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shadowdianne · 3 years

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Kisses with their last dying breath

A/N So, apparently, my beloved anon, you are none other than @delirious-comfort. With that in mind I must remind you all that this time I wasn’t the one going for angst. The prompt specifically requests for it so, pointing fingers, please go and talk to AJ about this one

Having said that. Since you don’t do shipping, but merely prompts -your words, not mine xd- I had a little bit of a discussion with myself on what would be the best angle. Try at Cissamione even though we both know that’s kind of stagnant at this point? Try for bellamione even though we are painfully aware I don’t actively ship them minus some very few cases? Go for some of your most recent pairings you are currently reading about? I could but I lack some general background that while interesting would account for some hours of studying about the pairing in particular that would still make it sound fake-y. Should I go for SQ even if we both know how utterly burnt out I’m from the fandom in general? Should I go for some of my OCs? To be honest. I really would like to present them in society so to speak -lol- but I’m not entirely sure how to go about that or if anyone would be interested PLUS there would not be the emotional impact other pairings would have since you don’t know them.

At the end I went for SQ. I’ve killed them both enough times to be a familiar territory for the two of us lol. And let’s be honest; destroying Regina with feelings is something I’ll always enjoy if only for the multiple pathways that opens to her way of dealing with grief.

Anyway, I’ve rambled enough, on with this

PS: Quiet warning: There’s mention of hospitals on this one. I’m obviously not a doctor so I’ve decided to take some liberties here and there but considering the amount of bullshit we are all experiencing at the moment if you feel like passing on this one I’d understand. This goes both to AJ here or any other reader. AJ if you don’t like this version I have a much more magicky one drafted I can whip out.

The beeping of the machines is incessant and there is a stupid comfort in them Regina has grown to hate. Their sound is a painful reminder of those who get to keep on breathing, no matter how labored. She had learnt, years ago, how death can make everyone selfish, painfully selfish, but there’s still a freshness to it that makes her take breaths deeper than she would usually go for if only to remind herself that the machines don’t beep for her. Not yet, after all.

Her hands are still and clammy, cold having already crept out over her fingertips for the number of hours she has taken the position she is now in. She could move, she knows that, but the pain is also a bringer of comfort since they keep on holding, fastened around much more fragile fingers that keep their own curve against them: an instant magic traveling from hers to them in a never-ending circle. She has wondered, more times than she is able to count since days are a blur of repetition she wishes would be the byproduct of a curse, about that lifeforce, that link, she has wished for the ability of her fingers and her touch alone to heal and cure and bring back. She does it again now, out of the play for the mental exercise than anything else since morphine has been administrated steady enough now to come to the fact that there’s very little in regards of acting beyond the act of waiting itself.

She has come to despise how clocks are incessant and ever-present no matter where she is at. The continuous trickle of seconds, minutes, and hours another reminder, a threat, that she cannot really stop. No matter how long she may try to run away from time, it has the ability to come back to her, to the background of her mind, in where she is capable of listening to its faint ticking, always reminding her, always making her feel as if time is as still as water can be, as running as dry sand over her closed fists.

The smell of the hospital is another thing she is familiar with. Was familiar with. But there’s an acute lack of difference around it. Regina loathes this, she would love to be able to sense more, to see more, to see a distinct difference she could cling to. There’s none, not really. Magic is the only thing keeping her sane and she has come to resent it too, if only for the way its mingled, mixed, with that scent that she has come to link with Emma much more than cinnamon, than burning comfort, than clean blankets, than comfortable afternoons.

She should be the one going first. She had muttered it through gritted teeth as they had first heard the news: both Henry and her. Whale had been apologetic, soft, but the impact of his words had still dented them both. Snow and David had been much louder than they had been but, at the end, they had always been louder. Wasn’t anything else they could do?

Palliatives, the doctor had said, and his eyes had been clear, as if waiting but Regina had known that he felt reluctant about it. How much would be for their benefit, how much for Emma’s? The question had haunted her, no true answer behind the words. It was all about selfishness, about selflessness? Did it really darken her heart wishing for anything, anyone, that would be able to make time run slower and slower still? The quiet understanding of not having much more to do came with that precise ticking; pain still blazing through her every move.

“It will hurt less and less.” She had tried to tell herself, Henry, but while true in some aspect she still couldn’t quite place, it really didn’t matter. The bouts of pain were there, after all, and would continue to be.

Emma had been lucid sometimes after the news, her body seeming to give up on her a day, keep her standing the next. There were minute changes, of course: a glimpse of her eyes, a way of smiling, a way of holding her hands, always in the same angle product of the tubes, the hospital bed, the height of the mattress, the height of the chair. At first she had grabbed to them, hoping that they would signal something. At the end, truly, they hadn’t.

Was it selfish for her, then, to work with and against time at the same time? Was it selfish for her to bury herself in memories as they superimposed themselves with the image of Emma, consumed Emma, who kept on cracking jokes whenever she had enough presence of mind to do them? She hadn’t truly spoken about it, about not waking up at some point, of the way her body felt always cold now, of how magic felt weaker now, of how her scent was mixed with that awful awful odor of hospital and sickness.

