Actions

Work Header

Collateral

Work Text:

“How much damage do you think we do,
Making love this way when we can hardly stand each other?
- I can stand you. You’re the rare person I can always stand.”
Drift and Vapor (Surf, Faintly) - Robert Hass

A tale of pollution, of great contamination, takes place. A hundred arguments lead to this. Ink streaks the page, the Deputy Governor’s presence a sore distraction. Next month’s rotas are neglected, cast aside, in favor of acknowledging the beast in the room. Fists thunder the top of her gleaming, polished desk, the only artifact to remain intact.

Welcome to this prison of lies.

“Did you think your insubordination would go unnoticed?”

A teacher of rough necessity, Miss Ferguson employs effective action, conducting herself with the stern austerity of an archaic judge. Her flawed design seeks to deconstruct Vera Bennett, to dismantle her piece by bloody piece.

No longer does a young deputy, green behind the ears, stand in place. Vera is not as delicate as colleagues and inmates suspect her to be. In the depths of her tar, black soul, Joan knows this. Shaped by tragedy, that mouse possesses a slick, swift cunning.

Now, Vera is as dirty as herself.

“I didn’t think-“ Vera begins, abruptly cut off by a dismissive, flagged hand.

“CorrecT, Officer Bennett. You have no right to undermine my authoriTy.”

“I merely suspected that Doyle-"

“Enough.”

She holds out a hand, wanting no excuses and names tossed in the mud.

“That is not why I’ve called you here.”

Strict silence infects the office. Fed new knowledge, nothing forgives. Jianna’s photographs set her mind ablaze. She bristles, her well-kept ruse threatening to unravel entirely. Passion destroys. Medea in her thwarting manipulations came undone by passion and so shall Joan, echoing the footfall of classic tragedy.

“You’ve lost the ability to placate me, Joan. What if I report your... unsightly, immoral behavior to the board?”

Steadfast, Vera keeps her folded arms pinned behind her back.

“You won’t.”

Vera raises a brow, now groomed with a sick, slick arch.

“Quite simply, you lack the audacity, the strength, to do so. Only weak, petty deeds make you feel empowered. Your mother, Vera? The rioT?”

As to be expected, Joan dominates the conversation. In the dull glow of the desk lamp, her lips appear cherry red. She notices how Vera shrinks in the light, near cowardly save for the glint in her diamond eyes. Morals trapped down a hole, her righthand deceives her no more. Her ego’s a veritable force to be reckoned with.

Before Joan, Vera was a dull woman rooted in her ways. A loss of faith allows for this retaliation. Ferguson’s bun falls into disarray. Now disheveled, she blames her disciple. Iron pride matters far more than a Heaven scam. Poison in a suit stands upright. The sinister urge gnaws at her quivering insides.

“I can’t stand you anymore,” Vera spews venom, her tiny ribcage rattling from this newly found gift called fury.

Never will she claim to understand Joan’s intentions.

In irritation, Joan’s cheek spasms. It’s been brewing for months. Pouring bleach into a wound that continues to ooze and fester, gaping open. The aftermath administers a venomous sting.

How many times has the script gone wrong?

Insipid words are tossed back and forth. Mounting frustration stiffens shoulders and locks jaws. Commercially corrupt, hate begets hate. Death closes the distance between them. Nostrils flared, she peers down at this meager woman who squandered away her potential.

“What did you expect to find?” Joan asks, her composure made of steel despite the wrinkles marring her once-pressed suits.

Though everything sours between them, Vera still finds her strangely addictive, with her bated breath containing a hint of mint. She stands on the tips of her toes, kitten heels pressed together in an attempt to make herself seem taller.

“The truth.”

The proverbial knife sinks in deeper; how it slices and cuts.

A click of the tongue. A scoff.

“Ah, such a conflicted term.” Tension requires relief. “You see, Miss Bennett, punitive measures must be taken. Report at my residence tonight. You don’t have plans, do you?” Snide condescension seeps into her bullet-like questioning.

“This won’t solve anything,” Vera insists as she turns on heel, facing the doorway.

Neither abide by the Golden Rule.

