mwah ^_^ - @mockerycrow ❞

: ̗̀➛ Arthur cares a lot about you, so it's no surprise that he does what he can to help when you come back to camp less than happy.

: ̗̀➛ swearing, smoking

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

Your hands smelled of cheap cigarettes and whisky as you wandered back into camp behind Charles, a little bit embarrassed that you had wasted his time on fool's gold.

You thought it had been a perfectly good lead at the time, and with Charles’ skills complimenting your own, you figured that the two of you would have had it done and dusted by noon the same day. But now it was dusk, you were shivering, and you felt like an idiot.

You kept your head down and your gaze on the ground, not even trying to talk to Charles even though he reassured you time and time again that he didn't mind - he enjoyed the nice day out with you.

It wasn't often that the two of you had much time to spend together despite your strong friendship, and even though you had been an idiot… you did admit, you appreciated his company at the very least.

Before he left you for the evening, Charles pulled you aside, and once again told you that he didn't mind; it happened, sometimes leads didn't work out and even he had had his fair share of bad luck here and there. He wasn't going to hold it against you.

However, you felt terrible when you snuck into Arthur's tent, going through your clothes as he sat on his cot and watched you for a moment, his head tilted slightly to the side.

It wasn't until he saw you shiver that he put two and two together and frowned; he got up and grabbed his semi-decent brown hunting jacket, and gently pressed it into your hands as he smiled.

“It's warm,” he told you quietly. “It'll help.”

You tugged it on, pressing your face against the collar of the coat for a moment and humming under your breath; you were always stealing Arthur's clothes, if you were honest, but he never minded.

He liked to see you wearing them, mostly because he knew that most of his coats were a lot warmer and a lot better for cold climates than your own. But he also… admittedly, he liked to think that everyone would realise that it was his jackets, and they would know that you and Arthur belonged to one another as well and that they couldn't do anything.

He ushered you out of the tent and over to the scout fire, letting you sit with your back against his chest and his chin on your shoulder, his arms around you tightly. He hoped that it would aid in warming you up, maybe even speed the process a little bit.

You didn’t even flinch, leaning into him and doing your best to steal some of his warmth  as you sighed and swallowed thickly; you brought the thick brown leather to your face, pressing it against your mouth and nose and inhaling the scent for a moment as you closed your eyes.

You were a little warmer now, but you still couldn’t shake the icy feeling deep within your bones and in your shaking hands as you grumbled softly and shook your head.

Arthur turned to look at you, frowning as he gently tugged you a little closer. “I’ll get you some coffee and-”

“Wait,” you murmured softly, almost under your breath as you tugged at the sleeve of his blue denim-coloured shirt. “I don’t wanna be alone in the cold.”

He sighed, nodding as he settled back down; he did his best to think of a few ways to get you to warm up, but unfortunately for him, all of them would mean leaving you, and you didn’t seem so keen on the idea.

So he pulled out two cigarettes, lighting them before handing one to you and doing his best not to smile at how you tried to get closer to him, almost straddling his waist as you squirmed. He grumbled, his grip on you tightening as he kept your back steady against his chest and shook his head.

You stopped shivering eventually, pulling away from him so that you could shrug the jacket off, holding it in your hands as the flames seemed to follow you wherever you went. 

“Do you want your jacket back?”

“Keep it. It’s yours, now,” Arthur told you with a short shake of his head. “Looks better on you anyway.”

You rolled your eyes as you smiled, a glint of something mischievous in your eyes. “You say that about everything of yours that I borrow.”

He shrugged, leaning back slightly to get a good look at you; with the flames so close, Arthur could have sworn that you looked just like something out of an old folktale.

A great, fair king; beloved by his people and as just as he was humble. He wanted to grin and to laugh at the thought, but he could only hum as he pulled out his journal and held it up for you to look at for a moment.

“Mind if I…”

You shook your head. “Not at all, where’d you want me?”

Arthur balanced his journal on his knee as he looked up at you, the tip of his tongue pointing out of the corner of his mouth. “Just stay there.”

You did as you were told, running your thumb across the lapel of Arthur’s jacket as you stood patiently. You could hear the scratch of his pencil against the paper, and how he hummed under his breath as he stole a look at you every now and then.

It was never uncommon for Arthur to draw you, you caught him doing it often enough that you knew he had pages of it; yet every time he actually asked, every time he told you to stay still so that he could do it, you couldn’t help but to feel rather giddy.

To know that you would forever be immortalised by his fair hand, to know that he loved you to the point of creation. You bit at the inside of your lip, doing your best not to grin in case it spoiled his latest masterpiece. 

[maharlika]

spouse

a little arranged marriage halstarion ficlet for some folks over on the halstarion discord! tw for implied abuse, blood mention and miscarriage in this one. there's also mpreg.

—

Astarion tumbled off his husband with a satisfied sigh, sinking into the plush nest of feathers and fur, legs askew and thighs still trembling from exertion.

He watched, eyes half-lidded, as Halsin rose from the bed, then returned with a soft cloth and a wooden cup full of cold water, the latter of which he placed on the floor next to their bed. 

“Do you think it will take?” Astarion asked, as Halsin gently cleaned him. Always so gentle, Astarion’s bear of a husband. Mate, Halsin called him, though Astarion did not quite believe it. Would not quite believe it until the child was seeded in his womb, rooted deep enough to cast aside any doubts of his place by Halsin’s side. 

“It may or it may not,” Halsin said, seemingly indifferent to the possibility of siring a child. It had been baffling to Astarion the first time they’d consummated their union—it was baffling to him still, months into this endeavor. 

Astarion swallowed down his worries with a nod, and told himself this was enough for now: to be wed to a man who had not once struck him, who had never raised his voice at him, and who did not seem to consider him a mere broodmare, as his father had raised him to be. 

Still, fear lingered in his chest. If he could not bear Halsin a child, then he would be cast aside. Cazador would punish him for that, he was certain. But beyond that—losing Halsin would be a new sort of pain, one he had not anticipated, and one for which he had no one to blame but himself.

After all, it was his fault he had fallen in love.

—

Three months later, Astarion woke up to blood. 

As his head spun with terror, Astarion could only think of one thing: not Cazador’s ire, not the breaching of the marriage contract, not even the horror of returning to the cold, bitter palace he had been raised in.

No—as Astarion limped to the healer’s, blood trickling down his thighs, he could only think: Halsin will hate me for losing his child.

—

Astarion sat quietly as the healer spoke to his husband. He wondered if he could still call Halsin that at all, given how much of a failure he had been as his spouse. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, as Halsin approached his bedside. His hands were twisted together in deep anxiety on his lap, and he looked down at them as he continued, “I—I have no excuse. I’m sorry.”

“Astarion,” Halsin murmured. He placed one large hand on top of both of Astarion’s. “Why are you apologizing, my heart?”

“Why are you still calling me that?” Astarion asked, his head jerking up in surprise. He met Halsin’s confused and sorrowful gaze, and tears spilled down his cheeks as he blinked. His mouth trembled, and a sob burst from his chest before he could stop it. “I heard what the healer said—that I might not—that I might never—”

“It matters not,” Halsin said swiftly. “You are my heart, child or no, Astarion.”

“You can’t mean that!” Astarion cried, eyes squeezing tight. “I am useless to you now!”

Halsin’s hand stiffened atop his, and despite the silence, Astarion could feel his shock. Astarion had never raised his voice at him before, had never been anything but a charming, pliant vessel. 

He shuddered in fear and misery. Apologies would not save him now, he knew.

“Astarion, please look at me,” Halsin said. When Astarion did not obey, Halsin continued, “I am not so cruel to cast you aside for something so—so utterly beyond your control. When we were wed, I promised to care for you. I mean to keep my promise. There is nothing you could do that would make me stop.”

“I—but I—what am I for? If not to bear your young, to serve your House with my body—I don’t understand.”

“Is that what you think you're for? When I find the person who has put these awful thoughts into your head, I will tear them apart myself,” Halsin said, in a menacing tone that Astarion had never heard before. 

He shivered, not entirely displeased to hear it.

“Oh,” he whispered. “You truly…you truly mean to keep me?”

Halsin lifted Astarion’s limp hands to his lips and kissed his fingers, one by one. 

“Yes,” he said. "For as long as you would like to be kept."

Astarion nodded, his mind still reeling. This changed everything—and somehow, it changed nothing at all. Halsin still cared for him. Halsin still would not harm him. Halsin still did not care whether Astarion bore him a child or not. 

“Rest,” Halsin murmured, as Astarion listed sideways and crumpled against him, overwhelmed with relief. “I will be here when you wake. I will always be here, my heart.”

[wambsgansshoelaces]

heyy love, i love your fics so muchhh!! if ur requests are open, i was wondering if you could write this fun lil oneshot i thought of<3

(didn't really think much of the details but i imagined something like the episode with the pierce family, or u could change to what feels nice to u)

reader is like super hot/crazy attractive and the siblings are instantly interested. kendall and roman, being their idiot selves, start competing for her attention and trying to get her to accept going out etc. turns out, at the end of the day, shiv gets the girl, as she was the one reader wanted all along (gagged them)

Girls Get Girls

Siobhan Roy x fem!Reader

not gonna lie anon I feel like I didn’t do this too well so I’m so so sorry :( I still hope you enjoy even though I don’t really deliver x

btw I literally love you anon keep requesting

im so gay

Word Count: 2.893k

Mergers, acquisitions, stock, trade, liquidation. You couldn’t give a shit about any of it.

You’re not in the financial field at all, much to your parents’ disappointment. It’d brought you out of favor with them, brought your siblings closer to each other.

You usually don’t come to these things, but tonight it talk of selling the entire company. Leaving it all behind, cashing in the lotto, and fucking off. Your family had convinced you to come- despite your clear dislike for everything finance and business, you still hold stock and stake in the company. You were also going to get a pretty penny from your inheritance, so it would be wise to judge your potential buyer alongside your family.

You’re getting ready in your childhood bedroom, pacing the carpet as you put the finishing touches on your outfit. Your father had made it very clear: your job was to root out intention, then act accordingly. Regardless of whether you thought the Roys were worthy of the company or not is irrelevant at this moment. You need to be intimidating.

Intimidating, but also hot. Just for yourself.

A soft knock sounds at your door. “It’s me,” your cousin calls from the hall.

“Come in,” you call back.

She waltzes in, her blouse billowing behind her as she deposits herself on your bed. “Dad’s going to have an aneurysm.”

Even though you already know the answer, you ask, “Why?” You lean against your desk, facing her.

She snorts, knowing you’re trying to push her buttons. “He wants the company, dipshit. I still think all if this is to get on our nerves.”

“A chimp would do better as CEO than any of you,” you say, scoffing. What had started out as what you thought was joking was turning into something else.

“So why won’t you do it, then?” she asks, bitterly. “I don’t see why it has to be either you or someone out of the family entirely.”

“I’m not doing it because I don’t want to. My siblings also just… have no interest. We’re all off to bigger, better things.”

The two of you stare at each other until your father’s yelling draws you both from your trance.

“Up and at ’em,” he’s saying, pretty much to himself, once you’re downstairs. You brush imaginary dust from your sleeves as you make the awkward walk to the helipad. You and your brother share an exasperated look. Despite the fact that you’d been wedged apart over the years, you and your siblings share a lot of the same views and opinions.

“All this peacocking is fucking insane,” he mutters to you once you’re stopped a safe distance away from the pad.

“Just wait until you see them,” you mutter back.

Even though you weren’t involved in the business side of the company, you’d still been involved. You’d gone to dinners, conferences, galas. You were a bit of an outside source, as you held no real position in the company, but you knew you were vital.

At almost every event where someone with your last name was required to attend, there was also a Roy. You’d only ever seen them, never spoken to them

You hear the helicopter before you see it. Sunglasses perched on your nose, you look up. As it descends, your hair and jacket are blown vigorously back, and your hand goes to your scalp. The generated wind is aggressive, slicing over your skin, your clothing. The sound is now deafening, and you notice your sister clamping her hands over her ears. Your father gives her a look, something along the lines of don’t look weak, and your sister rolls her eyes in response, mouthing fuck you.

You have to suppress your smile. The helicopter’s landed, and people are starting to pile out.

“Logan, old friend,” your dad bellows jovially. While the two families had never met, never been close, you know your father and Logan Roy were actually the best of friends. You don’t know how they met. Your father spoke of Logan from as far back as undergrad university.

Your father steps forward, meeting Logan halfway as he leads the rest of his family towards yours. They envelope each other in a hug, and your brother snorts. He’s the only one who’s ever interacted with the Roys.

“It’s like he has a multiple personality disorder,” he’d told you the other day, talking about the enigma that was the head of the other family. “One second he’s laughing, then the minute Dad’s out the room, the guy’s raging over his kids or the people not doing enough work or whatever the fuck else is wrong with that stupid fucking company.”

He turns from your father to your mother, murmuring a warm greeting, then to the row of you, your sister, and your brother.

“Oh, look at the three of you! All grown and radiant,” he says heartily. So far, he doesn’t seem like the demon your younger brother had described him to be. But you know well enough that looks can be deceiving. He opens his arms out to you first, since you’re the eldest of the three. You give him an awkward hug, his hand clapping over your back in a friendly manner. “If only any of my children had the sense to get with you,” he mutters conspiratorially, earning a chuckle from you. He pats your shoulder, before moving on to your brother.

Logan’s wife is next. “Marcia,” she murmurs softly to you, taking you by the shoulders and air-kissing both your cheeks. You return the gesture as she does it, making sure to stay smiling. It’s all a flurry of names you’re sure you’re going to forget the second you need them. Connor, Gerri, Willa, Frank, Rhea. It’s really all just a bunch of letters bouncing around in your head.

Who you’re sure you will remember, though, are the siblings. The younger three. The important ones, your dad liked to call them.

As all of the ‘adults’ convened to chat amongst themselves, like they did when you were children, you and your sister are having a quiet conversation about your work. She’s in the middle of asking you to come out to her office to help you with something when you feel a hand settle on your shoulder. You turn, coming eye to eye with Kendall Roy.

“Hi,” he says carefully, small smile playing on his lips. “I don’t think we’ve met?”

“No, we haven’t,” you say back. “Y/N.” You offer him your hand to shake, like your father expects you to do with everyone.

“Kendall.”

“Yeah, I know,” you say awkwardly. He manages a laugh, withdrawing his hand, his eyes flitting over your face.

“I’m sorry it’s taken me this long, then, to, uh, put your name to your face.”

You’re not really sure what he means, but you don’t think you care that much.

“Move over, Kendall, you’re boring the shit out of her.” His brother comes over, bumping him with his hip. You have to stifle a laugh. “Roman.” You shake hands, offering him a polite smile. “He’s right, though. You’re a bit of a mystery to everyone.”

“Am I?” you ask, laughter seeping into your voice.

“Not to me.�� Her voice is firm, clear. “I’m Shiv. I was at the conference you gave the Ethics presentation to. I know your work. My brothers are just stupid.”

You laugh for real this time. “Nice to meet you, Shiv. I’m familiar with your work, too. I’m just not so deep into the political sphere like you are.”

“I can help with that, you know,” she says, expression surprisingly soft. “I’ve been looking for someone that shares my opinions and… moral compass to work with. You need your rock, you know?”

The conglomerate of people slowly transitions inside. Roman and Kendall get roped into other conversations, your sister disappearing off to who knows where. You mill about in the dimly lit sitting room, watching everyone interact. Shiv’s still by your side.

“No offense, but I hate these things,” she says quietly, coming closer to you so you can hear.

You laugh lightly. “None taken.” You glance over at her to find that her eyes are already glued to you. You feel your face heat, her gaze flickering down your body before coming back up to your face. She has a sly smile on, but it’s quickly melting into one of real, soft emotion. You open your mouth to offer her something you’ll probably regret later, but are interrupted by your father clapping his hands together and waving everyone into the dining room. Instead, you give her an exasperated smile and follow the crowd.

Your father eyes you and your siblings as you all slip into your strategically chosen seats, making it so you’d all be surrounded by Roys. Your brother makes a face at you from the other side of the table. You ignore him, instead looking up at Shiv, who hovers by the chair at your left hand.

Almost shyly, she asks, “May I?”

“Please.”

A giddy smile spreads across her face as she sits, and you can’t help but mirror her expression. You look down into your plate, catching your sister’s gaze on you. Kendall takes the seat on your other side, Logan sitting directly across from you, right by your dad.

Roman and your brother are laughing over something as you get served the appetizer, your sister staring off into space while Connor talks at her rather than to her. Your mother speaks quietly with Marcia, and of course, your father and Logan are the loudest at the table, laughing and gesturing around.

Your cousin is on Kendall’s other side, overly-focused on her food. The conversation suddenly involves the entire table, Logan leaving forward. “What is it you do again, Y/N?”

You shrug lightly. “I work in media and risk analysis. Dabble a bit in economics.”

“So like Shiv?”

“Not really,” you and her say at the same time. You gesture with your fork, letting her continue.

“Our work certainly overlaps, and I’m glad it does,” she says, “but I’m more… political, she’s more… corporate.”

“If you dabbled in economics,” your cousin manages through gritted teeth, “we wouldn’t be here.”

“Neither would we if you did,” you retort calmly.

She scoffs. “I still don’t see why all of this is happening,” she says back, barely loud enough for everyone to hear. You look to your father, praying he’ll deal with it himself before she goes on some tirade, scaring off the buyer, but he makes no move. He simply glances at you, his gaze loaded.

Do it yourself.

You wait for a few moments, letting the tension strain the room. Maybe she’ll back off.

She doesn’t.

“The company is leaving family hands because of you, Y/N. It’s going to crash and burn because you refuse to fucking see what’s sitting in front of you.”

Logan’s lips press together into a thin line, and you know you have to recover. “I don’t want the company. Neither of my siblings want it. Don’t you think it’s a little telling you’re the only one lusting after it so loudly?”

“I don’t see what that has to say about me.”

“You want it, and you’re not getting it,” you say firmly. “You’re incompetent. The Roy name is not.”

Dinner is only silent for so much longer. Your brother, at his breaking point, asks loudly, “Why are you even here? You blew the Pierce deal. Fuck off.” Your father hisses something into your brother’s ear. He scoffs in response. “I’m sick of it, Dad. The three of us bust our asses to get this to go well for you and she gets to waltz in, do whatever the fuck she wants whenever the fuck she wants.” He quickly pushes back his chair from the table and makes his way out of the dining room.

Clearly, this is deeper than one stupid comment made at the dinner table. You throw a questioning glance at your sister. She gives a minute shake of her head. She doesn’t know.

Dramatically, your cousin follows your brother out. Roman is trying not to laugh, and all of a sudden, your father and Logan aren’t in the mood they were before.

You turn to Shiv, exasperated. She’s also stuffing a laugh down, and it’s contagious. “Is my juvenile family drama amusing to you?” you murmur to her questioningly, the soft clink of silverware and terse chatter filling the room.

“Yeah,” she says, nearly choking on a laugh. “This is so fucking stupid. How do you deal with it?”

“I never stay home.” You down the rest of the water in your glass.

“Hey, uh, Y/N,” Kendall begins, leaning towards you as you turn to face him. “I just wanted to say, I get how it feels.” He gestures vaguely around. “So if you want to, um, get some air after, I’d love to join you.”

You thank him sincerely, giving him a soft smile. Dessert finally comes out. You’re almost there. You turn back to Shiv, but she’s conversing with whoever’s on her other side, to your disappointment. You eat your cheesecake in silence, Roman catching your eye and giving you a wink. You didn’t know people actually did that, but he pulled it off nicely, you think.

When your father finally gets up, ushering everyone into the sitting room for drinks and chatter, you heave a sigh of relief. You trail behind the crowd, hoping to be able to slip away on your own.

You succeed. You sigh up at the high vaulted ceiling, padding towards the grand staircase up to your room.

“Hey, where’re you going?” comes a soft voice. You turn, Shiv, hurrying after you.

“Escaping,” you say jokingly, pausing on the stairs, letting her catch up to you.

“Can I come?”

“Yeah. You can.”

The sight of her sitting cross-legged on your bed does something to you. It sucks all the air from your body. But maybe that was just the sight of her.

"Your brother okay?" she asks, looking up at you.