It would be easier, Regina said despite knowing it wasn’t true, would never be, if there truly had been something that she could focus at: something to name and seek revenge against.

“Her entire body is failing her.” Whale had said and Regina had nodded, knowing I already, fearing for it already. Emma had been silent that day, lucid, capable of talking and remembering them all well enough to be able to sense what their contrite faces screamed rather than whisper.

Regina had learnt quite quickly that she wasn’t a whisper type of person. She understood why Henry did it, why David did, why Snow would only if doctors were present and explaining things to them, but she hated it. She would rather have Emma listen to her voice until there was nothing left to say. Silences were more difficult to bear.

Except now, of course, in where time is running thin enough to be translucent and the hours are minutes that pass through as the trickling of the morphine keeps its work. She is not able to see it, of course, the liquid, since it had already been administrated and the last dose had been given a few minutes ago, but her mind keeps conjuring the image up, as a way of understanding, maybe, of picturing what she is not able to.

She feels a tap of her hands, more of a shiver going up her cold fingers and she focuses back on what laid around her rather than solely on Emma’s face. Still had come with different descriptors the longer the time passed. Still did not mean completely, there always would be some tension around her eyes, around her mouth, the way her cheeks sat atop the bones. Completely relaxed muscles meant something else, something that she kept on searching for, dreading it. There were times in where the muscles changed positions, quick trembles that created a smile there, a wink here, words that would be understandable or not at all and Regina had lost count of the promises -empty, full of anger and ire and fire and heat and cold and tiredness- she had screamed to time.

They had taken away the nasogastric tubes, there would not be any food to be given, after all, and all medications were already via catheter, so she is able to see words forming around Emma’s lips, as if they are drawn around them rather than being pushed away from slowly falling lungs. It takes some time: throat is still sore, energies are running low, but Regina had grown accustomed to the language that came with it all. She moves closer, closer still, not quite registering the whimper that comes from Henry’s side of the room [He refused to touch Emma sometimes and the notion hurt Regina, but she knew she couldn’t quite make him do it if he himself wasn’t able to and the dichotomy of both statements tore her apart if she looked into them long enough] and pushes through tired eyes and sore muscles.

“Would you kiss me?”

A bubbling tear echoes through Regina’s own vocal cords, but she swallows it down knowing this would not be the time for them. She is strong, isn’t she? She is, she needs to be. And so, she glances back to Henry who is biting on his fist and staring at his mothers, at loss.

Time, damned time. Snow and David are asleep, having been reminded that they had a child to attend to, having asked, pleaded almost to be let known if anything changed. Regina has been reluctant on understanding what anything truly meant. She now eyes back to Emma, at the way her eyes were clouded, and she motions to Henry for the phone.

“Call them.” She asks and she knows with distinct clarity that there would be a much more time to talk and chat and listen later, but she feels like she isn’t able for any of it now. Henry flees for the call, his own lips quivering, and Regina eyes Emma once more, at the way lines of magic run through her skin, at the way her face tilts towards her, at the starched sheets and the white and paleness of it all. She drinks on it until she feels that there is nothing else to gorge with only to realize there is. There always will be more.

They had had their time, hadn’t they? But not enough, not close to it, and she rages once more as she keeps on eyeing Emma, at the question that still floats between them with Henry still muttering on the phone and Snow’s voice a high-pitched scream that speaks of quick movements and clothes thrown over bodies still tired and sluggish due to sleep.

Had she known it? She would then later be asked, and she would not be able to respond without giving away too much, far too much of a moment she felt unprepared to explain with words that would never reach between the gaps she would leave out of her answer.

She moves closer, her elbow protesting and snapping in place as she takes everything in, as she breaths, as she counts the beeps that come from some place at her back, echoing through corridors that she had always felt empty but now feel full.

Her lips taste different, the movement that come from them a reflex more than a reply, but she clings to them as she raises her free hand and caresses the other’s face, grateful for the clinking sound of her promise ring as hands are freed and the two rings touch. She wishes to be able to feel everything but there is only the sense of touch that is still on her as the kiss lengthens and so, as she moves, tears burning, she knows that she ought not to look because if so she will fall.

[Henry looked, Henry held her as she fell backwards, as quiet as possible, as burning as she felt. David and Snow arrived late, Emma’s magic gone, nothing lingering but the purple of Regina’s own color, now muted, darker, she cried while wishing for a razor blade to open her up, to reflect the pain in a way that felt proportional. But there was only vastness.

And a kiss. A promise.]

A goodbye

#swan queen #SwanQueen #unedited #again #prompt #delirious-comfort #I changed in which tense I wanted to write this mid-way through so if any tense is doing its little thing is basically because of that #enjoy the typos

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opheliadawnwalker3 · 4 years

Text

Siren *Part 3*

Author’s Notes: I just wanted to thank everyone for reading and reviewing my first multi chapter fic. Your feedback really means a lot to me and I hope to keep delivering! Thanks again :)

Synopsis: Reader is married with a young son and working as a waitress at a popular nightclub in the 1930′s. Her husband is fatally ill and his new treatments are swiftly draining their meager savings. Desperate, she struggles to make ends meet until she catches the eye of the son of a notorious crime boss. Loki Laufeyson is dangerous, powerful and very wealthy and isn’t used to being told no. He offers her a way out of her money troubles. But how far is she willing to go to save her husband?

