#she's so shiv roy-coded

[warningsine]

#severance #helena eagan #helly r. #britt lower #tv #sine's edits #she's so shiv roy-coded

[orbit8k]

Your Honour, it’s the same picture

#succession #shiv roy #siobhan roy #succession hbo #she’s so orange cat coded

[semperrgumby]

katya goncharova // shiv roy parallels

#goncharov #goncharov (1973) #succession #shiv roy #katya goncharova #listen i know goncharov is kendall-coded in his motivations and overall character arc #but after rewatching i just saw so much of shiv in katya #the way she carves her path in an inherently patriarchal hierarchy #a world where she struggles to be seen as something other than just a means to an end #and how poetic would it be if s04 shiv’s arc somehow mirrors katya’s ultimate betrayal?

[blackstarising]

all the boys holding her hands...."shivvy, honey"..."why didn't you come get me?"...."dad....daddy?".....the way she dissolved into trembling and incoherent shrieks after the call...her crumpling into roman's arms...maybe i'm a baby shiv truther after all

#SHE WAS SUCH BABY IN THIS EPISODE AND I MEAN THAT LITERALLY #shiv roy #succession #succession spoilers #for context i've always been a romanshiv twins truther or maybe even middle shivvy truther but she was BABIE in this episode #she was SO LITTLE #as a fellow Only Daughter she was definitely so Only Daughter coded this ep but the baby.......oh sweet baby

[dykefever]

finding out shiv was the youngest girl with three older brothers. well it was a bit of a gut punch it was like tripping and falling off a cliff

#with THAT relationship with her father?? this is so. it’s soooo. well me n her. i get it #she is so me coded or i am shiv coded if they put me in a room w shiv roy. neither of us would make it out. alive #which is 2 say i think we would think we could fix each other #succession #laura says some things

[comradekatara]

actually i just realized why interpretations of [atla] characters that are like “aang doesn’t lie” (blatantly textually false) or “katara would be offended by swearing” (sensically false) are so common. aang and katara are the most overtly ethical characters in the show, and people [subconsciously] associate morality with honesty and “clean language.” but none of aang’s principles preclude him from lying (he lies. a lot), just as nothing in katara’s moral code dictates that she must be a square (she is, in fact, the furthest thing from a square, and if you argue otherwise you are simply misremembering her character). i can understand why people think that an ethically principled person would consider honesty a virtue, even if aang clearly doesn’t, but the association between morality and language feels like a very christian (to broadly generalize) conception of “sin” and moral transgression that doesn’t map onto the atla characters whatsoever, and is entirely a projection of the largely american (and otherwise western) viewership. inversely, fanart that depicts “modern au” azula as some kind of goth abg with dyed hair and leather pants also attempts to map our internalized notions of how aesthetics are illustrative of morality onto a character who would clearly never present herself in any way countercultural. if azula were suddenly transported to montclair, new jersey, she would be a conservative and present herself accordingly (most likely scenario she would dress like shiv roy). i’m not saying all this to condemn the activity of projecting onto characters, as i clearly participate and engage in these fandom-cultural practices, but rather that i think it’s important we be mindful of what connotations are carried in certain interpretations and depictions, because even our subconscious associations can stem from a legacy of cultural contexts, often embedded within harmful institutions we may not consciously wish to associate with, or that are simply not useful or relevant associations when thinking through whatever thing we are in the process of fandomitizing.

#is fandomitizing a term. if not i just coined it #analysis #katara #aang #azula #cite the primary source read the text format your citations in mla or chicago #etc etc

[bowieandqueen11]

Kissing Roman Roy Would Include...

Request: oh my god! your kendall roy kissing headcanons were adorable! would it be possible to get some for roman as well? i just know that man is touch starved and definitely had an awkward time kissing the reader early on in their relationship. obviously, you can choose to ignore but thank you!

Awww yes of course you can get some my love this man is 100% touch starved you’re so right <3

LADS OKAY I’M COMING BACK TO SAY THIS IS NEARLY 7K AND MY LONGEST FIC BY FAR LMAOO BABYGIRL CODED anyway comments are much appreciated because I am so tired lol ty ty ily all! :)

Warning: mentions of injuries/ blood, childhood abuse, and some swearing! Also MAJOR spoilers for Season 4!!

(I do not own Succession or its characters, all rights go to creators. Gif credit goes to @xihatiancai.)

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°

We all really took one look at Roman Roy and went wet pathetic disgusting meow meow man I love you, and I really love and appreciate that for all of us. Because like... if not babygirl, why babygirl coded?

The first time you guys ‘kissed’, you were both around seven years old: on the tennis court, Shiv had sent a ball flying at Roman that had bent his hand backwards, and left quite a nasty gash of blood running down his arm. Instead of comforting the brother she had just bruised for the umpteenth time, the set of Roman crawling down to sit on the grass while cradling his arm just made her furious, and she went storming off towards the kitchen for some chocolate milk to cool down. You had been watching from the doubles side line, dropping your own racket as soon as Roman began to snivel, squeezing his skin back together and wincing as warm blood gushed out onto the grass. You run over to kneel in front of him, the harsh rays of light blushing across your head like a halo as you grab onto his elbow. You press the back of your shirt against it, hoping it will do until a nurse or one of the waiters comes running out with a first aid kit; as you glance up, the furious face of his father comes pacing past the balcony doors, and so you turn Roman’s head to look at you instead, praying that he won’t spot him. It will only make him whine more. It surprises you when he curses curtly instead at the feel of your fingers pressing down hard against his wound, but when you mumble an apology he finally stops scowling down at the ground and looks up: it’s as if he’s seeing you properly for the first time. His eyes light up as you gently lean down and press a kiss against the bloodstains; just the slightest hint of pressure, and tingling warmth of your your lips is enough to send a flourish through his body and make Roman Roy feel nourished. No longer withered, no longer left to rot. Roman gazes up at you: past the dappled sunlight, past the dotted clouds, past the earth and skies and heavens, and past it all he sees you. 

You’re the first and last person he’s ever wanted to kiss. Like craving poison, he knows it will pass through and destroy him if he allows himself to indulge. But by god, if it wouldn’t taste so sweet as it pours down his throat and overwhelms every dilapidated part of his body.

The first time he works up the nerves to kiss you back, is in one of the pool storage huts just past the outer boundaries of his father’s estate. Shiv had finally convinced her father to allow her out into the city to go shopping for some new suits, and Ken had been chained into a business meeting to take notes for Logan, so Roman had been left all alone to wander around the ostentatious shadows and lonely halls of the house he hated to call home. Feeling trapped, like he couldn’t breathe, he wanders towards the ‘safe space’ the two of you had created a couple of years ago: a small nook you and Roman had spent the day nestling out (and nearly breaking his arm shoving unused surfboards and pool cleaning chemical boxes) in the dim, and slightly damp room. Finally feeling at home as he stepped into the mildew-steeped scent cloud that enveloped the square box stuffed full of things his father had wanted out of his sight, his heart is allieved to spot you already there. You don’t even have to look up from your book as he comes dawdling towards you like a puppy afraid it’s about to be kicked. When you open your arm up to him willingly, the true him comes leaping forth: like a darting hummingbird, he comes flying  into your side, nestling his chin on the hard part of your shoulder so he can scan the words lazily past your head. After about half an hour of him gripping onto your shirt, as sweet and softly as infant spring, he glances up towards your face and an overwhelming urge overtakes him. Before he can stop himself, before he can make sense of his decision, before he can chide himself for his weakness, he lifts his head up and presses his lips firmly, if a little harshly, against the side of your cheek. Your book crashes to the floor with a thunderous slap, lifting a small cloud of dust as you raise your fingers to the wet spot in surprise. He immediately shuffles backwards at the noise, before making an awkward, fumbling excuse and running out the door.

He never brings it up again, but whenever you’re round at the Roy residence after that you can feel the intensity of his eyes land on you far more often. He blinks away and scratches the back of his neck nonchalantly whenever you catch him, or sometimes scrunches his nose up and starts biting the edges of his fingernails if he’s really nervous. But the love is there. He just can’t say it yet.

