Most fics are f!reader and explicit. At the top of each post are more detailed tags/warnings.
KENDALL ROY
➭ I'D LOVE TO TAKE YOU DOWN AND LEAVE YOU THERE | 9K WORDS
You feel kind of stupid asking him to coach you, cause, like. Who doesn't know how to do this? Still, he sounds pretty while he does it, voice deep, enunciating and hitting the consonants in this really satisfying way. And, unbeknownst to you, he’s getting a very sick feeling of glee talking you through it. Heart hammering against his chest, too excited to see what you’ll do.
"Then you just inhale. Quickly."
➭SKYGLOW | 2K WORDS
"I want you to take care of me."
That makes him ache. Fills him with that heavy, hot feeling- the one you get when something’s a little wrong.
➭HEAT LIGHTNING | 1K WORDS It was a bad time for that night’s tension to reach its peak. Or maybe just.. inconvenient. “We gotta be quick. And you have to be, fucking– quiet.”
➭VIRGA | 1K WORDS Kendall never really has to be at work on time.
➭SUNDOG | 3K WORDS
Then, he's slotting his chin between your breasts, sighing so heavily you can feel the warmth and moisture of his breath ooze through the fabric of your shirt.
His thumbs hook into the waistband of your pajama shorts, soft with age.
“I’ve had a long fucking day.”
➭BROCKEN SPECTRE | 2K WORDS
He has to go, sure that what he tried is written across his skin in some language, some pen that only his father can read. He wants this to stay his secret, though. Some things are meant for you and you alone.
Age gap, rough sex, cowgirl, nipple play (fem receiving), unprotected sex (wrap before you tap), creampie, power imbalance w/ Kendall
Author's Notes:
The smutty follow-up to my first Kendall fic “killing me slowly” that I teased a couple months back. Just something short and nasty, the way I like it. :P
Summary:
Pre-season 4, you and Kendall rendezvous back at his Airbnb. Smut ensues.
“You cold? You’re shaking a little,” Kendall observes, handing you a bottle of sparkling water.
You shake your head ‘no’ and take the bottle with a smirk. Kendall goes back to sit on the brutalist-looking loveseat, meanwhile, you stand pacing around his stunning B&B. He watches you with amusement.
“Just a little low on iron, is all,”
“Uh-huh. And here I was thinking I had you that excited,” Kendall jokes, grinning.
“Please,” you protest, “You don’t even know…like…this is probably the lamest thing I could say but being around you, like, you make my chest…feel like a fucking snowglobe,”
“See, there you go with the ‘cold’ thing again. You want a blanket? Thinking about snow in this kind of scorching fuckin’ Gobi Desert heat?” he gestures outside to the balcony, the sun just beginning to make its descent, “You’re something else, you know that?”
It had been a bit warmer today.
“Sure,” you nod skeptically, taking a gulp of your water.
Kendall jumps to his feet, not taking your dismissiveness well. He trails behind you.
“No, no, no. I don’t think you understand…I saw you. From the moment we fuckin’ locked eyes, I saw you. And I knew—I knew—I had to get to know you better. Or else I was gonna…just beat myself up the rest of the night for not saying anything,”
He’s now standing a foot away from you, occasionally breaking your sustained eye contact while fidgeting with the zipper of his jacket. His on-and-off avoidance reads to you as genuine. Normally, he’s able to nail people to a T; dress them up and down without missing a beat. But here he was, this overly-confident, ego-inflated middle-aged billionaire—left mumbling and fumbling like a schoolboy with a crush.
Why did it make you want him even more?
“Yeah, and…? The verdict? Am I everything you’d hoped and more?” you say, cheekily.
He chuckles, beaming down once more, before his firm hand finds its rightful place at the corner of your jaw. He draws you into a deep and pronounced kiss. Kendall’s lips are smooth and so is his other hand, sleightfully affixing itself to the small of your back. His lone thumb massages the dip in your spine. It’s subtle enough of a move to have you leaning back into the touch, wanting more. A hand traces up behind your back, providing you with some much-needed support. Ever since his tongue took to massaging yours, you had become leery of the stability in your knees.
“Yes, baby,” he murmurs.
He takes your face into both hands, kissing you with a wanton tenderness. Your hands go to his sides, sliding down to the waistband of his jeans. You take him, hastily pulling your sweater off, as a cue to go for his belt. You begin shimmying it out of its loop, before his hand flies to your wrist.
