Untitled

[enjinia000]

En Garde!

This was supposed to be part of a fencing series I drew of Joan, but it was too good to post in a group of pics. I always wondered if Joan’s mentorship ever went beyond the prison, like how much did she mold Vera and how much did Vera want to be like her?

Also, I read a fanfic about Joan and Vera fencing. (They get a little physical, which I will include in the fencing series. Nothing too graphic.)

Someone pointed out to me the other day that my fanart for the show makes it seem like a completely different show and not the drama/suspense/heartbreaking show it actually is. 😅 And I suddenly realized that as well the other day, like damn people are gonna watch it expecting something funny/romantic only to bawl their eyes out instead. 😂😂

Although, this picture in particular is referencing Joan vs Vera in Season 4/5. So, who will win this duel?

As for my god of war followers, I am currently working on the final pollen series. But it was hot af here in LA with a heatwave, it finally cooled down. So I will get back to working on it.😊

Also! I’ve been learning color and light lately, so this picture was an experiment of light. So in the future my drawings may change a bit as I learn! 😄

[bouquet07]

Director's Cut [Part 2]

Joan Ferguson x Reader

[Part 1]

Summary: You and Joan's meet-cute.

“We’re going to get the appeal through. I promise. I’ve been working overtime to pay for the new lawyer.”

You say this to Sarah inside the Wentworth visitation room. You've been visiting her every Tuesday. She's been detained for a crime she didn’t commit. Today, you’re wearing a pastel knit sweater, your fingers trembling, uncomfortable with the atmosphere inside Wentworth. Opposite you is your friend Sarah, dressed in a teal tracksuit.

Sarah lets out a hollow laugh. “Don’t… This place… it’s not what you think. Don’t come too close. I’ll be okay.” She forces out a faint, trembling smile.

You wipe away a stray tear, seeing your friend in this state. You don’t know what it’s like inside Wentworth, but you know your best friend isn’t safe here.

Black and white. High contrast. The CCTV monitor flickers in the Governor’s office.

Joan catches a glimpse of your face. Soft eyes pooling with tears, a gesture so profoundly innocent it feels like a sin in her prison. You look small. Vulnerable. Like a misplaced porcelain doll in this gilded cage.

Her gloved hand rests on her organized mahogany desk. She leans forward as the light from the screen reflects in her eyes, turning them into cold, polished gates. Joan’s thumb traces the outline of your jaw on the monitor.

Joan whispers, “So soft. Like silk in a briar patch. Who are you?”

She watches you stand to leave, smoothing down your skirt. Joan’s eyes narrow, tracking the sway of your hips, the way you seem to shrink under the guards’ gaze.

“You don’t belong here.”

Her eyes land on your friend.

The next day, Joan sits behind her desk, the epitome of power. Sarah enters her office.

“Good morning, Ms. Davidson,” Joan greets with a charming smile, looking up from her paperwork.

“Please, make yourself comfortable.”

Sarah sheepishly takes the seat in front of the Governor.

“How’s your stay so far, Ms. Davidson?” Joan says, but she is quickly cut off by Sarah.

“Why did you call me here, Governor? What do you want?”

Joan leans back in her leather seat, a gentle smile playing at her lips.

“Your friend. The one who visits on Tuesdays. She seems… devoted.”

Sarah’s brows furrow, her defenses slowly rising at the Governor’s sudden inquiry about you.

“Leave her out of this. What do you want?”

Joan sighs, aligning the carefully lined pencils on her desk.

“I’m offering you a trade. Increased visitation. A private room. Perhaps even… a recommendation for early parole.”

Sarah’s eyes widen, a spark of desperate hope igniting. But then she remembers that Joan Ferguson does not dangle freedom in front of someone unless she wants something in exchange. Sarah waits.

“All I require is information.”

“About what?”

“Everything. About your friend. Where she lives, where she works… every detail of the life she leads outside these walls.”

Sarah’s eyes begin to well up. “No. I’m not selling her out to you. I know who you are, Ferguson. I know how evil you are. I know how filthy you are.”

Joan looks Sarah straight in the eyes and smiles at her kindly.

“Do you? Think about it, Ms. Davidson. Mr. Stewart!”

Jake Stewart opens the Governor’s office door.

“Insubordination. Take her to the Slot.”

You continue visiting Sarah at Wentworth for the next four months, unaware of what she endures in the Slot every night at the hands of the Governor. As the nights pass, Joan becomes more relentless in trying to make Sarah break.

Today, sunlight hits the pavement in the city. You are power-walking, clutching a portfolio along the busy street. You look professional, nervous, and utterly beautiful.

Suddenly—THWACK.

A tall, imposing figure in a charcoal suit steps into your path, and you feel hot liquid splash across your chest.

“Oh! Oh my God! I’m so sorry!”

A massive dark stain blooms across your pristine white blouse. It’s a disaster.

The person you bumped into gasps, her eyes wide with “horror” and apology. When she speaks, you finally snap back into reality.

“Oh, good heavens! I apologize. I was looking at my watch. I’m a clumsy fool.”

Oh…

You’re taken aback by her. Her tall frame. Her sharp eyes. Her sharp yet soft complexion. Her lips. Her—

“My interview… I’m so, so, so sorry. I should’ve been more careful. It’s in ten minutes. It’s right in that building. Oh no, I look like a mess. I—”

Joan watches you adoringly but masks it with faux concern.

“Please, let me make it right. I can’t let you go in like that.”

Joan gently guides you into a secluded alleyway and begins unbuttoning her own crisp white long-sleeved shirt. Underneath, she wears a black silk camisole that emphasizes the powerful, lean lines of her arms and shoulders.

Damn. Who is this woman?

You start blushing and awkwardly look upward, noticing a cat sitting on a windowsill watching you both.

“Take it. Please. It’ll be a little oversized, but it’ll look gorgeous on your frame.”

Joan begins unbuttoning your shirt and draping hers over your body.

“I can’t just—”

Joan doesn’t listen, continuing to dress you. Her fingers linger against your skin a second too long.

“Go. You can do it!”

She pulls you out of the alleyway and back into the open. Joan stares at your coffee-stained shirt in her hands, holding it with a victorious glimmer in her eyes as she walks away.

“Your résumé is… unconventional.” Mr. Henderson, a senior manager, sits across from you behind a glass table. “You’ve jumped from hospitality to paralegal work. Why should I hire someone who seems to be in a constant state of flux?”

Your heart is still pounding from the rush. The feel of the kind, sexy, captivating woman’s $500 shirt slightly oversized on you gives you a boost of borrowed power.

“Well, Mr. Henderson, I like to think of it as ‘versatility.’” You flash a bright, charming grin. “In hospitality, I learned how to handle a bridezilla who lost her bouquet. If I can negotiate with a woman in a white dress who hasn’t eaten in six hours, I’m pretty sure I can handle a disgruntled litigant.”

Mr. Henderson’s lip twitches.

“And this role requires someone who is meticulous. High-pressure. Can you handle the heat?”

You take a deep breath, letting the nerves settle, answering as honestly and confidently as you can.

“Sir, on the way here, a stranger accidentally drenched my favorite blouse in scalding coffee. Instead of crying, which was my first, second, and third choice. I ended up in an alleyway, did a high-speed costume change into this shirt, and made it to your lobby with three minutes to spare.”

I have nothing else to lose, so here goes nothing.

“If that’s not handling the heat while maintaining a professional aesthetic, I don’t know what is.”

Henderson laughs, his chair rocking back slightly. He closes your folder and stands.

“I like you. Most people come in here terrified of me without me even saying a word. You’re hired. Don’t make me regret it.”

You stare at him, speechless. “I… I won’t, sir. I promise.”

He shakes your hand before heading toward the door. He pauses and turns back.

“Try to keep the coffee inside the cup from now on.”

You push through the heavy glass doors, elated and proud of yourself for acing the interview, and actually getting the job. But then your adrenaline fades, replaced by a sudden realization: I'm still wearing a stranger’s $500 shirt. How am I going to return it? I didn’t even ask for her name.

And there she is.

Joan sits on a bench, a sleek black sedan parked nearby. She’s holding a small paper bag and looking directly at you.

She watches you skip down the steps, your skirt fluttering. She likes that her shirt is on you. She watches as you grow shy upon recognizing her.

Walking toward her feels like prey being drawn toward a predator. She feels the thrill ripple through her body.

“Hi! You’re still here?”

Joan flashes an innocent smile. “I couldn’t very well leave you without your own clothes, could I? I use a portable laundry service for emergencies.”

She hands you the bag. Inside, your white shirt is pristine, pressed, and still warm from the dryer.

“How was your interview, by the way?”

Blushing, you glance at your shoes before forcing yourself to look back up at her.

“This is… incredible. I—uh—want to give yours back, but I can’t exactly strip in the middle of the sidewalk.”

“A fair point,” Joan chuckles.

“I’m Y/N, by the way—”

“Joan. My name is Joan.”

She holds your gaze, but her eyes drift briefly to your lips, your neck, your collarbone.

“As for the shirt… I’m in no rush to part with it if it looks that good on you.”

Joan doesn’t care about the shirt. She cares about inching closer to you, little by little. She watches your reaction, the way you try to hide its effect on you. She counts the seconds as your mind spins through solutions she knows you’ll suggest.

“I have an idea! I mean, it’s a bit weird, but… I live thirty minutes away. Why don’t you come over for a thank-you dinner? Maybe? I can change, give you your shirt back, and I make a mean carbonara. It’s the least I can do for my guardian angel.”

Joan tilts her head as if hesitating.

“Please?”

There it is.

Joan smiles, making your stomach flip.

“Dinner? I’d be delighted.”

You relax at her answer.

“I can give you a ride… if you want.”

“If it’s okay with you.”

She guides you to her car. “Marvelous. You can tell me about your interview on the way.”

She opens the door, and you slide into the leather seat. Everything about her hits you all at once. You think it’s all just coincidence.

But little do you know that’s exactly what she wants you to think.

As Sarah spends the week in Wentworth’s closed infirmary, unconscious.

You don’t know what you’ve just opened the door to.

[docrimesbegay]

[selfdoubter]

What are your plans for Saturday? Day drinking and scrolling Tumblr

[l6cky66]

This but I’m the air

[bouquet07]

Director’s Cut

Joan Ferguson x Reader

summary: It’s been three months since you broke up with Joan. But Joan Ferguson doesn’t believe in breakups.

*****

It’s been three months since you broke up with Joan. Why? Because while her possessive nature was seductive when you first started dating, it eventually became toxic.

Suffocating you in a way that was no longer "sexy." It began under the guise of protection: her demanding your passwords and full access to your accounts. Then, it evolved into her picking apart everything you said, constantly doubting your faithfulness.

It all came to a head when you realized that loving Joan Ferguson meant accepting her version of "oneness," which required abandoning your privacy and merging your mind entirely with hers.

