Imagine. Joan Ferguson has a secret late night radio show where she plays music for a couple hours to help herself unwind. Classical, oldies, maybe some occasional current tracks. Her voice is husky and dark as she introduces you to some of her favourite tracks. Depending on her mood that particular night, you'll never know what will come at you from the speakers.
"You're listening to Late Night Noise with your host, me, The Freak. Grab a glass of wine, let your hair down and enjoy this 1992 track from Radiohead. This is 'Creep.'" [music starts]
Joan Ferguson sitting on her sofa. Glass of red wine in one hand, murder mystery book in the other. As she reads, she's always several steps ahead of the characters. She occasionally makes a "tsk" sound when the murderer makes a foolish mistake that not even the author catches. Or shakes her head when she realizes she would have handled it much more cleverly.
She grins evilly when she reads the descriptions of the crime scenes and how the murders were done, as if giving her approval of the methods. But only if they were well carried out and left no loose ends. And some times, quite often actually, she'll let out a single "ha!" The result of her having solved the mystery before it was even revealed to the reader.
Pamela Rabe as Joan Ferguson in Wentworth | ciggy/tie edit
(Disclaimer: This is not real footage.)
Simple Pleasures (Ficlet, rated G)
The day was spent dealing with insufferable inmates and incompetent staff. Joan was two seconds away from losing it and burning the whole prison down. She found a secluded spot in the prison, tugged her tie loose with a hard yank and unbuttoned the collar button of her crisp white shirt.
She reached into her pants pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes she carried for exactly these moments and slid a cigarette out. She placed it between her lips. She flicked the fancy metal lighter with the large "J" engraved on it, having stolen it from some guy who crossed her long ago, and lit the cigarette.
She took a deep drag, held it, and released the smoke through her mouth and nose with a content sigh. Simple pleasures.
Vera Bennett was walking down the corridor. Her little legs taking small steps that took her seemingly forever to move forward compared to others. Others like Joan Ferguson who had just rounded the far corner behind her and was catching up already.
"Ms. Bennett," Joan calls out.
Vera stops abruptly and turns around. "Governor?"
Joan was already there. "Did you happen to get the memo about the staff meeting being moved to an hour later than usual?"
Vera looks confused. "No, actually I hadn't. I didn't get a chance to check my mailbox yet today."
Joan looks down at her. "Well, now you know. But perhaps you should check to see if you've missed any other important mail."
Vera nods. "I'll go check right away. Thank you."
Joan nods back. Her eyes flick from Vera's eyes, to her chest, before raising an eyebrow. Vera notices and suddenly feels awkward.
Joan slowly raises a hand towards Vera's chest. Vera stands still but her breath hitches. Joan notices and smirks slightly. Vera feels Joan's fingers, pressing lightly, just above her breast for a brief moment.
Joan pulls her hand away holding up her thumb and index finger with a small piece of white lint between them. She parts her thumb and finger, letting the lint fall to the floor.
Joan leans closer to Vera's ear and speaks softly. "Just a bit of lint, Vera. Nothing to get nervous about."
Joan pulls away and winks at Vera before turning and walking away. Vera lets out a long, loud exhale.
Joan Ferguson was having a bad day. She found herself in the fencing room arguing with her deceased father when you approached the room and witnessed it all. If anyone knew how unhinged she was, she'd be out a job.
Governor Joan Ferguson was in the fencing room yelling at her father. Only he wasn't really there.
You haven't worked at Wentworth for too long and had already become obsessed with your boss. The Governor paid you very little notice, other than to lecture you about every little thing. She clearly didn't like you. No matter what you did, nothing changed that. But now, now you may have found a way to make her notice you. In fact, you were sure of it.
You stepped inside the fencing room and let yourself be seen by her. She turned in mid-argument and locked eyes with you, frozen in place as she took a moment to register how bad this was for her. Her hair was messy and her otherwise neat uniform was askew.
"What are you doing here?" she snapped.
"I don't think you're in the position to ask the questions here," you responded rather coyly.
She scoffed, not knowing what to say to fix all this.
You walked over to her, your eyes not leaving hers. She straightened her posture, ready for whatever you were about to dish out. "What is it you want?" she asked, knowing you were planning to blackmail her.
