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josephine_marrssummary/preview: There was one time, though, that Morgana tells her that she was strong -- not just that, but that she came to her rescue. The thought of it makes Gwen blush, but she has no regrets about that encounter. It is how their relationship moved beyond mere professional pleasantries, and became something much deeper.
content notes: technically dubcon (one character employs the other, but no threat is made to their employment if they do not cooperate), there is a situation where one character receives unwanted physical attention, no other content notes apply.
“I’m staying late, tonight,” Morgana says. “I’ll need you.”
Gwen nods, and Morgana returns to her office. It is a short walk, but Gwen watches her all the way down the narrow hallway, admiring the way she moves.
Morgana wears her womanhood, her femininity, so naturally. She knows exactly what her assets are, and how to accentuate them – the right color for her lips, the best way to wear her hair so her dark, wavy tresses also highlight the pale column of her throat. She always knows how clothes are going to fit her, so that no matter what she wears, whether it is diaphanous silk or jewel-toned satin or something so simple as a trenchcoat, that it will hug her form as if it had been custom-made for it. She can wear six-inch heels and glide along on them.
Gwen can do none of those things. It’s not that she can’t dress nicely – if she couldn’t, she certainly would not be Morgana’s personal secretary. And it is not that she is not comfortable being a woman; she has always loved her body – its curves, her breasts, her sex. It’s just that she has never felt privy to a lot of the tricks that it seems to take to be a proper woman. When she has to wear heels, she teeters along in them like a newborn foal, fearful that the next step will be the one where she turns her ankle. Getting dressed up for a formal evening out is always a nightmare: does this dress really fit, or is she just settling because this is the sixth one she’s tried, and she’s tired of shopping? Will this makeup look the same under the light in the restaurant? Why is her hair doing that, now? There is a reason that she wears cardigans and sensible skirts and flat shoes; they are comfortable, and she can get around decently in them.
She has always admired the way that Morgana carries herself around men, as well. She is, of course, not privy to all of her meetings, but there have been plenty of times that she has had occasion to witness Ms. Pendragon’s interactions with her peers. They are successful, driven, and nearly always male; and regardless of their age, they seem to have an antiquated disdain – if not for a woman, then for weakness. Morgana never shows them any. She may be pliant; she may lower her eyelashes just so, her voice turning to a purring murmur as she relinquishes something to negotiate for something better in the big picture – but she is never weak. When she is defending a vital point, her eyes flash, and her head tilts back, and she lets them know, in no uncertain terms, that they are dealing with the closest that they will ever come to royalty.
Gwen can’t ever manage to do that, either. It seems like when she does try, people laugh at her, or call her a bitch, and that always hurts. Or, worse, she holds her tongue and smiles and goes along with things for as long as she can until she can escape, and the helpless feeling turns to anger when she’s alone, and festers.
There was one time, though, that Morgana tells her that she was strong -- not just that, but that she came to her rescue. The thought of it makes Gwen blush, but she has no regrets about that encounter. It is how their relationship moved beyond mere professional pleasantries, and became something much deeper.
Gwen had been at work late, but it had not entirely been because of Morgana – certainly not for the reason that she stays late, now. She’d needed to clear something up with HR, first, and get some things ready to send out in the mail first thing in the morning, and then she’d figured that she might as well run across the street to get some takeaway before they closed. She’d been walking back to her car, and she saw Morgana in the parking garage.
She was with Acres from Accounts. Or, rather, Acres was trying to be with her, in spite of the fact that she was leagues above him -- if not in paygrade, then in the overall aesthetic of humanity. He wouldn’t be the first lowly slug to try to worm his way into Morgana’s affections, but he was certainly one of the most persistent.
Gwen couldn’t hear what Morgana was saying, at first, but she could tell by the way that her smile was twisting, firm and sardonic, that she was telling Acres that she was not the least bit interested in what he was interested in doing.
That was when Acres grabbed her arm. Gwen could see his fingers dig into her, creasing the royal blue fabric of her blouse.