"He'll be fine. Everyone's just a bit tense."

"Just so you know, your cousin's temper tantrum doesn't change anything."

"I'd hope it didn't."

"What would change things though," she tells you, "is whether you want to come on once we buy the company."

"Me?"

"Yes, you. I was serious when I was talking about how I need someone in my corner."

"What do you mean?"

"It's me. The company gets handed to me."

"Congratulations, Shiv. But really, I want nothing to do with it."

"I'd be running things. You'd just be my right hand woman. The very attractive right hand woman that I see every day."

You laugh, unable to suppress the grin splitting your face.

“My cousin’ll murder me,” you manage to say.

“So? Let her try. Not like you’ll go down or anything.” She smiles up at you. “I think that’s hot. You’re hot.”

Silence stretches between the two of you, both of you grinning at each other.

“You’re really pretty,” you breathe, believing she followed you for a reason.

“I’m glad you think so.” Her hands come to cup your jaw in the few instances it takes you to cross the room, slide onto your bed, and kiss her. “God, you’re so… so fucking gorgeous.”

“Yeah?” you ask against her lips, peppering gentle kisses onto them. “Stay the night.”

“I told everyone I went home,” she says, giggling.

Your hand flits to her hip, rubbing soothingly. Your kisses are slow, tender. You’re both enjoying yourselves. It feels so real. It feels like something more.

You slide off of her, off the bed, eliciting a whine from her pretty mouth. “Just locking the door, baby.”

You wake up, head buried in her chest. She’d borrowed some pajamas of yours, the shirt a soft cotton. Her breathing is light and airy, and it’s music to your ears. Her fingers are threaded in the hair at your scalp, her arm thrown over your back.

You drift in and out of consciousness until she wakes up, pressing kisses along your forehead. Shiv sits up, letting you stay settled in her lap. You press a hot kiss to her bare thigh, shorts hiked up her legs.

“You know,” she says, after a short while of silence, “Ken and Roman were drooling over you all night.”

You snort. “Were they?”

“I know them. They were. And here I am,” she says, satisfied with herself.

You let out an airy laugh. “Here you are.”

“I was drooling, too,” she admits.

“Can we stop talking about saliva?”

She pinches your ass, to which you don’t dignify with a reaction, instead smiling into her thigh. “I wanna keep seeing you.”

“I have to fly out to Italy for some work. Maybe I want you to come with me.”

“God, I love women.” Her hand cards through your hair. “Mind if I take a picture? I want to send it to my brothers.”

“Perv,” you mutter, but nod anyway. You smile at the camera from her thigh, pressing a searing kiss to the place where her leg meets her hip the moment she hits the button.

It captures her beautiful face in an ecstatic smile, yours in soft affection as you look up at her, not the camera.

[shivvyscat]

Stay.

[summary: shiv lets you lounge on her bed after an afternoon together, watching her get ready for an event; lots of gay panic and reader being a simping mess]

[gxg, shiv x f!reader]

• • •

It took Siobhan at least a year of hooking up before she even entertained the idea of you staying at her place for even ten minutes after being done in bed. But you persisted, and you would’ve been fine with being kicked on your ass for another year if it meant getting the slightest bit closer to the redhead.

Your patience paid off though, and now each time you went to see her after an ‘I have the place to myself, come over’ text, you’d get your cuddles, your long talks, and sometimes, you’d get a glimpse of her life, that she would willingly show you. Tonight was one of those days, as you laid naked in Shiv’s bed, watching her sit in front of her vanity mirror, in her cute little satin robe.

“Could you not?” Her silky voice brought you out of your haze.

“I’m not even doing anything.” Shiv raised a brow, looking at you through the mirror with that smirk that made you want to get on your knees and kiss her from toe to head. But you kept your cool.

“You’re ogling. It’s annoying.” Her hands kept working on her face, your eyes still on her.

“Well, you’re the one ogling if it’s bothering you. Look at your own pretty face.” You tease and turn on your stomach, cuddling a blanket as your head is still turned to her direction.

“You little shit.” She laughs, and you grin, wanting to make her laugh again, and again, and then one more time. “Don’t you have anything else to do? I have to be sharp for this thing. Get in the right headspace to deal with those fuckers.” You revelled in the way her eyes lingered for one second longer on your half sheet-covered figure even as she said this.

“Not really.” You lied. The truth is that you had a bunch of stuff you could be doing instead of lounging in this woman’s bed. But you wanted to be here, for as long as she’d have you, you would be here.

“Yeah, well, I do, so quit it.”

“Why did you even invite me over if you knew you had this thing? I wouldn’t have come if I knew it was gonna be just a couple hours.” Before you even said it, you knew it was another lie. You would’ve come here if Siobhan wanted just a quick release. You would’ve come here if she wanted just a peck on the lips.

“You would’ve.” Shiv smirked. “Besides, I wanted you. Got a problem with that, Y/N?”

“Whatever. Like I said, I had the day free, anyway.”

“Oh yeah? No standing up your girlfriend for this?” She asked, a little teasingly, her movements as she fixes her hair as sharp as her tongue. You smile.

“Which one are you talking about?”

“Hm, I don’t know. Roman did say you fucked his girlfriend.” Shiv looks amused as she turns on her seat, grabbing a bottle of lotion from the vanity and leaning down to apply it on her legs. Now you’re really ogling.

“I fucked you. Are you my girlfriend?” This makes her laugh. And once again you bask in the pleasure of that sound being caused by you.

“Come here, smartass.” You raise your brows, eyes full of surprise and subtle excitement. “What? Are you scared? I want your opinion on something.”

“Oh, that’s a first.” You lean over the edge of the bed to grab your shirt from the floor, but she stops you.

“Uh uh. That won’t be necessary. Come here.” You stand up, completely bare as you walk up to her. Once again revelling in the way her eyes travel up and down your body, in that subtle way only she can pull off, and probably only you can notice. She pulls you closer by the waist. “Which of these go best with my eyeshadow and a black dress?” She holds up a few lipstick options.

“Hm… I don’t know. This one?” Shiv scoffs, with a grin.

“Please, that one screams whore.”

“Why do you even have it?”

“For situations where it’s acceptable. Like your birthday party.” She looks up at you with that teasing smile, it makes you smile as well, and your knees feel like they might buckle under you.

“Oh, fuck you, Siobhan.”

“What? Don’t you remember this lipstick all over your body after? I think it looked great. But not for tonight.” She puts the options down. “Come here.”

“What, you ass?” Shiv pulls you in again, making you settle on her lap, your thighs on each side of hers. You are so, so aware of the minuscule amount of barrier between you two.

“Put….” She holds your waist with one hand, and with the other she picks out a lighter option of red. “This one on me.”

“I’m sorry, are your hands not working?” You smile, grabbing the lipstick she handed you, once her hand is free she holds the other side of your waist, her touch firm and gentle at the same time.

“Well, I want you in my lap. You might as well do it for me, no?” You roll your eyes, unable to not smile at her words, her expression, her hands caressing from your hips to below your breasts.

“Pucker up, then.” You reach up for her lips, but before you touch them with makeup, you lean in and kiss her, just a soft contact. As you pull away, she puts her hand on the back of your neck and pulls you into a proper kiss.

It’s hard to keep it going, since you’re both smiling, you pull back with a chuckle. “Do you wanna get ready or not?”

“Yes. Don’t go overboard. Just one layer is fine.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Shut up.” She mutters, trying not to move her lips too much as you put on her lipstick, it’s clear to you that she wants to smile.

“All done.” You put the little tube back on the table and she turns to inspect your work, her hands not once leaving your body.

Shiv hums. “Good.” She moves your hair behind your shoulders. “I’m gonna get dressed….” She says in a lower voice, leaning into your neck, planting little teasing kisses on it. “And you’re gonna be right on that bed when I get back.”

You tilt your head a little to give her better access, sighing softly. “Yeah?”

“Hm mhm. I want you here. Stay.” Shiv says, and you nod. She lightly smacks your ass, making you stand up from her lap. “And don’t get dressed.”

Shiv voice says ‘demand’, but her eyes say ‘plead’. Either way, you’re going to oblige. You’re gonna be here when she gets back. You always are.

• • •

(my first tumblr post 😭 send me requests! I love writing for shiv. let me know your thoughts as well <3)

[gregmarriage]

talking to my brother about succession and trying to remain normal is like playing a game on extreme difficulty

[alluringnectar]

Timeless

abby anderson x fem!reader

a/n: srry ts might b a lil short lol, kinda rushed

summary: you go on a patrol with abby

warnings: sfw, slow burn, js kinda angst, not rlly tho

pt. 1 , pt. 2, pt. 3

it’s 5:45 in the morning.

the sky is still dark, you can hear the hums of cicadas and the hoots of owls.

you’re in the back of a W.L.F. truck, holding double barreled shot gun. infront of your view is alice and abby. even though its pitch black out, her features illuminate like the moon; at that point moths would even be attracted.

you didn’t realize you were even bouncing your leg until abby held your leg.

“nervous?” she asked, chuckling. “yeah, it’s my first patrol since i ever got promoted” you shyly admitted, “i’m scared im gonna fuck things up.” abby listened to you intently, finding comfort in your pure honesty. “everyone fucks up once in every while, it doesn’t get easier, just easier to handle.” you smiled, full of teeth, thanking her.

how could this even be the same girl Mel was talking about?

the truck comes to an abrupt halt, signaling it’s time to hop off. Abby, Alice, & you jump off, thanking the W.L.F. driver. “good luck girls!”

as you walk into the abandoned ruins of what was once a beauty thriving city, abby pulls out a map. “there should be a hospital around here somewhere. orders are to clear it and get all supplies.” you nod, following her as she walks to the abandoned hospital.

as you walk in, you feel shivers. you turn to look at abby, but she has a sad look on her eyes, like a sad puppy dog.

you hear barks, that takes you out of your thoughts. both abby and you flinched.

alice is barking at this door, abby and you budge it open.

then out of no where, a stalker jumps you. before you can take out your pistol, abby grabs a shiv and stabs it in the throat.

it lays there, blood seeping out.

“are you okay?” abby asks you, “yes, im fine thank you.” abby offers her hand and you take her in.

both you and abby look around the room.

its a chapel.

“ it’s pretty, isn’t it?” you say to abby as you admire the alter, the benches that once had many families praying for patients to get better. abby hums, and she asks, “do you believe in God?” you tell her, “I believe in God, i just dont know if he believes in me.” abby looks at you, “what do you mean?” “i believe he is real when i see fawns and their mothers taking care of eachother. i believe he is real when i see the sun taking care of the plants as the sunrays reach them. i feel like God doesn’t believe me when i see the sufferings of this world, when i lose the people i love, or i see the once humans so alive, laughing, crying, and other emotions trapped in all the fungus.” abby looks at you, intently staring and picking up at every feature.

“do you?” you ask, snapping abby out of her trance. “do i what?” abby asks. “believe in God?” abby sighs , “if God was real, maybe he wouldn’t have taken away my farther.” your heart hurts for her, and you embrace her, letting her know shes not alone. she returns it, holding you tight

you feel a sharp pain the back of your shin, causing you to hiss. “whats wrong?” abby asks you worryingly. you pull up your pants and replied “glass must’ve cut me with that stalker was on me.” “i don’t know how i didn’t feel it, must’ve been the adrenaline” you joke, causing abby to laugh.

“sit down, ill get you treated” abby says.

she wraps your leg and puts anti infection cream all over as she cleaned the wound.

“how do you know how to do all this?”

“my dad was a doctor, i only learned from the best.”

“your father was blessed to have you.”

“he would’ve liked you.”

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

“let’s report back to base, we have supplies now anyways.”

you learned her farther name was Jerry.

as abby, alice, and you go back to base, alice is put into her kennel.

“see you soon alice!!” you both yell.

abby and you report your findings to other W.L.F. members then abby takes you to the infirmary because she swears it’s necessary.

and she isn’t wrong because Nora is telling you with an injury that severe you need to stay home and supervised.

abby volunteers, and now she’s next to you on the couch, with you falling asleep on her shoulder.

she could get used to this view.

[romeulusroy]

In Another Life I Did Everything Right (Roman Roy x Baby!Roy)

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

Word Count: 1,761

Inspired By: the popsicle I was eating lol

Requested: Can you write something with Roman and baby!roy? Whatever you want to do is fine. I really love your baby!roy writing and I adore Roman - anon

A/N: I took a lot of creative liberty lol, I hope you don't mind! Feedback is always appreciated my loves! 💜💜💜

It’s always the same memory, the same dream, that comes to him when the weather is warm, and humid, and he falls into a fitful sleep. It’s a realization that comes to him each time he sees your face: how young you are. Not the chubby cheeks of childhood, yet you remain untouched by adolescence. Though he knows he was a much younger man at the time, he is all grown up now. He feels his age, how old he must seem to you, how worn. Tired. He stands in the grass, the sun bright and willing to burn. He holds two plastic pouches. He knows what they are. He knows what you’re going to say, how worried you are that they’re beginning to melt: popsicles. They wouldn’t have been allowed in the house at all. They wouldn’t have made their way into the shopping cart, nor found a home in the freezer, had it not been for Connor. All his doing. He used to know the story, but tonight he can’t recall. Did you ask him for them? Were they a surprise? How could they have been hidden so well from the disapproving eyes of your father? It doesn’t really matter, he knows, but so much of this dream has become lost to him. It’s been so many years. He can no longer rely on his memory. This day has been contorted over the years, malleable and pliable, until, as far as he knows, it no longer resembles what truly happened. You’re on the pavement, legs dangling off the edge of the pool. The water is clear and, unfortunately, not as cool as you’d like. You wait, hand outstretched, for your treat. He makes you pick. Left, right, left right, left. Finally, you choose left. He smiles. Not then, but now. How big that decision must’ve felt, how harrowing it was to decide, blindly, the flavor. Older and wiser puts things into perspective. Time is funny that way. He’s grateful you remain untouched by this. Let this be your big decision. He tears yours open: orange. There is no mourning, there is no disappointment, though there is a mutual understand red is the best. He holds his up to the light, the wrapper giving way to a dark inky color. He’s glad you picked what you did: no one really liked grape all that much. 

He wants to talk to you, to ask you questions, to understand where it all went wrong, but he is limited. The dialogue has been chosen for you. This is a reenactment, a loop, a labyrinth of muscle memory he must abide by. He settles beside you, legs crossed, listening to your teeth break through the ice and syrup. He wasn’t a spiritual person. He didn’t believe in God or Heaven or Hell. He didn’t have anyone or thing to turn to when things were hard, when times were tough. Sometimes he wished he was. A different person who could pray and believe and have faith. The cynic in him thought it was bullshit. The optimist, weak and tender, fought back as best as it could. There has to be something, right? There has to be something after all this? Life, mortal life, was so small in comparison to the time before and time after. How could there be nothing? He wants to ask you what you think, if there is God out there and, if so, how vengeful they must be. You were young, yes, but you grew up. There were so many opportunities for him to ask you, your views and opinions, and he didn’t. He wasn’t thinking as he was now. He didn’t have the perspective. Instead your voice slices through his thoughts, a knife to watermelon, it all becomes a sweet, sticky mess in the middle of his cheat. Where’s mom? You don’t have to clarify you mean your mother and not his. Logan’s latest ex-wife. They lasted longer than anyone expected, separating just a few weeks prior, when Spring turned to Summer. He speaks, and though he cannot hear himself, he knows his lines. He wishes now he’d been nicer. Kinder. Instead he is full of teenage angst and decides a snide comment is the best option to ease your growing unease given their recent split. Like all of your mothers, Connors and his and yours, they’ve left their children in the care of your father, though he understand this thought is cheap and really, only Connors mother couldn’t help it. Still, two out of three? 

Did you see her today? You watch him, and wait, and your eyes are big, and there is melted popsicle down the front of your shirt. Yes, he admits, for a moment, but refuses any further details. Mascara ran down her face. She wheeled two large suitcases out of their (now Logans) room and down the hall, towards the stairs. He’s not sure where she was going, or for how long, and he suspected you wondered the same thing. Were the popsicles, similar to the cake Logan had bought Connor, some sort of bargain? A peace offering? Sorry kid, mommy and daddy are splitting. Here’s some sugar! Was this Connor’s way of making things better? He noticed the absence of his older siblings lessening these recent months. He found Shiv helping you with your school work, patiently listening to you ramble on about grade school drama: Leah liked Tommy, but Tommy liked Madison, who wasn’t your friend anymore because she was no longer sitting at your table during lunch, so Tessa was your new best friend. Kendall, with whatever he did to busy himself all day, took his evenings to hang out with you, trying his best to have something in common with a ten year old. Connor, who had never been lacking in your life, became an even more involved presence. Wrapped up with his own affairs, and probably several affairs, Logan had little time for his youngest. So here he was, doing his part, hoping a little attention wouldn’t leave you screwed up like the rest of them. 

He wants to ask you what you think of all this. He should have, at the time, but he was uncomfortable. Uncomfortable that, finally, you were earning the Roy name. Your mother was just another wife, you were just another kid he didn’t like or want. You weren’t special, you weren’t going to change him. Uncomfortable because you were a child and children had big emotions. What if you cried? What if you got upset? He didn’t know how to stop it. He didn’t know how to help. You wouldn’t know it at the time (how could you?) but your mother would move on. She’d remarry a few years down the line, and have more children, and leave you behind. Her second husband wasn’t a fan of your father. By association, he wasn’t keen to you either. Roman never asked, even when you got older, how you were dealing with it all. Not just this, but everything. Adolescence. He figured, like the rest of them, you’d move on. Recover. Find your way. You couldn’t. You were in Logan’s custody sure, but it was her you wanted. Holidays, and birthdays, and events, you wanted her. Instead he decides the conversation is over. The in-between is murky. There are popsicles, there is this grimm realization, there is regret, and then what?

He isn’t sure what it is that keeps him reliving this day over the others. There were plenty of times he spent with you, though usually you were drinking, attempting to run away from the family, your bloodline, your future. He saw you so rarely, you were such a different person when he got the chance to really look at you, talk to you. Logan shipped you off to boarding school the school year after your mother leaves. It’s prestigious, and sterile, and ruins any of that person he’s sitting beside. Somewhere between here and then you changed. Not just growing up, though is any other big brother really prepared for their baby to get older? You grew harder, colder, bitter. You drank more. You disappeared often. Your grades suffered, though that kind of information was kept mostly between you and the school. Every so often, Connor would send out a group text saying he was going to visit you. Roman, at least, knew what that meant: you got into trouble and needed someone to clean up a mess you made. Everyone had grown up and adjusted as well as to be expected. They were waiting, impatiently, for you to catch up in maturity. You were a teenager expected to act like an adult, treated like a child. You begged Logan to come home. Your school was far away. It was lonely. It was brutal. But it was the best education anyone could ask for and he believed you were being a brat. 

You wanted to see your mother. It had been years, at that point, since you last saw her. Occasionally you’d receive a cold phone call, but that was all you were allotted. That’s the story, anyways. No one really knows why you went out that night, why it was so urgent, only that you were drinking and you weren’t wearing a seatbelt. They found the car wrapped around a pole. You took your place in the family mausoleum. As far as he knows, your mother doesn’t visit. But they do, all of them. This was years ago, a little over a decade. You’d be all grown up by now. He still sees you as a ten year old. He always will. Maybe he dreams this day, over every other, because it was before everything turned sour. Maybe he just likes the taste of popsicles. Either way, it’s always a treat. He wants to ask you everything he didn’t get the chance to, but he can’t, and soon he will wake up. He’ll wake up in a cold sweat and make a point to visit you sometime soon, taking this as a sign that you’re lonely and looking for company. For now, he looks at you, really looks, and takes you in. You’ve been talking this whole time about what you’ve been learning in school, what Shiv has been helping you with. He will nod. He was bored then, wondering who would take over babysitting duty, but he isn’t now. He soaks up every word. He misses your voice, your mannerisms. So much has changed since this day. So little has changed, too.