So, one night…

Joan is at the kitchen island, elegantly de-seeding a pomegranate. She’s wearing a white silk robe, looking clean and composed. A glass of dark red wine sits untouched nearby. You walk in late. As the door thuds shut, the tension in the spacious living room makes the air feel suddenly cramped.

“Three hours and twelve minutes. I hope the conversation at the pub was riveting enough to justify the… tactical silence? Or did your phone coincidentally die the moment you stepped inside?” Joan slices through the atmosphere with a smirk, not once looking up from her task.

“I was just out with Sarah, love. I didn’t think I needed to provide a minute-by-minute transcript. It’s Friday; I believe I'm entitled to some time on my own.”

Joan stops. She sets the knife down with a soft, metallic clink and finally looks at you. Her expression is one of amused pity. “Sarah. The one with the wandering hands and the mediocre intellect? How refreshing for you.” She offers you a sarcastic smile.

You pinch the bridge of your nose, knowing this won't die down anytime soon. “She’s my friend. And I’m tired of this interrogation every time I breathe air you haven’t filtered first.”

Joan chuckles softly. “Darling, if I were interrogating you, you’d be sweating, and I’d be much less charming. I’m simply curious why you feel the need to keep little... pockets of your life tucked away from me.” dropping each line with a light and tender tone.

“It’s called privacy, Joan,” you cut her off.

“No, it’s called deceit wrapped in a prettier ribbon,” Joan responds bitingly, her tone dropping into a dangerous register. She begins to walk toward you, her movements slow and deliberate.

“I am not deceiving you, Joan! How many times do we have to—”

“I saw the way you tucked your phone away when I walked into the room this morning. Like a teenager hiding a dirty magazine. It’s beneath you. And frankly, it’s an insult to my intelligence to think I wouldn’t notice the change in your pulse every time you get a notification.”

You try to control your voice, but the weight of this repeating pattern is too much. “My pulse changes because I’m scared of how you’re going to react! I changed my passcode because I wanted one thing, just one thing! that was mine.”

Joan stops inches from you. She reaches out and grabs your shirt, jerking you forcibly toward her. Her eyes are razor-sharp. “What’s yours is mine, and what’s mine is yours. That was the agreement, wasn't it?”

You reach for her wrist, trying to pry her fingers from the fabric. “You’re suffocating me.”

With a dry, sarcastic laugh, Joan pulls you so close that you can feel the heat of her words on your skin. “Oh, don't be so dramatic. You said you loved me. You wanted someone to see you, to REALLY see you. Well, here I am. I see everything. I see the thoughts you haven’t even had the courage to voice yet. And now, suddenly, you don't want me?”

She shoves you backward, her hand still tight on your collar, forcing you to retreat as she advances. “Why would you want a 'private life' unless you were planning on filling it with someone else? Are we not enough? Am I not providing enough... stimulation for you every night we fuck? Do I not protect you from the world? And that... 'friend' of yours? Sarah, wasn’t it? Does she love you better than I do? Does she fuck you better?!”

You are crying now, the sob breaking out of your chest. The sound seems to snap Joan out of her heated rage. Her eyes instantly soften into a look of calculated fear and regret. She lets go of your collar, her hands shaking as she tries to smooth out the crumpled fabric of your shirt.

“Oh, honey… 

Honey, I’m sorry… 

I’m so sorry, baby…”

Your chest heaves with sobs.

“I was just scared,” she adds softly, leaning down to look you straight in the eye. She cradles your face in both hands, her thumbs tenderly wiping the tears from your cheeks. She plants several soft, lingering kisses on your cheeks, your eyelids, and finally your lips.

When you finally gather your strength, you take her hands and firmly pull them away from your face.

“I can’t do this, Joan. I’m leaving.”

And so, yes. you broke up with her. 

For the last three months, Joan replayed her memories of you on a loop. She thought of that night at the bar. she didn’t "do" bars, usually finding them unsanitary. But she went because you asked.

She remembered being crammed into that vinyl booth, watching your head tilt back as you laughed, your eyes crinkling at the corners. It was a genuine, unguarded moment, and you were laughing at something she had said.

Then there was the time you walked side-by-side down the grocery aisle after a grueling day at work. She remembered the rare, cooling sense of peace she felt just being near you.

She thought of the night you had a nightmare and she calmed you, holding you in her arms until you fell back asleep. In the silence of that room, she had vowed to herself that she would never let anything hurt you; she would kill a hundred, or a thousand more just to keep you safe and happy by her side.

She remembered the sweet, gentle kisses you exchanged before heading out, and the ones you shared after making love until you both drifted off.

Until Joan couldn't take the silence anymore.

Now, her living room is dimly lit. She wears the same white silk robe from the night you left. It’s a choice that feels less like a coincidence and more like a ritual. Seated perfectly upright on her gray leather couch, she swirls a glass of whiskey, watching the amber liquid catch the light before taking a measured sip.

The only illumination in the room comes from the cold glow of the television. 

On the screen, she is watching a tape of the two of you having sex.

The footage is high-definition, captured from a fixed, elevated angle. It is a recording you both consented to making, yet in this light, it looks like evidence. It is intimate, rawly so. The sounds of the video fill the silent room: the friction of skin, the rhythmic creak of the bed, and then, the specific sound Joan has bookmarked.

“Joan… please… Joan,” you say on the recording, your voice thin and breathless.

Joan’s thumb hovers over the remote. With a subtle click, she jumps the video back ten seconds.

She watches you again. More specifically, she studies you. She observes the way your fingers dig into her back, the way your head throws back to expose the vulnerable line of your throat, and the way she sinks her teeth into a love bite just under your jaw. She fixates on that "needy" hitch in your breath, the one you always tried to hide, but that she always managed to draw out.

“There it is,” she whispers against the rim of her glass before bringing it to her lips.

She hits play. On the screen, the climax of the video peaks. Your voice is a frantic whisper, muffled against her neck, but the words are unmistakable: “I love you. I love you so much. I’m yours.” On-screen, Joan kisses you tenderly, her tongue brushing against your lips in a slow, skillful possessive claim.

Joan hits PAUSE.

The frame freezes on your face. Your eyes are fixed on her, your expression shattered by pleasure and complete, utter surrender to HER.

She stares at the frozen image of your vulnerability. Her expression isn’t one of sadness or heartbreak; it is the look of a scientist confirming a fundamental law of nature. A small, chilling smirk touches the corner of her mouth.

“Three months of silence. Three months of 'privacy,'” she says to the empty room. “But we both know you're just playing a part right now. This 'breakup' is just a performance.”

She gestures broadly to the space around her, the silent, immaculate house where you no longer live with her. “This... is just a stage. And I am a very patient director.”

She presses the LOOP button.

“...please… Joan… I love you… I’m yours…”

Joan closes her eyes for a moment, letting the audio of your submission wash over her like a prayer. She takes another sip of whiskey, settling in to watch the loop for the twelfth time that night.

[theunfortunate-author]

my daily affirmation as an author

[bouquet07]

Leather Gloves

Joan Ferguson x Reader

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4]

Summary: a board decision ultimately decides both of your fates.

A/N: apologies for the delay. My sister got married and college life got in the way.

*****

It was dawn, early Saturday. Joan arches on the bed beneath the touch of a random woman, her mouth devastatingly skilled between Joan's thighs.

“Mmh—yes,” she rasps, fingers tightening in the woman’s hair, pulling her head closer to her core.

“Just like that—”

The pleasure coils tight in her gut, her breaths coming in sharp, desperate pants.

Then the woman lifts her head and presses a kiss to Joan’s inner thigh.

“Do you like that, baby?”

Joan’s stomach plummets.

Because staring up at her, with lips glistening with her cum, eyes dark with hunger, is you.

Joan wakes with a gasp, sheets tangled around her legs, body slick with sweat.

She drops back onto the mattress and stares at the ceiling. Her pulse hammers against her ribs. She drags a hand down her face. She murmurs, breathless:

“Fuck.”

Tick, tick, tick.

That’s all that can be heard in the cold conference room at Wentworth. You, Derek Channing, and the ombudsman sit waiting for Joan before starting the meeting.

Right on time, the door swings open. Joan steps in wearing a dark expensive coat, her gaze immediately landing on you. She takes the seat beside you.

It’s so early in the morning, what could be her problem already? you think, offering her an innocent tight-lipped smile.

Because you cannot do this shit at dawn.

How dare she sit there and smile at me sweetly like she didn’t invade my dreams last night, Joan fumes silently, slowly unbuttoning her coat while keeping her irritated eyes on you.

“Alright, let’s start,” Derek says, prompting everyone to exhale.

The ombudsman doesn’t waste time.

“Ms. Ferguson,” he begins, voice clipped, “your latest incident reports indicate a concerning pattern. Excessive force, questionable lockdowns, and staff complaints regarding your management style.”

Joan’s jaw tightens. She sits straight and her face slowly turning to face the speaker.

“‘Questionable’ according to who? Officers who need a babysitter to do their jobs?”

“According to fourteen officers, three inmates, and two independent auditors,” the ombudsman replies.

You observe silently. Joan never breaks eye contact with him, the atmosphere heavy enough you can feel it.

She may be stubborn, but she’s a woman who knows how to stand in a male-dominated field.

Channing clears his throat.

“We’re merely asking you to consider—”

“Consider what?” Joan calmly cuts Channing speech. “Running this prison like a daycare? You brought me in to maintain order, and that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

“Maintaining order shouldn’t mean instilling fear,” the ombudsman counters.

Joan’s laugh is humorless.

“Fear keeps people in line.”

Then his gaze shifts to you.

“Dr. L/N, in your assessments, have you observed similar concerns from inmates regarding Ms. Ferguson’s leadership?”

The room freezes. For a second, all you can hear is the clock ticking.

Joan’s eyes flick to you. You feel her sharp, warning, challenging.

Her laid back composure waiting for the combination of words to leave your mouth. 

You take a measured breath.

“I’ve observed high stress levels across all units. Some inmates attribute it to the atmosphere… but this is a difficult environment to manage. My ongoing assessments should give a clearer picture over time.” You say confidently, looking back at her. 

Joan’s expression doesn’t change, but you feel the tension sharpen.

“Exactly,” the ombudsman says. “Wentworth needs stability.”

Joan’s composure cracks, just slightly. 

“Might I remind you that intimidation is often the only language understood in institutions like this.” Her voice slightly rising. 

Channing raises his hands.

“Let’s all take a breath. We aren’t here to attack anyone.”

Joan sits back, but her fists clench until her knuckles turn white.

You notice.

As a professional and as someone who cares despite yourself, you reach under the table and gently place your hand over hers.

She doesn’t react at first. Her muscles ease slightly at the warmth.

Then she realizes.

She flinches and jerks her hand away.

“Get your hand off me. Don’t act nice now. Isn’t this your plan? Undermining me?” the muscle on her jaw flexes. 

She stands abruptly.

You stare at her, stunned.