Once, when you were the only person in the house besides Connor and Logan, you were asked by the second-born eldest son to help him find Romie. With a concerned sigh, Connor wanders off to check behind the bathroom door off the living room, his lips forming a tight line as he disappears off down the corridor. Turns out, Logan had found out that Roman had been the one to spill his ice cream cone in the car on the way back from his fencing lesson, and Roman had run off cursing and crying when he heard the roar reverberate out from his father’s office at the news. You know where he is, instinctively. Of course you do: you don’t even need to think as your feet guide you towards his bedroom, and your body shrinks down to scoot under the bed and lie on the pristinely clean floorboards. He’s hiding behind the tendril weeds of his fear, making himself as small a target as possible as he balls himself up, trembling like heavy branches when lanced with frost. From behind his raised elbows that protect his face, he’s sniffling, his feet leaving the ground every few seconds from how harshly they shake. You lie down carefully on your side beside him, so hyperaware of any part of yourself brushing against him, in case the wounded creature decides to bolt. Thankfully, he comes sliding towards you, only stopping when your chest does the job for him; being as physically close as he can get to you, he huddles into your embrace while you stroke back the few curls by his ear. Once you’ve finally managed to choke back your own tears, your lips latch onto the spot of skin by the lobe of his ear, eyes closing and ticking his skin. He warbles against you, shivering, and the kiss just makes him whine more harrowingly against your chest.

Romie’s always around you. Always. He finds it difficult to actually be physically intimate, so it says quite plainly (even if you can’t understand it yet) that you’re the love of his life when he comes barrelling down the front stairs of the veranda and straight into your hug whenever your first foot falls onto the estate. It also means that during family dinners, when he’s finally mastering the skill of slouching back in his wishbone chair and tuning out all the horrible and spiteful things wrapped up in faux sincerity his family are saying about each other, he turns instead to kick your feet under the table. The brush of his ankle against your shoe is soon followed by the heavy pressure of his fingers reaching over onto your lap and entangling with your own. When the two of you are finally excused, you decide not to go back inside straight away. Instead, the two of you go for a dander around some of the verdant fields around the edges of the property: a few green patches here there that are filled with the scent of honeysuckle and freshly blooming rainbows splattered amongst the dirt. You decide to stop and sit for a while on the edge of a cobbled stone wall, laughing as Roman nearly falls off the uneven patch as he settles down beside you. He shrugs you off with a wave of his hand, but he’s smiling as you pluck a daisy from between the blades and tuck it behind his ear. For a while, the two of you just exist: watching the sunset brew violet and lilac gleams across your eyeline, talking shite and poking fun at each other, until Roman shyly takes a break from his rapid talking to blink slowly. He leans his torso forward, and after a bashful burn flickers over his cheeks, he squeezes his eyes shut and plants a wet kiss against your cheek, just like he had done all those years before.

He climbs into your room later that night, and you nearly hit him with a baseball bat when you come strolling out of your bathroom to see a teenager laying splayed out in a heap on your rug, a few pages of your homework flying over your desk from where he had banged his knee and tripped. With a lopsided grin, he decides to just stay lying there (once you had convinced him that you weren’t going to actually hit him). Sometimes Roman just likes to watch what you’re doing: to observe as an outsider what normality, what contentment should and could feel like. As you sit by your lamp and finish off your english essay for the next morning, you notice with furrowed eyebrows that Roman is moochier than normal tonight: he keeps squirming, rolling about and whining as if he’s debating something in his mind. That’s why when he’s gripping onto the ivy and finally climbing back down into the darkness later that night, you grab onto the collar of his sherpa jacket and heave him up through the air like a flustered bird towards you. After his initial surprise at the feeling of you pounding your lips against his own, he melts into you: clumsily, messily, desperately, but with one hand gripping so hard onto your window frame that he splinters the wood. His top lip refuses to let you go: capturing onto your bottom lip over and over and over again, the sweet taste of cherry flooding your senses as you bite down on the lip forcing its way into your mouth. When he pulls away, he looks so uncharacteristically serious for a moment as he hovers a few inches away from your face. His eyes never break from your lips, as if he he looks away the miracle he’s been graced with might fly away and he’ll be left with the hellish nightmare of his normal reality. But it doesn’t, and so you let him go.

He burns a crimson red and starts muttering incoherently as his feet work their way back down the garden lattice, but he’s got this giddy smile and a spring in his swishing walk the whole way home.

I mean, like, of course Connor invited you on the camping trip. And man, I mean the tension that had been expanding between you and Roman over the last few years was becoming more and more obvious to his brothers, and it pierced Roman’s heart with a stroke of fear when he realised it was to him as well. Connor’s little fishing expedition by the river turned out a little differently than he expected: instead of a placid moment between family, learning and teaching new skills together and bonding over one activity they could all share in, it was more of a ‘watch little gremlin Roman flirt obnoxiously with Y/n and, once again, ignore everyone else’ fest. Kendall sat on the shore, itchy against the reeds of grass and sighing every time he looked down at his watch. Connor was still having fun, though, from where he was wading his brand new, and never worn again wellies into the shallow end of the creek. It was just that every now and then he would have to trip over his fishing line and scoot to the right to avoid large splashes of weedy water landing on him; Roman had decided a much better use of his time was to try and pull up handful of mud and chase you around the river side with it. Your squeals, as you ran around the tamarack trees and peered around the sides like a meerkat, could be heard from the campsite. So, too, could Roman’s hyena laugh as he went laughing around the bend after you, and Connor had to spend half the night ignoring your shared snickers as he apologies to camper after camper. 

I don’t even know how, but somehow the two of you managed to convince Connor that it was a great idea for you and Roman to share a tent. Thanks to Kendall’s pointed warning for the two of you to behave and ‘not embarrass the family name anymore’, you were both surprisingly well behaved during the night. Mainly due to the fact that before you fell asleep, you leant over and left a chaste kiss against Roman’s cold forehead, before turning onto your side facing him and wishing him a goodnight. He wiggled down into his sleeping bag like a little worm as the electricity from your touch spread down like firebolts through his body. That man did not sleep one wink that night. Not one. Instead he rolled onto his left side, and chose to spend his time contemplating you: taking you in. The milky buzz of twilight flooded through the loose zip, the chirp of bouncing crickets on the darkened rocks outside match the intense thudding of his heart. Fumbling his fingers up so they rested underneath the side of his jaw, he made himself comfortable as he observed the way your chest rose and fall: the way your nose crinkled up in disgust when you were in the throes of a weird dream, the way your mouth mushed as you turned more into the stony ground. How much he loved you. How happy he could be if he could just summon the bravery to tell you. How fucked he was. How, if he did, his father would immediately utilise it, weaponize his love against him.

Roman wasn’t stupid, but he was. He didn’t know if he could find a way to escape this cage. Deep in his heart, he knew there was no key to this dog kennel, to this bird cage, to this leash. But he lay there, still, dreaming of freedom.

You get invited along on their family holidays a lot, mainly because Logan spends his whole time on phone calls and not mentally being present so he doesn’t really notice you’re there. If you and Roman aren’t spending the afternoons sitting together on a sun lounger, reading aloud softly to him by the pool side, it’s spent actually in the pool. A freshly seventeen year old Roman had seemed nervous, besides the usual annoyance at having to wear nothing but swimming shorts: shaken all day; when you touch his pinkie finger and grip onto it, silently asking him with your stern expression if you were okay, only the most miniscule of grins could cross his face in response. He still seemed unsettled in the water, besides the fact that Shiv’s foot nearly thwacked him up the face as she and Kendall wrestled each other under the water, both unrelenting in their accusation that the other had lost their splashing match. While you watched on in horrified curiosity, you nearly jumped when you felt Roman softly touch your elbow and lead you away from the affray. You think he’s trying to guide you towards the Jacuzzis as you bob across the water, or perhaps back to his room to escape the antics of his family. Instead, Roman leads you further into the deep end for a moment; after a sharp turn right, you’re surrounded by a small well, a shallow area just out of sight of the main swimming area. The imposing walls loom over your head as you take a perched seat on the brick bench that runs around the semi-circle, and Roman’s breath trembles as he follows suit, sitting maddingly close to you. You open your mouth to ask him what’s going on, but before you can get a squeak out he’s lunged at you, fervently enough to make you nearly bite your tongue. It’s not super romantic, and it’s incredibly clumsy as an inexperienced Roman Roy mashes his lips against your bottom one until he can feel his teeth clash against yours. You can taste a touch of pineapple from the inside of his mouth as he sloppily raises his cupid’s bow, and soon after the tang of chlorine as he falls too far forward and sends you both tumbling backwards into the water. But when you come back up for air, heaving him up by his underarms and staring dumbstruck at him as he pants heavily and tries to look anywhere else, you burst out giggling. Roman’s smile grows brightly enough to blight the sun as he looks incredulously at you, the laughter only stopping short on his lips when he catches the squinting look of his sister watching the two of you from the boundary edge.