[gudrunbrangwen]

So I’m very autistic about music and I loved how succession made Kendall’s music taste have so much character and be so accurate to who he is and who he thinks he is, which made me start thinking about the other siblings listening to music. I just cannot imagine it. I can’t imagine Roman putting on his little AirPod and opening up a Spotify playlist or putting on posters in his room for a certain thing. The idea of shiv being into drill and grime is extremely funny to me. I think connor tells Alexa to put on slow old Spanish ballads blasting (at an appropriate volume) through every floor of his desert house and Willa wears noise cancelling headphones constantly. I just can’t decide if Roman has an obscenely normal man music taste (like what plays in gyms) or if he actually cares about music. And then I listened to horse foreplay again and I need to make a playlist for it so basically: what do you think Roman would listen to?

incredible message. oh man. for one, connor genuinely seems like a music lover because that’s in line with his situation being the only sibling to genuinely enjoy the spoils of wealth and just stuff generally. he also has that fleetwood mac line at tom’s bachelor party, and famously karaokes a fucking leonard cohen song. love him.

kendall’s music taste is central to his character, we all know what ken’s taste is (or at least i think we do, i have seen some very funny “ken listens to this” mixes. they should resemble the intern-curated obama end-of-year picks LOL). shiv i have no idea about, but i wouldn’t be surprised if she had some appreciation for whatever dad liked if dad ever bothered to point something out. i don’t think she listens to florence + the machine though be serious you guys just see a girl with red hair…………….

my personal read on roman’s whole Deal is that he has the least “life of his own” of the siblings. even his reputation / the rumors about him (that he’s a playboy who loves coke) are the least accurate to his actual behavior and preferences (esp when contrasted with ken’s public takedowns which hurt his feelings precisely Because they’re often true). it’s difficult for me to imagine roman having strong personal taste in….. pretty much anything, even when he sees his choices symbolically (“i want steak” speech in america decides). in the end, roman is most interested in cultivating an image of himself that is going to be the most protective of his true desire for authenticity and connection, but we know that he has no idea what to do with himself when he is confronted with an opportunity to actually “express himself”.

all this to say, it is very difficult for me to imagine roman sincerely enjoying music/art without a level of detachment, irony, or jokey judgement. if he likes certain sounds, i couldn’t see him singing along like kendall in the backseat. maybe a handful of songs are nostalgic for him, maybe some post-hardcore (…. fugazi….. honestly……) or even MAYBE some britpop or eurodance from the european half of his childhood. he wouldn’t allow himself true sentimentality with it though. he certainly knows all of the lyrics to a few songs bc he’s very In the World, esp culturally impactful songs, but he just seems like a guy who fucking hates bohemian raphsody. he knows who the pinball wizard is but i can viscerally feel his frown at hearing the baba o’reilly opener in a shop. he simply would never admit to loving a band, let alone buy a t-shirt! (i think i get a little annoyed generally with assumptions about roman that cast him as even a little bit twee just because he’s silly. look at how he actually dresses. this man would not paint his nails or have a charm on his phone. you’re thinking of kieran culkin!)

anyway this is my fav horse foreplay fanmix by @gotouda just bc it’s bursting with songs that are simply About Romtom. full of stuff me a young millennial gay person listens to so i play it a lot lol. there’s also an unsettled/upsetting undercurrent to some of these choices that matches the tone of the fic PRECISELY!!!! i have no idea how someone would go about building a mix based on romtom AND character taste just bc it is nigh impossible for me to picture roman roy listening to a song BECAUSE it reminds him of tom.

tom on the other hand…………….. that’s elton john, that’s ABBA, that’s broadway original cast recording, that’s george michael, that’s adele. ok

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

Grays

Frankie Morales x f!reader

{ Grays Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Grays Part II }

Rating: M

Summary: Frankie wants you to cover up his grays. You want to knock some sense into his salt-and-pepper head.

Warnings: Insecure Frankie in need of self-love comes with his own warning, Reader is a hairstylist and has a related nickname, no physical descriptions other than that Reader has hair that can be dyed, not-quite-friends to *respectfully looking* dynamics, mentions of hair, gratuitous descriptions of the male body, sexual innuendos, lots of teasing and banter.

Word count: 4.8k

Notes: The origin story is here if you missed it. This is dedicated to my Frankie soul sister LJ @prolix-yuy who encouraged me to write this many months ago ❤️ As always, I’m an anxious mess writing for a new-to-me Pedro boy, so please be gentle with me (cos it's my birthday week) 🥺

I have a part 2 (with smut) in mind. I love where this leaves off, but who am I kidding. I probably won’t be able to help myself 😂

The bell on the door chimes with a sweet tinkle, cutting through the low, insistent purr of the hair clipper buzzing in your grasp. You don’t look up as you spy broad shoulders and a battered Standard Heating Oil cap crossing the threshold out of the corner of your eye.

‘Are you lost, Morales?’ you drawl indifferently, focused on the task at hand. ‘I have an appointment with Pope today, not you.’

‘He booked it under his name. Thought you’d take it as a prank if I called in myself.’

You look up to meet his gaze reflected in the mirror sitting in front of Greg, your current customer. ‘I wonder why he’d think that.’

Frankie shrugs, leaning against the reception counter with his arms crossed. ‘Beats me.’

You snort. ‘Really? You’ve insisted loudly and repeatedly for as long as I’ve known you that you don’t see the point of going to a hairstylist when you can have Pope cut your hair with kitchen scissors in his bathtub.’

‘C’mon, Shiv.’

‘Oh, he knows my name,’ you gasp sarcastically. You turn to Greg, who’s clearly amused by this exchange, and loop him in. ‘He usually just grunts at me.’

At this point, Ashton - your apprentice and all-round salon maverick - makes an appearance. Clearly having caught the tail-end of your conversation with Frankie, he glances between the two of you with an arched eyebrow. ‘Are we back to chasing customers away, boss?’

‘Sit his ass down but he doesn’t get a free drink,’ you instruct. ‘I’ll get to him when I get to him.’

Ashton goes ahead and ignores your orders point blank, per usual. After hanging up Frankie’s jacket and settling him at the station furthest away from you in the far corner of the salon, you see him sneakily give him a coffee. He can never resist the handsome ones.

You take your sweet time with Greg, cleaning up his sideburns, even though you’re basically done with him - just to tick off your waiting customer.

Not that it works, and you know it won’t. He just sits there, his wide frame filling up the chair, still as a rock. The dog-eared, months-old magazines strategically placed on the table for idle reading lie untouched. That’s Francisco Morales for you.

You’ve been orbiting each other since sixth grade, as all kids in your close-knit neighbourhood do. In fact, most of your customers went to your school. 

You don’t even remember how it started - probably at a sleepover - you discovered one day that you’re handy with box hair dye. By freshman year, you were colouring your fellow classmates’ hair in the girls’ toilets after school, earning enough pocket money to keep your cabinet at home fully-stocked with new hair products on rotation.

Your ever-changing hair colour got you into trouble with the headmaster more times than you can count, who nicknamed you Shape Shifter. Your friends abbreviated it to Shifter, then over the years, whittled it down to Shiv, and it stuck.

After being gifted a set of styling scissors for Christmas one year, you started hanging out at the neighbourhood salon, hustling for an apprenticeship. You practised what you observed on your fellow students, giving out haircuts on the bleachers on non-game days for a couple of dollars (the fee waived if something went disastrously wrong).

That’s how you first met Benny - his then cheerleader girlfriend took him in for a haircut when it got too long for her liking. When you eventually opened your own salon years later, he was your first paying customer, having come home after being honourably discharged from the army.

During the early days, when you struggled to fill your appointments and he couldn’t win a fight to save his life, you made a pact. You would do his hair at a heavy discount for his posters and promotions, and in return, he would let you use his photos for the salon’s marketing.

And it worked. Well, not that you had anything to do with him turning his fortunes around on the MMA circuit, but he had everything to do with getting customers through your door. It only got busier when Santi joined the ranks a couple of years later, and even though Will only shows up when his hair gets really unruly, they both sit in front of your camera with no complaint in return for mate’s rates.

Having these guys on your salon’s social media keeps both the gents and the ladies booking up your appointments.

Frankie Morales, though, is a different animal.

When you finally appear over his left shoulder, his coffee is all gone and he meets your eyes in the mirror nonchalantly. He’s leaning his whole weight on his right elbow on the armest, his left arm outstretched and blunt nails tapping on the table, the only hint of impatience he’s giving away.

He’s good at that - he’s the laid-back one out of the boys, the one who hangs back and observes with arms crossed, but quick to crack a grin and throw in a wicked barb when the occasion calls for it. Nothing ever seems to faze him, and probably nothing does - you hear that makes a good pilot, and from what Pope lets on, he’s a damn good one.

It also makes for highly effective bait for the ladies. He’s a popular fixture on the local bar scene - let’s face it, all of the boys are. You’ve seen him in action more than once when Benny or Pope invites you along on a night out, more often than not without Will since he had a baby girl with his high school sweetheart last year. Frankie’s brooding, quiet, beer-sipping act often works better than Benny’s over-the-top flirting or Pope’s Casanova bit.

But that’s neither here nor there.

Hands on your hips, you goad him, ‘Alright Morales, how do I know you’ll pay up, you cheap bastard?’

‘Pope says to put it on his tab.’

‘Music to my ears.’ You tap him on the shoulder. ‘Sit up and off with the cap.’

With a grumble, Frankie lifts the cap up by the beak, ducking his head as he does so. He tosses it onto the table offhandedly and shifts in his seat, but you’re not fooled by his unconvincing air of indifference. From the way he plasters his palms to the top of his denim-clad thighs, as if to stop them from fidgeting, you know he’s feeling vulnerable. 

You can’t say you’ve ever seen Frankie without his headgear - now that you think about it, he’s been wearing it since high school. Heck, he might have gone through several incarnations of that blasted hat in the years in between. You’ve caught glimpses when he lifts it up to fix his hair, but otherwise, all you see is what peeks out from underneath, the longer wisps that coil around his ears and the curls at the back. 

As it turns out, there’s really nothing to hide - sure, the cut is blunt and his hair lacks shine, but both can be easily fixed. You step into his space and comb through his locks, starting at the base of his skull and working your way up the sides. 

The contact startles him - he practically jumps out of his skin, and you don’t miss the way the veins on the back of his hands pop and he digs his nails into his legs.

'Easy, boy,' you soothe with a teasing undertone, earning yourself a glower from the pilot. As much as you enjoy needling him, you do want your customers to be comfortable. So you let slip a deliberate but genuinely appreciative hum as the dark tendrils, subtly tinged with grays, part softly at your prying fingertips. ‘Wow, your curls are really thick.'

He looks up, an unsure frown on his brow. ‘Oh. Is that bad?’

‘No, Morales, it’s definitely a compliment,’ you tell him encouragingly - your bark has always been worse than your bite. ‘What do you use to wash your hair? It’s a bit dry.’

He shrugs. ‘Shampoo.’ At your insistent stare, he snaps, ‘What?’

‘Don’t lie to me, Morales,’ you warn him in a stern voice.

He huffs and gives in. ‘Fine. It’s a 2-in-1 body wash. I get it at the gas station, happy?’

You shoot him a smug grin as he rolls his eyes. ‘Well, you’re using proper shampoo from now on, and conditioner.’ He opens his mouth, a complaint on the tip of his tongue, when you hold a finger up at him. ‘Don’t argue with me, mister. I’ll throw in a couple of bottles on the house to get you started.’

‘Fine,’ he concedes. Unfailingly polite even when grumpy, he adds, ‘Thanks, Shiv.’

Your trusty swivelling stool screeches in protest when you drag it over on its wheels, before you take a seat and address the elephant in the room. ‘So - I’m guessing you’re here because of the wedding.’

You get a grunt in response. Scratching a particularly scrappy patch of his beard that has turned prematurely silver, he says, ‘My ma says I should cover up my old man grays for it.’

You snort, shaking your head. ‘Ha! And you tell your mother I say - hell no, ma’am! I will do no such thing.’

Frankie blinks at your unexpectedly adamant response. ‘What?’

‘I said, hell no,’ you repeat. Turning his head to the side with two fingers on his stubbled cheek, you comb his locks upwards to study the way the grays blend in softly with the umber, matching the ashen flecks in his beard. He doesn't start as badly at your touch this time, but there’s a telltale tick in his jaw, and you can almost hear the tension that thrums just below his skin where a late summer tan still lingers.

‘See how your grays are mainly coming out on the underside?’ you point out. ‘I like the way they just peek through the brown, it gives more depth to your curls. Natural highlights, if you will.’

He looks unconvinced and swipes at a smattering of silver with dismissive fingers. ‘Dunno. Thought the grays make me look old.’

You chuckle. ‘You’re no spring chicken anymore, Morales, and I mean it in a good way. Grays are natural - they will look even better when you start using actual shampoo and conditioner. Trust me, the salt and pepper works on you. I’m not dyeing your grays, and that’s that.’

For the first time today, Frankie turns his head and looks directly into your eyes. ‘My mother’s coming back to town for the wedding, you know. And she remembers where you live.’

You laugh. ‘Go ahead and send her my way, you know I’m not scared of her.’

He scoffs at your big talk. ‘You should be.’

Your relationship with the Morales matriarch is complicated, to say the least. She was always hard on you when you were a kid, thinking you were too wild and undisciplined. Now that you’re grown, you’re still torn between your admiration for her as a single mother who raised a good man, and the woman who never tires of dishing out criticism, warranted or not.

You give him a reassuring pat on the back, solid and warm under your touch. ‘Leave your mother to me, Morales. The grays stay, and I’ll make sure you steal the show at the party.’

‘Your funeral,’ he quips.

‘You just worry about getting yourself to the wedding,’ you retort, cracking your knuckles. ‘Now, are you ready for some pampering?’

Frankie rolls his eyes, but you see the corner of his mouth tick up in a vaguely upward direction - and you take it as a win.

‘Relax, Morales.’

‘I am relaxed,’ he insists through gritted teeth.

‘You’re about as relaxed as a cow on the butcher’s block. Unclench.’

For someone as economical with words as he is, his body certainly says a lot. Every single part of him seems hellbent on making his discomfort known. He breathes a frustrated exhale through his nose, brow deeply furrowed, his glare burning holes into the ceiling.

The leather seat of the backwash barely contains his tall build, his t-shirt stretched to the seams across his chest as he leans back into the basin. He’s bouncing his left leg irritably, the tight denim straining against his lap.

You try - valiantly - not to gape too obviously at the conspicuous bulge nestled snugly between his thighs under his belt buckle. But you can’t avert your eyes from something of that size. It’s against the laws of physics. Or something.

Even from where you’re standing, at the top of the basin peering down the slope of his body, its heft is clearly testing the structural integrity of the zipper of his jeans. Imagine the view from the other side -

Clearing your throat, you bodily press down on Frankie’s shoulders which are coiled up like the hood of an angry python, forcing them to loosen up. He jerks as if he’s a copper wire and you’re electricity. You tease, ‘So sensitive. You act like you’ve never felt a woman’s touch before, Morales.’

‘You know that’s not true,’ he growls at you, the prominent vein in his neck starting to pulse in frustration.

‘No, you’re right - I do know,’ you smirk, dragging out your syllables.

Your tone has him frowning at you, upside down. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘I mean - I know,’ you repeat with a conspiratorial wink.

He narrows his eyes at you. ‘What do you know, Shiv?’

You wriggle his eyebrows at him suggestively, enjoying yourself far too much. ‘I own a salon, Morales. I hear things from the ladies about town.’

One large palm reaches up to shield his face in embarrassment, a pained groan escaping between the gaps of his fingers. ‘For fuck’s sake - kill me now.’

You laugh, wrestling his hand from his face to with an impish grin. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve only heard good things so far - Frankie big boy Morales.’

He blushes so hard that his ears and neck go a livid red, and for a minute, you’re actually worried that he’d pass out from not enough blood reaching his heart. Not keen on the prospect of having to explain to the emergency services that you teased the poor man into an aneurysm, you turn on the water and cut short your little chinwag with a good-natured chuckle. 

His hands are still tightly clamped around the armrest when you carefully run the shower head along his hairline and behind his ears, soaking his curls. His biceps flex from the tight grip and the lean muscles strain against the sleeves of his t-shirt. 

At least he closes his eyes when you start with the shampoo. The velvety lather froths as you patiently wash his hair, which clings to his wet curls like vanilla frosting. The deep crease between his brows eases with each gentle swipe into his locks, and the invisible force pulling his lips downwards slackens. By the time you rinse out the bubbles, you don’t miss the way the tension in his body unwittingly goes with it down the drain.

When your nails slide slickly into his hair with the conditioner, his stubborn body finally, slowly unfurls. His head tips back of its own accord, baring the column of his strong neck as he leans inadvertently into your touch. Colour returns to his knuckles when he releases his death grip on the backwash. 

You smile to yourself, scraping your fingertips along his scalp in a firm massage, watching his chest rise and fall as he teeters on the brink of consciousness.

As your thumbs trace a confident path down the back of his skull, they appear to find a particularly sensitive spot near the base of his neck, and it's as if a switch is flipped. You witness the exact moment he breaks - his back arches off the leather seat, his obstinate lips part with a strangled half-sigh catching in his throat as he yields his full weight into the palm of your hands.

If you're not careful, you could get used to this.

‘Still with me, Morales?’ you tease quietly.

He garbles incoherently, and you grin.

Frankie practically molds into the chair like warm wax when you shepherd him back to the styling station. You’re so chuffed with yourself that you don’t even feel the need to gloat at the way his eyes are glazed over and how his head lolls into the soft pressure when you run a fluffy towel through his hair. The man recoiling at the mere brush of your fingers a distant memory.

You run an assessing eye over him, brushing out his locks to gauge your game plan. ‘I like this length on you, so I’ll just trim the split ends and tidy up your sideburns. You’ll benefit from some layering too - it’s a bit heavy on top right now.’

From the way he blinks owlishly at you, you know he doesn’t catch a single word. He shrugs and says matter-of-factly. ‘You can’t do worse than Pope.’

The salon is quiet this afternoon, as it tends to be on Wednesdays. You let him enjoy the peace for a little bit and tap your foot to Ashton’s playlist as your styling scissors move over his curls in metallic snips.

‘Tip your head forward for me,’ you instruct, sliding around the back of his head on your wheels as you probe, ‘So - how are you feeling about the wedding?’

The fabric of his t-shirt bunches over his shoulders as they quirk noncommittally.

‘It’s just a few days away.’

He makes an indifferent noise. But you’re not so easily dissuaded from conversation, and he knows it.

‘Can’t be easy - watching your ex get married.’

Frankie pins you with a long-suffering stare in the mirror. ‘We broke up a year ago.’

Getting onto your feet, you ruffle your fingers through the crown of his curls. ‘Yeah, but you dated for years. She sure moved on quick.’

He huffs a sardonic laugh. ‘Thanks, Shiv.’

Swapping out the styling scissors for blending shears, you argue, ‘What? It’s a legitimate observation. I’m just making conversation here.’

‘Or we could just sit here quietly.’

Ha. As if you ever listen to him. You press on, ‘Why did she invite you anyway?’

Frankie’s sigh sounds a lot like surrender as he humours you. ‘It’s a damned if she does, damned if she doesn’t kind of situation, I guess. The whole town’s invited.’

‘You sure she isn’t trying to flaunt it in your face or something?’

‘Flaunting implies I still care. I don’t.’

You give him a juvenile nudge nudge, wink wink. ‘Well, on the bright side, you’ll definitely get laid, being the heartbroken ex and all. Chicks love that shit.’

He dispatches a side-long stare in your direction. ‘I’m not heartbroken, and that’s not why I’m going. And you know none of this is any of your business, right?’

‘You’re no fun,’ you pout.

He quips, ‘As a professional hairstylist, you really should be better at making polite conversation.’

You snort. ‘Do you really think it’s a good idea to call me rude when I have scissors in my hands?’

Frankie watches you work in the comfortable lull that’s settled between you, gliding the blades along strands of his curls pulled taut, before running a fine-toothed comb through to brush out the loose tufts. Soft coils land on the floor around his chair as you work your way methodically through his layers.

‘Are you going to the wedding?’ he asks eventually.

You shrug. ‘Maybe, depends on my schedule. I gotta say, I’m kind of curious to see how tacky it will be.’

At his eyebrow sternly cocked, you argue, ‘I know she’s your ex and all, but she’s always been a bit tacky. I mean, that remodel of your house was just tragic.’

