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peaceoutofthepieces · 4 years

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chapter 20

Fake Making-It

Social Media AU

previous chapter

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Jens opens the door either a moment too soon or a moment too late. Sander and Lucas are already standing outside, as he’d thought, and are deep in conversation. Jens stands frozen in the doorway and waits for them to notice him. In that time, he takes in Lucas’s frown and Sander’s comforting hand on his shoulder. Lucas had been speaking before Jens opened the door, then he cut himself off abruptly.

Now they’re both staring at him. Silent.

Jens takes in the tension laced through Lucas and the frustration obvious in his face and feels nerves bubble up in him. He thought he had come prepared today, but now he’s doubting himself. He swallows as Lucas meets his eyes, but miraculously manages not to look away. They’re sort of friends, now, right? They’ve come a long way since their first meeting, at least. He doesn’t have to be so anxious. One simple look from Lucas should not tear his stomach to shreds.

It’s a little nerve-wracking, however, when Lucas slips away from Sander’s hand and brushes past Jens without a word.

Jens twists his head to look after him for a moment, then turns back to Sander and tries not to appear too awkward or concerned. “Everything okay?” he carefully asks.

Sander is still looking after Lucas, seeming pained, and then he looks at Jens and blinks. “Yeah, of course,” he smiles. “Sorry, we’re a little late.”

Nothing about this is very convincing. Jens wouldn’t consider himself a people expert, and he’s especially not overly familiar with Sander, but even he can tell that his smile is a little forced and his body strung a little too tight. He doesn’t think they were fighting. It didn’t even really seem like they were arguing.

But there’s definitely a shared tension between them. Jens doesn’t understand why this makes him simultaneously curious and more anxious.

“You’re fine,” he says, stepping back and beckoning Sander in, shutting the door behind him.

They’re using the front room in Jens’s apartment as a studio space. He hadn’t thought much ahead before offering it up, but Sander had barely paid attention when he first showed up and gave Jens no reason to fret. He hadn’t really cared what Sander would think either way.

He may have taken a little extra care this morning. (Or in the last hour, after waking up late and proceeding to rush around like a mad man.) Robbe may have raised his brows at him in teasing surprise when he showed up, and it may have made Jens feel even more silly for being so nervous.

But no matter how friendly their texts seem to have gotten, Lucas is still very intimidating.

Jens has no idea how they’re supposed to interact in person, and it doesn’t help that Lucas already seems to be in a rather dull mood. He isn’t sure why he expects Sander to continue to try to do something about it. Instead the blond lingers back with him as Lucas greets Robbe, smiling now as Robbe offers him a bro-handshake. Jens lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding at the sight, feeling a smile of his own grow as Robbe immediately strikes up a friendly conversation with the other man.

It’s not that he’d been nervous about Robbe, but well, he imagines that it isn’t easy. He doesn’t know how Robbe does it.

Lucas is already shrugging his bag off his shoulder and pulling out his sketchbook and his camera. Jens feels anticipation bubble in the pit of his stomach.

“Hey,” he greets, once they’re close enough, and to his delight, Lucas glances up and offers him something like a smile. “Everything good?”

Robbe nods as Lucas says, “Yep. Or, well, depends. What’s the plan?”

He looks to Jens for direction, and Jens forces himself not to stutter, instead simply turning to Robbe for help.

“Uh, well,” Robbe thinks, glancing between them all before finally settling on Sander. Jens hopes he’s the only one who notices how Robbe’s cheeks flush. “You don’t urgently need to work with Jens today, do you?”

Sander blinks at him, then quickly shakes his head.

“Okay, well I filmed a little bit of your shoot with Jens the other day, and I’ve been thinking I could edit it into like a promo to sort of announce things before we release the actual pics? But I was hoping I could maybe get your opinion on it first.”

“That’s a really cool idea,” Sander says, brightening. The smile on his face appears much more genuine than before. Jens supposes that’s what a passion can do. He hopes it’ll have the same effect on Lucas.

Robbe looks to Lucas and then to him, smiling as well. “That’s if you guys are happy enough to work this out yourselves? I’m sure Lucas knows what he’s doing, and I mean we’ll just be here if you want another opinion on anything.”

Jens raises his brows as Lucas glances at him.

Lucas offers Robbe a nod and a smile. “Sounds good.”

Jens notes that he doesn’t speak to or even glance at Sander as Robbe guides him to the small table in the corner while Jens and Lucas remain at the island. Jens hesitantly takes a seat, then gestures for Lucas to do the same, trying to remind himself to be both chill and professional. He’s usually able to manage it at meetings. Maybe it’s being in his home that makes it feel a little more personal.

“Hi,” he repeats, watching Lucas’s concentrated frown as he skims through his sketchbook.

Lucas looks up at him and seems, again, vaguely amused. “Hi.” He skims his gaze over Jens, tilting his head curiously. “Are you always this nervous?”

No, Jens thinks. Just with you.

“Sometimes,” he says.

Lucas huffs, smiling now as he looks back down. “Don’t be. I’m the one preparing to be criticised this time.”

“You were very intimidating last time we spoke.”

“Because I told you to watch it?” Lucas raises a brow at him.

Jens blanks, then remembers their text conversation from yesterday and flushes. “No, I mean, the last time we actually spoke. At the first meeting.”

“Ah.” Lucas nods. “In person. That usually makes me less intimidating.”

“Why?” Jens’s brow furrows.

Lucas raises his brows again and gestures at himself. Jens takes him in. His curls are as artfully styled as ever, falling over his forehead in messy waves, and below that his eyes are a stunning blue. He’s wearing another loose shirt, this time black with a light floral pattern. Jens can see the collar of a tee poking out underneath. Along with that, Lucas is wearing skin-tight jeans and shiny black boots along with his usual assortment of jewelry, rings adorning his fingers and silver bracelet glinting from his wrist. Jens wonders if any of them are gifts from Sander.

“I don’t get it,” Jens says. He means it. Lucas is beautiful. He looks like the true model here. It’s part of what intimidates Jens so much.

Lucas wiggles his fingers at him, showing off dark purple nails, then flexes a skinny arm. “Very intimidating, I imagine.”

Jens frowns. “You don’t need to be brawny to be intimidating. Honestly, I think I’m probably more intimidated by pretty people. Especially when they’re confident.”

Lucas stares at him for a minute, and Jens must imagine the flush on his cheeks, because then he snorts and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay, you basically just described yourself.”

Jens grins in surprise, but before he can say anything else, Lucas is spinning his sketchbook around and shoving it towards him, then digging back into his bag. Jens drags his gaze away and down to the paper in front of him. It’s littered in designs, different emblems and patterns interlocking across the double page. There are a few combinations of his initials, which he supposes also work well with a self-titled album. As much as Jens felt creative with words in the songwriting process, naming the songs and especially the album had been a frustratingly difficult task, so much so that he’d eventually just settled on JENS.

Robbe has been very skeptical, but Jens’s label seemed to think it was a good choice, and that was good enough for him. It wasn’t about the names or the titles, anyway.

Lucas seems to have also recognised this, and there are some heavy references to the actual music in some of the sketches. Lucas has sprinkled waves and rain and other forms of water throughout some of the designs, or focused on them entirely. Along with that are cages and chains, locks and keys, and beautiful wings.

Jens instantly falls in love with all of them, and then turns the page only to find more. He lets out a long breath. “How much time did this take you?”

He looks up in time to see Lucas shrug. He’s now staring down at an iPad. “Not that long. I might’ve stayed up a little longer than I should have, though.” He shrugs again, and now Jens believes the flush crawling up his neck has to be real. “The album gave me a lot of ideas.”

Jens nods. He hovers his fingers over some of the sketches, leaning down to admire them in closer detail.

Lucas makes a small sound of triumph, and then slides the iPad on top of the sketchbook. “I did a few out then on some rough clothing sketches, just to get an idea what they’d look like brought to life and put together. This doesn’t take that long, so if there’s any ideas you’d like me to group or something we could spend a while messing around with that. Or as long as you tell me, I can do it when I go home.”

“Everything is amazing.” Jens shakes his head, awed. He blows out another breath and laughs slightly as he looks up at Lucas. “I don’t know how you expect me to choose anything. None of these should be left out. Fuck, this one’s amazing.” He taps his finger on a sketch of drooped wings encased in a golden birdcage. He takes the iPad and lets Lucas draw the sketchbook back towards himself to examine, humming quietly in agreement.

He knew Lucas was talented. He’d gone after him for that exact reason. But seeing how quickly he’s managed to create all of this, how easily he’d brought the images in Jens’s words to life—he’s in awe. As well as that, he’s managed to implement the designs onto hoodies and t-shirts and sweatpants and hats and everything in between. Excitement floods through Jens at the prospect of getting to wear one himself, never mind seeing such items on anyone else. He smiles secretly to himself as he imagines Lucas donning a sweatshirt with his initials embroidered on the chest.

He doubts Lucas would ever sacrifice his beloved reputation to such an extent, or like Jens that much in the first place, but he’s allowed to dream.

“Yeah, I’m never going to be able to choose. I’m so sorry for making this more difficult but you’re just—this is just too good.” Jens shakes his head, still scrolling through the different images, and Lucas huffs.

“I didn’t expect you to be such a suck-up,” Lucas teases.

Jens looks up at him, exaggeratedly rolling his eyes. Then he lets his expression turn earnest and shrugs. “I’m telling the truth, like I hope you did with me.” He’d been relieved, and pleased, when Lucas had given such a kind review of his album yesterday. It was almost hard to believe. He’d instantly gone and listened to the third and last songs again, the ones Lucas had said were his favourite, and had a smile on his face for the rest of the day.

Lucas’s smile slips now, and some of Jens’s nerves come back. Lucas clears his throat and snaps his sketchbook closed, setting it aside so he can pull his camera towards him. “We can ask Robbe for his opinion, later? It might help. Even if you’re just able to rule things out together.”

Jens suddenly remembers his best friend only a few feet away, and Lucas’s boyfriend with him, and quickly glances over his shoulder. He’s been doing well, every other day, at keeping an eye on them. He knows how easily Robbe could get hurt or upset, no matter how much he protests that he’s getting over his crush perfectly fine. Jens knows it’s far from the truth, both because he knows the full capacity of Robbe’s feelings and because it must be ten times harder to get over someone you see every day. He knows Robbe avoids contacting Sander now outside of work as much as he can. He knows it isn’t easy, and he’s been doing his best to provide a comforting buffer.

Now, though, he turns around just in time for Robbe to start giggling as Sander talks animatedly. Robbe is staring at his laptop screen instead of Sander, and his cheeks are flushed, but he’s smiling wide. Not upset, not yet, but quite possibly digging himself into a hole. Sander, at least, appears oblivious, happy and excited as he makes a dozen hand gestures and leans farther across the table to get a better look.

“Yeah, we’ll do that when they’re done,” he agrees, shooting a smile back at Lucas.

Lucas is watching Robbe and Sander, too, the furrow back between his brows. Jens remembers the sour mood that he’d arrived in, the tension between him and Sander, and resists asking if everything is okay. He’s told Robbe enough times, when he was mourning over Sander, that it’s none of their business. He shouldn’t be the one to butt in now.

He gently hands Lucas’s iPad back to him instead, then raises his brows. “Meanwhile, do you want a snack? Or something to drink?”

Lucas smiles at him. “Oh, he remembers to be a good host.”

Jens pulls a face at him. His heart flutters when Lucas actually laughs in response. “Five seconds and I retract my offer,” he threatens.

“Water would be nice, maybe,” Lucas acquiesces instantly. “And if you have any chocolate, I won’t say no.”

“Huh, sweet tooth. Noted.” Jens winks at him, pushing to his feet and glancing back at the other two co-workers. “Sander, can I get you anything?”

Sander quickly looks at him and shakes his head, and his eyes slide on over to Lucas and he tries for a smile. Lucas either truly misses it or pretends not to notice.

Jens bites down his questions once more. “Robbe?” He waits for his friend to shake his head and then goes to fetch water and chocolate for Lucas. A few minutes later, when Lucas has eaten half of the biscuits on the plate Jens had left out and is taking a sip of his water, Jens decides on a safer line of interrogation. “So, how many times did you actually end up listening to the album?”

Lucas rolls his eyes. “Those two times. And then the first few songs again because Sander joined me and he’d missed those.” Lucas pauses, blinking at Jens with wide eyes. “I hope that’s okay.”

Jens waves him off. “Yeah, obviously. I don’t expect you to keep anything from Sander, especially when you share a room.” He raises a brow. Lucas doesn’t react. “Besides, you both signed the contracts. Sander’s in our trust, too.”

“Okay,” Lucas nods, smiling slightly again. Jens’s chest warms. “That’s good, then.”

Jens smiles back at him, and they sit in silence for a moment, considering each other. Jens realises Lucas’s attention isn’t making him as anxious anymore. Their texting relationship seems to have actually carried over into real life, and he’s relieved.

Lucas takes another sip of his water and then grabs his camera again. “How do you feel about doing a practice shoot? I might even be able to mess around and edit some of the designs onto you then. Plus it’ll be a lot easier when the time comes if I’m already familiar with you and your angles and the lighting and everything.” Lucas waves a hand.

Jens bites down his smile and nods in acceptance. “Okay, sure. Just tell me where you want me.”

It turns out his nerves aren’t entirely gone. It’s different, when he’s sitting on a stool and Lucas is focusing entirely on how he looks. It’s different when there’s a camera pointed at him and Lucas is the one behind it. He doesn’t want to mess up. He doesn’t want to frustrate Lucas, and he doesn’t want to look like an idiot.

It turns out this makes the whole process more difficult.

“Are you always this tense?” Lucas asks, vaguely concerned, and Jens’s shoulders tense further. Lucas sighs. “Don’t act so much like you’re posing. Just, do whatever feels comfortable.”

Jens wriggles on the stool. He draws a leg up. Puts it back down again. He leans forward to rest his arms on his knees and almost falls off the stool, which is too high for that position to work. He leans back and crosses his ankles, tucking his hands in his pockets.

Lucas snaps a photo, then considers it with a frown. He examines Jens again. “Maybe spread your legs?” He suggests.

Jens instantly raises his brows and smirks slightly, just to see Lucas rolls his eyes and set an unimpressed hand on his hip. Jens relents and spreads his legs, planting his feet and letting his hands dangle between his knees.

Lucas takes another photo and stares at it for a moment. Then he says, “How about we go outside?”

Jens blinks at him. “Why?”

“Because if you’re just walking around, not posing, I might get something more natural. I can tell you’re not feeling this.”

Lucas isn’t exactly wrong. The only thing Jens is feeling right now is sick. He’s twitchy and his stomach keeps rolling and Lucas’s gaze is too intense. He can’t sit still. Maybe it will help if he doesn’t have to.

“You’re the expert,” he says. “I can go wherever you want me.”

Lucas shakes his head. “No. Wherever you want. Somewhere you’re a little more in your element.”

Jens thinks, then nods. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Lucas grins, letting his camera settle around his neck. He moves back to the island and collects the coat he’d abandoned there, the same denim jacket with the fluffy collar he’d worn the first time they’d met. He slides his arms into the sleeves and turns to the other two men in the flat, clicking his fingers once to get their attention. “We’re going out to take some photos. Do you two wanna come with?”

Jens doesn’t know if he wants them to. The possibility of being alone with Lucas is terrifying and thrilling all at once. He decides this thought in itself is enough to make up his mind. He shoots a panicked, pleading look at Robbe, but Robbe is already looking at Lucas and nodding his head. He doesn’t seem to notice Sander’s frown.

“Yeah, sure,” Robbe agrees, and Jens lets out a breath of relief. He supposes his friend likely doesn’t want to be left here alone with Sander, either. “Where are we going?”

“Wherever Jens wants.” Lucas fiddles with his camera for a moment. “He needs to chill.”

Robbe raises his brows as Sander blinks. There’s a hint of a laugh in Robbe’s tone. “Jens needs to chill?”

“He’s always been chill with me,” Sander agrees, confused.

Lucas looks up to blink at them, then at Jens, amused. “Do I scare you that much?”

Jens flushes and pointedly ignores Robbe’s giggle. “No. I’m just, stressed. We’re releasing the first music video and announcing the album in two weeks and I’m very aware of all the things that could go wrong and how shitty I’ll probably feel.”

That shuts them up fairly quickly. Sander simply offers a sympathetic smile and Lucas’s expression softens as he seems to search for something to say. It’s Robbe, however, who raises to his feet and grabs Jens by the shoulders, squeezing reassuringly. “You won’t. It’ll be amazing, and we’re going to spend the entire day celebrating. Right now, Lucas is right. We should go out and have fun.”

“You definitely need it,” Lucas agrees, tilting his head towards the door, brows raised.

“Come on.” Robbe slaps his shoulder. “Skate park? It’s been a long time.”

Jens sucks in a breath, then slowly lets it out as he nods. They spend a moment collecting coats, keys, and boards, and then Jens ushers them all out and locks the door behind them. Robbe leads the way outside and down the sidewalk, and Jens half hopes Lucas will instantly rope him into conversation and start giving orders. Instead Sander slips an arm over Lucas’s shoulders and speaks to him quietly, and after a moment Lucas is nodding and leaning into his side.

Jens looks away and catches Robbe’s gaze, then falls into step alongside his best friend, bumping his shoulder. “Okay?” he asks quietly.

Robbe gives him a tight smile and a nod and Jens ruffles his hair.

The skatepark is relatively empty, but the people who are there continuously sneak glances at the group, whispering and grinning between themselves. Jens sees a guy pointing his phone at them. This isn’t entirely unusual, but it doesn’t help him destress.

“Just ignore them,” Robbe reminds him. “But be aware I’m gonna post a few stories because people are starting to ask if you’ve died.”

Jens rolls his eyes, but he does his best to listen. He looks to Lucas first, who merely waves his hand in a ‘go ahead’ gesture. He realises soon that it does help. It’s been a while since he’s skated, but it still loosens him up like it used to, still gets his blood rushing and allows him a few moments of freedom. He flips off Robbe’s phone and winks at Lucas’s camera and doesn’t really allow himself to think about either, or the way Sander is watching over Lucas’s shoulder and occasionally directing him, both of them smiling and bickering now.

He finally rejoins them and plops himself down on top of the half pipe, where Lucas immediately comes to kick at his thigh. “Weird question, but can I have a go?”

Jens blinks up at him, noticing how he’s rocking on his heels with barely constrained energy, and raises his brows. “Skating?”

“Yeah?” Lucas raises his eyebrows back. “Is that a no?”

“Uh, no, go for it. I mean, if you can.”

Lucas huffs, carefully setting his camera and his jacket on the ground next to Jens before picking up his board. He plants it at the top of the ramp, a foot balancing it on the edge, and cocks an eyebrow at Jens again before he’s racing down the ramp with a wave.

Jens stares after him, astonished, as he navigates the park on Jens’s board with ease. He barely notices Robbe and Sander sitting down with him until Sander wolf-whistles and Lucas flips him off as he passes. Jens feels something thrum in his stomach as he watches Lucas and can’t quite figure out what it is.

When Lucas finally comes to a stop below them, flicking his hair off his forehead, Jens gives an exaggerated clap. Lucas simply grins up at him, eyes considering as he holds the board up for Jens to take, then requests, “Pass me my camera?”

Jens does so without question, and Lucas’s lips curl as he looks up at him and then snaps a photo. “I just have to capture the utter shock and awe on your face right now.”

Jens sets a hand on his thigh and stares down at him, unimpressed, but his brow furrows slightly as the camera goes off again.

Lucas takes it away from his face and examines the image he’d taken, pursing his lips slightly. “Not bad. Who knew you could actually be sort of photogenic.”

Jens pulls a face at him as he grins and draws himself up next to Sander, who immediately leans in to look at the photos he’s taken. Lucas doesn’t hesitate to lean towards him, this time, and then he’s laughing at whatever Sander says, turning towards him with a dazzling smile Jens hasn’t seen yet. Their faces are so close they could kiss.

Robbe seems to have the same thought and looks away, showing Jens his hurt expression for an instant before focusing steadily out at the skatepark, his pinched lips the only visible sign of jealousy.

Jens has to look away, too, and finds himself mimicking the expression. It’s only then that he recognises the heavy feeling in his own stomach as the same emotion. He doesn’t know how he didn’t notice it before. Jealousy has never been foreign to him.

He darts another glance at Lucas, in shock and slowly expanding terror, and notes how his heart flutters and then pinches as he throws his head back and laughs and Sander reaches out and fixes his hair for him.

Oh, fuck.

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#wtfock #skam nl #sobbe #robbe x sander #van der stoffels #vds #fake making-it

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likecastle · 4 years

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In which Jaskier cuts Geralt’s hair

Well, folks, I was inspired by Geralt’s slightly wavier wig in the new S2 promo photos to write a story in which Geralt finally gets some proper haircare and it brings out his natural curl pattern. This somehow turned into 7,000 words of Geralt musing about his own terrible self-image and Jaskier tenderly negotiating a haircut.

Credit for Geralt’s 3-in-1 shower products goes to @exrayspex, with my thanks for their enthusiasm about this exceedingly soft concept!

I’d like to put this up on AO3 at some point, but the title has me stumped, so if anyone has a suggestion, please let me know.

“When are you going to let me cut your hair?”

Geralt snorts, incredulous. “I’m not.”

Jaskier fixes Geralt with a pleading look. The streaks of peacock blue Jaskier recently added to his hair really bring out the color of his eyes—all the better to beguile him with. “Come on, Geralt, don’t you trust me?”

“No,” Geralt says, trying without much luck to keep his attention on the TV screen. Suddenly he has to fight the urge to tuck a stray strand of his hair behind his ear.

“It would look so nice if you just took proper care of it,” Jaskier wheedles.

“It doesn’t need to look nice.” Geralt can feel his shoulders creeping up towards his ears, and he wishes Jaskier would look at something else besides him. “It’s just hair.”

“But—”

Geralt jabs the remote in the direction of the TV. “Are you going to let me watch this or do you want to go home?”

“Fine, you grouch,” Jaskier says, returning his attention to the screen.

It must not hold Jaskier’s interest, though, because he can feel Jaskier’s gaze returning to him periodically throughout the rest of the film—which in itself isn’t all that unusual, since Jaskier watches even movies he really likes with one eye on his phone. Except that when Geralt meets his gaze, Jaskier’s looking at him with a wistful, almost sad expression. Geralt doesn’t let himself wonder what might be on his mind.

Later, Jaskier yawns wide and says he’d better be going if he doesn’t want to fall asleep at the wheel on the way home. It’s just a dramatic excuse not to help clean up, Geralt knows, but he can’t help smiling at the way Jaskier rubs at his eyes, smudging the faded remnants of his eyeliner. Geralt walks him to the door, and for a moment Jaskier just stands there on the porch, looking at Geralt thoughtfully.

When his hand reaches up, Geralt freezes. He thinks for a moment that Jaskier’s about to cup his cheek and drawn him down—but he just takes a strand of frizzy hair that’s come loose from Geralt’s ponytail and twists it around a finger.

“I thought so,” Jaskier says, with a private little smile.

Geralt’s sure Jaskier must be able to hear the way his breath’s gotten jammed up in his chest. “Thought—?”

“Nothing.” Jaskier digs his hands into the pockets of his jacket and starts down the front steps. “G’night, Geralt.”

As Geralt tidies away their takeout containers and empty beer bottles, his mind keeps wandering back to Jaskier’s offer. He knows Jaskier’s just trying to be nice—or trying to fix him, the way he tried to “liven up” Geralt’s wardrobe early in their friendship and tried to set him up on dates after he split up with Yen last year. But the options he tries to push on Geralt—the overpriced bomber jacket Jaskier bought him that’s still sitting at the back of his closet, the gorgeous chestnut-haired nurse Jaskier introduced him to—always seem to reflect more about Jaskier’s idea of Geralt than they do about Geralt himself.

Because the thing is, he’s not brash and stylish like Jaskier, who’s all eccentric colors combinations and flashing rings that accentuate his expressive hands. Jaskier knows how to construct an outfit that tells the world exactly who he is at any given moment, from his ever-evolving hairstyles to his painstakingly-sourced vintage clothes. Geralt, on the other hand, is just—nothing, an absence of style. His idea of a good outfit is one he can forget he’s wearing, one that will make everyone else forget him when he’s wearing it. His relationship to his appearance is as estranged as his relationship to his ex-wife. Being in his body, making use of it when he’s lifting weights or hammering a nail or swinging Ciri up in his arms—that makes sense to him. But thinking about his body is the opposite of that. He doesn’t like being looked at, even by himself. He avoids the mirror on his medicine cabinet as much as he can and starts feeling close and queasy if he so much as looks at himself in a dressing room mirror.

Before he goes to bed that night, he shakes his hair out from his ponytail and makes himself take a long, hard look in the mirror. All he sees is the sallow, tired-eyed face of a man who can hardly remember how to smile anymore, a face scarred from carelessness and creased from years of worry. His dull white hair, which Jaskier had twisted so carefully around his finger, is somehow greasy and dried out at the same time, limp around his face but bristly at the ends. He can’t find any sign of the potential Jaskier seems to think is there. He suspects it was never there in the first place—a mirage visible only to well-intentioned flatterers like Jaskier—and he feels foolish for looking.