“Hey!” The sound barked out of Gwen’s throat before she even realized that she was walking toward them, quick as she could. She dug her phone out of her purse.
Acres smiled dismissively. “What’re you going to do with that? Take some pictures?” He hardly even looked at Gwen, as if to say, You’re not worth the time it takes to look at you. His gaze lifted to Morgana, his eyes hard as his smile.
“That’s not a bad idea, actually,” Gwen said. She panted the words, more than anything; her heart was hammering in her chest, for this whole situation felt bad, and she had no idea what to do. But the phone felt like her only weapon, so she held it up and clicked a picture of Acres' face.
He recoiled, as if he'd been burned somehow. “This is nothing to do with you!” he snarled. And, oh God, he was reaching for her, now, trying to grab the phone out of her hand. Gwen stumbled back. Some strange instinct made her grab Morgana’s arm, where Acres had let go of it, and try to drag her back with her. She was not sure what surprised her more, the fact that she did so, or the fact that Morgana followed her.
“And I’ll call the police, too, if I have to!” Gwen bleated.
Acres laughed. “There’s no need for histrionics,” he said, aloud. His smile said, Fuck you, you bitch. His eyes gauged the distance between them, as if calculating a lunge with his next grab.
“And did I really see you grab her, here? The parking garage is still Dracorp property. It doesn’t matter if it’s after hours.” Gwen was just babbling now, not even sure if she had a leg to stand on. She wondered if this was how a dog felt, just barking and barking in the hopes that the intruder would go away. She took another step back, and Morgana stepped with her.
“I said this has nothing to do with you!” Acres shouted, his face an ugly mask. His fingers curled into monstrous claws; it was only for a moment, before he composed himself, but Gwen would never forget how ugly and cruel he looked, just then. “You know what – I have better things to do then get mindfucked by a couple of frigid lesbians. I’ll leave you two to your fun, yeah?” And he turned and strode off to his car. The slam of his door echoed in the garage. So did the squeal of his tires, as he peeled off.
Gwen’s fingers were shaking. They were also still wrapped around Morgana’s arm. She dropped her hand. “I’m sorry. A-are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” It seemed Morgana’s turn to touch her and reassure – though, her own fingers seemed to be trembling a little, too. “Thanks to you.” The words, and the smile that came with it, warmed Gwen, deep inside.
She had watched Morgana go to her car. It was because she felt protective of her, though after she’d gotten home, and thought back on it, she had wondered if it was really because she was fundamentally just as bad as Acres.
Acres was "transferred" by the end of the week. The news came as a surprise to Gwen – she hadn’t been asked to go up and talk to HR about any of that lurid encounter. She screwed up the courage to ask Morgana about it, and received another warm smile with the answer. “The lout could barely control himself in a carpark. People like that are sloppy elsewhere, too. We had plenty of reasons to be rid of him -- he shouldn't have brought himself to attention the way that he did.” She didn't say it, but her eyes had the same look when she had said 'Thanks to you', and for some reason, Gwen had floated through the rest of the day in a giddy haze.
Several days after that, Morgana had asked her out to dinner. Over the fine meal, Gwen’s employer had made it clear that she was grateful for her efforts, and any chagrin that she had felt at getting involved had evaporated. (Several martinis may have helped with that.)
After dinner, Morgana had invited her to her penthouse.
A few hours into that, Gwen found that, while Morgana was indeed a lesbian, she was by no means frigid. And neither was Gwen.
A couple of nights later, Morgana had whispered, “There are things that I like to do, that aren’t really…traditional.” For the first time ever, she had seemed hesitant and embarrassed. Intrigued, Gwen had asked her to show her what she meant.
That was how she discovered that Morgana wore leather every bit as beautifully as she did satin; and how Gwen found that wearing rope felt infinitely more wonderful than the comfort of cardigans and flats.