Excuse me? Your walls slam back up.

Joan storms out for a break.

A few minutes later, everyone returns. Except she refuses to sit beside you. She chooses the farthest chair.

Channing clears his throat and reads a memo.

“Due to recent concerns regarding inmate behavior and staff morale, the board has approved a new in-house psychological initiative.”

Joan’s eyes narrow.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning we will establish a new psychological evaluation and rehabilitation facility inside Wentworth.”

Your heart thuds.

You glance at Joan; she’s glaring at Channing like he staged a coup.

“And,” Channing continues, “the board has decided that both of you will oversee its development.”

Joan goes rigid.

You are speechless.

“You cannot be serious,” Joan growls.

“The decision is final,” the ombudsman says. “You will begin collaborating next week.”

You open your mouth:

“Sir, I would like to—”

“Noted,” he interrupts. “But the facility is moving forward, and you will work with Governor Ferguson.”

When the meeting ends, the room empties except you and Joan. Silence stretches between you.

Then you both look at each other.

And something jagged snaps.

“This is your fault,” she spits. “You’ve been here five minutes and already the board thinks you know better than I do.”

You blink, stunned.

“My fault? Joan, I didn’t ask for—”

“You undermine me. In meetings, in assessments —" Her voice cracks with something raw she’d never admit.

“You walked in here acting like you’re above everyone.”

Your chest tightens, anger rising. “I have never undermined you. I’ve been careful with my words since day one. I'm just doing my job.”

“Careful? Doing your job? ” Joan scoffs. “You humiliated me!”

You stand from your chair.

“I defended you. I could’ve burned you in front of the board. But I didn’t. So don’t you dare twist that.”

Joan steps closer. “And touching me? In the middle of the meeting? What was that?”

“Trying to help,” you snap, “because you were shaking. But clearly, that was a mistake.”

Her jaw flexes. “I don't need your help.”

“Okay! Understood! But you don’t get to treat me like trash just because you’re angry!”

The door muffles your shouting. Outside, Will, Linda, and Vera pause mid-conversation.

Vera sighs. “Are they shouting at each other?”

Will folds his arms. “I’ll give them ten minutes.”

Linda shakes her head. “Five. They’ll burn the place down otherwise.”

The door slams open on its hinges. You walk out, furious, refusing to look back.

Joan watches your figure disappear down the hallway. And for a split second, she’s back in her dream. Her hands palming your ass you grind down on her, your moans on her ear, your fingers intertwining with hers. 

Her jaw clenches harder.

Because the dream frustrates her. But losing control frustrates her even more.

She sinks into the nearest chair, breathing hard. “Fuck,” she mutters again.

You and Joan set regular meetings on Mondays and Fridays to check in with progress and talk about the plan of execution.

The rest of the day crawled by, each interaction with the staff feeling heavy under the looming shadow of the morning’s confrontation. The lingering thought at the back of your head was a tight knot of disbelief: She’s so arrogant. I can’t with her. You cataloged your observations of her behavior: the instantaneous switch from professional defiance to petty, personal spite when you offered comfort.

She is fundamentally broken, you thought, leaning back in your office chair, staring out at the perimeter fence. And yet, she is still captivatingly powerful. That kind of control is terrifying, but it commands attention. God, the sheer energy she spends on being difficult. It makes you wanna pull your hair out.

Your assessment of Joan was becoming a dangerous obsession. You recognized the pathology, the deep-seated fear of weakness, and the paranoia. You understood the mechanism, yet you couldn't detach the professional curiosity from the frustrating, infuriating, almost exhilarating challenge she represented.

A notification pinged your phone right after you went home for the night, pulling you abruptly out of the Wentworth vortex.

“See you later ;) I’ll pick you up at 8.”

It was from Richard, you’d been seeing for a few months now. You both met at a psychology circle gala. He was an interesting man. Nice, successful, with pleasing, Greek-like features and a stable job as a corporate consultant. You genuinely did like him. But there was always a feeling, a subtle, persistent lack that no amount of stability could fill.

You decided on a plunge cowl black form-fitting dress, a conscious choice to put on the armor of your non-Wentworth life.

Richard drove you to the fine dining restaurant. The conversation was light, focused on safe topics, his latest project, an amusing anecdote from your university days. It took your mind away from the chaos at Wentworth, and you were desperate to blow off steam.

When you and Richard exited the restaurant, stepping into the dim light of the alleyway before reaching his car, you felt it: a sudden, cold wash of being watched. Your neck hairs prickled. You scanned the empty street and the shadowed building across the way, but saw nothing.

Just tired, you decided, shaking off the feeling.

Meanwhile, a few blocks away, a small black car idled.

“She’s leaving. In his car. These two are about to fuck,” Nils Jesper said, his voice clipped on the phone.

“Keep an eye on her,” Joan responded, sitting upright on her black-sheeted bed. She took a slow sip of vodka, her eyes fixed on the stolen photos of you in that black dress, photos that Nils had captured. She was running a slow, possessive fingertip over the screen.

The image frustrated her. The dress was too soft, the smile too open, the whole scene too easy.

You entered Richard’s car, the feeling of surveillance slowly fading. You knew where the night was headed, and when you arrived at his house, you changed clothes and got comfortable in bed. He started touching you, his movements practiced and tender.

You tried to lean into it, to sink into the simple, safe affection. But the exhaustion of the day, the memory of Joan’s contorted face and her furious retreat, was a wall in your mind. You couldn’t concentrate on the pleasure.

“I’m sorry, I’m really tired. I, uh….”

“It’s alright, it’s alright. We don't have to do anything,” Richard said, his smile tight but understanding. He kissed your cheek before rolling onto his side of the bed.

You rolled onto the other side, letting the quiet safety of his house consume you, willing sleep to take you.

You snapped out of the mundane comfort. The air was thick and cold. You were no longer in bed, but pressed onto the cool, dark mahogany desk in Joan's office.

She had slammed you down. Not hard enough to cause pain, but with enough physical force to remind you that she could pin you down as she wished. Her Governor’s uniform was still fixed.

“Do I need to remind you who is in charge here?” Her voice deepened, a dangerous vibration against your ear.

“You may be the Governor, Joan, but you can’t control everything,” you responded, the defiance in your voice biting.

She didn’t argue. Instead, she gently bit your earlobe, the soft, surprising gesture causing a sharp whimper to escape your throat. She chuckled, a dry, satisfied sound.

“Is that so, darling? Then why are you wet? I can practically smell you.” She moved her head, snaking it to the other side of your face, peppering your neck and jaw with precise, possessive kisses.

“You think you control me, Governor? But look at you, struggling to keep away from me." You met her gaze, offering up your neck as both a challenge and an invitation. "Wouldn’t you say that I am controlling you?”

“Good observation,” she said, but her mind was already elsewhere, focused on the immediate physical task. She hiked up your skirt and efficiently pulled your panties down, her movements swift.

“But when I enter you, you’ll be completely under my command,” she declared, pressing a gentle, testing finger onto your already throbbing core.

“You wouldn’t dare,” you responded through gritted teeth, your body betraying the lie.

She stared straight into your eyes, both your irises blown wide. Her finger began to stroke, circling your entrance. “Say yes. Or tell me to stop then.” She spelled the final command out slowly with every rhythmic stroke.

You didn’t answer. You only pulled her closer, your hands tangling in her lapels, an unspoken plea. She accepted, her long, thick fingers plunging inside you. The moan was loud, ragged, and completely stripped of professional composure.

The sound of your own voice, followed by the sudden, silent void of Richard’s house, ripped you from the vision.

“Fuck!”

You gasped, your breath ragged, struggling to orient yourself in the quiet darkness. Once you calmed down, the realization hit. You had to face her soon.

How am I supposed to face Joan on Monday?

[bouquet07]

Leather Gloves

Joan Ferguson x Reader

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4]

Summary: Joan watches your every move.

*****

The board received your report and scheduled a meeting with you and Joan next Saturday. With that aside, you focus on building rapport with the women and continue your assessment of them.

"Doc, why does my drawing look like Franky's tits," Boomer blurts out over the scratching sound of pencils.

You look up from your clipboard, barely keeping a straight face. Today, you asked the women to draw anything they feel like, and it’s like watching over kindergartners with papers and colored pens all around the room.

“Boomer,” you say calmly, “that’s a circle with shading. Not everything round is a breast.”

Franky whistles. “Speak for yourself, Doc. I’ve seen your sketches. You’re practically drawing me erotically.”

You light-heartedly give Franky a look to get her to stop.

Liz smacks her with a rolled-up paper. “Oh, shut up, Franky. Everything to you is erotic.”

Doreen leans in, squinting critically at Boomer’s paper. “Actually… it kinda does look like Franky’s tits.”

You and the girls burst into laughter.

It’s light and warm, something Wentworth rarely gets since the riot last week.

In the corner of the room, the CCTV is focused on your direction, which means one thing: Joan can see you.

Through her screen, Joan watches. Her eyes locked entirely on you. Ever since your friction with her at your office, she has been extra vigilant in watching everything you do.

She soaks up every detail. From the way your smile softens your face, to the way the women lean toward you, and the way you’re bare-handed today, leather gloves off. She can't seem to take her eyes off you, and it annoys her that she can't easily manipulate you.

She watches Franky leaning toward you, smiling and saying something she cannot understand. Her eyebrows squint a little. She mutters under her breath: “She’s being manipulated... Naïve little—”

But her gaze never leaves you.

Two days later, as you were walking past the admin hub, you caught a glimpse of Joan talking to the officers. You walk toward your office, as that is the shortest route.

You can't help but notice how she effortlessly towers anyone. She's extremely tall, you thought. She is always so put together, like it's the core of who she is as a person. And her hands... You stop yourself.

“Officers, privileges are revoked for H Block. No phone calls. No rec time. No canteen runs.”

Vera winces. “But Governor, the entire block didn’t participate in the fight—”

“That’s irrelevant,” Joan snaps. Poor Vera, you thought.

“They respond to discipline. And they must learn that their actions have consequences.”

She notices eyes on her, and immediately her eyes flick on you.

You watch from the hall, expression unreadable. She starts to walk towards your direction.

When she reaches you, she just slows down. Her chin lifts imperceptibly. She looks down at you, and her nose flares, catching a note of your perfume, her eyes scanning you all over.

“Problem, Doctor?”

Before you can even answer, she continues to walk past you onto her next exercise of power.

On Thursday, Franky drops lazily onto the couch in your office for her scheduled therapy sessions.

“Doc, before we start… scale of 1 to 10, how much do you like me?”

You click your pen. “Professionally, Franky? A solid 5.”

She clutches her chest. “Five? That’s insulting. Look at me, I’m at least an eight.”

“You’re a very confident four,” you deadpan.

Franky breaks into loud laughter, slapping her knee. “Tell me, Doc, are you seeing someone?”

You didn't answer that. And your therapy session with Franky continued.