“No. Ah-ah. Bed,” Kendall groans, “I need you on my bed.”
You nod. You’re not prepared when his same hands that were taking to undressing you hoist you upwards off the ground so you’re partially hanging over his shoulder. Kendall wasn’t the most built, but he had a decent amount of strength. You laugh outrageously, squealing once he starts speed-walking in the direction of the master bedroom. Before you know it, you’re lightly tossed onto a cloudlike mattress, the softest you’d ever felt in your life. You’re still giggling, even when Kendall crawls up the bed to join you, sheepish grin plastered all over his face. He halts at your tummy, taking the hem of your undershirt along in his trajectory upwards. Your tits bounce as he exposes them.
“Off, off—take it—” he chants in a hushed tone, helping you to hastily pull it over your head, “There.”
The hardness growing in his pants can be felt as he eyes those soft plush tits of yours. You had thought you saw him take a not-so-sneaky glance at them during dinner. Those wandering hazel eyes. So indecent.
He palms your tits together, making your cleavage more pronounced before burying his face in between them, kissing and sucking both your breasts and the sensitive flesh in between them. Once he frees them from the cups of your restrictive bra, he takes another moment to admire them. Your nipple pebbles under the light graze of his middle finger. Kendall takes that same finger into his mouth for a second, wetting it. He returns to the same nipple, which stiffens even more in response to the chill from his spit that he massages around it. You swear you see the faintest smile form from his lips, as if he was rather pleased with your ‘response’.
“Kendall…?” you mewl.
“Yeah, baby?” he asks.
“...I need it,”
“Need what, honey?”
“I need you,” you whimper, pathetically, “Please?”
“You’re a lot more subby than I thought you’d be,” he whispers into one of your eyes, “It’s so fuckin’ sexy—can’t get enough of you,”
He kisses your cheek before rolling off of you to free himself from his pants. You make quick work of your own slacks and then your panties. Besides your bra, which you’ve ridden yourself of completely at this point—you are bare. Kendall remains partially clothed, his slacks pulled down to his knees. There was something about the incongruence that drove you mad, made you yearn for his dick even more. You assume your position, lying back onto the mattress as you were before.
“Whaddya think you’re—oh, no, no, no. Sorry, should’ve been clearer. You’re riding me tonight. You’re fucking riding me until those gorgeous fucking legs give out, ‘kay?”
Breathlessly, without so much as a second thought, you climb up on Kendall’s lap, leaning back while bracing yourself on the muscle of his thighs. He lines himself up with your entrance while each of your knees rests evenly by his hips. Kendall cups his hand below your chin, you look to him for direction.
“Spit,”
He waits expectedly, still holding his hand beneath your mouth. You decide to do things a little differently. You move his hand out of the way, leaning forwards to spit directly onto his cock. It leaves your mouth in the long string, landing on the tip of his dick and sliding languidly from his slick head down the rest of his shaft.
“Filthy fucking girl,” he says under his breath as you sit on it.
Kendall’s hands stretch up behind your back to grip your shoulders, all the more leverage to ram himself into you repeatedly. Relentlessly. It’s so much so quickly, you nearly tap his shoulder for him to go easy, but it’s too good. There’s a fervor in his darkened eyes and beads of sweat forming just above them. He’s eager and determined to make you gasp in shock—he wants you to be slack-jawed at how good he’s making you feel. Like you didn’t even think it was possible to feel this good.
That he’s good.
Fuck, he just really wants to be told that he’s ‘good’.
And yet, you’re too busy getting your brains fucked out by him, so much in fact that you are hardly capable of speech.
Pity.
He wanted to see every piece of you, every inch of flesh he intended to mark. He remains under you, even now. As if to promote the idea that you were the one holding the reins. Kendall frees one hand to ghost downwards where your bodies happen to meet. His fingers drag in strokes over the fold of your pussy, broadly at first and then more acute once he finds the right motion. The kind that makes your hips buck and your breasts sway. You whine, the bluntness of his cock matched with the deftness of his fingertips being a fatal combination.
“There you are, baby,” he purrs, “There’s my girl.”
Out of sheer desperation, you cling onto his hunter green cotton tee he still dons, tugging at it so much, the hem is halfway up his stomach. This makes him laugh, placing his hands over your own as you begin to grind and take the lead.
“Fuck me, honey. C’mon. Fuck me how you want. Fuck me how you need,” he chants, “Use that fuckin’ dick. Use that fuckin’ dick. C’mon,”
Your back arches like a springboard, recoiling with every bounce off his thighs.