Part Three: The calm before the storm. Reader gives Richard his final dose.

Part One Part Two

*****************************************************************************************

Loki was much rougher with you this time. Your thighs were still tender from when he pushed your legs up to your chest. You still smell like him. His cologne and musk clinging desperately to your used body. When he was done, Loki calmly lit a snipe and coolly slid a thick wad of money down the front of your dress. Thankfully, he let you keep your underlings this time.

After Loki was finished with you, you insisted on being dropped back off at Louie’s. You did not want him to know where you lived. It would only bring nothing but trouble. The rest of your shift flew by in a haze. You could feel several of your coworker’s eyes on you. Wondering why you would possibly leave with Laufeyson and his trigger men. Curious, yet no one had to courage to outright ask. You just played it off as normally as you could until it was time for you to leave. Inwardly, you were in absolute turmoil. The thick wad of cash tucked into your dress feeling more burdensome by the second.

In your bathroom, you stare in the mirror as you splash cold water on your face. You hardly recognize the woman staring back. With your features pinched together in silent judgment, you look several years older. You feel disgusted with yourself. You look down at your hands.The same malicious hands you pleasure Loki with, are the same ones that drips arsenic into Richard’s throat.

You’re suddenly overwhelmed with the crushing weight of your decisions on your shoulders and your fingers grasp the sink tightly. You squeeze your eyes shut as a wave of panic and nausea roll over you. You grit your teeth as the tightness in your chest increases. You struggle to control your breathing.

You are a whore and a murderer. But you can’t quit now. Not after everything. It will all be over in a few days and then you could move on. Start your new life with your boy.

Your eyes fly open. You needed to see him. You need to remind yourself who you’re doing this for.

You let out a shaky breath and pull yourself away from the sink and your judgmental reflection. You pass Richard’s door, comforted by his pitiful wheezing snores. One less thing to worry about tonight.

Johnny lay sleeping in his crib, unbothered and untouched by the world. His chubby fingers clutching onto his favorite stuffed rabbit. You reach down and softly brush his hair out of his face as silent tears slide down your cheeks. Your heart clenches tightly with unwavering love and guilt.

It will be worth it. To give him a good life, it’ll all be worth it.

*******************************************************************************************

You yawn as you stand at the kitchen counter, waiting for the toast to pop up. The rays from the sun trickle in through your kitchen window, bathing the apartment in rich golden light. You slide Richard’s glass of orange juice towards you as you lift the small clear bottle from your apron. Just a few more drops. Maybe one or two more for good measure.

It had to be today. You had prolonged the inevitable long enough.

Today was the day Richard would die.

You stir the mixture together, just as the toast pops up. You butter them, then add his favorite blackberry jam. A couple of slices of bacon sit on the side. You would rather avoid another steak incident if you could.

You take a deep breath and gather yourself as you pick up the plate and glass. Quietly walking down the hall so you don’t wake Johnny, you knock softly on the door.

No reply.

You turn the doorknob slowly and peak your head in. “Richard? I brought you some breakfast. I wasn’t sure how hungry you’d-”

You halt, taken aback at the sight of your husband. It had barely been ten hours since you looked in on him and yet here he was on death’s door. Richard slowly turns his head to look at you and his lips twitch with a faint smile you haven’t seen in months.

“Do I...look as awful as I feel?” He sputters out in a playful tone. You allow a fleeting expression of sadness to pass your features before crossing to stand by his bed.

“No dear, you still look as handsome ever. Do you...feel like eating today? Can you sit up for me?”

Richard winces as he attempts to sit up and you have to help pull him up the rest of the way. You push the glass of orange juice towards him.

“Here. I imagine your throat is sore from all that coughing. Freshly squeezed, just how you like it.”

Richard coughs wetly before picking up the glass, tired eyes looking over his small breakfast. Much to your surprise, his expression seems...grateful. His eyes meet yours as you move to sit on the bed next to him, placing a hand on his knee in a deceivingly caring gesture.

“You’re a good woman.” He rasps calmly as he takes a long pull of orange juice. Unwillingly, you feel a small tug on your heart. How long had you waited to hear any words of kindness from the man you married? For any sort of genuine warmth from the man you fell in love with? For years he controlled and terrified you. Beat you until there was hardly anything left. It was far too late now.

So why is there a pang in your heart now? Is it just guilt? Or is there some sick twisted part of you that still loves him?

You offer a small smile and a reassuring pat on his knee before you rise from the bed.

“Well I’ll...just leave you to your breakfast-” you’re cut off when Richard quickly reaches out and grabs your hand. You flinch at the sudden movement.

“No wait. Please...stay.” Richard pleads in an unusually weak voice. You look down at him, unsure. He withdraws and you feel his fingers trace the scar on your hand. His eyes briefly shimmer with what you could only describe as guilt. “I mean...I would really like the company.”