No, Geralt decides, he’s not going to let Jaskier cut his hair, or do anything else to him. Better not to bother at all.

The next time the topic of Geralt’s hair comes up, he’s brought Ciri into Jaskier’s salon for an emergency haircut. Ordinarily, Yennefer handles things like haircuts and clothes shopping, but Saturday night, Ciri emerged from the bathroom with the front her hair lopped off somewhere around her eyebrows and a dawning expression of anxious regret on her face. Geralt had reassured her that everything would be OK, while texting Jaskier frantically for help and silently panicking about what Yen was going to say when she came to pick Ciri up on Sunday night. Thankfully, Jaskier was able to squeeze Ciri into his schedule this afternoon, and he promised to fix Ciri up.

So now Geralt is sitting awkwardly in the waiting area, hunched on a squeaky vinyl-upholstered chair. He’s been to Jaskier’s salon plenty of times—to meet him for lunch or a post-shift drink, to drop off something he left at the house or to give him a ride home—but he rarely does more than stand uneasily just inside the door. The relentless pop music and the echoing acoustics never fail to overwhelm him, as does the muddle of scents—clouds of different hair products and the pervasive smell of something sharp like ammonia. The abundance of mirrors unnerves him, too. Nobody can possibly need to see so many views of their own reflection, can they? Between the curious patrons peering at him in the mirrors and passersby staring in through the plate glass storefront, Geralt feels like he’s on display. And to make matters worse, he keeps catching glimpses of his reflection, his own hunted expression looking back at him from unexpected angles.

Ciri, at least, is having a great time, chatting happily with Jaskier as he snips away at her hair. The last time Geralt took Ciri for a haircut, it was at one of those children’s salons where the chairs looked like toy cars, and now here she is, sitting beside grown women almost like she’s one of them. It scares him, sometimes, to think of her growing up—more than sometimes. There are so many ways the world can fail her, and he can only do so much to protect her. There’s going to come a time when she’s going to get into some kind of trouble he won’t be able to bail her out of, and he’s not sure what he’s going to do with himself when that day comes. But for now, at least he can pay Jaskier to fix her disastrous home-brew haircut.

“What d’you think, Dad?” Ciri calls, and he looks up to see Jaskier removing her cape with a flourish. When he turns Ciri’s chair around to face him, Geralt’s heart catches in his throat. How grown up she looks, he thinks, but what really makes his chest ache is how much she’s coming into herself—becoming someone with her own unique taste in clothes and books and music, who won’t compromise about the bullshit dress codes at school and is brave enough to try something new even if the results are atrocious. He doesn’t know where she gets it.

“You like it?” he asks, not trusting himself to say something that won’t embarrass her.

“Yeah, I guess,” she says with a shrug, and hops down from the chair.

“We could do yours next, Geralt,” Jaskier offers, sweeping up the little blonde fragments of Ciri’s hair from the floor around his station.

“Ooh, yeah!” Ciri grins up at him. “I bet Jaskier would give you a really cool haircut.”

“I’m sure he would,” Geralt says mildly. He doesn’t want to quash Ciri’s enthusiasm or impart his own discomfort to her. It’s one of the things that keeps him up at night, the fear that he’ll pass down all his insecurities. He tries so hard to keep that shit buttoned up, to shield her from his own shortcomings—and he knows it’s inevitable that he’s just going to mess her up in other ways, but he wants to do better for her, has to do better. “Maybe some other time.”

“So you’ll consider it!” Jaskier says triumphantly, coming over to tell the receptionist the total for Ciri’s cut.

Geralt notices Ciri looking at herself in the big mirror behind the front desk, fussing self-consciously with her new fringe. Jaskier must notice, too, because he gives Ciri a big hug and says, “You look great, kiddo. Right, Geralt?”

“Definitely,” Geralt says, surrendering his credit card to the receptionist to pay a frankly staggering amount. He tips a hundred percent.

“You should take him up on it,” Yennefer says that evening when Geralt concludes the story of Ciri’s haircut by telling her about Jaskier’s offer to cut Geralt’s hair.

Geralt blinks in surprise. “Really?”

She glances back to where Ciri is waiting for her in the car. “Jaskier did a good job. She and I are going to have a serious conversation later about when to ask for permission and when to ask for forgiveness, but I have to admit it suits her.”

“It does,” Geralt agrees. He realizes he doesn’t know what it would be like, to feel his appearance suited him. He’s never tried, really, to make his exterior reflect his interior, wouldn’t even know where to begin.

“Besides,” Yennefer says, gesturing to his haphazard ponytail, “you really do need to start taking better care of yourself, now that I’m not around to make sure you’re presentable anymore.”

Geralt’s eyebrows shoot up, a smile twitching his lips. “Is that what you were doing? Looking after me?”

Yennefer lifts one hand to tug a lock of his hair, the gesture so similar to Jaskier’s that it makes him shiver, for some reason. “No, but somebody ought to.”

He ducks his head, hoping to hide the ache that washes through him—a longing for something they both wanted but never quite managed to find together. “If you keep Ciri waiting much longer, she’s gonna make a break for it.”

“She would, too,” Yennefer says affectionately. “Take care of yourself, Geralt.” She surprises him by brushing a kiss against his cheek, then turns to go.

Geralt waits until Yennefer’s car is out of sight before he goes inside. As he loads the dinner dishes into the dishwasher, he thinks again about Jaskier’s offer. He’s never been good at asking for things, let alone holding on them once he has them, but it’s been especially hard since he and Yennefer split—even the littlest things feel like they require an effort it’s not worth making. It’s so easy to tell himself he doesn’t need anything—a fancy haircut, a new jacket, a reassuring glance, a gentle touch. But sometimes, maybe, it’s enough to want them.

Wiping soapy water off his hands, Geralt pulls his phone from his pocket and texts Jaskier. Does your offer to cut my hair still stand? Only if you’ve got time.

OMG YES!!! comes the immediate reply. I can be there in 20. Then, a moment later, Jaskier amends, Shit wait make that 40 need to run to get some supplies

Geralt huffs out a laugh. Have to get up early tomorrow. This weekend?

All booked up this weekend but I’m off on Tues so I can come over to your place in the pm if that works for you

He’d hoped to give himself a few days to cancel, just in case he changes his mind, and in this respect Tuesday’s almost no better than forty minutes from now. But he does like the idea of doing this at home, instead of in the salon. He types out OK and hits send before he can think better of it.

Don’t chicken out before then

No promises, Geralt answers.

Jaskier responds with a string of emoji that Geralt finds completely inscrutable, but which make him smile nonetheless.

Jaskier arrives on Tuesday evening with a six-pack of cold beer and bag crammed full of supplies.

“I thought you were going to cut my hair, not outlast a siege,” Geralt says, trying to ignore the way his stomach twists with nerves over this impending ordeal. He should have cancelled. He should never have said yes to this ridiculous idea.

“Oh, none of this would be remotely useful in warfare,” Jaskier replies. Then, contemplatively, he says, “Well, maybe some of it. But first, I thought we could have a drink.”

“So you can cut my hair drunk?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier rolls his eyes and brushes past Geralt into the kitchen, dumping his bag into an empty chair at the table. “So you can relax a little for once. And so we can talk.”

Geralt feels the knot of anxiety in his stomach tighten even further. “What is there to talk about? It’s just a haircut.”

Jaskier lets out a long-suffering sigh as he rummages around in Geralt’s cutlery drawer in search of a bottle opener. “Geralt, have you not listened to a single word I’ve said about my job?” He pops off the caps of two bottles of beer and hands one to Geralt. “No, don’t answer that, I know you haven’t.”

Geralt takes a sullen sip of his beer, but he doesn’t dispute the accusation.

With a nod of his head, Jaskier gestures for Geralt to follow him into the living room, and flops down on what Geralt has come to think of as his side of the couch. Geralt sits at the other end, turned to face him. “You need to know what you want going into this, or you won’t get good results.” Jaskier fixes him with a gaze that makes Geralt take another swallow of his beer. “Have you ever given any thought to what you like, or don’t like, about your hair?”

“Not . . . really,” Geralt mumbles, wondering how angry Jaskier would be if he called this whole thing off now.

“Well,” Jaskier says patiently, “why do you keep your hair long? I always assumed it was because you liked how it looked, but I’m realizing now I’ve never asked about it.”

Geralt takes another sip of his beer and tries to think of answer that’s not Because I do. He’s worn it long since high school, when it was primarily something to hide behind. It felt like a kind of fuck-you, an off-putting choice to keep people from looking too closely at him—and to help him forget about other people, too. “It’s easier,” he says finally. “Don’t have to get it cut every few weeks, and I can keep it out of my face.”

“OK, that’s good to know.” The calm, encouraging tone Jaskier’s taking should feel condescending, but Geralt finds he doesn’t mind—or maybe it’s just the beer starting to relax him a little.

“You don’t always tie it back, though, do you?” Jaskier goes on.

Geralt shakes his head. “When I’m working, yeah, but the rest of the time . . .” He shrugs. It depends—on who he’s around, how comfortable he feels with them, hell, how hard the wind is blowing. Sometimes he can’t stand the feeling of it in face, and sometimes the pressure of the hair elastic at the base of his skull is enough to make him want to rip it out.

“Can I . . . ?” Jaskier gestures to Geralt’s hair, and Geralt inclines his head. It’s inevitable that Jaskier will have to touch him if they’re going to go through with this, so there’s no point in being shy about it. Jaskier scoots forward on the couch, and Geralt holds very still, letting him reach back and undo the tie holding his hair back. A sheet of frizzy white strands spills around his bowed head, almost obscuring Jaskier from view.

He can feel Jaskier, though, running his fingers through his hair. The touch makes Geralt’s scalp tingle and a shiver runs through him that he tries and fails to suppress.

“OK?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt nods.

“You’ve never told me when you went grey.” Jaskier’s voice is hushed, almost as if he’s afraid of startling him. He continues to card his hand through Geralt’s hair—with professional curiosity, Geralt realizes, but the touch is so gentle it also feels like a reassurance. Geralt closes his eyes, grateful to be shielded from Jaskier’s view.

“Started in high school,” he says. It’s been a long time since he thought about how, when those first thick streaks of white were coming into his dark hair, kids at school would call him skunk and Cruella de Vil, shit he knew better than to respond to but that just made him even more self-conscious. It occurs to him now that most of his memories of being looked at—really noticed—are colored by other people’s derision for things he can’t help. “It was all like this by the time I was twenty-one, twenty-two. Someone told me once it’s genetic, but . . .” He shrugs again. He’s got no one to ask about a family history of premature graying, no photos of distant relatives to compare himself to.

Gentle fingers tuck his hair back behind one ear, and Geralt looks up to see Jaskier smiling at him. “I would pay good money to see pictures of you in high school. I bet you were so surly.”

“You wouldn’t have liked me,” Geralt says “I was insufferable.” Miserable and ungrateful and roiling with self-righteous anger all the time, hardly able to string a civil sentence together.

Jaskier rewards him with a snort of disbelieving laughter. “You’re insufferable now and I like you just fine.”

This is true, Geralt thinks. His anger has banked down somewhat since those days, but he’s no less difficult to be around, and Jaskier’s never seemed to mind his rough edges. If he’s being honest, he wouldn’t have been able to appreciate Jaskier in those day. His constant talking and absurd jokes would have grated on Geralt’s nerves, back then. They did when he first met Jaskier, in fact. He tried, for a long time, to keep his distance, sure that there was nothing he and Jaskier could possibly have to say to each other. But Jaskier kept turning up, kept surprising him, kept being kind to him for no damn reason. Geralt’s glad he did.

“So,” Jaskier says, pushing the conversation back in his desired direction, as he always does, “what I’m hearing is, you like wearing your hair long?”

Geralt considers, taking another swallow of his beer. Liking doesn’t figure into his thinking much, but it’s not just out of habit that he keeps it this way. “Yeah.”

Jaskier’s nod is solemn. “Anything you don’t like about it?”

Again, Geralt has to give this serious thought. “There are, uh . . .” He gestures to the wiry flyaways that tend to form around his head by the end of the day. They tend to tickle his face unpleasantly as he works, which is irritating when he doesn’t hand a hand free to brush them away.

“Yeah, it’s a little dry,” Jaskier says. “But we can fix that up.” Geralt knows exactly how soft Jaskier’s hair is, and he can’t imagine his own ragged hair could ever come close. “Anything else?”

Geralt shrugs.

“OK,” Jaskier says, “enough with the interrogation. I think I’ve got everything I need.”

Jaskier gets up and retrieves another beer—not for himself, but for Geralt. Jaskier’s fingers brush his as he hands over the bottle, and it gives him the same little shiver that he felt when Jaskier was combing through his hair. “D’you want me to tell you what I’m thinking, or just surprise you?”

Geralt’s gut instinct is to make Jaskier tell him what he’s got in mind, so that he has the option to veto it and put this whole thing to a stop. But he thinks of Jaskier’s teasing question the first time they talked about this—Don’t you trust me?—and how he’d said no when the answer is really yes. So he takes a deep pull of his beer and says, “Surprise me.”

The look of glee on Jaskier’s face is worth the knot of dread that immediately forms in Geralt’s stomach. He takes another drinks and reminds himself that it’s just hair. It’ll grow back.

“You’re not gonna regret it, I promise,” Jaskier says, and then his warm hands are urging Geralt up and off the couch.

It takes them a while to get everything situated to Jaskier’s liking—the bathroom is too cramped to accommodate a chair, so Jaskier has Geralt drag one into the kitchen, covering the floor in newspapers to catch the stray clippings. Then Jaskier sends Geralt to wash his hair while he sets up the rest of his supplies. When Geralt comes back downstairs, his hair soaking into his t-shirt, there is a truly staggering array of equipment spread out on the counter, Jaskier’s own little traveling apothecary kit, with everything from dangerously sharp scissors to brightly-colored bottles of product to some kind of instrument that looks like a bowl full of dull spikes, which Jaskier says attaches to his hair dryer.

“Rule number one,” Jaskier says, grabbing the towel out of Geralt’s hands. “No more regular towels on your hair. Your hair deserves to be treated with care.” Geralt snorts, but the towel he hands Geralt is pleasantly soft, with finer knap that’s soft as fleece in his hands. “And don’t rub at it,” Jaskier scolds. He steps closer, wrapping his hands around Geralt’s to guide him, his hand moving in a gentle squeezing motion. “That’s good,” he says, and Geralt feels his cheeks flush.

Once Geralt’s hair is toweled dry, Jaskier maneuvers him into the chair, and combs out his hair with a wide-toothed comb. Jaskier is exceedingly careful not to yank on the knots, but even so the gentle tug sets his skin tangling. Geralt knows his scalp is sensitive—he can remember fighting back tears while Vesemir struggled to brush out his unruly hair as a kid—but it’s never felt like this before. Of course, that might have something to do with the fact that ordinarily, when he finally breaks down and subjects himself to a trim, he just asks Eskel do come over and cut it with the kitchen scissors. Even with someone he trusts as profoundly as he does Eskel, it’s still an uncomfortable ordeal that makes him unaccountably tense. But this isn’t painful, or unnerving at all. It’s . . . nice, embarrassingly so. He can’t help wondering what it would feel like if Jaskier were to drag his nails along his scalp—and then he has to force himself not to think about it, because even the thought of the sensation sends a shudder through him.

Thankfully, Jaskier is busy fiddling with his phone, and a moment later he puts on a playlist he likes to call Geralt’s Sad Dad Rock mix. Geralt appreciates the background noise—familiar songs he can tune out if he wants to, quiet enough that the music’s not intrusive.

“OK,” Jaskier says, snapping a cape around Geralt’s throat. His hand comes to rest on Geralt’s shoulder and he leans in to speak almost directly into Geralt’s ear. “Ready?”

Geralt suppresses another chill and says, “As I’ll ever be.”

Jaskier gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze and gets to work. Geralt’s grateful for the lack of mirrors, because it means he doesn’t have to see what Jaskier’s doing, but at the same time it leaves him without much to go on—just the touch of the comb, Jaskier’s hands carefully repositioning his head, his fingers pulling this or that lock of hair taut to snip at them with the scissors. Eventually, Geralt closes his eyes and lets Jaskier’s voice wash over him. Jaskier often accuses Geralt of not listening to him when he talks, but in truth it’s easy to get lost in the lilting cadence of his speech, like hearing a song but not its lyrics.

“. . . and the thing is,” Jaskier’s saying, though Geralt lost the thread of his rambling long ago, “the more you do it, the better your results will be. You just have to help them along . . .”

He can see why Jaskier’s clients like him so much, how nice it is to fall into the pattern of someone else’s words, especially when that someone has as nice a voice as Jaskier. He’s often grateful for Jaskier’s conversation, which fills silences Geralt didn’t even realize were empty until he came along.

When Jaskier says, “OK, you’re all done,” Geralt is surprised by how quickly the time has passed. “We can just leave it at that and just let it air dry, or . . .” Even though he can’t see Jaskier, he can picture the hopeful expression on his face.

“What?” Geralt asks, twisting around in the chair to look Jaskier in the eye.

Jaskier bites his bottom lip, looking almost nervous. “Or I could show you how to style it. If you wanted. Nothing over the top, I promise.”

Geralt thinks it over. On the one hand, there’s no way he’ll ever bother repeating anything Jaskier shows him how to do, but on the other hand, he wouldn’t mind having Jaskier’s hands on him a little longer. “All right.”

“Really?” Jaskier’s eyes go wide. “Nope, never mind, I’m not gonna second-guess this. No take-backs! You’re committed now.”

Which is how Geralt finds himself being hustled back upstairs and into the bathroom. Jaskier pulls back the shower curtain and is about to start issuing instructions when he lets out a squawk and staggers backward.

Geralt looks around in alarm, expecting to see a giant spider in the tub. It’s only belatedly that he realizes he’s thrown an arm out in front of Jaskier, as if that will protect him from whatever nonexistent threat he was reacting to. “What?”

“Geralt, for shame!” Jaskier exclaims, pointing to the bottle of 3-in-1 shampoo/conditioner/body wash on the edge of the tub. “Is that yours?” He says it with all the breathless horror of someone discovering a murder weapon.

“Uh . . .” Geralt has the distinct feeling he should try to deny it, but there’s no point in trying to pretend. “Yes?”

And then Jaskier is laughing, but it’s warm with delight, not mocking or cruel. In fact, he looks up at Geralt with such fondness that Geralt almost can’t bear it. “Oh, you poor man,” Jaskier says between gusts of laughter. “No wonder your hair is so dry!”

“. . . It’s efficient,” Geralt mutters in a half-hearted attempt to defend himself.

“It’s like washing your hair with dish soap. But don’t worry,” he adds, pressing a hand to Geralt’s chest, “I’ll get you sorted out and then your hair will be so soft it’ll be completely irresistible.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says dubiously, but Jaskier just grins at him.

“OK, this next part is going to be a little awkward. Ordinarily you’d do it by yourself in the shower, but I’m gonna take a wild guess and say you’d rather not jump in the shower with me right now.”

Geralt very much does not acknowledge the wave of heat that rolls through him at the thought. “Probably wouldn’t fit, anyway.”

“Eh, I’ve made it work in smaller spaces than this,” Jaskier says, with such casual confidence that Geralt’s mouth goes dry. “But luckily, you’ve got one of those detachable showerheads, so we should be just fine. Might be easier, though, if you, uh, take off your shirt off.”

Geralt’s already come this far, and, besides, it’s not like Jaskier hasn’t seen him without his shirt on before. As Geralt strips off his shirt, Jaskier puts a towel down on the floor and beckons him to kneel down at the edge the tub. He’s careful to get the water to a comfortable temperature before he puts a warm hand on Geralt’s bare back, guiding him to lean over, his head bowed.

The routine Jaskier directs him through is more complicated than Geralt could ever have anticipated. There’s a thick, dark purple shampoo that Jaskier instructs him to use only once a week—he has another shampoo he’ll give Geralt to use at other times, but really, Jaskier insists, he should only be washing his hair a couple of times a week, anyway. Jaskier shows him how to rub the shampoo into his scalp only and let the water draw it down through the rest of his hair. The pressure of the spray on his scalp makes his skin tingle, as does the press of Jaskier’s body against his side. When Geralt doesn’t apply the conditioner to Jaskier’s liking, he adjusts Geralt’s hands with his own, smoothing their joined fingers through Geralt’s slippery hair. And when it comes time to rinse the conditioner out, he shows Geralt how to cup the water in his palms and press it into the wet mass of his hair.

“You’re doing great,” Jaskier tells him, and Geralt is grateful his face is hidden behind ropes of his wet hair.

Finally, Jaskier pronounces himself satisfied and turns off the water. Now that they’re done the task of washing his hair, Geralt’s awkwardly aware of his chest dripping with water in the cool air of the bathroom—and of Jaskier standing less than an arm’s length away from him.

Jaskier, on the other hand, is nothing but professional, rubbing a series of products into his hands and then smoothing them over Geralt’s hair. After each application, he gathers Geralt’s hair in his hands and presses it up toward Geralt’s scalp, just like they did with the water. It’s a bizarre motion, like nothing Geralt’s ever seen before, but it seems to be having the desired effect, because the strands of hair hanging down in front of his face are slowly forming into thick coils, and Jaskier keeps making little satisfied humming sounds with each new application. Jaskier finishes by wrapping Geralt’s hair up in another one of those extra soft towels.

“And now we wait,” he says, hopping up onto the sink.

Geralt pulls his shirt on again, careful not to disturb the towel on his head, and he might be wrong but he thinks that he catches a little disappointed frown cross Jaskier’s face, but it’s gone before he can be sure.

“Thanks for indulging me,” Jaskier says. “I know you don’t really like this kind of stuff, but I’m having a great time.”

“It’s not as bad as I thought it would be,” Geralt replies. But that sounds worse than it did in his head, and he hastens to add, “I mean—it’s nice—when it’s you.”

Jaskier’s smile is something Geralt can’t quite get to the bottom of—fond and wry and maybe a little sad, too. “Well, I’ve been dying to do this pretty much since the moment I met you, so, you know, thanks for that.”

It’s strange to think Jaskier has been harboring private aspirations where Geralt is concerned. But then Jaskier’s always been full of surprises when it comes to him—immune to his ill temper, amused by his rudeness, tenacious enough to bully his way past his silences. He’s never understood what Jaskier sees in him, and he often feels he offers a poor reward for the hard work Jaskier puts in to being his friend. Because it’s not easy, Geralt knows. Plenty of people have decided Geralt was too difficult to get to know, or too prickly to stick with. Even Yennefer, who’s loved him better than he could possibly deserve, struggled to make inroads against Geralt’s defenses. It never seemed to matter how much he loved Yennefer, he could never bring himself to relax around her. He was always on tenterhooks, waiting for the other shoe to drop—until, in time, it did, a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy. He can’t blame Yennefer ending things. She wants things he doesn’t know how to give. He couldn’t figure out how to change himself into the sort of person she deserved.

“D’you want another beer?” Jaskier asks, nudging Geralt’s knee with his bare foot.

He wouldn’t mind another drink, but he’s loathe to puncture the peaceful little moment that’s grown up between them. “Let’s just stay here.”

Jaskier nods, and a moment later Fleetwood Mac comes on over Jaskier’s phone speakers—one of the only bands they can agree on—and Jaskier treats him to an inspired rendition of “Dreams,” his voice turned otherworldly by the chill acoustics of the bathroom tiles. Geralt watches Jaskier dance on his perch on the edge of the sink and wonders, with an ache in his chest, what it would be like to be so uninhibited, so comfortable in his own skin. He can’t imagine it, but sometimes he feels like he’s maybe just a half-step closer to knowing when he’s around Jaskier.

When the song fades out, Jaskier hops down from the counter and says, “OK, time for the last step.”

Jaskier sticks that torture device attachment onto his hair dryer and lets Geralt’s hair down from the towel. Jaskier lets him stay seated, and starts drying his hair. He doesn’t pull Geralt’s hair taut with a brush, as Geralt has seen Yennefer do when styling her own hair. Instead, he gathers it up a section of hair in that little torture device accessory and holds the dryer still, letting the air work around the strands. Geralt closes his eyes against the noise and sensation of the air against his scalp. It lasts a long time, Geralt bracing his arms on his thighs as Jaskier moves the hair dryer around his head. The noise of the dryer makes conversation difficult, and Geralt feels strangely distant from Jaskier all of a sudden, even though he’s standing so close Geralt could press his face to the soft flesh of his stomach if he wanted to. He knots his hands together between his knees to keep himself from just reaching out and pulling Jaskier close.

When Jaskier finally switches off the hair dryer, the silence it leaves feels big. It’s probably just the heat from the hair dyer, but Geralt feels flushed and a little rubbed raw.

“All right,” Jaskier says, fixing him with a considering look. “Let me just . . .” He reaches out and grips Geralt’s hair in both hands. He doesn’t so much tug as gently crush the strands, but the pressure is enough to make Geralt’s mouth fall open, and he doesn’t exactly make a noise but something happens in his chest like his lungs kickstarting. Jaskier glances down at him with an inquisitive smile. “Sorry, too hard?”

It’s all Geralt can do to shake his head.