Frankie frowns. ‘How do you know all this? You’ve never been to my house.’

You wink. ‘Benny tells me everything when I do his hair.’

He pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘Of course. Benjamin fucking Miller.’

You give him a pat on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, I’m on your side, if it helps.’

‘I don’t need you on my side.’

You flash him an insufferable grin. ‘Too bad, Francisco. I am and there’s nothing you can do about it.’

The hairdryer drowns out any further conversation, and Frankie quietly studies you as you cord your fingers through his hair, ruffling it as it dries.

It’s still a bit damp when you switch off the hairdryer and reach up to pull a couple of jars from the shelf above. ‘On the day of the wedding, I want you to wash your hair just before you style it. You have a hairdryer at home, right?’

He throws you a pointed look. ‘I’m not a heathen.’

You grin. ‘Down boy, just checking. Now, you’ll dry your hair until it’s still a bit wet, like so.’ Presenting the styling mousse to him, you say, ‘Then go on and grab some product - you only need a dollop.’

He dips his index finger into the pot, scooping up a generous blob. Your attention is unexpectedly piqued at the sight of his hands. 

Have they always been so big?

Realising he’s staring at you in wait, you shake yourself out of it. ‘Ok, rub the mousse onto your fingertips and run them all over your hair, combing from root to end.’

Frankie does as he’s told, face set to a serious scowl as he impeccably goes over each section of his locks, staring into the mirror to make sure he gets every strand. For the first time, you see the pilot in him up close, and you wonder if he’s this thorough about other things, like -

Laundry, your mind interrupts as it careens on the brink of the metaphorical gutter. Get your shit together, Shiv.

‘Good,’ you smile when he’s done, hoping he doesn't see the strain in it. ‘Now, I want you to rake your fingers through the roots when you dry your hair all the way.’ In demonstration, your nails burrow into the base of his thick hair, then you wriggle your fingers upwards towards the ends. ‘It will give you lots of volume and really show off this cut.’

Passing him the hairdryer, you watch him critically in the mirror. He imitates your movements, a bit clumsily and far too cautiously. Leaning down to his ear so he can hear you over the whir, you instruct him, ‘Don’t be gentle, Francisco. C’mon, harder, deeper - don’t hold back.’

He chokes and pins you with a wide-eyed stare in the mirror that glances right off your oblivious self. Along with your words, nothing about this exchange would register in your head in any other way until much, much later tonight, when you replay the conversation in your head in that limbo between sleep and wakefulness. 

It may or may not have you squealing into your pillow in latent embarrassment - and something else.

But for now, you’re happy with the way his hair has set, and you gesture for him to switch off the hairdryer. Turning his chair towards you and away from the mirror, you scan your eyes over him and make small adjustments - tucking a couple of strands behind his ear here, a couple of final snips there. 

As a final touch, you bury your fingers into his locks, dragging your fingertips through the roots to impart a final tousle so that the curls are loose and soft. You preen at the way he sways into your contact, all shyness gone, his hooded eyes half-closed - before he seems to catch himself and sits up with a self-conscious ahem.

Grabbing a small bottle from the shelf, you say, ‘Last thing - your beard is a bit dry as well. This oil will keep it nice and moisturised, just two or three drops after you wash up in the morning will do.’

Tipping his face up by the crook of your finger and opening up his neck to you, you smooth the ointment along both sides of his jaw, rubbing circles into his neatly trimmed whiskers and all the way up his sideburns. Sliding downwards, your hands seek out the closely shaved stubble tucked beneath his chin. Then, by sheer momentum, your palms continue down his throat in a slow, sticky descent, until the pads of your thumbs slot into the hollow between his collarbones, your fingers resting at the base of his neck where you feel his pulse rabbiting underneath. 

The air thickens and shifts between you. When he swallows, you feel the ripple of the moment against your fingertips. 

His eyes are on you, and suddenly he’s too close, his skin too hot under your hands. To your horror, something akin to shyness rears its head and you almost stumble backwards to put a safe distance between you.

Scrubbing the oily residue from your hands on a towel, you break the moment with a wink and a steadier smile than you actually feel. ‘You look good, Morales. Ready to take a look?’

‘As if you would take no for an answer,’ he mumbles under his breath. Fondness might be too strong of a word - but you don't think you're imagining the faint trace of amusement in his voice.

With a dramatic ta-da, you spin his chair around with a flourish.

Frankie Morales is obviously not a vain man - he most likely owns five pairs of jeans that he’s worn on rotation for the past fifteen years, his t-shirts are washed ragged, and his trusty leather boots have seen better days. He probably doesn’t use a mirror other than for purely utilitarian purposes, like checking if there’s something stuck in his teeth from his last meal.

But right now, by the way he’s holding his breath as he meets his own eyes in the reflection, you can tell that he’s really looking at himself for the first time in a long while. 

You pretend to busy yourself with tidying up the styling station as you discreetly sneak glances at him, feeling strangely bashful for intruding in this moment. When he remembers to breathe again, he tilts his head left then to the right, and back again, even swivelling his chair from side to side so he can peer round the back.

You’ve parted his waves to the side, the lighter cut allowing his curls to carry their natural shape. The healthy sheen, courtesy of the mousse, tempers his grays to a softer, burnt silver that catches the light fetchingly as he moves. Reaching up, Frankie pushes back a stray curl that falls over his eyes, and his back straightens in a quiet show of confidence.

Running a salon is hard work and often thankless. But on days like this? You know you’re meant to do this.

A dramatic gasp draws both of your attention. Ashton is clutching at his chest, backed up against the neighbouring styling station, gaping at Frankie. ‘Mister - you look good enough to devour. Look at that salt and pepper, I’m living for the grays. Doing the Lord’s work, Shiv!’

You laugh as Frankie flushes, scratching an invisible itch on his forehead. You brush the loose hairs off his shoulders with a towel and give him a nudge. ‘See? I’m not the only one who thinks you look good with the grays. You better stock up on the condoms, Morales, the ladies will be all over you at the party.’

He shakes his head self-deprecatingly as he stands up, rubbing his palms on his jeans, uncomfortable with the scrutiny. ‘I doubt it, but - thanks. I appreciate this, Shiv.’

He shrugs on his well-loved burnt yellow jacket, the one with the sleeves perpetually folded up above his wrists and grabs his cap. You hold out a paper bag with the free shampoo and conditioner you promised him, throwing in a jar of hair mousse for good measure. ‘You’re welcome, and you better not put your hat on again this afternoon after all that hard work.’

His fingers brush yours when he takes the bag from you, then, as if it’s the logical next thing to do, he leans down to press a chaste kiss to your right cheek, his stubble coarse against your skin - and you know without looking it’s the gray patch in his beard that brushes against your jaw as he draws back. You fumble, feeling heat prickle the back of your neck and blooming in your rib cage. 

He flashes you the most self-assured smile you’ve seen on him this afternoon, which has you biting your bottom lip. ‘I won’t. Maybe see you at the wedding, Shiv.’

It takes you five full seconds to regain motor functions. By the time you unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth, Frankie’s already out of the door with a spring in his step.

In companionable silence, you and Ashton watch the pilot strut - because that’s what he’s doing, he’s strutting with a confidence that becomes him - across the road through the glass front of the salon.

‘What a dish,’ Ashton sighs dreamily, flopping into a chair as if his limbs have given out. ‘I hope he comes back soon.’

You smile. A girl could always hope.

Notes: It's the first time I'm using a nickname for a Reader, but I have a real soft spot for Shiv, and I think she deserves one. I'm not sure where the fandom stands on this, does it disqualify the fic as a reader insert? If anyone has an issue with this, please let me know! For me, Shiv has no physical descriptions so to me she's still a reader insert.

I don't know if anyone expected this kind of dynamics between these two, but it's been so much fun to write with a bit of antagonism in the mix. I hope you enjoyed this, reblogs and comments are so, so appreciated as always. Thank you for reading ❤️

[ichorai]

hell, yeah ; roman roy ; part four (m).

pairing ; roman roy x f!reader

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

words ; 18.0k

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

warnings / includes ; depictions of mental and physical abuse, mentions of death, unprotected penetrative sex, a lot of sexual/suicidal jokes and general foul language, tons of business talk, talks of nazis/fascism/conservatism, really morally grey shit, roman’s implied demisexuality, kendall & reader's popsicle war, mencken himself is a warning

series masterlist. main masterlist.

A conservative political fundraiser weekend was the last place on earth you wanted to be, but hell—Logan wanted you there, so who were you to say no to the boss? Besides, hubs like this were always good to sniff out who would be the most dangerous people on the red spectrum.

The hall was decked out in lavish decorations—chandeliers and golden ornaments and marble statues every which way you looked. It was full to the brim with mingling politicians of all kinds: the kinds being old white men, or…

Hm. Seemed like it was practically all old white men other than a handful of women wandering around. White women, of course.

You and Shiv locked eyes for a moment. Though the two of you shared many common political interests, at least much more than the rest of the family, you often found yourself on the opposite ends of agreement. But today, in a sea of men with confederate flags for dicks, the two of you found solace in one another. 

“You can smell the panic,” she told you. “Berlin Bunker vibes.”

“They’re scrambling,” you replied. “Nobody was expecting this. Maybe they should’ve.”

Beside you, Roman cuffed your shoulder. “Ooh—the libtard and the soc-commie. How does it feel to be spelunking in the elephant’s asshole?”

“Calling me a communist isn’t the insult you think it is,” you told Roman, rolling your eyes.

“Mmh. I’m sure they would’ve loved you in the 1930s.”

Shiv crossed her arms. “We’re just corporate observers.”

“The weekend isn’t over yet—we’ll get our white cis-male stank all over you,” Roman commented snidely.

It was then that Greg came up to the group, expression muddled with confusion. “Hey, guys, some guy with an undercut just called me a ‘soy boy’. What, uhm, I don’t really know what that means? What is this, actually? Like what’s everyone here for?”

“It’s just a nice political conference of like-minded donors and intellectuals,” Roman told his cousin.

“I wouldn’t call them intellectuals, exactly,” you said with a frown. You were pretty sure half of these men owned podcasts talking about how toxic masculinity is fake, and the other half were so old they didn’t know how to turn the brightness up on their own phone. 

“We’re picking the next president,” Tom piped up, which made Shiv arch a brow.

“That’s not… that’s not really how it works.”

Roman shrugged. “No, sure, but… it kinda is.”

“Is that—is that constitutional?” Greg queried, looking around worriedly, suddenly wondering if he was participating in yet another illegal activity.

“Welcome to the one percent, Greg,” you told him with a sigh. “Where you don’t have to worry about the constitution anymore.”

Roman pinched your cheek. “Awh, look at you, embracing the right-wing traditions! I love that for you.”

Wrinkling your nose, you swatted his hand away. “Six months till election day and still no candidate. Surprised everyone hasn’t unanimously agreed on putting the vice prez up on a pedestal.”

“Steady old plow horse, huh?” Roman said, directing his gaze to the old vice president, Dave Boyer. “He licks his lips too much. Like a—like a cartoon bear when there’s a picnic hamper nearby.”

You laughed at that, and Roman shot you a grin. 

“I’m going to go take a tour. Check out the fresh meat,” he told you, and you nodded. 

“I’ll be near the entrance if you need me.”

With that, he set off to mingle, hands shoved into his pockets to stop him from his habitual itching and scratching.

“Who are you thinking?” Shiv leaned forward to ask.

“Boyer. Seems the most obvious, easiest choice,” you replied, meeting her scrutinizing stare.

“Are you saying that because he is the easiest choice, or because he’d be the easiest to win against?” she asked with a sharp smile.

There was a momentary pause. “Why, who do you think they should put up?”

“I say we go blue.”

Your mouth fell open as you struggled to find the words to respond with. “Shiv, that just—that’d never work.”

“Why not?”

“You realize ATN is fucking—it’s fueled by everything right-wing! For us to suddenly bat for dems would bring nothing but angry conservatives and we’d lose a fuck-ton of shareholder money.” You shook your head. “Look, Shiv, I don’t like them as much as you do. But forcing your dad to swing blue is just a terrible idea.”

Her features hardened. “The least we could do is try. Right?”

Before you could respond, Roman came hurrying back, phone clutched tightly in his hand. He shoved the screen up against his sister’s face. “Did you know about this, you withholding bitch?”

“Uh, what?” 

“You know Glyn, the, uh, the Brexit pervert?” Roman said, gesturing to the tall British chap with a large nose. “Yeah, he just sent this to me—apparently our mother is marrying Peter Munion.”

Both you and Shiv doubled with surprise. “What?” she asked. “Who’s Peter Onion?”

“I don’t fucking know. I wonder if that first-born fucker knew,” Roman said. 

“I mean, if you guys didn’t know, I’m sure Connor wouldn’t have known, either,” you ventured, glancing over at the eldest sibling chattering to two other politicians about abolishing taxes.

Snorting, Roman replied, “No, the other first-born fucker. Kenny Dick.”

“Ah. Right.”

“Call him.” Shiv nudged her brother.

With a hum, Rome whipped his phone out and called his brother, putting it on speaker phone for the two of you to hear.

“Yeah, what?” Kendall’s voice came through on the second ring.

“Hey. Just wanted you to know that new dad just dropped.”

There was a brief crackle of silence. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Mummy’s getting married, you dingus.”

“Did you know?” Shiv leaned forward to query.

Roman snickered. “Of course he didn’t know, Ken bores the shit out of mom.”

You remembered one Christmas when you were children, the family was exchanging gifts—Kendall had set down a little red box in front of Caroline so she could open it. Something hand-made? You’d always wondered. The wrapping was shoddy. It was forgotten and pushed off to the side in favor of prettier, more expensive-looking presents. You were pretty sure Caroline hadn’t even seen the gift. Or maybe she did. Maybe she just didn’t care to open it. Nonetheless, Kendall, thirteen years of age, didn’t try to give it to her again. That night, when the servants were tossing away all the stray wrappings and ribbons, you caught sight of the crumpled red box chucked into a black garbage bag. You didn’t dwell on it, because Roman had heckled you away soon after to ‘watch’ Shiv play with her new dollhouse.

“What are you even talking about?” Kendall asked. He sounded angry. “You mean, she’s marrying Rory?”

“Uh, no. She took the view ‘Fuck Rory’,” Shiv said, glib.

Sneering, Kendall abruptly changed the subject. “Hey, Shiv, is it true you’re at the hate-fest? Burning books and measuring skulls down in Virginia?” 

“Yeah,” Shiv deadpanned. “What are you doing with your weekend? Planning to send us all to jail? Your favorite past-time?”

Before it could escalate into a full-on argument, Roman pulled the phone close to him and said, “Alright, just wanted to let you know that Mummy still doesn’t love you. Bye, Ken!”

With that, he hung up.

“Do you think your mom is going to invite me to her wedding?” you asked, wrinkling your nose at the prospect of going all the way across the ocean when you had so much work piled up. “And would she be offended if I didn’t come?”

“Oh, she’s definitely inviting you. You know how she is. Needs everyone who knows of her existence to see how rich and pompous she is. She’d have a grudge against you if you didn’t come,” Roman told you.

You frowned, and Roman laughed.

“We can be each other’s date. It’ll be fun. Don’t worry about it.” He rubbed your shoulder, and began leading you off to the bar to get some drinks. 

“Your mother would love that. Us, being each other’s dates? She’d gloat in our faces that she’s known all along,” you mused with a grin, before leaning against the counter and asking the bartender for your preferred drink.

“Or she’d be too self-absorbed to notice. And it’s okay for her to be that way because it’s her own wedding.” Pulling a sour face, Roman shook his head. “Blegh. I can’t believe she’s actually marrying someone named Bunion.”

You laughed softly. “Munion.”

“Whatever.”

Before either of you could say anything else, a figure approached the bar, standing just beside Roman.

“Hey guys,” said Mencken. “What’s up?”

Both you and Roman turned your heads to him. He shot you a glance, noting the unimpressed raised eyebrow.

“Oh, okay. Yeah, it’s the—it’s the ghost pepper. The spicy new flavor, Mencken.” Rome gave the taller man a onceover, drawing a long sip from his glass.

Mencken’s keen eyes darted from Rome to you, and back to Roman, scrutinizing. Burning. You couldn’t quite gauge what he was thinking, but knowing all the hot bullshit he liked to spew on the internet, you were sure it’d be nothing good.

Him as president? That’d be like putting a mask on Hitler and crowning him King of the nation.

“So what’s your deal? Most people here want to fuck me or kill me.” Mencken asked, leaning against the bar. “I’m hoping it’s the former.”

You weren’t quite sure if that was directed to you or Roman, but you were disgusted, either way. 

Roman clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth. “Ooh, wow. I always found it hard to care about politics, so… I trust in Y/N to have enough opinions for the both of us.”

He gave you a fond pat on the shoulder and you spared your friend a stiff smile.

“Right, Y/N. It’s nice to meet you,” Mencken said, sticking his hand out. 

Staring down at his extended palm, you took a second to consider flat out ignoring him. But, not wanting to cause a scene, you shook it firmly, nodding curtly. “Likewise,” you lied.

When you pulled away, you made the conscious choice to discreetly wipe your palm onto your pants.

“I’ve heard a lot about you. The both of you, actually.”

“Oh, really?” you deadpanned, straightfaced.

“Tabloids never shut up.”

“They hardly ever do.”

Mencken crossed his arms. “To be honest, I always thought you two were just a PR stunt. You know the vibes… look away from all the sexual harassment, because the prince and princess of Waystar are being all snuggly at a charity event! But now that I’m looking at you in person…”

His words struck a nerve within you. A muscle in your jaw twitched. 

Roman laughed, nervous. “We aren’t—we aren’t, like, a thing. I mean we—we kind of are, but we’re also not really—”

The older man whistled sharply, lifting a hand to stop him, as if he were a dog. “No need to explain to me. I’ve been down that road many, many times.”

“Roman and I are close,” you told him, voice steely. “The details are none of your, or the public’s concern.”

The way Mencken smiled was wolfish. Greedy, almost. 

“Alright, here’s my party trick,” he said to the two of you. “Tell me who your enemy is, and I’ll tell you who you are.”

A part of you wanted to laugh. Where did he get that from, an alpha male, raw meat-eating youtuber’s podcast?

Roman sucked in a breath, amused. “Oh-kay. Let’s put a pin in that one.” He took another sip. “I’ve seen your poll numbers. You’re dark-horsin’ shit. Are people buying your whole… thing?”

Facism. That’s what Roman was alluding to. This man was a fucking fascist. The two of you were entertaining a fascist! You couldn’t believe what you’ve come to. 

Mencken chuckled. “They better buy it. Or I’ll send them to the Gulag.”

“Jesus Christ,” you hissed, wrinkling your nose. 

“No, no, no. Not work camps. Just—summer camps. It’ll be like summer camps,” Mencken said. 

“Summer camps but with beatings, right?” Roman asked, unsure if the man beside him was joking or not.

“No, no. Shh—no beatings.”

Mencken winked. He fucking winked! To your surprise, Roman laughed, genuine and chesty. 

“Wow. Tough crowd, huh?” Mencken said, meeting your unamused eyes. “You always struck me as the quiet little country mouse. No wonder you’re sticking to the big-gun citymen.”

“Well, I’m sorry if I don’t find labor camps all that funny,” you remarked, drumming your fingers along the countertop. 

“I’m just kidding. We’re joking around.” He elbowed Roman’s arm. “Is she always this uptight?”

You had to admit that it stung just a bit when Roman tipped his head back and laughed. “It’s what I like most about her. Ain’t that right, schnookums?”

You sniffed in disdain, shrugging off his hand when he placed it on your shoulder. You weren’t a huge fan of how… warm Roman was to him. It felt vile, and it felt wrong. 

Tilting his head, Mencken smacked his lips together and started up, “So, uh… do you guys know yet? Who takes over?”

Roman stopped sipping his drink and set it down. “What’s that?”

“When they send the old battletoad off to the hoosegow.” His eyes glinted. “Your dad, Logan. Admiral Grope Boat.”

“Yeah, no, he’s not… that’s actually not happening,” said Roman. He scratched at the back of his head. 