You nod complacently, sitting back down on the bed. You watch silently as Richard takes another gulp of orange juice and nibbles on his toast. After a couple of minutes, Richard finally breaks the silence.

“Do you...remember where we first met?”

You were taken aback and you place your hands in your lap to avoid squeezing the sheets nervously.

“Of course I do. At the Feed Rack Stand. You were there showing off with your Pallies.”

“And you were there with your parents. You stuck out in your bright pink dress. You saw a kid drop his ice cream cone and you gave him yours. I knew right then I was dizzy for a dame.”

“Richard...” You trail off softly.

“And that Fourth of July picnic out at the lake? You brought that Buttermilk Creme Pie that everyone thought was just aces. Then we watched the sailboats pass by and that family with the young twins? That’s when we decided to try for a baby.”

You remembered. You were originally going to wear your pretty white sundress, but the bruises on your arms still hadn’t healed. So you had to wear a drab blue dress with longer sleeves. The evening fireworks terrified you with their sudden booming.

“And when I saw you holding Johnny for the first time...you never looked more beautiful...”

“Stop this...you’re going to get better. The doctor is coming in two days with the new treatment.” You lie through your teeth. You were going to hell there was no doubt about it. To tell a man he would heal when you’re actively pouring poison down his throat will surely earn you a seat on Satan’s lap. But you needed to say anything to get out of that room.

Richard lets out a strained laugh and shakes his head. “I just...I know I didn’t always treat you right. My father...he wasn’t a very good man and I...guess I take after him.”

You feel a conflicting stab of both rage and empathy flicker through you. Your stomach feels knotted and heavy with conflicting emotions. None of this makes it right. Nothing he says now will take away everything he’s done. So why is it affecting you so?

Instinctively, you feel your eyes well up. No this is ridiculous. He’s treated you with nothing but cruelty and coldness for years but now that he’s showing you just a shred of decency, you were suddenly wracked with remorse?

You needed to leave. Now.

You slowly stand, struggling to keep your conflicting emotions from your face. Your eyes glance over the near empty glass of orange juice. You hated Richard with every fiber of your being. You wanted to cause him just a shred of the pain he’s caused you. But you didn’t want to watch him die. You couldn’t.

“I need to go tend to Johnny. He should be waking up any minute.”

“I want...him to remember me. Can you do that for me? If nothing else, Just make sure my son remembers me.”

Your throat suddenly feels dry and you swallow hard. Johnny will never know you. I’ll make sure we both forget. You nod solemnly before turning to leave.

“Wait...please.”

You pause, looking down at the shell that used to be Richard. The face that had looked down at you with such animosity and scorn in the past, now just looked pathetic and frail.

“It wasn’t...all bad was it? Our life together?”

You take a deep breath and lean down to kiss his forehead. The stale smell of approaching death clings to him. You decide to answer truthfully. To offer him this small modicum of mercy before he dies by your hand.

“No, Richard. It wasn’t all bad.”

And then you turn away from him forever. Leaving him all alone to await Death.

**********************************************************************************

You gently sit Johnny down on the ground as you sit down on a bench. The city park is only two blocks from your apartment and not very much to look at. A couple of swing sets, a slide and a set of monkey bars. A big open field on the other side of the playground for ball games or free frolicking children. But Johnny always loves watching the other children and you had to get out of the apartment.

You try not to think about Richard wheezing his last breathe as you observe Johnny quietly playing with the few toys you brought for him. But by a cruel twist of fate, Johnny looks just like your soon to be late husband. But you will make sure he will turn out nothing like his father.

Johnny will be better than Richard. Far better than you.

Your thoughts are interrupted when a flustered mother sits beside you on the bench, wrestling with her own toddler. Her light blonde hair lays free and unfixed on her shoulders, her cheeks are flushed with exertion ,and you can make out a subtle roundness to her belly.

“My goodness Alice, calm down. Let Mama sit down before you try to jump out of my arms.”

The tiny girl continues squirming and flailing her limbs on her mother’s lap. “Down! Down!”

The woman turns to you with an exasperated sigh as she puts her daughter down on the ground next to Johnny. She then turns to you with a wide friendly grin as she fans herself.

“Whew, it’s as hot as the dickens out here!”

She holds her hand out and you can’t but notice the Southern twang in her voice. Hesitantly, you reach out and shake her hand.

“Hi there. I’m Lorraine and this little spitfire here, is Alice.”

You introduce yourself and gesture to Johnny whose shyly playing with the many pink ruffles on Alice’s dress.

“This is my son, Johnny.” You state. You didn’t feel much like socializing but it would be a welcome distraction at least. Lorraine leans over, peering down at Johnny.

“Well isn’t he just the cutest little thing. So well behaved too! Unlike mine.” She gushes, pointing to Alice, whose already digging her fingers deep into the dirt. Johnny watches her with pure fascination.

“Thank you. You’re daughter is very cute too,” You say truthfully. Alice and Johnny had to be close in age yet she is the mirror opposite. Talkative, outgoing, with long straight blonde hair and an impish smile. You assume she gets that from her mother.