“All done,” Jaskier says. When he lets go, Geralt immediately misses the touch. “Wanna take a look?”

Geralt stands up and turns to regard himself in the mirror. To say he doesn’t recognize himself would be an overstatement, but the sight of his reflection is a surprise. The cut doesn’t seem all that different in terms of length, but the ragged edges are gone. The dingy white of his hair has turned a gleaming silver, and it hangs around his face not in its usual lank tangle, but in softly curling waves. It’s almost . . . pretty, a word he’s never associated with himself in his entire life. The new brightness of his hair makes his face seem clearer, more open somehow, and the gentle curls offset the hard lines of his face in a way that make his features look almost delicate, or in any case less roughly hewn than usual. He reaches up to touch it, and to his amazement, it’s just as soft as Jaskier promised it would be. Maybe not as soft as Jaskier’s own hair, but much nicer than he can remember it ever feeling before.

“You like it?” Jaskier asks, and in the mirror, Geralt can see he’s looking at him with a hopeful expression. It makes something twist in his stomach—longing, and at the same time a rejection of what he wants, the certainty that he can’t possibly hang onto anything nice for long enough to enjoy it.

“You know I’ll never go to all this trouble,” he says, gruffly, and immediately regrets it when he sees Jaskier’s smile slip from his face.

“No, I know,” Jaskier says, and starts packing up his supplies. “I just wanted to try it. I’ll still leave you all the products, just in case you change your mind, or—”

“Jaskier.” Geralt swallows hard, and puts a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. “I—”

Jaskier looks at him with such a searching expression that Geralt hardly knows how to look at him. He’s never known someone who’s so much all the time, expansive and loud and demanding and generous and so goddamn bright.

“What I should have said,” Geralt says, against the tension threatening to stop his throat, “is that I wouldn’t have tried this if it weren’t for you. It’s . . .” He’s not sure how to answer Jaskier’s question. Does he like it? He looks so unlike himself that he honestly doesn’t know what to make of it. He can’t tell if it suits him or not, because he still isn’t sure what that would mean. But he likes the idea that Jaskier’s uncovered this version of him, that this might be how Jaskier sees him in his mind’s eye. “I’m glad we tried it. Thank you.”

“I am, too,” Jaskier says, quietly. “Even if you never do it again, I’m glad you trusted me enough to try. And for the record?” The twist of his lips is almost pained, but it’s a smile all the same. “You look fucking gorgeous.”

Geralt ducks his head, his shoulders inching up. “Jaskier . . .”

“No, I’m serious, Geralt.” Jaskier sounds annoyed, almost angry, all of a sudden. “I know you don’t care about superficial stuff—”

“That’s not—”

“—but take it from someone who spends a lot of time looking at people and doing my best to make them look as good as I possibly can: you’re objectively really fucking good-looking.” Jaskier lets out a harsh, reckless laugh. “And if you don’t care about my professional opinion, I also happen to think you’re the most attractive person I’ve ever met in my entire life, so there’s that.”

“I—”

Now that Jaskier’s started talking, he can’t seem to stop. “You’re the most incredible person I know, Geralt,” he says, in a breathless rush, “and I’m not talking just about your looks—although you are genuinely so ridiculously handsome that it’s really not fair. You’re kind for no reason and incredibly devoted and, OK, sort of a dick sometimes, but also so goddamn careful with other people and so fucking hard on yourself, and I just—I wish you could see yourself the way I do. I wish I could show you, even for just a second, because—”

“You did,” Geralt says. Jaskier stares at him, stunned into silence, and Geralt takes the opportunity to continue. “You do. Not just tonight.” He’s breathing hard, and he tries not to think about how dangerous this feels, like standing up on the top of a tall ladder or walking the line of a roof that might collapse under him at any moment. “When I’m with you, I feel like I could be that person you see in me, maybe. I just . . . don’t know how.”

Jaskier laughs again—softer this time. “You dummy,” he says, “you already are. You’ve just got to believe it.”

“Oh, is that all,” Geralt says.

“Yeah, no big deal,” Jaskier says, waving one hand dismissively. “You’ve got me to convince you, after all.”

“Oh, yeah?” Geralt can’t help the smile spreading across his face, despite the shivery feeling still simmering under his skin. “How’re you gonna do that?”

“Well . . .” Jaskier takes a step towards him, and then another, settling his hands lightly on Geralt’s hips. “I’d probably start a little like this . . .”

The first touch of Jaskier’s lips on his is like a breath of clean air after a storm, and Geralt can feel something that’s been knotted tight inside him for a long time unfurling itself. It doesn’t feel dangerous anymore, that buzz under his skin transmuting into a golden glow. He knows it’s not as simple as it feels—he can’t expect Jaskier to change him with a single kiss—but for the first time in a long while, something feels purely, unequivocally good, and he wants more of it.

In time, Jaskier’s hands creep up Geralt’s sides to his back, even as Geralt’s own hands drift down past Jaskier’s waist. When Jaskier’s hands slip into his hair, Geralt wrenches himself free with a shiver. “You’re going to undo all your hard work,” he says, teasingly.

“D’you really care?” Jaskier asks, and scratches his nails along Geralt’s scalp, wringing a whine from deep in Geralt’s chest that should be embarrassing but isn’t.

“Not really,” Geralt gasps, his whole body pressing closer against Jaskier’s. “You can always do it again.”

Jaskier’s smile is wide as he bends to kiss him again. “That’s what I thought.”

#the witcher #witcher modern au #geralt #geralt of rivia #jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #cirilla of cintra #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt/jaskier #gerlion #some background yennalt here #i've got 99 problems and aus are all of them #hairdresser!jaskier #i can't believe i wrote modern au witcher fic and still wound up writing a bath fic #the witcher fandom loves baths apparently #somebody please help me title this thing #i need a title that isn't when the rain washes you clean you'll know

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grilledcheeseandguavajelly · 4 years

Text

“Somewhere Just Beyond My Reach, There’s Someone Reaching Back For Me” -- Wilhemina Venable x Mildred Ratched

Mildred Ratched already owns my heart. That’s just the sad truth. She shares the space with Venable now. Which means that I’m left thinking of the two of them together almost constantly. And eventually it got too loud and I had to write it.

Please bear with me, the show hasn’t even dropped a trailer yet so this is just me having fun with the little I know about Nurse Ratched (and the little I am hoping for gathered from promo pictures/teasers). Also, I wrote it in maybe two days, so I apologize in advance for any typos.

Words: ~13,500

Warnings: None? I’m hesitant to say none on a fic with ~these women~, but yeah I think that’s where we are right now. Just a bit of smut (shhhh)

~I really hope you all enjoy this one, it’s probably a bit different than everyone was expecting, but I couldn’t resist. Alright, LET’S DO THIS~

Wilhemina’s fingers twitched on her cane, thumb rubbing reflexively against the handle as she watched the line in front of her. Stagnant. And she had been waiting for almost twenty minutes.

She was just starting to lose her patience, especially with the man she was behind. Too tall, smelling of cigarettes. The future of her day pressed against her, the knowledge that she was going to be faced with hundreds of these men, large and consuming and throwing too much ego around.

This convention was entirely men, as far as she could see. And as she looked around, took in their shining shoes and their notebooks and their stares, she shifted, setting her posture on her cane and standing up a bit straighter.

Until heels clicked through the room, tapping steadily and coming to a halt just behind her.

And Wilhemina realized that they hadn’t been staring at her.

Soft muttering, a huff, and then Wilhemina turned, her curiosity peaked.

Her eyes landed on a woman, entirely too perfect for her own good, from the way her hat sat at an impeccable angle to the way her feet crossed smoothly, one in front of the other, as she dug through her purse.

A second later, her mouth pursed into a thin line as she pulled out a neatly folded stack of papers. And as she looked up, straightening, her eyes met Wilhemina’s.

A small smirk played over her lips, no doubt at the realization that Wilhemina had been staring at her. And all Wilhemina could think to do in the moment was pop her brow, quirking her head.

Composure. Self-preservation.

A long moment where Wilhemina let herself look her up and down, take in her quartered sleeves, peter-pan collar, the row of thick buttons that ran a perfect line down to a flared skirt. And black, velvet gloves to match.

And then she found her voice.

“I was under the impression that I would be the only woman speaking here today.”

And this woman, so impeccably dressed, so impeccably put together, had the nerve to pop her brow right back.

“Well,” she countered quickly, tipping her shoulders back. “One should never assume.”

And this time, Wilhemina couldn’t help the smirk that pulled at her lips. She offered her free hand, tapping her cane as she spoke. “Wilhemina Venable. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

And to her surprise, the woman took it, gloved hand warm in Wilhemina’s grip.

“Mildred Ratched,” she replied smoothly, eyes hot as a smile curved her lips.

Wilhemina couldn’t help but shift as she shook the woman’s hand, some sort of victory, of smugness, folding into her from the power radiating through this simple gesture. Her nose twitched and then Mildred’s hand was falling away, finding the strap of her small purse and rubbing at it absently as she pulled her composure back around her.

She watched Mildred’s eyes flick past her, and then immediately around the room. Watched the slight shake in her breath as she undoubtedly realized what Wilhemina had only moments before. It really was all men here, save the two of them.

“What are you lecturing on?” Wilhemina asked, pleased when Mildred’s eyes snapped back to her.

“Psychological advances made through study of post-trauma triggers and observances in the field of action.”

Wilhemina hummed, her fingers tightening on her cane as the implication of what the woman said settled around her. “You helped during the war?”

A smug look crossed Mildred’s face, but she morphed it into a passive smile. “Helped might be an understatement.”

There was a long moment as Wilhemina realized that Mildred was probably entirely capable of handling herself around so many men. Commanding so many men. And then the woman spoke again.

“And you?”

Wilhemina swallowed, tapping her cane as she set her shoulders against inevitable backlash that always came when she admitted to never helping with the war efforts.

“No.”

To her surprise, Mildred only chuckled. Shook her head. “I meant what are you lecturing on.”

She set her jaw, fingers twitching at her error. Her mistake. But Mildred hadn’t scolded her. Hadn’t judged. She was only curious. So polite. So focused.

“I’m simply posing the question of technology versus consciousness. And somehow, I have a feeling that these men will not like it.”

A small laugh from Mildred, and then something settled over her that looked almost uncomfortable, an uneasiness radiating off of her like a wave.

Wilhemina quirked a brow. “Perhaps you’re not fond of it either, Ms. Ratched?”

But Mildred shook her head. “Nurse,” she corrected. “And it’s not that. It’s simply...”

Her eyes pulled over the men surrounding them. Staring at them. Undoubtedly murmuring about them as they walked. Always together. Always in pairs.

Mildred fingered the strap of her purse, teeth scraping over her bottom lip for a fraction of a second before she schooled her features.

Wilhemina let her eyes run over her once more, top to bottom and back again. The language of her movements, scribbled down in books on how to cover yourself from the world. How to block everyone out and set yourself atop the pyramid of society.

“Well, Nurse Ratched,” Wilhemina tried, smirking as she tapped her cane once more. “Order on the outside does wonders to keep the chaos safely on the inside.”

And then those eyes, those brown, piercing eyes, viciously slicing through Wilhemina. She knew that look, that shock. She had seen right through her. Exposed her, clear as day. Mildred was vulnerable. Mildred was broken.

Mildred was just like her.

~~~

There was an expression on Wilhemina’s face that Mildred couldn’t read. And try as she might, eyes searching and picking apart the minuscule eyebrow quirks and eyes narrowing and lips twitching, she was completely lost.

And nothing set her more on edge.

Mildred had always been able to read everyone. It was her first priority. Get a feel for them, dig down into them. Find the thing that makes them tick and spin it on its head to stay on top.

But Wilhemina had some sort of wall around her. Something that fuzzed out Mildred’s mind and kept her pulled in tight. A magnet against a metal strip.

A soft, “I look forward to hearing you speak,” and then Wilhemina was turning away, stepping forward in line and giving her name to the man sat at the table just in front of them.

She watched as Wilhemina handed over her papers, shoulders askew and tapping her cane. Impatiently, Mildred realized. And she schooled her features as she recognized the difference between this tap and the way it had clicked when they were speaking. Absently, an extension of herself.

And then, with an irritated smile, Wilhemina was checked in and moving aside, fingers flexing on her cane as she sauntered past the table.

Mildred watched Wilhemina walk away, handing her papers to the man before her. And her eyes stayed locked on Wilhemina as she paused just before she fell out of sight, turning mid-step.

“Name?” the man asked, pulling Mildred’s attention from the smirk that sliced across her face.

She took a deep breath, voice perfectly even as she replied. And as he sifted through files and documentation, Mildred let herself look up again. Wilhemina was gone.

She shoved the pang of sadness aside, straightening out the hem of her glove and shifting her purse further up her arm. And only after clearing the woman from her mind and focusing back on the man before her, did she notice how careless he was being.

“Excuse me,” she tried, voice suddenly firm. Still impeccably soft. “You’re wrinkling the edge of my papers.” Mildred indicated to the corner of the page, where the man’s arm was pressing a nice crease into the side of her registration documents. Her fingers twitched on the strap of her purse as she composed herself.

“They’re just papers,” the man said, offering her a small smile as he finished scribbling.

“They’re just things, Mildred. You don’t need things.”

“Daddy, please. Not mommy’s necklace.”

“You don’t deserve it. You haven’t been a good girl.”

Mildred pressed her mouth into a thin line, taking a deep breath against her father’s voice in her head.

“They’re my papers,” she said firmly, pressing her hand into the table and leaning forward. “And good manners would indicate you having respect for others’ things. Would it not?”

The man’s smile fractured, and Mildred almost smirked as she watched him gulp. He straightened out the corner of her papers, handing them back to her.

“Apologies, Nurse Ratched. Your first lecture is in room 42 B, just down the hall on the right.”

“There’s a good boy,” she drawled, pulling the papers from his fingers and frowning at the line down the edge. “And you’re going to be more careful with everyone else’s belongings, yes?”

“Yes, Nurse Ratched.”

And then she was walking away, that nice little bubble of satisfaction wedging into her heart.

~~~

“Eyes up.”

Mildred’s voice rang out through the hall, and Wilhemina was shocked at how her heart leapt at the tone of it. So commanding. So dominating.

“Our boys sacrificed their lives on these battlefields for us. The absolute least we can do is pay attention and listen and learn, to further the pursuit of medicine that they gave their lives for. Is that not correct?”

“I don’t think they sacrificed their lives for medicine, Nurse Ratched.”

And Wilhemina smiled at the fire that licked over her eyes, watching the way her hands splayed out on her podium. The way she straightened out her neck as her eyes bored into the boy who had interrupted her.

“What is your name?” she asked calmly. Too calmly.

“Jimmy,” he replied smoothly, and Wilhemina’s fingers itched at the smug look on his face. She could barely see him, sitting impeccably still in her seat and tracking him with her eyes. But she knew that tone of voice. She knew that type of man.

“Well, James,” Mildred continued, stepping around her podium and crossing her legs as she folded her hands neatly in front of her. “They may not have gone to war with the intention of furthering medicine. But they did go to war with the intention of saving lives. And how we use these lessons that they have taught us, intentional or not, could change the course of humanity as we know it. So would we not be remiss to waste such a hefty sacrifice? Do we not owe it to our boys to take as much as we can from the lives they gave so freely?”

And the sound that followed as Mildred looked over the men, eyes tracking them sharply as her expression morphed from perfectly concerned to smooth and kind, made Wilhemina’s heart pound. Because you could hear a pin drop. And never in her life had she ever come across another woman who had the same affect that she did on a group of men. Another woman who was so commanding. And so impeccably composed.

~~~

Wilhemina’s cane tapped with her words, punctuating points and emphasizing the way her eyes would narrow at questions.

“So, are you saying that we could make robots, Ms. Venable? Like…from the movies?”

A few laughs threaded out through the room and Mildred shifted in her seat, nose twitching at the innate possessiveness that pooled in her chest.

But as she looked up at Wilhemina, vision blurring, just so, her cane slammed against the wood. Mildred had to bite her lip to keep from smiling at the way the men jumped in their seats.

“If you were listening, Mr. Brannard, you would understand that not only is it a possibility, my colleagues and I have already accomplished it.”

Her eyes narrowed, and Mildred hated the way that even that small act of dominance made her heart pound.

Wilhemina pursed her lips, tilting her head and tutting softly. Condescendingly. “Or are you too naive to imagine that something this advanced could be achieved so soon? By a woman?”

The boy stuttered, looking to the man beside him for help. But he was head down in his papers, scratching out notes.

Mildred took a deep breath, eyes falling back to Ms. Venable as she stalked around the podium. Slow. Practiced. She was making them wait, and she knew they would.

And suddenly, just like that, in a moment — Mildred was addicted to her.

~~~

The door shut behind Wilhemina and she let herself sigh, leaning onto her cane as her eyes fell closed. There was something about being surrounded by men, constantly, their eyes on her as she spoke, that always made her feel dirty. And it was exhausting, having to keep her steel walls up when Mildred was sitting in the back of the room watching her with so much intensity that she should have caught fire.

It was sad when the only place that she could get a moment to breathe was the ladies’ room.

That moment ended quicker than she would have liked, the squeak of the door opening forcing her to stand straighter on her cane and busy herself in the mirror.

Strong. Unaffected.

Heels clicked as Wilhemina wiped at the corner of her mouth, flicking off the smallest speck of stray lipstick. She waited for the woman to lock herself in a stall so that she could make a clean exit. But to her surprise, the footsteps stopped just short of her. And when Wilhemina threw a hot look over her shoulder at the intrusion, she was almost impressed.

“Hello, dear.”

Wilhemina popped her brow, a small smirk making her lips twitch. “Ms. Ratched.”

“Nurse,” she corrected, tipping her chin up as her eyes lit from behind.

“Mildred.”

A pause, Mildred’s gaze falling down Wilhemina’s form. “What are you doing?”

“Well I was intending to use the restroom,” Wilhemina replied, smoothing a hand down her skirt as she turned to face the woman.

Mildred’s eyes were calculating, twitching almost imperceptibly at the corner. “Unacceptable.”

Wilhemina scoffed. “And why might that be?”

“You’re scheduled to speak again in ten minutes. You should be prepping your presentation in five.”

She gestured to the space around them, head tilting challengingly. “Hence why I’m using the restroom now.”

A beat. Mildred stared at her, fingers slipping on the strap of her purse. And Wilhemina had only spoken to this woman once, but she had watched her for almost three hours, and then another two during her own lecture. She knew why her fingers twitched. She could read her like a book.

So she took a step forward, tapping her cane out in front of her and leaning on it, just enough to get in Mildred’s space.

“Did you miss me, Millie?” Venable breathed, eyes flicking over Mildred’s face. And she didn’t miss the way the other woman’s breath hitched, body stiffening. “Were you hoping to get me all to yourself for a few minutes?”

Mildred cleared her throat, straightening. “And if I was?”

A smirk.

“Do you have plans for dinner?”

~~~

Mildred had had plans for dinner. Of course she had. Very rarely did her schedule slip away from her, especially so when she was in a strange city around strange people.

But somehow, for some reason, she had changed her plans. For a woman.

Slap. “Disgusting, stupid whore. Is this who you want to become? Disgrace. Pull yourself together.”

Pull yourself together.

Wilhemina set the plate down before her and Mildred shifted in her seat, smoothing her already impeccably placed napkin on her lap.

And only when she finally pulled her eyes off of Wilhemina, sitting down opposite her at the table and propping her cane against the wood, did she realize that this woman was an incredible chef.

The dish was colorful, sausage swimming in pasta and decorated with fresh herbs. She comforted herself in the knowledge that she was eating better here than she would have been at the restaurant where she had reserved a table.

A logical decision.

They ate in silence for a few moments, Mildred fighting the shaking of her hands and trying to come up with a halfway decent conversation starter. But Wilhemina beat her to it.

“Tell me about the war,” she said softly as she twisted her fork in the pasta, looking up at Mildred with such blatant curiosity and innocence that she couldn’t say no. Couldn’t bear to shove that wall up and bark at her and throw out her usual excuses.

Which is how she found herself, almost an hour later, plate nearly empty as she covered her mouth with her fingers, swallowing around a bite that was just a fraction too large.

“No no,” she corrected, taking a sip of water. “It wasn’t the bombs that were distracting. It wasn’t the gunfire. It was the screaming.”

Something flashed in Wilhemina’s eyes and Mildred stuttered, almost convinced she was about to smile. Almost convinced she was about to cry.

“It was constant,” she continued, fingers playing over her fork as the memories flooded back into her mind. The smell of it, the sound. “Poor boys, too young to be fighting. And they never stopped. They never stopped screaming. Eventually you learn to tune it out. You have to. If you focus on them, if you let yourself hear it, everything else breaks away. You have to block it out. Or you lose the order of your surgical tent.”

Wilhemina nodded, swallowing. “Seems impossible.”

But Mildred shook her head again, shocking herself at how forward she was being. At how the words were spilling from her lips. Like she had known this woman for hundreds of years.

She was almost certain that she had, the way Wilhemina’s eyes pierced straight through her every time their gazes met.

“Logic and responsibility. That’s the key.”

And to her surprise, Wilhemina laughed. A full, pretty sound that was too raspy for her own good.

Mildred flushed, taking a long sip of water as Wilhemina spoke.

“No, no. Rules. Clear lines and boundaries. A straight right and a firm wrong. It’s the only way to keep them all in line.”

“You’re wrong,” Mildred stated, matter of fact. And when Wilhemina rose from her seat, she almost flinched.

But she only stalked over, a smirk slicing across her face as she collected Mildred’s plate and walked it over to the sink.

Cool. Calculated. Every one of Wilhemina’s actions had an equal, opposite reaction. They stalked around each other in perfect circles, and halfway through the dance Mildred’s mind was absolutely spinning. This time, she didn’t have a justification. Didn’t have follow-up. She was losing her grip.

The silence was deafening, exacerbated by the tapping of Wilhemina’s heels and the clattering of tableware against porcelain.

And then, just like that, she was back, pulling out the chair directly next to Mildred and settling down into it.

“Most people don’t get the privilege of telling me I’m wrong.”

Her voice had lowered, dangerous and sharp, a snake bite. And Mildred couldn’t help but dig her teeth into her bottom lip. Because this woman was so perfect, and so beautiful, and so intelligent. Sitting before her like it was nothing. Like the heat in Mildred’s cheeks wasn’t creeping down into her fingers and making them itch.

Her eyes flicked down to Wilhemina’s lips before she could help herself, and her fingers dug into her skirt as she watched Wilhemina flick her tongue over them. Wetting them. So slick. So perfectly shaped.

And then Wilhemina’s hand covered hers, skin soft and smooth and tender against Mildred’s.

She looked back into Wilhemina’s eyes, suddenly dark, suddenly entirely too intense. She wasn’t prepared for this. She wasn’t ready. She wanted this more than anything she had ever wanted before in her life.

And she silently thanked whatever gods lay above her for getting her through the war and straight to this moment. Because her entire life would be worth living if Wilhemina would just—

Wilhemina leaned forward, and that was all it took. Just the slightest tilt of her chin. Mildred hadn’t realized how close they had gotten. But then Wilhemina’s mouth was on hers, so firm and yet so, so delicate.

She let her eyes fall closed, let herself sigh into the feel of it. The feel of her. Turned her hand and threaded their fingers together and squeezed because this was all she had wanted. Since the moment that fire-red hair had turned and she had looked up into those deep, brown eyes.

Wilhemina pulled away before Mildred was ready to let go, and she couldn’t help the half-whine that lodged itself in her throat. That she tried so desperately to swallow down.

“Better?” Wilhemina teased, pressing their foreheads together.

She let out a shaky breath, thumbing at Wilhemina’s knuckles. “Infinitely.”

There was a long moment of silence, and Mildred was almost getting accustomed to these spaces, these gaps between their communication where they just let their feelings hang between them. Let their hearts speak without words getting in the way.

Mildred swallowed, licking her lips slowly as she looked up into Wilhemina’s eyes.

“What are the rules now, Ms. Venable?”

Wilhemina hummed, nudging their noses together as her eyes flicked down to Mildred’s lips again. “You relax and let me take care of you.”

A wobbling breath, and Mildred wet her lips again, hands trembling as she leaned into Wilhemina. So close to what she wanted. So close. “And if I say no?”

Wilhemina smirked, hand coming up to Mildred’s throat before moving to brush delicately over her cheek instead. And when she spoke again, her eyes were lidded and she breathed the words almost directly into Mildred’s mouth.

“Now where’s the logic in that, Nurse Ratched?”

~~~

Mildred toed off her shoes. Delicately. Carefully. And Wilhemina watched in awe of the woman before her. Perfectly pristine.

She always strove for perfection. Perfectly presented to the world, perfectly protected. Perfectly hidden. And she had thought she almost had it. But now, watching Mildred, she realized that perfection was far out of her grip. Not when it looked like this.

Wilhemina wasn’t perfectly presented, not compared to the way Mildred took care with every tiny pleat and line and cuff. Down to the perfectly straight earrings. Down to the parallel lines of her stockings that ran up the back of her calves. And Wilhemina certainly wasn’t perfectly protected when Mildred looked at her like that, eyes wide and lips pink as she slowly, purposefully started picking down the buttons on her shirt.