“Uh-huh. God, you take it like a champ, yeah? Like a fuckin’ pro. You were made to take this fucking dick, weren’t you? Huh?”
You babble out a messy plethora of “uh-huhs” and “yeses.” You move in ways you didn’t think you could, that no man had ever been able to coax out of you. Was it him? Was it his station in life? Was it the immense wealth and luxury he surrounded himself with?
Why was it so good?
The question tortured you, just like those fingertips rubbing at your clit that was keeping you dangerously close to the edge.
“K-Ken, I-I can’t, you’re—” you plead, “You’re going so fast—I’m not g’na, you’re gonna make me—”
“‘S okay, baby. I know. I know, c’mere. I know it’s too good. I know this dick is too good but you gotta take it for me, ‘kay? You gotta take it—every fuckin’ inch—every motherfuckin’ inch, yeah?”
“Yes, yes, fuck!”
“Fuck, this pussy. This tight fucking pussy. Feels so good, best I’ve ever felt,”
You scoff at his assertion and between pants say, “You say that to every woman that winds up naked in your bed?”
“No,” he insists, “Just the ones I want to take my load deep inside their cunt. Like you’re gonna? Right? You want it in you?”
You nod rapidly, desperately, feverishly.
“You sure?”
Rather than verbally answering him, you lock down his hips with your quads clenched hard around his lap, attempting to pry his very soul from his core. You make small, frenzied grinding motions, eager and needing to be filled. You then reach your peak, fluttering around Ken’s soaked cock. His orgasm that he thought was somewhere in the distance instead sneaks up on him, pounding into you once twice as he paints you white from within. You swear you can feel it throb against your walls, but you are positive you can feel the warm trickle that drips down your inner thighs when he draws himself from you. Letting your back fall heavy behind you, the lush mattress cushions your descent. You pant, face warm with flush and glistening with sweat. You’re not expecting Kendall, still bare from the lower half, to slide up next to your position and plant a kiss on your cheek and then run a smooth hand up and down your back until you drift off to sleep but you’re not one to fight it either.
passionate sex with kendall - hand holding, face caressing oh my godd been on my mind 24/7
He is everywhere, and he is nowhere, all at once. His hands grasping at your own, pressing them down into the mattress, and his eyes - God, his eyes - peering into your own like you have all of the answers. You don't, but you do know some things; that he prefers cologne that smells like vetiver, that he's been smoking again, and that the slow roll of his hips against your own may just have the power to kill you entirely. It's like this, with him; your entire worldview narrowed down to a pinprick in the span of a moment. Him. Everything is him. His smell, the taste of tobacco on his lips, the roughness of his palms against your own. His stubble scrapes against your skin, makes you sigh and arch into him.
Your mouth tries to wrap itself around the syllables of his name, but all the breath has been punched from your lungs, and so all you can muster is a breathy, choked sort of sound. He's got his lips pressed together, a pinch in his brow - focus, always so much focus from him, even in this. There's a thin sheen of sweat on his face, and the minutes have bled together until they feel like eternity. It just might be.
One of his hands leaves your own, and you feel almost empty from the absence of it until you feel it brushing against your inner thighs, finding the space where you're joined together. The calloused pads of two fingers press firm against your clit, and you moan. He'd usually grin - shit-eating and overly proud - and tease you for a bit, but tonight is different, somehow. A charged sort of energy. He doesn't grin at all; instead, his tongue dips out to wet his lips, and there's something about the sight of it that makes that knot in your belly tighten. His fingers move - slow, slow, slow. Deliberation. The undoing.
"I love you." He rasps out, low and rough. It sticks to your ribs, fills you up. Satiety. You want to say it back, but your mouth isn't working right - everything is bright and fluorescent, the edges of your vision a halo of white. It feels like that one time he convinced you to do coke with him. Everything floral and pretty and sharp.
You don't need to say it back, you suppose, because he's talking again, soothing you. "I know, baby. I know. Just take it."
You don't really think you have much choice in the matter, not that you're complaining.
Release finds you slowly; a buzzing sort of heat spreading out through your limbs, your fingers, your toes. Your body shakes beneath him, and he clings to you - buries his face in the crook of your neck and rocks his hips slower, deeper. Hushes you with words you can't quite make out. Your mouth is dry, your tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth. You squeeze your eyes shut as it just keeps going; it feels like you're never going to come down. Maybe you never will. Maybe that's okay.
