pink noise waltz (succession | marcia/shiv)

[fiachairecht]

pink noise waltz. succession, marcia/shiv. small talk, but make it schemes and threats. 1.4k words, rated m. for team_turtleneck in writingrainbow pink.

A month after Marcia marries into the family, Shiv watches her very deliberately fail to pick a fight with Logan at the dinner table. Worse, she watches Logan allow it. Allow Marcia to get up, turn her back on them — the firm lines of her shoulderblades rippling under the sheer fabric of her dress — and leave the room, without a single word, a single fist on the table, anything. Across the table, Roman mouths, she'll pay later, miming a blowjob while Logan's attention is elsewhere, and Shiv kicks his ankle, disappointment burning through her not so much at his crudeness but at the fact that Marcia gave him cause for it in the first place. 

She doesn't taste the rest of her meal through the memory of the way Marcia's lip curled, pink and cruel around the edges of her good night. Waits long enough to ask to be excused that it might not even have anything to do with Marcia after all, and doesn't let her voice waver. 

But it is about Marcia. That, at least, Shiv sees no point in lying to herself about — of course it's about Marcia, everything the past year has been about fucking Marcia, or, well, not fucking her, to be precise. And maybe it's that thought that has her swinging open the door to the master bedroom, and then continuing down the hall when she finds it empty.

Light spills from under the door to one of the guest suites, and Shiv hesitates for a moment, wondering what's going through Marcia's head. Does she know that dinner was a defeat, one that sent her slinking off and ceding the master bedroom to Logan? Or is she just looking for a quiet place to plan her next move, adding room after room of the Roy house to her own personal kingdom? The latter seems a little obvious, but Shiv knows better by now than to think Marcia can't be obvious when it suits her. It's that unpredictability that sparks anger low in her belly, just like always, and she swings the door open harder than she means to.

Marcia's still in her dress from dinner, curled on her side facing away from the door. Shiv lets the door bang shut behind her and traces her gaze over the flat planes of Marcia's back — the jut of her shoulders, the divots of her spine, all leading down to the slight curve of her ass, and for a moment all she can think about is mapping the same path with her tongue.

It would be fun. Marcia might even let her, and wouldn't that be something.

Spurred on by that image, she flips the lock on the door, just because she can — no, you're the one stuck in here with me. Marcia's breath catches with the slight unsteadiness of someone who isn't as good at faking sleep as she wants to be. For a long moment Shiv simply watches the rise and fall of Marcia's breath, the way her hair flutters against her cheek. Every instinct she has is telling her to turn around, to leave, but she can't do that. Not after she's just locked them in together.

"I expected more from you," she finally settles on. Let Marcia know she's disappointed, without showing too much of her hand. 

Marcia just laughs, low and somehow not as mean as Shiv had been expecting. "Oh, Siobhan. Stop hovering in the doorway and come in properly, if you want a conversation."

She doesn't want to obey Marcia, doesn't, even, really want a conversation, but she wants to leave even less. So she sighs and, with a quick glance in the dressing table mirror to ensure her face isn't giving anything away, goes to sit cross-legged at the foot of the bed, knee deliberately pressing against Marcia's ankle.

No walking away for either of them, now, but despite the invitation, Marcia won't look at her. Shiv bites her lip, pulls the hem of her skirt up so that they're skin to skin. If Marcia can do blatant—

She expects some kind of response from that, but Marcia's silent, just glances over at Shiv through artificially thick eyelashes.

Shiv sighs. "Conversation tends to require two people, you know."

"I see two of us right here," Marcia says. Even with half her face still against the pillow, Shiv can tell she's smirking.

"You know that's not what I meant."

Marcia's visible eyebrow quirks upwards. "I know very little about this family. As you remind me every day." As if by claiming her ignorance she can negate it — or, worse, use it, and if the wetness gathering between Shiv's thighs is any indication, she might even be succeeding.

"Yeah," she says, and her voice is rough. "Dinner was a pretty good sign of that."

She stretches out, facing Marcia, and, fuck, she's wetter than she'd thought. She can feel her blouse wrinkling against the cotton sheets, but thinks that it must be doing worse things to Marcia's dress. Laid out like this, they're close enough to kiss. Close enough that, if she stays here, Shiv might even start thinking that's a good idea.

Marcia's hand lands on her hip, and Shiv braces herself for the bite of Marcia's manicured nails. 

It doesn't come. Shiv still finds herself as incapable of moving as if Marcia had tied her down.

She takes a deep breath, tries to pull herself back under control. Marcia would let her, she thinks. No matter what she wants, she could do it to Marcia in this second and she would even be able to tell herself whatever story she wanted, after — that she decided this, that Marcia made her. The possibilities are dizzying.

Maybe it's the abundance of choices that make her lift a hand and run it through Marcia's hair with a gentleness that surprises both of them. Marcia's gasp isn't quite stifled in time, and Shiv screws her eyes shut, the one time she thinks watching herself might actually be worse than not seeing.

I hate you, she thinks, the words pounding in her head in time with the throbbing of her cunt. I hate you, but the groan she pulls from Marcia's throat is worth it.

"Siobhan," Marcia says, a warning that Shiv won't give her the satisfaction of obeying. "Shiv."

And her nickname in Marcia's mouth is such an irresistible challenge Shiv opens her eyes and pulls Marcia's hair, hard, gentleness gone in a snap that has Marcia's eyes going dark with arousal, something that might be a cry caught in her throat. 

The moment hangs between them. Shiv's hand is still in Marcia's hair, Marcia's nails now, finally, sunken into the thin strip of skin where Shiv's blouse has ridden up from her waistband.

Marcia releases her grip first, and for the space of a breath Shiv thinks she might have kept the upper hand, but then Marcia says, almost casually, "I had always thought you'd be more of a slut in my bed."

And maybe it's a mark of just how thoroughly the night has gone sideways that Shiv skips right over the insult, right over even the idea that Marcia's thought about her in her bed, and says, "Yeah, well. I'd hate to be predictable."

Marcia's eyes narrow, and Shiv swallows hard. Presses her legs together and thinks, she has more to lose than I do. Marcia sits up slowly, and Shiv knows she should do the same but she doesn't, too caught up in watching the sway of Marcia's breasts, the way she pulls her skirt up to straddle Shiv and the way the motion reveals Marcia's lack of underwear.

"No," Marcia says, perfectly balanced over Shiv's waist as she reaches down to fit her hand over Shiv's throat, just as effective a restraint as her hand on her hip earlier but one full of even more promise. "I think you would hate if I did not give you what you want just now."

Shiv tilts her head back, testing the pressure against her neck and sighing when Marcia's grip tightens just enough. "What do I want?" Show me, she doesn't say, show me why you deserve me. Why you deserve this family.

Marcia smiles, free hand sliding over Shiv's thigh so she can press three knuckles hard against the fabric of Shiv's underwear, and it takes every ounce of control Shiv has to force herself to stay still. "I think you'll tell me," Marcia says.

It is the very first thing she's ever said that Shiv finds a credible threat.

Somehow, it still feels like winning.