Wilhemina was only and solely perfectly exposed, her heart entirely too vulnerable around a woman that she knew would protect it. Around a part of her that she didn’t know had existed until it had tapped its way up behind her in line and pulled the zipper on the curtain over her heart.

She couldn’t stop watching Mildred. Not when she let her shirt fall to the floor. Not when she unbuttoned the top of her skirt and tugged at the zip, shimmying out of it and letting it pool around her ankles, leaving her in nothing but a thin, silk slip and black pantyhose.

And then she bunched up her slip and rolled them down, Venable’s eyes tracking the way that perfectly straight line up her calf crumpled as she went, bending and morphing as Mildred let her walls down. Let her in. Let Wilhemina see her for who she really was beneath all of that perfection and obsession and compulsivity.

Suddenly it was too much, and Wilhemina simply couldn’t sit on the edge of the bed watching anymore. She needed to touch. She needed all of Mildred pressed against all of her. Every inch. Every piece.

Wilhemina walked up behind her, wrapping her hands around her stomach and pressing a soft kiss to her shoulder before resting her chin there.

“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”

Mildred turned, a smile flickering over her lips. She had been so serious when she was undressing, her mouth pulled into a line, eyes flicking between Wilhemina behind her and the mirror before her, her hands pulling over herself to smooth everything down, make sure her hair was still curling down her back, making sure her pins were all in place. But now she looked lighter. Now she looked like she had at the table, open and soft and pliant.

“Show me,” Mildred whispered, and Wilhemina pressed another kiss to her shoulder before shifting her in front of the mirror. Her hands found the pins still holding her hair up, pulling them out slowly as she nipped and bit her way up Mildred’s neck, sucking just a bit to hard at the crook of her jaw.

And Wilhemina couldn’t help but smile as Mildred sighed, her hand reaching up behind her and twisting through Wilhemina’s hair.

Mildred knew when Wilhemina got the last pin out, shaking her hair out and fluffing it almost immediately. And then she turned in Wilhemina’s arms, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek as she reached around and pulled the tie from her own hair.

It fell in heaps around her shoulders, and Mildred giggled softly.

Wilhemina’s brow popped, sarcasm pushing through as a weak attempt at self-preservation. “Is something the matter?”

But Mildred only laughed, shaking her head and running her fingers through Wilhemina’s hair.

“Cinnamon sugar,” she murmured, twisting her finger through a lock and admiring it. And Wilhemina felt herself flush against her will.

“I’m almost certain our hair is the same color,” she tried, fingers twitching on Mildred’s waist.

Frustrated. Exposed. Worshipped.

Mildred only shook her head, leaning forward. She hesitated for a brief moment before pressing a soft kiss to Wilhemina’s lips. And suddenly Wilhemina didn’t care if she was giggling or teasing or playing with her hair. As long as she was here. As long as she kept doing that.

“You’re awfully sweet for someone who is supposed to be so intimidating, Ms. Venable.”

Wilhemina scoffed, rolling her eyes before Mildred grabbed at her chin, raking her eyes over her and making a shiver run down her spine.

“Why don’t you take all of that purple off for me, cinnamon? Hm?”

And Wilhemina hated how deeply she flushed, the nickname getting under her skin like it shouldn’t have. But this was Mildred. And somehow, she knew exactly what Wilhemina wanted to hear before she realized it herself.

It only took a few moments, untying the top of her shirt, pulling it up over her head. Sliding out of her skirt, peeling her gloves off. And Mildred watched her the entire time, eyes hot as they followed her fingers.

She held out her hands as Wilhemina stepped out of her shoes, keeping her steady. Making sure she didn’t wobble.

And this time, for the first time, Wilhemina completely forgot to feel exposed. She forgot to feel embarrassed about her back. She forgot to warn Mildred.

But when Mildred kissed her again, this time a bit harder and a bit deeper, fingers wrapping up around Wilhemina’s neck and sliding down over her shoulders, over her spine, nothing happened.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t recoil. She didn’t even gasp. She just kept kissing her and kissing her and kissing her, until Wilhemina’s thighs hit the mattress.

Mildred pulled back, breaking the kiss as her teeth dug into her lip, fingers rubbing together absently. Just like they had over her purse. Over her fork.

Wilhemina gave her a small nod, tentatively grabbing for her wrists and guiding them to her stomach.

She didn’t miss the way Mildred’s fingers flexed before she touched her, didn’t miss the glint in her eye as she hesitantly, delicately, grabbed Mina’s waist and pushed her down into the bed.

And the way she touched her, warm palms pressing against Wilhemina’s sides before pulling away almost immediately, and then replacing them in an instant. This time firm. This time sure. This time pushing Wilhemina onto her back and smoothing up her stomach so that nails were pricking at the very bottom of her bra.

Mildred crawled over her, pressing a singular, wet kiss just below Wilhemina’s jaw.

“Millie,” Wilhemina breathed, squirming under her.

“My name is Mildred,” she corrected, and Wilhemina let herself smirk, catching the way Mildred hardened and taking the opportunity to flip the switch yet again.

She hooked a leg over Mildred’s hip, pushing her and flipping them and bracing herself above her.

Mildred gasped, a soft whine pushing out of her as she was slammed back into the mattress. Wilhemina leaned down, nudging their noses together before flicking her tongue out and licking the tip of her nose.

“What are you afraid of, Millie?” Wilhemina breathed, hands sliding slowly up her sides before locking over her ribs and pinning her to the bed. “Is someone losing control?”

She couldn’t help but smirk at her own joke, amplified by the way Mildred’s eyes widened and hardened.

“No. It’s just—“

Wilhemina bit down on her collarbone, cutting her off as she squirmed beneath her. She hummed, pushing her further into the bed.

“Oh no? So you’re fine then, right?”

And after a second’s hesitation she nodded again, hands coming up to smooth out her hair as her eyes bored into Wilhemina’s.

The word “yes” left Mildred’s mouth, but Wilhemina had already seen it in her face. The screaming. The need to dominate. The need to be dominated. The want.

“Millie,” Wilhemina sing-songed, bending down to press a kiss to her cheek. She wasn’t surprised it was warm, the flush already clouding her perfect, porcelain skin. She was surprised that it was scorched, Mildred’s teeth dug into her bottom lip as she watched Wilhemina carefully.

“Let go, darling,” she murmured, nails scraping lightly down Mildred’s sides. “Let me be in charge of you for once, yeah? Let those pretty little walls down. I won’t hurt you. I promise.”

~~~

Wilhemina kept saying it. That stupid little nickname. Over and over. She wouldn’t stop, and Mildred couldn’t think. And it was making her furious in the absolute best way.

She was losing control. She had always been so careful. She had always tried her absolute best. But somehow, tonight, she could feel it slipping through her fingers with every kiss, with every gasp, with every moan.

And she was okay.

Her world wasn’t crumbling. Mildred was surviving. And to her surprise, the world seemed to actually sort itself in those small moments, the fractions of seconds where Wilhemina panted that little nickname and Mildred’s body responded of its own accord. Mildred was thriving, Mildred was being loved. Mildred was finally living.

And so she let go.

She twisted her fingers in the sheets, Wilhemina’s name falling off her tongue as she arched into her.

Wilhemina hummed, a nice, satisfied sound, and then she was kissing down her neck, fingers scratching up under her slip, up the inside of her thighs.

Mildred should have wanted to pull away. She should have wanted to clamp her thighs shut and pull her slip down and shove herself up against the headboard. But to her surprise her thighs fell open, and before she knew what she was doing she was lifting her hips off the mattress and reaching down, tugging her slip up over her thighs, up past her stomach.

Wilhemina pulled off of her, for a split second, and Mildred froze. But then she wrapped her hand around Mildred’s and pulled her forward, pulled her up, kissing her temple as she helped slide the slip up over her head. Threw it on the floor.

And then Mildred was completely exposed. Completely vulnerable. Her hands came up to cover herself instinctively, suddenly too cold and too naked without the heat of Wilhemina’s mouth on her neck.

But she was right there, threading their fingers together and pulling her hands back down into her lap.

“It’s okay. I’m right here,” she cooed, and something deflated inside of Mildred. She let out a long breath, squeezing Wilhemina’s hands as she swallowed. And then, in a desperate attempt to gain some kind of control back, no matter how futile, she tried something.

“Touch me, Mina.”

She watched the other woman gasp. Let pride fill her at the pure smile that made tears prick in Wilhemina’s eyes. Traced her thumb over the back of Wilhemina’s hand.

“Mina,” she tried again, suddenly feeling more comfortable with this intimacy. Because now they were both exposed. Equal. Again. Just like they should be.

Wilhemina lunged forward, mouth hot and hungry as she pushed Mildred back against the mattress. And her hands. Her hands. Everywhere, all at once. Like she was trying to memorize the shape of her. Like she needed to touch her or she would disappear. And Mildred understood. Because she had that same ache, the same need within her. If her fingers weren’t on Wilhemina, pulling her tighter to her, pulling her closer, she was absolutely certain that she would vibrate and explode into a billion atoms, right there in the middle of the room.

It suddenly turned so desperate, Mildred just about to beg for Wihemina’s fingers, for more when she felt them brush against her, cold against the heat burning between her thighs.

Wilhemina pulled back, just so, just enough to look her in the eyes. And Mildred pushed all of her emotion, all of her want through, nodding frantically.

“Please—“

But no sooner had she opened her mouth than Wilhemina’s fingers pushed inside of her, filling that space there perfectly and making Mildred finally feel like she was whole.

Wilhemina smirked, and Mildred let out a soft “oh” at the unfamiliarity of it all. The comfort. And then she was moving and Mildred was moving, hips rolling down against Wilhemina’s wrist as she curled her fingers and sped up.

And before she knew what was happening, that heat was building in her stomach, toes curling where her heel dug into Wilhemina’s back. She didn’t know how she had gotten like this, one leg thrown over her shoulder, a hand in Mina’s hair as she pressed kisses to the inside of her thighs while her fingers pumped slowly, gently, intently.

It seemed dirty. It seemed wrong. And Mildred couldn’t have cared less. All she could fathom was that little knot of control, holding onto it as it vibrated, threatened to explode. Gripping into it with her teeth if she had to, clinging to it until that exact moment, the perfect—

It snapped, Mildred scrambling to find purchase on something as she fell through the galaxy Wilhemina had built around her. She knew her mouth was moving. She knew she was probably whining for Wilhemina. But she couldn’t hear anything. Not over Mina’s voice against her skin.

“Yes. That’s it. Perfect. Let go. I’m right here. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

It took too long for her body to come back to her, for her to regain her grip on reality and grab at some sort of control again.

But as she opened her eyes on Wilhemina between her thighs, brow pushed up as the most beautiful, genuine smile graced her mouth, her perfect mouth, Mildred decided that right now, just for this one moment, she didn’t want control back. She wanted to just be.

“Kiss me,” she breathed, and Wilhemina was right there, mouth pushing insistently against hers. And when Mildred tasted something tangy, something sharp and spicy and unfamiliar, she realized with a start that Mina must have put her mouth on her at some point.

She hadn’t even realized. Hadn’t registered.

She had given herself over completely into Mina’s mercy, and she had never felt so happy. So light. So utterly and completely protected.

A small shuffle, sheets being rucked down, and then Wilhemina was sitting up against the headboard, and Mildred was right there, curling into her side and pressing herself in as close as she could.

She smiled as Wilhemina’s arms wrapped around her waist. Almost possessively.

They laid like that for a moment, Mina’s fingers tracing over her side as silence fell down upon the room, all remnants of Mildred’s screams dissolving into air. And then she finally, finally got her feet back under her.

“I want to take care of you,” Mildred said softly, pressing a kiss just over Wilhemina’s heart. But to her surprise, Wilhemina only shook her head.

Lips against her temple, and then she spoke. “Not tonight, beautiful. We both need to be up early tomorrow.”

Mildred wanted to say that she didn’t care. She wanted to argue and protest and throw something until Mina listened and let her feel her. All of her.

But somewhere in the back of her mind she recognized that she would have to deal with those same men tomorrow, lecturing and commanding and spending too much of her energy trying to keep herself in control. So she nodded. Because they needed sleep if they were going to survive.

“Tomorrow,” she sighed, looking up at Mina with eager eyes. And Wilhemina smiled, pressing another kiss to her temple.

“Tomorrow.”

She curled further into Wilhemina, letting her hands wander just a bit further than they should have, suddenly feeling so entitled to this woman. She had permission to do whatever she liked to her. Just not quite yet.

Wilhemina hummed, pressing one last kiss to the top of Mildred’s head, and then time slowed and the air grew thick as she started to move.

Mildred felt her shift, turning just so and pulling an arm from around her waist as she reached for the lamp by the bed.

“Don’t turn off the light, please. Daddy, please.”

“Why, are you afraid of monsters?”

A nod.

“Oh honey, the only monster you have to be afraid of is standing right here.”

A sickening grin.

"You’re a big girl—“

“I’m not—“

“—you can handle this. Besides. Nothing is going to get you... As long as you don’t make a sound.”

Tears welled in Mildred’s eyes as she watched Wilhemina’s fingers inch closer. And how was she supposed to tell her about this? How was she supposed to explain that this one, tiny thing was her absolute weakness? She almost didn’t. Almost made it. But just as fingers brushed against the lamp, the hair on the back of her neck stood up and she tasted something bitter, bristling.

Time sped up all at once then, Mildred clawing at Wilhemina’s hand and wrapping her fingers tight around her wrist to stop her.

“Wait—“ she tried, but it came out broken and wrinkled.

Wilhemina froze, looking down at her. “Is everything okay?”

And Mildred couldn’t help the tears then, sniffing as they blurred her vision and letting her fingers fall from Wilhemina’s arm.

“Please don’t turn it off just yet,” she tried, and she scolded herself for how weak she sounded.

Unacceptable. Pull yourself together.

Something crossed Wilhemina’s face that she couldn’t read, and her heart dug down deep in her chest as she braced herself.

But then Wilhemina softened, brows raising, just so, as she stroked her thumb over Mildred’s side. A smirk pulled at her lips and she quirked her head.

“My my, Nurse Ratched. Is someone afraid of the dark?”

And the way she said it, almost laughing, simultaneously made Mildred feel like a child being scolded and a woman being loved.

It was a blessing that she had used her title. It had given Mildred that shock to her system to jolt her out of her vulnerable state, building her walls back up as quickly as she could as she formed the searing negation on her tongue.

Of course not. You’re mistaken. Don’t be ridiculous.

But she couldn’t land on one that felt quite right. Because lying didn’t feel quite right. And Mildred told herself, assured herself, that it was only because she hadn’t thought of the perfect logical theorem to support her argument. She wasn’t prepared to have this conversation. Once she found one, she would be back in control and she could right her world back on its feet. And one time, maybe this time, they could turn the light off.

She hadn’t realized how long she had been silent until she felt Wilhemina press a kiss to her hair. Mildred was still staring her down, nose twitching as Wilhemina’s eyes searched her face.

A deep breath, a hard swallow. And then she nodded.

And there it was. That was it. The most open and vulnerable and exposed she had ever been with another person in her life.

And Wilhemina, her Mina, took it in stride, simply humming before threading fingers through Mildred’s curls and pulling her up closer so that she could pepper soft kisses across her face.

“Oh, Millie,” she whispered, and Mildred was shocked to find a gentle smile on her lips.

“It’s childish, I know.”

She shook her head, fingers playing over the edge of her face. “Not to me.”

“You can turn it off once I’m asleep. I just—“

“No. If you prefer it on, we leave it on.” Wilhemina hooked a finger under her chin, tipping it up. “That’s that.”

A sniff. A shaky breath. “Are you certain...?”

“Anything for you.”

And that night, when Mildred closed her eyes and steadied her breathing and melted into the warmth of her lover, she somehow, some way, felt like she had finally found her way home.

~~~

“That’s it, just like that.”

Wilhemina cooed, smirking as Mildred whined and rolled her hips down her thigh. A soft gasp, and Wilhemina tightened her hand in her hair, forcing her head back to expose more of her neck.

“Oh my, Ms. Ratched,” she tried softly, ignoring the way her mouth watered at the sight of her muscles pulling taunt. The way she swallowed.

“Millie,” Mildred gasped, letting out a small cry as Wilhemina latched her mouth to her neck.

She hummed as she nodded, relishing the taste of her when she was unraveling like this. Sticky, hot. So different from that sharp, sweet, clean taste when she was still dressed and still protected and still in charge.

“You’re learning.”

Mildred scoffed beneath her, and Wilhemina had a split second to brace herself before nails were raking up her thighs and up her lower back, Mildred’s hands splaying out and holding her close.

“And you’re going too slow.”

Wilhemina was flipped before she knew what was happening, gasping as Mildred grabbed her shoulders and shoved her down in to the mattress. Hard.

“Millie—“

But Mildred cut her off, pressing a chaste kiss to her cheek. And when she pulled back she was smiling. Sickly sweet.

“Besides, I thought we had an agreement that I could take care of you tonight, yes?”

Wilhemina’s brow furrowed, the need to top Mildred too intense for her to think of anything else. Until Mildred spoke again, her voice threading through the air, slicing through Wilhemina’s need like a knife.

“Unless you were planning on breaking the rules, Ms. Venable?”

And now it was Wilhemina’s turn to smile, laughing sarcastically as Mildred pinched at her sides until she squirmed.

“Mina,” she corrected over a giggle, biting down on her lip to keep from completely losing herself.

Mildred smirked, cocking her head as she repeated Wilhemina’s words back to her.

“You’re learning.”

“Shut up and fuck me.”

Mildred quirked a brow. “Language.”

But Wilhemina was too desperate, reaching for her hands and pushing them down over her hips.

“Now, Millie.”

And when Mildred smirked, nails pricking into Wilhemina’s tender skin there, something caught in Wilhemina’s chest.

Her eyes were razor sharp, lips twitching from a smirk to a smile, back and forth and back and forth. And just when Wilhemina was starting to think she looked almost sickening, she spoke, leaning down and pressing their foreheads together. Just out of reach. Just a bit too far.

“Oh now now, cinnamon. You know better than to rush me. I’m in charge tonight. That was the agreement. And I decide when you get my fingers. Understood?”

And Mina found herself nodding.

She was rewarded with a delicate kiss to her lips. Not nearly deep enough and entirely too sweet.

“Just so long as we’re both on the same page.” A moment, a breath spent staring into those predatory eyes. “Now why don’t you spread those pretty legs for me, hm?”

~~~

Mildred combed her fingers through Wilhemina’s hair, laid out so beautifully across her, head in her lap, fingers tracing the bones of her ankles.

Intimacy entangled.

“What did they do..?” Mildred breathed, running her fingers delicately over the morphed skin. A fleeting touch.

Wilhemina drew a slow breath. Calculated. Shaking. “First it was the brace. Screwed in. Stretched.”

“And the appointments for the table?” Mildred asked, her own breath starting to tremble at the idea.

Wilhemina nodded. “Yes.”

“How old were you?”

“Seven,” Wilhemina said softly, gasping as Mildred’s fingers tucked under a soft piece of her spine, bumping along the gaps in her vertebrae.

“And it hurt.”

It wasn’t a question. She knew it had hurt. Especially on someone so young. So pliant and vulnerable.

But Wilhemina didn’t answer, instead plowing ahead. “And then the surgery when I was thirteen.”

Mildred flinched, the images flashing through her mind. She had seen the slides. She knew what they did. Sliced tendons and ligaments. And there was rarely any progress.

“It didn’t work.”

Again, not a question. And this time, as Wilhemina shook her head no, Mildred found what she was looking for. The scars from the screws. Spaced evenly apart, marred by scars from the surgery. Exactly where they should be.

Wilhemina’s breaths stuttered as Mildred’s fingers slid over them, and she found her own breath speeding up at the thought of this woman on a table. So small. So scared. So cold.

“And the tethers?” Mildred asked, running through the typical steps in her head. Trying to remember what she had learned in her training.

But to her surprise, Wilhemina shook her head. She was panting now, and Mildred could feel her chest tightening in response as she trailed her fingers further down, where the spine corrected and compensated and bulged in the opposite direction.

“Electroshock therapy.”

Wilhemina had barely spoken, barely whispered. But Mildred heard her, completely and solely focused on this poor, fragile, broken thing beneath her. And she couldn’t help the way her heart lodged in her throat.

“W-Why?” she asked softly, her thumb brushing absently over a particularly bad scar.

Wilhemina took a deep breath, fingers flexing in the sheets. “There was a time where they thought it would help. A misalignment of the neurotransmitters firing. Especially with younger patients. I was already through puberty. It wouldn’t have made a difference. But I was broken. They were desperate. I was the shame—“

“—shame of your family,” Mildred finished for her. And she surprised herself when a tear fell onto her cheek. A quick swipe of her thumb and it was gone, and she leaned down and pressed a small kiss at the very top of Wilhemina’s spine. “You’re not the only one.”

Wilhemina shifted in her lap, fingers tracing Mildred’s knee as her breaths pulled long and shaky. As they slowed.

Mildred closed her eyes, centering herself. “Did they do the final surgery? With the pins and the staples?”

And she hated herself for how clinical it sounded when she asked. She wanted to be vulnerable. Wanted to be softer. For her.

For her.

But Wilhemina didn’t seem to mind, only shaking her head and sighing, her eyes fluttering closed. “I was pushed out of the house after the shock therapy didn’t work. And by the time I had earned enough of my own money to pay for the surgery, I was too old. It was too late.”

“It’s never too late,” Mildred tried, the motto ringing through her head.

“But it was,” Wilhemina replied, her voice low and raspy. “Even if it would have worked, I was already an adult. I was already... who I was. And I didn’t know who I was without my disability. Without my cane. Without my past and my pain and my perseverance. I’m not myself without this. And I can’t fully be myself with it.”

Mildred hummed, shaking her head softly. Because she knew. Of course she knew. The more she spoke to Wilhemina, the more she was convinced that they were the same person. The same soul, split between two bodies. With the same wants and needs and desires.

Her fingers skimmed down Wilhemina’s spine for what felt like the hundredth time, and suddenly she had this all-consuming need to memorize the exact shape of it. The exact way that it bulged and twisted and dipped. The exact way that this faulty thing kept this woman up and held her on her feet.

Another kiss. A sigh. And then, fingers shaking as they pulled through Wilhemina’s hair, brushing it back from her face.

“I know exactly what you mean.”

“Stay with me,” Wilhemina breathed, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of Mildred’s thigh. And Mildred’s fingers stuttered in her hair as another tear fell, unbidden, onto her cheek.

Because she wanted to. She was pulled tight to this woman, an anomaly of existence, the very piece of her that she had always felt was missing, that she had always been searching for.

But she could never be so irresponsible to leave her home and leave her work and settle in with a woman that she had only known for two days.

“Stupid, idiotic girl. Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

Could she?

~~~

She had said no. And Wilhemina had broken right there, exposed and entirely too vulnerable, in her lap.

She had cried herself to sleep that night, curled against Mildred as she cooed and shushed her and stroked delicate fingers through her hair.

And when she woke in the morning, filled with the smell of Mildred and the feel of Mildred and the taste of Mildred still on her tongue, everything seemed a bit grey.

They made breakfast, speaking politely and laughing occasionally. Always broken, always half-formed. Got dressed and ready for the day, separately. Dolled themselves up in different types of armor—pantyhose, gloves, skirts, glasses.

And then Mildred left.

And then, she came back.

It was like the universe couldn’t fathom them being apart, a rip torn through their plane of existence when Mildred boarded her train and went back home, clear across the country.

Wilhemina hadn’t gone with her to the station, but she could feel when she left the city, when she left the state. It was a series of ties being broken, strings snapping in her chest as each one was pulled to breaking and eventually gave out.

Except the last one. The one that left a buzzing in Wilhemina’s ear, a ringing every time her cane tapped down that sounded so awfully close to the way Mildred sighed just as she was about to orgasm. The way she hummed, barely audible, when they kissed.

That tie remained. And one day, almost three months later, it got hotter.

Wilhemina had been making dinner, listening to the television drone on as she stirred her pasta in the pot, when her chest warmed. It was so sudden and so all-consuming that she almost dropped her tongs, Mildred’s name pounding through her head on a loop.

She had known what was coming before it did. She could sense her presence. Could practically see her smoothing down her skirt and running a finger over the brim of her hat as she walked up Wilhemina’s drive.

But the knock on the door — soft, three times — had still made Wilhemina jump, a lump of emotion lodging in her throat as she grabbed for her cane and walked slowly to the front door.

She knew it was her. Deep down, she knew it in her soul. They were tied together, whether Wilhemina liked it or not. But there was still that tiny, nagging voice in the back of her mind that told her not to get her hopes up. That wishing only led to disappointment.

Until she opened the door, heart pounding, and saw Mildred Ratched standing perfectly straight on her doorstep, a singular suitcase in hand.

“Millie,” Wilhemina breathed, like she needed confirmation. Like she was seeing a ghost.

Mildred swallowed, the smallest of smiles pushing at her lips.

“I was transferred to an institution not far from here,” she said softly, pointing absently behind her before ducking her head against her blush.

But Wilhemina caught it. She caught everything with this masterpiece.