Franky jokes and teases but you don’t give her the flirtatious reaction. You understand that there are patients who use this tactic to divert their attention and evade being vulnerable. So, you let Franky throw her lines. After all, you notice that Franky knows not to cross boundaries.

When Franky exits with a final: “If you ever get lonely, Doc, I’m free on Thursdays,” Joan steps in immediately right after. She shuts the door behind her. Eerily silent.

“Explain,” she says curtly.

You blink. “Explain what?”

“That display.” Joan gestures sharply towards the door. “Inmates making advances. And you allowing it.”

“Allowing?” you echo. “I am not allowing anything. And Governor, my patient sessions are confidential. Are you listening to our conversation?"

Joan’s jaw tightens, but her expression doesn’t shift. She steps closer to you.

“I am observing, Doctor. The Governor is entitled to monitor staff behavior when inmate boundaries blur.”

You set your pen down, calm but firm. And you step closer to her too. You now are both standing face to face.

“There is no blurring happening. And I’m entitled to conduct clinical sessions without interference, not even from you."

Joan tsks, her eyes darken mockingly. “Don’t pretend you’re above oversight,” Joan hisses. “You went straight to the board with Allie Novak’s incident. No warning. Not even a consultation from me. Pretty reckless in your 1st week." she smirks at you.

“Because that's what I'm supposed to do,” you challenge softly. "and how did you respond? By trying to bully and intimidate me in my 1st week, and here you are again breaching patient-doctor confidentiality in my second week." You tilt your head and look up at her lips, then her eyes.

"Would you like me to put that in another report, Governor?"

Her nostrils flare.

“You are naïve then,” Joan murmurs, a sound only you and she can hear, her voice dropping into that velvety tone she uses when she’s reining herself in. “Franky Doyle flirts to manipulate. She pushes boundaries to see what she can get away with.”

“And I can set strong boundaries,” you answer evenly. “I don’t need help from someone who thinks punishment is the only form of communication.”

Her eyes narrow sharply but still composed.

"What are you talking about?" she tells you, puzzled. She walks you backwards.

"Your unnecessary punishment strategy for H Block,” you reply calmly.

“You have no right—” Your back hits your table.

“I have every right, Governor. My mandate is mental health oversight. Yours is operations. And your operations are harming their mental health.” You graze your fingers against her lower abdomen before she can even move closer to you.

She stops.

Your touch sends a bolt of electricity from the part your touched all through out her body.

You both look at the point where your fingers connect to her lower abdomen. And she snaps her eyes up to meet yours.

She hates losing ground. Hates not having the upper hand. Hates that you don’t cower the way most people do when she looms.

“Be careful where you put your hands—” she whispers, her face inches from yours, her eyes dropping to the point of contact on her abdomen.

“Dr. Y/N?” Vera’s voice, muffled through the door, followed by a timid knock.

Joan exhales like she’s snapping a wire inside herself. She steps back slowly, composing herself.

You don't let her retreat fully. You lean in. Close enough that your lips nearly graze the shell of her ear.

“Don’t threaten me, Governor,” you whisper. “I see what you’re doing. You can't bend me.”

She freezes just half a second. Her appetite to break you now spiking up.

Suddenly, the door opens, and Vera nearly jumps seeing Joan standing right in front of her.

“Vera.” Joan’s voice is smooth again, her facade pristine. She doesn’t look back at you as she strides away.

The next morning, you and Vera are eating lunch together in the pantry. It has become routine that you share your lunch time with her. You’ve learned that she is actually the sweetest person. She told you about her mother and how protective she was. She's a great friend to have.

“You’re… uh—handling Governor Ferguson well,” Vera says softly, eyes darting toward the hallway making sure no one heard her mention Joan's name. “Most people don’t.”

You chew the last bite of your sandwich, and raise a brow. “Is that a compliment?”

“A warning,” Vera replies meekly. "She can be too much... sometimes."

"Is there ever a time she isn't?" you give her a joking look. And she wags her head in saying 'none'.

You both laugh. As you gather your things to leave, Will enters, offering you his easy smile. “Afternoon, Doc. Hope your day hasn’t been too rough.”

“Manageable,” you answer. "How about you, Will? How was your day? "

He watches you gather your things, "Could be better. Wait, you're leaving already?"

"Yeah, sorry, gotta sign paperwork from the Governor." You offer him an apologetic smile. "Bye Vera! See you around!" You then left.

Vera elbows him. “You fancy her.”

Will sputters. “What—no— I just think she’s… nice.”

Linda scoffs. “Mate, you’re blushing.”

“Shut up,” Will mutters, but he doesn’t deny it.

After lunch, you went straight to Joan's office, bringing all the ridiculously many paperwork she asked you to sign.

"Governor, here are the paperwork you asked for." You place the folders of paper on her desk. Her pen stops. Her eyes finally lift.

“Well. At least this batch doesn’t look like it was prepared by a first-year intern.” She mocks you.

“Is there anything else, Governor?" you ask impatiently. She takes her time looking at you. Too long. Long enough that you feel the heat of her stare on your cheekbone.

“Impatient, Doctor?” she purrs. “You might want to learn restraint. Clearly, you’re struggling with it.”

You scoff softly. "I think you're the one struggling with restraint, since you can't seem to stop flooding me with unnecessary work after you got reported."

“You are edging dangerously close to insubordination, Doctor.”

“And you are edging dangerously close to harassment, Governor.”

The air charges between you, thick and warm and impossible to ignore.

Then she reaches for the stack of paperwork without breaking eye contact.

“Dismissed,” Joan says softly. Too softly.

But as you turn to leave, she adds—

“Oh, and Doctor?”

You pause, hand on the door.

Her voice drops into something dangerous. Something dark. Something that makes your heart punch against your ribs.

“Tomorrow,” she says, “I’ll be watching every word you say.”

[bouquet07]

Leather Gloves

Joan Ferguson x Reader

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4]

Summary: Joan learns you are not as pliant as she assumed.

*****

The first few days established Dr. Y/N L/N's presence as a quiet, meticulous force. You spent hours reviewing files and conducting initial assessments with the women. Your office was a small sanctuary where you lay the perfect groundwork. 

The crisis begins with Allie Novak, a vulnerable inmate known to be targeted by certain factions within the prison. You had already flagged her file, noting that the constant pressure and lack of privacy were eroding her mental stability.

One afternoon, a massive brawl erupts in the laundry block, orchestrated by Franky Doyle's crew in retaliation for a drug issue.

The officers, including Will and Fletcher, respond with immediate, overwhelming force to regain control. Allie, already unstable, is traumatized by the noise, the violence, and the physical force used.

You arrive on the scene just as Allie is being physically restrained and dragged away, having collapsed in a fetal position, screaming incoherently. 

Later, in the infirmary, you discovered the damage: while restraining her, Fletcher, applied excessive force. And it resulted in a severe injury that requires specialized neurological assessment and high-level psychiatric stabilization. Something that Wentworth simply cannot provide.

Furthermore, the cause of the injury makes it a mandatory, and non-negotiably reportable incident to the Board of Examiners, the Commissioner, and the external Ombudsman.

Then Joan arrives unannounced.

“Dr. L/N. I trust you are finishing your documentation on the events of the laundry block.”

You look up from your screen, displaying the draft report's damning opening line: "Inmate A. Novak suffered significant physical injury and acute psychotic collapse resulting from operational failures during restraint..."

“Good evening, Governor,” you reply, your voice even. You close the laptop lid slowly, locking your focus on her. “I detailed the report as a necessity for transferring Allie Novak to an external psychiatric facility immediately.”

Joan slowly pushes off the door and takes one deliberate step into the room, her presence suddenly filling the small space. “That is out of the question. It’s an unnecessary expenditure and a logistical nightmare. We will treat her here.”

You countered with a sweet, unnervingly steady smile, the same one you gave her at the gate.

“Allie requires a full neurological workup and sustained, high-level psychiatric care she cannot receive in our infirmary. And her injuries were a result of excessive…” You held her eye contact. 

“and unnecessary force applied by one of your officers. This is a clear breach of protocol under Board Regulation 4.3.”

Joan’s eyes narrow to slits, settling into quiet anger. 

“You are overreaching, Doctor. You are in no position to dictate my mistakes.” She walks closer to your table. Silently admiring the order of your things. 

“The way you phrase your report suggests a crack in my authority, which isn’t factual. You will not compromise my position for the sake of one fragile inmate.” She tilts her head up to meet your eyes. 

“My position is to report directly to the Board on the mental health welfare of these women, and frankly, on the operations that compromise that welfare,” you state, leaning back in your chair, your composure absolute. 

"Failure to report this physical injury and subsequent psychotic break and the official cause will be professional negligence on my part.” You ran your eyes from her face to her neck, down to her broad, strong shoulders. 

“Your negligence does not concern my medical and ethical obligation, Governor."

Joan takes another step, her voice dropping to a dangerous register. “You do not understand the hierarchy here, Doctor.” She heavily emphasized your title. 

“This is my prison, and YOU are under my authority.” Her eyes falter to the dip on your blouse giving her a peek of cleavage. 

“You will draft a revised report stating the injury was sustained during the general chaos of the fight, and that Allie Novak is responding well to in-house psychotropic treatments. You will save us both a great deal of trouble.”

You reach out and gently removed your leather gloves finger to finger.

“Governor,” you say, the sweetness in your voice now carrying the distinct metallic taste of threat. 

“My obligation is to the women and to the Board. I have already submitted the report before you came to my office. I believe the Board, which installed me for this very purpose, will find my findings... illuminating.”

Joan stares at you, speechless, the realization flooding her: you were actively challenging her. You had teeth, and you bit back. What a brat, she thought. A protected princess. But I will bend you. 

Without another word, her lips pressed into a thin, white line.

Joan whirls around and slams the door shut behind her, leaving you to prepare for the meeting with the ombudsman that just guaranteed your professional feud with Joan Ferguson.

[bouquet07]

Leather Gloves

Joan Ferguson x Reader

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4]

Summary:

You enter Wentworth as a new staff. How would your relationship with Joan unfold.

*****

Joan positioned herself precisely at the gate of Wentworth. She stood proudly, straightening her suit with her hands and looking ahead, ensuring her stance alone communicated authority.

 “Stand up straight,” she told the lined-up officers, scolding them like children. Will, Linda, Vera, and the other staff, all waiting to welcome the board's new appointment: You.

And even before the car arrived, you could already see the tall, imposing, and slightly intimidating concrete that guarded the prison. Derek Channing drove you there to introduce you to the prison staff. “We’re here, doctor,” he said. You didn't know what awaited you within those prison walls.

The entire staff heard the wheels of the car screeching to a stop, signaling that another installation was here. And for Joan, that sound was a challenge. Another person to test and bend to her will. She was a little bit excited, if she might admit. 