It’s the first and last time Roman Roy kisses you for a while, terrified that one of his siblings will go squealing to daddy and he’ll take you away from him. And then, suddenly, the two of you have grown up. Roman’s still stuck to you like glue, but the repression festers away in his stomach until he feels as if some kind of scaly tooth monster is gnawing away at his insides. He feels the leather tighten around his neck whenever he’s standing like an affronted ostrich in that office with his father, his master, his demise, his ghost, him. 

So, Roman starts to try and avoid you whenever he’s at Waystar, worried that the grief that never seems to leave his mind will strangle you if he lets you in. Terrified that his father will die, but also that his father will never die. That this is just another cage. Eventually, after weeks of him turning on his heels with a manic jolt and running out of every board room he spots you in: after months of the child dressed up as a man putting his phone to his ear and having nonsensical phone calls every time he passes you in the corridors, you manage to nab him when he’s walking out of the break room. Even though a stuttering cousin Greg thinks you’re trying to kidnap him when you grab Roman by the collar and start dragging him to the elevator, you refuse to let go until Greg’s waving hand is firmly shut behind the metal sheets. You let go, and he fumbles backwards onto the hand-rail that runs around the small rectangle with a bemused ‘what the actual fuck’, but you just cross your arms and stare at him, refusing to talk first. 

Your austere façade quickly drops, and you’re quick to slam your first into the emergency button on the panel, gripping onto Roman’s sleeve as the elevator lurches to a stop between the twenty-second and twenty-third floors. A kind of acceptance has washed over Roman, some kind of known and familiar claustrophobia from having spent his whole life locked up, his whole life thrown about sets in. He picks at his fingernails as his eyes dart about, wild and brutal and crushing as he looks around for an escape route. It’s only when you put a hand on his shoulder and draw him in for a hug that he breaks down; he squats down so the two of you are resting a few inches off the floor, his face buried just atop of your heart as he shakes and he cries and he allows himself the security to just crumble. To melt down. To kick his feet and hope his father feels the wring of the shackles against his own ankles. He hopes for the first time in his life, as you stroke the back of his head and shush him comfortingly, that they hurt him. 

Something changes between the two of you that day. You’re kinder to each other, and slowly to yourselves. It’s not outspoken, or rushed, or ravenous, but it begins to grow and grow and grow until it’s not only confusion and anguish that lies at the pit of Roman’s rotting core.

It starts with him becoming more comfortable showing affection to you around his family. Like you sitting on Roman’s lap at Shiv’s wedding reception, not listening to the speeches but trying to hide your giggles in Roman’s palms as he’s busy trying to take roses out of the centre piece and pin them through your hair. Or his full weight against you during the professional photos out on the balcony, and not even Shiv flicking her brother or Tom waving his hand at Roman to try and get him to behave could stop him from leaning backwards and planting a kiss underneath your jawline once the man said he was taking the final photograph. The two of you go out into the gardens later that night, trying to escape the ear-hammering loud beats of the D.J., and to try and make an early escape from the growing fight that seemed to be coming between Tom and Shiv’s old work acquaintance. With two beers and slightly tipsy heads, you sit down and talk on the dew-ridden grass, shoulders swaying against the other’s in time with the falling pine leaves. You felt like children again, and against the smouldering clash of fireworks that brandished the sky in bursts of red and gold, you both felt undying as well. He kisses you then, his hand reaching up to brush against the side of your cheek, his bottom lip teasingly tugging at your bottom lip and making you swat him away with a laugh. As you take his hand in your own and press a promise filled kiss against his middle knuckle, he hopes that one day he’ll be able to kiss you at your own wedding.

When you know he’s having a rough day at work, you like to try and sneak into his office and wrap your arm around his stomach, peppering kisses up and down his spine. Although he tries to shake you off like a startled starling at first, when he realises that you also managed to close the blinds on your way in without him noticing, he quickly relinquishes himself onto your barrage of adoration. He becomes all whiny, and soft, and needy, and all the things he’ll never allow himself to be outside of the security blanket of this closed off room. Although he still isn’t comfortable with anything too sexual, you won’t find him complaining as he wrestles you to the sofa. Once you’ve had the wind knocked out of your lungs, and Roman’s satisfied with how fully you’re splayed out on your back before him, he’ll go scuttling over to the end of the sofa and kneel down beside it. With a mischievous glimmer in his eye, he’ll swish his hips from side to side and come crawling up the sides of his body like a wolf slinking towards its dinner. Then he attacks: his tongue heavy and slick as he draws a hickey out just under the pulse point on your neck, pressing him firmly against you if you try to squirm away, chiding you with a warning. When it becomes too much, he lets you grip him up by his tie and walk him backwards until his thighs hit his desk. He jumps up to perch on it, and you stand between his legs as they tighten around you. You’re slow and careful as you loosen the material between your fingers, opening the first button of his shirt, and only the first so he doesn’t become too uncomfortable, with a satisfying loud pop. He whimpers as you lean over to scrape your teeth against the exposed skin, working your way up until your lips are tantalisingly hovering over the stubble on his jaw. He can feel your breath, hot and unsteady as it pants against him, but he still can’t stop the shiver that racks through him as he takes your hand and guides them under his shirt. With your hands firmly planted against his abdomen, you look at him quizzically, worried, but he just keeps his fingers on top of your own and answers you by sweetly pressing his top lip over his own. Just once, he wanted to feel safe, to feel okay with the love of his life touching his body.

The two of you have this game where you try to steal kisses from each other during the most inappropriate and annoying times possible. Oh, Shiv’s trying to talk to you in her kitchen about how her trip to England went? Roman barges in between the two of you, nearly making Shiv chop her thumb off, just so he can interrupt his sister by smirking against your mouth. Kendall wants to run through a presentation the two of them have to give the next morning? You’re grabbing onto Roman’s head as you run through the office, nearly giving him a heart attack as he scrambles backwards and allows you to drop his head back onto the cushion. With a full plant landing on his already pliant lips, Kendall’s left with a fed-up ‘hey’, yet unsurprised look of disappointment on his face as you run off back to your own desk.

When his father called Romie a moron in Prague, the look of desolation that crossed through his teary eyes was enough to make an angel weep. But it broke you even more when he pattered out of the dining area, walking shoulder to shoulder with you, but not saying anything. He was just staring down at his hands as if they were blotted: stained with specks of blood, and he would have to spend another sleepless night scrubbing them out of his skin. It wasn’t the first time he heard it, but it was the first time you were there to hear it too, and you weren’t going to let him get comfortable wallowing in that fearful acceptance. You grip onto his shoulder and steer him away from the milling crowd of sheep, stuffing him into a bathroom stall of the east wing of the hotel. Crowded together, Roman’s hamstring bumps against the porcelain as the two of you scoot about until you’re standing facing each other as best as you could. He looks at you, bleary eyed, and you look at him, bleary eyed. He breaks. Choking, gasping, breathless sobs, drowning in his misery. He grabs onto your shirt, clawing into the meat of your shoulders as if he’ll sink if he lets go. He keeps babbling through bubbles of spit about how he just wants to make his father proud, how he wants to be just like him, how he wants to prove that he can rule all this too. How he can never replace him. But he can. He wants it all to burn, but he wants to stand on the ruins and be the one to plant the foundations again. To make a better world, in honour of his father: in honour of the god of war that rages within his head. You press quick kisses on his sweaty forehead whenever you can, doing your best to dodge the quick turns of his head and wiping away the trails of tears with your thumb. All you can do in that moment, as you press your lips against the side of his ear and whisper it to the most intimate, lost parts of himself, is to let him know that you’re proud of him, no matter what happens next. You always have been, and even the ghost of Logan that possess Roman can’t stop that.

