watches, watches (succession, marcia/shiv)

[fiachairecht]

watches, watches. succession, marcia/shiv. shiv reviews surveillance photos and has zero [lie] feelings about marcia looking at the camera. 712w, rated m. for the prompt 'surveillance' at bring her bleeding heart to me 2020.

Marcia's smiling up at the camera.

Smirking, really, Shiv's not going to pretend for a second that the bitch is capable of a real smile — just this thing, small and tense and flicking up the side of her mouth, like she's bitten into a secret or ripped out a heart or, or, whatever it is she does that Shiv's paying these men to find out about.

Next photo, and Marcia's still looking, smirking, and the next and the next and the next until there's a knot of disgust rising up in Shiv's throat — she's paying for information, not glamour shots, not like Marcia fucking Roy needs any more of the second, and it's not like Siobhan fucking Roy can have enough of the first, and that's ...

Why she keeps staring, probably. Shifts on her bed so she can cross her legs the other way over and keeps flicking through the hardcopy prints, her thumbnail digging into the glossy paper and leaving tiny divots that are going to be hell on her manicure if she doesn't stop, except — she has to see. What the fuck Marcia's looking at, out from behind those dead eyes of hers, why her lip's pulled back just enough that the white of her teeth stands out against the wine-stain lipstick.

If she runs her thumb down the edges fast enough, Marcia moves. Turns until she's nearly in profile, each sharp tick of her jawline's movement not at all softened by the waves of her scarf — cashmere, Shiv knows — she can see the hole it's left in Marcia's perfectly organised closet, sets her whisky tumbler aside and rests her index finger on the edge of it where it blurs over the side of the Met building and imagines pulling it tight around Marcia's throat until she can't speak — and always that fucking smile, clinging on stubbornly like some vampire with too many teeth and not enough sense to know its not wanted.

It feels personal, but then, that was always Marcia's thing — take a, whatever, nothing, and suddenly it's the most important thing in the room, and Marcia's the second most because she brought it to you, like either of them mean anything.

Like she ever could.

But she does, obviously, because Shiv's still sitting here looking at Marcia smirking up at her, watching Marcia smirk up at her over and over again as the pictures slide against her thumb, edges biting back into her thumb until she wants nothing more than to get her hand on Marcia's mouth — hide away that knowing twist or, or slap it away, it didn't matter—

Anger spikes through Shiv then, sharp and reassuring, just enough to clear her mind. Marcia wasn't looking at her. Wasn't, couldn't even have been looking at the photographer, he was too good for that. It's just Shiv and her drink, alone, and Marcia's trapped in the glossy paper free for Shiv to watch at her leisure.

She reorders the photos, runs the not-film backwards. No, it's worse that way, Marcia turning towards her with her expression too wry, too smart, and—

Shiv throws the prints down and leans over to retrieve her whisky, shuddering as the motion presses her heel against her cunt. Fuck, she's sensitive — wet, almost, like she'd been doing something interesting instead of staring at Marcia's mouth for nearly half an hour.

She drains her glass, sets it back on the bedside table without caring if it's gone back on the coaster. Her heel's still pressed against her cunt, and she rocks forward just the slightest bit, lets the anger and alcohol both settle warm in the pit of her stomach, a warmth that doesn't stop her from shivering as the pressure builds. Bites her lip and stares down at Marcia smirking up at her — up into her throat — and tries not to think about how similar this feels to fucking the girl who swore she wasn't Kendall's first girlfriend.

The girl had been an inconvenience. Marcia is so much more.

And right now she's trapped in a flip-book set of pictures, still smirking as Shiv gives up and shoves her hand down the front of her pajama pants.

It feels like the closest thing to approval she's ever pulled out of the woman.