#verse ;; wentworth 01
Text
@ragearia
Joan's nostrils flared. She took a breath of Vera.
At work, anonymized by the uniform and by the demands of professionalism, dress code, the rigidity of working as a woman in Corrections, Vera did not wear perfume. Joan would venture a guess that she rarely wore perfume outside of Wentworth, either; she was not the kind of person who declared herself. She has never seen Vera on an ordinary day: stepping in and out of stores, at a sidewalk table at a cafe, visiting a friend, going to a bar or a club (Vera? Really?). But she could picture those occasions, a woman no one noticed, accustomed to eyes sliding over her as though she were wallpaper. Until recently it was the same at Wentworth. No more distinguished, despite her title, than another teal-painted cement block.
Except to Joan. She knew this scent. She was attuned to smell. In a dark room she could have closed her eyes and identified Vera by it. She always smelled clean. Her uniform was always tidy and it was always crisply laundered (the same could not be said for certain other officers, who reeked of sweat and alcohol); her hair was always well-tended, although Joan was sure it was not pampered. Generic shampoo, the cheapest thing on the shelf. She pictured Vera shopping for it, watched the imaginary Vera's hand hover timidly over the expensive brand, the one that promised luxury and curls like silk, before dropping to the one on sale, consoling herself by the artificial fragrance. Joan did not know her exact routine but she was also sure she moisturized her skin. That, too, generic and unlovely. Not an extra penny spent on tending a body she did not deem worthy.
The moisturizer, and under that, her skin itself. There was no circumventing the animal reality of a human body. With Vera, she did not want to. She lowered her head into the curve of Vera's neck and inhaled again. She touched her. Her hands slid up Vera's back and pressed her close. She swept her nose up her neck and felt it tickled by the soft hairs just behind her ear, the tender pink shape of which she bit for Vera's audacious assumption of authority. There were many such fragile places on her deputy's body that were sensitive and touching them made blood spring up hot under the skin, brought a red flush, a thundering pulse, made Vera's eyes pinch closed and her lips part in that way that suggested half pleasure, half fright, stunned at her own responsiveness.
Joan opened her eyes and glanced over Vera's shoulder at her office door. It was shut and so were the blinds. The officers rostered for the overnight shift would be nowhere near them now. Sulking over coffee or tea in the break room, patrolling empty corridors, or monitoring security cameras, eyes burning from the screens. Still. Care and delicacy. Control. Detachment. Their cheeks brushed. She felt Vera sigh into her. During the day, the newly-cowed prisoners spat "Vinegar Tits" at her back and ducked their heads under her stony eyes, but at night Vera was as soft as she'd ever been, and she was Joan's.
A smile twitched at her lips. "You'll have to be more specific, Vera," she murmured, and slid her hand under her jacket. She rubbed her palm along Vera's back, so much hotter without the thick fabric of the blazer between them, just cotton between skin and skin. She could feel the ribbed outline of her brassiere and the straps biting into her shoulders. "Touch you where?"
Where? 'Anywhere' would once, not that long ago, have been the answer. 'Anywhere' would once, not that long ago, have sufficed. Laboriously, Vera would have willed the word past her lips and released that paltry plea in between shaky, raspy breaths of approval and urgency. 'Everywhere' she now wants to say, to demand in the same tone and with the same confidence and authority the governor's deputy displays at all times. The bite startles her. Vera stifles a gasp, angles her head back, to the side, back again in timid offering.