“I couldn’t stand the thought of living in this city and...” She cleared her throat, fingers fidgeting with the handle of her suitcase. “And being apart from you.”

And just as Wilhemina glanced past her at the taxi sitting idle in the street, Mildred looked up, eyes glassy and almost vibrating with emotion.

“Does your offer still stand?”

Wilhemina had to physically bite the inside of her cheek to keep tears from her eyes, her fingers itching and playing on the top of her cane accordingly.

“Are the rest of your bags in the taxi?” Wilhemina asked, trying not to focus on the way Mildred’s chin was trembling. Trying not to hear the pounding in her head to kiss her.

Mildred nodded, and then Wilhemina was moving past her. A gloved hand skimmed over Wilhemina’s shoulder as she passed, just fleeting enough to be a tap.

“I haven’t paid the driver yet, I—“

But Wilhemina turned, and the angle was exactly like the first time she had walked past her in that stuffy university. But this time, the setting sun was glinting off of Mildred’s hair and there was a hope in her eyes, an intimacy that had Wilhemina’s hand tightening on her cane to keep her balance.

“You go inside,” she started, swallowing against the dryness in her throat. “Make yourself comfortable, set your things down. I’ll retrieve the rest of your bags and take care of the cab fare.”

It’s the least I can do, for him bringing you back to me.

Not even five minutes later, Mildred’s luggage was stacked in the foyer and the cab was driving away as Wilhemina stalked back up the short walk to her door.

She had expected Mildred to be sitting at the dining table, or putting her things in the bedroom. But to her surprise, when she closed the door, locked it safely behind her, and turned, Mildred was standing in the middle of her entryway, still holding tight to her suitcase and watching Wilhemina with sharp eyes.

Wilhemina tapped her cane, swallowing, and she didn’t miss the way Mildred’s eyes flicked to it.

And then, just like that, Mildred dropped her suitcase and practically ran to Wilhemina, gloved hands pulling her face down, pulling their mouths together.

Wilhemina let herself moan, tears instantly pricking her eyes at the memory of how good this felt. How right. And then Mildred’s hands were on her waist and she was pushing her back against the door. Hard.

“I missed you so much, Mina,” she breathed between kisses, peppering them over Wilhemina’s cheeks and down her jaw.

And then the tears did fall, because she had missed Mildred, too. So, incredibly much. More than she would have missed the air she breathed, the food she ate. More than she had ever missed anyone or anything in her entire life.

Her soul had been ripped from her, torn away and shipped off across the country. And now it was back, and with every kiss, they sewed themselves back together.

Stitch by stitch. Piece by piece.

~~~

She crowned herself with her nurse’s hat, pinning her hair back carefully around it and buttoning it up in the back. Wilhemina watched her. Watched the way she stood a bit straighter. Watched the way her feet came together and she shifted her weight, perfectly even. Perfectly level.

Wilhemina walked over, drawn to her like a magnet. And her cane clicked as she went, tapping down beside her and forcing a smirk to curl Mildred’s lips as she glanced at Wilhemina in the mirror.

She walked right up to her, snaking an arm around her waist and pulling Mildred back against her chest as her mouth found her ear.

“You look impeccable, darling.”

Mildred quirked a brow, eyes like daggers as they bored into Wilhemina from the mirror. She hummed.

“Almost good enough to eat.” Wilhemina pressed a kiss to her jaw, letting her eyes rake over Mildred’s perfect neck, the way it quivered as she swallowed, the shine of her hair pulled up in impeccable fashion just above her collar. She fingered the fabric there, letting her nails scrape over the soft skin just below her ear.

“Why don’t you take a bite, hm?” Mildred’s voice caught as Wilhemina’s nail pricked against her pulse point, and when she spoke again it was low, raspy. Dangerous. “See what happens.”

Wilhemina growled, leaning forward and tugging her earlobe between her teeth. She pulled Mildred flush against her, hand splaying out on her stomach. And Mildred gasped as her fingers found Wilhemina’s thigh, nails piercing the fabric. Wilhemina felt her swallow down a moan, tense, stutter. And then there was a long breath and a shaky sigh, and the nails in Wilhemina’s leg retracted as Mildred pulled away.

“I can’t be late for my first day of work, dear.”

She brushed down her dress, straightening out that perfectly pinned crown and putting the finishing touches on her hair.

And then, before Wilhemina could blink, Mildred wrapped her slender fingers around her tie and pulled her forward, dragging her out of the bedroom and through the house to the front door.

A disapproving tap of her cane, a small frown, and then Mildred had her purse and pressed a soft kiss to Wilhemina’s cheek, skirting out the door with a dark, “See you tonight, cinnamon.”

And she almost felt like it was a threat.

~~~

Wilhemina had never known love.

She had told Mildred flat out over dinner one night when traumas and pasts and fears were all laid bare on the table.

Mildred was different. She had known it and lost it. Seen people shattered beyond repair because of it. And she had put up those brick and mortar walls around her heart so that she couldn’t feel that kind of sadness ever again.

Yet somehow, every night that she came home to Wilhemina’s arms and her small smile and her absolute and complete honesty, she felt those walls start to fall. Little by little, brick by brick. And every morning when she awoke in her lover’s arms, after breakfasts shared and dressed zipped and buttoned, she had to rebuild it. Fortify herself for the world that lay just outside their door. The evil of it. The hurt.

It became all-consuming, this uneasy thought of love. It permeated every minute of her waking day, and haunted her dreams like some sort of cruel, intangible thing. But she always woke in Wilhemina’s arms. Safe and protected and entirely too vulnerable.

And one day, one tiny day that should have been absolutely nothing, Mildred was so consumed with the inkling of possibility of falling entirely too hard in love with Wilhemina, and what that meant for her future in this world, that she lost herself. Faltered, for a moment. Had to do up the buttons of her uniform twice before getting them to align. And forgot her lunch as she grabbed her purse and walked out the door.

~~~

It wasn’t unusual for Mildred to leave for work before Wilhemina did. It wasn’t unusual that she left for work before Wilhemina was even awake and out of bed.

At first it had scared Wilhemina, waking up alone and cold in a bed that had been so comforting and warm just hours before. Abandoned. Forgotten.

But Mildred had only been in the kitchen, cracking her eggs with such precision that Wilhemina had almost decided right then and there never to touch another egg again.

It just so happened that Mildred’s mornings got earlier just as Wilhemina’s nights got longer, the flex and pull of their schedules only crossing at certain points. A whirlwind of a double helix in flux.

Those days, Mildred would slip out of bed so quietly that Wilhemina wouldn’t even notice, usually awoken by the inevitable cold of an empty bed, rather than some sound from the bathroom or clattering from the kitchen.

Today had been no different. Today had been routine. Until Wilhemina opened the refrigerator almost three hours after Mildred had gone, only to find her lunch sitting packed and abandoned on the second shelf.

It wasn’t even a thought, the decision to take it to her. Just an action. The institution was on her way to work — well, almost on her way — and Wilhemina was already running early. It was nothing.

Until it wasn’t.

Wilhemina picked through the patients that crowded the common room, pursing her lips against the disgusted expression that was forming against her will. She stepped carefully, cane tapping lightly as she watched where she was going. The facility was impeccable, but this space, so unlike the hall, belonged to the patients. Not the nurses. Blankets were left forgotten on the ground, and shoes had been kicked off. And Wilhemina was just uncomfortable enough to worry about losing her footing.

She made it all the way to the other side of the room, coming up on a window like a sanctuary, before she realized that Mildred wasn’t here.

But just as the thought crossed her mind and she leaned forward to peer outside, Wilhemina heard her.

It was easy enough. The rooms were lavish, but mostly tile, and Mildred’s voice tended to carry, no matter how soft. But right now, it was hard. Harder than Wilhemina had ever heard it.

“I don’t care if he won’t take it, he needs it. If he doesn’t take his medicine, then not only will it put everyone else here at risk, but how soon can we expect them all to start refusing their medication? They need it, Betsy. They don’t know what is good for them. We know what is best.”

Wilhemina turned from the window, Mildred’s lunch clutched between gloved fingers. And Mildred must have noticed the movement, because she looked up. But just as Wilhemina let her guard down and offered a small smile, fingers twitching in a half wave, Mildred’s face melted, something like humiliation flushing through her perfect complexion as she marched straight to Wilhemina.

Shit.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing here?” Mildred whispered, gripping her fingers into Wilhemina’s elbow and pulling her back across the room to the nurse’s station.

“You forgot your lunch,” Wilhemina tried, keeping her voice down. Because somehow this was what wasn’t allowed. This was what was compromising.

A lunch.

Mildred’s humiliation shifted to horror, glancing for maybe the first time down at Wilhemina’s hands.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I don’t understand what the issue is, Nurse Ratched.” Wilhemina made sure to drag out her title. Just a bit too loud. Because she couldn’t seriously be upset with her for trying to be kind. For trying to do the right thing. She couldn’t possibly—

Mildred’s eyes narrowed before she glanced behind her. And when she spoke, it was through gritted teeth.

“Go set that down over there.” She indicated to a desk in the corner of the room. “And then go back to work before you screw something else up.”

A flat laugh fell out of Wilhemina almost before she could help it, fingers tightening on the bagged lunch. And before she knew what she was doing, she had shoved it into Mildred’s hands, leaning in impossibly close as she growled.

“Go set it down yourself.” She tapped her cane, too hard. Too loud. A few of the patients covered their ears. “You can be certain that this is the last time I ever do you any favors. Do you understand?”

Mildred’s nostrils flared, and her fingers twitched over the bag. “I didn’t ask for your help.”

And then Wilhemina straightened, nose twitching as she quirked her brow. “And let’s hope you never need it again.”

And then she was gone, breezing past Mildred before she said something else and the tears sticking in Wilhemina’s throat pushed up and fell.

She heard the bag crunch as she hit her cane on the floor, propelling herself forward, one step after the other, closer and closer to the exit. And she hated the way she hoped for Mildred’s voice to ring out, to call her back.

She almost looked back over her shoulder, a moment of weakness that she couldn’t afford. So she ducked her head instead, plowing ahead and storming down the hallway. Out the doors. All the way down the stairs to the street.

She fumed in the taxi, fumed all the way to her desk. Fumed for the next nine and a half hours that she sat at work, fingers picking at her typewriter as she swiveled back and forth in her chair, digging and twisting her cane into the weak wood floors as she ran over arguments and words to spit at her Mildred. Her Mildred. Nurse Ratched.

They weren’t the same woman. But neither was she. How could she be?

By the time Jefferson came to get her, going over final plans for the next day and collecting her paperwork, she had dug a nice little dent into the floor.

Small, deep. A bullet hole kneaded slowly and steadily. Just like the one Mildred’s words had worn into her heart.

~~~

“You wouldn’t like it if I showed up at your place of work without warning, would you?” Mildred’s voice was steady, arms crossed over her chest.

“Don’t—“

“Would you?”

Wilhemina’s cane hit the ground. “Stop that. Don’t treat me like you treat them. Don’t talk to me like that.”

“Like what? I’m just asking a simple question. The answer is either yes, or no.”

“Mildred, stop shrinking me.”

“You think I’m trying to control you?”

“No,” Wilhemina growled, stalking over to her as the last of her patience wore through. “I know you’re trying to control me. And you know that that’s not how this relationship works.”

She bent over Mildred, practically panting, and Mildred was shocked when a pang of regret shot through her. But then something hardened, because no. Wilhemina didn’t get to win this one. She had come to her office out of the blue. Could have exposed them. Put them both in danger.

Because Mildred had been careless. Forgotten her lunch. All for being so consumed with the idea of—

Mildred tipped her chin up, eyes hard as they met Wilhemina’s fiery ones. She stood her ground.

“Apologize.”

Wilhemina set her jaw. “No.”

She leaned up on her toes, leveling their height. “Apologize.”

Wilhemina shook her head slowly, eyes narrowing as her nose twitched. As her jaw set.

And then there were hands on Mildred’s shoulders and Wilhemina’s mouth was on hers, hard and fast and furious as she pushed her back, back, back, slamming her hard against the wall.

“Fuck,” Mildred hissed, and then Mina broke from her, mouth on her ear as she purred.

“Language.”

She scoffed, shoving at her, needing her off of her so that she could breathe. Think. Because when her hands were on her like this, and she was breathing like this, quick and ragged and right behind her ear, Mildred’s mind only comprehended one thing.

“Mina,” she tried, nails digging in as Wilhemina pulled her off the wall for a split second, only to throw her back against it again. She cried out, something hard knotting over her heart.

So this was how it was going to be? Fine.

Mildred lunged forward, kissing Wilhemina sloppily, desperately. Any way she could hold on to some semblance of control.

And she gasped, just as Mildred knew she would. So she took the opening, gripping hard into her waist and pushing her off, before her nails raked down Wilhemina’s arm and her fingers closed around her wrist.

Mildred pulled, yanking Wilhemina after her, across the living room, around the sofa. Down the short hallway, pulling harder every time Wilhemina tried to plant her feet. Until she threw her into the bedroom, Mina practically spinning around and pinning Mildred against the wall, the door jam digging into her spine.

She cried out, hands flying to Wilhemina’s shoulders. Clawing at her. Grappling for something to hold her down and hold her steady so she could get her advantage back.

“You’re so fucking infuriating,” Wilhemina growled, biting hard on Mildred’s neck. But no. She didn’t get to win.

So she pushed, hard, and sent Mina stumbling back. And Mildred was right there, stalking after her and shoving again, and this time, when Wilhemina stumbled, she landed hard on the bed.

Mildred was over her in seconds, panting as she crushed her mouth back against Wilhemina’s, tongues fighting as their teeth clashed. Her fingers found buttons and she yanked, the rip cutting through the room.

She didn’t even wait for Wilhemina to shrug the shirt off, fingers already dug into the waistband of her skirt and rucking it down, down, down.

She got it down around her ankles, but as she braced herself on Mina’s knees and pulled herself back up, Wilhemina’s hand found her chin, pulling her in for a bruising kiss and holding her firm as her free hand flicked open the buttons on her shirt, one by one, so fast it should have been impossible.

“Get your shirt off,” Mildred panted, hands scrambling to find purchase on Mina as she crawled up on the bed and straddled her.

But Mina pulled back, a smirk like death making her eyes go black.

“Ladies first.”

And that was the last straw. Mildred’s patience had already been tested from the ordeal this morning, amplified by the unexpectedness of Wilhemina showing up at her work. That stupid, thoughtful way she brought her the forgotten lunch. The tiny wave. Like she cared. Like she—

Mildred growled, practically a scream as she grabbed Wilhemina’s shoulders and shoved her down until she was swallowed by the mattress. Splayed a hand out over her chest to keep her pinned. Keep her down.

She could feel Mina’s heart hammering, could feel how fast she was panting. Gasping.

Nails clawed at her arm, dragging down as Mildred cried out. There would be blood soon. She knew that feeling.

But then Wilhemina pulled her hand from her chest, twining their fingers hard and pressing hot, wet, quick kisses down over the already reddening marks. Yanked her fingers back. Licked. Right over her palm.

Mildred moaned, the feeling going straight to her core, and then her hands were in Wilhemina’s hair and she was pulling her neck taunt to get better access. So she could bite and suck and mark her for everyone to see.

She sat up on her knees, gaining leverage. And Mina’s hands were on her ass in an instant, kneading. Hard.

“Logic would imply that I shouldn’t let you touch me until you apologize,” Mildred managed, back to base form as she leaned into Mina’s hands. As she moaned into her neck.

Her teeth dug into a particularly sensitive spot, pinching the already flushed skin. And just as Mina gasped, just as she thought she’d won, Mina’s hands fell to her thighs, the world spun, and she was on her back. And Mina’s hand was wrapped tight around her throat.

“No more talking,” she growled, her free hand scraping roughly down Mildred’s stomach, under the band of her skirt, and straight between her thighs.

“Fuck, Mina,” Mildred gasped, the words melting into a groan as her thumb slid over her underwear.

Wilhemina shoved her further into the bed, fingers tightening. And Mildred’s vision blurred at the edges as she gasped for breath.

Perfect. Delicious. Exactly what she wanted.

No talking. Only feeling. Only Wilhemina.

But then Mina spoke, voice hot by her ear.

“I said no talking. I don’t want another word out of you until you’re ready to apologize.”

She pushed her underwear aside on the last word, slipping two fingers easily inside. Mildred cried out, hands grabbing for the arm braced on her throat and holding on tight as her hips started rocking of their own accord.

“Apologize for what,” she panted, eyes screwing shut as Mina curled her fingers.

A flat laugh. A squeeze to her throat. Heat pooling between her thighs.

“For making an entire scene just because I brought you your lunch. Because I took time out of my day to make sure you were taken care of.”

Mildred was slammed back into the mattress again.

“What does your logic say about that, Nurse Ratched?”

There were tears pricking at Mildred’s eyes now, because she wouldn’t break. She wouldn’t. But Wilhemina’s fingers picked up their pace, and then her mouth was on hers, and Mildred knew exactly what was coming.

Mina bit down on her lip. Hard. Yanked at it, pulling until Mildred whimpered.

“Apologize,” she growled, fingers twisting and curling and nails pricking against Mildred’s throat.

Mildred barely had the competence to shake her head no, but she managed it. Because as loud as her body was screaming with a need for more, for so much more of this woman, her brain wouldn’t let her.

The rational part of Mildred’s brain kept the words stuck down in her throat, pounding that she didn’t need to say them. That this wasn’t her fault. That she had only been protecting herself. But the sentimental part kept pushing them back up again, harder and harder the longer Mildred stared at Wilhemina, eyes dark and predatory and so filled with hurt.

“I’m not letting you come until you apologize,” Wilhemina scolded, nails scratching over Mildred’s throat as her fingers moved faster, harder. Her thumb brushed over her clit.

Mildred sobbed, entire body vibrating with the beg for release.

It almost felt like she was choking, the way she was swallowing the words down, only for them to get stuck again. Suffocate her.

Wilhemina shook her head softly, holding Mildred’s eye contact like a lifeline as the smallest smile graced her lips. An angel above her. Salvation.

And that was it. Mildred broke for the millionth time with this woman, relinquishing control.

Letting go.

Her orgasm hit her without Mina’s permission, shaking through her body and sending lightning down her spine. And the words were pulled from her just before her vision went black, hands twisting on Mina’s arm and toes curling hard in the sheets.

“I lo-ove you.”

She didn’t realize that she hadn’t apologized, the wrong words coming out of her, until she blinked her vision back and saw Wilhemina’s wide eyes, clarity piercing through whatever hurt and determination had been there just moments before.

And then Mildred realized why the words had burned so hot in her throat. It wasn’t an apology. It was the truth. The reason. The explanation of why she had behaved the way she did and why she had lashed out. Why she had felt so scared and vulnerable that she couldn’t emotionally handle seeing Wilhemina somewhere she didn’t expect her.

She wanted to apologize then, wanted to take them back. Because she had let herself slip. Again. And all it seemed to be doing was causing more trouble. She wasn’t tampering anything down, she was spinning the world further and further out of control. Unthreading her reality and watching the picture unravel before her eyes.

“How do you always seem to mess everything up?”

“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—“

“Everything you touch turns to dust. How is that even possible? You should win some sort of prize for screwing this many things up. I swear.”

Wilhemina’s hand over hers brought her back, the air deathly still as Mildred’s voice rang off the walls. Over and over and over.

She met Wilhemina’s eyes, heart still hammering in her chest as she fought to regulate her breathing. To calm herself down. It had always been so easy. Why was it so difficult now?

“Does that scare you...?” Mina asked softly, shifting over her as her gaze burned through Mildred.

Before she knew what she was doing, she nodded. Because it did. She did.

And Wilhemina matched her, nodding in time. “It scares me, too.”

At that she did apologize, a soft “I’m sorry” falling from her lips in a last desperate attempt to calm the situation. To salvage the last piece of anything. To pull control back down over herself.

But Wilhemina only shook her head, a softness in her eyes that Mildred had never seen before.

“Don’t apologize.”

And then that heavy silence. So familiar. So comfortable. Give their souls space. Let them figure it out.

The words would come when they were ready.

Wilhemina sniffed, tracing her thumb over Mildred’s cheek. “Do you remember when I told you that I had never known love?”

And Mildred nodded again, finding herself unable to do anything else with the way Mina was staring at her. Eyes glittering. Galaxies.

“I’m not sure that’s true anymore,” she whispered, gaze falling to Mildred’s mouth. Across the ages and spaces and miles between them. It could only have been inches now. “I don’t think it’s been true for a while.”

Mildred let the words swim around her, furnishing her sanctuary here, pressed into a bed underneath Wilhemina. Locked in orbit, pulled in tight and unable to do anything but stare.

She startled as a tear fell onto her cheek, swiping at it quickly as she sniffed. Came back to the present. The room fell back into place.

And then her world, her life, her eternity, her Wilhemina kissed her.

“My beautiful Millie,” she murmured, kissing her until she couldn’t breathe. Until the world swam again, this time for a completely different reason, happiness and joy threading through her and pouring like stardust in her veins.

