Listen Up!

Pyrexia (Roy!Sibling x Kendall Roy)

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

Word Count: 1,387

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

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

Warning/s: sickness

Tag: @locke-writes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

this broken design, ch14

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader

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

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

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

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

read from the beginning here.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Alana?” You interrupt. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not bad,” Beverly says. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hannibal knows.

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

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

I think that destroying all van Gogh paintings and other things that rich people value would be a great act.

Just a bunch of useful websites

12ft – Hate paywalls? Try this site out.

My Fridge Food – No idea what to make? Tell this site what ingredients you have on hand and it will give you recipes to cook.

Project Gutenberg – Always ends up on these type of lists and for very good reason. All works that are copyright free in one place.

Ninite – New PC? Install all of your programs in one go with no bloat or unnecessary crap.

Unchecky – Tired of software trying to install additional unwanted programs? This will stop it completely by unchecking the necessary boxes when you install.

Sci-Hub – Research papers galore! Check here before shelling out money. And if it’s not here, try the next link in our list.

LibGen – Lots of free PDFs relate primarily to the sciences.

Zotero – A free and easy to use program to collect, organize, cite and share research.

Car Complaints – Buying a used car? Check out what other owners of the same model have to say about it first.

CamelCamelCamel – Check the historical prices of items on Amazon and set alerts for when prices drop.

Have I Been Pawned – Still the king when it comes to checking if your online accounts have been released in a data breach. Also able to sign up for email alerts if you’ve ever a victim of a breach.

Radio Garden – Think Google Earth but wherever you zoom, you get the radio station of that place.

Just The Recipe – Paste in the url and get just the recipe as a result. No life story or adverts.

Tineye – An Amazing reverse image search tool.

My 90s TV – Simulates 90’s TV using YouTube videos. Also has My80sTV, My70sTV, My60sTV and for the younger ones out there, My00sTV. Lose yourself in nostalgia.

Foto Forensics – Free image analysis tools.

Old Games Download – A repository of games from the 90’s and early 2000’s. Get your fix of nostalgia here.

Online OCR – Convert pictures of text into actual text and output it in the format you need.

Remove Background – An amazingly quick and accurate way to remove backgrounds from your pictures.

Twoseven – Allows you to sync videos from providers such as Netflix, Youtube, Disney+ etc and watch them with your friends. Ad free and also has the ability to do real time video and text chat.

Terms of Service, Didn’t Read – Get a quick summary of Terms of service plus a privacy rating.

Coolors – Struggling to get a good combination of colors? This site will generate color palettes for you.

This To That – Need to glue two things together? This’ll help.

Photopea – A free online alternative to Adobe Photoshop. Does everything in your browser.

BitWarden – Free open source password manager.

Atlas Obscura – Travelling to a new place? Find out the hidden treasures you should go to with Atlas Obscura.

ID Ransomware – Ever get ransomware on your computer? Use this to see if the virus infecting your pc has been cracked yet or not. Potentially saving you money. You can also sign up for email notifications if your particular problem hasn’t been cracked yet.

Way Back Machine – The Internet Archive is a non-profit library of millions of free books, movies, software, music, websites and loads more.

Rome2Rio – Directions from anywhere to anywhere by bus, train, plane, car and ferry.

Splitter – Seperate different audio tracks audio. Allowing you to split out music from the words for example.

myNoise – Gives you beautiful noises to match your mood. Increase your productivity, calm down and need help sleeping? All here for you.

DeepL – Best language translation tool on the web.

Forvo – Alternatively, if you need to hear a local speaking a word, this is the site for you.

die girlies reading this 🥰

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dependence Pt. 3 (Roy!Sibling x Roy Family)

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

Word Count: 2,054

Warning: addiction, drugs, alcohol, death mention

Tag: @locke-writes

A/N: Idk how angsty this is on a scale of 1-10, but I can tell you it's actually very sweet and very heartbreaking. Baby Roy is going through it!!! I love them!!! Feedback is always appreciated 💜💜💜

Dependence Pt. 1 / Dependency Pt. 2

Being The Youngest Roy Would Include Pt One.