You don't know when he tips over that edge, you just know that he's shaking against you, one hand clutching at your own so tightly you're sure your knuckles are white, the other gently grasping at your hip. You tremble together. Vibrate at some frequency unknown to anyone but the two of you.
Love, and all these things. Cracked edges and the light spilling out. God, but he is beautiful when he shines.
He slips out of you, and you feel it - this weird sort of hollowness. The aching want for something to last forever. You whine softly to make your protest known, and he does, finally, chuckle at that - a smile with teeth. Happy Ken. For once. For good, you hope.
It took a long time to get him to this point, after everything. Moving on from a dream unrealized. It was a year and a half of carefully building him back up, fitting the pieces back together and smoothing out the edges. He's softer, now. Safer. Home.
"I love you, too." You whisper into the sudden stillness of the room. To his now-sleeping form beside you. "More than, I think, you'll ever know."
Kelsey literally every time you post something for Kendall it takes my breath away. You are so unbelievably talented, please never stop doing what you do <3
STOP this is so sweet! Thank you so much, I really needed to see this 🥺🫶🫶🫶
characters: Kendall Roy
summary: He has to go, sure that what he tried is written across his skin in some language, some pen that only his father can read. He wants this to stay his secret, though. Some things are meant for you and you alone.
words: 2605
tags: suicide attempt, gun violence, heavy angst, animal death, dead dove: do not eat
Burning a hole in your pocket.
Kendall’s never had that issue with money, that scorching urge, that need, to spend it on frivolities before necessities ate it up. No necessity on earth could take his money from him. But, he imagined the sensation was the same, when he had drugs within reach. Weed. Cocaine. Heroin.
He imagined the sensation was the same, when he carried that polished, wooden case, with his .30-06 inside.
The air around him is crisp and still. The world is, really. Brown, dry, and dead. The trees that he moves through are just dense enough to provide some privacy, despite the lack of greenery. He’s not sure he’d prefer it like that, honestly, lush and alive. Birds chirping, bugs buzzing. Kendall takes his bottom lip into his mouth and grinds his teeth into it so harshly it aches. His mind is a blank slate.
Maybe burn out is a way to describe what he’s experiencing. He’s so tired and angry and desolate. That’s an apt descriptor, a better excuse for his withdrawal than the usual:
“I just, uh- didn’t get much sleep.”
Even that ubiquitous excuse was getting harder for him to maintain, but burn out, yeah. That’s better, for a grown man, an executive. He knows he’ll still receive eye rolls, scoffs. Boo-hoos, from his father especially, not that he’d care to ask. The act isn’t really for him, anyway. Logan sees it all. Knows exactly why Kendall is in a space, but not there at all. An inanimate object. A decoration. A weapon.
There’s a gunshot. It cracks through the trees. The rifle slung over Kendall’s shoulder suddenly feels heavier. He looks in the distance for something, a boar for himself, maybe, but he doesn’t see much beyond the haze of sunlight, somehow still so blinding through the lenses of his sunglasses. He’s swaddled tightly against the cold, not wanting another reminder.
A small, growing part of him does, though. Kendall should have to sit with that, with those sensations. He’d get in the shower, but want to run a bath. One so cold that it’d make his teeth chatter, his skin pale. Ducking his head under the water, but it doesn’t sound the same. No glugging, rushing sounds. No deep, hurried noises, of air opening bubbles into the water. No muffled screams, but maybe if he tried hard enough, he could conjure them up. He was certain that memory was fabricated, anyway.
Right now, he has no water. The brittle crunch of dried grass and leaves, high pitched, barely audible and tinny through the shooting muffs. The snap of twigs he didn’t even know were there, hidden beneath the litter of the forest floor, the CRACK of branches, giving way beneath his boots. Felled trees, roundly pressing into the arch of his foot as he climbs over them. A dead snake, hanging limply from a tree. Yeah, he’s got plenty of reminders.
Something moves up ahead, large and dark and unaware. A boar, it’s brown nose crinkling as it sniffs the ground. Kendall slips his rifle off his shoulder, slow, careful to not make too much noise, move too quickly.