Both car doors opened at the same time. She paid no mind to the arrogant man. But she watched as sharp heels slipped out from the car, followed by a figure hugged by a tight pencil skirt, a low-dipping white shirt, and then she met your eyes.

She was the first thing you saw after you got out of the car, mainly because her presence demands attention. Her figure alone makes it hard for you to look away. The delicate upturn of her nose, her sharp eyes. But also because she looked at you as if she were scanning you piece by piece. And you met her eyes. And her eyebrows rose a twitch. She must be the Governor.

“Good morning, Governor. This is Dr. Y/N L/N. She’s the new psychiatrist installed by the board to assist prison inmates.” Mr. Channing’s voice sliced through your eye contact with the Governor. 

Her expression changed in a split second from scrutiny to a warm, charming smile, and she reached her gloved hand towards you. “Hi, I'm Joan Ferguson, the Governor of this prison.” You looked at her gloved hand extended at you for a second, hesitantly reaching back. She took note of this. 

You reached for her hand, leather gloves on your own. “Nice to meet you, Governor.” You tightened your grip, offering her your sweetest, most endearing smile. She looked you straight in the eye and unconsciously did the same. “Welcome to Wentworth… shall we?”

[bouquet07]

Tacky Petals

Joan Ferguson x Reader

[NSFW - 18+]

Summary:

What happens when Joan forgets your anniversary?

*****

Joan walks into the house. Her house, your shared space now. It's close to half past midnight.

She looks exhausted in that frightening, composed way she always does. Her suit is still immaculate, hair barely disturbed, posture straight enough to cut glass. Her silence is chilling. She toes her shoes off by the door with measured routine.

She doesn’t notice the table at first. The rose petals, the candles shriveled into their own wax, the plates, and the coq au vin long gone cold.

She heads straight for the fridge. Opens it. Grabs the vodka bottle. Pours herself a shot like the motion is muscle memory.

She walks past the table at last. And then she stops.

“Had a rough day, Governor Ferguson?”

You’re sitting on the couch across the room, eyes fixed on the television. Your jaw is clenched so tight it aches. You don’t even turn your head.

Joan freezes before setting the shot glass and the vodka bottle down on the counter.

You never call her that at home. You always call her “darling,” or “honey.” Never her professional title. In short, not without affection. Not without warmth.

The shot glass hits the marble a little too sharply.

“Why are you calling me that? And what is all this? These petals everywhere?”

You finally turn toward her. Slowly. Nervously. Your voice is quiet, because you are tired of being angry.

“It’s the outcome of your low prioritization, Governor.”

A beat.

“It was our 3rd anniversary.”

Her face hardens. She closes her eyes for a second and loosens her tie with jerky movements. “Low prioritizatio— I am here now, aren’t I? And stop calling me Governor for Christ’s sake.”

Her fatigue disappears, replaced by agitation. That sharp, defensive bite she always hides behind professionalism.

You stand up. Your hands tremble despite your attempt to steady them as you turn off the TV.

“Yes, you’re here now. After midnight.”

“Oh, you are being dramatic,” she fires back. “I’m HERE. NOW. What more do you want?”

You walk to the dining table and lift the silver lid covering the dinner you prepared.

“I made your favorite. Coq au vin. Because I know you like it…” You look at her face to face. “It took me four hours to make that.” Your voice cracks, no matter how hard you fight it. “I even sent you a text this morning. Eight a.m. I said I was excited to see you this evening.”

Joan’s eyes narrow, tracking every detail. She watches your shaking fingers, the cold food, the petals.

“Oh, a text. A reminder! Right, right.” She mockingly says. “I have meetings, goddamn it. I run a prison. I’m not a secretary who logs sentiments.”

You set the lid down with a hard clink.

“But you log your meetings. Your court appearances. Your budget reviews.”

A breath.

“Your parole sessions… right, Governor?”

For the briefest second, Joan flinches.

It’s uncomfortable for her to be called out. Then her walls slam back up.

“So what, you want an apology?” she spits.

“NO, JOAN!” The dam breaks. “I want you to listen to me! You always do this! When it comes to work, you never miss anything. But when it comes to us, you forget! What am I? Someone you sleep with at night and ignore when the sun rises?!”

Her eyebrows twitch. An indication you know too well that she’s now furious.

She steps closer, towering over you. You can smell vodka and mint on her breath.

“What? You want me to eat this? Is that it?” She grabs a fork across the kitchen and opens the container. Before she can dig into the dish, you forcefully grab her arm, causing her to drop the fork. It hits the floor with a sharp sound.

“You are not listening to me!” you say, tears now spilling over your cheeks.

“You want a new ring? A holiday to France? Name your price then!” Her voice drips with frustration and desperation disguised as arrogance. “I can buy us another anniversary tomorrow. I’m here now. Stop this nonsense and just tell me what you want!”

She reaches for the bottle again and drinks another shot.

You shake your head, blinking fast to keep the tears from spilling.

Your chest feels tight. A sad smile trembles onto your lips.

“No. I don’t want a purchased anniversary. I want a partner who’s here with me. Who makes me feel like I’m part of her life. Someone who doesn’t make me feel like an afterthought.”

Joan scoffs sharply. She downs the drink in one go.

“What is wrong with you? Do you have any idea what I do for us out there?” Her voice rises. “And you are tearing me down over dinner and some tacky petals!” She grabs a handful and tosses them in your direction.

You inhale sharply. “Are you even listening to me?” you say, stepping forward. “I’m asking for proof that I’m more than a good fuck you come home to.”

You shove her back when she reaches for you.

“This isn’t working. It hasn’t been working for months.”

Her anger breaks, and panic rushes in its place.

“What are you talking about?” Joan steps closer, backing you to the wall. “Come on, darling. Let’s just calm down.” Her voice shifts into that coaxing tone she uses when she wants control back. Her hands glide up and down your arms, gentle but gripping.

You push her away slightly.

“No. Joan… I can’t keep doing this.”

“Baby, you’re just tired.” She moves back in and cups your jaw, her lips brushing your cheek, your neck. A tactic she always uses when she’s losing an argument with you. “Let’s rest, hm? We’ll celebrate tomorrow. I’ll take the whole day off. I promise.” She pulls you in and presses soft kisses on your lips.

You kiss her back because it’s familiar, because you love her, and because you want her to love you better. And God, it feels so good. The sharp, clean scent of her skin that you crave.

She deepens it, her tongue slipping past your teeth, asking, begging, for you to let her in, and you do. The taste of metallic desperation from the vodka shot mixes with the sweet, minty sting of her mouth. She inches up your skirt, the rough wool of your socks snagging on her suit trousers as she lifts you slightly, settling you down heavily on her lap between her thighs.

She guides your hips with both hands. She makes sure that the pressure is firm on your clit. When you finally grind down her on your own, a deep primal groan vibrates in her chest. She moves one hand to trace the curves of your breasts, the warm, dry heat of her palm momentarily distracting you from the ache.

She murmurs against your neck, her voice thick with sudden, desperate pleasure, “Yeah? Let’s go upstairs—”

“Joan,” you whisper, pulling back to catch your breath.

She stops. Reluctantly.

You meet her eyes. And even she can’t understand what she sees there.

“I’m breaking up with you.”

For a heartbeat, neither of you breathes.

The sound of the clock ticking is the only thing that can be heard in that huge, silent house.

[bouquet07]

I am NOT Jianna

Joan Ferguson x Reader

[Angst]

Summary:

A ghost of someone you had never met began to seep into your relationship.

*****

It took a long while for Joan to share her past with you. Her father, her upbringing, the brittle little fragments of childhood she rarely exposed to anyone. When you started dating and eventually sleeping together, she opened up even more. And you believed that was it. You believed she had told you everything.

But as the months passed, a ghost of someone you had never met began to seep into your relationship.

It started innocently enough.

You were seated at the dinner table, plates warm, air smelling faintly of roasted vegetables and Joan’s expensive perfume. You’d been together a year now, living with her in her unreasonably huge house.

You were laughing at your own childhood story when Joan watched you with a softened gaze, then murmured under her breath:

“You laugh like her…”

Your fork hovered mid-air. “Her who, darling?”

“No one. Never mind,” she said too quickly, flashing a polite, practiced smile. “Go on, darling. Continue.”

You did. But something cold settled under your ribs.

The next slip was after a brutal day at Wentworth.

You lay on your shared bed, massaging your temples. Joan, already under the covers with a book, scooted toward you and pressed two fingers gently against your inner wrist.

You chuckled. “What are you doing? Checking my pulse?”

She smiled, then moved behind you to massage your shoulders. “A nurse once taught me to tell if someone is overwhelmed. Fast pulse. Shallow breathing.”

“Who was this nurse?”

“No one,” she said immediately, and she kissed your shoulder before you could push.

But her eyes betrayed her. They were pulled somewhere else.

It happened again during a grocery run.

You walked past an aisle of fresh flowers. Joan, who rarely paused for anything unnecessary, stopped and grabbed a bouquet of roses.

Later, in the car, she handed them to you. “What are these for?” you asked, touched.

“You said you liked roses.”

“I’m allergic to roses, honey. You know that.”

She froze just barely, but you still saw it. You opted not to ask what that was about. You didn’t need to.

One night, after sex, with your body warm against hers and sleep pulling both of you under, you heard her whisper: “Jianna—”

That was not your name. So, who was she?

You stared at the ceiling long after she fell asleep, the weight in your chest turning into a crack.

It all came to a head the night you forgot to text her.

“You can’t disappear like that!” Joan snapped, voice sharp and trembling.

“I was only gone for an hour–”

“I kept trying to reach you. What if I found you and I'm too late again?!”

“Too late again for what?”

“Answer me, Joan.”

“Just forget it,” she said. "Next time, tell me where you are." But you knew there was a deeper wound beneath it. A wound with a name you still didn’t know.

You weren’t snooping. Not at first. You were just looking for a book Joan borrowed from you.

But when you slid open her desk drawer, you froze.

A photograph of a young woman. You flipped the photo and there’s Joan’s neat cursive at the back: Jianna.

Under it, a stack of letters. All signed the same way. 

Jianna. 

Jianna. 

Jianna.

“What are you doing?” Joan’s voice hit your spine like lightning.

You turned to her slowly. “Who is she, Joan?”

“Put the photo down.”

"Answer me, Joan. Who. Is. She." You pressed.

“My Jianna.” The words knocked the breath out of you.

“Your—your Jianna? What is that supposed to mean?”

“It doesn’t matter. She’s gone. Now put that back and let’s have dinner.”

“No. You’re going to tell me about her right now!" Joan stared at you. The air thickened between you.

“That’s unnecessary,” she said, voice low and frighteningly even. “It is irrelevant to us.” She extended a hand, “give me the photo.”

“Irrelevant?” You stepped back, putting the desk between you. “Are you making a fool out of me, Joan?”

“I’m your partner, and I’m a fucking doctor,” you said, voice trembling with pain. “I know what denial looks like.”

Joan’s hand dropped slowly, defeated.

