#extending an apology to the lesbians i spent an hour trying to find the best screenshot for your colors

[breath-of-fresh-grantaire]

happy pride month i color picked flags from 2012 les mis

[sapphicscholar]

Wayhaught prompt for Nicole's reaction to the text

I had an angsty prompt for Wayhaught I feel like Nicole when receiving the text would automatically think about what Goononna had said to her and also what Wynonna said to her "you're not her keeper" etc. I feel like she'd feel terrible and like Waves deserved better and they having the talk

If you want I had a Wayhaught prompt for Nicole thinking about what Goononna said to her about Waverly and start doing those things. (Like give her space and makes it clear she only wants waves to be herself)

Lying in bed, Nicole tried to fight the temptation to look at her phone…again. There was no use; the words weren’t going to change. They hadn’t changed after the first time she threw her phone across the room then hastened to retrieve it. They hadn’t changed after the first finger of whiskey she’d poured from a bottle she found in her cabinet from when Wynonna first visited. They hadn’t changed after the second or the third either. And she knew better than to think a fourth or a fifth would do anything more than make them blur together.

Yet she found her eyes dropping down to her screen once more, skimming past the litany of apologies from her own number, past the now embarrassing pleas for forgiveness, for a chance to explain that she hadn’t meant to keep something from Waverly, had only wanted to find a better time and place to give it to her than at the precinct or at Wynonna’s baby shower.

And there it was: Waverly’s first communication with her in days. “Dear Control Freak. I will talk to you when I want to talk to you. Until then, have a nice life hurting the people that you love.”

The words rang too familiar. And it wasn’t just because they brought back memories of a few extended family members and “well-intentioned” family friends reminding her over and over again that she was a disappointment by virtue of whom she was, of whom she loved. No, those were memories that hurt in the way her knee still twinged slightly after a bad accident in her younger days—phantom pain, nothing more.

Waverly’s text, though, it brought back fresher memories, memories of a pair of Earp sisters possessed by a demon in turn, telling her all of the ways she was wrong for Waverly, all of the ways she wanted too much. Wynonna’s words from the night they finally ended it still echoed in the back of her head: “That was the demon talking. Don’t believe all of it.” But there was that pesky “all of it.” That meant some of it should be believed.

She’d spent the weeks since then trying to make things right, trying to find out what had and hadn’t been real. She’d panicked about the moments of intimacy and, god, the firsts they had enjoyed together. Sure, Waverly assured her that she was more herself in those moments, more in control then than at any other time, but she still worried. After all, it wasn’t like sleeping with a woman was something Waverly had done before. What if she regretted it? What if she only did it the first time because something, some demon, had been in control of her at the time? How would she ever be able to forgive herself? She’d known something was off, could tell that it wasn’t always her Waverly in there. Yet she’d let it happen anyway. Those concerns, though, Waverly had seemed to reassure her through soothing words and repeated assurances and eager touches, kisses, caresses, that it was something she still wanted, long after the demon had been dealt with.

But the things Wynonna said…they couldn’t be shaken quite so easily. And they weren’t all the demon, Nicole knew that; Wynonna had said as much. Hell, she’d even brought some of those things up before she’d known about the demon, let alone been possessed by it—like the idea that Nicole somehow wanted Waverly to change for her, become someone she wasn’t. And Wynonna had apologized later, but still. The points lingered.

God, then there had been the demon. Nicole groaned, rubbing her temples, trying to stave off the hangover that already seemed fast approaching. But those words, they wouldn’t stop racing through her head, reminding her of all of the reasons Waverly probably sent that text.

Waverly’s “a good faker. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

“Waverly needs space. She’s dying under the weight of your expectations. Waverly’s not the white picket fence in Purgatory girl you want her to be anymore.”

“You are not my sister’s keeper.” Then, “You’re a little ‘queen brisk of bossy town’ for my taste.” And, fuck, Wynonna was perfectly herself then.

And there it was—proof, in text message form, that everything Wynonna had yelled at her was true. Waverly really did feel like Nicole was controlling her, like she was putting expectations onto her to be someone she wasn’t, to do things Nicole’s way.

She had tried so damn hard to be better, to make it clear to Waverly that she didn’t want her to be anyone but the woman she was. She’d tried to be supportive of Waverly’s involvement with Black Badge, even as she tried to stick up for herself. Because there had to be some balance, right? She couldn’t just let Purgatory PD roll over on any case that seemed slightly suspicious, slightly out of sorts. The whole damn town was out of sorts! But she hadn’t brought up Black Badge again, hadn’t made a big deal about not being included.

She’d tried getting her work hours to overlap better with Waverly’s, to make sure that Waverly wouldn’t end up waiting around for her at work, sitting around the precinct where Wynonna could see her, could give her that judgmental glare that she thought Nicole wouldn’t notice. She’d heard stories from across the town, from everyone who thought Waverly deserved better than Champ, about how this promising young woman seemed too willing to throw it all away for a boy, seemed to put her life in second place behind anything he wanted or needed at the moment. She was his cheerleader in every sense of the word. But those people, they said they saw her passionate again, saw her advocating for herself better, looking happier. And that had to mean something, Nicole tried reasoning.

At this point, though, she didn’t know what was true and what she just wanted to be true. Part of her wanted to blame this town, blame a place where demons rose every generation, where girlfriend’s possessions went unnoticed, where revenants walked and did business among regular folks, where immortals owned bars and drove pickup trucks and threw back shots with the best (and the worst) of them. But she also blamed herself.

She’d backed off of the overly affectionate statements, tried not to force Waverly into saying things she didn’t mean. She stopped talking about their future together, stopped forcing her own ideas about what they might be onto Waverly. She let Waverly take the lead on saying things like “I love you” when they were on the phone or leaving. She let Waverly set the pace in the bedroom, never wanting to push too hard.

But their dynamic hadn’t changed for the better. Instead, Waverly just seemed upset, asked Nicole whether they were okay, if she had done something wrong. And this was the last thing she had wanted—the absolute last. Because she loved her Waves—any version of her, save perhaps for the goo-infected one—and she wanted to be able to tell her and show her without worrying about going too far, saying too much. And she’d wanted to talk about this, to sit down and have one of those overly emotional conversations that seemed so stereotypical and endemic to lesbian relationships. But she’d wanted it, suspected they could use it. Then the letter happened. And now…now it was radio silence. Until the text that had her hanging on the edge of a little tipsy and a little hung over, on the edge of hopeful that there had been any contact at all and devastated about what it was.

But then there was a knock, and she let that hope take over for the first time, let it overcome the deep pit of self-loathing she’d let herself peer into these past few days. Because she knew if they could just talk, if she could explain, if she could apologize sincerely in person, that surely they could work it out. And this time she’d be honest. This time she’d tell Waverly about everything she feared, about all of the reasons she’d been acting differently. This time they’d work through it together.

She flung open the door. “Waves!” Only, it wasn’t.