The sloppy kisses he gives you the next morning omg. When the two of you are sitting on your bedroom steps, and you’re biting your bottom lip in concentration as you try to do up the buttons of his dress shirt and make him look presentable in front of his family. Like a feral dog, he uses all of his leftover energy trying to nip and bite your fingertips, catching them on his tongue and pursing them against the roof of his mouth whenever he can.

You cannot convince me that Roman isn’t a jealous bitch. Like at Kendall’s fortieth birthday party, when he finally gives up trying to get up into his special little secret treehouse club, and Shiv has left him to go ham on the dance floor instead. You finally manage to convince him into relaxing for a fricking minute, making him join you at the bar. If someone tries to grab your waist, though, or butt into your conversation while the two of you are hyena giggling and seeing who can spurt more beer into the other’s face, Roman will full on goad them into fighting him. I mean, chest puffed out, crazed look in his face, hands up by his side until they send a weak shove in their general direction. It only ends when Roman either: near topples you to press a bracing kiss against your lips, or you dragging him off and having to hold him through the brackets of his arms. In the corner of the room, over by the sheets of warbling fire that seems to be coming from a central room, you stand behind his feet and wrap your arms up his chest. You can feel the fury roll off him, allowing him a moment to blow off the steam, until his head finally falls like putty and begins to synchronise his breathing to yours again after you hold your lips against the nape of his neck.

The kisses when he comes back after being held hostage (I am doing this so out of order apologies) omg??? He clambers sombrely to sit beside you on the deck of the boat, looking so out of place and serious as he leans back against the cushions. His siblings make fun of him, and tease him, and although he realises it’s harmless and he’ll see it as a key bonding moment a couple of years down the line, in the inside the typical Roy storm is brewing. He can’t say anything: just hides behind the jokes and snide comments so the words don’t choke him. You just feel his weight fall against yours little by little, until his hand reaches out and takes your own so tightly you know it’s going to bruise. The muscle in his jaw tightens and he squeezes his eye shut in an enduring pain at the sight of his father’s helicopter coming in to land. So, for that kind second before his life comes crashing back down around him again and he has to revert back, to hide behind the brick wall again, you take him over to the railings. It’s just the two of you, the warm sea salt stinging against your grimacing faces, and the ungodly sight of a near-naked Cousin Greg lying stretched out beside the slide below you. After a few goes, you manage to unlatch his claws from the white metal and replace them with your soothing palm, rubbing semi-circles against the back of his hand. You’re here. You’re here, with him. You’re not going to let him go it alone again, if he wants.

And he does. He could cry, he so desperately does. Some of the tension falls from his shoulders as he raises your joint hands to his lips and kisses them, gracing over every inch of skin his mouth can latch onto. 

You both know, in that moment, that it’s enough. It’s a promise. You’ll stick together, no matter what. You’ll love each other through everything, no matter what. You’ll stay around, no matter what or who he becomes.

Which brings me to... kissing him when you find out about the passing of his father. Standing on that boat, on the most joyous of occasions, feeling as if the whole world is shattering around you. Feeling miserable at the knowledge that deep down, some part of you is overjoyed by the news. Feeling even more downtrodden to realise, as the streaky eyes and thousand-stare faces of the Roy siblings flash back and forth in your line of sight as they pass the phone to each other, that Logan will never really be gone. They’re talking to his lifeless, empty shell through the speakers, but it doesn’t matter, because he’s here in this room. He’s staring through their eyes. Talking in their quivering, harsh voices. Pounding through their feet. Tearing them apart as they try to cling onto each other. In their accusations that burst through their mouths innately. In the ordered instructions hurled out to keep business running smoothly. Hidden between the cracks of their voices as they sharpen their words and seethe them out between clenched teeth when the slightest chance of Logan even being dead is raised. He’s here, right now, as you let go of the death grip Kendall and Shiv have on both of your hands and catch sight of Roman rocking backwards and forth on the floor.

Giving a final squeeze of apology to Connor’s arm, you take Roman out of the room before he combusts. The whole air seems to be chilled: still, like something’s lurking unspoken between the threads of air. Like you’re leading Roman through the cold remains of a morgue. He wanders around for a minute, not even hearing the click of the door as you close it behind you. Not even crying. Not even speaking. For the first time in his life, he looks so much like his father. Too much. It scares you. Until eventually he just closes his eyes and trods over to the wall, thumping his forehead down on the cool metal until it burns. He holds his hand out to you, cufflinks gleaming like the edge of a knife past the ceiling lights, as if he’s offering a contract out to you. Apprehensively, your tentative hand creeps out and places itself gingerly on top of his own. He takes it, his dry lips latching onto you until the bridge of his nose is resting now upon your hand. The deal is done.

When you get back to your apartment though, and Romie finds out that Matsson wants him to fly out and meet him in Norway... that’s when Roman gets weird. Devastated. Freaks out. Grieves. You come out from your shower, wearing one of his suit shirts as your pyjama top, and he doesn’t even give a whistle of appreciation. Instead he’s crumpled on the floor by the canopy of your bed, cradling his knees to his chest, swearing into his kneecaps furiously. But you - you, oh god, you’re the only thing that can stop him from being swallowed up by Logan’s fury. You tilt his chin up during a tangled rush of expletives I don’t dare to copy down here, a scowl setting itself into his face like stone. It begins to soften when he realises you’re touching him, when he can feel the scrape of your nail around his jugular. You do your best to warble an unconvincing smile as you turn his head to the side, so you can better wipe your bottom lip against the edge of his throbbing mouth. You mould yourself to him, working at his pace as he winces at first, before slowly falling more and more easily into your grip. His hands loosen from his arms and fall onto your triceps as he deliriously tries to come back to himself through searching through the velvety warmness of your mouth: by swiping against your tongue and choking back his grievances as you pant into his open, waiting mouth.

You wake him up the next day with a fond kiss against the tip of his nose, and for the first time in a long while he smiles before he wakes fully up. The morning light cradles his bleary face as he sleepily runs a few fingers over the edge of your cheek, before cradling himself into your side again. He feels safe, weary, anguished, loved enough to fall asleep again, after pressing a few gentle licks behind your earlobes to try and hear you laugh again. Even through it all, his main concern is you. 

You trace his features while he restlessly dreams, although he squirms from time to time and alludes you to the fact that he’s secretly awake. A kiss here, between the junctions of wrinkles on his furrowed forehead. A kiss there, on the patchy stubble just underneath his left ear. A few there on the dark circles underneath his eyes, until you’re balancing over him and holding yourself up by the hands splayed over his pillow. He just needs to be reminded he’s beautiful from time to time. That he’s perfect. That he doesn’t need to try and be someone else. To encapsulate his father. 

But also like, Roman fucking hates Matsson. The way he looks at you during the whole field trip, like a hunter about to swallow its prey whole. Although the continuous comments about his family, and the two new Co-Ceo’s, and the legacy of his father make him burn down to the pit of his stomach with a white hot fury, he can deal with them if he would just leave you the fuck alone. He doesn’t take kindly to anyone but him looking at his soulmate with such adoration and lust in their eyes, so if that overgrown yeti gives you the up and down check out one more time he might actually just deck him in the middle of the retreat. He bites down on his tongue so harshly that his taste buds begin to bubble and prickle with blood, deciding it best to storm off and collect his thoughts before he lashes out and does something he can’t take back. You finally manage to track him down a little way off the beaten track, winding your way over some cobbled steps to find a branched alcove with nothing but a bench and a breath taking view of the gushing river down below. He’s hunched over with his fingers knotted over his knees, his lips so tightly drawn together that at first you don’t even spot the droplets of blood until he turns with a raised eye to look at you.