For the next several minutes, the pair of you exchange pleasantries. You make sure to keep things purposefully vague on your side, but manage to keep her talking. Not that that was very difficult. Lorraine, it seems, could talk your ear off.

“Have you lived here long?” You ask, genuinely curious. She lets out a pleasant laugh as though you just told an amusing joke.

“Not at all. Moved here about two months ago all the way from Charlotte. My husband got a promotion and we had to relocate. Drove all the way here just for the car to up and quit on us. But, I suppose that’s what we get for driving an old Napier. And Norman, bless his heart, has to take the trolley to work. Can you imagine? But until we can afford a new one, we have to make due.”

You nod, watching Alice pulling Johnny’s hands into the dirt next to hers. Looks like he’ll need another bath tonight, you muse silently.

Lorraine adjusts her skirt before leaning in slightly. “Well hey, forgive me if I seem too forward, but I would just love to get together again. Truth be told, I haven’t had much luck makin’ friends here. And hey, even our kids get along! Why don’t you give me your number and I’ll give ya a dil-ya-ble whenever we’re free?”

You pause and bite your lip, initially unsure how to respond. Lorraine seems perfectly lovely, but you don’t know if you need yet another person in your life right now. Your eyes drift over her wide doe eyes and down to her growing belly and relent.

You return her smile. “Sure. That’d be keen.”

The pair of you trade numbers and you stand to grab Johnny who toddled a few feet away with Alice. His toys lay forgotten by the bench. You bend down to pick him up when something catches your eye. A familiar face that makes your blood run cold.

Blonde hair. Steely blue eyes. It’s only for a split second, but you know you saw him. He is standing by the sidewalk outside of the park, with his hands tucked into his suit jacket. His mouth tilted in a troublesome smirk. His eyes focused on you.

What was he doing here of all places?

“Steve?” you mutter quietly, your heart skipping a beat as you hug Johnny closer to you.

“Mm? You say something honey?” Lorraine questions, kneeling down to knock the dirt off of Alice’s dress.

You turn to look back where Steve was standing but he was gone. Melted into the passing crowd as though he were never there.

Is it a coincidence? Did they have business nearby? Or was he sent to watch you?

Whatever the reason, you didn’t want to linger and find out. You quickly gather all of Johnny’s toys and bid a quick goodbye to Lorraine.

“O-okay honey, I’ll be seeing you soon right?” There’s a subtle edge of desperate hope in her voice.

“Yes. Yes absolutely. I’ll give you a ring soon,” you assure with a strained smile. Maybe one day you would call her. But not anytime soon.

Without another word, you spin and practically run back to the apartment with a wriggling Johnny in your arms. Checking behind you every few steps to make sure you’re not followed.

*****************************************************************************************

When you walk back into the apartment, there is an unearthly stillness. The air feels thicker and there is a heavy silence. You quickly lay Johnny down in his crib with a bottle to help him nap before turning towards Richard’s door.

You had to see. You had to know.

You take a few shaky steps towards the door. A subtle tingling sensation travels down your limbs and you can hear your pounding heartbeat in your ears. You raise your hand to hesitantly knock on Richard’s door. There was nothing but silence. Your stomach drops and your fingers wrap around the doorknob tightly.

Maybe he’s sleeping. But maybe he’s not.

Slowly you open the door and step in, freezing in the door frame. Even in the dim lamp light, you can make out the glassy unfocused look of his eyes. His plate knocked carelessly on the floor with cold half eaten toast on the rug. Glass empty and laying on it’s side. His mouth is open and you can see a thin trickle of drool trailing down the corner. He’s still. Very very still.

Gathering your wits, you move to stand at his bedside. Looking down at him like he’s done for too many years. Was this how he felt? This raw power of putting someone in their supposed place?

You reach down and touch him, quickly retracting when you feel his cold dead flesh.

For a moment, you just stand there silently. Observing every feature. Committing it to memory. Before you even realize what you’re doing, you raise your hand and it strikes Richard across the face. His head snaps to the side. You want to strike him again. Over and over again until his flesh is marred just as yours once was. But you force yourself to back away, hands twitching at your sides. You need to calm down. You turn and leave the room, closing the door swiftly behind you.

In his crib, Johnny reaches up to you with dirty hands. His curls unkempt and mashed against the side of his head. You smile and pick him up lightly bouncing him on your hip like you know he likes. He gives you a sleepy smile and you move to the rocking chair in the corner. Johnny curls up into you and you cradle him to your chest. You start singing an old tune that your mother used to sing to you. You hadn’t heard it in many years yet the words return to you effortlessly.

Hush-a-bye, don’t you cry,

Go to sleepy little baby.

When you wake, you’ll have cake,

And all the pretty little horses.

Black and bay, dapple and grey,

Coach and six little horses,

Hush-a-bye, don’t you cry

Go to sleepy little baby.

When you wake, you’ll have cake,

And all the pretty little horses.

Way down yonder, down in the meadow,

There's a poor wee little lamby.

The bees and the butterflies pickin' at its eyes,

The poor wee thing cried for her mammy.