You chuckled to yourself. "Again you're asking me questions. But okay, I'll tell you what I want. I wanna be fucked by the infamous Joan Ferguson. And I mean 'fucked' literally, not metaphorically."
Joan looked at you in disbelief and with little regard. "You're insane."
"Judging by what I just witnessed, I'd say you're the insane one here. Or at least that's what people will think once I tell them all how you were in here arguing with yourself." A smile curled on your lips. There's no way you couldn't win this.
"Of all the things you could ask for, you want that? Why?" Her weight shifted to one side. She felt it beneath her and a waste of time to give you such a thing. Money would have made her happier to hand over. Money was practical and made sense.
"I've been trying to get your attention since I started working here and all you've done is treat me like dirt," you explained. "Apparently this is the only way to get your respect."
"You'll never get my respect," she snorted, breaking eye contact briefly to roll her eyes.
"I'll settle for the fuck, then," you replied. "Or you can take your chances with people who already hate you and want an excuse to see you gone." You could see the defeat on her face and in the way she slouched ever so slightly. " What's it gonna be....Joany?"
The sound of her name in that form made her wanna snap you in half then and there but she swallowed her anger down. "Fine." That one word sealed your victory.
The fantasy you had in your head was completely different than how things would actually play out. You didn't mind her talking to you as if you were trash. In fact, it excited you. And you didn't expect her to ever show you respect or affection. Maybe, just maybe, she'd enjoy fucking you and wanna keep doing it. You hoped she'd enjoy taking out her sexual frustrations on you and come to appreciate you for that at least.
But in Joan's mind, she was already imagining her own fantasy. She'd fuck you to the edge, then make you beg for her to finish. Maybe she would, maybe she wouldn't. She pictured herself straddling you, her weight making it impossible for you to get away. Her hand around your neck choking you. You'd think it was foreplay but she'd be trying to keep from actually killing you for her own pleasure.
Whichever fantasy gets achieved is anyone's guess.
Imagine Joan Ferguson taking you out after work on a date. You get into her car and she puts in a custom playlist of hers. It's London After Midnight's "The Bondage Song." You get to the chorus of "Take me to bed and rip me apart" and you say, "This is an interesting song." She turns to you, raises an eyebrow and gives you a sly grin. "Let's go back to my place," she says as she puts the car in gear and squeals off.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Jason knows every star in the night sky from a lifetime of looking up and wondering what's outside Angel Grove. He knows myths and legends and the name of every visible planet, from Mars to Pyxis and back through to Andromeda.
And he knows that there are no constellations like his soulmark.
Part two of my valentine’s gifts, this one for the power rangers romance fic exchange!! It was super fun and there were so many cute prompts ;w;
“This could be worse,” Newt said, struggling for a lighthearted tone and failing miserably. Hermann’s glare only encouraged him to smile all the more. “Really! You know that part in the Chamber of Secrets where Ron is all, ‘My wand! My wand!’ and Harry wisely points out, ‘Be thankful it’s not your neck’? This is that!”
“The mere fact that you are quoting the movies to me over the books…” Hermann grumbled, trying to leverage himself up on the bed.
“Don’t be a stickler, dude. We can have both in our lives. You’ve gotta admit I’m right though. It could’ve been your arm or your leg or, yes, your neck.”
“Or nothing at all if someone hadn’t started screaming unexpectedly.”
Newt twisted his lips. Alright. Maybe there was something to that. He’d been trying to finish up cookies before they left (gingerbread men of course. All with missing limbs, horrified expressions, red-blood icing pouring from their sugary guts. It was tradition) and trying to grab the tray out of the oven with just a thin rag perhaps hadn’t been the greatest idea. Honestly, Newt had been shouting more about the headless gingerbread men he hadn’t intentionally decapitated than he had about his throbbing hand. Not that it mattered. His shouts had caused Hermann to fall either way.
Bad timing all round. How we Newt supposed to know Hermann was on the stairs when he entered baking hell? He was glad he hadn’t broken anything though. Besides the obvious…
As one they turned to the chair by the bed where Hermann’s cane lay in two, splintered pieces.
“Maybe we can duct tape it back together,” Newt suggested.
Hermann glared.
“Or glue!”