He knows it’s not your fault, so there’s no convincing or apologies when you join him. Just Roman finally getting all of that pent up sorrow and distress out. After an awkward moment of bouncing your foot up and down, you decide your best course of action is to just open your arm up to him again, like you used to do when you were children. At first he raises a confused eyebrow, before the realisation dawns over his face, and his features crumble. His lips purse, his throat bobbing as he heaves the tears back down, but he can’t stop his lips from trembling as he falls into your side. That kiss was the sweetest, as he leans his chin familiarly against your shoulder and bumps noses with your own. He frowns, sobbing at the knowledge that he can kiss you, finally, in the way he’s been yearning for all his life, and yet it all feels so wrong. So upside down. So far away from what he had dreaming. The freedom feels like a tether, and yet he juts his chin out and latches placidly onto your bottom lip anyway, the tears trickling down and falling between your mouths. 

It’s an act of defiance. A key sliding into the lock. He still can’t say it, but he won’t allow himself to smother the feeling anymore. The first sip of poison gliding down his throat, and Roman prays as he presses his forehead tearfully against your own, that it would kill the Logan part of him first.

#succession #succession imagine #roman roy #roman roy imagine #roman roy x reader #kendall roy #shiv roy #roman roy headcanons #logan roy #roman succession #roman succession imagine #succession season 4 #greg hirsch #connor roy #tom wambsgans #succession spoilers #kieran culkin #succession fanfic #succession fanfiction #x reader

[romeulusroy]

Being Shiv's Twin With Depression Would Include:

Requested: Can I request a Succession headcanon for being Shiv's twin who struggles with depression, please? - anon

A/N: I love these requests cuse I'm a twin and I feel like I have inside knowledge lol like I have cheat codes. Anyways, thank you for requesting my love!!! Hope you like it!!! Feedback is always appreciated!!! 💜💜💜

Shiv is definitely the oldest twin

As the oldest, she takes her duties very seriously. From blowing out the birthday candles first, to reminding you that she's a whole year older for the amount of time it took you to be born, to protecting you from other kids at school when they're being mean

She loves you more than life itself, she would do anything to protect you. As far as Shiv is concerned, she's the only one who can call you names and push you around. Anyone else, even your brothers, are off limits. She's incredibly defensive over you. You could do no wrong, even when you do, it's never your fault

"Y/n hit me!"

"No they didn't!"

"Yes they did!"

"You deserved it then."

When Logan is cruel to you or dismisses you, Shiv is the one you cry to. She's the one who, in a moment of pure insanity, goes to Logan and demands that he be nicer to you. You beg her not to, but it's too late. He laughs in her face, dismissing her as well, but at least she gave it a good shot. She does it more as a reminder that she'd do anything for you, including standing up to him for you

"Don't listen to him, he's a mean old man."

"What if it's true? What if I'm stupid?"

"Are you kidding? You're the smartest person I know."

Your mother still goes on and on about how carrying twins ruined her body. You just share a knowing look, that for the rest of your lives you'll have to hear about what a burden you were before you were even born

You and Shiv are by far the closest siblings. You share everything: a room, secrets, even your own twin-language. You can still sort of speak it now, with a few words, which creeps everyone out. Your father made a rule at the dinner table that a language everyone knows must be spoken because Roman would get upset and Kendall would get annoyed. You don't need words though, just a look can tell you everything

Shiv is the Dandelion child, she can thrive under any circumstances. She doesn't mind the pressures, all the unspoken rules and tension. It doesn't bother her. You, on the other hand, are the Orchid child. You don't thrive in the Roy household. You're anxious and sensitive and when you're at school or with friends or even with your mother you're able to come out of your shell. At home you wilt, and Shiv is the only one who understands this, who sees this and tries her best to fix this

Where Shiv thrives in your teenage years, you start to feel this overwhelming sense of dread, this horrible exhausted, overwhelmed, terrible feeling you don't have a name for. You are riddled with insecurity, with self-doubt and self-criticism. It feels horrible. You feel like you bruise too easily, like everything hurts. You find it hard to get out of bed, to find joy in things, to be yourself. You're not showering or brushing your teeth. You have this overwhelming urge to hurt yourself to find relief. Shiv is the first to notice, but she doesn't know what's wrong or how to fix it

She doesn't have a word for it either. She tries her best to help you, planning weekends so you're not stuck in bed, helping you with deadlines and homework so you don't fall behind, so you don't suffer under your father's wrath. She wants to shake you out of it, hoping it's just a bug or a rut

It's not though and not long after you break down in tears in front of her, scared, exhausted, tired of existing like this, tired of existing at all. She knows she can't go to either parent about this, so she goes to the school guidance counselor and sets up a meeting. When you come out of it, it's the first time you say the word Depression. Neither of you knew anything about mental health. What your father says is mostly jokes or making fun of someone. Whatever Connors mother suffered from, he had her locked away because of it. You make a pact right then and there not to tell Logan. Shiv makes you promise when you feel this way, you talk to her about it. She'll help you figure it out

And you do. Nothing is off limits between you. When you lose your appetite, she's the one who sits with you and makes you eat. She brushes your hair and helps you get dressed. She organizes everything in the bathroom to make it easier to get washed in the morning. It pains her to see you hurting

Neither your father or mother notice anything different and though your brothers suspect something might be up, they know better than to interfere

For years this goes on. You meet with the counselor once a week and talk to Shiv when you feel like you aren't burdening her. Eventually she catches on to these feelings and reminds you often there is nothing you could do to bother her. Nothing

"I love you."

"I love you more."

"Not possible."

"Yes possible."

There are times when you don't feel any kind of depression and other times where it feels suffocating, like you'll never see the end of it. Either way, you know with Shiv by your side, you'll get through it

She worries about you to no end. It's her job as big sister to protect you, protect you from everything. How can she protect you from your own mind? She does lots of research. What it is, how to help, how it's treated, etc.

One you graduate and are out of the house, Shiv not so subtly finds you a real therapist, someone qualified to really help and diagnose you. For her, you go and it's there that you're diagnosed with depression. You're put on medication/s and go every two weeks

She checks in wirh you, seeing how you're doing, how it's going, how you're feeling

It's been under control for a while now, you've never felt better. It lingers of course, but you're finding ways to handle it, to cope

You know if you didn't have Shiv you wouldn't be here today

When your brothers find out years later, far into your adulthood, Shiv makes it known any jokes about it won't be tolerated

"Can I just-"

"If you like where you're intestines are, you'll keep quiet."

"Noted."

Connor feels terrible that you had to go through it alone, but you assure him you weren't alone. You had Shivy. You thank her for everything, every time she calls, every time she texts, every time you talk. She just shrugs it off like its no big deal, but it was, it is

When you're having an especially hard time you know her guest room is always available. Tom becomes used to seeing the two of you in there, asleep or talking. She makes it known that her place is also your place, that you're welcome anytime

"What about you, how are you doing?"

"You know me, I can thrive in any conditions."

"Shivy. . ."

"I know what you mean. I'm okay, really."

You're still as close as ever

You talk about everything, including your marriages, your brothers, Gojo and Matsson and the election. You're always the one who makes her laugh, really laugh and can take her mind off anything

"Where would I be without you?"

"Ohio, probably."

"Shut up!"

Shiv knows a lot about your depression, more so than anyone. She was there when it started and she'll be there til the end. She never judges or doubts you because of it. She knows it makes life a hell of a lot harder. You're doing your best, even when you don't feel like it, even when you feel like you're not. She loves you, you're her twin after all

#requested #headcanon #shiv roy #shiv roy headcanon #shiv roy imagine #succession #succession headcanon #succession imagine #shiv roy x reader #succession x reader

[peachyteabuck]

i’m out of my head when you’re not around

summary: shiv has a lot of secrets. you happen to be one of them

a commission for @cherrysweetdevine​

pairing: shiv roy x reader

words: 2366

content warnings: mentions of whorephobia (reader is a stripper), survival sex work, vaginal fingering, car sex, angst, they love each other but they Can’t Be Together, fingers in mouth, orgasm control/denial, D/s dynamics, “mommy” pet name used

Shiv is not a woman who likes to have weaknesses. She covers her tracks wherever she makes them. She has shell companies for her shell companies, and then shell companies for those, too. She’s got lawyers heartless and well-paid enough to defend her. She’s got corporate spies, and government ties, and both fear her.

Somehow, though, you’ve weaseled your way into a certain spot in her chest that pangs when she’s far away from you for too long. It’s not as though she can text, email, or call—all of which are discoverable in the event of an unfortunate legal situation. No, she has to go in person, has to speak in a subtle code, and hope you understand. She has to leave her phone in the car, contacting her driver with a different burner each time. She’s careful, practiced, and precise.

