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bowieandqueen11 · 2 years ago

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Stewy Hosseini Being Jealous Would Include...

Request: hiii could you do jealous stewy headcanons? i love your writing!!

Thank you so much, that’s very kind of you!! I’m so sorry if this is awful, I need to get used to writing for Stewy but he’s literally a bisexual icon I feel so seen, this gif literally altered my brain chemistry <3

Also I hope you don’t mind, I did this one as F!reader but I’m happy to write another one for any other gender as well!

Warning: strong language, mentions of drugs, and this one is quite NSFW guys, so 18+ please!

My god I don’t think I’ve written much NSFW in the last couple of years, so I’m pretty nervous!! This will probably be a rare occurrence, but I thought I’d do a special treat for Jealous!Stewy ;) I’m still genuinely so scared to post this lmao

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

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°

Jealousy is an emotion that doesn’t sit well with Stewy Hosseini. Not at all. I feel like Stewy isn’t the guy to play around once he has an actual, solid, going steady partner; he’s grown up as a big mama’s boy, and that’s kind of rubbed off on him - well, when he’s not out partying and doing drugs in the unsavoury bleak bathrooms of New York’s nightclubs, that is. As the relationship grows stronger and stronger, so too does Stewy become more and more possessive: to the point that backhand tactics such as trying to woo you over into whatever supposedly lucrative deal Waystar’s in the throw of at the moment feels incredibly personable.

What can I say? They know how to hit the man where it hurts. To pierce him, sliding that muddy knife in past the decorum, past the old-money mixed with new guise, past the Wall Street asshole façade, right into his soft heart. The Roys are toying with him: acting as if he’s going to chase that twenty four gold carrot on a string, and if he won’t, they’ll just find another way to coax him into the darkness.

He’s affronted. He’s annoyed. But Stewy has had many, many years to learn how to handle and best utilise fly-swatters. His parents raised him to be better - to be extraordinary, fearless, level headed, clear cut. This man does not show off his cards unless he has to, and although his heart is beating ferociously at the sight of you being swindled by another man, he keeps it firmly from slipping down to his sleeve.

He almost laughs out loud when he realises that it’s fucking Tom Wambsgams the siblings have sent over to woo you. Shiv must have been training him again from the way he watches, hawk-eyed, as Tom swings his arms by his sides and leans over onto the bar, blocking your view of the rest of the room. Training your eyes back to his beady eyes, letting out that whale of a laugh that nearly makes Stewy shudder into his cocktail.

It’s grating on him, the way he’s acting. And Stewy doesn’t appreciate the feeling.

He drops the empty glass of on some passing waiter’s empty tray, and then struts over to the encounter like a cocked peacock; he makes sure to straighten up his watch on the way over, to fix the lapels of his jacket so they were perfectly straight. He wanted to look immaculate before he walked onto the stage and joined the performance again. You glance up at him with a knowing grin as he walks over to stand just slightly behind your back. He winks at you for a second, teeth scraping against his bottom lip before he inclines his head and looks up at a nervous looking Tom. He places a hand firmly on the small of your back: it’s something he’s always done, at parties, conventions, meetings - anywhere the two of you are supposed to split up to both mingle and network. It’s just a small reassurance he started: he’s still here, always in the know, always knowing what’s going on, everything’s still good. He’s always got your back.

His fingers hitch slightly, catching in the back straps of your dress, and you can feel his nails scrape against your skin in an almost imperturbable fashion. But you notice how uncharacteristically stock still he’s standing from the corner of your eyes; his chin is tilted down at a furious angle, warning you of trouble to come. Wambsgams seems to get the message, his smiling stare dropping quickly into an almost aghast open mouth look of shock as he tries to recollect himself, not realising that Shiv had sent him packing into the fucking lion’s den.

You were Stewy’s S/o. You were Stewy’s fucking S/o, and everyone at the company knew that meant you were off limit. He chewed his bottom lip, trying to stop himself from looking panicked, but internally already getting ready to slam Cousin Greg against the wall for allowing himself to look like a complete fucking moron in front of like, thirty of the most important people in the whole entire world.