Hush-a-bye, don't you cry,

Go to sleepy little baby.

When you wake, you'll have cake,

And all the pretty little horses.

Johnny sags against you and you know he’s fast asleep. You carefully lay him back down in his crib, tucking his arm around his rabbit. Closing the door behind you, you walk back to the kitchen and eye the telephone. You had a few phone calls to make. You take a deep breath and pick up the receiver.

******************************************************************************************

About thirty minutes later, you let Mabel into your apartment. The doctor is due within the hour to confirm Richard’s condition and deliver the death certificate, but you needed Mabel’s support more than anything.

She wastes no time, pulling you into a tight hug and petting your hair soothingly.

“It’s going to be alright,” she croons in your ear. You sink into her loving embrace. “Thank you. That means so much.”

Suddenly, she pulls away and looks back at the closed door warily. Before you could question her, she moves purposefully into your kitchen without a word.

“Where is it?” Mabel asks, beginning to carefully look through your cabinets. You raise your brow. “Where’s what, Mabel?”

She pauses and looks at you. Her face uncharacteristically serious. “The arsenic you borrowed from me months ago. We need to get it out of your apartment, less they suspect something.”

You feel your blood pounding at your temples and you cross your arms nervously. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Mabel gives you a sad smile. “Dear, I’ve been in your apartment enough times to know you don’t have any rats. Well...not anymore.”

You shake your head and it feels as though ice flows through your veins. “Mabel, what are you saying?”

Mabel stands there for a moment and the silence is tense and suffocating. Then she shakes her head and places a hand on a nearby wall.

“These are nice apartments. Decent prices, it’s near the grocery store and the park is right down the street for the little ones. But the downside is the walls are very thin.” She gives you a knowing, melancholy smile. “You don’t have to pretend anymore. I heard...how he really was.”

Your heart seizes as you choke out a sob. You feel your knees threaten to buckle under you as you lean against the counter top. Mabel takes careful steps towards you, her eyes glistening with fresh tears.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I couldn’t help you then. Please...let me help you now.” Mabel says softly with her hand outstretched. You feel the tears slide down your cheeks as your hand slips into your apron pocket and you hand over the small clear bottle to her. She lets you collapse into her arms as you both cry huddled on your kitchen floor.

***********************************************************************************

Next Part

@sherrybaby14 @flames-bring-a-ton-of-ash @lucifers-trash-stash @theatricalbride@imanuglywombat @ne-gans @darkficsyouneveraskedfor @cherienymphe @rinkashirikitateku @searchforanotherway @amor67figment-love @justvnash @mcudarklibrary @remilupin22 @chaoticfiretaconerd @threeminutesoflife @jessiejunebug @mizcaptainphoenix @marvelfansworld @darkandinvitingfics @xoxabs88xox @hurricanerin @smollest-soybean @awesomerextyphoon @polyamorous-winchester @readsalot73 @almostpurelysmut @gothgirlmahi @cherienymphe @amor67figment-love @beenheresinceforever @justvnash @backoff-imreading @pinkzsugar @startrekkingaroundasgard @hurricanerin @erinlaufeyson @different-type-of-hell @readsalot73 @alexakeyloveloki @cltex84 @sadwaywardkid @tenaciousnerdbucket @caffeindqueen @rantsalon @thefangirllife @is-it-madness @gothgirlmahi @princessofdarkwinter @fatefuldestinies

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deathonyourtongue · 4 years

Text

Welcome Home

Summary: Everything would be perfect, if he could just get home. Pairing: Henry Cavill x Reader Word Count: 2K Warnings: Miscarriage, HEAVY angst. Please don’t read if these things trigger you in any way. A/N: This is what happens when personal boy issues, wine, and crying Henry gifs collide. I apologize in advance. The song for this one is Lovely - Billie Eilish, Khalid

“And then literally Desmond says, ‘just give him the bloody axe, he’ll do it himself!’”

You laugh at the culmination of Henry’s story, an anecdote involving a very large tree, a very nervous crew member, and a director who put more stock in his lead actor than any of the men hired to actually remove the tree from the shooting location.

“How’s our little one?” Henry asks after a moment, his voice tender and sweet, already a doting father even though you’re only six months along.

“She’s having a little dance party, but I think that’s due to the chocolate chip cookie I ate an hour ago,” you laugh, rubbing the belly that sprang up overnight; It seemed like only last week you still had a flat tummy.

“Well, you tell her daddy can’t wait to come home and give her and mummy so many kisses she’ll lose count.” You can hear the smile in his voice and it warms your heart, cementing Henry as the man you want to grow old with and have many more babies with.

“Mummy misses daddy a lot. When are you coming home, babe?” You ask softly, knowing production had been plagued with delays ranging from weather to a stomach bug that had laid out half the crew and nearly all of the cast. Henry sighs thoughtfully, the sound making it clear that he too is frustrated by the schedule.

“If all goes according to plan from here on out, I should be home next month.” It’s not ideal, especially as your pregnancy draws to a close, but it’s better than nothing.