Especially when she sneaks out to see you during work hours. She’d deny it if anyone asked—not that they were dumb enough to think they could ask her such a question. What Shiv does off company property is no one’s business but her own, and she intends to keep it that way.  

Entering the facility, she refuses a coat check (she knows from you the person running it tonight has sticky fingers, and a penchant for mixing up tags) and slides into one of the velvet-lined semi-circle couches in the darkest corner of the club. It’s far from the stage, the usual clientele leaving the seat vacant for that reason. Not many people are here—probably because she decided to come after the dinner rush. A smart move, considering how much she hates being overcrowded. It’s stifling, to be around many people—especially when all of those people are old, sweaty men.

She’s not here to throw cash, though, she’s here to see you.

And you, she notices, have just stepped onto the floor. Not only that, but you’re wearing the dress she bought you recently.

The white dress, dripping in hand-beaded, translucent crystal fringe, hugs your figure. The crystals move as you do, dancing as if they’re the ones on stage. Each one shines in the light, licking at your skin like flames onto wood. You don’t let it subsume you, though. No one else could wear that dress like you are right now. No one has the presence powerful enough to rival the crystals, or the V-shaped hem, or the deep neckline. The shoes, the ones she also bought you, are the same white as the dress. The toe strap has just enough crystals to call attention to them were you to be upside down, the ankle strap and thick heel bare.

The most important facet of your attire, though, is that Shiv had it custom-made for you and had it delivered to your apartment on the Upper West Side. She saw it on a model during fashion week, touting the gaudy, too-short dress with an atrocious pair of heels and a walk that reminded her of tripod dog that just woke up from a deep nap.

Shiv saw something though, behind the horrid styling and wretched model. She saw a chance, which she immediately took to prove that she hadn’t forgotten about you despite months of no contact.

If Shiv were anyone else, she would’ve grabbed you already—gave you a giant diamond ring and an outrageously expensive wedding and swept you to some cottage in the countryside where she’d make love to you as if she was trying to produce an heir.

But she’s herself, and you’re you, and so she finds herself here: in this high-end strip club-slash-sex dungeon, watching you from afar like a hunter in the brush. At least for them, though, they have the pleasure of taking their kills home.

No, she just saw a five-figure price tag and filled out the check. What can she say, she likes things that are expensive. She anything as long as it has a big enough price tag. The powerbroker inherited an unfortunate number of traits from Logan—her hairline, how she likes her coffee in the morning, the way she expresses love in the same way the average general speaks to their soldiers. This, though, seems to get her into the most trouble. Particularly, the most trouble with you.

One of the other girls offers her a menu as she sits down, one she turns down. She knows what she wants, ordering a bottle for herself and a single cocktail for you.

It’s not long before you find her, sitting to her right. Right after, the sever brings her order and leaves without saying anything else. She’s seen you and her together before, she knows she won’t be needed until it’s time to pay the tab.

“Fancy seeing you here,” you say, no hint of irony in your voice. Shiv likes that about you, how dry you are. No lube before the fucking, just how Shiv likes it.

She takes a long drink from her glass, savoring the rich taste for a moment before speaking. “I could say the same to you as well.”

“Still with your husband?” you ask, sipping on the virgin sex on the beach. Shiv could convince you to do quite a lot—but you’d never drink on the job, and you don’t intend to start now. Even for the beautiful woman with a bottomless wallet and a toy collection that would put the pro-dominatrixes who work in the club to shame, you’ve got to keep a clear head and not break house rules. It’s kept you alive this long, and you’re not one for breaking tradition.

Shiv respects that, popping the cork and pouring herself a glass of 2007 Sassicaia. She’s the only woman you had ever met who drinks red wine at a strip club, but you admire her commitment to avoiding champagne and vodka.

“By all legal accounts,” is all Shiv says in return. A divorce is costly, even with the prenup, and could make her appearance to shareholders worse. She’s tough, and a good CEO, but the bastards are always looking for a way to undermine her. Still, she and Tom haven’t slept in the same bed in years, now, their legal addresses are the same only in case someone were to ask. They haven’t spoken to each other about anything except business in even longer, their conversations about times when they need to be seen together going through their assistants.

Shiv Roy maintains a steeled image, and she can’t give that up for anyone—even you.

You know it, too; your profession acts as a piece of bulletproof glass, separating you for eternity.

This job may not have been your first choice. In fact, it was a last-ditch effort to keep yourself from getting evicted. Your mom may not know what you do, your career a shameful red A on your personhood. You lie to anyone who asks, dodging questions from landlords and lenders and your financial advisor.

But it had paid for your niece to go to nursing school. It had kept your sister out of collections when she had that cancer scare. It kept a roof over both of their heads when both of them lost their jobs. It keeps you out of debt and your apartment paid off. You don’t have a lifeboat, you are a lifeboat.

Shiv can’t understand that. The silver spoon hidden artfully under her tongue still shines when the dim lights of the house floor hit it just right. You can’t be too mad at her, though. The valley it creates between you keeps you from getting too close, from falling into her clutches. She’s a customer, and, you, providing a service. A very expensive service. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less. It keeps you both in your respective rigid categories, the borders shocking you every time you attempt to navigate past them.

“Meet me outside?” she asks, raking her eyes up and down your form. You shake just a bit as you break from your own line of thought, remembering the rest of the world exists. “I know your shift’s over soon.”

Shiv’s right. Even if she wasn’t, it’s not like you’d make more money showing your lace thong to the grandpas currently whistling at your coworker.

You nod, not giving her the satisfaction of a verbal reply. She just smiles, though, knowing she’s won and that there’s nothing anyone can do about it. There’s a certain smugness that comes from succeeding in battle, and Shiv will take it in any form she can. At least silence saves your dignity.

“One more thing,” she leans over to whisper, her lips just barely grazing the shell of your ear. “Keep the dress on.”

Back in the dressing room, you put on the biggest coat you can find, mindful of handsy customers’ bad habits regarding dancers out in the unprotected open. See a pretty woman in a short dress, and know she’s a dancer? It’s a concoction that ends in either a police report or a trip to the morgue, and you don’t have time for either. The mink and chinchilla fur blend keeps the February New York air from biting too deep into your skin, and the general public from seeing you dressed to the nines on a Tuesday night.

Confident in your half-hearted disguise as a normal civilian, you somehow find the courage to leave.

The dancers all have a special exit, patrolled by two security guards who are big as houses. They’re Russian, covered in tattoos, and wear earpieces you’ve never seen them talk into. They have, however, made sure no one who isn’t a dancer gets into the dressing rooms and kept every creepy customer from harassing leaving girls. In your book, that’s all you need to know that they’ll keep you safe.

You can feel their eyes following you as you step into Shiv’s car, the driver opening the door for you before walking back to his place in the front. Shiv’s already there, working on a tablet you’re sure is on airplane mode. She doesn’t look up to greet you until the car has already begun driving, and even then all she does is press a button on the central console.

You watch as the soundproof partition rolls up, the driver’s blank face staring straight ahead as you watch him disappear behind the black divider. Only then does Shiv turn to you, leaning forward to press your foreheads together.

Her perfectly manicured nails—painted in a deep purple that contrasts her pale skin—trace up your leg. “I’ve missed you, you know.”

In the safety of the car, you let your guard down. Your thighs open slowly, carefully, making room for her between them. But she doesn’t go that far, instead tracing up your navel before cradling your cheek. “And I know you’ve missed me, too.”

All you can do is flick your eyes between looking at her hand, and looking into her eyes.

“C’mon, open up, darling,” she coos, her index and middle finger rubbing over your plump bottom lip. Your lipstick, a matte nude meant to keep all the attention on your dress, doesn’t come off on her fingers just yet. For that, you’re grateful.

You hesitate for a moment, looking from her soft hands to her relaxed face. Shiv pouts, her calm demeanor giving way to a faux-niceness that has your center aching.

“Baby, don’t be like this,” she tuts, moving her hand so her thumb ever-so-subtly pulls your lips apart. “Let Mommy have some fun before we get home, won’t you?”