Stewy, as usual, just keeps his eyes centred squarely on him. He smiles, oozing charm: radiating appeal, magnetic in the uneasiness he draws in. His eyes never leave Tom’s as he presses a kiss against your hairline, obviously unimpressed by Tom’s attempts to encroach on what is his. What he tries, desperately hard, yet seemingly with so little effort at all, to keep separate from this fucking mess of a family. But you can tell, despite how much he’s trying to compartamentalise the feeling of jealousy and vexation that’s crawling along his skin, it’s eating away at him. Niggling under his skin. It makes you feel... it makes you feel astounded to realise you’re the only person able to sully his impeccable standing. The only person from his personal life, since Kendall disappointed him yet again, he’s allowed to encroach so intricately towards the walls he’s built around his working life. The only person in this room he would be frustrated if he disappointed. Probably the only person in this room who hasn’t disappointed him as well.

He wasn’t about to let that go so easily.

‘Wh-whoah! Hey man! Uh - didn’t mean to- to come raining on your parade, ha ha!’ He gives the two of you a tight lipped smile as he exhales, slowly trying to dispel the awkwardness of Stewy doing nothing but blinking at him by reaching hesitantly towards some of the nibbles lining the bar. He picks up one of the cocktail sticks: a melting lump of brie scattered with some chopped fig, and twirls it between his thumb and pointer finger.

Stewy just cloaks himself in that fake, eat-shit looking grin, and Tom’s eyes widen in obvious fear. You’re busy trying not to bust a gut from laughing as Tom throws a not very sly look behind his shoulder at Shiv, whose holding a champagne flute in one hand and bust talking to one of Nate’s work colleagues to really care. She just purses her lips and crosses her arm, waving one of her hands in his general direction, obvious distaste lining her features at the sweat beading on her husband’s forehead.

‘It’s okay, man’, Stewy finally chips in, putting the poor bastard out of his misery. ‘Don’t want you to choke on that canape though. You know’, he takes a step forward, leaning towards Tom ostentatiously, ‘I’ve heard that Logan’s started setting up cheese traps around the office to see how many rats come scurrying in for the kill.’

‘Ha ha! Good, good one, man! You got me, you little prick. You got me, that was so... so good.’ Tom’s pretending to laugh, but he dips his eyes and reaches up to loosen his collar at the same time. He’s starting to be unable to take the heat: to take Stewy’s scrutiny, his piercing, all-knowing gaze. It always amazes how quickly Stewy can manage to flip the tables back onto the Roys. You wince as Tom barks out another short chuckle, and you’re not the only one: Roman’s lounging on the back of a settee nearby, resting next to an oblivious Kendall who’s currently scrolling fervently through one of the news feeds on his phone. The two of them may have been obligated by daddy dearest to be here, but Roman was adamant he was going to add a spark of chaos to the stifling air.

‘Hey! Yeah, little bitty fucking titmouse!’, Roman yells over to Tom, who sighs heavily at the usual repeated annoyance. ‘If you take old Stewy boy over here into the toilets he’ll snort coke off your tits and the two of you can finally kissy kissy like you always dreamed.’

‘The bathroom’s currently occupied.’ It takes Stewy less than five seconds to respond, taking his hand off your back to cross them both professionally in front of his legs. ‘I believe I saw Gerri go in there a while ago with a very presentable looking young man.’ He doesn’t even look over at Roman as he guts him, choosing instead to drop his head down to yours and raise his eyebrows in a knowing look. He’s won this battle too.

Roman spills some of his beer as he darts his eyes up to the vaulted ceiling. He pretends to look around, before letting out an incredulous sounding hyena giggle. ‘Yep, well. Looks like pigs haven’t fucking learnt how to fly yet.’

‘I think, maybe’, Stewy points out towards the empty floor leading to the sliding balcony doors of Shiv’s apartment, ‘if you do a running start, you might be able to this time.’ He finally chooses to glance over at Roman with a level stare, and the younger siblings shrivels under its intensity.

Roman frowns, and in his scrabble down to sit back on his seat he spills even more drops of amber liquid over his hands; the feeling of something lukewarm hitting his brand new hand-sewn suit jacket is enough to finally rouse Kendall away from his phone. And let’s just say, when he sees Roman licking bits of alcohol off his fingers, and then follows the trail down to spot the wet patch on his own arm, he’s not very impressed. Thankfully, everyone being momentarily distracted by the head wrestling match that seems to be going on between the two brothers offers Tom enough of a distraction to slink off.

‘Yep... yep, it’s all good’, the words slide off Tom’s tongue as his eyes flicker anxiously between the two of you. ‘Okay. Well’, his voice rises, ‘I’ll just go see how the old Golden Girls brigade is doing over there.’ He juts his thumb over towards Karl and Frank, giving one last obnoxious laugh before he leaves, stage right. You watch him go; his head whips down as he passes by the chaise lounge, as if he’s swearing violently to himself.