“Yours.”

~~~

“Shall we?”

Mildred threaded her arm through Wilhemina’s, pushing her hair up and letting her fingers ghost over the rim of her hat.

“I’d love nothing more, Ms. Venable.”

And the way that they walked together, their steps perfectly in time, Wilhemina’s cane tapping as she moved forward steadily, one foot after the other, matched with Mildred’s calculated walk, the way her feet barely crossed and she was almost pigeon-toed, like she was strutting down a runway.

It should have been illegal, just after the war. It should have been frowned upon. But the power that flowed off of them when they were arm in arm like this, the way Mildred’s heart swelled and her chin tipped up and she managed to physically look down on everyone in her path, had people scattering like rats as their heels clicked along the tile.

And the entire night, everyone at Wilhemina’s office party steered more than clear of them. Hushed whispers behind their backs had Wilhemina’s hands skirting just a bit too far down Mildred’s hips as she took small sips of her champagne, setting her gloved fingers itching and her thighs pressing together under her perfectly asymmetrical skirt.

And Mildred made it a point to turn her head, just so, and whisper in Wilhemina’s ear whenever she was mid-conversation with her coworkers. Sometimes it was nothing. Sometimes it was filthy.

But either way, she knew just the breath on Wilhemina’s ear was enough to make her pulse run a bit quicker.

And sure enough, before dinner was even served, Wilhemina had made some sort of excuse and the two of them were running from the taxi, through the rain, and huddling together on the porch as Mina dug for her key.

That night was her favorite night.

Both of them soaked to the bone, sharing over-poured glasses of wine, half-dressed and drying out in front of the fireplace.

And when Wilhemina gave her that smile, that particularly fond smile where her cheeks pushed up and her eyes softened, Mildred pushed her tongue into her cheek, fighting her own grin.

They kissed until the fire burnt out, embers barely flickering in the black room. And just as the last of the light died, Mildred and Wilhemina sticky and naked and curled together on the floor, Wilhemina made to get up.

Mildred’s hand on her arm stopped her, and she snuggled further against her to keep her still.

“No light tonight,” she said softly. And she meant it.

She wasn’t frightened. Not now. Not anymore.

“Millie?”

And Mildred let herself smile as she nodded. Because she had never been more certain of anything than she was of loving Wilhemina in this moment, and of letting herself be loved in return. Letting herself go.

The world wasn’t logical. The world wasn’t ordered. Not when it came to her. Wilhemina had come in and spun her right out of control. And she kept doing it. Over and over again. Like it was a game.

Maybe it was.

And as Mildred leaned forward, capturing Mina’s lips in a languid kiss and humming contentedly, she realized that she was absolutely fine losing, if it meant that she got to have this.

Tag List: @shineestark @duchessfics @darling-dontforgetme @midnight-lestrange @nerdaroo @thatgirlintheleatherjacket

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unholyplumpprincess · 4 years

Text

I Need It Rough

Here’s for @clefaiiiry for the idea of Crypto/Mirage and Crypto being frustrated and needy and getting his pretty little face fucked like he deserves.

Summary: Crypto is frustrated at a match gone wrong (IE he didn't win) and seeks out the comfort of his partner in a more...non traditional manner. Elliott, ever the most deserving of Best Boyfriend Of The Year Award, face fucks the hell out of him to help fuck out his frustrations.

(Older content)

Reblogs > Likes. It costs zero dollars to reblog :D

Minors and ageless blogs DNI or you will be blocked!

Fandom: Apex Legends

Relationship: Crypto/Mirage

Warnings: NSFT/18+, rough face fucking, uhhh fucking out frustrations?, fluffy aftercare, dom mirage??? On MY blog??

Words: 2.4k

__________________

Loud mouth. Smooth talker. Doesn’t shut up.

A lot of names for Elliott could come and go as they pleased. He knew what he was, and he knew what his voice did for many. Especially his fans. He liked to show off, be glamorous as he pleased. But, most importantly, he liked how his voice made a certain someone squirm.

Crypto had been a new legend added to the roster through unforeseen challenges. In fact, Elliott is sure they hadn’t even BEEN seen. Regardless, he’d been welcomed into the top Legends crew like one of their own. Even if there was some curiosity about how he even got there.

It took a little while to break through any of his layers. Even Elliott, who came off as the most least feared of them all, couldn’t quite crack his hard exterior easily. Because even if he came off friendly and inviting, Crypto had made it clear that Elliott was just as to be feared as any other legend. He was there for a reason. His smile and laugh were not the reasons his kill count was so high.

~Rest under the cut~

Becoming partners- now that was even unforeseen by Crypto. He had no interest in finding a partner, let alone falling for another legend. That in itself was dangerous, it drew too much attention. The media curious about who had Elliott all lovestruck.

Thankfully, Elliott could keep his mouth shut sometimes. Kept it a mystery. Some people speculated it to be the ever-fearsome Bloodhound, some even guessed at Wraith but when he chuckled and lightly brushed it off that theory was shot down entirely.

Crypto smirked every time he saw headlines. ‘WHO IS DATING THE LOUD MOUTH LEGEND?’ Tempting enough to reveal himself, almost.

Almost.

No one expected it to be Crypto. Why would they? He was a stranger in their midst, yet an enigma easier to solve than Bloodhound, he had a pretty face. It made it easier to climb the ranks of popularity online, something he still kept tabs on even if he didn’t run the drones streaming the game live for others now.

His mother would be proud knowing he’d landed her favorite. Elliott ‘Mirage’ Witt. However, he kept that out of the letters. No need for more exposure and concern.

When it came down to it, Elliott was a lover of higher expectations. At least for Crypto, who had been used to the idea of loving someone coming with a price. It did, but telling little bits about himself and going slow was not too bad of a price. Especially when Elliott was all smiles, dimples, and a smooth voice telling him that of course they could go slow.

It didn’t affect their work in the matches either. Whether against one another or on a squad, there was no hinderance.

Except, of course, when Crypto found himself in the top five. Edging closer to the sweet taste of victory only to fall to a newcomer who was keen on focusing the hacker down. A few shots to the back and a familiar pain only to find himself awake in the med bay with the words ‘SQUAD ELIMINATED’ on the screen in front of him.

It meant frustration. It meant need. It meant desires he couldn’t handle until they became too much and he’d rather scream or be used.

The latter was more appealing.

The dorms set up on this planet were nice. It was like a little community for the more experienced legends and those newcomers from all over who wanted to participate in the blood sport and work their way up to being champions. The qualifications for it all were something Crypto was glad he didn’t have to go through.

Elliott’s dorm is much like his room on the dropship when they were all being sent to Talos. It’s covered in fanart of himself in the living room, his color scheme most prominent here. There’s a few cardboard cutouts from various sponsors, different gear to promo, his kitchen has quite a few drinks and mixing tools for said drinks, something that makes Crypto smile a bit when entering. Elliott wanted to take his bar with him, essentially.

Rolling his neck and shoulders, Crypto sets about shrugging out of his coat, folding it neatly onto the couch. He’d come straight from the med bay. Stressed and frustrated. Knowing that Elliott was going to do an interview after meant that he had time alone to think. Best do it in Elliott’s dorm which felt like home.

Having long since abandoned his shoes at the doorway, he’s left in his tight black pants, matching shirt, and jewelry. Running a hand through his hair and letting out a low groan of frustration before fishing his phone from his pocket. It was wiped of any data, wiped of anything except one number that embarrassingly had a little gold heart next to the name ‘Idiot’.

He hesitates on texting him. Elliott loved the limelight, loved the glory, the cameras, and most importantly loved the afterglow of a match well done. Crypto feels himself hesitate, feeling almost selfish for asking him to come now.

It took awhile to work him out of his shell. With lots of kisses to his knuckles and Elliott promising that he was more important. He finally works up the urge to hit send and is relieved when it is read not 30 seconds after.

It takes five minutes of waiting. Five minutes of patient waiting.

At some point Crypto had gone to the bedroom. Setting a pillow on the floor and dropping to his knees onto it. Waiting patiently near Elliott’s bed as his head bowed, ears perked and waiting for the sound of the door to click open.

He hears Elliott laughing before he hears the door. Hearing his voice call out, “Yeah! We’ll get drinks later, kay? I’m gonna rest for a bit!” All chipper and cheerful before the door slides shut and the lock is clicked into place.

Crypto swallows thickly. Letting his tongue wet his lips as he keeps his head down.

He hopes he looks good, in the back of his mind. Legs splayed out just so on the pillow to outline his lower body. Hands resting on his thighs and head bowed. Showing off his body, trying to look inviting and not like he was digging his nails into his pants in frustration. Need.

He’s in tune with the sound of boots. The sound of gear being tugged off in a not-so-hurried pace. He nearly snarls, but he waits. Just be patient, fall into your space, relax. He tries to encourage himself like Elliott might, but it isn’t the same.

When Elliott finally comes into the room, he’s dressed in his boots and pants. Everything else tossed off and his curls left down from his goggles. Crypto raises his head to look up at him, steeling his jaw and feeling the metal of his jawline seem to heat up with his body.

Elliott looked a pretty picture. Eyes soft, a smile on his lips that read cocky but the dimples gave him that charming look, and a glisten of sweat about his skin. His torso is exposed, toned and fit with a dark happy trail leading from pierced navel down into his pants. Gold adorns his pecs from piercings through his nipples and Crypto longs to tongue at them.

“Hey, beautiful,” Elliott coos softly. As if calming a feral kitten. Carefully coming over one step at a time until Crypto’s shoulders relax, falling just as Elliott’s warm, calloused fingers cup his cheek. “Look at you. Already ready, huh?”

Crypto hums in response, soft and almost irritated. Nuzzling at his palm and nipping at his fingertips until Elliott nudges his thumb at his full lips. Crypto accepts, suckling on the digit and fluttering his eyes open halfway to look up at him.

Dark brown eyes look back down at him with an intensity that leaves him shuddering. “There you go, baby.” Spoken softly, almost possessively as he presses his thumb down onto Crypto’s tongue. Forcing his lips to part and drool to threaten to spill.

“God, can’t wait to ruin your pretty little mouth.” Elliott murmurs, as if to himself if he didn’t smear the saliva onto Crypto’s lips with his thumb. Wetting them as he pulls his hand back to begin working at his fly.

Crypto grunts, turning his head as if he was going to be difficult. A bratty scenario, trying to make Elliott rougher. It works like a charm when one hand winds in his hair, yanking his head back to face the trickster. He exhales sharply through his nose at the sudden pain, hissing as he’s come face to face with Elliott’s cock.

One hand in Crypto’s hair, the other wrapped around the base of his cock and lazily stroking, he looks quite the picture. Crypto tries to avoid eye contact, turning his gaze with another huff only to get Elliott to gently smack his cheek with his cock. “Come on, baby boy, open that sweet mouth up. You w-want to text me all urg- urging- ugh- in a hurry? You’re going to get it.”

Crypto almost smiles at the stutter. Watching Elliott squint his eyes for just a moment to focus on getting out of the tick. He normally could keep his voice controlled in moments like this, but if he focused too hard on sounding smooth, it came out harder. Just like that.

So he does smile, a bit more of a smirk. Eyes flickering up to meet Elliott’s, challenging him.

“Fine.” Elliott hums in response.

Fingers twist and yank Crypto’s hair fluidly. It makes him gasp out, lips parting enough for Elliott to slide the head of his cock in without risk of biting. “See? That so hard?” He coos out, watching as Crypto’s fingers scramble at his own thighs before he reaches up to hold onto Elliott’s instead.

It’s smooth sailing from there as Crypto gives into soft treatment.

The rough hand in his hair turns to soft pets. Stroking his hair back from his face by warm fingers. Another hand cups underneath Crypto’s jaw, stroking with a thumb at where metal meets flesh. Carefully feeding him inch after inch of Elliott’s cock.

A beautiful thing, if you asked Crypto. Elliott was about seven inches, a nice size without being too thick or too much with an upwards lean. Some freckles dotting the base where he kept the curls there trimmed and tidy. The head was almost a supple red when aroused, peeking from foreskin that made it glisten and shiny if it wasn’t just from Crypto’s saliva.

It’s with trained practice he relaxes his throat. Fingers flexing on Elliott’s thighs and humming in discomfort at first. “Shh, you got this, baby. Take your time.” Elliott speaks so softly. Still petting at his hair and moving the hand from his jawline to rest in his hair as well to massage at his scalp.

It does the trick. And only in a few moments does his nose press to Elliott’s pelvis. Allowing him to take deep, slow breathes and inhale his scent as his fingers grip tight to his pants.

“Look atcha’, babe. Fuck- wish you could see how you look right now. Such a good boy.” Elliott sighs out, gently rocking his hips to get used to the wet tightness of his throat. How Crypto’s teeth scrape along sensitive flesh without biting.

Crypto, in turn, looks up at him with this sort of lazy submission in his eyes. Humming in response to being told he’s good as his hair is pet behind his ears and his temples given a soft massage with thumbs.

It was a warning. He always knew it was. Knew when to force himself to not focus too hard on it as Elliott slowly pulls out before pushing back in with a low moan that sets Crypto’s skin alight from how good he sounds.

It’s repeated. The same motion. Until Elliott can go faster. Until he’s truly face fucking him and Crypto’s hands no longer plead and scrape at his thighs, rather just holding onto him for dear life as he feels him press into his throat again and again.

When he becomes light headed, Elliott pulls out. Keeping the head on Crypto’s tongue that lolls out as he takes needy breaths. Pressing sloppy, wet kisses over the head and shaft with a hoarse, “Please-” Whining from his throat until Elliott takes him again and uses his mouth just like a toy.

Elliott is full of it. Full of that smooth talking, loud mouth that people don’t get to see. “You look so good, sweetheart.”

“Fuck, just like that Crypto-”

“What a good boy. You look so beautiful on your knees.”

“Bet you’d cum on my boots if I’d let you.”

He’s full of it, praise and dirty talk. Crypto’s too hot in his own pants, trying to grind against nothing for friction. The taste and scent being too much- it's all too much to his sensors.

Elliott shoves in one last time, grabbing Crypto’s hair and keeping him down on his cock. “Swallow.” He pants out, a whiny moan leaving him as he cums. A beautiful noise to match his furrowed expression. Curls hanging in his face as his fingers shaky even as they pet Crypto’s hair as the man swallows every drop. Even if he does make a small face at the taste.

There’s a pause as Elliott lets Crypto milk him dry with small lavishes of his tongue and soft suckles. Slowly pulling out and letting him lick at the head like nothing more than an obedient pup until Elliott laughs softly, breathily.

Dropping onto his knees, Elliott cups his jaw, bringing him in for a deep kiss. Tongue exploring and licking over Crypto’s tongue in reply. Tasting himself as both men moan in reply to the feeling until Elliott parts with a wet sound.

Crypto’s eyes are glassy, lips parted and flushed just like his cheeks. His pants are straining, his hips canting into nothing as Elliott brings him into an embrace. Caressing his hair and his back, petting over his skin until he calms down enough to nose into Elliott’s neck and come down.

“Thank you,” He murmurs out, voice hoarse and shaky. Nosing just below Elliott’s ear until his partner pulls him back to place a soft kiss on both cheeks, then his forehead.

“You’re welcome...Let me take care of you this time around?” Elliott murmurs too sweetly, nuzzling their noses together as if he didn’t just face fuck him into a stupor.

How could he say no?

#Cryptage #Crypto #Mirage #Apex legends #apex lemons #nsft #lemon #princess writing #Omg baby peach plz break up ur paragraphs

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brianc521 · 5 years

Text

Yours, Not Hers | Nap Date 5

Blind Side: catch (someone) unprepared; attack from an unexpected position.

This is what Shawn has done to Ember. He’s blindsided her, by not preparing her for what he was about to do.

The week after Shawn flew back out to tour his Instagram posted a very intimate picture of him and her. Not her as in Ember, but her as in her.

She’s an old flame. Someone he’s put music out with before, had a hella crush on when he was a kid, and had a few hook ups with. Someone he’s claimed means nothing now, that is only a friend. Someone who he’s learned from, the mistakes he made with them and why they were mistakes.

Yet, here Ember sits, watching this music video. It’s wildly intimate, and oddly convincing?

He’s tried calling her three times so far, she just hasn’t been able to turn the video that’s on a loop off. She finds something new with each watch. Like how his hand grazes her butt when he dances with her. Or how he leans into her hips when he pushes her up against a wall. Or how he takes his fucking shirt off in the bedroom.

She’s meant to be on a plane right now. A plane that will fly her across the country to him. A plane that he scheduled since she surprised him with two weeks off. A plane he knew she wasn’t on. A plane he was hoping would take off before the video was released so when she landed he could tell her about it in person.

“Hey Emi,” He clears his throat. “Please can you call me back? I just,” He sighs. “I just wanna talk about it. I can explain it all, I promise I can. I just, I need you to answer or to call me, or text me if you want. But I love you, and I need you to know what my plans were before they we were ruined okay? I love you, call me.”

That’s the third message he’s left and her heart hopes that he actually had a plan. So with that hope she clicks the ‘call back’ button and waits while it rings.

“Baby?” He answers quickly, as if he was staring at his phone, willing it to ring.

“Mhm.” She responds softly.

She can hear him take a deep breath, can picture him running his fingers through his curls. “I love you.” He says, wanting her to know that he’s in love with her and always will be.

“Okay.”

He knows he’s in hella trouble when she doesn’t say it back. His heart is racing. What the fuck was he thinking?

“Are you-” He stumbles over his words. “Are you at the airport?”

“No.” She says quietly. “I don’t know if I should go Shawn.”

“No Baby don’t.” He blurts. “Please come, please.” He begs. “I want you here. You know I do. I can explain it all.”

“Then explain Shawn.”

“I’d like to be in person when I do.”

She gasps, and doesn’t respond right away. “Is it that bad?”

“What?” His voice cracks. “No it’s not bad at all. I just want you here. Always, always want you with me. Please Baby, I’ll get you on another flight, just come to me okay?”

“Fine.” She sighs, hanging up and without even thinking about it leaves her apartment to go to the airport before she changes her mind.

It’s all the talk. Literally broke the internet. The IT couple is finally together. The most talked about pair. The most ‘what if’s?’, the constant ‘what happened?’ have finally come true. The song plays three times on the way from the airport to his hotel. Each play is fuel to her fire. What seals the fate is the Behind the Scenes video that’s just now been published. Showcasing them dancing, and laying together, stretching together.

She’s 100% sure he’s going to tell her about how they fucked or something and that he was so sorry and that it wouldn’t happen again. She was 100% sure she flew across the country to get her heart ripped in half.

He meets her in the lobby, chewing at his nails, curls the biggest mess she’s ever seen on his head. His eyes are red, and he can’t stop pacing. He looks up when she walks over to his figure.

There’s no ‘Hello’, no ‘Hi I missed you’. The first thing out of her mouth is;

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He can’t even answer, he’s worked himself up so much that he’s not sure he can make it through this conversation without bursting into tears. He can’t tell if the tears are from the fact that she’s actually in front of him, or if he’s scared that this will be the last time he’ll see her.

He simply offers his hand and leads her to the elevator. It’s silence between them the whole ride up to the 16th floor, and not a good silence. It’s an uncomfortable silence, the kind that makes you want the ground to open up and swallow you whole.

He takes his time, holding her hand, walking down the hall to his door. Refuses to let go when he digs for the room key in his pocket, and squeezes her hand tighter when they finally make it into his room.

“You um-” He starts when she closes the door behind her. “You didn’t bring a bag.”

“I didn’t know how long I’d be staying.”

His heart cracks when she says that. His eyes drop and focus on the fact that she’s still holding his hand. That has so be somewhat of a good sign.

“Okay.” He nods. “You tell me if you want to leave, I’ll get you the first flight home. I just want you to know, before we get into everything. That I love you, I’m so fucking in love with you and I don’t want you to leave. Even if we fight, or we don’t. Okay?” He asks, taking a seat on the bed.

“Okay.” She nods.

“I wrote the song over a year ago.” He gulps. “Brian hooked up with some chick who liked to be called a certain name.” He raises an eyebrow. “And don’t ask me why, but it sparked some idea of a one time summer fling. I was deep in like the idea of love? But not true love? More like puppy love?” He shrugs. “It’s weird, I know, but like I was just really inspired by the summer fling cliche? Grease and shit you know? So like I wrote the song, and texted her about it. She didn’t want to do it. But six months ago she texted me and was like ‘okay I’m in’ so we recorded when we happened to be at the same place at the same time.”

“Okay.”

“We filmed the video 5 months ago.” He explains, pulling her a little closer to himself, and farther away from the door. “We took all the promo shots 5 months ago. We went out to lunch 5 months ago. I haven’t seen her since.”

Ember takes in the information and feels like she can finally breathe again. “You didn’t go to lunch with her yesterday?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “I don’t even know where she fucking is right now. Those pictures you saw, they’re from months ago. Cez had Connor take them, as ‘pap shots’ or ‘candids’. Her team released them yesterday morning to get our names out in the public because they dropped the single last night and the video this morning. It was all planned, but I wasn’t told it was planned like that. If I’d known,” He bites his lip, tears forming in his eyes. “If I’d known I’d have told you.”

She’s crying, but tears of joy now. She was so scared that he suddenly realized that she wasn’t enough for him. That he found better.

“Please don’t cry.” He reaches up and wipes her tears. “I’m sorry Emi. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t mean to do this to you. I told you this wouldn’t happen. That I wouldn’t do something like this to you.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay. It’s not okay at all.”

“You didn’t know.”

“That doesn’t excuse the fact that I didn’t tell you. Even if I didn’t think it would actually become a thing I should have told you.” He wipes his own eyes with the back of his hand. “I’ve recorded a song with Julia, and Alessia.” He blurts out. “Julia, well I mean we have ‘Like to be you’, but we also have another song recorded. It’s more R&B, but about wanting the other but never saying so. Alessia’s, it’s a painful break up song. Both written but never true.”

“Okay.” She gives him a small smile. “Thank you for the warning.”

“They aren’t planned to be released, ever. Literally you, me, and the girl who wrote it are the only ones who know about it.”

“I need you to tell me something.” She caresses the side of his face.

“Okay.”

“Do you have feelings for her?”

“What?” He sits up, eyes wide. “No, fuck no.”

“Because,” She sighs. “The behind the scenes,”

“The what?” He asks, brows furrowed. “What behind the scenes?”

“It was posted on your Insta, and youtube, and twitter. I watched it on my way here from the airport. You were looking at her like more than just a friendship stare. You lingered with touches, you smiled with your Shawn sparkle.” She hiccups.

“Shawn sparkle?”

“And I thought I was the only one who knows what the Shawn sparkle is because you look at me like that, but if you have the sparkle for her-”

“I don’t!” He stands now. “I don’t. You just said it yourself, I only look at you like that. I’ve only ever looked at you like that. I’m yours Ember.”

She gasps when he uses her full name. He’s only ever called her Emi since they started dating. A few pet names, but he took pride in being the only person who gets to call her Emi.

“I’m yours. Not hers, yours.”

“You promise?”

“With my whole fucking heart.”

“Can you just tell me first before you do this shit.” She sighs, leaning into him. “I was so scared.”

“Scared of what?”

“Scared that you were leaving.”

“Never.” He kisses the back of her hand.

“I missed you.” She whispers. Staring deeply into his eyes, allowing her frantic emotions to calm.

“I missed you too.” He leans up, pecking her lips quickly. “So much.”

Just then there’s a knock at the door. Shawn stands, still not letting go of her hand when he goes to answer. When he does he’s surprised to see Andrew standing in front of him, with a suitcase by his side.

“The airport found Ember’s suitcase, the hotel called me about it since your phone was on DND.”

Shawn turns and looks at Ember who’s giggling softly behind him. “Thanks Andrew.” She smiles, still timid around the manager. She’s met the team a few times now, but this was supposed to be the official ‘become apart of the team’ trip.

“Hey Ember, good to see you. We can’t wait to show you around the world.”

“It’s good to see you too. I can’t wait to see it.” She answers, reaching forward and pulling her suitcase into the room.

“Okay well you two have a goodnight, you have a meeting at 8 so don’t make it a late night.” Andrew says to Shawn, who goes red and shuts the door promptly.

“You told me-”

“I mean I wasn’t lying.” She shrugs, “I thought you were like breaking up with me. Since you wanted to explain in person, I thought you were flying me to you just to dump me. So I wasn’t lying. But in reality they lost my fucking bag and I didn’t want to wait at the airport while they tried to find it.” She answers, throwing the bag next to his and flopping on the bed.

“I am never breaking up with you.” He stands at the end of the bed with his arms crossed.

“Yes and we covered this. We’re okay. I was wrong for jumping to conclusions. You were wrong for not communicating. But we communicated it out, can we cuddle now because my heart hurts and you’re the only one who can fix it right now.”

“Cuddles is gonna fix it?”

“It’s a good start.” She says reaching out for him, to which he crawls up the bed and lands on top of her.

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sweethazzababy · 5 years

Text

Darkness.

A/N: Another one shot. Very, very sad. Extreme angst. You have been warned.

Disclaimer: mentions of suicide, angst TRIGGER WARNING

* PLEASE do not read if you are sensitive to this topic.*

Feel free to leave comments on this post. Would love the feedback.

One Shot

Song: From the Dining Table by Harry Styles

____________________

Numb. That’s all Y/N can think of when she thinks of herself at this very moment. Her body feels empty, her mind vacant. Lifeless. Not once did she ever think it was possible for a human being to feel like this. She can’t find herself to speak, to smile, to even get up from her position. She’s curled up in bed, making sure to stay on her side. If she dare move to his, a wave of guilt would crash over her and his lingering scent would be too much to bare. It would be a tease.

His side is left undone, cotton sheets wrinkled and tossed about in the way he would usually get out of bed. She swears she can still see the imprints his body left since the last time he’s peacefully slept next to her, holding her tight to his chest. His pillow is still in the position it would normally be in for him to be comfortable during his night long slumber. Crumbled up tissues are messily scattered along his bedside table, the gloom of his hay fever caused him to get up in the middle of the night as he tiredly snatched a tissue without the energy of getting up to throw it out after using it. His clothes are still perfectly lined in his closet, but his drawers messy with t shirts rolled and shoved in. There will never be another time where she can rest her head on his chest, her hand rested near his heartbeat. His heartbeat. Oh how she wishes she could feel it...feel him breathing. Alive.

It’s been three weeks since he passed. Three weeks since she’s seen his dimpled smile, three weeks since she’s heard the low huskiness of his soothing voice. Three weeks since she’s looked into his bright green eyes that seem to catch her off guard every time she meets them with her own. Three weeks since she’s been embraced in the loving cave of his tattooed arms, or kissed by his soft lips. It’s only been three weeks and she feels like she’s getting weaker by the minute. How can she go on without him? How can she live her life without him to go home to? She can’t. It’s too much to bear.

She misses him. Misses him more than she could ever have imagined was possible. It feels like a knife is piercing through her chest, slicing her heart and twisting it...but leaving it to ache and bleed in a long suffering pain with no end. He occupies her mind constantly. She wishes he didn’t. It’s like her entire life is on a repetitive film reel, replaying all of the moments she craves to feel again. Witnessing his laugh, the way he shuts his eyes mouth wide and those crinkles she grew to love that appear next to his eyes. The way he shakes his hips to the beat of his own song in the kitchen as they cook together, taking her hand and spinning her into a whirlwind of a dream. The way he gently grips her thigh as he cruises down the road, sunglasses perched on his nose letting the wind whip through his hair. The way he loves her.

She can’t take it anymore. As she’s curled up in bed, her fingers mindlessly play with the ring on her finger. The sparkle glimmering in the moonlight peeking through the sheer curtains. The ring almost seems like its alive, glittering in the light, even though the person who so lovingly presented isnt...he’s gone forever. She feels she doesn’t have a purpose anymore. He was her entire life.

Why did he have to leave her? Why did that evil being of a person get into a car knowing he was too intoxicated with vodka and tequila, step into his car thinking it was okay to drive? And why did that person have to hit Harry? Why did Harry have to leave the house at that moment in time? Why, why, why, why? Endless questions crowding her mind, making her feel crazy and delirious.

She will never forget that night. And she wishes she could.

~~~~~~

“Babe, do you have to go now?” Y/N whimpers dragging on her words as she grasps his forearm from the couch. Reluctantly Harry gets off the couch, chuckling at her cuteness.

“Jus’ need to run to the store. I can’t make your favorite dinner if I don’t have the ingredients for it.” Harry hums, leaning down softly kissing her cheek.

He lingers, teasing her well knowing how much she loves it. Dragging his lips softly from her cheek to her jaw, then to her lips.

“Mmm..please stay I don’t care about dinner right now.” Y/N mumbles into the kiss, tightening her grip on his arm attempting to pull him back down next to her.

“Let me cook for you tonight. I haven’t in a while since promo started for the album. Let me treat you.” Harry pulls her up from the couch and brings her into his chest, cuddling her as he kisses the top of her head.

“Fine. But don’t be gone long. I’ll miss you too much.” Y/N pouts endearingly. Harry chuckles again, and goes to grab his wallet from the table.

“I promise I’ll be right back. I can’t break a promise.”

Twenty minutes turned into an hour. Y/N was puzzled, the grocery store was only a mile away. He only needed a few things for the recipe. She called his phone a few times only to hear a voicemail. Frustrated, she started to cry, her thoughts succumbing to the worst. Then it all happened at once.