“Honestly,” he sniffed. “Don’t be absurd. Do you want me to fall again when your ridiculous attempts at fixing this quite literally fall to pieces?”
“Jerk alert,” Newt warned before snapping his fingers. “Wait. You’ve got a spare. Duh! It’s out—”
“In the garage.” Hermann sighed. “Yes. I did think of that. Sadly I spotted it while bringing in the menorah. Stupid of us to leave it out there—the damp has not been kind to that wood.”
Newt grimaced. “Ew. Yeah, no. Well…”
“Well nothing.” Hermann sighed again. “You know I’m all but useless without my cane. My balance is far from what it used to be, especially in this weather.” He gestured to the bedroom window where snow blew violently against the glass. Both of them crossed their arms against an imaginary chill. “There’s nothing for it, Newton. We’ll have to cancel.”
“Cancel!” he cried, appalled. Newt clutched his hands dramatically against his chest. “You can’t cancel Christmas.”
“We’re not celebrating Christmas!” Hermann blushed berry red when he made to slam his cane on the ground and only succeeded in hitting himself in the thigh. He smoothed the fabric of his trousers while Newt snickered.
“C’mon, man. We’re celebrating a bastardized, holiday mashup with a bunch of people more interested in the presents than the prayers. This is my family. Besides, no one says ‘You can’t cancel Chanukah!’” Newt waved his hands and adopted a falsetto voice. Hermann squinted his eyes, trying to figure out who exactly he was imitating. “Now we can bow out, sure, but you’ll be dealing with my mom’s frantic calls all night.”
Hermann paled. He was already working to leverage himself up again.
“Don’t just stand there,” he growled. “Help me or else we’ll be late.”
***
Famous last words, as they say.
To say Newt and Hermann were ‘close’ was one of those ‘understatement of the century’ sorts of things. They’d admired one another’s work (without admitting to it, of course), corresponded through both the material and the digital for years, become lab-mates, comrades in war, unexpected friends, drift partners, lovers, husbands… there weren’t many titles left for them to accumulate, if any. Especially given their drift, Hermann and Newt could arguably be considered the ‘closest’ couple on Earth.
… Next to Sasha and Aleksis that is. Newt would never dare challenge their love. He appreciated life too much.
The point was they were close. Really close. Which made the following hour and twelve minutes all the more frustrating.
Food, shelter, sex, dreams, research, memories, fears… everything was shared, with the distinct exception of Hermann’s autonomy. He could do things himself, thank you very much.
“I can do it myself,” he snapped now, encouraging Newt to roll his eyes.
“Uh huh. Sure, dude.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
Newt sighed. “I’m not, okay? I’m using sarcasm to non-verbally point of that of course you can do it yourself… provided you have your cane to provide constant support. Obviously you don’t have that, so equally obviously what you can and can’t do without assistance has changed. That’s not a bad thing. Now would you just shut up for two seconds and let me get your pants on?”
Hermann’s mouth indeed snapped shut. He pursed his lips and stared down at Newt.
“… Well said.”
“Thank you, thank you. Back on the bed now.”
This time the deliberately patronizing tone did wonders. Hermann cracked a smile and fell backwards, trusting in Newt and the feather mattress to steady him. Hermann’s arms were deceptively strong from just such aids like his cane (Newt knew their strength. Intimately) and it was far easier for him to leverage himself up to let Newt slide his pressed trousers on, rather than trying to keep his balance while stepping into them. Their shifting resulted in a few wrinkles, sure, but Newt distracted Hermann by lingering over his fly, drawing it up with all the teasing slowness that he’d normally devote to undoing it.
“We don’t have time,” Hermann chided, not unkindly. He eased his fingers through Newt’s hair as he sucked briefly against Hermann’s bare stomach.
“No?”
“No.”
“Maybe we could be a liiiiiitle late.”
“Very well. We’ll arrive just in time for your uncle to finish off the gelt.”
Newt’s head snapped up. “No.”
“Mmm,” Hermann agreed.
“I need enough to make a mound so I can be Smaug!”
“A tragedy,” Hermann said, keeping a remarkably straight faced. “Shall I put my shirt on then?”