Playing around at work had been Gwen’s idea. “You should make me stay, too, when you’re working late,” she had said. She’d been mostly joking. Mostly. But the first time Morgana had made her bend over the wide, cool expanse of her desk and spread her legs, she had felt an unparalleled thrill. She couldn’t explain why – it was so hypocritical, after all. But maybe it was the danger of their being discovered, the wrongness of it all, that she adored so much.
They do try to be sensible about it. They only do it once in a while. But when Morgana tells her that they’ll both be working late, Gwen can feel herself getting so wet – and it’s a miracle that she can pretend to be calm and professional, the rest of the day.
They have worked out a little ritual, by now. When she closes the door to Morgana’s office and locks it, she slips out of her flats, and her sensible skirt, and her cardigan and all the rest. With each article that she strips off, she feels the cares and awkwardness of the rest of her existence sliding off, as well, to be replaced by a strange peace. She folds them neatly, and they all rest one atop the other in a small stack by the door.
Then, she goes to stand by the potted plant in the corner, and wait. Behind her, she can hear papers shuffling, the clicking of her employer’s light touch on the keyboard. There is the occasional soft, dry scribble of pen against paper, and the almost imperceptible rustle of Morgana’s soft, beautiful clothes. Gwen listens, her breath deepening, her nipples hardening. She feels any lingering self-consciousness melting away until only a tiny bit is left inside of her, the rest of it replaced by the desire to please Morgana, to protect her, to be useful…and the knowledge that it will come to pass.
After that, nothing is prescribed, but lately Morgana has begun by touching Gwen at the small of her back, fingertip tracing over the ‘M’ that is tattooed in script there. Gwen will never forget the surprised, pleased sound that Morgana had made when she first saw it. There is always a faint echo of it, when she walks up behind her and touches it again.
It could stand for ‘Morgana’, and does, but it also stands for more than that. “Mine,” Morgana says, her voice soft and kittenish, as she sits on the couch and drapes Gwen over her lap.
“Yes,” Gwen whispers, as their favorite paddle scrapes gently against the backs of her thighs. She is already arching her back and presenting. With a brilliant smile, Morgana brings the paddle down.
content notes: technically dubcon (one character employs the other, but no threat is made to their employment if they do not cooperate), there is a situation where one character receives unwanted physical attention, no other content notes apply.
“I’m staying late, tonight,” Morgana says. “I’ll need you.”
Gwen nods, and Morgana returns to her office. It is a short walk, but Gwen watches her all the way down the narrow hallway, admiring the way she moves.
Morgana wears her womanhood, her femininity, so naturally. She knows exactly what her assets are, and how to accentuate them – the right color for her lips, the best way to wear her hair so her dark, wavy tresses also highlight the pale column of her throat. She always knows how clothes are going to fit her, so that no matter what she wears, whether it is diaphanous silk or jewel-toned satin or something so simple as a trenchcoat, that it will hug her form as if it had been custom-made for it. She can wear six-inch heels and glide along on them.
Gwen can do none of those things. It’s not that she can’t dress nicely – if she couldn’t, she certainly would not be Morgana’s personal secretary. And it is not that she is not comfortable being a woman; she has always loved her body – its curves, her breasts, her sex. It’s just that she has never felt privy to a lot of the tricks that it seems to take to be a proper woman. When she has to wear heels, she teeters along in them like a newborn foal, fearful that the next step will be the one where she turns her ankle. Getting dressed up for a formal evening out is always a nightmare: does this dress really fit, or is she just settling because this is the sixth one she’s tried, and she’s tired of shopping? Will this makeup look the same under the light in the restaurant? Why is her hair doing that, now? There is a reason that she wears cardigans and sensible skirts and flat shoes; they are comfortable, and she can get around decently in them.