Still, with the last scraps of loyalty and her peacoat belted around the waist, Vera shows up on her doorstep. The turbulence of a number one crush crashes here. Silently, she comes inside.

Vera may look the innocent, but she isn’t.

Goddamn, she pushes away from everyone. Touch-starved, no matter how outraged, she reels her dubious deputy in. An evil thing stalks the night. Her skin’s a tough hide, difficult to crack, like the leather that fits her hands. She molded herself to some godly image Vera doesn’t bother understanding.

In her crumpled suit sans heels and adorned with the ceremonial leather gloves, Joan Ferguson faces the brink of collapse: the blazing fire’s looming in the distance as another obstacle between them. The red door swings shut with a thud, locked thereafter. A rough hunger boils their blood. A dead, flat calm graces her machinations. Hands on her Deputy’s boney hips, back against the wall, it’s a scene that’s been imagined and reimagined.

Joan Ferguson is not soft.

“Do you consent?”

“Yes.” Spoken with conviction, there echoes the last true believer.

Always pining, Vera tilts her head for the contact of a starved mouth against her own. She avoids the kiss. Misses parted lips and bated breath. The assailing fox’s bite jests and teases. That does very little to satisfy this endless craving.

“No.” The Devil denies her the privilege.

Those sharp, cruel teeth flay her. A nip to the neck elicits a high-strung gasp. She sees Joan’s smile as a glimpse of a crescent moon projected against a pitch-black night. In a sacrificial eating, Joan promises breathlessness. She gives and she takes, a Lord in her prison complex.

“Tell me you’ve wanted this,” a wintertime shade husks into the shell of her ear.

Denied the sanctity of a kiss, Vera finds herself foolishly pining once more. She lets herself be undressed in the fashion of a ragdoll despite her anger that now simmers. Her dreams of lust and love have now boiled down to an itch in need of scratching.

“Yes,” she whispers, eyes glinting grey in the distorted light.

I’m not vanilla, she thinks as a savage protestation.

Consent given, Midas holds onto her gold. Long, strong arms encompass her near girlish frame. It’s a robotic attempt at a hug: the kind that testifies a life of fabrication and not mirror replication.

As obedient as she is disobedient, Vera reaches up to nip at her bottom lip. Nude and shivering, her clothes discarded in a folded pile by the coat-rack, she aspires for warmth. Such a brazen thing uses her teeth. This nymph has the gall – the sheer audacity - to mock the almighty Joan Ferguson in her court. It’s unfathomable.

Attraction swallows the grief, the anger, and the disappointment. She craves a disciplined hand, the attention she feels starved of. Unfortunately, it’s a palm she feels upon her mouth rather than a gentle caress of the cheek. Her defiant teeth scrape Joan’s closed palm. Vera represents everything Joan is not. They fight like gods, struggle like devils, creation rebels against the creator.

“I want to see you,” Vera demands. Her nails prick at Joan’s alabaster neck.

Hungrier than a dry fire, the Devil finds some allure - a pang of arousal - in this corruption. Maintaining an icy stare, she recoil albeit for a moment. Bit by bit, she comes undone. With delicate care, the suit is removed. The jacket drapes neatly onto the rack. The trousers along with the button-down are folded and set on the mahogany console table. Remaining in a dark grey, standard lingerie reveals the strap-on cutting into her hips and the artificial cock lingering between her pillar-esque thighs.

Vera’s breath catches.

She swallows.

Broken parts seldom fit back together. Such a sharp gaze could cut through steel. The intimacy is in the way they lock eyes. Hoisted up mid-air, with her back against the wall, the framed photographs and paintings threaten to shake this lonely home. She's soaked and stretched from their constant foreplay; she slides in to claim her stake. Warm and familiar, she wishes she could feel the effects directly.

Fucking while standing requires a certain dexterity and precarious strength. No one fills her this completely. Hooked on this punitive fix, the ravishing continues as the wanting spreads to fill their bellies and pools lower. The rougher the fuck, the more memorable it is. Seduction through spun wickedness, fingers lock behind the nape of Joan’s sturdy neck. Soft, fine hairs curl at the nape of Vera’s neck. She tastes the salt of her sweat.