You nod ever so slightly, swallowing in a weak attempt to build your own courage back up. “Yes, Mommy. I’m sorry.”

She smiles as you open your mouth, welcoming the intrusion.

“Such a good girl for me,” she coos, her fingers rubbing circles onto your tongue before thrusting to the back of your throat. You can feel bits of drool fall down your chin between your thighs and pooling on the seat. It’s not the worst thing these seats have seen, at least not from you. And yet here, now, as Shiv balances her other hand behind you, as her wedding ring glints against the bright billboards of the city…

You gag around her fingers, the sudden drop in your ability to retrieve oxygen causing you to jerk.

“Shh pretty thing,” Shiv whispers, moving to rub at the tip of your tongue again. It gives you a chance to breathe, even as your jaw aches and your desperation grows. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.”

You can barely hear her over the ringing in your ears, your heart a racehorse in your chest. Your body slumps against the seats as you try to steady your breathing, but the last thread of your self-control snaps as you feel her tease at the thin fabric covering your weeping pussy. She doesn’t take them off, merely pushes them to the side.

“Fuck,” your voice is barely above a whisper, breathy and wonton. Her movements are confident and practiced as she gathers your wetness, circling it around your neglected clit. You buck into her hand, your hips moving on their own accord. No one else can touch you as she can, no one can elicit the same animalistic moans as her middle and index finger curling inside of you while her thumb rubs at your clit.

It’s good, it’s so fucking good, and all too soon you’re muffling your moans by biting into your hand as your other hand digs into her arm. Just a few more presses, just a few more twists until you-

Shiv laughs as she pulls away, watching as your face contorts and you cry out choked sobs.  

“Nuh-uh, baby,” she smiles as you whine, kicking your feet and pleading quietly. “Gotta make sure you have a reason to come home with me.”

It’s only then that you realize the car has stopped, and Shiv is moving your dress down and coat to cover your body. You follow her, stumbling along as she leads you. Still, in your frenzied state, you know you’d trust her to lead you safely anywhere.

#shiv roy x reader #shiv roy fanfiction #shiv roy x y/n #shiv roy reader insert #lukis does commissions #lukis writes stuff

[bladesmitten]

10 characters | 10 fandoms | 10 a negotiable number of tags

tagged by @mathlann yay thank you!!

there may be a recurring theme with some of the characters but let's not unpack all of that. also after the 5th placement, they're all tied in my heart okay?

franziska von karma - ace attorney. THEEEE favourite character of all time ever since the first word she says: "revenge." i could write 10 paragraphs of everything i love about her but i'll save you all from that. but perhaps the best thing about her is that she breaks the cycle without even knowing it, and proves herself a better person than her father without compromising her identity. <3

childe - genshin impact. also loved this guy upon his very first appearance. a character who got into a traumatic situation when he was young and gained eldritch powers because of it? and nevertheless remained an optimistic person? but also wants to gain strength and power at all costs? say less!

wyll ravengard - baldur's gate 3. ummm need i say more? fine, fine. he's so charming and handsome and dork supreme and king of whimsy, but most importantly, he's kind, despite everything he's been through. it takes an enormous amount of strength to remain hopeful and kind, and a lot of people (unfortunately) overlook that. also his character trope--paladin-coded warlock--is so so interesting and--[gets dragged off the stage]

shiv roy - succession. she's so sucks!!!! i love you selfish and arrogant babygirl who not only has daddy issues, but has mommy issues too. i love you shiv who would do anything for power and is the most like her father and gets trapped in the cycle anyways!!!

azula - avatar the last airbender. azula did nothing wrong.

severa - fire emblem: awakening. i love you insecure babygirl who overcompensates for everything by being abrasive. who feels like she's living in the shadow of her perfect mother. who ends up just like her mother in a darker timeline, protecting the exalt in an (un)requited love (lucisev truther btw)

jinx - arcane. i like her in the game but i love her in this series. i was really astounded with her character, what happened to her as powder and her parallels with her sister vi, and how she became the jinx we all know and love

mako mori - pacific rim. i love her dynamics with stacker and with raleigh ;___; also her sparring scene was soooo gooooood. the entire movie is just great, favourite of all time

claire - fleabag. i love claire's entire character and her juxtaposition with her sister fleabag, who's a mess. eldest daughter energy. learns to be selfish and pursue what she truly loves instead of maintaining her reputation at the expense of her well-being. also i just really love ambitious over-achieving characters

eve polastri - killing eve. i'm ignoring season 4 but god, i love the way her character changes throughout the series. she's so enthralled with villanelle and she hides it under the guise of pursuing an assassin but really she's so fascinated by her and it leads to her ruin as she keeps pursuing her with no regard for anything or anyone else in her life.

tagging, if you like - @bladeofavernus @droodle-bug @landlordevil @katagawajr @courierseis @targaryeirene and whoever else wants to do this :3c

#.txt #it's funny how there are only two men in this list #but they're babygirls. to me #tag games

[slippery-peeps]

This came to me in a vision. Had to get it off my chest

The Roy siblings as songs by The Smiths

-Kendall is so “How Soon is Now”-coded it’s crazy. “I am the son and the heir, of a shyness that is criminally vulgar. I am the son and the heir of nothing in particular…” like come ON. “I am human and I need to belong… just like everybody else does.”

-Shiv is very much “This Night has Opened My Eyes.” The injustice of womanhood, men’s broken promises. “Save your life because you’ve only got one. The dream has gone but the baby is real.” The motherhood of it all. But she will always be her own number one. Self-preservation above all, and the guilt that comes with it. I’m sick.

Plus the Tom of it all in the lyrics “You kicked and cried like a bullied child. A grown man of 25. Oh, he said he’d cure your ills. But he didn’t and he never will….” Obviously he’s older than 25 but the sentiment is the same.

-Roman is a little harder to nail down for some reason. At first I was thinking maybe “Half a Person”? Or “Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want”, but that feels too on the nose even for me. Roman is “I Know It’s Over.” He’s trapped, he can’t get out of the cage even though the door is open. “Oh Mother I can feel the soul falling over my head… I know it’s over, still I cling. I don’t know where else I can go.” The way the song cycles back in on itself, round and round and round, never to escape.

-Can’t forget Connor. “The Boy with the Thorn in His Side” I think. Though honestly this might also be applicable to all of them. “The boy with the thorn in his side. Behind the hatred their lies, a murderous desire for love.” The injustice of his very existence in his family, the chip on his shoulder.

#hbo succession #the smiths #shiv roy #roman roy #kendall roy #connor roy #tom wambsgans #succession

[oreganosbaby]

Thinking about the cis girl Succverse again and how Shiv is in this interesting position since she gets to have the most sexual autonomy of her sisters, with Kendall being pigeonholed as the pseudo-mom and Roman as the baby girl, and yet Shiv is also the most defeminized, which would probably be a blow to her relative social currency. It's definitely not like she can be anything resembling "butch", and despite her instinct to be a player I think she'd get initially presumed to be too mannish to be attractive a lot. Or rather, men probably wouldn't want to admit being attracted to her because it would feel too emasculating.

imo, this is practically canon. i always thought shiv's sexuality to be atypical for a fictional female character but, very realistic nonetheless. in canon, shiv is physically attractive enough as a woman despite her doing the bare minimum to be above avg in looks. like, she clearly doesn't care about fashion or anything that much but, she knows not to dress in a way that's significantly unfashionable. being a rich, good looking person who comes across as confident goes a long way despite her lackluster social skills. although she's seemingly bad at flirting, she's straightforward enough that she can get what she wants. in my experience, a lot of men actually really like when women are straightforward and blunt so, i think it works out for her in that way. i mean, she doesn't fully respect any of the men she fucked within the show because y'know, they're submissive. they're probably not the type to be that embarrassed by being attracted to her. i mean, tom thinks getting ANY is something to write home about because he didn't get that being sexually submissive is shameful. not everyone was raised by the roy family's spartan code. ironically, she’d assume every guy who WAS ashamed to be attracted to her were assholes.

in her encounters, she's the actor and the other person (from what we've seen, men) is the object: tom's a meat puppet, nate's a dog and that actor... self explanatory. this means shiv is socially fucking them, not the other way around because that's the sort of dynamic established between she and her sexual partner despite the fact that she's physically getting fucked. in most, but not all, contexts, she puts less importance on the gendered anatomy simply because it's inconvenient for her to think about it. to her, her gender doesn't matter and it's the other people who treat her differently for it that are in the wrong. she won't let them stop her and she'll take what she wants when she wants it (as long as she admits to herself she wants it). letting the uh, haters (misogynists) hold her back is like surrendering and that's not what she does. i mean, honestly, she's kind of a bull like that.