Her body, taunt under the strain of unsated lust, is pressed flush against Joan by a hand that knows her. Its seeping warmth spreads and disintegrates any coherent string of thought, coalescing them into pieces of needs and wants. A hand isn't enough, no matter how well it knows just where and how to touch her or which spot will unlock all manners of pleasure. "Both," Vera hears herself intimate. She desires both hands, both sets of fingers repeating those practiced motions able to elicit a reaction from the barest touch. It never surprises Joan, and Vera, eager to please, never fails to provide. Her own fingers creep up Joan's arm and wander under her sleeve, fidget with the cuff in a rather modest yet entirely obvious attempt at prolonging this elevated state of sensation, then slip around her wrist to find the thin, fragile and smooth skin on its inside. Vera shudders. Slowly, the tip of her fingers ghost there. What is procured not only serves as delaying the inevitable but at feeding the need growing inside of her. "Joan." It feels good to say her name at last. Thrilling. Titillating. A stroke of her tongue as charged and heady as the promise of what whispering it means and allows.
The silence about the office presses on them, thick, expectant and disturbed only by the rustling of fabrics when Vera moves Joan's wrist then hand down the length of her skirt. Her eyes lid then close. Her lips part open. Her nipples pucker and harden. Her pulse quickens with familiar desperation. "Here." A single-worded order breathed out in Joan's neck. Vera wonders, idly and briefly, whether Joan is aware, as she always seems to be, of the weight of her arousal settling as a warm weight in her belly, or of the little tremours racing through a body Vera is no longer sure she wants to control. Would Joan dismiss her if she were to tell her it's hers? Would she put an end to this? Or would she simply look at her, her mouth cutting a pleased and conceited smile across her face, and indulge her? "Please…"
Vera stops when Joan's hand reaches the hem of her skirt. That border is crossed unhurriedly and the passage from fabric to skin draws out a quiet gasp. Around Joan's hand, her fingers tighten their grip. This is new. Not just the place but this sudden reversal. Is Joan waiting for instructions? Vera cranes back her neck, seeking Joan's gaze and the instructions it contains. She needs them, relishes her orders and hungers for her guidance but most of all: she wants this, desires whatever fledgling of intimacy has been nurtured, its foundations frail still but growing within the precise boundaries imposed by Joan's demand for privacy where rules are to be followed and control exerted in all things. With their faces hovering near, she needn't raise her voice or even move to brush her mouth over Joan's jaw. "Here.”
0 notes
Text
timeline for Ed & fambly under the cut
( cw for death, abuse, infidelity, murder, alcoholism, trauma )
28/03/1860: Duncan Lennox Pierece, Edward’s father, is born.
09/02/1863: Moira Deirbhile Hickey, Edward’s mother, is born.
02/11/1866: Kieran Oscar Slane, Edward’s stepfather and Moira’s second husband, is born.
05/09/1868: Augusta Joanna King, Kieran’s second wife, is born.
07/09/1882: Duncan and Moira marry.
12/06/1884: Edward is born.
21/01/1885: Eileen Bridget Kilduff, Edward’s future ex-girlfriend eventual ex-wife, is born
11/12/1890: Duncan is killed in a barroom brawl. Moira and Edward are left a thread’s width from destitution.
14/02/1891: Moira meets Kieran, becomes smitten with him although still grieving for her late husband. Edward is less than impressed.
05/05/1891: Moira and Kieran marry quickly. Moira realises it’s a marriage of convenience. Kieran adopts Edward, changing his name to Edward Slane.
August 1891: Kieran becomes less than smitten-worthy, lashing out at Moira and Edward frequently.
14/02/1894: Kieran starts seeing Augusta behind Moira’s back.
08/12/1895: Moira discovers that Kieran is cheating on her.
10/12/1895: Moira leaves for Oklahoma, promising to come back for Edward with legal backing.
29/12/1895: Moira is murdered. It is never solved.
24/04/1896: Kieran and Augusta marry.
12/06/1900: Edward leaves home, picks up odd jobs around town and lives rough on the streets, eventually agreeing to a rented room from a newspaper publisher.
01/01/1901: Edwards meets Eileen, and falls for her.
31/12/1901: Eileen confesses to having a “fancy” for Edward.
12/06/1902: Edward joins the police force
18/08/1902: Edward proposes to Eileen, she says yes. Eileen’s father lets him live with them.
09/09/1903: Edward and Eileen marry.