Her phone lit up with his name on the screen as Y/N scrambled to pick it up the second she heard it ring.

“Harry where are you it’s been nearly an hour!” Y/N worriedly exclaimed into the phone.

“Is this Y/N?” An unfamiliar voice replied, Y/N immediately covering her mouth in disbelief. Something bad has happened. She can feel it.

“Y-yes this is she.” Y/N gulps, stuttering over her words, her hands trembling from the anticipation of the impending news.

“Your boyfriend has been in a terrible accident. I’m a witness and I already called 911 they will be here any minute. You should get here.” His voice sounds sad, unsure. He sounds ashamed and sorry for her. She gasps, a sob slipping her lips as the tears form and start running down her cheeks uncontrollably, oxygen being harder to take in. He gave her the address, and she dropped everything but her phone, ran to the door and sped her car to the scene.

When she pulled up, her sobs thickened. Her eyes not believing the scene in front of her. The site...she couldn’t even recognize his car. Flipped, crushed. Her vision started to blur from her tears, she felt like she couldn’t breathe. Her heart drops, further and further as her eyes frantically make out the scene in front of her.

Before she could stumble our of her car, an ambulance arrived. Her eyes were jolting everywhere. The flashing lights, the cars, the bystanders. It was too much. She felt like it wasn’t real, what she was witnessing. Like it was all some bad nightmare.

Y/N sprinted over, desperate to see him. The worst of her thoughts running through her head over and over. He has to be okay. He has to be okay. She keeps telling herself that, hoping that her prayers are answered.

A police officer steps in front of her, grabbing her shoulders as Y/N desperately tries to break from his grip, sobs and cries mewling from her mouth.

“M’am, you cannot enter the scene.” The police softly explains, still gently holding her back.

“M-my fian..my fiance..” Y/N blubbers, her breathing quickening as an impending anxiety attack is on the horizon.

The police officer’s eyes widen, his head nodding as he realizes who she is, the woman he called 10 minutes ago.

“Okay, okay. You’re Y/N?-“

“Yes, let me through! I-I need to know, need to know if he-if he’s..” Y/N sobs, her chest heaving.

“I-I’m afraid it’s not good. He is going to be airlifted to a nearby hospit-“

“L-let me see him.”

“I don’t know if thats a good idea-“

“LET ME SEE HIM!” Y/N yells in between cries, yanking herself from his grip.

The police officer obliges, bringing Y/N over to the wreck.

Then she sees him. Or what’s left of him.

Lifeless.

Pale.

She can’t even recognize his face. The blood is everywhere, the cuts, the bruises.

His hair is matted with drying blood, his body unconsciously limp. Glass all over his lap, some shards piercing his face. His beautiful face

The next thing she knows, she’s on the floor. Sobbing into her knees, shaking her head hoping it could rid her of the horrific nightmare. Wake up, she tells herself.

But she doesn’t. This is real. She spots a shard of glass a few feet from her and she feels tempted to grab it and slice her own throat so she doesn’t have to live with the pain.

Before the ambulance even got there, he was announced dead.