“Jianna was the only person who ever truly saw me,” she said quietly. “She was… my everything.”

“She died because of me.” 

“And you think hiding the truth makes me safer?” you whispered.

Joan looked genuinely lost. “I am protecting us. You are alive. You are here. You are—” 

“No. You’re protecting you.” She stiffened. “You bought me roses I’m allergic to because she loved them. You check my pulse because she taught you. You said I laugh like her.” Joan flinched.

“You say she was your everything,” you whispered. “So what am I? Someone to fill her space? Someone to recreate what you lost?”

“Stop this,” she said sharply. “The dramatics do not suit you.”

“Drama? Joan, I’m telling you I feel like I’m being replaced by a ghost and you call it drama?”

Joan’s eyes flash dangerously, the same one prisoners fear. “Because that is exactly what this is,” she snaps. “You snooping through my belongings, drawing wild conclusions, flinging accusations—” 

“Wild conclusions?!” you fire back. “You called out her name after sex!”

Joan’s composure fractures. Her lips part, her eyes widen showing that you’ve struck a nerve. Then she steps toward you, voice dropping to a lethal whisper: “And you think rifling through my private letters gives you the right to interrogate me like a criminal?” 

“Then answer me!” you shout. “Do you still love her?”

Joan freezes. She straightens to her full height. She looks straight into your eyes, 

“I do.”

Your heart drops.

You look at her with teary eyes and you put the photo down on her desk. “How dare you use me to be your puppet. I loved you with all that I am, entirely for you to not see me completely. I deserve better than this.”

You leave her in her office and go upstairs to pack your clothes.

Behind you, the house remains still for a moment until you hear a drawer slammed shut. Things flying off the walls and the sound of glasses breaking.

You swallow hard, but you keep packing. You quickly fold a shirt. Then another, and another. 

Your eyes still can't stop tearing up.

Until behind you, in the doorway, you felt Joan’s presence. She’s perfectly still, and it scares you.

“Stop packing,” she says. Her voice is too soft. Too dangerous. You ignore her.

She steps into the room, “I said, STOP!” she grabs your bag and swings it on the floor like she’s handling a violent inmate.

“Darling,” she says, voice cracking. “Don’t leave.”

You shake your head without looking at her. “I can’t stay here, Joan. It's too much for me” 

"I told you the truth," she says, pulling you by the arm, trying to force you into her embrace. “You demanded honesty and I gave it to you.” You push her back gently, breaking her grip, and pick your bag from the ground.

“You told me when it was already too late.” You zip your bag. The sound cuts through the room like a blade. Joan flinches. Actually flinches. 

“Don’t,” she whispers barely audibly. “You don’t get to walk away. Not after everything we’ve—” You turn on her. “After everything we have? Joan, you were never fully here. You can’t resurrect her and make me stand in her place.”

“You said she’s the only person who ever saw you. And I don’t?” you choke out. Her face twists. She seems… lost. “You do,” she says. “You do. You are—” You cut her off: 

“I’m not Jianna."

[bouquet07]

Hours & Hours

Joan Ferguson x Reader

[NSFW - 18+]

Summary:

“Too big… Joan—” Your voice, cracked and breathless. Her hand palming your breasts, playing with your nipples.

“You can take it, more than you think, baby.” She said so certainly. Her restraint is the only thing stopping her from breaking you open.

*****

You rise from the bed, naked, your skin still warm. The cold air of the room slips over you like a second pair of hands.

Your silk robe lies crumpled on the floor, abandoned in the heat of warm mouths and flicking tongues. You bend to pick it up, sliding it over your sore shoulders before looking back toward the bed.

Joan is there, half-shadowed, the sheets tangled around her hips. Even asleep, she looks calm... For now, like desire and power have simply paused inside her, not faded.

But earlier tonight, she was relentless.

“Too big… Joan—” Your voice, cracked and breathless. Her hand palming your breasts, playing with your nipples.

“You can take it, more than you think, baby.” She said so certainly. Her restraint is the only thing stopping her from breaking you open.

You remember the way your ankles hooked behind her, pulling her in harder, deeper than she intended. And the way her breath stuttered is one of the few tells she has when she is losing control, and lost control she did as she rammed into you with brows knitted in concentration.

It’s past three in the morning. You’ve been making love for hours.

And now you walk toward the bathroom, legs slightly quivering. Under the dim, warm light, you study yourself in the mirror.

The robe hangs open just enough to reveal the constellation of bruises in the valley of your breasts. You tug it down your arms, and your reflection blooms with more reds, purples, and Joan's faint teeth marks.

"Gods," you think, "Joan didn’t hold back!"

A soft creak interrupts your thoughts.

Before you can turn, Joan’s warm and tall body is already behind you. One arm snakes around your waist; the other rises to your throat, thumb caressing her marks like she's admiring an exquisite painting.

"Did you like it, Darling?” Her voice, filled with sleep but still low enough to tremble through your bones.

She moved to hugging your smaller frame from behind and tucking her chin on your shoulder, looking at both of your reflections.

"Are you a vampire or something?" you added, leaning into her touch. "Or do you like me that much you can't stop biting me?"

She laughs, and you see her eyes twinkle in the mirror. "You're a one-of-a-kind chew toy, and you're mine, so I'll bite you whenever I like." she said, admiring you in the mirror. Then she started pressing insistent kisses on your cheek, your jaw, and your neck before turning you face to claim your lips in a heated kiss.

"And I need to have you again," she said in between kisses, swiping her tongue on your lip, asking you to open up. "You're insatiable. But so am I." You go searching for her lips.

With a sharp pull, she parted from the kiss to pick you up, causing you to gasp. She set you on her slick, elegant counter. "Shhhhh, baby, I got you."

She opened up your robe and placed a kiss on your nipples before licking it and flicking it quickly up and down, causing you to whimper. "Make more sounds for me, darling."

You held her hair, combing it back as she played with your breasts. "These are mine. No one else gets to see them, touch them, or taste them."

She stood straight and looked you straight in the eyes, a devious smirk forming on her lips. You are so dazed you looked at her with hooded eyes, roaming your hands on her neck and cheek. "You make me crazy," you tell her, and she smirks mockingly and took your thumb in her mouth. She pulled back and spit on her fingers and returned her observation on your face as she reached down and spread her saliva on your pussy and started circling your clit.

Your mouth went open letting out a moan. "You're good with your fingers, Governor." She watched you with a sly smile. "You should know that better by now, Doctor," she responded as she slowly but surely entered you. "Oh, fuck!"

Bringing you pleasure, in more ways than one, was one of Joan's top priorities. She can be deliberately cruel to people, but the way she holds you is a mix of her controlled violence and softness that is addictive. She takes her fingers away and goes down on you to resume with her tongue.

Joan is an observant person. She takes note of every tiny thing that makes you who you are. The way your nose scrunches when you laugh, the fact that she so likes that little thing you do with your fingers when you thread them and massage her scalp. She now adds her fingers to the mix, penetrating you as she licks your now swollen clit.

She notices your habits like they’re her bible: the way you hum when you’re happy, the slight quirk of your eyebrows when you're upset, or how you cling to her sleeve when you want attention.

The way your eyes brighten when she calls you 'Honey', and how your voice pitches higher and needier when you are close. She increases the speed of her tongue and buries her fingers deeper.

It does not take long for you to reach your peak. You look like you are surrendering everything to her, and she can't help herself. As you come in her mouth, your grip on her hair tightens, which is pleasure itself for her. She says, "You are so beautiful."

[bouquet07]

My Doctor

Joan Ferguson x Reader

[NSFW - 18+]

Summary:

After another explosive argument with the Governor, she summons you to her office.

*****

Heels rapidly clacking on the tiles. Her voice rang, filling the entire office.

“You… Doctor… are giving these prisoners more than what's necessary.”

She retrieved you from the education room herself after seeing you talking with the prisoners on the CCTV. She nearly pulled you by the arm out of the prison premises back to the office.

You can see that she needs to assert her control and dominance. You understand that. But it doesn't mean that while you understand her primal need to dominate, you will just let her push you around.

“I am merely here to check on the mental and emotional well-being of the prisoners, Governor…” You said as a matter of fact.

You tried to keep up with her strides, but God! The woman has long limbs, you needed to nearly jog. “You feel threatened.”

The Governor stops in her tracks, and the way she spins around slowly to look at you is quite eerie. She cocks her head down slightly to look at you. She whispers:

“And what exactly are you suggesting, Doctor?”

Will, Linda, and Fletcher, in the staff pantry munching on their lunches, looked at each other as they heard the familiar heated argument between you and the Governor.

“Oh, good. Round two before lunch is even over. I was starting to worry the day was going to be boring.” Fletch shoved a forkful of chicken in his mouth.

Will sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “She’s going to work that poor doctor into a breakdown. She’s only trying to do her job, which, you know, is actually helping the women.”

Linda gave Will a flat look. “It's not just about the job, Will. I think it's foreplay. That whole performance is just their routine.” She paused smirking, swirling the coffee in her cup.

“Someone needs to tell them to get a room.”

You take a slow step closer, careful to still respect the invisible line she draws around herself.

“I’m merely observing patterns. You punish disobedience, reward compliance. That’s how you run this prison. It’s… effective. But predictable.”

“This is my prison, Doctor. I run it however I see fit. And I don't care if the board put you here to leech on me…” She scans your face, down to your neck, the dip of your blouse showing the curve of your breasts. She snaps back to your eyes.

“... You ask for my permission every time before running whatever nonsense it is you want to do. Understood?” Scanning her features, you realize that she is much more upset than she ever was when you and her have your rows; she’s trying to control her anger so much that her nose flares. And now, you wonder what's gotten her so angry. 

Studying her eyes, you respond coolly.

“Understood, Governor,” offering her a small smile.

Her hand works behind her back, swiftly opening the door to your office.

She moves aside to let you in.

“Come to my office in 10 minutes,” she said and proceeded to walk the other direction.

*****

You let out a breath after entering your office. You are not scared of her; you just find her difficult to reason with at times.

You’ve met different types of people who play mind games, and Joan Ferguson is… a master class in control and manipulation. You know that she takes special interest in you, pushing you to your limits, because you're the only one here who won't submit to her control. It's like she knows you see her under all that perfect suit, tidy things, and armor of power, and yet she dares you to challenge her anyway. You won’t back down from her either.

*****

You arrive outside her office, nine minutes sharp. 

Before you can even step inside, “Lock it,” she says, eyes fixed on the papers before her. 

The click of the bolt echoes. You pause, studying her profile. Calm and poised… attractive… as usual. 

“Could you help me with the food in the fridge?” she adds, still not looking up. “Tupperware.” 

You recognize the tactic immediately: Testing obedience.

So, with an amused smile, you slowly enter her secluded space, taking out 2 Tupperwares in the fridge, like she said.

Right after you close the door,

she pounced on you.