18/09/1906: Edward and Eileen move out to their own house.
30/06/1910: Bridget Griselda Kilduff-Pierce is born
End of GW, 1918: Edward joins the GW, sustains injuries resulting in burn and cheek scar. After, ends up having nightmares from the experience.
Early 1919: Edward joins the Wentworth Detective Agency, and develops a drinking problem.
12/10/1920: Edward grants Eileen a divorce, promising to pay what she deserves. Eileen and Bridget move back in with her parents.
18/07/1921: Kieran and Joanna die in a house fire.
1924: In-game events
Things that change in Modern verse: the dates, Military overseas instead of GW & subsequent regret over partaking in that, Edward is unable to leave home until 18, has a happier time than canon events ( ? maybe )
#💀 edward: about.#( i've updated ed's about but hm#( also these're.. british formatted dates dw abt it lmao )
0 notes
Text
10 timeless books by Victor Hugo, the master storyteller of French Romanticism | The Times of India
New Post has been published on https://apzweb.com/10-timeless-books-by-victor-hugo-the-master-storyteller-of-french-romanticism-the-times-of-india/
10 timeless books by Victor Hugo, the master storyteller of French Romanticism | The Times of India
ttps://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/”http://www.w3.org/TR/html4/strict.dtd” >
10 timeless books by Victor Hugo, the master storyteller of French Romanticism | The Times of India
TIMESOFINDIA.COM | Last updated on – Feb 26, 2020, 08:30 ISTShare
fbsharetwsharepinshare
01/1110 timeless books by Victor Hugo, the master storyteller of French Romanticism
Victor Hugo is the most iconic authors of French Romantic movement. Known for his works that weaved political upheavals of his age in timeless tales, Hugo was one of the greatest literary sensations of French literature and was one of the most popular novelist, dramatist and poet of his time.
Victor Hugo’s novels and plays have received much critical acclaim and appreciation not just in the 19th century but also in the contemporary era. Two of his well-known books “Les Miserable” and “The Hunchback of Notre-Dame” are rated amongst world’s greatest classics.
To celebrate his birthday and his literary contributions to the world, here are 10 books by Victor Hugo you should definitely know about.
readmore
02/11Cromwell (1827)
“Cromwell” is one of the renowned plays by Victor Hugo, whose preface is considered to be a manifesto in favor of artistic freedom. He elaborates on the ideas that separate his work from the traditional forms of classical theater and opens up the path to French Romanticism. The plot of “Cromwell” however delves into the life of Oliver Cromwell, the controversial English political leader who led the country for a short period without a monarchy and became the Lord Commander during that time.
Photo Credit: Nabu Press
readmore
03/11Hans of Iceland (1823)
One of his first novels “Hans of Iceland” deals with the story of a man named Hans, a rustic peasant who seeks to avenge the death of his son. Set in a fictitious land, the novel depicts and draws a perfect picture of the time in which it was produced.
Photo Credit: University of California Libraries
readmore
04/11The Last Day of a Condemned Man (1829)
Written years after the French revolution, “The Last Day of a Condemned Man” is Victor Hugo’s attempt to establish a civilized society that is free from the terror of death penalty. The story narrates the thoughts of a man who is on his way to be executed. Through this narrative, Hugo attempts to showcase his disregard for the guillotine and criticize the society for the spectacle they make out of it.
Photo Credit: Ingram short title
readmore
05/11The Hunchback of Notre-Dame (1831)
“The Hunchback of Notre-Dame” is one of the most popular Gothic novel by Victor Hugo, which has also been adapted into several movies. The book showcases the story of an impossible love between Quasimodo and Esmeralda. It not only seeks to portray a picture of medieval Paris but also to criticize the society for forgetting the relevance of Gothic architecture and artistry. Quasimodo ‘s love is so pure and true that one hardly finds its parallel in literature.