Stewy rolls his eyes, before placing a stern hand comfortingly on your shoulder. He squeezes. ‘You alright baby?’ Once you give a nod of assurance, he rubs the bottom of his chin absently. His eyes seemed to glaze as he finished. ‘Good. Good. Come on love, we have work to do.’

At first you think he means the two of you have to go to some other clueless presidential candidate (if you had to hear Connor Roy talk one more time about his nuclear attack bunkered ranch you were going to explode), but you were surprised to feel Stewy’s arm wind tightly around your waist. You were locked against his swaying hip in a tight vice, and he smugly passed Shiv’s raised eyebrow with a faux blown kiss in her direction as he lead the two of you towards the elevators. He massages against your hip bone, not saying a word as the gold-crested doors closed and the two of you are alone. For a moment, as he looks nonchalantly around the small space, you’re worried some line has been crossed today. But then you feel his hand slide down... further... further, teasingly caressing the top of your thigh, and you thank god Cousin Greg didn’t try to escape into the elevator with the two of you. He smirks as he feels you flutter your legs shut next to him, but he’s quick to tut tut and grab onto the meat of your leg, pulling them apart again and making your shoes slide nosily across the metal floor.

His hand dips down to rest at the bottom curve of your buttocks as the door slides open, shoving his other into his trouser pocket as he leads you out towards the car. It’s a long drive to get back to your hotel room for the night, but as soon as the doors have closed and you’ve nearly run to the bedroom you don’t even have time to unstrap your heels before the man’s on you. He shoves you firmly down onto the bed: his face is straight, unreadable, but his mouth is lined in an almost too intense frown as he refuses to look at you. He just slowly loosens his tie, before throwing it onto the chair in the corner. The tension is palpable, but you don’t even dare to hitch your breath and break it, just crawling backwards and watching the man on your raised elbows. He languidly takes off his cufflinks, placing them neatly down on his chiffonier, double checking they’re perfectly straight. The smug bastard even leans down to check his beard in the mirror, tilting his head side to side before he finally, finally decides to wander unhurriedly over to the edge of the bed.

'You okay there baby', he asks, as if he doesn't know what he's doing.

'Yes, just - fuck Stewy. I need you. Now.'

He steals your breath before you even have time to think. He lunges, famished, and shoves your legs apart so you fall backwards onto the comforter with a satisfying thump. You can feel a knot tighten in the base of your stomach as he’s quick to fill the space left, biting at your ankles as he grabs onto the bottom of your legs and lifts them squarely over his shoulders. His hands are soft, so tender, yet they claw into your skin as he begins to knead the muscles of your calves; his lips are well versed in ravishing you, and so they know exactly where to bite onto the side of your knees and leave the most devastatingly beautiful teeth marks. He’s unstoppable as his mouth licks and latches and moves like smooth butter further and further down the inside seam of your right thigh. You yelp when you feel his other hand reach up to grab and squeeze onto your breast, running the gap between his thumb and pointer finger past your nipple.

Your hips buck up against him, but he’s quick to shut that down. He runs his hand down your side until his palm is placed flat against your belly button, holding you down against the warming sheets. He needs to be in control again.

His beard has that familiar scratch that you know is going to leave a burn tomorrow, but god, by the way his free hand unlatches from your ankle to the side of your hip, pushing at your waist until you’re lifted slightly up from the ground and he can slide his hand under to squeeze your buttocks, does it make it all worth it.

With your legs now straight up in the air, he tugs them closer around his head, as if daring you to move away from him again. You squirm, but happily oblige, enjoying the pressure of his lips nibbling against your panties as he rolls the bottom of your dress up your legs. He gently takes your clenched hands and places them on the bed either side of you, spread eagled without even lifting his head to look. He squeezes your fingers gently, before fisting your hands into the duvet. It’s a warning: a warning that this is going to be rough. That, as his nose presses into your groin and he props his knees up properly against the edge of the bedframe, that this may be so fervent, so passionate, so ferocious, that the bed might slam back into the wall so loudly it might shatter. That you might scream out his name so mewingly between the fingers he’s shoved into your mouth, that he may have to pay off the hotel clerks the next day for all the damages and disturbances caused during the night.

But by god, if it isn’t worth it. Because he loves you with everything he’s got. And gosh, if he isn’t going to show you tonight that all those fancy pants asshole he comes into contact with aren’t up to scratch. They’re not nearly on the same level as him.

He knows how it feels to lose: his family, they once lost everything, and built this life up again from the ashes. But tonight, he wins. He wins. As he hears you groan, he realises that he’s already won.

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