“You think this is a game, Doctor?” You feel her hot breath at the back of your neck.

Her hands began roaming to your hips, grabbing firmly and pulling you flush with her crotch.

“I think you enjoy playing one,” you softly moaned. 

Leaning back to her touch. “Honey–”

“The prisoners have been testing me all morning...” She started lifting your blouse from your trousers and immediately grazed your stomach, releasing a sigh of relief as she cupped the swell of your breasts.

“I can't stand Fletcher's dumb face, and then I realize I haven't gotten a kiss from my Doctor,” she pinched your nipples.

“And you have been ignoring me.”

The Tupperwares on your hands are now left on the counter. You rotated to face her.

“So that's why you've been acting like this…” 

When you faced her, she spent no time unbuttoning your blouse.

Joan is a possessive, jealous, needy lover. And you'd take that over anything else.

“I wasnt ignoring you, Honey.” you tried to reason out with her. But she’s just focused on burying her face on the nook of your neck, lips and teeth finding skin, pressing and nipping, hungry, desperate.

You moan at the way she marks your skin. God, you’ve always liked this side of her. Joan just takes whatever she wants to take. But you're not one to back down so easily.

You cup the back of her head to keep her there, careful not to ruin her perfect bun.

"I just had things to do. And I don't need to inform you about every little thing I do."

She laughs and snaps her head up to look at you. "Don’t need to inform me?"

She hooks her fingers on your pants. "Darling… I know when you come in late. When you leave early. When someone makes you laugh in the hallway."

She flicks your button open and slowly opens the zipper.

"I even know," her teeth scrape gently over your jaw, "when you're wet for me and trying not to show it."

You force yourself to pull back, putting some distance between you as you attempt a smirk.

"So what? Are you pissed because I don't give in to you that easily?”

You arch an eyebrow at her.

She's really pissed off now.

She steps up close again. 

“No. I'm pissed…” when you thought she was going to be forceful, she unexpectedly pulled you into a hug that covers your entire body with hers. “Because I haven’t had a taste of you in over a week. And I miss you.”

With that, you pull her for a kiss. 

She sucks a nervous breath. 

You could never get tired of how soft her lips were and how skilled she is with her tongue. You got an idea to ask her how she learned all that in the future. 

“There’s your kiss from your doctor,” you whispered.

It seemed like she’s back to herself again because now she’s taking control of the kiss. 

“Baby, you taste so good.” 

Pulling your hair back with one hand and the other slipping between your panties, playing with your clit. She stopped her assault on your mouth only to look at her hands slowly dipping inside your warm, silken folds. 

“Look at that, honey, you're so wet.”

You both moan as she enters you. 

“Joan… love.” She can’t stop but watch your face taken over with pleasure. 

She’s relishing the warmth you have around her as you try to balance yourself by wrapping your arm around her shoulders, which she rewarded you with a kiss on the cheek. 

“I missed you, darling,” she admits, and you cannot hide it now how skillful she’s being hitting your spot and her thumb circling your clitoris. You said, “I missed you too, baby.”

That seemed to spur her on, you admitting that you missed her, that you need her, Her and only her. 

“Say that again,” she demanded sweetly over your ear.

“I missed you,” you said. She sped up her ministrations between your legs.

“Again,” she snarled.

“I need you.” She’s pistoning her hips along with her fingers now.

“Good fucking girl.” Your folds began clamping down on her fingers. She can feel it. 

“Baby, I'm gonna come, I’m gonna come,” you told her, and she bit your shoulder as you squirted on her hands.

You both calm down for a while.

You can't stop peppering her face with kisses as she brushed back the sweat and hair on your forehead.

Her fingers are still inside you,

feeling your twitches when you both heard a knock on her door.

*****

[dianneking]

The Affair Chapter 4 - Larissa/Reader

Thought you could bury me? Think again! The angst fae is back with a new installment on my ongoing Larissa/Reader fanfic.

You can find the new chapter over on AO3 (and it's a steamy one! ) but here's a lil appetizer if you want:

Rating: Mature

You can put your hands on me, darling. It's not going to hurt you. On the contrary, I have it on good authority it's quite - Oh yes roll your hips like that again - quite pleasant.”

Larissa Weems was gorgeous, you knew that already. Hell, most of Jericho -and probably the world- would have agreed with you on that one. But what you had never expected was to be able to see her as she was now, her knees framing your body, a hand bracing behind you on the headboard, the other one splayed on your chest, the soft curves of her body jiggling tantalizingly above you as she moved.

There were not enough words to describe Larissa's beauty as she rode you.

[e1e4n0r5]

The Wolf's Bride: Chapter 9

Masterlist, Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8

Fandom: Arcane: League of Legends

Pairing: Ambessa Medarda x Targaryen-coded Princess Reader

Words: 3214

Synopsis: You arrive in Piltover, and meet your stepdaughter for the first time. Trade talks begin.

Warnings: ...None?? How have I managed that??

The Noxian airship lowered itself with surprising grace into the water next to the Piltover dock. Ambessa waited for the door to open, cloaked in her black leather armour and red cape, you a few feet behind her. A few of the Noxian soldiers stood at attention beside you, their armour dark and unyielding.

The door finally opened, bathing you in bright sunlight. You closed your eyes against it for a few seconds, as Ambessa stepped forward. She stood at the front of the ramp as it lowered, her presence eclipsing everyone around her. She hadn’t said much during the descent, but neither had you.

You could smell the ocean as the breeze blew through the ship. It was unfamiliar but refreshing to your senses. It was nothing like Valyria’s dry, desert air, but the sun warmed you just the same.

When the ramp touched the deck, the Piltover welcoming party awaited them. Uniformed guards, spotless boots, and at the front was a woman you could only assume was Mel Medarda. Your stepdaughter.

Mel stood tall, arms by her side, a vision of poise in a white dress with gold accents. Her expression was unreadable. Not cold, not warm. Simply assessing.

“Mel. Elora. You didn’t have to come out to meet us,” Ambessa greeted.

You let Ambessa walk out, not wanting to go out after her. They would see your face.

“Mother,” her daughter said, nodding, though her voice made the word sound more like a formality than affection. “I only received your message last night that you were coming; what are you doing here?”

“Can I not visit?” Ambessa teased. “I’ve heard stories of Piltover’s hospitality.”

She scoffed. “You didn’t fly half-way across the continent on short notice to sample the local cuisine.”

“It’s been over a decade, Mel.”

“Since you banished me?”

Your eyes opened, still on the ship. Interesting. What kind of person was Mel that she deserved banishment from Noxus?

Ambessa sighed. “Such drama. I sent you here to oversee our family’s interests, and grow yourself. Which you have.”

“You said, ‘Perhaps your sentimentality will be more at home with those soft-spined idealists overseas’.”

Ambessa put her arm around Mel’s shoulders. “You have your father’s memory.”

“Don’t try to ingratiate yourself with me.” She pulled away.

If you could, you would say Ambessa looked somewhat chastened. She allowed Mel to step away from her.

“The whole continent has heard about your conquest of Valyria; people are unnerved by it. Your message also said you were bringing your new wife; my stepmother,” she grimaced, “Whom I believe is over a decade younger than me.”

When Ambessa looked over her shoulder at you, nodding pointedly, you knew you had no choice. You stepped forward into the light, holding your head high as Mel’s eyes fell to your cheek. You walked down the ramp, coming to stop beside Ambessa.

Mel’s eyes softened slightly as she took you in. You felt like she was seeing past your bravery, into the pain underneath.

“Councillor Medarda,” you said, trying to be kind, but the lingering pain in your cheek made it come out a little terse.

Mel surprised you by stepping forward and offering her hand – not as a formal handshake, but palm upwards, inviting you to hold it. You took her hand gently, and she squeezed it.

“Your Grace,” she said warmly, “Welcome to Piltover.”

“Thank you,” you replied more softly.

Ambessa’s jaw ticked. “We’ll be shown to the Medarda estate,” she said. “The soldiers will take quarters nearby.”

“Of course,” Mel replied coolly, turning to lead the way. “I’ve prepared rooms. And separate accommodations for your retinue.”

As you began to move through the gleaming walkways of Piltover, you glanced sideways at Ambessa, whose expression was carved from stone. Her eyes, however, flicked a few times toward your hand – the one that had touched Mel’s.

And so, the journey into Piltover began, with velvet civility, with silent warnings, and with a tension heavy enough to crack glass.

The Medarda estate dining hall was elegant, long, and cold – not from temperature, but from the particular chill of Piltover civility. Tall glass windows overlooked the twilight city, its towers glittering with light. A chandelier twinkled above the table, throwing soft light onto silverware that gleamed like polished weaponry.

You sat to Ambessa’s right, a declaration of rank. Mel sat opposite you, her posture impeccable, her expression a diplomatic mask. Councillor Jayce Talis was beside her, the lines on his face indicating he still wasn’t truly comfortable with state events.

The rest of the table was filled with Piltover councillors: polite, sharp-eyed, too practiced in their smiling.

Any other day, you would have been in your element, having ‘trained’ for years in Valyria how to handle events exactly like this.

The first course had only just been served.

“This alliance,” one of the councillors began – Salo, if you recalled correctly, “Has certainly made headlines. Conquest sealed with matrimony. Is Noxus always so…Efficient?”

There was a pause. You could feel every glance sliding over you like the tip of a blade. You kept your eyes on your plate as you delicately ate the delicious food; your cheek still became sore when you ate.

Ambessa took a sip of wine. “Valyria was taken. Now it contributes. Queen Y/N was the most useful piece on the board, so I made her mine.”

A brittle silence fell. You didn’t flinch. You had learned not to. You just sipped your wine.

Jayce, attempting to steer the current, cleared his throat. “And how have you found Piltover so far, Your Grace?”

It was kind of him to address you directly, and to offer your correct title, rather than treat you like a trophy. You looked up and offered a small one-sided smile.

“It’s beautiful. It’s quite similar to Valyria, though the ocean breeze is a welcome difference.”

“What’s Valyria like? And Noxus?”

“Valyria was land-locked in the desert; it was dry and still,” you explained softly. “The only water was the river passing through it. Noxus is harsher.”

“In more ways than one,” commented Salo, eyes drifting to your scar.

Your hand slammed down your wine glass, harder than you’d meant to. You bit the inside of your lip, forcing down a comment.

Ambessa’s hand rested on the table, fingers drumming once. You didn’t need to look to know what it meant: your weak spot had been found.

Councillor Bolbok leaned forward. “Is it true, General, that Noxus intends to extend its influence further west?”

Mel interjected smoothly, her voice silk over steel. “Perhaps we could discuss matters of strategy another day. This is a dinner, not a war room.”

“Every table I sit at is a war room,” Ambessa replied, not looking at her daughter.

You kept your eyes down, listening, absorbing. You could feel Mel watching you. And from the other side, Ambessa’s heat – the possessiveness in the way her leg brushed against your under the table, deliberate. A warning.