Mencken cackled at that. “Hah, yeah, that’s right. Stick to the line. That’s good.”

The two of them smiled at each other.

A sudden pit of nausea started curling within your stomach. 

Boyer and Salgado approached the bar, striking up a conversation with Mencken, effectively roping his attention away from the two of you. You downed your drink and leaned against Roman with a mild hum.

“I really thought this event would be more interesting,” you admitted.

Shoulders shaking with his chuckling, Roman asked you, “What, did you think there’d be a gun-slinging showdown? Old western-style?”

“Well, yeah. What else do conservatives do?”

The two of you snickered under your breath. 

It was then that Shiv came to stand by you, ordering a drink for herself. “Hey. What’ve you guys sniffed out?”

You offered her half a shrug, glancing over at Mencken. With a lowered voice, you said, “A lot of rotten apples in the orchard.”

The siblings both hummed at that—Shiv in agreement, Roman in amusement. 

“Look at us, playing nice,” you overheard Salgado tell Mencken. To your credit, they weren’t quite using their inside voices. “People might think we liked each other.”

“Hey, I’m a conservative! I like tradition,” Mencken protested. “I doff my cap to vice president Boyer’s years of loyal service.”

“Thank you. I believe you used to call me Martin Van Boring.”

Mencken grinned. “Hey, come on! No, I still call you that.”

Nodding, Boyer shifted to speak to everyone else gathered around the bar. “Listen, Mencken and I may differ in some areas, but, uh, we both agree that this is the party of the working class now.”

Shiv pulled an incredulous face, scoffing loud. 

“What? You don’t agree, Shiv?” Boyer asked. “All the richest counties in America are blue. The Democrats and tech hold all the wealth.”

“Oh, yes, because everyone here is scrounging through their couches for loose change,” you snidely commented, coolly meeting Boyer’s gaze. 

The old man licked at his lips, gesturing vaguely with his hands. “Come now, I’m talking about the general public. We don’t count.”

Why not?

“I just think some of us get so high off of owning the libs, we forget to talk policy,” said Salgado.

Mencken snorted. “Yeah, Rick loves to talk policy! What he does is he memorizes a National Review issue from 2012 and then recites it back to you. Cool policy, bro.”

This made Salgado frown. “Mmh, Jeryd hates to talk policy because it would mean, you know, having one.”

Roman whistled sarcastically. “Sick burn, brosef!”

“Oh, no, no. We’re kidding. We are!” Mencken insisted. He smiled at you and Roman. “We like each other. I listen to his speeches every night. Yeah. They help me drop off.”

Out of the three politicians, you had to admit that Salgado was the most appealing. Sure, he was a pushover and really only concerned about his public image rather than what he was promoting, but it was better than Mencken the fascist and Boyer the conservative lip-licker. 

“Maybe it’s boring talking about populist solutions for working families,” said Salgado.

“Rick, come on! You jerked off to Reagan’s headshot for thirty years, and now you’re Tom Joad?” Mencken jeered.

Rolling her eyes, Shiv told you, “God, this shit is so fucking boring.”

Overhearing, Mencken gave the woman a onceover. “What’s that?”

“Hm?” Shiv met his gaze. “No, I’ve just—I’ve seen your thing quite a lot.”

Mencken uncrossed his arms and then crossed them again. He was frowning, brows knitting together—evidently he didn’t quite like being tested.

“And what’s that? What’s my thing?”

“Youtube provocateur bullshit,” Shiv told him with a bitter laugh. “Aristo-populism. ‘Rape is natural, it’s all red pill, baby.’ I’m just—I’m just so fucking over it.”

“Have you read Plato?” asked Mencken. 

Oh, God. Was he really pulling the philosophical literature superiority card? Was he being serious?

“Yeah,” Shiv said in a mocking voice. “Remind me, what happens?”

“Oh, read Plato! Read Plato!” Mencken told her, his manner condescending.

“Don’t want to!” Shiv exclaimed. “I don’t fucking want to!”

Salgado cut in, “See, he doesn’t actually want to have a conversation. He just wants to yell loud enough to get on ATN.”

“Nah! Fuck ATN,” Mencken said. The room fell silent, and all eyes were on him. For a moment, he looked at you and Roman, the two of you watching him with muted interest. You wondered if he was seeking both of your approvals. “No, really, ATN is treated as a bulwark, but it’s dead. It’s basically a pudding cup at 5 PM in the nursing home. It’s status quo bedtime stories to maximize shareholder value.”

Though you didn’t want to agree with any of Mencken’s sentiments, you had to admit that his take on ATN was a valid one. ATN was hardly a reliable source, with its heavy right-wing influences. To you, it was merely a station to feed into the delusions of the older conservative generation. At the thought, you looked over your shoulder to Logan, seated on a table not too far from the bar. You only saw his back, but you wondered if he was listening in.

“Honestly, it doesn’t speak to me,” Mencken continued on. “Doesn’t speak to the people I talk to.”

“And who is it you talk to?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. 

Mencken stared at you for a moment before answering, “People who want to see the truth. See the natural order of things.”

“Natural order. Wow,” you whispered under your breath. With that, you ordered another drink. You couldn’t listen to all this bullshit sober. 

Mencken nodded. “Logan Roy was an icon. But, you know… he’s no longer relevant.”

“Do you recognize this fucker?” Roman asked, shoving the phone in Shiv’s face.

“Nope,” she said.

You peered over his shoulder to see the wedding invitation on his screen, zoomed into his mother’s fiance’s face. 

“Fucking jelly-boned, low-T, pip-pip cheerio fucker,” Roman muttered as he shut the phone off and slid it back into his suit jacket’s pocket.

You pressed the button on the elevator to go up. Logan had called all of you up to the royal suite to discuss options for the next red presidential candidate—something you weren’t at all looking forward to. “He doesn’t look all that bad. Do you think your dad knows?”

The doors slid open and the three of you filed in.

Roman tilted his head. “No. But we have to stop the wedding, right?” 

Both you and Shiv exchanged incredulous looks. 

“Stop obsessing over Mom’s new husband,” Shiv told her brother. “Just get over it. Who cares?”

Narrowing his eyes, Roman asked, “Get over it? It just fucking happened. My mother’s marrying some dickhead, crooked-toothed turnip man.”

“His teeth looked quite nice in the picture, actually—” you began, before falling silent at Roman’s loud groan.

“What’s wrong is how little you care about it, you frozen bitch,” Roman commented off-handedly, making Shiv roll her eyes.

“Oh, poor Rome! His dreams of porking Mom are slipping through his little lubed-up fingers!” she leered, snickering a little.

A frown crossed your features. “It’s okay to care about it, Shiv. I mean… it’s your mom.”

“Something she often forgets,�� she murmured, and that marked the end of the conversation.

The elevator rolled to a halt, the doors opening once more to a grand hall. The door to the suite was all the way down, and the three of you made your way there in contemplative silence. Logan was inside to greet you, along with Tom, Hugo, Connor, and Greg (who was awkwardly lingering by the curtained windows). 

“There’s a lot of chat flying around. A lot of flapping,” your godfather said once everyone had settled in. “We need one voice on this, or we could fall apart and hand it to the fuck-fuck donkey gang.”

Donkey gang, obviously meaning the democrats. You spared Shiv a look—she was seated away from her husband, frowning down at her hands.

“So… who do we like?” Logan asked.

Shiv cleared her throat and said, “Shouldn’t we kick it around for a bit? Feels like it’s poised, so if you and Petkus come together, and the other donors follow, it just—”

“Exactly,” Logan deadpanned. “We’re picking. We haven’t got all night.”

Occupying one of the long sofas all on his own, Connor put forth, “I like Connor Roy.”

The room lapsed into silence for a few seconds. Roman smiled, amused.

Calling back to the short conversation you had with Shiv earlier, she said, “Honestly, Dad, I think you go Dems.”

Immediately, the two brothers in the room reacted with incredulity.

“Wow,” Connor scoffed.

“Jesus Christ! What, are we all going to hold hands and sing kumbaya next?” Roman exclaimed. Then, he sat up straighter. “Uhm, I… I kinda like Mencken? But—I know he’s kind of shitty, so if it’s now, I guess I’d say Boyer. But can I also just say that I don’t like Boyer?”

Though you were not at all happy that Roman was leaning for Mencken, you had to agree that Boyer was a safe choice. You crossed your arms. “Hard pass to Mencken. I say we go Boyer. Vice is nice, no?”

Shiv sighed loudly.

“What? What’s with the fucking attitude?” Roman asked.

The redhead held her hands out. “Okay, look, no disrespect, but Boyer was yesterday’s papers. The Dems will run on change and blow him away.”

“Ooh, Mrs. Politics,” crooned Roman. “How many big races did you win as a consultant? Four? Three? Did you win two? One?” He held up his middle finger.

She scowled. “Roman, Boyer is not a winner, and we know that.”

“Okay, then, should we talk to Mencken?” he asked. “See if we can deal?”

Vehement, Shiv said, “Uh, can I just say something? Mmh, no. Mencken is an integralist, nativist fuckhead. He’s toxic! He’s fucking—he’s ‘medicare for all, abortions for none.’ And his idea of diplomacy is shooting roe deer with Viktor Orban and then starting the trade war with China! Look, I know that there’s the carnival bark, and there’s the fucking show, but he’s outside the American political tradition. I think we have a responsibility as Waystar—”

She was cut off when Roman began humming the national anthem.

“Fuck you, Roman!” she spat out.

You put a hand on his arm, and he stopped humming. “I know my opinion here means little to nothing, but… I don’t like Mencken. He’s radical, and he’s dangerous. I’m not saying we swing blue, either. I’m saying we stay safe with Boyer. Our position right now is… precarious. It’s the best option we have.”

Logan studied you, and nodded twice. He was never one for safe options, though. You knew that full and well.

Both Roman and Shiv burst into an argument then, lobbing insults back and forth at each other. Tom stared blankly at the ground, looking even more exhausted than he usually did.

“Stop being a dirty little pixie whispering swastikas into Dad’s ear!” Shiv ground out.

“Boom! There you go again! So fucking route one!” Roman exclaimed. 

The scowl on her face deepened. “I’m not saying it’s going to be the full Third Reich, but I am genuinely concerned that we could slide into a fucking Russian Berlusconied Brazilian fuckpile!”

Raising his brows, Roman shot back, “You have a trophy husband and several fur coats. I think you’re gonna be fine.”

“Tom,” Logan said, seemingly unaffected by the harsh bickering. “Who do you like?”

“Me? I, uh… I think Shiv talks a lot of sense. I also jibe with Salgado.”

Blowing out a breath, Roman said, “You jibe with him? Pretty sure that’s racist, Tom.”

“Salgado is another safe alternative,” you said. “Just not… not Mencken.”

This made Roman nudge his elbow into you. “I thought you were all about giving people chances! Mencken, he’s… you and him have a lot of beliefs in common, actually!”

“Oh? And what’s that?” 

“You’re, uh, both against free-market capitalism! That counts for something, right? Why don’t you just give him a chance?” 

You pinched the space between your brows. “Rome—”

Before you had a chance to finish, Roman was addressing Logan. “Dad, I know you came to the market to get a nice milk cow, but we found ourselves a fucking T-rex, okay? He’s box-office. The guy is fucking diesel. I mean, he’s good on camera. He’s fun! He’ll fight. Viewers will eat out of his hand. No downside.”

“Uh, right, no downside. Let’s just invade Poland, Dad!” Shiv scoffed. “His chief of staff broke a kid’s jaw at a rally!”

“If we don’t come to an accommodation, we get outflanked and we lose the ATN dollar machine when we need cash to fight Tech. Right? Shiv wants her way, I want my way, Connor wants his way, so that’s even.”

Vehemently, Shiv protested, “It’s not fucking even! My opinion counts for more!”

Everyone looked to her, miffed. She sounded more like a child than anything. 

“No, it does! It just fucking does! I know this! People hate Mencken. They fucking hate that guy!” Shiv lowered her voice, as if just realizing that she was yelling a notch too loud. “You have to look at the climate.”

 From the windows, Greg raised a hand. “Do I—do I get a vote?”

“Oh, sure, buddy. You get to vote at the election with all the other folks,” Roman told his cousin, humorously.

“Yeah, well, I just thought I’d get a… bigger vote in here?”

Ignoring him, Hugo said, “Boyer is likely to be flexible over the DOJ.”

“Not if he doesn’t win,” Shiv said. “Which… he won’t.”

“Isn’t that what you want?” you sighed. “You’re blue, Shiv.”

“My personal politics and the company’s values are on opposite ends of the spectrum,” she clarified. “I have to put the company before myself.”

“Okay, we’re hearing rumors that the case is weakening,” Hugo said. “No one big is likely to do jail time. With the notable exception of Tom, of course. Sorry, Tom.”

Visibly, Tom’s shoulders seemed to stiffen, but he nodded nonetheless. “No, please, Hugo… understood.”

Shiv turned to address her father again. “If you don’t go blue, Dad, then at least we have to be backing Salgado.”

This made Connor audibly groan. “Ugh. Señor Dickless. Captain of the Tampa Bay Cuckaneers.”

“Look, I don’t like him. He’s a neocon pretending to be a paleocon, but he at least talks base!” Shiv said. 

Roman clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Wow. I think you’re so brave for picking the brown man. I think that we should get you a medal! A special medal for white women who like brown men.”

“Wow, okay. You’re just being racist! You’re being racist now!” Shiv said, swinging her incredulous gaze from you to her father.

In a mocking tone, Roman said, “Oh, yeah, I’m a good girl! I pretend to care about people because nobody ever cares about me!”

“Hm. Roman, do you have anything you wanna tell Dad? A message from Mom, maybe?”

He recoiled, frowning. “Uh, yeah, wow. Fuck you! Thanks, I do.” Roman looked to his dad, and he could feel the familiar fear creeping up and seizing his ribcage. It helped that you’d shifted your hand to lay over his, but only barely. “Mom’s getting remarried.”

Logan nodded, contemplative. “Hm. To Bertie Woofter?”

“Ooh, no. To Peter. Peter, uh, Peter Munson.”

“Munion,” you whispered.

“Peter Munion,” Roman corrected. 

Anger clouded over Logan’s eyes. “You’re fucking kidding. The seat sniffer? Christ. He’s been hanging around for forty-some years!”

“Yeah, and, well, she’d love it if you came to their big Tuscan wedding.”

“Ooh, La-di-da,” Logan said, sucking in a deep breath. “And they sent you as their messenger boy?”

He laughed and laughed. Roman shrugged.

“Okay,” the old man finally said. “Back to it, then. Who are we picking?”

“I guess there are other names,” Hugo offered. Connor coughed pointedly into his fist, but nobody paid him any mind.

Firm, Logan said, “We have to be united on this. It’s a disaster if we splinter.”

“Salgado has great narrative,” Shiv said.

Scowling, Roman spat out, “Quit butt-huffing Salgado! We all supported your little DC lemonade stand, but this is the real fucking world. This actually matters.”

Lip curled, Shiv replied, voice dripping with venom, “Roman, you just love the boot because you like to be kicked by it.”

Clearly hurt, Roman sucked in a deep breath and picked a piece of lint off his pants.

Connor coughed again, and Logan finally asked him what was on his mind.

“Nothing,” the eldest son said. “No, it’s nothing.”

As if to entertain a ludicrous notion, Logan smiled. “What about Connor?”

“I do believe that idea has good promise,” Connor exclaimed. “I do!”

“I could see it,” Logan said. It was strange seeing him smile in such a way. You couldn’t quite decipher its genuinity. “Kids?”

With a slight snicker, Roman raised his brows. “Uhm… sure, I don’t know.” After a pause, he straightened and asked in a more serious tone, “Wait, but, like—really?”

“It feels very…” You winced, sending Connor an apologetic look. “Very nepo baby? Very rigged.”

Roman shrugged. “They’re all fucking weirdos, anyway. Why not?”

“I mean, he’s a good-looking kid,” Logan said. “He’s smart… in his own way. Fucking Joe Kennedy did it for his boys, no? So let’s get him in there with a smile and a shoeshine and get Ron and everyone behind him.”

No way the matter was settled. Shiv crossed her arms, eyes darting every which way in an incredulous manner. 

“I would fight so fuckin’ hard for this family, Pop,” Connor told his dad, warmth spilling over his features. 

Logan casted his gaze over to his daughter. “Siobhan. As a political consultant… what do you think?”

“Well, no huge name ID, but the family name will be a factor and… uh, he’s got no track record.”

“Nothing to beat me with,” Connor emphasized with a charming grin. “I’m a clean skin!”

They yammered on some more, and Roman rubbed his knuckles along his hairline, seeming stressed. He pulled out his phone and shot out a few texts really quickly, thumbs flying across the keyboard.

Finally, once he put the device away, Roman shook his head. “Okay, but, are we being serious about this? We’re talking about trying to make Connor president?”

All the warmth drained from Connor’s face, replaced by a marring frown. “It’s a big tent, Roman. Why don’t you just come in?”

“Sure. Right. I might just call the guy who waxes my balls, he would be a great president, don’t you think?” Roman retorted.

Shiv interjected once more. “If we’re talking about this seriously, I really think we need to take a look at Salgado. Can I bring him up here without being fucking shot?”

Connor rolled his eyes and Roman groaned.

Finally, Logan’s eyes landed on you.

“You’re for Boyer, Y/N?”

You sat up straighter. “I think he’s safe. Most conservatives like safe. Or, at least, the illusion of safety. Boyer can give them that.”

There was a second of a pause, before Logan nodded. “Hugo. Call Boyer.”

“Well, if Shiv gets to bring up soggy Salgado then I wanna see if we can tame Mencken, okay?” Roman asked just as Hugo handed Logan the phone. In a quieter voice, Roman leaned forward to whisper to just you, “I arranged a meeting with him tonight. Come with?”

You reared back, eyes narrowing. “What? No, Roman.”

“Please? Just… you don’t even have to say anything. Just hear him out. What if he’s not all that bad?”

You blew out a steely breath. Meeting with a fascist was certainly not something you ever thought you’d agree to do. 

Begrudging, you muttered, “Fine. But please, Roman, don’t be serious about him. I’m begging you.”

Roman gave you a half-shrug, which didn’t quell any worries you had one bit. “We’ll just see how the dice rolls.”

When Boyer finally picked up the phone, the two of you lapsed into silence, listening in on the conversation. His voice was groggy, as if he’d just been woken up. He didn’t sound too happy at Logan’s request to come to the room.

“Oh… and my fridge is empty, Dave. I don’t suppose you could bring me a Coke?” Logan said. You raised a brow in surprise whilst Roman smiled down at his lap. It was a power play—a reminder to Boyer that he ate out of Logan’s palms.

“Did you mean to call room service?” the vice’s voice crackled through.

“If you don’t have a Coke, is there something else? Could you, perhaps, fire the deputy attorney general?”

“Fire the deputy attorney general?” Boyer parroted, twinged with disbelief. 

Logan smiled, laughing. “I’m kidding. Come on over. Have a chat. If it’s convenient, of course.”

Five minutes later, Boyer was at the suite’s door. You had no time to listen to his talk with Logan, because Roman was already up and pulling you out the door. He spared no explanation to Shiv, who watched the two of you leave with suspicious eyes. 

You took the elevator a floor down, where Mencken’s room was. 

Roman was the one that knocked, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet anxiously. 

“Come in!” you faintly heard Mencken’s voice say. Both you and Roman exchanged looks, yours warning and his pleading, in a sense.

He wanted so badly for your approval.

The two of you stepped in, met with an empty hotel room. It took you another moment to realize that the bathroom door was ajar, Mencken standing in front of the mirror with just a towel hanging over his hips, shaving foam shadowing over his chin and jaw. He was dragging a razor through the white foam, a smile to his lips upon seeing the both of you.

“Hey, guys. Glad to see you again.”

Roman smiled back, leaning against the bathroom’s door frame while you lingered behind him.

“So… I—we just wanted to chit-chat a little bit. That was funny earlier, by the way. You tripping the light fantastic on Grandpappy’s nutsack.”

Mencken hummed. “When I called your dad bullshit? Did that bump?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve never seen that before. That was fucking hardcore,” Roman commented. “Y/N isn’t a fan of ATN either, as it turns out.”