In the city, masculinity isn’t defined the same. There’s no need for hunting, no need to prove one’s manhood by bringing home the biggest buck, the biggest boar. His father never defined masculinity like everyone else did, though. He needed more—a firmer hand, a louder voice. Maybe this was a chance for Kendall to be a man, in the most archaic of terms. Bring home a big boar. Keep his fucking mouth shut. He brings the stock up to his shoulder, the leather sling, hanging from the gun, swinging gently from the motion. Kendall looks down the sight, through the scope. Sees tusks, small dark eyes. Fur, coarse and brown. He slowly racks a round, wincing at the way the slide clacks noisily. The boar looks, then, his breath visible in the cool air as he grunts. Kendall’s stomach knots up, something like fear. If the boar charged at him, it could kill him easily. He leaves no chance for that— he pulls the trigger.
Then he does again, racking another round. Up, back, forward, down. BANG! Again and again -BANG BANG BANG. The heavy thud of the rifle against his shoulder, the squeals of the boar, should make him feel powerful, like a man, but he finds, with each round he fires, that he doesn’t feel fucking anything. Nothing at all.
The boar lies unmoving amongst the leaf litter, blood oozing, darkening its fur in thin rivulets. No more puffs of white vapor escaping its nostrils, its diaphragm stilled forever. Kendall stares at it for a moment.
The muzzle of the gun is still hot when it touches the roof of his mouth. Not hot enough to burn, but enough to make him jump, his teeth knocking against the metal. It tastes like pennies and salt. His heart pounds so heavily against his ribs that it makes him nauseous.
What will they do with him, when they find him, yards away from another thing he’s killed? His brains and blood, pooled and congealed in the crinkled leaves, like little bowls. In death, will they handle him carefully? Will he be scooped up off this ground, held in the arms of his father? His brother? Will they cradle his skull in their hands, support it like one does a baby’s? Or will a stretcher be slid in beneath him, as stiff and cold as his body? Zipped up into a bag, pushed into the back of an ambulance— will anyone ever touch him again?
Will his father be impressed, with the efficiency, the gall? Will he find him a coward? Or will it exist in dichotomy, like everything else? Cognitive dissonance. Kendall was never a big man. He didn’t need Logan to remind him. No integrity, no backbone. No grit, or killer instinct, or whatever- however the fuck his father wanted to phrase it that hour. It was a constant push and pull, to push just enough, to give just enough. He always gave too much, was always pushed, and that made him a bitch. Never standing up for his wife, or his kids. The few times he had pushed wasn’t for them, and he fell flat on his face. For Logan, he could be a gun. Like an AK, beat up and thrown in the mud, and then picked back up and fired again. He was empty now, though. Completely spent.
Kendall remembers all the times he would act like his father, and the sharp pain he would feel throughout his body at the realization. Raising his voice at his children, their big, brown eyes looking back up at him. Did he look like that? Did his father feel that same pain? He hopes, when his kids get the news, they’ll only remember the good times. That when Sophie will think back to her last birthday with him, she’d misremember some things. Yeah, he had hugged her back, and smiled at her with pride, and ridden roller coasters with her, soothing her when she was scared before the first drop. And Iverson, Kendall hopes he misremembers, too. That the arguments weren’t over parenting him, that he wasn’t frustrated by his silences, or his rambling. He hopes he remembers the way Kendall had shouted at his father over hurting Iverson, and not the slap itself. He also hopes it’s a closed casket, or if it isn’t, that his family gets the best mortician money can buy. That the restoration of his skull is immaculate, that his kids don’t ever have to know the lengths to which he had to go to escape his failures.
A sicker part of him hopes they do remember his absences, his misdeeds. The traded weekends, the missed appointments. Recitals. He hopes they remember, so when his body returns to New York without him inside it, they take it a little better. Daddy was gone, anyway.
Kendall’s whole body is trembling. God, when was the last time he updated his will? Did he put enough in it to protect his kids, to make sure they’re seen and known as his? What if they’re cut out? What if his father gives them a pittance, for being other? Disabled and adopted and not white, not a true continuation of the Roy family line.
He does love them, like they’re his own, but like everything else they’re just a reflection of him. His inadequacies, his fuck ups. Genetically, they aren’t his, and it will always eat at him that they couldn’t be. All those months of trying, how it sapped the pleasure out of something he and Rava once enjoyed. And of course, he was to blame. Does she resent him for that, deep down? Did she want babies that looked like him, with his crooked teeth, his slumped shoulders? No matter what they will be like him: maladjusted and weird.