Being The Youngest Roy Would Include Pt. Two

The first number you called was Logan’s. The next was Kendalls. The last was Connor’s. Slurred, sleepy, assuring him you were going to be okay. You would be okay because the shaking had stopped, you were warming up again, you were feeling better. You couldn’t keep your eyes open though, the lids too heavy. Curled into a ball in the booth, cradling a stranger's phone, slipping into unconsciousness. He said something, something that sounded sad, panicked. You were going to be okay, you felt so light. Your pulse is barely there. He yelled again, but it was incoherent. You were tired, the exhaustion setting deep into your bones. If you just put your head down, if you shut your eyes for a moment, then you could get some sleep. You’d be alright. The last coherent words from your mouth was an apology: I’m so sorry, I’m fucked up. I’m sorry. . . You were so light, so far away. It felt nice. No more anger. No more rage. No more self-hatred. Finally, you were free. Free from it all, free from him, from life. 

He peered over your crib, taking you all in. you were a few months old, just staring up at him. Your eyes are so wide, so new to the world. You slept in the nursery they’d all been in, though things were different. Boxes of things had been placed in the corners, on the floor of the closet, as if you were only a temporary guest. You reached up, cooing at the mobile. Zoo animals spinning round and round. Your mother and Logan off somewhere, doing something, unbothered by the little life they created. You were a quiet baby, as if you already knew what was coming, as if you could sense the irritation in your fathers voice every time you cried, hissing at your mother to quiet you down. Neither of them were fit for this kind of job, as young as he was, Roman could sense it. When your smile fell, he picked you up, out of the crib, and sat back in the rocking chair. A few whimpers was all you let out, as if you were already bottling it up inside. He remembers how small you were, how sorry he was. Not just for your father, your mother, the both of them terribly one minded, only ever thinking of themselves, but for this life as well. It wasn’t easy, that much he’d learned in his short life. It would never be easy. The money, the luxury, it helped, but it could only do so much cushioning. A fresh bruise throbbed over his eye. That day, in your cramped bedroom where it seemed like they put just about anything in, he made a promise to you. He’d never let you get hurt. He’d never let them hurt you the way they hurt him. You smiled up at him, all gums, like you knew what he was saying, like you were thanking him. It would not be an easy job. Pacing the floors of the emergency room, the realization struck him like a slap to the face: he failed. He failed you. He hadn’t protected you from anything, especially your father. He didn’t do what he’d promised you. 

You stood to the side of Shiv’s bed, blankie thrown over your shoulder. You were too frightened to wake her, not wanting to scare her, so you were as still as possible. Your breathing ragged from the nightmare, your cheeks still wet. Lately, you've been having one every night. Your room, without the toys, without the decorations, without anything, felt more like a prison than your bedroom. You were being punished again. Quietly, you tiptoed down the hall, down the stairs, to where their bedrooms were. The boys doors were shut, but Shiv’s had been left slightly open. You took that as a sign, taking the handle in your chubby little hand. Her room had looked the same since you could remember. She slept soundly on her side. Barely above a whisper, you called her name. Shivy? Over and over again until she stirred. She used to jump when you came in, when you woke her, but this had become routine the last few weeks. If it wasn’t her, it was Ken or Rome. One of them always woke up to you in their bed, unable to bear yours any longer. A nightmare, you’d confess. They’d nod, understanding all too well, making room for you beside them. She doesn’t say anything, wordlessly moving to the other side, opening the blankets. You climbed up next to her, making sure Blankie got there too. She let her arm fall on to you, holding you close. She’d always remembered the way you smelled. Sweet, sweaty, warm. Her face buried in your hair, tightening her grip. You were so small, so scared. She couldn’t fall back to sleep until she heard your shallow breathing even. You never had any nightmares with her. That’s what she thought of you when she saw you in that bed, how she was living a nightmare, that if she’d been there for you, if she’d let you climb into her bed, none of this would have happened.

He’d asked you to dance at your mothers wedding. It was one of the first times in a long time you weren’t drinking yourself to bed. She’d been married four, five times. It wouldn’t last long, they never did. You were just thankful she decided not to have anymore kids. Though, what did that say about you? He found you sitting at one of the many tables, watching everyone else dance. He held out his hand. It took you a moment to realize just what he was asking, shrugging before you stood, taking his hand. She’d invited your brothers and sister despite not knowing them very well, needing bodies to fill up chairs. She invited everyone she knew every time, though the guest list grew smaller and smaller with every debut. There were only so many last names a woman could collect before people stopped caring. She’d whined about it to you before she walked down the aisle, calling them ungrateful and selfish for ruining her day. She seemed happy now, swaying in the arms of another Logan-type, her veil lifted by the wind. Picturesque. He leads you to the dance floor, his hand on your back, the other in yours. Kendall seemed content, a rare occurrence for him. He looked nice, dressed in a lightly colored suit for the summer wedding, smiling down at you. You placed your head against his chest, taking him in, grateful for his presence in that moment. You hadn’t realized how unhappy you’d been, how taxing doing this all over again was. Your mother wasn’t the root cause for your problems, but she didn’t help. It felt like every day was her wedding day. Every day it was about her, her wants, her needs, and it was all a disaster. In the end she got what she wanted, in the end she was the only one left smiling. You caught him watching you think, unsure of what his mind was doing. He remembered it like it was yesterday. You seemed so grown up, so worn down. Not like the baby he remembered. He hugged you a little tighter, not wanting this moment to pass. Now it was too late. You looked so defeated, so young, it scared him. What could he have done to stop this? Surely there was something, something he could have done to prevent this. He never should have let you go. 