For a moment, you sent Roman a half-hearted glare. He’d said that you wouldn’t have to say anything.

“Ooh. Waystar’s princess, not liking Waystar? How meaty.” Mencken tilted his head back to shave the nooks and crannies that were harder to maneuver around. “Good for you, though. The thing is… this monkey don’t dance.”

Roman laughed, pointing at him. “This monkey right here? The monkey shaving in a hotel bathroom?”

“That’s right.” Finally, Mencken rinsed off the last bits of foam from his face, wiping off the excess dampness with a towel. There wasn’t a single nick on his face—you thought of the many times you’ve watched Roman shaved, when he always somehow managed to garner a dozen or so tiny cuts along his jaw. Mencken turned to face the two of you. 

“Listen, I did want to talk to you about something. Fuck it, I’ll just come right out and say it.” Roman eased into the bathroom, leaning against the wall opposite Mencken, tugging you in as well. It was a strange feeling—you’d never had a meeting in a bathroom before. Wrinkling his nose, Roman said, “Fascists are kind of cool… but not really. So, is that, like, gonna be a problem? Will it be a thing?”

It unnerved you when Mencken sighed, stepping closer to the both of you. So close, in fact, that you could smell the shaving cream he’d used. Your brows furrowed in distaste and fixed your stare on the tile down below your feet.

“Seriously? Me? I just… I don’t have a lot of boundaries.” 

Evidently, you wanted to snap. But you kept quiet.

“St. Augustine, Thomas Aquinas, Schumacher. I’ll borrow from anyone. To restrict me to that label is just… it’s not right, is it? You know, if Franco or H or Travis Bickle had a good pitch, fuck it!”

This made you tear your gaze away from the ground, meeting Mencken’s stare head-on. He was much closer that you realized, and that made you all the more uncomfortable. 

“H?” you finally croaked. “As in—?”

He spared you a wolfish smile. “I’m a fully-fledged, small-dicked Democrat.”

“I don’t think you are,” you challenged. 

This made him tilt his head and bark out a laugh. “Which one? Small-dicked or a Democrat? Because I can tell you now that neither of those are true, sweetheart.” Your unamused countenance seemed to only fuel him further. “A well-regulated election is a transmission frequency for God’s grace, really.”

“Holy shit,” Roman whistled. “You really are a Christian, aren’t you?”

“Well, no, no, my only thing is like—who’s the stakeholder, right? I’ve been tending my little garden for a hundred years, and then forty new guys show up in the back of a truck, playing their boombox. When it’s put to a vote, they decide to, uh, give my farm to themselves. I mean, it’s ridiculous, right? Maybe we should be putting in before we get to take out.”

There was so much to pick apart with his ideology. So many flaws, so many weak-links. But you didn’t say anything.

Instead, Roman asked, “Okay, well, who gets to join?” 

“People trust people who look like them. That’s just a scientific fact. They will give more tax dollars to help them,” Mencken said. “And I know you look nothing like me, ma’am, so I’ll just say it plain and clear. I don’t trust you, and you don’t trust me. But that’s just part of the thrill, no?”

You recoiled back into Roman. “What the fuck are you talking about? What thrill? Can you just—back up a bit? You’re all up in my fucking personal space.” 

Your scowl loosened just a tad when Mencken raised his hands and took a step back. He snorted. “Sorry. Don’t cancel me. Or do. I don’t think it matters much, right?”

He was right, but you didn’t say it.

“I like this country,” Mencken admitted. “I do. I like the people in it.”

“Not all the people, though, right?” you carefully asked.

“Of course, not. And don’t get all high and mighty on me. You can’t say you like all the people in it, now can you?” You opened your mouth to say something, but he cut you off. “We aren’t too different, you and I. Roman… I see why he’s taken a liking to you. You have some sense about you.”

You gave Roman a questioning glance, wondering what on earth he’d said to Mencken through text.

You clenched your jaw. “I’m not here for you,” you finally breathed out. “You can’t sway me, Mencken.”

“Oh, we’ll see about that, sweetheart.”

Clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, Roman finally intervened before you could get too heated, “In terms of, you know, this thing we have… there’s a thing here, right?” 

“Mhm.”

“I get it. You’re fucking 6G and we’re Betamax, but you need us, I think. Our news, our viewers, those fucking almost-deads. That’s a big slice of pie,” Roman explained. 

“Well, if I’m the nominee… are any of them really going to vote against me?” he asked.

Half a shrug lifting one of his shoulders, Rome said, “No, but… it’s going to be a fucking shitshow going into the convention. I think you could really use our push.”

You weren’t happy about any of this. But Logan had already called Boyer. The deal was done, right? You’d walk back up to the suite, and the next red-wing electee would be picked. This was all… for nothing.

Right?

Mencken nodded. “And I think you could use my push.”

“Maybe,” Roman admitted.

“Where are you in all this?” Mencken asked Roman, curiously. “What’s the little forgotten Prince doing?”

Roman made a nervous, whooshing sound. “I’m, uh, you know. I’m creeping on the come-up.”

“Oh, yeah?” Mencken glanced at you, as if to decipher whether or not he was telling the truth. You betrayed nothing, looking back down at the tiles.

“I’ve got some ideas for ATN. Sluice out the fucking porridge and add some sriracha. Poach some of those TikTok psychos, you know? E-girls with fucking guns and Juul pods. Give me some straight-shot blacks and latinos. That’ll get a few generations turning heads. No more of this fucking… pillows and bedpans. We’re strictly bone broth and dick pills. Deep state conspiracy hour but with, like, a fucking wink, you know? It’ll be funny.” Roman clapped his hands together. “The whole show is kinda set up for the star. President Jeryd Mencken.”

Your face soured.

“I like that,” Mencken said, stroking his freshly-shaved jaw. “I like that a lot.”

“Well, I don’t. Good fucking luck, Roman.” With that, you straightened your shoulders and marched out of the bathroom, needing to get away from the two of them. You needed air. More importantly, you needed to get up to the suite and ask if they’d settled for Boyer.

The two men stood in the bathroom, silent for a few moments.

“I think she likes me.” Mencken smirked.

Roman scratched at the back of his head. He was really hoping you’d see the better side of Mencken, like he did. He just hoped that you weren’t too angry with him. You hardly ever got mad, but when you did, it always felt like the end of the world to him.

“Right… can you, uh… come up and say hello or something to him? My dad?” Roman glanced at the door. “Oh, and bring a can of Coke with you.”

Logan chose Mencken.

That night, you crawled into the cold hotel bed and cried. You felt so… so trapped in a life that you didn’t want to live. You briefly wondered what would happen to you if you quit your job entirely, but you pushed the thought away almost as quickly as it came. It wasn’t something you liked to entertain.

Half an hour later, you could hear your door opening. 

Right. You’d forgotten that Roman had asked for another set of the key card to your room. You quietly wiped your tears away, grateful that it was too dark for him to see.

He slipped in behind you, sliding his arms over your waist and pressing his nose into the back of your neck. 

“Are you mad at me?” he asked.

You chose not to reply, pretending to be asleep.

“It’ll be good,” he said, eventually. “He’ll be good. I promise. His dick is big enough for the both of us.”

You shifted your foot just a bit, but that was enough for Roman to know that you were awake.

“Stop ignoring me.”

“I don’t want you here,” you murmured.

There was a shuffle behind you. Roman cleared his throat. It was so unbearably tense.

“If it’s Mencken you’re worried about—”

“I don’t want you here,” you repeated, a warbling edge to your voice. “I love you, Roman. Please leave.”

He went stiff. One second, then two, then three. 

“I love you, too,” he finally said. It was said with no joking tone, no playful quips, no inappropriate remarks. It wasn’t often that Roman told you that he loved you, at least compared to the number of times you’d say it to him. Maybe it was because he never knew if you meant I love you, or I’m in love with you.

And with that, he slowly slipped his hands off of you, and got back onto his feet. He made a show of leaving the key card on the nightstand, before making his way out of your hotel room.

He shut the door behind him, standing in front for a minute. A part of him wanted you to open up and beg him to come back. An even more delusional part of him expected you to do so.

Instead, Roman could hear your muffled sobs ricochet from behind the door. Something within him seized up. He turned on his heel and left.

Kendall had invited you to his birthday party, to your surprise. After all that transpired between the two of you, you hardly expected to be wanted at his party. Though, from what you heard, it was hardly a personal affair.

It didn’t seem like your kind of event, honestly, and you hardly had a reason to go. You loved Kendall, but you could tell him that any other day of the year, when he wasn’t surrounded by fucking vagina-entrances, childhood treehouse replicas, and miniature Wu-Tang dancers. Though, Kendall told you to keep that last bit on the down low. The dancers were meant to be a surprise.

But you weren’t at all planning on going. 

That was, until Logan decided otherwise for you.

There was a problem with GoJo, and Logan was pissed that Matsson hadn’t shown up. Something about blatant disrespect, he’d said. 

“He’s going to this fucking party, isn’t he?” Logan had barked. “Huh? Where is he? Getting his nails done? Asshole whitened?”

Roman squinted at his dad. “I think we just have to court him a little, is the thing—”

“Bah. No. It’s bad fucking juju to start like this,” Logan snippily said.

You quirked a brow, knowing Logan was never one to be superstitious. 

Shiv and Roman both tried to broach more options, but Logan shut them all down. “The deal makes sense. It’s a great deal. But he won’t make the deal because he’s being an arrogant prick.”

“Fine. Yeah, sure, Matsson’s an asshole. But should we really burn our only parachute because of that?” Shiv stressed.

Logan leaned back in his seat, regarding his daughter. “It’s just smart business, Shiv. I don’t want to pay over the odds. And eventually, the market will make him make the deal.”

You shook your head. “The market has plenty of better hands to deal him.”

“Someone can make a better offer, and we’d be screwed,” Roman agreed. 

“Dad, we have a scale issue. Our streaming platform is for shit, and we have nothing that looks like growth,” Shiv added on. “This gets us consequently into streaming, into sports betting—social media! We have a little window. Miss this, and we end up being pilot fish nibbling leftovers from Bezos’ fucking teeth. Dad, please. If you don’t want to talk to Matsson, fine. But let me.”

“Let us,” Roman interjected. “We can all do it. He’s gonna be at the party, right? We’ll go.”

“You’re going?” Logan asked, raising an eyebrow at Shiv.

Her eyes darted from her father to her brother. “Mhm.”

Heaving out a breath, Logan nodded. “Y/N, you go with them. Don’t go in too strong. This is a black box, and I don’t want to overpay.”

You wondered if Logan wanted you there to help broker the deal, or if he wanted you there to make sure Roman and Shiv didn’t start clawing at each other’s throats.

Shiv nodded, muttering something under her breath, and darted out of Logan’s office to make some preparations. That just left you and Roman standing in front of Logan. The air between the two of you was still tense since the whole Mencken debacle.

You were about to step out as well, before Logan said, “Since you two are going, might as well give him this in person.”

He slid over an envelope. The three of you, along with Gerri, had discussed its contents: an offer for Kendall to cash out of the company for good. Roman glanced at you, and you used your head to gesture for him to take it. 

“You think he’ll like it?” Roman asked his dad, who offered him half a smile and a shrug.

When he turned to look at you, the glass door was ajar and the spot where you were standing a moment ago was vacant.

Roman’s palms were sweaty. This was about the fifth time he’d wiped them down the front of his suit’s pants, hoping they’d just air out on their own by the time he got to your door.

They didn’t, but Roman found himself shrugging it off. You’d seen much worse than sweaty palms when it came to him.

It was an hour before the party was supposed to start—more so if he wanted to be fashionably late, didn’t want to seem too desperate—and he rang the bell.

It’d only been a few days since the two of you properly spoke, but Roman missed you. He found his nights staring at your number, thumb hovering over the call button. He’d sent about a dozen texts since then, but none of them were replied to. Sure, the two of you had gotten into fights every now and then but they never lasted long. 

And Roman was determined to get you to stop ignoring him.

When the door swung open, you peeked through, not at all ready yet for the party. Roman snickered upon seeing your eyeshadow only done on one eye, curlers in your hair.

“Looking hot, fuck-face,” he whistled. To his relief, your features softened, and you stepped to the side to let him amble in. Even in your current disheveled state, you knew he was telling the truth.

In truth, you’d missed him more than you could ever admit. It took a great deal of self-restraint not to reply to his strings of texts, especially once you were given time to cool off after what had transpired in the hotel bathroom. He was your Achilles’ heel, in a way.

“What do you want?” you asked, not even bothering to face him as you shut the door and made your way further into your home, standing in front of your mirror vanity to resume doing your makeup. 

Roman watched your reflection in a near somber manner. “Well, I was just thinking, since we’re going to Kendall’s little birthday bash, we could go togeth—”

“No,” you found yourself saying without a second thought. “I can go myself.”

With a sigh, Roman stepped forward, leaning against your vanity so he could look at you instead of your reflection. “I just want to talk. This—whatever’s going on between us—it fucking sucks. I miss you.”

For a second, you let your eyes meet his. You didn’t say anything, simply carrying on with drawing your eyeliner. 

“You’re not gonna say you miss me, too?”

“Of course I missed you, Rome.” There was a sort of bitterness to your words. “That doesn’t make me any less mad at you.”

“Look, I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I went down the Mencken road. I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you. But, cross my heart and hope to die, I genuinely believe he can help us. And, like, what’s the worst he can do? Just because he becomes president doesn’t mean he can do fuck all. I’m just with him because we’d all benefit from him helping out the company.” He scratched the back of his head whilst giving you, as he would so eloquently put it, fucky eyes. 

There was a long stretch of pregnant silence. You’d finally put down the eyeliner, shifting to stand directly in front of him, your chest brushing against his. 

“What can I do?” he whispered. He couldn’t help it—his eyes were fixed on your lips, parted and glossed. “What can I do to make it up to you?”

You smelled so damn good too—Roman felt like he was going delirious. He chalked it up to not being around you for a long while. That was probably why. His hands reached out to rest over your hips. 

“Not much you can do now. What’s done is done. Your dad settled on Mencken—there’s no changing his mind.” You tilted your head, so close now that your nose was brushing against his. He briefly wondered if you could feel the way his heart was slamming imprints against his ribs. 

You were just a hair’s breadth away from kissing him. You were so fucking close—

Until you pulled away with a smug little grin, far enough so that his hands fell away from you, going right back to fixing up your makeup. “I can look past Mencken for now. Mostly because I can’t see someone like him actually winning the election. But I’m absolutely not saying that I’m with you on this. I’m just saying we can put aside our… differences. If he just so happens to win, I’m counting on you to have your hand up his ass, and my hand would be up yours. So we’re good, for now.” 

“You fucking tease,” he grumbled, chuckling slightly. “What was that about your hand up my ass?”

“Awh,” you said in a mocking tone, one of your feet kicking up to knock against his shin. “Did you manage to get a hard on without me even touching you?”

Roman rolled his eyes. “Fuck off. And no.”

He was lying. He definitely had an erection, and the both of you knew it.

“Did you want me to kiss you?” you asked abruptly, starting to pull out the curlers in your hair.

His mouth went slack. His mind was moving too fast for him to formulate any coherent sentences. Instead, he laughed a bit, before it tapered away awkwardly.

“Yeah?” he finally replied, more of a question than anything.

“You don’t sound sure.”

“I’m sure,” he haughtily replied.

“Okay,” you said, though you didn’t look convinced. Another roller came out. 

“Don’t believe me?” Roman placed his hands over your hips once more, and yanked you close. “I’ll kiss you right here, right now.”

A brilliant smile danced across your features. “That a promise, Romey?”

With that, Roman leaned forward and slotted his lips over yours. It was tentative and soft and—surprisingly sticky. Your lip gloss, he registered a second later, tasted like strawberries and honey. A content hum slipped from you and you wrapped your arms around his neck, kissing him back with just as much vigor. Your nose slanted against his, foreheads knocking together. 

You were the one to pull away first, laughing lightly at his hooded eyes and the way he chased after your lips. A second bout of laughter overtook you when you saw the glossy, tinted smudges across his mouth. 

Shoulders still shaking, you pulled out a makeup wipe and handed it over to him, silently gesturing to his lips. 

“The color doesn’t suit you,” you rasped, though you kissed his cheek to leave a faint mark there, as well. “That’s a first for us, you know?”

“What?”

“Kissing.”

Roman looked at you strangely as he wiped away the remnants of your gloss. “We’ve kissed millions of times. Mostly you, because you’re obsessed with me.”

“Yeah, but… not like that. Mouth to mouth. It was always a line I didn’t wanna cross, you know?”

He toyed with a brush laying on your vanity. “Why not?” he asked, his voice sounding a bit more unsure. “You afraid I’m gonna give you cooties?”

“Well, because we’re…” You paused, gesturing between the two of you. “We’re friends. With occasional benefits, I guess. I didn’t know if you were okay with it.”

Lifting a shoulder, Roman offered you a smile. Friends didn’t sit quite right with him. Not anymore, at least. “Well now you know. You can kiss me all you want.”

You huffed in amusement, before pulling out the rest of the rollers in your hair. All you had left to do was put on your outfit, and you were good to go. You wondered if Kendall would be happy seeing his siblings at his party, when you knew for a fact that he hadn’t invited them.

“I’m gonna go change. You want me to help you out with that?” You looked down at his tented pants with a raised brow. “No blow jobs, though. Don’t wanna ruin my makeup.”

This time, Roman was the one that laughed, loud and chesty. He sucked on his teeth, as if debating his options. 

“How much time do we have?” he asked.

You glanced over at a small clock hanging on the opposite side of the room. “We’ve got forty-five minutes, maybe? If we wanna get there before Matsson gets bored and leaves.”

Roman clapped his hands together. “Great! More than enough time.” 

The two of you ended up fooling around for a bit longer than you’d anticipated—he’d humped your ass with you bent over your couch, then finished by jacking off onto your back. You were grateful that you hadn’t yet changed into your outfit for the party, having stayed in a comfortable white shirt that you shucked off and threw into the laundry bin.

To your surprise, he seemed earnest enough to want to try fingering you, and you shyly told him to go for it if he wanted. A permanent flush fixed over your cheeks as you gently guided him to do what felt best. His thumb over your clit, his fingers sheathed deep in your cunt. He was good at it, mostly because he was clinging onto your every plea like it was gospel. You came with a drawn-out moan and your teeth sinking into his shoulder. 

You managed to squeeze in just one more handjob for him since he somehow got hard again while fingering you, whispering filthy nothings into his ear as he whined, eyes rolled into the back of his head. To your curious delight, you’d found that Roman really liked being called a good boy.

Only after all that did you manage to change into a semi-formal dress, touching up on your makeup since a lot of your lipstick had smudged onto Roman. In turn, Roman headed to the bathroom to wash up a bit, comb back his hair, some strands had come loose during your little excursions, and straightened out his suit.

“You ready?” you asked, peeking into the bathroom. The two of you were a bit later than you would’ve liked. “I want to make a stop at the corner store before the party.”

“What for?” he asked, curious.

“Last minute birthday gift,” you replied, hopping slightly as you strapped on your shoes. “Let’s go, Rome. You look hot, I promise.”

He smiled at your reflection, and took your outstretched hand. 

Upon arriving at the large venue, the woman in front asked to take everybody’s coats and phones. To which, Roman told her, “Yeah, fuck off, I’m not doing that,” and walked right past her. 

You gave her an apologetic smile, shedding your coat and handed it to her. “Sorry, I can’t hand you my phone. Company policy.”

With that, you jogged to catch up to Roman, chatting with Connor, who had also chosen to cling on tightly to his coat. Beneath it, you saw that one of his arms was in a sling.

“Oh, Con, what happened?” you asked, waving hello to Willa.

“Nothing, nothing. Just ranch stuff,” the older man replied, nonchalant.

Roman snorted. “What, a horse didn’t want you to fuck it?”

“He had a fall,” Willa said, and Connor immediately protested.

“You make it sound like I’m ninety years old. No, Maxim and I just got some polling results. We shared a Cognac, and then I slipped doing a little Irish jig.”

“Oh, okay. Ranch stuff. Got it,” quipped Roman. 

You stopped in front of a tunnel-like entrance, the walls lined with soft pink. 