Kendall doesn’t know how to feel about Rava. Like his father, he hates her and loves her in turn. She abandoned him/she deserves better. In a way she will always be his. His first wife, his ex-wife, the mother of his children. He will always have a hold on her— when he’s gone, will that be lessened? Will she cry at his funeral? Will she miss the way he always looked at her with longing? Will she remember the panic of finding him passed out on the bathroom floor, barely breathing? Will she feel free?
He wishes he had a pen and paper or something. Therapists always act like this is such a meticulously thought-out thing, but this is very spur of the moment. Well, the thoughts had certainly been there. He hoped he snorted too much coke and overdosed. He hoped the car crashed on the way to the airport. He hoped the plane crashed on the way here. He hoped the boar charged at him and gored him to death. None of those things happened. Like his father, if he wanted it done, he had to will it into being, set things into motion. This will be quicker than a car or plane crash, less painful than a mauling. Unless he fucked it up, which would be just his luck. He tips the gun, angling the muzzle back towards his soft palate, so he doesn’t just— blow his face off. It makes him gag.
The sky is clear, a vibrant azure between the lightened bark of the beech trees. He wishes he was high right now. He could’ve gone out like Kurt Cobain, nodding off on heroin as he blows his fucking brains out. Kendall wasn’t cool like Kurt Cobain was, never accomplished anything in his life. All the times he was fucked up never lead to anything artistic, or worthwhile. Just passing time, just shutting his brain off, or activating it so thoroughly that all his worst traits surged forth, his temper and narcissism and cruelty, his father squirming out through the folds of his brain like a cave diver. Before he married Rava, he paid a man to tattoo his initials onto his forehead. KLR, in low-cost, no-questions-asked ink. Celebrating his last night of “freedom,” by branding a stranger, marking them as his, too. The cocaine didn’t make him do it, but it did make it easy. Ecophagy. Vulnerable beings: the homeless man, Andrew Dodds, this boar. In biology class he had learned that a pig is a lot like a person. Would it sit dutifully while a needle pistoned ink into its skin? Would it squeal and thrash when held underwater? Is it more merciful to shoot it?
What will the story be, when the press is alerted? Will they call him a junkie, will they say it’s a tragedy? Will his siblings make statements, will they cry on TV? There’s a twisted sort of pleasure in thinking they’ll miss him, all the animosity, the shit flinging, gone in an instant, but there’s vindication, in thinking they won’t care. Roman, Shiv – maybe Connor, hell, maybe even his mother - dressing nicely for the funeral, dabbing at their eyes to dry up fake tears, just for their image. Laughing at the wake, thankful that they won’t have to worry about him souring the mood with his hangdog demeanor, his relapses, his betrayals, ever again.
Another gunshot blasts through the air, louder. Closer. Drool starts to gather behind Kendall’s lip, dribble down his chin. He needs to hurry up and do this, if he’s gonna. It’d be humiliating if someone stumbled upon him like this, looking stupid with his knees pressed into the dirt, the barrel of his gun shiny with his spit. He moves the slide again. It’s awkward, at this angle, but it also feels easier, despite the battle against gravity to load the round. Maybe it’s the adrenaline. He hooks his thumb over the trigger. This part, he knows, will be harder, and it is, his thumb trembling as he pushes—
Click.
It gives, he feels it, and that’s the problem.
Kendall pulls the gun from his mouth, wipes his face with the back of his hand, his heart in his throat as he looks around, feeling the weight of someone’s eyes on him. It’s just him and the boar, thank Christ. He presses the mag release button, pulls it out from beneath the rifle — it’s empty.
Well, fuck.
The sun is lower on the horizon. Twenty degrees and casting long shadows of the trees. He feels heavy, his heart, his lungs, like they’re about to herniate, slip into his abdominal cavity so that his other organs might squeeze them and finally suffocate him. He picks himself up off the ground and brushes himself off, scraping the butt of his gun against a log to rid it of mud. Hiding the evidence, just like the last time. The rifle is slung back over his shoulder; he rolls it to really set the strap in place. Clearing his throat— he can feel his pulse, thrumming inside it, constricting but slowing with each breath. Should he cry? He feels his sinuses aching like something might happen, but there’s none of the usual prelude, none of the familiar tension inside him, no wobbling of his jaw. Kendall brings his hand up to look at, blocking the sun with it, light shining between his fingers in bright, crepuscular rays. Its much steadier than he expected, but not as much as he wanted it to be.