“That’s a tragedy,” but Newt crawled off him, pointing and making a shooing motion towards the blue, collard shirt. It was the only thing Herman owned that wasn’t totally hideous and Newt had made sure to get it cleaned, ironed, and hanging prominently in the front of their closet.
Hermann looked good like that: black pants, blue shirt, loafers and a hairstyle that was marginally better than what he’d sported in their Kaiju days. Newt pictured it all combined with the pea-coat he’d bought Hermann last year and grinned, shuffling and holding out his hand.
“C’mon,” he said.
Dressing was one thing. Getting back down the steps was something else entirely. Why had they hobbled upstairs after the fall? That was stupid.
“Why are we stupid?” Newt muttered, slinging an arm around Hermann’s waist.
“Perhaps this would be a good time to remind you that we’re both proven geniuses in multiple fields. Oh no, not like that. No, no,” Hermann took his arm, guiding it back around until Newt was holding it out like a waiter with a pristine towel. “Just give me something to lean on. And walk after me.”
Newt saw why as they shuffled down the hallway. If he moved first he’d unintentionally pull at Hermann, knocking his already precarious balance. As it was, Hermann used him like a rather large cane, taking a step or two while all Newt had to do was try and calm his already frantic, bouncy nature. Turns out he was capable of keeping still when the reason was just important enough. As it was, by the time they’d made it down the staircase they were already establishing an odd sort of rhythm where Newt kept just slightly behind Hermann, allowing him to lead the pace.
They were rather tired by the time they reached the kitchen though. Hermann leaned against the counter and slid himself onto a stool, shaking slightly.
“You’re too tall,” he groused.
“And you’re heavier than that skinny frame suggests. Are we picking up sufganiyah?”
“No. I believe your… cookies will suffice. As an offering.”
Newt snorted. “You make them sound like demons.”
Hermann merely stared.
“… alright, fair. Gimme a minute.”
Newt bustled about, pulling together presents, coats, cards, and yes, the remains of his cookies (Hermann watched him pick gingerbread off the kitchen floor with a horrified expression. “Newton you can’t be serious.” “Too right, dude, like you don’t keep this tile spotless”). As he worked there were traitorous moments where Newt thought they could maybe, possibly call the night off. They certainly had an excuse. Call and say Hermann had taken a fall, very badly injured, can’t possibly make the first night… Did that make him a terrible son? Probably, but no one could ever say that the holidays ran smoothly. This was the group that had raised him after all.
Mom and dad were still on the outs. Sort of. Nothing brought back a refused marriage proposal and abandoning your kid to said rejected father in order to go sing your lungs out like the holidays. Uncle Illia would always be cool, if Newt weren’t forcibly reminded of what it must be like to hang out with himself whenever they got together. Talk about an existential crisis. He still hadn’t forgiven Tendo for saying he was worse because shit man, there was truth and then there was too much truth.
They’d alternated each year since the war—Chanukah at Hermann’s and pseudo-Chanukah at Newt’s. In the four times they’d been he and Hermann had dealt with subtle, critical comments on how the war had been handled, not so subtle comments about Hermann’s father, an all-out row, Mom giving them an impromptu performance when she was really too drunk to hold a tune, a knocked menorah setting the curtains on fire (thank you, Uncle Illia), and a homeless man showing up halfway through the meal, claiming that he’d been promised dinner in exchange for his smokes (THANK YOU, UNCLE ILLIA). It was a mess.
But wasn’t that the true meaning of the holidays? People being a mess together?
Newt looked over at Hermann, slouched on the kitchen counter, looking simultaneously like he needed a drink and like he’d already had one too many.
“It’s not too late, man. Wanna call Lars instead?”
Hermann winced. “Your jokes aren’t funny.”
“I’m hilarious, how dare you,” but Newt finished stuffing everything into totes and grabbed both their jackets. He helped Hermann into his, earning another smile at his exaggerated, gentlemanly nature, and then steadied him as he slid off the stool.
Lars actually seemed like a viable option though when Newt opened the door and met the snowpocalypse outside.
“It’s December 6th,” Newt muttered to himself, floored. “This can’t be natural.”
“You can’t be serious,” Hermann hollered to the sky and even knowing how loud he was shouting—Newt could feel it in the hand that tightened on his arm—his voice was still nearly carried away by the wind.