Photo Credit: Wordsworth Editions Ltd
readmore
06/11Mary Tudor (1833)
“Mary Tudor” is a play by Victor Hugo, that depicts the rise, fall and execution of Fabiono Fabiani by Mary I of England. Despite wanting to spare his life, Mary goes against her will and throws Fabiano into the Tower of London. The play has not only been made into operas but also adapted into films.
Photo Credit: Read Books
readmore
07/11Les Contemplation (1856)
Not only was Victor Hugo a novelist and a dramatist, he has written several poems. One of them is the collection of poems called “Les Contemplation”. The poem reflects the sad instances in the life of Hugo and builds on the line of memory and recollections. It is an autobiography that takes up the form of verses in the poetic compilation.
Photo Credit: Independently Published
readmore
08/11Les Miserables (1862)
“Les Miserables” is considered to be one the most historic narratives by Victor Hugo. It contains historical reference to prominent historical figures such as Jean Valjean and narrates historical instances in the form of an epic. The plot experiences various forms of components such as crime, punishment, persecution, death and desolation.
Photo Credit: Wentworth Press
readmore
09/11The Toilers of the Sea (1866)
The book is the most wonderful of all his books also the least appreciated of all. Written during his days of exile on an island named Guernsey, Hugo weaves the story of a Guernseyman named Gilliatt, a social outcast who falls in love with Deruchette, the niece of a local shipowner. It is then the narrative of a man with all his trials and tribulations to rescue the love of his life.
Photo Credit: Nabu Press
readmore
10/11The Man Who Laughs(1869)
A drama in prose, “The Man who Laughs” is a story of the misadventures of a young orphan with a deformed face, Gwynplain, who tries to flee his miserable life by becoming an artist. The book is an inspiration for many dramatists, artists and filmmakers.
Photo Credit: Norilana Books
readmore
Source link
#Bollywood#Cricket & Sports#The Times of India: Latest News India#World & Business News#Fashion
0 notes
Text
In the privacy of the governor’s house, across the dining room table, proof of Vera’s loyalty is presented. Reliable, predictable Vera. Dutiful, faithful. Unprompted, with a single fingertip, she slides the falsified results of Jodi Spiteri’s urine test in front of her. The inmate, freshly returned to the fold, is drifting. Hollow and haunted, she is an unknown component failing to respond to the governor’s lead, to the plan into which she is meant to fit and perform as expected and Vera has seized the opportunity. Will it wash away the soiling offense of her lies about her visits to a disgraced officer? Something is shifting. Where did it start? When has the governor’s attention veered fugacious where Vera is concerned? Fletcher’s fate, like a harbinger, teases at her with doubts and questions she dares not voice so Vera contents herself with simply being, with existing in the silences trailing after each command and in the shadow cast by the imposing figure who moves with a perfect balance of purpose and grace.
Being granted but a shallow understanding of her, a need for more has burgeoned. A need for greater intimacy and greater contact during those stolen, private moments no longer safely ensconced in the neutrality of the governor's office and Vera should know better than to let herself be lured in, let alone believe in, this deceptive domesticity. Or even to entertain the unspeakable wishes holding sway over her desires always duly suffocated. Beside the governor, the empty chair is claimed quietly though with newfound courage. One prompting her to move closer. Close enough for her hand to make its way towards the governor’s. After several faltering attempts her fingers pause as they find a soft, slender wrist in a tender curl. Vera blinks, swallows, leans in. The rare intimacy of touching, however chastely, sends her belly in awkward tumbles. In her chest, in her throat, in cherry red ears, her heart is beating a furious, maddening rhythm.
“You have me,” she whispers. In reverent awe, her lips are pressed on the back of her hand. Vera turns it to subject her palm to the same slow and gentle dedication. One kiss. Two. Three. Four. Five. Her wrist. The side of her hand. Her palm again into whose hollow her face nestles. Her world is reduced to the smell of her, her pulse, the feel of her skin. “You have all of me.”