That night is burned into his memory forever. You were crying, sobbing into the phone. You were so scared, so alone. When he got the call, he moved without thinking. He got in the car and started driving, trying to keep you on the phone. You dropped a pin in the middle of nowhere. You were so tired. Not just exhausted, but you ached in the marrow of your bones. You were so done with this life, with everything. You’d hoped, in your moment of desperation, of sincerity, that your father would care. That he would come to your rescue, save you from yourself. Instead Connor pulled up to the sidewalk you’d been sitting on, opening the passenger side door for you. You wiped your tears with the palms of your hands, unable to say anything, to defend yourself, your actions. He didn’t yell like you were expecting, he didn’t ask a million questions or patronize you. Internally he was lost. Should he drive you to the hospital? Back to Dads? In the end, he brought you home, to his place. You wanted to thank him, to apologize for being such a mess, but all you could do was press your head against the cold window and cry. You weren’t sure what time it was, what day it was, the last time you slept. Days, probably. He grabbed your hand, the other on the wheel, rubbing his thumb against the back of it. That made you cry harder. Connor hated to see you like that. You were his baby after all. He squeezed your hand off and on, three times. I love you. You were small in his car, fragile, covered in bruises. The bags under your eyes were so dark, so painful looking. He’d never forget it, the way you flinched at the sight of him, like you were waiting for an explosion. He wasn’t angry or disappointed, he was petrified for you. If he could go back, would he have done anything differently? He’s not sure. Would changing anything have an impact now? You were sleeping, IV’s in your arms, wires stuck to your chest, the hospital gown hanging off you. You were skin and bone. The rings around your eyes so black, so bruised. He didn’t think you could look worse after that night, and yet, again, you’ve proved him wrong. He didn’t think it could get worse. He squeezed your hand three times, over and over again, so it would be the first thing you felt when you woke up. I love you. I love you. I love you.

They say when you die, your life flashes before your eyes. That didn’t happen to you, not even when you were sure you were gone for good. Instead, it was your life that flashed before their eyes. All the best moments, the worst, the things they had and hadn’t done as older siblings, all their failings. Someone called an ambulance. They used Narcan and charcoal. You were covered in sickness, shaking, gasping for air. In and out of it, not wanting any of them to see you like this. It was you and the nurses, everyone else left to wait in the emergency room, trickling in as soon as they got there. You hadn’t slept in days, exhausted, sobbing. The nurses held you as you cried out, sucked from the blackness back to real life. Everything hurts. Everything stung. Everything you’d done came flooding back. Regret sat heavy on your chest. You were almost gone, so close. It was so light, so airy. You screamed, wanting to go back, wanting to be back there, in that booth, in the club, far away from here. The frustration at yourself suffocated you. It was inescapable. There was no running from it anymore. They gave you something to calm you down, letting you sleep. Finally, It wasn’t the same kind of floating feeling, but it was close enough. Your brothers and sister sat beside you, scared to touch you. You were so little, so broken. Of course you wouldn’t do well, they thought. Of course you shouldn’t have been left on your own like that. Of course this happened. Connor held your hand, the only one brave enough to touch you. They weren’t sure what they were going to do or say when you woke up, but they could feel it on the tip of their tongues: the sadness, the anger, the apologies, the hurt. They knew, whatever they did, they had to be there for you, like they’d been before. When you cried. When you had nightmares. When you were getting better and when you fell again. They’d be there for everything.

Venom (Roy!Sibling x Roy Family)

((SUCCESSION FINALE SPOILERS))

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

Word Count: 1,477

Tag List: @locke-writes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You win.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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