“I’ll be at Heathrow with bells on, and maybe your mother in tow,” you chuckle, trying to bring levity to a situation you knew was hard on both of you. An affectionate person by nature, you know it’s hard for Henry to be away from those he loves. You miss him more than words can describe and you know that him coming home will be the balm for all the aches, nausea, and trouble sleeping you’ve had since first getting the news.

“I can’t wait to see you, love. Miss you so much. Sleep now, and I’ll text you in the morning. Love you to the moon and back, darling.” Henry’s words bring tears to your eyes, as they always do when you’re apart for an extended duration, but you manage to keep your voice even as you respond in kind, saying your own ‘I love you’s in the nick of time, hearing Henry’s name being called by production just as you finish.

It’ll be a long month, but you know that soon enough, the man who keeps your heart will be back and you’ll be nestled in his arms, where you belong.

______________________________________

You wake from a decent sleep when, after rolling over, you feel wetness coat your outer thigh. Thinking you must have been dreaming of the ocean a little too much, you feel around for the bedside light switch and turn it on, rubbing your eyes to ease the switch from the darkness. You’re really not in the mood to deal with having to change the sheets, but what meets your eyes is beyond changing. Bright crimson instantly sets off alarms, and you look down to find that the source is exactly what you were hoping it wouldn’t be.

There’s little time to react as a bolt of pain ricochets through your entire torso, emanating from your womb and immediately making you want to vomit. You manage to reach for the phone and call for an ambulance, but make it clear they may have to break down the door to get to you. For once, you’re grateful that Henry takes Kal with him whenever he goes to shoot, as the dog would hinder more than help as you pull together all your strength to try and stand.

The room spins violently and you manage to grab onto the doorframe before your knees turn to jello. Taking several deep breaths, you wait for the wave of nausea to pass before dragging yourself to the staircase. Crumpling at the top of the stairs, you breathe slowly before moving down like a child pretending to be on a slide. You’re out of breath from pain by the time you get to the bottom and it takes the last of your energy to reach up and unlock the front door. Cell phone gripped tightly in hand, you do your best to stay awake, hearing the sirens in the distance.

Though you have no memory of arriving at the hospital, one directive repeats in your head like a marching order, and you make sure to tell every doctor or nurse that comes into your triage room that under no circumstances do you want anyone to be contacted, especially the father of your baby or his family. The staff at the Royal find the request odd, but because you’re awake and alert, they have no choice but to heed your wishes. With your own family an ocean away, your request leaves you no choice but to go through the ordeal alone. All the better, you think, guilt already forming as the doctor breaks the bad news.

Your world is overturned in a matter of hours. They put you on Oxytocin, and pain the likes of which you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy is your sole companion for the next several hours as you’re induced for a birth you’ll never be able to celebrate. When all is said and done, the nurses ask if you want to hold your baby, and against your better judgment, you say yes.

Seeing her perfect, peaceful face breaks you.

______________________________________

A month and a half to the date of the phone call, Henry arrives at Heathrow to find, much to his confusion, only his mother waiting for him. He greets her warmly, but his eyes scan the arrival area, hoping that you’d maybe just run off to use the restroom. When he finds no indication of your presence, his attention turns back to his mother.

“Where is she, mum?” He asks, unable to piece together why you aren’t there, in his arms, where you promised you would be. Henry’s mother looks anywhere but at her son, unable to find a way to explain that everything he knew and was expecting had irrevocably changed.

“She couldn’t make it on account of the...I’ll take you to her, son.”

Henry tries not to let his imagination run wild as his mother drives north, past the home he shares with you. When the car crosses into Mayfair, Henry begins to panic. “Mum…” His tone is low, distrusting, frightened. His mother’s hand is clammy as it finds his, squeezing in a way that’s meant to be supportive, but only fuels his anxiety.

He begins to visibly tremble when the engine cuts off in front of Nightingale Hospital. “Please tell me what’s going on. Why are we here? What happened? Mum, please.” His whispered appeal breaks his mother’s heart and she cups his face, willing herself not to shed tears yet again, for her son’s sake.

“I’m sorry, Henry, love. I’m so sorry, my darling.” The explanation sticks in her throat, allowing only platitudes to escape and leaving Henry with no choice but to fly from the car and into the private hospital.

The receptionist looks shocked when she recognizes him and forgets her job for a moment when he asks for your room number. “The last name is Cavill. Please, hurry. I need to see her.” When it’s explained that patients aren’t generally allowed visitors, Henry nearly begins foaming at the mouth, feeling as though he’s losing his own mind. He asks to speak to the doctor in charge, and before long is ushered into an office and poured a cup of tea, the banal formality only serving to anger him more.

“Why is my wife in this godforsaken place?” He barks at the doctor the moment the door is closed, wanting answers and wanting them immediately. The doctor takes a seat, his expression sympathetic.

“Mr. Cavill, I apologize that we weren’t able to reach you, but your wife, before taking a turn for the worse, made it explicitly clear that we were not to contact you. At this time, given that she can no longer make those sorts of decisions, her instructions fall back to you as her power of attorney.” The doctor takes a deep breath, knowing that what he’s about to say will break the man in front of him.