@ragearia
11 notes
·
View notes
Text
@gutsymmetry said: ❛ cook . present my muse with home - cooked food . plus a barely audible mutter that might be something like "this is yours" but as if joan's worried she's mispronouncing the words and doesn't want vera to hear / 𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃 & 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 (a series of nonverbal prompts . mature themes present , ‘ my ’ muse belongs to the one who posted the meme - send “ + REVERSE ” to reverse the prompts .)
Déjà vu. The Governor fills the kitchen as if she lives here, as if she owns the place. The space around her is navigated with ease, the familiarity of her movements at odds with the staccato quality of her speech as it delivers words barely above a murmur and Vera stands there, idle and pointless and wary. Once, twice, she makes to speak ,to move, to respond in any way other than that of the opening and closing of her mouth, of the uncertain rise of her hand when it makes for the small plastic container, of the tentative shuffling of slippers-clad feet across the floor. She's watching her, head canted towards the meal (the meal thought, cooked, packed for her) and eyes lifted from under knitted brows. If only Joan would look at her... Or even glance. Oh she'd take even a glance in her direction. Please. There's gratitude suffusing her gaze - and something else in the pit of her stomach, something that coils and uncoils as it squirms upward to find a nest in her chest, in between her ribs, around her throat. Vera bites her lip. It only takes a handful of seconds for her to finally take the tub of food and open the fridge but hours seem to have bled in the space between them where some unnameable creature sits and swells, its belly full of the unspeakable. The fridge door slams shut behind her.
"Thank you, Governor, I ... I haven't felt like cooking so this is .... Ah...thank you ." It's pathetic. A paltry recognition. Unworthy. Vera tries to not look askance, tries to ignore the empty boxes of take-away food she's lined up to dispose of in the recycling bin, tries to find her bearings again. "You shouldn't have." It spills out of her mouth as though of its own accord. With a shake of her head, she frowns, grimaces a smile of apology. She wants to take it back and start all over again, wants to tidy the mess of flowers and condolences cards and bills, wants to show her that she's not usually that messy, that unprepared. Unlike Joan. Joan who stands there, pristine and collected, patient and calm. There isn't a hair, long and shiny, out of place. Even the way creases form in specific places of her outfit only seem to do so because she allows it. There's that twitch again, that flutter in her stomach. Her ears, she can feel, are warmer. It's the first time, she should tell her. The first time someone's done this. Thought of her. Made something for her. Cooked something just for her. Something that smells good, so good.
"I feel ready," she assures the Governor. "To come back to work in a couple of days. I do. I am ready."
16 notes
·
View notes
Text
"It looks like you're in trouble there. Can I help?"
That question is superfluous and regret has Vera inwardly wince. At least her face remains somewhat placid, features only perturbed by a professional concern for a prisoner’s safety likely to tamper with that of a network whose ramifications might stretch beyond Wentworth’s walls. Even now, Meg’s warnings are heeded. Too late, perhaps, though Vera will never know for certain, making do with hollow advice, reluctant mentoring and the sinister wisdom she is still striving to glean from being ousted - bested - from the governor’s chair. She folds her arms over her chest, directs her attention to the end of the corridor where a handful of the women who scattered with more or less urgency are lingering, shuffling their feet and staring daggers at them. In their midst: Simmo. Concern morphs into apprehension, twists sharply in her guts, carves the lines between her eyes. “Is it Jacs?”
@afraidofchange (for Nikita, ‘problematic prisoner xoxo’)
4 notes
·
View notes
Text
@storyofwhoiam said: [ text ] what happened last night ? my head is pounding ! linda / ♡ TEXT MESSAGES [ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙴𝙽𝙲𝙴 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚁𝚃𝙴𝚁𝚂 ]
to: LINDA MILES
There were shots after many beers. I don’t think mixing alcohols was such a great idea. I’ve never felt this sick in my entire life. I can bring you painkillers if you want?