As the meal progressed and you drank some more of the wine, you noticed that your scar gradually stopped hurting. You thought it was strange – was Piltovan wine particularly strong? You didn’t feel drunk.

As an attendant refilled your glass, you found Mel catching your eye subtly. You looked back questioningly. She glanced at your cheek, then at your glass, then back to you.

Gratitude filled you. An ally.

You nodded your head minutely in her direction, relaxing into your chair a little.

Dinner resumed, such as it was. Silverware clinked. Jayce murmured something to Mel, but she didn’t respond.

You didn’t eat much. Neither did Ambessa. The food was delicate and expensive, but no one was truly hungry, too unsettled from the journey, too busy getting a lay of the land.

When the plates were cleared, Ambessa rose without preamble.

“I have business to discuss. My wife will retire with me.”

You blinked – not because you were unused to being summoned, but because the look in Ambessa’s eyes was darker than usual. Something had provoked her.

You stood, placing your napkin on the table delicately. Offered a polite smile to everyone.

“Thank you, Mel,” you said softly, “For the hospitality.”

Mel nodded, watching them go with something unreadable in her gaze. “We’ll speak tomorrow, at the trade talks.”

The suite you’d been given in Piltover was absurdly luxurious; high-arched ceilings, gilded fixtures, and soft silk draped over every surface.

You sipped your morning tea – noting the traces of powder in the bottom – as Ambessa dressed in her more casual armour.

“I don’t like the way your eyes kept looking to her,” Ambessa muttered at last, having been in a mood all morning and the night before, her back to you as she fastened the clasps of her leather bracers.

You blinked. “To whom?”

“Mel. Last night.”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. “I was being polite to our host. Your daughter. I didn’t-”

“I saw it,” Ambessa said, sharply. “You admired her.”

“She was kind to me,” you said, voice clipped, weary. “That’s rare these days.”

A pause. Ambessa looked over her shoulder, eyes dark. “You are mine. You don’t need kindness. You need to be reminded.”

Already angered, you stood up and walked over to the balcony, focusing on the ocean’s rippling blue waters to try and calm yourself.

A firm knock came on the door to your rooms. Ambessa called out for them to enter. The doors opened and Mel strode in, a determined look on her face.

“Good morning, Mel,” Ambessa greeted.

“You married her the day after you took her city?” she asked, voice cold, flat.

Ambessa didn’t blink. “There was no reason to wait.”

Mel let out a bitter breath that was half a laugh. “Of course not. Always forward. That’s the Noxian way, isn’t it?”

“It was strategic,” Ambessa said simply.

Mel turned, eyes narrowed. “Strategic?” Her voice rose, sharp and incredulous. “You annexed her kingdom, marched her through the ruins of her father’s court, and then dragged her into your bed under the guise of marriage. And you call that strategic?”

Ambessa remained still, like a statue of iron. “I call it power.”

“It’s not power,” Mel spat. “It’s display. You’ve turned her into your ornament.”

“She is my wife,” Ambessa said, finally looking toward you, with some affection, but mostly in ownership.

Mel hesitated, before turning to look at you. She hadn’t seen you when she entered.

You looked over your shoulder, giving a small smile. “Good morning, Mel.”

She had the grace to look embarrassed, but she pressed on. “Did you have a choice?”

“My father offered me, to save his and my mother’s lives.”

Mel stepped closer to her mother, “What’s your vision now, mother? Queens in chains and cities burned for your banner?”

“I’ve built something stronger than diplomacy,” Ambessa said, her voice low with conviction. “Noxus is feared. Our enemies hesitate. Our allies fall in line. No one dares challenge what I claim.”

“And what is she, then?” Mel asked. “Something you claimed? Like a city? A fortress?”

Ambessa’s reply came slow and unflinching. “She is mine. And she walks among us with her head high because I have given her place, power, and protection.”

“She walks in the Noxian court because she has nowhere else to go,” Mel snapped. “You call that dignity?”

You couldn’t take anymore.

“Stop it! Both of you!” you cried, immediately regretting it when your scar started hurting. “You’re arguing about something that doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Doesn’t matter?” Mel asked incredulously. “How can you say that it doesn’t matter? Your home-”

“Still exists. In some way. My people are still there. If Valyria tried to revolt, Noxus could destroy them without batting an eye. The city fell in hours, Mel; they wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“Your marriage-”

“Ambessa, where does Noxus stand on divorce for marriages publicly consummated?” you asked rhetorically. You knew the answer after reading Noxian law books: there was no such thing as divorce in Noxus.

Before Ambessa could reply, Mel spun around, glaring at her mother.

“You made her publicly consummate?!”

You looked back around, frowning. “All marriages in Noxus are publicly consummated.”

A beat.

“Ambessa?”

She didn’t reply, just shrugged a little with a smirk.

You felt like you’d been punched in the stomach, letting out an involuntary breath. “Well…I suppose it’s my turn to be upset about something that doesn’t matter now.” You started walking back towards the bedroom. “I’m going to dress for the trade talks.”

You slammed the door after you.

The large hall in Piltover was a sight to behold. Its tall arched windows, inlaid with stained glass scenes of history and invention, scattered coloured light across the polished marble floor. The air smelt of fragrant incense, a low hum of the HexGates in the distance.

You stood to the side of Ambessa around the large round table, a thick ledger in your arms. You wore a softer gown instead of the leathers you had arrived in – a tactic in diplomacy and trade bargaining – the deep crimson material flattered your collarbones and accentuated your neck. Siya had pulled the top half of your hair back into a swirl of braids, keeping it away from your face, as you knew you didn’t want to be distracted by your hair moving around your face.

Your scar, still fresh and sensitive, pulled tight whenever you spoke or smiled too much. Which was fine. You had no intention of smiling a lot today.

The room was filled with the Piltover Councillors and merchant guild representatives, everyone’s faces drawn tight with suspicion. A quarter of the way around the table sat Mel, every inch the poised diplomat, her posture impeccable as she oversaw the meeting’s agenda.

Ambessa remained standing as Mel called the meeting to order, pulling your chair out for you when you sat down. Her presence loomed over the table like a second sun, and no-one dared looked at her for too long.

“We welcome Noxus’ delegation,” Mel began, her tone smooth as polished stone. “We trust today’s discussions will prove constructive.”

That drew polite, thin smiles from the everyone around the table. A few of the older members exchanged glances over their spectacles, doubt flickering in their eyes.

The first portion of the talks passed predictably: updates on shipping capacity through the Piltover’s docks, preliminary tariff proposals for metals and foodstuffs, and adjustments to quotas bound for Noxus.

You kept your head low, mostly just taking notes in your ledger, eyes fixed on the sheaf of trade documents spread before you. You listened as Mel handled most of the Council’s phrasing with practiced diplomacy, but your attention sharpened when the subject turned to Valyrian goods.

Silk. Dyes. Medicinal herbs.

Councillor Hoskel, a portly man with a waxed moustache and too many rings, cleared his throat. “There’s the matter of Valyrian saffron and the purple riverstone dyes. With the recent...Change in governance, many of our suppliers have reported scarcity. Prices, naturally, have increased.”

You lifted your gaze before you could stop yourself. The ledgers showed the price had nearly tripled what it had been the month before.

“Scarcity?” you started calmly. Your voice cut just loud enough to turn several heads.

Ambessa glanced sideways at you, but didn’t interrupt.

You straightened. “You say scarcity, Councillor, but supply routes haven’t been disrupted. The Valyrian harbour remains operational, the harvesters continue working. And shipping lanes were only interrupted by Noxian forces for the first few days after the conquest. They’ve been back to normal for almost two months.”

Councillor Hoskel blinked at you, already irritated. “War creates uncertainty, Your Grace. Risk increases cost.”

“That’s one way to frame it,” you said, steady now. “But I managed Valyrian trade routes for several years before I was married. I know exactly how much it costs to harvest saffron, and extract riverstone pigment. Even with ‘uncertainty’, your increases are unjustifiable.”

Mel’s lips twitched as if suppressing a smile.

Another merchant, seated near Hoskel, tried a different angle. “Demand has increased-”

You tilted your head, voice cooling further. “Which is why fair negotiations are important. But what I see here,” you tapped the ledger with your pen, right at the margin where the inflated prices were listed, “Is gouging. Not trade.”

Ambessa’s low chuckle rumbled beside you, and the room quieted. “The Queen is not wrong,” the General said, a note of pride behind the steel in her tone.

Councillor Hoskel visibly bristled. “If Piltover is being asked to take more risks in trading with Noxus, its merchants are entitled to fair compensation.”

Your patience snapped. The pain in your cheek throbbed with every small movement, and you were too tired, too raw to care about perfect diplomacy.

“You’re not being asked to risk more; Noxian traders have no quarrel with Piltover. But if that’s how you feel and refuse to adjust your prices, we will just find another buyer for our saffron and dyes,” you said plainly. “Shurima, or a southern port. Maybe Valyrian merchants will bypass Piltover entirely for other products, too.”

Gasps rippled down the council table.

Ambessa’s smile widened, dangerous and amused.

Mel cleared her throat, stepping in smoothly. “Let’s not be hasty,” she said, gaze flicking between you and the merchants like a woman settling wild horses. “I’m sure a compromise can be reached.”

You exhaled, slow and controlled. You sat back, folding your hands in your lap, giving the merchants a stare that dared them to push you further.

The next hour continued with more measured discussions. Some of the Councillors adjusted their tone toward you, clearly realizing you were not the passive ornament they had assumed. Ambessa stayed mostly quiet after that, watching you with a calm satisfaction.

When the talks broke for midmorning adjournment, the Councillors rose in slow clusters, murmuring among themselves as they filed out. Hoskel shot you one last irritated glance before stepping out, his steps stiff with offense.

Mel lingered by the door, offering you a small, secretive smile before disappearing after her colleagues.

Alone now, you gathered the scattered documents, twitching your jaw to try and dull you cheek where the pain thrummed beneath your skin. A dull throb – nothing you couldn’t handle – but you’d noticed it during the discussions.

Ambessa watched you from near the window, one arm braced along the frame.

“Well done,” Ambessa said finally, pushing off the wall and crossing the room with slow, heavy steps. “You sounded like someone worth listening to.”

You gave a hollow laugh. “That was the goal.”

Ambessa came to stand behind you, placing both hands on your shoulders. “This display of strength suits you.”

You tensed under her touch, but didn’t pull away.

“They won’t like me for it,” you muttered.

Ambessa leant down, voice low near your ear. “Let them.”

You closed your eyes for a long, steady breath, the weight of Ambessa’s hands grounding you in place.

Somewhere outside, far below the high windows, the noise of Piltover’s streets drifted up through the summer air – market carts, the distant HexGates, the clangs of a smith’s hammer. You stayed still, letting yourself absorb the quiet victory. Small as it was, it felt like the first time in weeks you’d truly chosen to fight back.

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