 “This feels disgustingly Kendall,” Shiv said, and the two of you laughed as you strolled in. “So… where’s Tabs, Rome? She busy?”

Arching a brow, you looked to Roman. You knew that his relationship with her had fizzled out, especially after the… corpse sex debacle.

“Yup,” Roman said, clearly not comfortable discussing it with her.

She grinned, snickering. “Again? Did you kill her?”

“We’re actually—we’re not really seeing each other anymore. She was just a bit boring. That’s all I’m saying,” Roman said. His eyes darted to you, and you offered him half a smile.

“Mmh, yeah. Because you find sexual intimacy boring, don’t you?” Shiv pressed, which made both you and Roman frown.

“As if you’re the catch,” Roman snapped back. “You’re more fucked up than me, you know! Seems like Y/N and I are nicer to each other than you are to your own husband.”

Shiv looked between the two of you, expression immediately souring. “You’re so fucking annoying,” she muttered, before turning to mutter something to Tom.

By the end of the pink tunnel, a woman dressed in a cartoonish nurse uniform greeted the group. “You’ve just been born into the world of Kendall Roy!” she announced.

“Oh, Jesus,” Shiv huffed.

Roman turned back to look at the pink tunnel. “Oh. So if we’ve just been born, then that must be mom’s…?” He shifted his weight back and forth by the exit. “You’re telling me I’m repeatedly entering my mom’s vagina right now?”

You snorted in amusement, nudging Shiv. “These your mom jokes just keep getting better.”

She hummed. “Cold and inhospitable. It seems to check out.”

“This is my mom’s cooch, just so you know,” Roman told the nurse. “And you’re implying that it’s massive, so, uh, might wanna get Kendall to see if you can tighten my mother’s vagina.”

The group shuffled off, leaving the poor nurse to gather her wits and greet the next few guests approaching. 

“Where’s Matsson, you think?” Shiv asked.

“Probably standing in a corner somewhere, monitoring his biometrics from his watch,” Roman scoffed. 

“Don’t you think we should find Kendall before trying to find Matsson?” you queried, looking around the crowded room in hopes of finding Kendall somewhere amidst the dancing throng. “I mean… it is his birthday party, after all.”

Nodding, Roman said, “Yeah, good thinking. Let’s just get it out of the way.”

Shiv managed to track down one of Kendall’s assistants, asking her where he’d be. She pointed up the stairs, where the VIP section was. Thanking her, the three of you made your way up the stairs whilst the rest of the group stayed down to mingle. 

The second floor was a bit less packed, but there were still dozens upon dozens of famous figures mingling about. It wasn’t hard to find Kendall amongst them, sticking out like a sore thumb with a birthday crown perched on his head, laughing with his girlfriend, Naomi Pierce, by his side. 

His eyes met his siblings’, and he scrambled to take the crown off, dropping it onto the nearest waiter’s tray. 

“Woah, woah, woah. Wait a second. Who let you guys in? This is friends only!” he exclaimed. 

Shiv made a pitying noise. “Awh. Shouldn’t it be empty, then?”

Roman cackled. “She beat me by one second.”

“Happy birthday, old man,” Shiv said, giving her older brother a sharp smile.

“Just to say, I’m only here because I heard there was going to be a five-dimensional catastrophe, and I want to watch you crash and burn,” Roman told him.

Features mellowing, Kendall stepped forward and spread his arms out wide to give Roman a hug, which he reciprocated with no complaint.

 However, he did have to squeeze in, “Man, it even feels like you’re old. You sure you’re only forty? You look like shit.”

Despite his harsh words, Kendall pulled away with a genuine smile. He was happy that his siblings were here, even if he hadn’t invited them.

He hugged you next, and you reached up to kiss his cheek with a smile. “Hey, Kenny D. Happy birthday—I brought you a little present.” You reached into the cheap plastic bag from the corner store, brandishing a strawberry popsicle, still in its wrapper. “It’s probably a bit melted but if you popped it into the freezer for ten minutes or so, it should be good as new. Sorry it’s not much.”

Kendall’s expression seemed to soften, recalling how the two of you would always argue over the last remaining strawberry popsicle during the summers you were still little children. When you would grab it from the freezer before he could, he’d tug on your pigtails and call you mean as you denied ever taking them, and you’d hide the wrappers in Rome’s room so he’d never know it was you. But he could always tell from the sticky red on the corners of your mouth and your sugar-highs that seemed to last for a little too long. 

“No, this is…” He took the popsicle from you, staring down at the wrapper. “This is perfect. Thank you. I really appreciate it, I do.”

You nodded, pointedly watching as he pocketed the popsicle. “No problem. I promise not to take this one from you.”

Kendall laughed, then looked to his brother and sister. “Really? No card? I’m disappointed.”

“Sorry, I couldn’t find one that said both ‘happy birthday’ and ‘get well soon’,” Shiv crooned. The smile on Kendall’s face faltered.

“Well, I’m glad you guys came. It says a lot,” he finally said.

“It was a ten minute drive,” Shiv deadpanned. 

A part of you wondered why Shiv was being particularly brutal today, especially on Kendall’s birthday. Nonetheless, the two of them awkwardly hugged, Shiv patting her brother’s back a few times.

Connor and Willa ascended the stairs a few seconds later, waving hello. They greeted the birthday boy with hugs, and the smile returned back to Kendall’s face, though it wasn’t quite the same as before.

“So, what do you guys think? Sick party, right?” Kendall asked, arms spread.

Squinting, Roman glanced back downstairs. “It’s cool, but, uh, did you ask for Mummy’s permission to use her, uh… squatch?”

Kendall shook his head a bit, seeming puzzled. “What, from, like, a copyright perspective?”

“Well, it’s just, you know—call me old-fashioned, but I think you should ask before constructing a giant replica of someone’s vagina,” Roman off-handedly said.

“I’d definitely want to be informed before someone decides to make an artistic rendition of my privates,” you chimed in agreement.

“Duly noted,” Roman said in a faux British accent, and the two of you giggled under your breath like schoolgirls.

Kendall, miffed, nodded a few times. “Yeah, okay. Yeah. I can—I can send mom an email. But, relax, will you? Yes, Roman, you can take it home with you.”

Roman pumped a fist into the air at that, and you both burst into another round of giddy laughter.

Rolling her eyes, Shiv said, “Okay, so, tell us. Who else is here?”

Kendall made a show of looking around at the dozens of famous celebrities loitering around the VIP section. “Who isn’t?”

“Your dad,” Roman said.

“Your mom,” Shiv told him.

“Your wife,” Connor added.

“Your kids?” you put forth, more as a question than anything. 

“Any real friends,” Roman chimed again.

With a smile, Shiv said, “I mean, business folks, sure. Stewy? Honestly, we could do with building some bridges. So, uh, Lawrence Yee? He here? Lukas Matsson?”

There it was. She name-dropped the golden goose.

“Yeah, yeah. They’re all here, somewhere,” Kendall assured, gesturing around vaguely. “I have something to show you guys, actually. Come on.”

The siblings and you followed him down a winding hallway, which gave way to black-out curtains, and past that, it seemed to be an art gallery of sorts.

“Hey, Dad wanted me to give this to you,” Roman said, handing Kendall the envelope. You eyed it warily, wondering how Kendall would react to the offer.

“What is it?” the older brother queried, shaking it lightly, as if expecting something inside to rattle.

A dismissive sort of smile fell over Roman’s face. “It’s, uh, an iTunes gift card and a couple of your baby teeth. It’s nice. We hope you like it.”

Kendall looked at you, silently asking for confirmation. You nodded, hesitant, but that seemed to satisfy him enough—he pocketed the envelope to open up for later. 

“Okay, guys, let me show you some shit. C’mon.” He beckoned everyone into the art gallery, before spewing into a long tangent about all the people he had to collaborate with in order for things to work out.

Instead of paintings and sculptures, which you’d typically see hung up in galleries, there were newspaper articles and headlines plastered over the walls. 

The Cincinnati Standard: Waystar Chairman, Kendall Roy Elected President of World Federation!

Boston Daily Express: Wife of Tom Wambsgans Arrested In Sweep of City Street-Walkers!

The Correspondent: Connor Roy Elected President [of shitting his bag]!

The NY Globe: Failed Youngest Roy Sibling Dies in Tragic Jerk-Off Accident!

Both you and Roman stopped to stand in front of his article. You shot him an amused glance. “Who were you jerking off to, do you think?”

“Don’t worry, fuck-face, there’s a lot of Roman to go around,” he said, leaning closer to read the smaller text.

Your grin grew wider, gesturing to the paper. “Not for long, according to this.”

“It’s not a bad way to go.” Roman bumped his shoulder into yours. “Yours is going to happen any day now, I can just feel it.” 

Your brows raised, and you turned around, surprised to see your own article plastered large and tall right beside Connor’s.

New York Journalist: Disgraced CEO’s Goddaughter Kicked Out of Company—Adopted Into Communist Parties!

“Wow,” you breathed out. It wasn’t all that bad, really. 

“You like it?” Kendall asked the two of you.

“You’ve got people in here picturing me jerking off, so who’s the real winner?” Roman sneered. 

Shaking your head, you told Kendall, “I can’t even imagine why you’d have an entire room dedicated to this at your birthday party.”

“It’s—it’s unique. An extrapolation into the near future,” he said. “People dig it.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” Roman replied, clapping his shoulder, before wandering off to read the other articles.

Connor threw a large fit about his article, unhappy with the way he was being portrayed as an unserious candidate.

“You did actually shit your bag, though,” Roman said. Kendall guffawed and the two brothers began laughing together, at Connor’s expense.

His scowl deepened. “Yeah, you know why? Because I took you two fucking assholes on a camping trip because Dad couldn’t be bothered! That’s why! I ate some bad fucking fish! This is bullshit, Kendall!” He yelled that last sentence, to which Kendall quickly reassured him that he’d have it taken down.

You remembered Roman telling you about the camping trip, the both of you only barely teenagers. It was harder then, being friends with them—boys were particularly mean at that age.

You remembered asking if you could come along. Kendall told you that it was a boys trip. Only boys were allowed, and you most certainly weren’t a boy. 

You remembered Roman asking if you could somehow fit into the cooler so he could sneak you on the trip. Even now, you weren't quite sure if he was just joking or if he was being serious. Nonetheless, you pushed him away and told him to have fun sleeping on rocks and eating stale jerky that tasted like dirt. When you sniffled, Connor put a hand on your shoulder and told you that there’d be many more camping trips in the future. To your knowledge, they never went again. 

“Alright, guys, I gotta circulate. Lots of people to talk to. We can check in later, yeah?” Kendall rubbed his hands together. You briefly realized that this was the first time you’d seen him genuinely happy in a long time.

“Yeah, yeah, you go on ahead,” Shiv said, urging him on.

“It’s a great night. I’m happy you guys are here. Fucking… best birthday ever.”

With that, Kendall hurried off. You and Roman exchanged glances, mirrors of pity and guilt.

Half an hour of asking around later, Shiv managed to snag down Matsson’s location in this never-ending venue of birthday bash.

“Don’t fuck this,” Shiv warned Roman, to which he rolled his eyes and gestured for her to lead the way.

The three of you traversed up a couple more flights of winding staircases, turning left into a massive hall, where a giant replica of a treehouse was erected, leading into what looked like another secret passageway. You narrowed your eyes, seeming to recognize the little carvings on the wood by the base of the tree. Younger Kendall often went into the yard whenever he was angry, whittling away his frustrations onto the bark. You and Roman used to play pretend that they were ancient runes when he wasn’t around to hear you.

“I think a forty year old man who rebuilt his childhood treehouse should immediately go on the sex offender registry,” Roman snidely commented, eyeing the massive structure. 

Two burly guards blocked the entry way.

“We’re with Kendall,” you said as you tried to sidestep them, but one thrust his arm out in front of you.

“Do you have a rainbow band?” he gruffed.

Roman guffawed. “Yes. I’m a walking fucking rainbow band.”

It was then that Kendall’s head emerged from behind the guards, eyebrows raised.

“Hey, guys. You done downstairs?”

“Mhm. These guys aren’t letting us in. Ain’t that crazy?” Roman asked pointedly. “Do you mind if we took a gander around your mental disorder?”

Kendall laughed, though it sounded forced. “Hah. Yeah, good one. That’s funny, Rome.”

“So are you gonna let us in, or what?” Shiv butted in, clearly impatient.

“That’s, uh…” Kendall smiled, almost apologetic, almost triumphant. “That’s not possible.”

You tilted your head, wondering if Kendall somehow found out that the three of you were after Matsson. “Not possible? Why’s that?”

“You hiding something from us in there, Ken?” Roman jeered. “Nude selfies you don’t feel comfortable with showing? The angsty romantic poetry you wrote when you were seventeen?”

A frown flickered across his face. “Well, okay, the thing is—the treehouse is for cool people, and you guys… you guys aren’t cool. Sorry, Y/N. You know, I would’ve given you a band if they weren’t here with you.”

“I’m flattered,” you said in a flat tone.

“Wow. The coolest grown man’s treehouse I’ve seen in quite a while,” Shiv snippily retorted, which made Roman snicker.

Holding his hands out in a placating manner, Kendall told the three of you, “Okay, no, seriously guys. Sorry, but, like… all jokes aside, there’s actually a real issue here, and I need to be discreet, because there’s a lot of celebrities around, and if you guys were in the treehouse, it would be kinda—kinda wouldn’t feel like the treehouse, y’know?”

Shiv scoffed.

“You’re a nazi lover,” Kendall deadpanned, pointing at his sister. He jutted his finger to Roman, then you. “And you’re a nazi lover. And you’re heavily affiliated with them. Me, on the other hand, I’m a defender of liberal democracy.” 

“Lovely. You afraid of getting canceled on Twitter, Kendall?” you asked, crossing your arms. You let the words spew out without really thinking over them. “Or are you scared to show all your ad-sponsored, money-grubbing buddies up there who kicked you to the ground and spat on your corpse? It’s not a good look, is it?”

Appearing crestfallen for a moment, Kendall shook his head. “You’re being—stop. I didn’t expect you to stoop down to their level, Y/N.”

“Jesus, are you going to let us in or not?” Roman huffed.

“What, to see Matsson?” Kendall finally asked.

There it was. He knew.

“That’s why you’re here. You’re trying to push a deal,” he muttered. 

“Who fucking gives a shit?” Roman asked. “What’s the difference to you? I just want to talk to him.”

Shiv nodded. “You know what’ll happen if we do talk to him? Either we strike out with nothing, or we succeed, Waystar benefits, and your net worth goes up by several hundred million dollars.”

“You’re welcome,” retorted Roman.

“Okay, yeah, but I have to weigh that against the consideration that no losers allowed,” Kendall said, shrugging.

“God, you’re such a fucking child.” You rolled your eyes, the two other siblings following suit.

Trying to step up again, Roman said, “I’m going in. This is fucking stupid.”

Kendall grabbed at his brother’s shoulder, pulling him back, and turning him around to face away from the treehouse.

“Oh, my God. Did you see that? I just got moved.” 

Roman tried again, and the two got into a catty, near indiscernible argument. Kendall pushed, and Roman stepped back, before leaning in again. 

“You really gonna get so worked up over a treehouse?” Kendall hissed. “That’s fucking lame, man.” 

Finally, Roman stepped away, his shoulder bumping into yours. “Fuck. Wow.”

“Don’t let these guys in. This is my treehouse, and they shouldn’t be here,” Kendall warned the guards, before slipping between them, making his way back into his treehouse. “Oh, and, thanks for the offer, guys. Great headfuck from Dad. Really fucking cool of you.”

You thought the buyout would be good for him. A naive part of you had even thought that he’d simply accept it with no complaint. Lord knew it was more than enough money to sustain him several lifetimes.

“Unbelievable. Un-fucking-believable,” Roman groaned. “Now what?”

Curious, Shiv looked over at the two of you. ���What was Ken talking about? What offer?”

You and Roman exchanged looks. “That was nothing,” Roman dismissively replied, shrugging. “It was just a little move to ease him out of the holding company.”

“What? And—you two didn’t think to tell me?” she just about snarled, brows drawing together.

“It’s just an offer, Shiv. You would’ve found out eventually,” you sighed, rubbing the spot between your brows, the beginnings of a headache starting to fight through. 

“Whose name was on the paper?” she asked, head tilted.

“Mine,” Roman sighed. “It’s just a name, though. It’s nothing.”

“Okay, so why wasn’t I the name if it was fucking nothing?” she demanded. “Historically, who owns the fucking company has been of some interest. It’s not nothing.”

Tired of the conversation, Roman told her, “We handled it. You wanna figure out the financing, or something? It’s all there.”

A muscle in her jaw twitched. “Yeah, that’s fucking great. You guys are so adorable. Fuck you. Fuck this.” 

She stormed off, heels clanging loudly against the staircases’ steps.

A few seconds of silence lapsed by before you reached out to take Roman’s arm. “You ready to go steal some rainbow bands?”

He used his free hand to cup your face and tug you closer, landing a loud, obnoxious kiss onto your cheek. 

“I fucking love us,” he hummed.

The two of you began to walk around, eyeing all the guests who happened to have bracelets on. 

“I do, too, Rome. I do, too.”

Eventually, the two of you managed to snag down a handsy couple who looked much too busy sucking off each others’ faces to care about their stupid rainbow bands. They handed it to you two with no question and you thanked them with a smile whilst Roman snidely told them to use protection. He was one to talk, really.

The guards also gave the two of you a lot of trouble, but after a bit of charm from your end and a bit of light threatening from Roman’s end, the two of you were finally in the damned treehouse.

“I’m scared we’re going to see detailed exhibits of Kendall’s sex life up there,” you uneasily said. 

“Nah, I think I just saw Anne Hathaway passing by. No way Kendall would embarrass himself like that around this crowd,” Roman snorted. After a second, he tacked on, “But I wouldn’t put it past him.”

Almost at once, your eyes landed on Matsson, huddled up in a dingy corner and playing a shoddy tapping game on his phone. He looked next to miserable, utterly bored out of his mind.

“Bingo,” you whispered, nudging Roman with a grin. 

Once the two of you approached him, his eyes didn’t even bother lifting from his screen. But his brows raised in acknowledgement upon hearing Roman’s voice.

“There you are, fucking hiding from us. You little sneak, you. Like a human VPN.” Roman took the seat adjacent to him, and you sat across from the two. “How you doing?”

A disgruntled noise fell from Matsson’s lips. “Eh. I’m alright. I’m just, uh… you know. You fill in the blanks.”

Your lips downturned slightly. You hadn’t spoken to Matsson personally before, but the two of you had gone to the same conferences before in the past—you were never overly fond of his character. Lazy, erratic, a pure dick-jerker. But you knew he was integral to hold up the company, so you swallowed any and all complaints you had about him.

“I hear you. Yeah. Fucking life, right?” Roman drawled in response, attempting and failing to mimic Matsson’s nonchalance.

“I just wanna find a good pussy and get out, you know?” Lukas muttered. For a brief moment, he looked away from his phone, to you. “You down?” he asked.

Rearing back in surprise, you briefly wondered if he was high on something. He probably was.

A nervous laugh slipped out of you, and you gave Roman a wide side-glare. “I’m not here to get laid.”

“Hm. Pity.” There was lust in his gaze, and you felt a wave of nausea roll over you.

To diffuse the tension, Roman quipped in a high voice, “Yeah, well—pussy’s great. Mhm. You see my mom’s at the front, there?”

Matsson snickered lowly. “Yeah. You seen my mom’s? It’s not… it’s not great.”

Roman laughed, and you begrudgingly cracked a smile at that, too.

“Wow. Yeah, sure, I’m not gonna delve too deep into that one.” Roman leaned forward. “Question—my old man got a little bit grumpy this morning, but you weren’t trying to humiliate him, right? I mean, fucking everyone says we’re the last big legacy content library, and you’re the last fucking super app streaming platform. We fit, obviously. Right?”

Finally, Matsson put his phone down to regard the two of you. He pulled a contemplative frown.

“People say we fit, yeah.”

You eyed Matsson warily, partially worried that he’d get bored of the two of you and go back to his phone. “You help prop us up, and we’ll turn GoJo into a gold mine. A tooth for a tooth.”