And Y/N felt like she was on the verge of dying too.

~~~~~~

He broke his promise. He said he would be right back. He said he never breaks promises.

Her sore eyes let out a few lone tears, a pit of guilt settling in her stomach at the most minuscule thought of being mad at him.

But it seems like the only way to cope with the pain.

Anger.

The images of his last moments become too much. Abruptly, she gets her aching body out of bed for what seems like the first time in months. Trudging over to her dresser, she grabs the framed photo of the two of them from the day of their engagement. His arms are wrapped around her from behind, his lips lovingly pressing against her cheek with a smirk as she laughs. Her bright and beautiful ring on full display. After grabbing it she sombers over to the bathub, dragging her feet.

Starting the water, grabbing a razor. She’s replayed this scene many times in her head. How she would go about doing it.

She wants to end the pain. She wants to see him again.

Before she does, she looks around the room. This is it for her. But she’ll be happy. Setting the picture next to her, she stares at it. Tears streaming down her pale cheeks. But she’s quiet. No sobs. Just tears.

She hisses at the pain of the blade digging into her flesh. But then she calms. Relaxes. Her eyes still set on the photo, ring still tightly wrapped around her finger.

Then it happens. She feels herself losing consciousness. But a small smile lifts. Not very wide, but subtle. First time she’s smiled in weeks. Closing her eyes, a shy smile on her face, she whispers weakly, her body slowly losing its grip onto life...

“I’m coming for you Harry. I can’t wait to see you again. I love you”

____________________

A/N: sorry to do that to you guys...requests are open as always

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ksuew · 4 years

Text

The Rookie Live Blog

2x16 The Overnight

Segment 1

Cold Open:

Lucy and Tim are arresting a suspect at the American Idol Auditions. He asks if he can have his backpack from the green room. Tim sends Lucy to get it. While there, a producer rushes in, sees Lucy holding the backpack with the contestant sticker on it and rushes her up to the audition area. Lucy is flustered, tried to explain but is ushered in front of the judges.

She sings “I never loved a man” by Aretha Franklin

According to Eric Winter in the IG live earlier today, the judges had no idea Melissa could sing that well and their reactions are genuine. Also, most of you already know, Melissa won Canadian Idol when she was 17.

She finished her song, Tim can be heard yelling “Chen, where are you?” At which point she says she has to go and runs off like Cinderella at midnight.

Switch to the hospital where the Dr.Grace is drawing Tim’s blood (which is laughable, doctors don’t draw blood in blood drives, but whatever). All the crew is there. Tim says He’s on his way to a court appearance but gives blood every 8 weeks so is getting that out of the way first. Lucy’s in the chair beside him, Harper next to her who jokes that she didn’t know machines had blood.

Grace moves over to check on Nolan (he’s AB negative) He shares that he spent much of Henry’s first year banking blood for him because he was born with TOF a set of 4 heart defects. He had surgery to correct 3 of them before he turned a year old. Grace whispers to John asking when will they be going out again. He suggests the weekend, she says she has her son and will be taking him to Disneyland. He offers to tag along, but she balks. Says she only has him every other weekend. He offers dinner that night and she accepts.

Cute moment when Grace scolds sergeant Grey to finish his juice box which he ignores, and then almost faints.

Cut to Angela’s apartment. She’s asleep and Wes wakes her up coming in. The winds have been keeping her up. They’re excited about a trip to Napa.

Now we’re at the precinct. Harper’s ex husband has shown up and it has Harper on edge. He says Lyla is having nightmares again. She’s saying, “only mommy can help”. Bless her, I feel a parent trap coming on and I am here for it! She says she’ll come by the house and talk to her.

Chen is working the front desk while Tim is at his court appearance. Valerie Castillo (Roselyn Sanchez) comes in asking for the case reports from the previous day. She’s digging into burglaries at 5 star hotels. Lucy tells her there’s a lot more info in the CAD reports. Tim walks in wanting to know why Lucy is volunteering the information. Valerie tries to introduce herself and shake Tim’s hand but he makes no move to shake hers. He says the Herald has a bias against the police, Valerie denies that. A squabble ensues with Lucy playing the uncomfortable witness. He tells Lucy to get ready to roll because they’re hitting the streets as soon as he gets changed. Valerie says she shouldn’t let him talk to her like that and a Lucy explains that he is her TO. “That’s just kind of his style.” Valerie says, “Well being an ass is not a style, but he sure can to wear a suit.” Which Lucy’s face shows she agrees with (as do I for anyone keeping score 😁).

Harper and Nolan stop by her house and she and Nolan discuss the Santa Ana winds as well when a tumbleweed rolls by. The neighbor stops Harper (we already know from the promo that he takes Nolan hostage later) to tell her how sorry he is, thru were such a nice family, etc. says he and his husband are having a rough patch as well. Harper doesn’t remember the neighbor.

Donovan answers the door, harper notices he redecorated. Lyla and Harper go to talk in Lyla’s room. Donovan says she’s been having nightmares on and off for over a year since “it happened”. Nolan asks since what happened just as they cut to Lyla and Harper talking in Lyla’s room. She insists that they’re not just nightmares that she’s hearing someone screaming. Harper thinks it’s just the wind but Lyla says it started before the winds. Lyla says she saw a woman in a nightgown walking down the street with blood on her hands. Cut back to Donovan talking to Nolan. He says Harper and Lyla went to the grocery store and a drug dealer that she had put away in the past recognized her and tried to kill her in front of Lyla. Harper tells Lyla she believes her. Harper wants to stay there that night to do some surveillance so Lyla will know she’s taking her seriously. Harper says that Donovan used the incident against her in court to take Custody of Lyla. They find some dried substance in the road that could be blood, then get back to work.

Tim and Lucy are discussing the reporter. Tim is cautioning Lucy that reporters always have an agenda, she says Tim just doesn’t trust anyone. He says trust has to be earned and calls her naive, cautions her to be careful when dealing with the press. They get called to an auto repair shop where a customer is angry that the cost is over the quote, the owner says he has to pay or he can’t have his car back, so he pulls a snake out of his bag?!? The snake bites his owner in the face, he collapses, the snake slithers off, Tim and Lucy climb into the back of an El Camino.

Cut to commercial

#the rookie #the rookie spoilers #the rookie 2x16 the overnight

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eddiemunsonspantschain · 5 years

Text

Southern Sweet - Finale

Author’s Note: Oh,you thought I was done? This almost didn’t happen bc Emi took my Bi card. Rip.

Pairing: Adam Page x OC

Warnings: Soft cowboy and child birth

Tag List: @allsnarkandsarcasm @vonschweetz @robwiethoff @heelsamizayn

Imagine carrying the biggest pumpkin you’ve ever seen inside of your shirt. That is how I felt. The more I grew the more excited I got and the worse I felt. Adam just got plain excited. Of course he worried over me too but he didn’t have to feel like crap every day. At first I was following him on road being by his side for AEW tapings and events but the bigger I got the harder it was. Eventually I had to call it quits and stay home.

So I did. Adam had moved in back when I was barely showing. Now we just adjusted to life together easily. We even had dogs. Adam claimed it would help me not feel too lonely while he was gone which he was kind of right. I was in the house most of the day and only went out when I had someone to go with me. I had started this some time around my sixth month. I went out on my own and got bombarded by fans. I knew that had meant well but all of them had started touching my belly wanting to feel the baby kick. A panic rose in me. I was so afraid of something happening to Adam and I’s apple. I managed to escape but had a breakdown in the car afterwards,calling Adam in a panic. From then on he refused to let me go somewhere alone if he could help it. Mama reassured me it was because it’s my first.

Speaking of mama. She had pretty much had her own breakdown hearing I was pregnant. Daddy was happy too though less enthusiastic about it. He made sure to ask if Adam would make me an honest woman first and once he had his ‘yes of course,sir’ from Adam he let himself enjoy the idea of having a grandchild.

Tonight we spent it like we usually did when Adam was home. I cooked us both dinner while he took care of the harder chores. Bending down was near impossible now so he took care of the laundry for me while I did things that were at a level I could do. Adam walked into the kitchen with his hair up on a bun and his glasses fixed on his face. “Almost ready?” He asked,walking up behind me and placing his hands on my large belly.

“Almost.” I answered,”For both dinner and this one.” I nodded down to the stomach he was holding. Adam lovingly rubbed my belly and I could feel the smile radiating off of his face. Another task he had taken up when he was home was setting up the nursery. I had a spare room I always kept as an office that was now the baby’s room. Adam took charge of setting up the big furniture we had already though a lot more would be coming when we had the baby shower. I knew the gender of our baby. Adam and everyone else didn’t. I decided I needed to know and wanted to surprise everyone else with it. The baby daddy tried everything in his power to find out what the gender was. Even though he also claimed it didn’t matter because either way he would be happy.

“How’s the apple today?” Adam asked,letting me go to grab two plates for us.

“Kicking the shit outta mama today.” I giggled,”Especially when daddy decides it’s time to speak to them.”

“I can’t help it.” Adam smiled and set the plates down. “Knowing they can hear me and understand my voice it’s just too tempting not to speak to them.” He shrugged and kissed the side of my head.

“Oh,they know your voice alright. Even when you cut a promo or are on Being the Elite as soon as they hear your voice: WHAM! Right in the ribs sometimes.” I grinned and started piling mashed potatoes onto both our plates.

Adam whistled for the dogs and gave them their dinner so they’d leave us be to eat. I fixed the rest of our plates and waddled over to the dining table,setting the plates down. Adam made me sit then and got both of us some water and our utensils. He finally sat down and cheersed forks with me. “Love you.” He said before digging into his food.

“Love you too.” I smiled,shaking my head.

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The morning of the baby shower had been a slightly hectic one. Britt and mama both had planned the party so they were going nuts over the details. They were running around the house making sure everything was in place. Adam had done me the favor of hiring a cleaning lady once I had gotten too big to do much of anything. She was a sweet thing,always reassuring me it was fine and her job to clean. So I invited her to not just clean the house for the party but to attend to. It was the least I could do after all. I also had her help me set up the gender reveal knowing Adam wouldn’t bother the two of us. I made sure to give him a task while I had help shoving colored confetti into a large black balloon.

My mama believed in signs. She had said she dreamed of a little boy but she also said it mattered what I felt. I would know because I’m connected to the baby. There seemed to be a bet going on on the gender of our baby. At work,between our friends and family. Adam’s family was sure it was a boy. Our coworkers were a mix. Some said boy and some said girl. My family was a mix. Mama thinks it’s a boy while daddy thinks it’s a girl. So I decided to make a bet pool at the party. Everyone would be able to vote boy or girl. The losers had to put diapers on and chug beer out of a baby bottle. Adam thought it was the greatest thing ever.

“So,what do you think? What’re you betting on today?” I asked Adam as he and I got ready in our bedroom. Adam had a pink and blue shirt button up shirt on and let me waddle over and unbutton the first three buttons. I always liked it more when he had a couple undone. I was dressed in a blue dress and some flats. While I was protective over my belly Adam was protective of both me and the belly. As soon as it was hard to walk and my feet would hurt he started running around doing everything for me. Sometimes it was a blessing and sometimes it was a curse. A blessing for times when I really was exhausted and doing things like putting socks on since I was always cold now which was new.

By far seeing the changes my body went through was the most amusing. To me for experiencing then and then for Adam letting him know the changes. He always got amused when something suddenly changed. At first I ran hot during my pregnancy then around the five and a half month mark I started being cold all the time. He didn’t complain since he got to hold me more and let me wear his clothes. Not that I gave him much of a choice of sharing his clothes. Sometimes pregnancy clothes were ugly.

“I don’t know honestly. I might pick last minute.” Adam shrugged,moving to sit on the floor by the end of the bed. I sat on the bed behind him,hair tie and a brush in hand and started putting his hair into a bun.

“I know you’ve been going insane not knowing.” I giggled.

“I’m still convinced you did it on purpose to drive me mad. Not to surprise me.”

“I mean I never said I’d tell you.”

“The one appointment I miss...”

I giggled again and finished with his hair. “All done.” I proclaimed,watching Adam get up from the floor. He grabbed my flats and walked over,putting the shoes on my feet. “Everyone should be getting here soon.” I sighed,seeing the time.

“Mama said everything is ready out back.” Adam took my hands and helped me off of the bed. He led me out of our room and down the stairs. Him in front of me,always. When I was going down he was in front of me and going up he was behind me. He claimed just in case I fell because you never know.

I went into the kitchen and held my nose. “Ew. Ewwww.” I whined,smelling the most potent cheese in the world. Cheese never bothered me but the amount of things I could smell now was ridiculous. I had to make Adam stop wearing cologne. Period. Even if he wore it two days ago I could smell it.

Adam laughed,grabbing a bottle of water and steering me out of the kitchen. Out in the backyard mama had decorated the entire thing. Everything was in soft pinks and blues,of course. We had everything someone could need for a baby shower. Already some of our coworkers were here,wanting to be early to help.

“There she is!” Nick cheered and I cringed seeing a camera. It seemed Being the Elite never took a break.

“Here for our special baby episode.” Cody laughed.

“You guys truly never stop,huh?” I asked,accepting all the difficult hugs I could manage.

“Never. Ever. This is forever.” Nick grinned,pointing the camera my way.

“Hello,I’m tired,the sized of a house and very hungry.” I put my hand on the lens of the camera and moved it down,away from me.

“Don’t mess with mama bear.” Adam warned,handing me the bottle of water and kissing the side of my head.

“Well she can’t Superkick me in the face in her condition.” Nick argued with a shrug.

“No,but Adam can if I ask him nicely.” I reminded him with a grin.

“Touche...Touche.”

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The party was in full swing by the evening and I was very tired. We wanted to go into the night and be able to light up the firepit we had installed. We already opened all of the gifts and the sun was starting to set which we decided was the perfect time for the gender reveal. Now,everyone had been placing their bets all day. Mama called Adam and I up to stand in front of everyone. She handed Adam the pink box and me the blue one.

“So everyone’s been voting all day on the gender of our little apple. So the official tally is...” I flipped the card over on the top of the box where mama and daddy had written up the total votes for each box,”Thirteen people said it’s a boy.”

“And eleven voted for girl.” Adam announced,checking his card. “Only this one knows the answer.” He pointed at me.

“I do but we have this nifty balloon that’s gonna make a big mess that I don’t have to clean up.” I laughed,handing the box off and taking the large balloon handed to me.

“Jesus,babe. That thing’s huge.” Adam took the balloon and held it up over us both.

“I know.” I grinned,holding back on making any jokes with the parents around. “Now,you all know the punishment for being wrong.” I warned,taking the pin Kenny handed me. On the count of three I stabbed the balloon and with a big pop pink confetti started falling down on the two of us and flashes went off taking pictures of us both.

“A girl! We’re having a girl!” Adam cheered,bending down to pepper me with kisses. “And...I lost!” He cheered less enthusiastically.

“How did I know you’d get it wrong?!” I laughed,shaking my head.

“I was misled! You’ve been wearing so much blue!”

“You can’t blame me. I just love blue!” I pouted up at him and he sighed,giving me another kiss.

“Okay,that was my fault.” He admitted.

I grinned and clapped my hands. “All the losers please come up here.” I said and all of the Elite stood as well as some family members. There were some people who didn’t vote but I didn’t blame them. I took the package of adult diapers,handing them to the losers to fasten onto themselves. “Here,baby. I got you.” I grinned,taking a diaper and fastening it onto Adam.

“This is my life. I did this to myself.” Adam mono-tonelessly said,looking down at the diaper over his jeans.

Plastic baby bottles were filled with beer and the tops holes were poked a little wider for ease. We gave everyone a bottle and on three all of them began chugging. In the end Marty ended up winning though I wasn’t surprised. For his efforts he was awarded with a bib and rattle of his own. After taking as many pictures as possible of all the losers they finally shed their diapers and we got ready for some dessert.

The cake was one mama had made. We cut the first piece and Adam fed some to me. I was happy to be fed some cake as cake is one of the best things in the world. Afterwards everyone was given a slice of cake and the other desserts were brought out. One of those things being my favorite craving which was pickles with chocolate and peanut butter. I was one of the only ones to eat it though some people tried it and said it wasn’t bad. Which was a victory for me.

After dessert Adam dragged me away from everyone,walking along the gate with me. It had been a long day and the sun was now set. The dark was setting in and the boys were already trying to light the fire pit up. “Ya know I liked feeding you cake.” Adam said out of nowhere and I looked at him.

“Hell,I liked you feeding me cake too.” I laughed,a hand on my swollen belly. “So did she.” I cooed to my stomach.

“I hope I can feed you cake on another occasion too. Maybe some time after she’s born.” Adam stopped walking and dug into his jeans.

“Adam,”I said slowly,watching him pull a velvet box from his pocket. “You know I’m going to say yes already.” I giggled.

“Hey,lemme do this! Pain in the ass.” He playfully scolded and got down on one knee. “We’ve been kind of on this crazy adventure together. We,unknowingly,were loving each other from afar and one day you decided to ask me to be your fake boyfriend even though I wanted to just be your real one. I don’t know what I did to make it happen but it did and now we’re having our own little cowgirl. I just want to make it official. Will you marry me?”

I already felt my eyes burning and my lower lip trembling before he started speaking. I sniffled and swatted his shoulder. “Get up before you get grass stains on your jeans!” I whimpered,”And yes,of course I’ll marry you,you idiot!”

Adam grinned and got up off the ground,brushing his knees off. He pulled the ring from the box and slid it onto my finger. “Of course,we don’t need to get married as soon as possible but I just couldn’t wait to ask.” He said as I pulled him down for some kisses. I kept pressing kisses to his lips as his arms wrapped around me,pulling me as close as he could with my belly in the way.

“I don’t care when it happens. Just as long as you’re the one I’m being married to.” I murmured,cupping his face in my hands.

Adam nudged his nose against mine,just holding onto me. I giggled as our little apple kicked against my stomach,effectively kicking her father. Adam smiled feeling the nudges against him.Eventually we wandered back over to the fire pit,snuggling up with one another while everyone silently noted the ring on my finger.

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The nursery was ready. The house was ready. The hospital was ready. What wasn’t ready,was me. Well,I was ready in that I knew what to do but emotionally? Nah. Adam already asked to be off from work since the doctor said I could burst any day now. I felt fine. Everyone was on their toes waiting for me to pop the little apple out. Every day I got calls from my family,Adam got calls from our friends and his family. It was wild.

I woke up in the middle of the night. This wasn’t odd for me. I would randomly wake up and be unable to fall back to sleep for awhile. Sometimes I accidentally woke Adam. This time I hadn’t,thankfully. I always hated waking him since he always insisted on staying up with me. I sat up in bed now with my phone in hand,playing a game. Slowly I started feeling an ache. It was probably just Braxton Hicks contractions,I was sure of it. They had happened before and scared the shit out of Adam. The aching left and came back again,getting a little worse the longer I sat. Okay...maybe...maybe it wasn’t Braxton Hicks. I slid out of bed,deciding to just get some water. I waddled to the bathroom since it was closer and gasped,grabbing onto the towel rack as a particularly painful contraction passed. Suddenly I was wet. “Oh fuck. Please,please be pee.” I begged,moving to look down. Nope. Not pee. Shit.

I waddled my way back into the bedroom and pulled the dresser drawer open. I wriggled out of my underwear and changed into a fresh pair before pulling on sweat pants. I moved over to the bed and shook Adam. He didn’t wake so I shook him harder. With a loud snort Adam opened his eyes and blinked sleepily. “’M up. Whas goin on?” He rubbed his eyes and sat up quickly.

“Time.”

“Time?” Adam looked at me bewildered.

I nodded vigorously and rubbed my belly. “Time.”

“Time!” Adam rushed out of bed and to the dresser,pulling on pants and a t-shirt as quick as possible and shoving his feet into shoes. He ran over and helped me put sneakers on before grabbing the baby bag from the floor. “Ready?” He asked,grabbing the car keys and other essentials.

“So ready.” I groaned,letting him help me up. Adam threw the bag strap across his chest and bent down,lifting me up.

“Adam!” I squealed as he started for the stairs.

“No time!” He answered,making his way down the stairs carefully but far quicker than I would have on my own two feet.

“Thank god for your thick thighs.” I mumbled,earning a chuckle from Adam. He got us outside and got me into the car quickly. We peeled out of the driveway and headed for the hospital.

“How do you feel,baby?” Adam asked,taking my hand and kissing my ring finger.

“Okay but then suddenly pain.” I answered,rubbing my belly. Another contraction hit and I squeezed my eyes tight,clutching onto Adam’s hand and breathing carefully.

“You’re gonna do amazing,babe.” Adam’s thumb rubbed my hand and I nodded.

“I fucking hope so.” I laughed,opening the window for some fresh air.

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We were quickly brought to our room in the hospital. As soon as we were in there I had to change into a gown and Adam set up shop in a nearby chair. We had set up the baby bag awhile ago thankfully. I laid in the bed and breathed through another contraction. I wasn’t ready to push,unfortunately. Which meant more waiting. The contractions were fairly far apart but I knew as soon as they got too close I was calling for that epidural. Adam didn’t judge me at all.

I thought once I was starting to give birth that the dilation process would go quick. That was a lie. I tried to sleep through the night,being woken occasionally by a nurse or a contraction. Adam didn’t sleep much either. Most of the times I woke he was still awake though the nurses claim he had dozed a few times.

Early the next morning the sun was rising slowly and I was finally starting to get somewhere. I had been actively in labor for hours now. Adam left briefly to get us some food and coffee. I ate slowly,nervous about what was to come to eat much. Adam encouraged me to eat more,telling me I needed my strength to bring our apple into the world.

More waiting. More waiting. It was a lot of waiting I realized. The contractions were close enough now that I was able to get the epidural. After that I felt so much better. Now it was just more waiting and when the doctor finally said it was time I was relieved. I was ready to be done and have my baby in my arms. Adam was a panic beside me. To the untrained eye he looked calm and collected but behind those eyes I could see the panic.

They prepped me and sent Adam off to scrub every inch of himself to get ready for the birth. When he returned I felt so relieved. A part of me worried about it all starting and being alone. Adam took my hand and pressed gentle kisses to it. “You ready?” He smiled and I nodded.

“So ready.” I sighed and squeezed his hand.

As soon as I was told to push,I pushed. I pushed as hard as I could and squeezed the life out of Adam’s hand. If he wasn’t careful he’d have to be taken out on injury because I crushed his hand. I was given a second to breathe before having to push again. It was the oddest sensation. I felt no pain but I could feel the pressure of it all happening. I was told to push one more time nice and hard. I screamed,pushing as hard as I could and crushing Adam’s hand in the process.

“I hope you both have hugs and kisses saved up!” The doctor laughed and a second later I heard crying.

I gasped and broke down in tears hearing my baby girl cry for the first time. She was set on my stomach and I sobbed seeing her little face. I glanced at Adam seeing him in tears looking down at our baby. The nurses called him over to cut the umbilical cord and carted her off to clean her up.

“I love you.” Adam breathed,kissing my head and another on my lips.

“I love you too.” I whimpered,kissing him again and again.

The nurses came back over,our little girl wiggling and crying in their arms. At first they laid her on my chest,letting her hear my heart beating. After a little while they instructed me to open up my gown and helped me attach her to my breast. She latched on and started feeding. While she did the nurses gently wrapped her around me and soon they left us three alone. I touched her little head as she ate. She already had some blonde tufts on her head.

“I hope she gets your curls.” I mumbled,watching her.

Adam was sat in his chair beside me watching her too. “I hope she looks like her mama.” He murmured back,leaning in closer to watch her. When she finished eating I burped her and held her to my chest like they told me to.

Eventually it was Adam’s turn. He took his shirt off,deciding he wanted her to hear his heart beat and not have his shirt be in the way. I sat up enough to put a diaper on her then handed her off to Adam. He took her carefully from my arms and laid her on his chest. He cradled her small body and pressed his lips to her head. “Hey there,I’m your daddy. Shhh,” He cooed to her,feeling her wiggle against him.

We had people coming in and out of the room all the time. Nurses to check on our daughter and eventually to name her. Adaleigh Leila Woltz. Soon it was family and friends coming to meet her and congratulate us both on her. I only posted one picture on Instagram of her tiny little foot with her tag on it. Of course everyone online loved it and wanted to know her name. We held off for now and just set our phones down.

Dressing her in her go home out fit had been the most fun. I was in sweat pants and one of Adam’s shirts. I had no time for real clothes and I was still leaking breast milk and had to wear this band thing around my belly since everything had to go back to normal. Adam helped me dress her in her little onesie with horses on it. We put socks on her that we found that had little pink bows on it and of course we had a little knit hat for her mama had made. Bringing Addie home had been the best thing ever. Adam couldn’t let go of her. If I didn’t have her then he had her while I let myself be a human that wasn’t carrying another human anymore. It seemed he was able to get her to sleep faster than me. While I could get her to fall asleep she fell asleep faster when Adam sang and rocked her gently.

“She’s gonna be a daddy’s girl.” He proudly proclaimed and I smirked.

“So when she’s a teenager you can deal with it all.” I told him and Adam almost choked on air.

“I do not wanna think of our precious baby girl as a teenager yet. Nope. Let me relish in this.” He shook his head and kissed the top of Addie’s head.

“Yeah we probably should.” I sighed,walking over and pressing myself against them both. I kissed Addie’s little hand and smiled as she gasped and wiggled at me in recognition. We both couldn’t wait for her to start making noises.

Life with Addie came naturally to the both of us. Eventually Adam went back to work but when he was home he was all about the two of us. After some time I was able to bring Addie with me to visit Adam on the road. Something he loved when I was able to do. I knew one day I’d be back in the ring. I was far from done. However,right now I’m all about my daughter but Cody reassured me I have a spot no matter what.

Still,nothing beat being home. Being a family.

#Adam Page #Adam Page imagine #Adam Page fanfic #Hangman Page imagine #Hangman Page fanfic #Hangman Page fic #Hangman Page #Adam Page x oc

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snowbellewells · 5 years

Text

Self-Promo Sunday: “Under the Weather”

This is just a little post-Neverland one-shot, taking place sometime after they've returned to Storybrooke with Henry. Pan's gone, and there is no second curse. It was probably originally inspired (some years ago) by cold January weather and my wondering how Hook manages to keep warm and not get sick on a freezing cold old ship. And cold January weather brought it back to mind today to dig out for Self-Promo Sunday. Anyway, pretty sweet and fluffy, I'll admit it, but I still hope you enjoy - even all these years later and after how much closer our pirate and princess became...

"Under the Weather"

By: @snowbellewells

Also available on ff.net or AO3

If anyone had asked her, Emma Swan couldn't have explained why she felt the sudden prickling of concern in the back of her mind, nor the unexpected, pressing need to make sure he was alright. Shaking her head at the sheer ridiculousness of the idea, she had fought against her impulses all day. She had busied herself with paperwork and answered calls about power outages and other inconveniences that came with the cold, wintry Maine weather, but there weren't enough jobs by early afternoon to keep her mind from wandering back to him and her eyes from every so often floating up to check the clock.

David knew something was bothering her; Emma could feel her father's eyes studying her for clues to her agitation. However, he was also wise enough to bite his tongue and not ask questions. She wanted to tell him to go on home to Snow, and she would finish up. Yet she didn't, knowing that would only make him more curious. Resolutely, stubbornly, she kept finding any bit of busy work she could lay her hands on to stop the disconcerting waves of concern for him that were now rolling through her at regular intervals.

'He's a 300-year-old pirate captain, for Heaven's sake!' her mind berated her seeming irrationality. 'He can certainly take care of himself in a sleepy little town. What in the world could he need you for? You haven't had word of any kind of trouble…' Still, while all of these arguments made perfect, reasonable sense, Emma found they didn't soothe her unease in the slightest.

When the clock finally struck five, David stood casually, announcing that since they weren't busy he was going to head home and help Snow with supper, if Emma didn't need anything. Emma shook her head 'no' with a small smile, thanking him and saying she would see him shortly.

"You're sure I can't do anything else to help before I leave?" her father asked sincerely, again looking at her so closely that Emma knew he was trying to divine her thoughts.

"Positive," she reiterated with a definite nod, giving him a playful smirk and waving him out the door. "I'll call if anything comes up, but I should be right behind you in an hour or so."

Once her father had left her to her own devices, Emma tossed the case files she had been pretending to read across the surface of her desk and gave up all pretense of working. Standing up and beginning to pace, she at last admitted to herself that the worry swirling inside her for Hook was not going away – in fact, it was only growing stronger. Taking one last glance around the interior of the station, she realized that she wasn't going to get anything else done, and she wouldn't have any peace until she put her awful hunch to rest. Hook was going to tease her mercilessly about her concern for him, but apparently she was going to have to live with that. The fact that he tended to haunt her steps and turn up anywhere she might be, made it especially disconcerting that she hadn't seen or heard from him in three days. At least, she was telling herself that was all it was.

She grabbed her jacket, hit the lights, locked up, and was headed for her car before she could fight with herself any longer. Parking the bug at the docks, Emma stepped out, straightened her clothes, and steeled her nerves before striding purposefully to the spot at the far end where the Jolly Roger had been anchored since their return from Neverland. Normally, the Captain was so alert and aware that the moment he heard anyone nearing his ship he would have already been standing on deck looking down in challenge, but Emma didn't see any sign of him.

Walking up the gangplank, she let her boots stomp and echo loudly; giving him fair warning that she was coming aboard and expecting him to appear any minute with an "Oi! Who goes there?" and brandished sword, but she was greeted with nothing but silence. Finding her footing on the familiar wooden deck, Emma actually experienced a strange sense of welcome reunion. Since they weren't hiding from Pan and Henry was safe, it was actually nice to be on the sturdy ship once more. She could have really grown to like the adventure and thrill of sailing, if the situation had been different and her son hadn't been in danger. She didn't linger in her nostalgic thoughts for long though. Trailing a gloved hand fondly along the ship's side, she moved toward the open door of the stairway which led below decks. Poking her head in, she tried calling out, "Hook?! Are you here?"

Again she got no response, so tamping down the feeling of trespass, she entered the darkness of the stairwell and stepped lower, growing more concerned all the time. 'Where had the insufferable idiot gotten to? And even more disturbing, why did she care?'

Remembering the lower level of the ship from their time in Neverland, she found her way down the hallway with a guiding hand along the wall, even though evening dusk was closing in and none of the hanging lanterns were lit. She passed the crew quarters that the rest of them had stayed in and didn't stop until she reached the room at the furthest end of the ship – the Captain's quarters. Pausing for a second, she drew in a quick, tight breath and then rapped her knuckles on the door. "If you're in there, Pirate, you'd better answer me," she warned, before adding with wry humor, "and I hope you're decent, because I'm coming in."

Whatever she had been expecting, the sight that met Emma's eyes when she entered Hook's chamber was not it. He was there, but the laughter that had been about to erupt at bursting in and catching him by surprise died in her throat when she got her first good look at him.

He was curled up in his bunk, even though it was barely 5:30, and he looked dead to the world, completely unaware of her presence despite all her yelling and stomping around. Even from across the room, she could see those unfairly long, gorgeous eyelashes flutter fitfully as he hovered not-quite-asleep, not-quite-awake, and he rolled from his side to his back with a pitiful, low groan.

"Hook?" she questioned worriedly, her voice small as she walked toward him, already stretching out a hand hesitantly. Once she got close enough to touch him, she nearly jerked back on contact; his skin was burning with fever under her fingertips. Emma gasped in surprise and leaned in closer, now truly concerned that he wasn't responding to her. She swiped her hand up his sculpted cheekbone to brush under the fringe of his dark hair and feel his forehead, equally hot and clammy from dried sweat.

It might have been the cool feeling of her hand on his flushed skin, but those stunning blue eyes, looking much more bleary and unfocused than usual, finally forced their way open to gaze at her in confusion. "Swan?" he mumbled, his voice sounding ragged and raw, probably from coughing, she realized sympathetically, "What are you…? Am I dreaming?"

She shook her head, smoothing his damp hair back and trying to calm her heart, which was now fluttering erratically at seeing him so vulnerable. "No, I'm here, Hook….I…" she hesitated, feeling that maybe she was giving too much away, "I just had a feeling…that something was wrong…that you needed help."

Hook started to smirk at her and, she was sure, offer some sort of smug comment on her admission, but he was shaken by violent tremors just then, shivering uncontrollably and a gruff sort of moan escaped against his will instead.

Her heart went out to him. Emma had honestly never pictured the man getting ill; he had survived a violent amputation, the Dark One's hand squeezing his heart, the rough, dangerous adventures of a pirate, and centuries of life in more than one realm. She would almost want to tease him for being felled by something as simple as the flu – if she weren't so concerned at the condition she found him in. She couldn't help wondering how long he had been lying there like that. Had he taken too much of a chill before she even arrived? What would have happened if she hadn't felt so compelled to come looking for him?

Reaching her other hand out in an effort to take his good one, Emma heard Hook's breath wheeze disturbingly as his mouth fell open, obviously trying to get a deeper breath through what must be badly congested lungs. "We'll be lucky if you haven't holed up in this drafty old boat and let your flu turn into bronchitis, Buddy," she chided him.

He tried to chuckle good naturedly, she could tell, but it became a wracking fit of coughs that made him clutch at his ribs and squeeze her hand in his, as if for reassurance that she was still there. "Hang in there," she whispered, squeezing back. "You're going to be okay." He barely nodded, but then his eyes fluttered closed and he didn't respond to her anymore. His loud, openmouthed, stuffy breathing let her know not to be alarmed, but Emma took the chance to look away from him and glance around the cabin.

There was a fireplace, but he had obviously not even felt strong enough to get up and tend it, as it had sunk to embers and was about to go out. She felt her own teeth nearly chattering it was so chilly in the room. He should probably be taken to someone's house – or to the hospital – but she didn't think she could move him alone, or that he was going to be able to stand and help her much.

Forcing herself to clear her head and draw in a deep, steadying breath, Emma tried to focus on one problem at a time. She pulled her hand from his clasp, and then patted his arm gently as if to reassure him she would only be a minute, though he made no movement and seemed out of it again. Stepping to the other side of the room, Emma took the poker from the mantle and stoked the fire until the embers flickered to a bit more life and then added a couple new logs. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure he wasn't looking, and then began to rummage carefully through the heavy old trunk she spotted in the corner until she found a few more blankets than the single one that Hook was already using – which must have already been on the bed. He was obviously sweating and feverish, but she knew that he was still chilled and needed to stay covered.

Coming back to his bedside, she sat tentatively on the edge of his bunk, just next to his hips and gently spread both blankets over his inert form, tucking them in with a level of care and concern that bewildered, frightened, and warmed her all at once. Hook didn't even open his eyes, but let out a breathy sigh and murmured in a voice even lower and rougher than usual, "Emma…you came…"

Her name on his lips with such pure and simple affection stilled her motions and she froze for a moment, hands hovering over him as if she had forgotten how to move. Blinking, Emma came back out of her trance and stood again, looking around to see that the fire was crackling and the room was already less cold. With a nod of approval to herself, she quickly escaped above deck for a moment.

She knew her first call should be her parents, to let them know she wouldn't be coming for supper after all. However, she dreaded explaining to her suspicious, overprotective father why she had felt the need to check on Captain Hook and now didn't want to leave him sick and alone. So she put it off by calling Ruby first, knowing the other woman was about to get off work at the diner and asking her to pick up some orange juice, bottled water, cough syrup, and Kleenexes, and bring them to the Jolly, promising she would explain when Ruby arrived. Then, once she couldn't put it off any longer, Emma was relieved to get Snow on her parents' phone. Her mother actually seemed concerned about the Captain as well and wanted to help, but Emma managed to dissuade her – for reasons she didn't even want to study too carefully. She informed her mother she would be back in the morning, once she made sure Hook had some fluids in him and his fever had broken, and they ended the call.

She paced on the deck until she saw Ruby striding down the dock – sashaying was more like it. The female wolf had a sort of wild grace even in her human form that Emma wasn't ashamed to admit she envied. Emma gave Snow's best friend a wave, and Ruby grinned widely, holding up the bag of requested items. Emma thanked her, explained what was going on, paid Ruby, and tried not to dwell on how anxious she was to get back to Hook and make sure he wasn't any worse.

"You've got it bad and don't even know yet," Ruby murmured, eyes twinkling mischievously at Emma.

Emma felt her hackles rise as she shot back defensively, "What are you talking about?"

Ruby just raised an eyebrow at Emma, giving her a look that said she might be fooling herself, but it was right there for anyone else to see. "You can't lie to someone with a canine sense of smell," Ruby smirked teasingly. "The pheromones are literally rolling off of you in waves. Not that I blame you…" she paused, licking her lips almost predatorily, "…that swagger, those eyes, and all that leather…"

Emma snorted indelicately, rolling her eyes at the waitress' antics and turning Ruby to give her a push towards the gangplank. "You're crazy!" she added, laughing even as her pulse raced with the truth and she hoped the other woman couldn't sense that too.

"Whatever you need to tell yourself, Sheriff," Ruby called back as she sidled off with a wave. "I'll let you go…for now. But I want details later." She turned once to wink at Emma, then she was gone, her chuckling at Emma's expense fading behind her.

Once Ruby had left, Emma redirected her steps below; trying to wipe her mind clean of the werewolf's teasing and her heart's whispering that was true. She stepped back into Hook's cabin, eyes immediately drawn to him across the room as she rooted through the bag to pull out the medicine and a bottle of water. She moved closer, only to see that he was shaking, teeth chattering, limbs shuddering enough that the blankets were sliding off him. His eyes were no longer closed, and they rolled up to meet hers weakly as he coughed harshly, sounding as though it raked his chest raw. "No need to gawk at me, Emma love, it's embarrassing enough having you here when I'm like this." He didn't get any more out though as the effort of speaking set off another coughing fit. Trembling, he suddenly wouldn't look her in the eyes.

She took pity on his pride and leaned in to help him sit, offering the plastic cup of cough syrup.

Hook wrinkled his nose, looking at it doubtfully for a moment, then glanced to her, "What is this, Lass?"

"Medicine, you stubborn pirate," she laughed, shaking her head at his hesitation and holding it out to him again. "Come on, I'm trying to help. We need to get some liquids in you."

He held out his hand to take the cup from her, but his fingers trembled so badly that Emma could see he was going to spill it all if he did. With a sigh, she brought it to his lips instead, tilting it so he could swallow, and gasped slightly, feeling a tingling sensation run through her hand as her knuckle brushed his chin. Their eyes locked together at the shock of the contact and neither moved until he shivered violently again, the shakes actually rattling his teeth and jerking them from the strange sort of reverie they had entered.

"Go on, Beautiful," he grit out, lying back as comfortably as he could manage and averting his eyes, "can't have you getting sick too. I'll survive. It will not be the first time in 300 years that I've been ill."

Something about the way he said those words and the look in his eyes stopped Emma cold. Her insides squeezed painfully at the thought of him suffering like this before with no one to rely on or even care if he recovered or not. That realization alone made her more determined than ever to take care of him, despite him being too proud to ask for help or want to trouble her. She shook her head, leaning with him as he tried to back away from her. "Nope, sorry, Hook. You're stuck with me." She held out the water bottle next. "Here, drink up."

His eyes narrowed, and he tried to growl at her, but the menacing effect was ruined by his raw throat and how pathetic it ended up sounding. "I'm not an infant, Swan." He grumbled a bit more, but drank about half the bottle with her holding it for him, before he stopped with a short sigh of frustration. "Go on. You must have better things to do, and I don't wish to impose."

"Really?" she shot back at him, arching a brow at his attitude, but not put off by it for a second. It was scary how alike they were; she could tell he detested looking vulnerable in front of her, or anyone. If she was honest with herself, she probably acted the same way anytime she was sick. "Stop being such a baby, Hook," she added, kicking her boots off and hanging her coat over his desk chair, "and slide over."

She nearly laughed out loud at his startled expression, and his confused, "Swan? What are you on about?"

"You're sick. You're cold. You need someone to look after you. I'm the only one here, so I'm not leaving. However, I'm tired, and it's chilly, so scoot over."

For a second, she thought he was going to fight her, and she wasn't sure if he was embarrassed, worried she would get sick, or if he truly was – despite all his innuendo – the gentleman he had always claimed to be. A round of chills and coughing gripped him again though, and once his head dropped to the pillow once more in defeat, she knew she had won. "Scoot," she ordered again, lifting the covers to crawl in next to him once he did.

So close to him, Emma realized how clammy and chilled Hook truly was. He had felt like he was burning up earlier, but the shivers would be hard to miss, curled up next to him as she was. To her amusement, as reluctant as he had seemed moments before, Hook was now pulling her closer. "You're so warm, Emma," he murmured, his arm coming to rest across her middle and shooting heat through her veins.

"You're a little bit out of your head right now, aren't you?" she teased him, still genuinely concerned, but also touched at the fact that he had allowed her comfort, feeling needed and wanted right where she was. Without thinking, or stopping to second guess what her hand did instinctively, she began to lightly stroke her fingers through his coarse, black hair, sifting it soothingly and watching as his breathing smoothed out and his forehead came to rest in the crook of her neck. It gave her an adorable little thrill in her stomach at the sight of him looking so young and unguarded, as if his burdens had lifted away.

"Emma," he murmured out under his breath, and neither the scratchiness nor the softness could mask the gentle affection in his voice.

Her heart stuttered, wondering what he was thinking as he whispered her name in his sleep. For a second, she wanted to panic and bolt, but then she realized how lovely the moment actually was. She could honestly lie right there with him and never want to move away. Occasionally, a small little tremor still ran through him, but they seemed to finally be lessening. She smirked wryly to herself, knowing that if she was smart, she would be out of his bed by morning, before he woke up feeling better and ready to plague her mercilessly for all of this. She lightly traced her hand in circles on his back, hoping he was warm enough and that she had gotten enough medicine down his throat.

Shaking her head, Emma chuckled at the way he had curled himself around her protectively, smiling in his sleep unawares. She felt her own eyelids growing heavy, and the thoughts that had troubled and distracted her all day simply floated out of her mind. She was almost grateful she had the excuse to be so close to him and hold him; she would never have done it otherwise. Defining this could wait; she was going to enjoy the moment while it lasted.

Tenderly, she tilted her head just a bit to place a light little kiss to his forehead, amazed at how beautifully at peace he looked in sleep, then cuddled deeper into their embrace. Deciding just this once not to be in control, but simply to feel, she allowed her eyes to close and followed her pirate's lead, drifting off to sleep at his side.

(I was originally so flattered that "Under the Weather" received so many nice reviews, that though I really only had that one-shot in mind, the requests for the next morning caused me to re-think and come up with this. After all, good reviews are nearly as irresistible as Killian Jones' smile. It's (again) pretty sweet and fluffy...)

Epilogue: The Next Morning

Rays of warm, golden sunlight filtered into his cabin, tickling Killian Jones' face and waking him groggily from sleep. He yawned, intending to roll over and go back to sleep, when he froze, his movement arrested in shocked surprise at discovering that he was not alone in his bunk. He stiffened, years of being on guard and ready for attack taking over unconsciously as he turned his head tentatively to the side. Despite the lingering stuffiness and congestion in his head and the weak sensation in his limbs, he was pirate enough to have already reached for the cutlass he had stowed at his other side before lying down the night before, tucked hidden between the edge of the bunk and the wall. However, the vision that greeted his eyes stilled his actions and stole his very breath.

Emma Swan was curled up next to him, actually cuddled into his side, her long, blonde tresses arrayed across the pillow with the sunlight glancing off them in a glowing halo. She let out a sweet little sigh and nuzzled her face into his shoulder, bringing her hand to rest unknowingly on his chest. There was a look of such peace on her face, that he had never seen her wear in waking hours, and it completely enchanted him.

Killian knew without a doubt that if he woke her, she would run – shut him out again, pick up her cares once more, and reinforce her walls. It pained him, but he knew it to be true, as surely as he breathed. He wanted desperately, more than he had any right to hope, for her to stay. Emma had come to him, cared for him, when he was ill and alone, and it had kindled a longing in him that she would trust him enough to stay always. From the moment he had met her, with her fiery eyes and stony determination, a modern woman out of her element in the Enchanted Forest, he had been drawn to her as strongly as had been pulling away from him. She didn't want to be abandoned as she had been before, so she had made sure to leave him first. He had been following her ever since. Her turning up last night changed the game. Suddenly, he was not the only one who cared.

Emma's brow furrowed in her sleep, as if something in her dreams troubled her, and hoping to soothe her, Killian reached over to brush a finger across her cheek, feather light, then smoothed the crinkled skin between her eyes. He was hoping to ease her back into quiet slumber, not wanting her to wake, or for this dream to end. It was as if he had wakened into a serene moment of refuge from the world that had been nothing but a bitter storm of hate and cruelty for as long as he could remember – until she entered it.

Her lovely face smoothed again, and she mumbled sleepily, a tiny smile quirking one corner of her perfect, tempting mouth. She practically hummed the word that he leaned in to hear. "Killian…" she whispered, her tone sounding so warm and happy caressing his given name that he could not help but smile and long for the day when she might speak it to him with that much affection while awake.

It didn't matter that his throat was still raw and he would kill for a drink. He tried to stifle the need to cough, for fear it would jostle the golden-haired angel who had now rolled over to face him and twined her legs with his as surely as she had twined her grasp around his heart. He hardly dared to breathe, much less move, but he was still staggered by how much better he felt just being able to clumsily sift his calloused fingers through the strands of her silky mane.

Sunlight might have been pouring in to wake them, but he was going to ignore it for the chance to have this incredible, broken, infuriating woman in his arms as long as her possibly could. "I love you, Emma lass," he whispered hoarsely under his breath, placing a kiss to her temple. Then he closed his eyes, not sure if he could actually manage sleep with her so near, but needing to savor this moment. So gently it was almost imperceptible, he cradled her even closer to the warmth of his body, glad he had woken to find her still there.

Someday, he did desire to wake her with languid kisses trailing down her neck and along her collarbone, whispering endearments before either keeping her in his bed all day to love her as she deserved or venturing out to fetch her breakfast and talk to her and she readied for a new morn. Yet he knew that day had not yet come. He would not rush her. Instead, he would celebrate the step she had taken in allowing him to know of her concern for his well-being. He would hold her close enough to memorize and treasure the feeling – in all probability, she would fight its happening again anytime soon – and be glad she had given him reason to hope. Killian touched one flaxen strand of her hair, twirled it around his finger for a moment, and then tucked it behind her ear. "I can wait as long as you need, Emma," he whispering fervently. "I have all the time in the world."

Tagging a few who may enjoy (or did before): @effulgentcolors @let-it-raines @spartanguard @kmomof4 @jennjenn615 @teamhook @revanmeetra87 @winterbaby89 @resident-of-storybrooke @thislassishooked @laschatzi @whimsicallyenchantedrose @searchingwardrobes @hollyethecurious @sherlockianwhovian @killian-whump @thisonesatellite @profdanglaisstuff @shireness-says @snidgetsafan

#self promo sunday ff #cs canon divergent #post 3a ouat ff #sick! killian #flustered worried Emma #cs ff #cs two shot

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