She has always admired the way that Morgana carries herself around men, as well. She is, of course, not privy to all of her meetings, but there have been plenty of times that she has had occasion to witness Ms. Pendragon’s interactions with her peers. They are successful, driven, and nearly always male; and regardless of their age, they seem to have an antiquated disdain – if not for a woman, then for weakness. Morgana never shows them any. She may be pliant; she may lower her eyelashes just so, her voice turning to a purring murmur as she relinquishes something to negotiate for something better in the big picture – but she is never weak. When she is defending a vital point, her eyes flash, and her head tilts back, and she lets them know, in no uncertain terms, that they are dealing with the closest that they will ever come to royalty.
Gwen can’t ever manage to do that, either. It seems like when she does try, people laugh at her, or call her a bitch, and that always hurts. Or, worse, she holds her tongue and smiles and goes along with things for as long as she can until she can escape, and the helpless feeling turns to anger when she’s alone, and festers.
There was one time, though, that Morgana tells her that she was strong -- not just that, but that she came to her rescue. The thought of it makes Gwen blush, but she has no regrets about that encounter. It is how their relationship moved beyond mere professional pleasantries, and became something much deeper.
Gwen had been at work late, but it had not entirely been because of Morgana – certainly not for the reason that she stays late, now. She’d needed to clear something up with HR, first, and get some things ready to send out in the mail first thing in the morning, and then she’d figured that she might as well run across the street to get some takeaway before they closed. She’d been walking back to her car, and she saw Morgana in the parking garage.
She was with Acres from Accounts. Or, rather, Acres was trying to be with her, in spite of the fact that she was leagues above him -- if not in paygrade, then in the overall aesthetic of humanity. He wouldn’t be the first lowly slug to try to worm his way into Morgana’s affections, but he was certainly one of the most persistent.
Gwen couldn’t hear what Morgana was saying, at first, but she could tell by the way that her smile was twisting, firm and sardonic, that she was telling Acres that she was not the least bit interested in what he was interested in doing.
That was when Acres grabbed her arm. Gwen could see his fingers dig into her, creasing the royal blue fabric of her blouse.
“Hey!” The sound barked out of Gwen’s throat before she even realized that she was walking toward them, quick as she could. She dug her phone out of her purse.
Acres smiled dismissively. “What’re you going to do with that? Take some pictures?” He hardly even looked at Gwen, as if to say, You’re not worth the time it takes to look at you. His gaze lifted to Morgana, his eyes hard as his smile.
“That’s not a bad idea, actually,” Gwen said. She panted the words, more than anything; her heart was hammering in her chest, for this whole situation felt bad, and she had no idea what to do. But the phone felt like her only weapon, so she held it up and clicked a picture of Acres' face.
He recoiled, as if he'd been burned somehow. “This is nothing to do with you!” he snarled. And, oh God, he was reaching for her, now, trying to grab the phone out of her hand. Gwen stumbled back. Some strange instinct made her grab Morgana’s arm, where Acres had let go of it, and try to drag her back with her. She was not sure what surprised her more, the fact that she did so, or the fact that Morgana followed her.
“And I’ll call the police, too, if I have to!” Gwen bleated.
Acres laughed. “There’s no need for histrionics,” he said, aloud. His smile said, Fuck you, you bitch. His eyes gauged the distance between them, as if calculating a lunge with his next grab.
“And did I really see you grab her, here? The parking garage is still Dracorp property. It doesn’t matter if it’s after hours.” Gwen was just babbling now, not even sure if she had a leg to stand on. She wondered if this was how a dog felt, just barking and barking in the hopes that the intruder would go away. She took another step back, and Morgana stepped with her.
“I said this has nothing to do with you!” Acres shouted, his face an ugly mask. His fingers curled into monstrous claws; it was only for a moment, before he composed himself, but Gwen would never forget how ugly and cruel he looked, just then. “You know what – I have better things to do then get mindfucked by a couple of frigid lesbians. I’ll leave you two to your fun, yeah?” And he turned and strode off to his car. The slam of his door echoed in the garage. So did the squeal of his tires, as he peeled off.