With guarded interest, Matsson sat up just a bit straighter. Instead of replying to you, he faced Roman and said, “She’s a bit… how do you get anything done with her around?”

An embarrassed, frustrated sort of flush heated your skin. It was beyond demeaning that he spoke to Roman as if you couldn’t hear everything he was saying. Was it because you were a woman? Because Matsson so clearly saw you as a piece of ass and nothing more?

Though Roman sent you an apologetic, slightly confused glance, he said, “Well, I don’t, really. But, uh, what are you thinking?”

Half of a shrug. “I mean, that’s great and everything, but I do have one small concern.”

“Yeah? And what’s that?” Roman asked.

“When will your father die?”

Roman’s brows flew up in shock. “When will… when will my father die?” he parroted, blinking himself out of his stupor. “Uh…”

The blonde man gestured vaguely towards him. “Like, I don’t wanna be rude, but—what kind of shape is he in? Are we talking less than a year or is it more like five years? ‘Cause if it’s five, that’s… that’s a long time. It would be better sooner, wouldn’t it?”

Roman broke out into a fit of laughter. A nervous habit, you knew.

“No, yeah, I’m laughing here, but, like—that is my dad, so, you know. Go easy there, tiger.”

Though you were well aware that Matsson clearly had a hard time speaking to you without getting a raging boner, you felt it important to voice, “Is Logan’s position on top a problem for you? For this deal?”

The corner of his lips twitched up when he spared you a look. “No, it’s just that I don’t like the idea of a man hanging over me. It’s not my world, media. Not my thing. But Logan’s death, it would… it would clear space.”

Clear space. How airily he threw about the term. A quick peek at Roman told you that he was just as uncomfortable as you were. He scratched the back of his head rather aggressively.

“Uh, I mean, we’re all obviously… hugely looking forward to my father dying,” Roman started, tapering off into a hum of forced laughter. “But, hear me out, there’d be another shape to this. How about you never ever have to speak to him? You could work out of Austin, Geneva, London, Stockholm, wherever. Totally separate corporate identities. And StarGo, we burn, obviously.”

This seemed to please Matsson immensely. It was no secret how shitty Waystar’s streaming platform was.

“Yes, yes. Please. Burn the codes and fucking acid bath those servers.”

Roman cracked a smile. “We can do that. We could do that together. I mean, GoJo, full bore. Our library, our firepower, our relationships for content. And, like, good shit. Not, like, gay moms and wheelchair kids liberal crap. Actual, popular, shit.”

A frown crossed your expression briefly. You never liked it when Roman got political. Nonetheless, you could see now that Lukas was listening intently to what the two of you had to offer. 

“You won’t have to communicate with Logan whatsoever. None of your decisions would be intercepted by him—it’d be filtered through Roman, if need be. And, you know, if it’s beneficial for you, it’d be beneficial for us,” you told him firmly whilst maintaining eye contact. You wanted him to know that you were more than capable of holding your own. 

It didn’t last long, however, because Matsson rolled his head back and blew out a sigh. “I hope you know that StarGo truly is a piece of shit.”

“It’s a huge piece of shit, yeah,” Roman agreed.

“I like to open it just to see how long it takes for the landing page to load,” Lukas said, lazily smiling. A quick glance in your direction, and he slapped at his knees. “Hey, Roman, you wanna go and take a piss on the app?”

A second’s pause. “What, like, literally?”

“Yeah.” Lukas got up to his feet.

Roman hastily stood as well, sending you an apprehensive look. “Yeah, okay, uh—” before he could finish, Matsson was already striding away. 

God. You already couldn’t stand that man.

“Go,” you told Roman. “He thinks I’m distracting. I know. I’ll be around. You just go land a meeting with him, okay? Keep him interested.”

“Okay. Yeah. Are you—? Yeah, okay. You’re great, y’know? So fucking great.” Roman squeezed your shoulder once, before he shoved his hands into his pockets and jogged after Matsson, who was already halfway to the men’s bathroom.

A heavy pit sank to the bottom of your stomach. Everybody was dancing around you, the music pounding so loudly you could feel the base vibrating the ground. There was a distinct sting to the very top of your nose—a telltale sign that you were upset, even though you were doing your very best to push it down. It was times like these you hated being a woman working in an industry made for and surrounded by men.

With pursed lips, you got up to leave the treehouse, feeling incredibly out of place in there.

And so you wove through the crowds, until you saw Kendall walking down a hall with Naomi, his shoulders tensed.

“Hey, Kendall?” you called out, quickening your pace to catch up with him.

“What do you want?” he asked, bitter. “You wanna ask for a condom so you can go fuck Matsson in my treehouse? Sorry, I don’t have one.”

He did—he always kept one in his wallet, but you didn’t need to know that.

“Yeah, no, Roman’s doing that already.” You fiddled with your hands and his eyes softened just a tad, drawing his own conclusions that you didn’t care to spell out. “Hey, uh, sorry, this is a really douche-y thing of me to ask, but… could I have the strawberry popsicle back?”

Dumbfounded, Kendall fixed you with an incredulous stare. “What?”

You cleared your throat nervously, feeling your nose begin to sting more. You weren’t quite sure if those were tears pricking your eyes, or if you were just tired. “I’ll get you another one, I promise.” 

The wrapper was still sticking out of his pocket. Melted, you knew for a fact, but you didn’t care. You wanted it, and you wanted it now.

“What? But this—this is my gift. You said you wouldn’t take this one.”

You were being an asshole. You knew it, and he knew it. “Kendall, just—just fucking give it over. It’s a popsicle! I can get you a million others after this.”

Then, you tried to reach for it, but Kendall sidestepped away from you, bumping into Naomi. 

“Yeah, but this one’s mine. You gave it to me. What is with you?” 

Your lip warbled as you inhaled sharply. “Please? I just—I really need it right now.”

There was a momentary pause as Kendall looked down at the wrapper sticking out of his pocket. In all honesty, he’d forgotten it was even there until you brought it up.

“No,” he finally said. “There’s refreshments and desserts all over this fucking place. You don’t need it.”

You bit down on the inside of your cheek. “Fuck you,” you eventually mustered, tears welling up over your waterline.

A large part of Kendall felt guilty, but he consciously took a step back away from you. “I have to go. My kids gave me a present. Rabbit wrapping. I gotta find it.”

“Eat a dick, Kendall.”

With that, he left.

You harshly wiped away any lingering dampness that spilled over your cheeks and hurried away. As you rushed to get to the bar, you caught sight of Shiv wildly dancing in the middle of the crowd, feet bare and hair tousled. 

It wasn’t long before Tom came to join you, seemingly in a glum mood himself. He was saying something about Greg and his new fixation on Kendall’s assistant, but you weren’t quite listening, merely nodding along at regular intervals.

About half an hour later, Roman finally appeared, grinning so wide it was a wonder his face didn’t split in two. By then, Shiv had joined you and Tom by the bar, breathless and cherry-cheeked.

“You okay?” Roman preened. “Onlookers reported you having some sort of breakdown. People were anxious that you might have swallowed your tongue.”

A frown crossed her lips. “I was dancing.”

“Hm. I heard it looked like a cry for help. That right, Y/N?” Roman casted a look in your direction, noting your glum atmosphere. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

Before you could reply, Shiv shook her head. “Fuck you. Did you speak to Matsson?”

“I’m trying to console my friend here, Siobhan—”

“Did you speak to him?” she gritted out again, completely disregarding his initial rebuttal. 

Rolling his eyes, Roman leaned against the bar, his arm brushing yours. “Yup. I spoke to him.”

“And?”

“Don’t worry about it, Shivvy. I’ll handle it,” he snidely remarked. His arm pressed firmer up against yours. In a lowered voice, he asked, “You sure you’re good? You look all—mopey dopey over here.”

You didn’t quite know how to explain to him that you and Kendall had gotten into a tiff over a stupid popsicle, and you were sick of being reduced to the pretty woman men couldn’t take seriously. Even if you had vocalized all that, a large part of you doubted that Roman would understand any of it. He’d look at you all guilty and puppy-eyed, one of the few ways he tried to convey sympathy, and you’d kiss his cheek and tell him it was fine. That was usually how things went between the two of you, anyway.

“No, seriously, Roman,” Shiv just about growled. 

“I’m being serious,” he shot back, clearly growing agitated that Shiv just wouldn’t buzz off. And also because you weren’t talking to him, and the two of you knew well how terribly he coped with that. “I’ll talk to Dad and see if he wants to loop you in, okay?”

The aggravation written plainly over her features seemed to deepen. “Just fucking tell me! This is important, and I might need to finesse.”

“Oh, you need to finesse? That’s so kind of you to offer! But, uh, how would you finesse something that’s already done, exactly? By ruining it?” Roman jeered, crossing his arms. “Yeah, y’know what, I handled Matsson. I understand him. I’m not sure you do.”

You simply watched Shiv’s face cave in with unbridled frustration. In a way, you understood exactly how she was feeling. Though, you supposed you were more folded in than she was, given Roman’s trust in you.

“You know what, if you wanna show off to somebody, maybe show off to someone who gives a shit. Look—even Y/N doesn’t wanna hear about it!”

The two siblings looked at you, and you lifted a shoulder in a shrug.

“If you landed it, that’s all I care to know,” you gently told Roman.

A nod, and a hum. “It’s all good. Matsson peed on my phone, but we got it. And listen, Shiv, you’re having a very bad day, I know that. What with hearing that you have to continue sharing an apartment with the old meat wardrobe, but, you know—try to keep your wig on.”

There was a certain fire to Shiv’s eyes, darting between the two of you angrily. “I’m the one in a functioning relationship. You guys are fucked up emotionally and using each other as crutches to feel better about yourselves.”

Now that… that struck a nerve. She was right, you knew it, but you never liked facing your and Roman’s codependency head-on. It was an uncomfortable truth that the two of you were quite comfortable not dwelling on.

“Oh, really?” Roman retorted. “I thought you were thinking about all the dick you were gonna ride while he was behind bars? Hm?”

“Oh, my fucking God,” Shiv hissed in incredulous disbelief. “You know what? Nobody likes talking about me fucking guys as much as you do. Why is that? Is that because you’re the COO who can’t fuck?”

This seemed to stun Roman into silence. His eyes flickered over to your silent form, staring down at your half-empty drink. Shiv caught the way he looked over at you, a cruel scoff hitching in her throat.

“Huh. Can’t even get it up for Y/N?”

A deep breath in, and Roman was quick to push the argument back onto Shiv. “Did you think Tom was going to go to jail?”

“No. I’m happy he’s not going.”

“Oh, I’m sure you are! You look really happy. Fucking rainbows and sunshine plastered all over you. Did you think he was, though? Just a smidge? Maybe Dad would go to jail, too? Oh, and maybe I’d go, too! And because Kendall’s all fucked up in the head, you’d… oh, you’d be able to sit on your little throne. It’d be all about you. You thought it was ladies’ night and they were playing your song, but guess what? You were wrong! All the men got together in the man club and we decided, sweetheart, everything’s fine, so just—”

A cord within you snapped.

“Roman,” you sternly barked out. “Shut the fuck up. We get it.”

“Don’t talk for me,” Shiv haughtily told you, before fixing her brother with a fiery glare. “He’s just using you as a messenger boy, but as usual, you’re too fucking dumb to see it.”

“Right. Mhm. It’s difficult for you, I know. It’s hard to have to do the dance for Dad because you just suck at dancing,” Roman sneered. 

“You’re a piece of shit,” said Shiv. 

Clearly on a roll, Roman just kept talking: “It turns out he loves it when I do the Daddy dance, but I guess that’s because he loves me.” He was feeding himself lies. Logan didn’t even have to do it anymore—Roman was desperate enough to believe it. “He loves fucking me, and he just doesn’t want to fuck you anymore.”

“What are you even talking about? You’re so fucking gross!” Shiv just about yelled.

The two fell into more bickering, but it faltered away when Kendall showed up out of nowhere. You glanced at his pocket—the popsicle wrapper was gone.

“Oh, shit. Look who it is! It’s birthday boy!” Roman greeted in a condescending manner. 

Kendall looked upset—far more upset than when you’d confronted him about the popsicle.

“Neither of you should be here,” Kendall gruffly said. “You shouldn’t be at my fucking party.”

“Oh, God, you’re right. Someone call the cops. Intruders have breached the masturbatorium!” Laughing, Roman took your drink and finished what was left of it. You stared down at the empty glass with pursed lips.

Finally, you looked up at Kendall. “You find the rabbit wrapping?” you quietly asked him. 

He didn’t answer your question. Instead, he stared at you for a moment before slowly saying, “I threw away the popsicle. Melted.”

That hurt a lot more than you would admit it did. “Oh,” was all you said.

Roman looked back and forth between the two of you, wondering what on earth he’d missed while he was up watching Matsson piss on his phone.

“You guys are full of shit,” Kendall said. “You came here to fuck me behind my back. You’re ghouls, and you’re disgusting.”

“Sorry. Whoops,” Roman replied, though he didn’t sound sorry at all.

Then, Kendall turned to call a few security guards lining the walls. “Can we get them out?”

“It’s a little late for that, buddy. I already spoke to Matsson. He hates you, by the way—laughs at you constantly,” Roman harshly quipped. 

Shiv shook her head. “Just stop, Roman.”

“What? Go easy on the birthday boy?”

Stone-faced, Kendall stepped closer to his siblings. “Did you come here to see me at all? You didn’t, did you?”

Shiv spared him a sharp, unapologetic smile. “Well, we haven’t been getting along that great recently, so what do you think? You surprised?”

A mutter and a shake of his head. “GoJo was my idea,” Kendall said. “You stole my idea.”

Raising his brows, Roman jeered, “What are you, fucking six? Dude, you lost. No big deal, no need to cry about it.” 

“None of it would matter if you bought out, Kendall,” you said, only barely loud enough for him to hear. “You don’t have to keep biting the hand that’s feeding you. The cage is open.”

A crackling silence. Kendall looked pained, for a second.

“You’re just a stuck-up cunt that can’t bear to see me win,” Roman said, deciding he wanted to have the final blow.

Kendall sized up to him, getting up close to his face. “You’re not a real person,” he said. “You know that? You’re not fucking real.”

Unflinching, Roman stared up at his brother. “Come on. Why don’t you hit me, maybe?”

“Rome—” you began, but he made a protesting noise.

“Come on, shitty Jesus! You know you want to. Just fucking hit me. Do it!”

Kendall watched his brother, eyes empty. Or full of despair. It was the same either way. With that, he stepped away and began to walk off.

“Ugh, look, I’m sorry, okay? Happy birthday—” Roman strode up to him and placed a hand on his back.

Accident or not, Roman pushed, and Kendall fell. He laughed, then apologized, then laughed again. Connor was there, all of a sudden, telling them to lay off each other.

All this time, you hadn’t moved a muscle. Maybe you were still mad about the popsicle. Maybe it was Matsson. Maybe it was the dysfunctional fucking family you were stuck in between.

Kendall forcefully yelled at Connor to take his coat off, and stormed off. Shiv left a few minutes later, mumbling out how much of an asshole they all were. 

“I want to leave, Roman,” you told him, and his giggling subsided, finally.

“Oh, yeah—fuck, yeah. We did what we came here for. Let’s go.”

Down the stairs, out the vagina (or was it in?), and back into the real world. Roman was saying something, but your ears were buzzing with the aftershocks of the loud music.

You hadn’t even registered Roman telling the driver to fuck off, that he wanted to walk you home. Chivalry wasn’t dead, after all. 

Once inside your house, you tugged your shoes off with a sigh and shed your clothes as soon as you stepped into your room. You just wanted to go to sleep.

Roman peeled off his suit jacket, before sitting down at the edge of your bed. “Hey, I have a proposition for you.”

At first, you genuinely believed that whatever he wanted to say was business-related. But upon looking at him, his dilated pupils, his mussed hair, his spread legs—his proposition was very obviously far from professional intent. 

It was a distraction. A good one, one that you were more than willing to take. You clambered onto the bed, straddled his thighs and leaned over him, your nose brushing his.

“Yeah, Romeo?”

“Let’s have sex. Like, actual peen in vageen type of situation.”

You weren’t drunk, but you were tired, and yet you found yourself nodding with hooded eyes. 

“You sure?” you whispered, low and raspy, as if you’d swallowed a handful of gravel. 

High-pitched, he affirmed with, “Uh-huh.”

You brushed your lips over his, only barely there. Roman jerked forward to kiss you properly, but you leaned back. “Say it, Roman.”

He swallowed, throat bobbing. “I’m sure.”

With the green light, the two of you began to peel away the few remaining articles of clothing you had on, your mouths slanted hotly against one another as you ground over his growing erection. It wasn’t exactly a kiss—more like the two of you were just breathing each other in, sighs and pants and whimpers all.

His hands seemed unsure what to do. Clenching at the bedsheets, grazing over your side, groping at your bare breasts, pressed up against him. His mouth fell away from yours with a particularly loud whine, sinking lower to dig his teeth into your shoulder. You smelled like honey, but you didn’t taste like it. Saltier, more human. A breathless curse fell from his lips, muffled into your skin.

“Inside,” he pleaded. “Fuck, I need—please turn around—can I?”

It was hard to think straight when you could feel his dick twitching, the tip continuously brushing against your clit, sending electrifying jolts throughout your whole body. You hummed, rolling your hips over his one last time, before crawling off his lap towards the center of the bed, your back facing him. A part of you wondered if there was a reason why Roman wanted to fuck you in a less intimate position for your first time together. The other, more lust-addled part of you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

Roman’s hands slipped over your waist, and he sank his throbbing cock into your slickened cunt with a pitching groan, tapering off into a whine. 

“So fucking good, Rome,” you cried out once he began unevenly thrusting, pawing at your hips as he grew more desperate—close to his release even though he’d barely even begun.

The sex itself was—it was quick, to say the least. It was clumsy, as well—but he managed to reach over and rub tight circles over your clit, which elicited a choked cry from you. At one point, you swore you felt his lips on your back, but you couldn’t be certain.

When he came, fucking spurts of hot spend into you, you shuddered violently as your orgasm crashed not two seconds later, gasping into your sheets. He thrusted into you a few more times—he liked the overstimulation, your rumbling moans, the way his cum began to trickle down your thigh.

And, finally, he eased himself out, wincing as he sank into the spot beside you. 

He panicked, just a little bit, when you pulled yourself away, getting onto your feet. 

Noticing his jerky demeanor, you offered him a soft expression. “Bathroom,” you said as a form of explanation.

That made Roman relax a bit. 

When you returned, you’d pulled on a comfortable white shirt, before slipping beneath the covers. The two of you laid together, staring at the ceiling, staring at each other, staring at your hands—intertwining together on top of the blanket.

“I’m sorry,” he croaked out, after ages of silence.

Your eyes darted up to meet his, molten brown downcast with shame. 

“For what?”

A click of his tongue, a roll of his eyes. “For—for the shitty fucking sex.”

You barked out a laugh, and Roman appeared mildly offended. 

“It was great, Ro. I actually came, which is more than what I can say for most people I’ve been with. Kudos to you,” you said, grinning cheekily.

“Really? It wasn’t too—was I—?”

“Roman. It was good,” you reassured, shifting closer so that you could press your nose to his cheek. “What do you want me to say? That I saw stars? My throat hurts from how much I screamed your name?”

This seemed to crack Roman’s insecure exterior, and he guffawed lightly. “You bitch. Fuck you.”

“Fuck you, too.” Another moment of silence. You let go of his hand, watching him carefully. “Roman?”

“Mmh?”

“Did you fuck me to prove a point? Because of what… what Shiv said?”

The air crackled with uncertainty. Roman squinted at nothing in particular. 

Eventually, Roman crooned, “You know I’ve been wanting to stick my dick in you ever since we hit our first fucking round of puberty. You know that, right? That means we were little baby teenagers and I was fucking—fantasizing about dicking you down when I should’ve been doing my homework.” 

It felt like a weight lifted off your chest—a weight you hadn’t even known was there. “Ew, Roman. You’re gross.”

He groaned loudly, dramatically tossing an arm up to cover his eyes. “Don’t say that. I’ll get hard again.”