#KENDULLS: INDEPENDENT KENDALL ROY OF HBO'S SUCCESSION. DEVELOPED BY SEAN. 21+, MUTUALS ONLY, LOW ACTIVITY. SENSITIVE MATERIAL AHEAD. BASIC INFO BENEATH THE CUT.

❝ you say that like it's a bad thing? ❞ kendall meets her gaze, brows lifting as voices surround them at the restaurant. it's uncomfortable, the feeling of someone looking through you as if you're transparent glass. the resemblance of an outsider peering through a window. all his life, he's felt scared — scared of being a roy, scared of never living up to the expectations set for him, scared of becoming his father. the revelation had become clear to him, though: there was never any expectations set for him. (you're spoiled, you're curdled cream, you're nothing — the sentiments echo throughout his mind, his father's voice reverberating.) he was always meant for failure. kendall's whole life, the path was aimed towards failure and losing the game. (because, after all, this was all a game at the end of the day. the prey vs the hungry beast.)

digits moving to the liquor glass resting in front of him, he brings the rim to his lips and swallows the remaining golden whiskey, grimacing as the harsh liquor trickling down his throat. ❝ it's hard to be scared when there's nothing to be afraid of. ❞ his own voice rings out in his head: pass me the fucking shotgun.

he's stunlocked for a moment by the comment — jaw dropped, mouth agape, eyes widened synonymous with a deer in headlights. it takes kendall a few moments to compose himself, eyes blinking as he remembers who he's speaking with: nate sofrelli, of all fucking people. ❝ are you trying to catch me in some type of... fucking gotcha moment? ❞ of course the kid is — he works for a senator who's running for the presidency; that's the entire chess game of politics. catching one another in moments usable for blackmail to gain an advantage, which is exactly where kendall found himself. waystar royco, fucked, once again because of morons unable to clean up their messes before politicians got their hands on the material.

❝ ha, ha — very fucking funny. ❞ he's not laughing. rather, he's pouting — arms moving to cross themselves tightly over his chest, cerulean gaze drifting to the floor of his office. her sentence reminds kendall of speaking with reporters, a typical topic of conversation revolving around his familial matters. a deep breath is inhaled, a scoff trailing behind before he chooses to speak.

❝ senator amidala, we could sit here all fucking day and talk about the, uh, normalcy regarding my family — but that doesn't explain why you're in new york, or better yet, why you're visiting me. ❞ the last time he spoke with shiv, she'd mentioned potentially helping the young senator once again in the upcoming election. (the youngest senator elected to the united states senate, in actuality, thanks to the helping hand of one siobhan roy.)

a couple of weeks ago, they would have been. they would've been eating at zuma's japanese restaurant off madison avenue, talking about their days and the bullshit that came with it, a glass of wine in their reach. instead — he sits in the living room of his condo, grasp on his iphone tightening as his jaw clenches, an empty bottle of corona resting on the glass coffee table. lunch like normal people, a joke at its finest, and in response — he laughs. ❝    maybe. from what i've heard, you've been having lunch with tom, though. uh — is that serious, at all?    ❞ is it jealousy? is it anger? (is it his father obtaining the upper-hand in his love life now?) lips pressing themselves together, kendall shifts around on the couch, discomfort from the conversation spreading into his body.