Gwen’s fingers were shaking. They were also still wrapped around Morgana’s arm. She dropped her hand. “I’m sorry. A-are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” It seemed Morgana’s turn to touch her and reassure – though, her own fingers seemed to be trembling a little, too. “Thanks to you.” The words, and the smile that came with it, warmed Gwen, deep inside.
She had watched Morgana go to her car. It was because she felt protective of her, though after she’d gotten home, and thought back on it, she had wondered if it was really because she was fundamentally just as bad as Acres.
Acres was "transferred" by the end of the week. The news came as a surprise to Gwen – she hadn’t been asked to go up and talk to HR about any of that lurid encounter. She screwed up the courage to ask Morgana about it, and received another warm smile with the answer. “The lout could barely control himself in a carpark. People like that are sloppy elsewhere, too. We had plenty of reasons to be rid of him -- he shouldn't have brought himself to attention the way that he did.” She didn't say it, but her eyes had the same look when she had said 'Thanks to you', and for some reason, Gwen had floated through the rest of the day in a giddy haze.
Several days after that, Morgana had asked her out to dinner. Over the fine meal, Gwen’s employer had made it clear that she was grateful for her efforts, and any chagrin that she had felt at getting involved had evaporated. (Several martinis may have helped with that.)
After dinner, Morgana had invited her to her penthouse.
A few hours into that, Gwen found that, while Morgana was indeed a lesbian, she was by no means frigid. And neither was Gwen.
A couple of nights later, Morgana had whispered, “There are things that I like to do, that aren’t really…traditional.” For the first time ever, she had seemed hesitant and embarrassed. Intrigued, Gwen had asked her to show her what she meant.
That was how she discovered that Morgana wore leather every bit as beautifully as she did satin; and how Gwen found that wearing rope felt infinitely more wonderful than the comfort of cardigans and flats.
Playing around at work had been Gwen’s idea. “You should make me stay, too, when you’re working late,” she had said. She’d been mostly joking. Mostly. But the first time Morgana had made her bend over the wide, cool expanse of her desk and spread her legs, she had felt an unparalleled thrill. She couldn’t explain why – it was so hypocritical, after all. But maybe it was the danger of their being discovered, the wrongness of it all, that she adored so much.
They do try to be sensible about it. They only do it once in a while. But when Morgana tells her that they’ll both be working late, Gwen can feel herself getting so wet – and it’s a miracle that she can pretend to be calm and professional, the rest of the day.
They have worked out a little ritual, by now. When she closes the door to Morgana’s office and locks it, she slips out of her flats, and her sensible skirt, and her cardigan and all the rest. With each article that she strips off, she feels the cares and awkwardness of the rest of her existence sliding off, as well, to be replaced by a strange peace. She folds them neatly, and they all rest one atop the other in a small stack by the door.
Then, she goes to stand by the potted plant in the corner, and wait. Behind her, she can hear papers shuffling, the clicking of her employer’s light touch on the keyboard. There is the occasional soft, dry scribble of pen against paper, and the almost imperceptible rustle of Morgana’s soft, beautiful clothes. Gwen listens, her breath deepening, her nipples hardening. She feels any lingering self-consciousness melting away until only a tiny bit is left inside of her, the rest of it replaced by the desire to please Morgana, to protect her, to be useful…and the knowledge that it will come to pass.
After that, nothing is prescribed, but lately Morgana has begun by touching Gwen at the small of her back, fingertip tracing over the ‘M’ that is tattooed in script there. Gwen will never forget the surprised, pleased sound that Morgana had made when she first saw it. There is always a faint echo of it, when she walks up behind her and touches it again.
It could stand for ‘Morgana’, and does, but it also stands for more than that. “Mine,” Morgana says, her voice soft and kittenish, as she sits on the couch and drapes Gwen over her lap.
“Yes,” Gwen whispers, as their favorite paddle scrapes gently against the backs of her thighs. She is already arching her back and presenting. With a brilliant smile, Morgana brings the paddle down.