On a high branch sits a round little bird. Marked sort of like a blue jay, a dark blue line running from its beak to its crown, a flax yellow chest. Kendall stares at it, watches its head snap every which way as it looks around with hyper vigilance, its tiny pointed beak opening as it does its buzzing, rapid fire call. His vision is hazy, unfocused, his face slack as he just stands there, time oozing by. When the bird takes off, he decides he should, too, leaving the hog behind to spoil. Its body will bloat and then decay, feeding the maggots, the worms, the buzzards, and whatever else might decide to scavenge its remains, inedible by human standards. It’ll lie there until its bones are bleached by the coming summer sun. But he has to go, sure that what he tried is written across his skin in some language, some pen that only his father can read. He wants this to stay his secret, though. Some things are meant for you and you alone.
the thing that is so particularly enraging about kendall nonpussy eater accusations is that even if we didn’t see him eat pussy before our very eyes which we DID, it is absolutely essential to the fabric of his character that he is a pussy eater like even if i didn’t know he was a pussy eater i would KNOW he was a service top ‘please love me’ faux feminist box GOBBLER. use your fucking brains.
Been hearing this is a problem again.
Don't be a dick in bookmarks, folks. And yes while I made this image, I'm giving free reign. Take it. Spread it far and wide. Because I'm hearing that some readers don't know that their bookmarks are visible.
The Weaponisation of Language in Succession: A Linguistic Chessboard of Power
The HBO series Succession has been lauded for its incisive portrayal of wealth, family dynamics, and the corrosive effects of power. While much ink has been spilled over its Shakespearean undertones and its satirical lens on late-stage capitalism, a particularly underexplored dimension is the show’s masterful manipulation of language. Succession is not merely a drama about power; it is a linguistic battleground where dialogue functions as the primary weapon, shield, and currency. This essay delves into how Succession uses language as a vehicle to construct, dismantle, and contest power structures, revealing the characters’ Machiavellian prowess and emotional vulnerabilities.
The Syntax of Power: Hierarchical Linguistics
The Roy family and their orbiting satellites wield language as a means of asserting dominance and establishing hierarchy. The syntax of power in Succession often involves deliberate interruptions, clipped sentences, and evasive answers. Logan Roy, the patriarch, exemplifies this linguistic style. His dialogue is sparse but razor-sharp, often delivered with grunts or monosyllables that convey disdain. Logan’s linguistic minimalism underscores his supremacy; he does not need verbosity to assert his dominance. By contrast, characters like Roman and Greg employ verbosity to fill the void left by their insecurity. Roman’s barrage of jokes and Greg’s bumbling circumlocutions highlight their linguistic flailing as they struggle to navigate the power dynamics of Waystar Royco.
This hierarchical use of language is particularly evident in Logan’s command of interruptions. His ability to cut others off mid-sentence—a maneuver often accompanied by a withering glare or an expletive-laden dismissal—is a stark reminder of his unassailable authority. In Succession, the act of finishing one’s sentence is a privilege, not a right, and Logan’s frequent denial of this privilege is a testament to his control.
Verbal Sparring: Dialogue as Combat
In the world of Succession, dialogue functions as a form of combat. Characters engage in verbal sparring, using wit, insults, and rhetorical maneuvers to undermine their opponents. This linguistic combat is epitomised in Kendall and Roman’s exchanges, where barbed insults are layered with psychological warfare. For instance, Roman’s frequent jabs at Kendall’s perceived failures as a son and a businessman are not just personal attacks but strategic attempts to destabilise him emotionally and politically.
The show’s writers employ a technique that can be described as “weaponized banality,” where seemingly innocuous phrases are loaded with subtext. A prime example is Logan’s recurring use of the unsaid phrase “are you a serious person?” On the surface, it’s a straightforward thought, but within the context of Waystar Royco’s high-stakes world, it’s a devastating critique of one’s competence and worthiness. This technique underscores the idea that in Succession, language is never neutral; every word is a potential weapon.
The Performance of Inarticulateness: Greg and the Art of Strategic Clumsiness
One of the most intriguing aspects of Succession is its exploration of inarticulateness as a strategic tool. Cousin Greg, initially dismissed as a bumbling outsider, he later weaponises his awkwardness to manoeuvre through the treacherous waters of the Roy family. Greg’s convoluted speech patterns and malapropisms serve a dual purpose: they mask his growing cunning and disarm his opponents. His linguistic clumsiness is often mistaken for incompetence, allowing him to fly under the radar while subtly advancing his position.