5 notes
·
View notes
Text
@gutsymmetry said: [ text ] you need to tell me what’s going on / ♡ TEXT MESSAGES [ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙴𝙽𝙲𝙴 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚁𝚃𝙴𝚁𝚂 ]
to: GOVERNOR FERGUSON
The police have cordoned off the entire block. I am still going through the hospital, looking into every room and every corner. I have requested access to unauthorised areas which has been denied. I’m sorry, Governor. I wasn’t vigilant enough but I will not let this be a failure.
1 note
·
View note
Text
@everstride said: i am a spider, creep up behind ya. promise not to bite, unless you’re hurting me. / from saren
“Christ!”
Vera spins around, fingers clutched at her chest in a fist creasing shirt, tie and blazer still so very neatly pressed by the time she’d passed through the smaller side door leading inside the courthouse. As shock wanes and both her heartbeat and her breathing settle back into their usual, steady rhythm, she casts a few looks towards the entrance then to Saren’s face then back to the entrance again. How? When? Why? “Has something happened to the witness?” she whispers. No. She wouldn’t know. She isn’t the one presiding over the trial.
As reserved and guarded as she is wont to be given the place and the duties incumbent on her to carry, Vera takes a couple of steps back to hold a space of silent deference between them - one Saren isn’t yet attempting to encroach upon. Even now, in spite of the inflexible might imbued in so grand a place or of the robes she donned and the power they grant her, she carries with her everything that runs beneath each of their meetings. Not so long ago, Vera would undoubtedly have remained blissfully ignorant, charmed by the perfectly inscrutable stance, by the placid expression etched in her features and indicative of nothing she could trust. Now, she simply watches her with a tilt of her gaze openly appraising her demeanour. Her stomach drops gently, pleasantly, teeming with a feeling she recognises and begrudges in equal measures. She uncurls her fingers, smooths down her shirt, fixes the knot of her tie, clears her throat as she looks down and whispers again. “You really shouldn’t be here.”
0 notes
Text
@gutsymmetry said: "you obviously can’t be trusted to take care of yourself, so let me do it for you." / miscellaneous angst starters.
The governor’s hand contracts and extends, fingers a stiff flutter demanding Vera’s offending blazer. Her deputy abides. “Governor, I... I was going to… There’s no need, really...“ She fumbles with the buttons, with meek words of outcry she knows are pointless and will only serve to further upset Joan’s needs for order and subordination. The culprit, that epaulette hanging so loosely on her right shoulder that it dangles provocatively, flirting with her lapel and earning the governor’s disapproving glare, ought to have been attended to but Vera had lacked time and made do with a paperclip - which seemed, somehow, to have rendered the situation all the more abhorrent in Joan’s eyes. She hands her the blazer, watches her conjure a small sewing kit from a drawer and open it to retrieve needle, thread and a small pair of scissors. A glance in Vera’s direction summons an instant submission. Contrite and quiet, she sits, perched on the edge of one the chairs facing the desk, presses her sweaty palms on her knees, stretches out her fingers, takes a breath.
Vera who frames every decision in terms of pleasing the governor and appealing to her strict conduct and professional code of ethics cannot shed that certitude: that every failure, no matter how minuscule, feels as though she is personally slighting the governor and piercing that trust she nurtures. Always a disappointment. Not cut for it. She curls her fingers, stretches them again, inhales, exhales, sweeps her left hand up the back of her neck to find fine, loose strands and tuck them back in her hair pinned up in much too loose a fashion. She ought to change it, correct it. Try a bun, perhaps, coil tresses in a tight knot just above her nape.
In stalwart silence, Joan Ferguson is fixing her mistake. Vera’s timid eyes dare wander upward to find the governor’s sculpted profile. Even now, engrossed in such a trivial task, she remains inscrutable, unattainable, untouchable. Her gaze falls. She watches the needle push through the thick fabric with the black thread in its wake bringing the epaulette back into place, attaching it back where it belongs one movement of the governor's slender fingers at a time. Her stomach flops pleasantly. Who taught her to sew? When? What else can she do? She’s not wearing a thimble. If stabbed, does she stick her finger in her mouth? Is this a soothing activity to her or is her mind occupied, besieged by other, more important, issues?