Because she's the one doing the fucking, she's actually good and correct still. like, she can't be a whore because that would make her dad a whore and he isn't because they both fuck. kendall (succession's ur-whore) and roman get fucked. when you want to get fucked, you need to ask someone to give it to you. when you want to fuck, you take what you want. i feel like the way the show frames her drives this home. i have literally ever seen shiv as being "slutty." the only time she dresses in a way that might be construed as this is around the end when she was wearing those midmarket tight dresses but, that's because she was getting weirdly desperate as the dynamics between she and tom as well as she and her father were shifting out of her favour and then there's the whole thing with her mom marrying peter onion. needless to say, shiv was going through it and it showed in some questionable fashion choices. other than that, she never really dresses to seduce because she just isn't seductive. she just fuckin takes nate's hand and shoves it down her pants. she doesn't feel compelled to be flirtatious in the way roman or even kendall (who is less good at it but i think he gets pity fucked a lot lol) seemingly does.

whatever bad relationship shiv might've had pre-Tom, i assume the dynamic was something like he made her feel like she was in control to manipulate her into getting what he wanted. i think in that case, it would be easy for him to make her feel bad about being independent, doing things for herself or being not as openly emotional as most people. there's a lot of like, seemingly "nice" guys who do that and i think, if tom is anything to go by, she likes "nice" guys with a bit of a mean streak so they're sweet to her but, aren't so nice that she'll feel like the asshole in comparison.

#succ sesh #myplasticadversary #dalia replies #lol i've actually been meaning to talk about this

[nina-vonnegut]

Sharp angles, babeeeey

I love how simple yet on the nose successions costume designer, Michelle Matland, was about Shiv (s clothes). In season 1 she looks "correct" but sloppy, in a way. The formula is there, blouse + pants + jacket but less #girlboss and more college students first real job.

pic from this amazing edit

That's not a mil/bill-whatever-naire. She also looks like an eco/alternative office mum who drinks almond milk. For girlbossing it is beneath her.

In s2 there are only angles. The siluette is sharp, you can cut yourself on any surface; starting with hair. It's also failproof. Because no matter how "sloppy" your clothes are that sharp haircut gives an edge. Also love how obviously there was more care to tailor Shivs clothing to further tighten the picture.

In fact everything is so tight Shiv can afford to "break" the formula and wear a shirt instead of a blouse. Even in neutral baby colors they kept the lines.

pics from this amazing edit

There are some amazing articles on the succession looks.

Love how this article points out the Roys are "anti Kardashians" because they already arrived and have been at the top of the food chain, there is no need for flashiness and bling. Many people were complaining about the pastels and it is always funny to see "who knows".

This is a European backdrop for them, more old European money rather than new American money, and there's a difference.

In the U.S., when we portray money, it's often through the Cartier jewels, the dangling diamonds, the fur, the handbags that scream money. They don't do that, and it's by choice, because they were brought up with code. The Roys are anti-bling. They don't need to present themselves that way. They choose what is luxurious to them—the labels don't count. Of course, they're going to be buying expensive accessories and clothes, but they don't need to posture. It may be a $2,000 pullover sweater but it doesn't need to have a logo on it to represent where they're coming from. They know who they are. They're already established.

#succession hbo #michelle matland #shiv roy #i feel like we completely forget about costume designers as soon as we enter *our* times #no one appreciates them at all #klukva watches tv #succession

[cauldronofmorning]

it sucks that hotd is such a bad show because alicent hightower is so shiv roy coded. like shitty abusive father who she simultaneously loves and hates? check! constantly represses her emotions and engages in self destructive behaviour? check. has to repress her attraction to women because of the conservative environment she’s in? check. in love with her female best friend but can only express it by lashing out? check. acts cruel and mean to hide her feelings? check. red hair? check! also idk how seriously we’re supposed to take gerri saying shiv “used to be a nice girl” when she was younger, but it fits with the contrast between teenage!alicent and adult!alicent. ALSO sarah saying that shiv was in abusive relationships in the past with men like her father and alicent being pimped out to the king by her dad :( like i just wish alicent was on a show that was actually good.

(Can’t speak for HOTD’a quality, I’ll trust.) Obviously Gerri is biased and they’re set against each other, but from the way the same shot is repeated with Roman and Kendall attack dogs and Shiv quiet and uncomfortable, I imagine there’s a grain of truth there? And as her mother kept scapegoating her and her dad kept her a replacement for Kendall and that environment was evil for a young girl, she got worse.

#shiv roy #succession

[liibravenus]

succession rewatch has me crawling on my hands and knees to shiv roy im no longer a kendall girl shiv is just so annoying and she thinks shes a badass but shes just kinda lame and everyone undermines her but shes so hot and shes distant cheating husband coded. women can be blorbos too

#the blue dress at the end of s3 sealed my fate #she and roman just swapped places huh #succession #shiv roy

[lelianaslefthand]

i was thinking about my kendall roy-coded hawke and if he'd be a mage or not bc ive assigned shiv to bethany and roman to carver STAY WITH ME. roman and carver honestly is less of a stretch bc both feel inferior to their siblings and have spent their entire lives trying to gain the approval and praise of their father but were always too Different to fit in completely. bethany and shiv are both frequently underestimated and powerful in their own rights. obviously their genders are the biggest thing bc while it doesnt really matter in game as much it does matter A Lot for the roy's dynamic and it's easy to fit in game content to those roles. bethany being the only daughter, the baby girl, father's apparent favorite... carver is leandra's baby boy... hawke is also there, eldest son with the weight of the world on his shoulders

but this is where hawke's class comes into play bc if he's a mage then him and bethany grew up as a kind of duo and were the "higher-status siblings" in carver's eyes as their father favored them by virtue of being mages and building that kind of resentment and inferiority complex. so hawke losing bethany is even more devastating bc they were close, she was the only one who Got It who understood, and sort of a last link to their father bc now its just him. only he has the magic that's defined so much of their lives and while he's already kind of been the head of house for a few years now it's really Just him and the rest of his family who dont really like him but he doesnt have a choice furthering the cycle of becoming his father. whatever that looks like i havent thought about much yet but malcolm is for sure better than logan we arent getting too crazy, but he haunts them in the same way. literally everything they do is "what would father have done". and on a "maybe the poison drips through" note, the poison being magic? inch resting... like we know the poison Did indeed drip through but having that tangible example that it has and how magic is literally viewed as a curse....hmm

on the other hand, non-mage hawke is closer with carver bc they were both sidelined by bethany, daddy's little girl and only one with magic. losing carver, again, is like losing the one who Gets it most but also he was leandra's baby boy (roman the mommy's boy) and she resents hawke for 'letting' him be killed. he still has bethany who has his father's magic which is a blessing and a curse but she keeps him grounded. they're both smart and know what's at stake. after she leaves he's all alone again and their relationship gets strained, all of that bonding thrown out the window. both of the last links to malcolm blaming him for things that he tried his best to avoid but it wasn't enough, it's never enough. it'll never be enough bc he isnt his father but he's still his father's son

#yeah i think im going mage bc the whole higher status sibling thing is very crunchy also carver's entire deal #these little crack AUs ive concocted are sort of fix-its. im not trying to play out succession in dragon age im just taking bits and pieces #so carver being sent away but it being beneficial and giving him purpose paralleled with roman being sent away and it fucking him up more.. #sidenote hawke is honestly a good mix of connor and kendall #connor taking care of the sibs and kendall number one boy living in his father's shadow #i once again feel like the charlie kelly conspiracy board meme #oc stuff #.txt #i dont know who he's gonna romance though #like im leaning fenris only bc i miss him and want to kiss him sloppy style #like i know i could connect dots if i really thought about it bc im insane but i havent yet