“More,” she pleads, yearning for the punishment. She begs so sweetly.

Sharp, white teeth catch the crook of her shoulder: a familiar place, a favorite spot, a branding mark.

A slick sheen of perspiration gathers around Joan’s greying temples. Vera wraps around like a tourniquet though she fails to restrict, restrain, a monolith of a woman. So, this is how they fuck now: rough and hard. This razorblade romance scratches and rubs them raw.

Fucked into submission, muscled calves grapple for support. Like a willow tree, she wavers and wilts. Bends to the will of her master (for how much longer?). Joined in unholy, mutual death, this matrimony keeps them bound. Sated, albeit temporarily. Uncaring, she sinks her fingers into the meticulous bun. Joan hisses as the pressure tugs at her scape. Her weary spine hits the wall every time. Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Indiscernible from a heartbeat. In retaliation, she jerks her hips. It’s always a war.

Pain is beauty, pain is pleasure. Irrational anger takes hold. Brute strength allows for Joan to propel Vera upward. Caught within her grasp, the Pale Rider grips her by the throat. Her underling may regret the bruises tomorrow, but they serve as a tangible reminder. She breaks things. It’s what she does. 

Pain becomes a precious gift, taken and twisted and fed and given. The Seraph’s burn compares to a chokehold that pushes the limits. Grip, squeeze, release. Leather against skin produces a spark called friction. The reddening of her face, the strain of her chest, is a delight sight to be savored. Loosened from that devilish grip, she gasps. Bruises and marks linger far less than the guilt and hurt.

The conventional has never been enough for her. The lines between Jodie Spiteri and Officer Bennett blur. It’s a little breath control. Tease her, squeeze her, choke her. Oh, how Vera flounders in that hold. Her gasps and cries make for quite the melody. It’s messy, it’s complex, it’s the uncouth relationship they never dreamt about.

A little death tips her over. The constant nudging accompanied by the violent thrusts send delicious friction to her engorged clit. To refrain from making a sound, she sinks her teeth into the crook of Vera’s shoulder. A loud moan follows.

“I see you,” Vera swears, albeit hoarsely, her voice stolen in this contract.

Determined, her mouse grazes her cool, pale cheeks with sallow palms. Such a gesture from anyone else would be shaken off. Maintaining her pace, she bucks her hips. Ah, Vera learns how to use her teeth. Her tongue, too. Her lips tinge crimson from the biting and kissing, healed by a few flicks of the tongue.

Wrath fuels this twisted turn. Bitter serpents thrive and writhe in this dirty business together. Hips slam against hips, bone grinding against skin, deeper still. Forehead to forehead, they unravel together, the only cry emitted is a sharp, cutting breath. Throbbing, aching, this marks the supposed end.

Biceps quivering, she lowers her fallen disciple. It takes a moment to regain composure. Vera, the doe that she is, sinks to her knees, still hungry. She wets her chapped, gnawed lips.

For support, Joan leans against the wall, leather palm caressing her cock.

“Beg for it. Ask for permission.”

These are twisted Commandments taken from the only God she’s worshiped.

“Please...”

“Denied.”

Getting off on putting her down is an art form.

Determined, she tries again. Clears her raw, scratchy throat.

“Please let me taste you.”

“Granted.”

Salt contrasts the sweetness reaped from conqueror’s spoils. She tastes herself on the tip, running her tongue along the shaft. Surprised by the saltiness, her cries muffled by the endeavor. A lewdness accompanies Vera’s ministrations, her lips ghosting over that thickness, warmed from being deep inside.

“Enough.”

On the floor, kneeling like Mary Magdalene, she leaves her as a crumpled heat. Pivoting on heel, Joan no longer acknowledges her, all use spent.

Seduced, bruised, and ruined, Deputy and Governor struggle to put themselves together again.

Pleasure found in heavenly hurt, something is said in the heated stare they exchange. She’s let her down. She’s let them both down. Disgusted and ashamed, she slips and slithers away.

Faint traces of Vera will cling to her skin, her nails, her entire being. Two shots of chilled vodka, fresh from the freezer, will take the edge off this growing ache that remains.