She likes it, likes that the governor isn’t looking at her with those eyes able to read her, to see her. She would know, wouldn’t she? She’d reach for those questions and speculations, and she’d pluck them one by one in between leather sheathed fingers. She'd placed them on her desk in a row at a perfect angle, perpendicular to the edge, the space in between them an exact number of inches she wouldn't need a tape measure to replicate, and she would wait for Vera to look at them and explain herself. So Vera lingers there with her own frayed thoughts, on the fringes of a domesticity she would like to slip into, a sort of calm bounded on every side by whorling chaos. The prison, in that brief moment suspended in time by nothing but a thread growing shorter, does not exist. Her gaze trails up again, caresses the governor’s arm, her collar, her throat, her lips, her nose, her eyes. Vera’s, soft and tender and filled with devotion drift there until the sudden look returned by the governor cutting the thread compels her to blink, clearing it all away to cautious neutrality.
Without a word, the blazer changes hands again. Before putting it on, Vera pauses to take a closer look at the epaulette, stroking it with a swift passage of her thumb admiring the seamless work. This time, under the weight of expectations in the governor’s gaze settling back on her shoulders, she doesn’t struggle when each button is slipped through its corresponding hole, when the back of her hands smooth down her sides, when the tip of her fingers arrange the cuffs of her shirt underneath. She glances at Joan openly appraising her with a tilt of her gaze, the remnants of displeasure fading from her lips before a near imperceptible nod of her head dismisses her.
#gutsymmetry#writing ;; answer#verse ;; wentworth 01#i'm sorry for vera puking rainbows all over the place
2 notes
·
View notes
Text
@gutsymmetry said: 'ROUGH TOUCH' / SEND ‘ROUGH TOUCH’ and the generated outcome will be used for a small drabble scenario or starter { tw violence, possible noncon/dubcon implications, nsfw }
19 . Your muse grabs my muse’s wrists.
Around both her wrists (wrists that should have been dutifully, neatly clasped behind her back as they always are) the governor’s hands act as shackles. They’ve landed with a ferocity that is wont to be expected from Joan Ferguson but with a swiftness, with a dexterity Vera hasn’t anticipated - perhaps because without gloves, they failed to pose a threat. Oh Vera. Vera, Vera, Vera. Flesh slapped upon flesh without a word, the sound enough to stand in lieu of a reply to a determined “Yes, Governor, I’ll keep an eye on it.” She startles, stares at the formidable, indomitable woman reigning from the other side of the desk, opens her mouth to ask… No, she must not ask. Something’s not right. Missing. The gloves, yes. But that’s not it. Something’s changed. Something’s … lacking. It’s like the rope they’ve been walking in, treading on it with equal amounts of confidence and trust, has been pulled taut, so taut that the threads it’s made of are starting to snap. To threaten equilibrium. It’s been piling up over weeks, accumulating behind the governor’s door to besiege them. That’s why the governor barely looks at her lately, certain of Vera’s presence, of her conscientious devotion as she keeps on dispensing orders and expecting results. As she should. As she must. It ought to please Vera, this unwavering confidence and it ought to satisfy her, too, because it offers some paltry semblance of solace as she, eager to please and yearning to be seen, basks in the governor’s proximity. It should be enough. But it isn’t, is it? It leaves her bereft, it leaves her wanting, her entire being contorting itself and stretching out to receive more. Stitching herself up, Vera pulls back her shoulders to disguise a wince of pain.
“Governor?”
She searches her face, disturbed, unnerved by what she might glimpse there - just as much as she is of the leather-less fingers still around her wrists.
“Leave it with me.”
0 notes
Last Seen Blogs
sarahttttt
sarah♥tobin
philkcas
lukas likes Dick
zzynia-blog
Saints
eveistudying
stu(dying)
rasensuriken-blog
young shinobi