For instance, Greg’s infamous court session during Season 2 is a masterstroke of strategic inarticulateness. While his statements appears to undermine his credibility, it also obscures his complicity in Waystar Royco’s scandals, making him a less threatening target. Greg’s linguistic strategy reflects the show’s broader theme of the performative nature of power; in the Roy family’s world, even inarticulateness can be a calculated performance.
Metaphorical Mastery: The Lexicon of Late Capitalism
Succession is replete with metaphors and idioms that reflect its characters’ entrenchment in the world of late capitalism. Phrases like “blood sacrifice,” “eating shit,” and “piggy goes to market” are not just colorful expressions but linguistic encapsulations of the show’s cutthroat ethos. These metaphors reveal the characters’ worldview, where human relationships are reduced to transactions and survival often requires cannibalistic ruthlessness.
Moreover, the show’s dialogue frequently employs corporate jargon as a means of obfuscation. Characters like Gerri and Tom use business-speak to sanitize unethical decisions, framing actions like mass layoffs or corporate malfeasance as “necessary restructuring” or “compliance adjustments.”
This linguistic veneer highlights the moral vacuity at the heart of Waystar Royco and serves as a critique of the broader corporate culture it represents.
Silence as a Linguistic Strategy
In Succession, what is left unsaid is often as significant as what is spoken. The show’s use of silence—pregnant pauses, meaningful glances, and unspoken agreements—adds a layer of complexity to its linguistic landscape. Silence in Succession is not merely an absence of speech but a strategic tool wielded to intimidate, manipulate, or convey disdain.
Logan Roy is a master of this silent dominance. His pauses are laden with menace, forcing his interlocutors to fill the void with nervous chatter or concessions. Similarly, Kendall’s silences—particularly in moments of self-doubt or moral reckoning—serve as windows into his inner turmoil, contrasting with his often performative verbosity.
Conclusion: A Linguistic Symphony of Power and Pathos
Succession is a masterclass in the weaponization of language, where every word, pause, and silence is imbued with strategic intent. The show’s dialogue operates as a linguistic chessboard, with characters deploying words as pawns, knights, and queens in their quest for dominance. By examining the syntax of power, the dynamics of verbal sparring, the performance of inarticulateness, the use of metaphor, and the strategic deployment of silence, this essay has sought to uncover the intricate ways in which Succession uses language to construct its narrative of power and pathos.
In a world where language is both a tool and a trap, Succession reminds us that the words we choose—and the silences we cultivate—can be as consequential as the actions we take. It is this linguistic complexity that elevates Succession beyond a mere corporate drama, transforming it into a profound exploration of human ambition, frailty, and the enduring power of words.
I told myself "no weird Succession AUs" but then I realised I wanted to see the Roy siblings as kids get lost in a creepy forest 😭 So anyway Succession Over the Garden Wall AU! They wouldn't survive a week
The first drawing without text under the cut because I drew a whole ass background 😳
JULIANA CANFIELD as JESS JORDAN in
SUCCESSION | 4.09 | Church and State
"Well, that was my final day of shooting, but there’s this little piece that you see right before that scene, where Jess calls Kendall. And [the siblings] are in the car, and then you see her walking along and being like, “I’m going to drop a pin so that you can find me.” So, we shot the breakup scene, or the quitting scene, and then we shot that little bit. And I am grateful that they did that because I think if my last scene had been that one, the very tenuous membrane that I was able to construct between my feelings as Jess and all of my sadness about this chapter coming to a close, it all just would’ve dissolved, and the scene would’ve been just sobbing, saying goodbye to Kendall.
So, we shot that scene, and then we were shooting outside, I think on 86th Street on the Upper East Side. And Jeremy had other stuff to do, but he was like, “Hey, J.” And I was like, “Yeah?” And he was like, “Awesome job,” and gave me a fist bump. And I was like, “Don’t ... I can’t do this right now, Jeremy. I have another scene to do.” And he’s so respectful of actor processes, and he was out of there.
But then Kieran, that little troublemaker, was like, “I remember your very first day on set, and you were so excited, and you were doing this and this and this.” I’m just weeping and weeping on 86th Street, as Kieran is poking at my most vulnerable sense of nostalgia, and screaming for hair and makeup so that they can come and deal with the streams of mascara that are running down my face so I could do that little tiny scene that no one will ever remember. But yeah, that was the order of the day."
