❝ growing up a girl—letting people do things to you for years and years means that your anger turns biblical. anger that is incoherent, unidentifiable, inconsolable. ❞

 biography it’s a cool, spring morning in 1996 manhattan when céline du pont sofrelli enters her husband’s home office, one hand trembling in her thirteen-year-old son, nate sofrelli’s grasp, and the other wrapped tightly around a freshly-sanitised positive pregnancy test.having asked not to be disturbed while he worked on a keynote speech for a friend of a friend (of a friend), michael sofrelli lifted his gaze; the initial flash of impatience softened by the almost preternatural knowledge that, in a moment, his life was about to change forever.as usual, he was right.bethany amalia sofrelli was born at 11am on the 13th of november 1997 in bridgehampton, new york, four weeks prior to her due date——an inconvenience to her mother, a blessing for her father, and a gift to the golden boy who would always stand before her in line.half-beauty, half-beast. she came out quiet, a little jaundiced, with a mop of chocolate brown curls. grasping and holding whoever’s finger dared to touch her tiny palm. doctors and nurses alike popped into the room on a rolling cycle, where her mother lay frozen in place, to catch a glimpse of the tiny thing——intrigued not only by her relative steadiness for being a preterm baby, but by her perpetual, gassy, gummy, milk–drunk smile.céline wanted to name her after her grandmother, joséphine: a name passed through generations of du pont women. michael overruled her in favour of his own grandmother’s name: betania. only, his little girl would be bethany. solid. american. simple.by the time she turned two, she still couldn’t say her own name. four languages on a rolling cycle and english was by far her worst. be—bu—bunny, she declared one day. i bunny!sticky sweet and innocent, curled up in her father’s lap declaring herself “bunny” with a chubby fist in the air. céline rolled her eyes at the absurdity, but michael laughed—now that’s a name people’ll remember. bunny sofrelli.born both a month too early and simultaneously almost fourteen years too late, she was not the heir, but the afterthought; destined for a life of second-best.her father, political animal and the architect behind some of the most powerful men in the country, had already chosen his heir. nate: firstborn, favoured, consummate and polished, was primed to carry the weight of a name that would come to matter. their father’s golden boy, his proof of concept.though the sofrellis, a family of makers and molders (always sculpting, shaping, deciding) paraded their progressive ideals in public, the script for bunny’s life had been written in invisible ink from the moment she took her first breath——just as nate’s had. where michael had busied himself with perfecting his heir, céline was left to deal with the spare.bunny became her mother’s penance as well as her project. céline, cold, aristocratic, french, resented her, and resented michael for his love for her. bunny had taken everything. her body. her peace. her husband. she had stolen something that céline had been trying to hold onto for years, and she did it before she could even speak in full sentences. michael had hoped that their little girl would be the spark that would ignite the fire that had once been at the very foundation of their relationship——instead, she sparked the flame that burnt the house down: from the inside out.céline taught bunny to be good, graceful, and lovely. she sculpted her the way she had been sculpted… into elegance, palatability, and perfection. the kind of girl who would make a fine wife to a fine man from a fine family. sit still, smile, look pretty, and never make a scene. after all, the sofrelli family name wasn’t one that meant much before 2004——but the du ponts had been a storied dynasty for centuries. la famille avant tout.perfection was a losing game from the very start, but bunny played it anyway. she would never be her brother, not in any way that mattered, but still——she excelled. straight as, private school accolades, a picture of effortless elegance; except effortlessness was a lie, and she bled more than once for it.it was never enough.where céline’s love was gentler, but fleeting; michael’s love was persistent and, once, unconditional——but as he climbed the political ladder and she became a person rather than a pliant, obedient bundle of softness and sweetness, it became a horribly temperamental thing: white–hot, and brutal. yet, it was the only thing she wanted.his hands, soft with affection when he was pleased, worshipful when she played the role well, turned vicious in disappointment. reverence decayed into ritual. praise sharpened into punishment. his love grew teeth, and bunny bled beautifully.michael understood her. perhaps too well. reflections in opposite glass. he loved her more than anyone, and she worshipped him: he was her god, and she was his girl. some nights he’d hit her, and the mornings after, she’d come downstairs and kiss his cheek anyway. not because she forgave him——but because he had seen her. bunny had always needed to be seen.our little secret, baby, he would say, and the abuse became their special, twisted genre of love. as she got older, his love, his punishment was, too, used as