Hermann turned to Newt, shaking his head. He gestured to the long, icy walk that lead to their car.
Yeah. No way was he making it across that.
Newt grinned.
“I’ve always wanted to do this!” he yelled and in one movement swept Hermann into his arms, bridal style.
“NEWTON!”
“Don’t ‘Newton’ me. You wouldn’t let me do it going into that house, you have to deal with it while leaving it then.”
Admittedly that maybe wasn’t the smartest thing Newt had ever done. Hermann was an inch or two taller than him and he was heavy, all long, gangly limbs that were currently flailing. There was definitely a moment where Newt swayed and nearly buckled, but by some miracle he regained his balance and started shuffling forward. Hermann gripped the collar of his coat in possibly justified terror.
“You’re going to fall and then we’ll both break something!”
“Nah. It’s all in your weight, Herms. You gotta keep it forward and scoot. Like a penguin.”
“Like a penguin,” Newt heard him mutter and stifled a laugh.
They were about halfway down the walk now. Newt could barely see the car, but whatever. This was actually kind of fun.
With another grin he leaned forward against the wind, causing Hermann to cling even tighter.
“Hey, hey Hermann—THE KRUSY KRAB PIZZA, IS THE PIZZA, FOR YOU AND ME. THE KRUSTY KRAB PIZZA, IS THE PIZZA, VERY TA-A-STY.”
“What?”
“Don’t give me that. You love Spongebob. You’ve got the whole series on you iPad.”
“Because you put it there.”
“Whatever, man.”
They made it to the car, Newt fumbling through snow until he found and opened the door. He ignored Hermann’s chastisements to keep it locked (who was stealing their car in a snowstorm?) and hefted him into the passenger’s seat, happily ignoring Hermann’s glare.
“You’re my pizza,” Newt announced, kissing his cold forehead. “I’d carry you anywhere.”
“Oh my god, Newton.”
“Wait here.”
He trudged back to get the bags, already feeling half frozen. By the time Newt slid behind the wheel he was briskly rubbing his hands and stomping his feet.
“Alright! Look at us getting on our way. We’ll go, stuff our faces for a couple hours, get some free shit, try not to insult anyone too badly, and get out with a promise to come back, which may or may not happen. Good? Good. Let’s—” Newt stopped.
“So you see it then,” Hermann sighed. He was leaning against the window, gazing out at the storm.
“It?”
“Hmm.”
“If by ‘it’ you mean nothing…”
“That is exactly what I mean. Glad to see that drift compatibility isn’t totally lost.”
Newt leaned back, nodding his head. Out through the windshield was nothing but white, the occasional streak of grey indicating wind. There certainly wasn’t anything resembling a road. Or even traffic lights.
Instinctually, Newt craned around and looked back at the house. He pursed his lips.
“Did you leave the porch light on?”
“Of course.”
“… Oh. I think the power is out then.”
Hermann swerved back around as Newt pulled out his phone. No signal.
“Well,” he said.
“Well.” Hermann agreed.
They lapsed into silence… then began moving as one. Newt started the car and cranked up the heat, smiling at the fog that covered the windows. He indulged in a brief, middle school desire and wrote “H&N” in the condensation. Chuckling, he then helped Hermann tumble into the backseat, the two of them curling up under an emergency blanket.
“We should probably go back inside,” Hermann murmured, even as he settled heavily into Newt’s lap.
“Nah. Gonna be cold as hell in there now.”
“I told you to buy a backup generator months ago.”
“Oh shut it.”
Newt ran his hands through Hermann’s hair, absently humming a tune his mom sometimes sang, right around this time of year. He smiled when he heard Hermann speak.
“Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who has sanctified us with His commandments, and commanded us to kindle the Chanukah light.”
His voice tapered off and Newt rested his forehead against Hermann’s.
“Okay. We can go in. Light the candles. That’ll serve until the power comes back.”
Hermann smiled sleepily up at him. “Two measly candles?”
“That’s been more than enough for others. C’mon.”
“A moment,” Hermann said and pulled Newt down for a kiss. When he was through he reached up and lightly tapped Newt’s cheek. “Pass me one of those abominable cookies first.”
Newt did, happily, but he stole one more kiss first.