leverage. to keep her on tenterhooks. or maybe it was just because he gave up caring. the lines blurred more often than not. by this point, relieved that the burden was no longer her own, her mother barely spared her a second glance.as such, bunny decided early on that if she couldn’t have love, she would settle for attention. if she couldn’t have approval, she would take reverence. if she couldn’t be the best, she’d be the worst. and if she couldn’t be adored, then she would be remembered. if they would not see her, they would watch.rebellion came easily, but not suddenly. it was slow, an in-real-time unraveling on the public stage of a seventeen-year-old débutante, the quickly christened ‘first lady of the new york social scene’ in kinder portrayals & ‘a poor little rich girl’ among other, more explicit epithets in the tabloids. the death of her beloved nonna in 2014, her only tether to the real world, sent her into a spiral that didn't end until a death of her own.her life was formed around late nights, champagne, cocaine, cold marble floors against too–hot skin; flashing cameras, bloodied knuckles and bloodied lips; hands around her wrist, around her throat, squeezing until she blacked out. she liked not knowing what took her out——the drugs or the cruel hands she would beg oh-so prettily for.in the throes of excess, she felt something like freedom. finally, she felt something of her own. years of being told who she should be made her desperate to be anything and anyone else. she was reckless and luminous in a way only those who are deeply sad can be.validation was a drug of its own, and so was foolhardiness. she was beautiful, untouchable, and, best of all, tragic——young girls treated her like a prophet, boys tried and failed to save her, and the internet immortalised her in filtered instagram posts and think-pieces on what it meant to be an it-girl in the modern age. her father watched with silent exasperation from the sidelines. she made sure he saw it all.pair that with her engagement to childhood best friend and fellow heir, archie wallenberg, when she hit age twenty (after three years of manufactured dating), and you’ve built yourself a legend. the love between them was real, raw, and aching, but the arrangement forged by their long-allied parents was exactly that… an arrangement. a union of two great dynasties, built to benefit both sides of the coin. commonplace on a tumblr dash or a pinterest board, they were tabloid royalty. like everything else in bunny’s life, though, it was rotten on the inside. sadist meet masochist, hedonist meet enabler, unstoppable force meets immovable object…the high, inevitably, became the crash. beneath it all, the glitz and the glamour and the grime, she was a girl coming apart at the seams——burning herself down to see if anyone would notice.and notice, they did, when her heart stopped for twenty-six seconds following an overdose on her brother’s bathroom floor. nate, a lifeline, but a living, breathing reminder of all that she would never be. she loved him, she hated him, she needed him. her shadow, her saviour, her oldest wound.twenty-six seconds is a long time to be dead. long enough for a too-short life to flash before your eyes, if you believed in that type of thing. even then, bunny didn’t. even now, she thinks she should have stayed that way: dead. twenty-six seconds was also long enough for nate to think that he was too late. it was enough time for things to change.she woke up, already disowned and euologised, to sterile sheets and needles in her arm——not the fun kind——and fluorescent, white light. but the first thing she really noticed was the weight of nate’s hand in hers, and nate, perfect fucking nate, looked so fucking wrecked that it almost made her laugh with glee.rehab came next, of course. she stayed the full duration this time, not that she had a choice. the supervised, upstate kind, that housed other fallen 'angels' with more money than sense. she didn’t go for her sake. she went for nate. the way he looked at her, like she was slipping through his fingers, was the only thing that carried her through such an inconvenience. better yet, it was the only thing that guided her through.she went, and she endured. she endured the parade of soft-spoken therapists; the group sessions where people spoke their ugliest truths into the antiseptic air; the feel of the manicured grass beneath her feet. it wasn’t the first gilded cage she’d been placed in, though, and if there was anything she was a master of by twenty-four, it was survival, born of stubbornness.when she came out of the other side, the world had moved on without her. mom and dad had sent flowers but had also washed their hands of her with all of the cold efficiency money and influence could buy. the spectacle was too damaging. she had dumped archie a few weeks before (or was it after?) her death and subsequent rebirth, but even after it all, he had left her behind, too.but nate. nate. nate was different. he held her in his arms that night for the first time in a decade; only this time, he didn’t let go. he stopped being the golden boy for a while and allowed himself to simply be her brother.in late 2021, he made a phone call and called in a favour from his old friend kendall, and suddenly she had her own desk at waystar royco: a name on a payroll (bethany, not bunny), a structured life to live. a reason to wake up in the morning that wasn’t just to prove everybody wrong. the kindness of their family friends was a noble deed and a debt called in. it felt like charity——but she took it in stride. what other choice did she have?secretly, she hated it. just as every other twenty-something hates their corporate life. she wasn’t like them, though. she wasn’t built for mundanity. but she stayed, she showed up. played the role with the same care and attention that she’d played every other role thus far.it lasted a year. a year of boardrooms and paperwork and overpriced coffee runs. a year of being just another faceless jockey behind a desk, another name in an email chain. it was safe. quiet. unremarkable.bunny sofrelli had been many things in her short life, but she had never been safe, quiet, or unremarkable.mundanity was no longer enough for her. sure, she was scared, but for the first time in her life she was in charge of the stakes. she got to decide what to do with the life she had been given.so when the hands of the company changed and the tides of the world turned, she left. or perhaps, more truthfully, she stopped resisting the pull of the orbit of the life she had sworn off of. she made hesitant amends with her family, and forced herself back in to the fray. quickly partnered with fashion houses like versace and miu miu following a childhood career in modelling that carried her through her early adolescence, and reclaiming her title as the first lady of the new york social scene, bunny was back in a way that felt both blessed and cursed. or, rather, solidified her status as la bella e dannata ragazza, as vogue italia termed her in the middle of 2024 following a cover story.then, in summer ’24, bunny caught the attention of a journalist who had been writing a 20-year retrospective on the 2004-2008 administration of president joseph thomas lee that her father served under as chief political advisor. the story died as soon as stephanie garcia looked past the tabloids and saw bunny. thus marked the first honest portrayal of who bunny was at her core—a rebel without a cause, rewriting her narrative and reclaiming the voice that had been stolen from her before she ever learned to speak.all of a sudden, bunny had teeth of her own; but most importantly, a will to live. a desperation to continue the story that had repeated through the echoes of time via similar vessels. finally in charge of how her story not only progressed, but how it was told; a far cry from the stolen narratives——true or false——that had plagued her from the time she was a precocious little girl on a campaign trail with her father to the living dead girl in the new york post.it was her move now.not her father’s, not the press', not the faceless terminally-online masses. no longer was a premature ending in sight, and while the beginning marked and scarred her in ways she never quite understands, the privilege of an imperfect, unfinished, in-progression continuation is never lost on her.burned and broken, but not beyond saving. now she was at once both tender–hearted and impossibly soft; and hardened and war–weary.and now, on the world stage for accidentally becoming the icon of making caring chic——and being styled her father's cultural successor——by punching a hedge funder in defence of an old woman who reminded her of her nonna, bunny finds herself at the height of her career with no pr, no management, and no idea how to handle the praise. the world is at her fingertips, and she is as unprepared as she is thrilled. the third act is upon us.bunny sofrelli. 'the last real socialite'. ruinous. reckless. reborn. a life of fame she didn't ask for, of love she clings to with both hands, and enough pain to keep it all interesting. and if bunny knows nothing else, she knows how to put on a show.

• home

• home

 succession — season one to season four. 
bunny found employment at waystar in between seasons one and two. dependent on your perception of the timeline of the events of season one and season four, she worked there for a year to two years—give or take—before the events of america decides. an inconsequential cog, as she puts it, but a quiet and astute observer.

 succession — post-season four.  * PRIMARY VERSE.
following the events of with open eyes, and my solo my brothers keeper. bunny tendered her resignation (or got fired—she doesn’t care enough to figure that out) when waystar formally changed hands. nate offered her some administration work under his employ, which she politely declined (for now).present day, bunny lives many lives. public figure, private citizen——never able to fully exist as one or the other. a bonafide cultural icon and phenomenon, she takes life day-by-day, busying herself with the occasional modelling work, philanthropy, and living like a 20th century socialite.

 fandomless/other verses. 
note from pixie : honestly with the succession verse containing mostly normal people and taking place in The Real World AND the fact that 99% of the sofrelli family lore is made up by me i can always adjust her to the point where she can pretty much fit in anywhere. if you’d like to plot just let me know and i can figure out the rest, such if anything major needs to change in order for our characters to interact.

• home