“Your wife had a late-term miscarriage about a month and a half ago. It was exceedingly traumatic for her, especially as the common procedure for dealing with these sorts of things is to induce and force labor. Your wife went through all of that trauma alone, by her own choice, as she was repeatedly asked if you were to be contacted. It took several hours for her to deliver your child, and holding the baby afterward put her in a severe downward spiral in terms of her mental health. She’s been residing with us since her delivery and I’m sorry to say, but as of late, she’s been in a catatonic state, giving us minimal responses. At this stage, we’re simply providing palliative care to your wife. Unfortunately, many in her condition never recover, so we do our best to keep her comfortable, healthy, and calm.”

Henry keeps his mouth pressed firmly closed in order not to scream. Blowing air through his nose, he forces himself to bite his tongue until it bleeds, chest heaving as he fights for control. If he can’t keep it together, he can’t see you and that’s all that matters to him at this point.

“May I see my wife? I’ve been overseas for the last six months, shooting a film. I w-was expecting her at the airport.” His voice sounds wrong to him, pinched and tinny. He knows he has tears in his eyes as the doctor is blurry, but he refuses to let them fall, his need to be strong for you taking over any allowance for grieving.

“I’ve been told she’s not having a good day today, so if she refuses to look at you, to let you touch her, to make any form of response, please do not think it your doing. It’s the nature of her condition,” the doctor warns as he approaches your room.

It’s all Henry can do not to break down right there and then, the heels of his palms pressing hard into his eyes, teeth clenched as he tries to remember how to breathe. The woman in the bed, staring passively through him isn’t the woman he loves, the one he would die for. That woman is gone, replaced with a cheap, emotionless facsimile that breaks him even more. Resting his hands on his knees, he tries to catch his breath, wishing he’d come home sooner.

______________________________________

By the time he’s back in his mother’s car, Henry’s numb to everything but the pain searing through his chest, “Take me home, mum. Please,” he murmurs, Henry’s head lolling onto the window for the duration of the drive back to your former home. He refuses to allow his mother in the house, pleading with her to go home and wait for his call. She takes Kal with her, knowing her son well enough to understand that he needs to grieve in his own way.

Henry’s not ready for the blood, having assumed that someone would have cleaned it up by now, but the Hansel and Gretel trail is hard to miss and with leaden steps, he moves upstairs.

Left in the exact condition it was last used in, the room you two shared leaves no question of what happened and what you went through, alone. His knees give out as he takes in the sheer quantity of blood on the bed, Henry guilt-ridden that he wasn’t there for you when you needed him most.

Finally freed of any need to save face or be strong for others, Henry screams from the depths of his shattered soul, the sound unbroken until anguish consumes his voice and tears flood his face. Finding his feet, Henry staggers to the bed and curls up around the remnants of his previous life, wailing over the permanent reminder of what almost was.

#henry cavill #henry cavill x reader #angst #deathonyourtongueoriginals #no puppers were harmed in the making of this fic

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drwcn · 4 years

Note

I was reading your post about consent for surgery and I had a question. Aren't there cases where if the patient is not of sound mind or unable to make an informed decision, then family can decide for them? That's not to say that WWX was entirely of sound mind at that point (he'd also been through insane trauma & was trying desperately to hold onto the family he had left). But JC was in a much worse state and retrospectively I agree JC would never have agreed to taking anyone else's core, but 1/2

I know I said i wasn’t going to answer asks until I’m done my exams but this one just came in and it’s a topic close and dear to my heart, so I’m going to take a couple of minutes to answer it. Thank you for the ask, but I think this brings up a lot of misconceptions of what is medical consent, capacity, competency, and substitute decision making. This is a very complicated and legally heavy topic. So it will be a long post. I apologize for that.

There are several misconceptions in the ask, and I will be addressing them in this order:

That Jiang Cheng is “not of sound mine” and cannot “make an informed decision”.

The role of family and substitute decision making

“force a life saving measure on a family member”.

Issue 1 : Jiang Cheng is not competent and has no capacity to consent.

There is no doubt that Jiang Cheng has gone through significant trauma, and that he is emotionally fragile, but this does not medically equate him to having no capacity to make surgical decisions and this certainly does not make him legally incompetent. If I may, I will define “informed decision”, “capacity” and “competency”.

The criteria of obtaining informed consent is described below.

Decision maker must:

Be aware of his/her right to withdraw consent at any time

Be free of undue influence, duress or coercion in making the consent decision (aka no one is paying them or holding a gun to their head)

Receive a proper explanation that includes but is not limited to:

diagnosis reached

advised interventions and treatments;

exact nature and anticipated benefits of the proposed examination, assessment, treatment or procedure;

common risks and significant risks;

reasonable alternative treatments available, and the associated common risks and significant risks; and

natural history of the condition and the consequences of forgoing treatment;

All of this must be explained to the patient before a procedure can be undertaken. And the patient must be able to understand what is told, and to appreciate the gravity of their choice. This brings us to the idea of “capacity”.

Capacity is not how emotionally distressed you are, or how traumatized you are. If my partner (the love of my life) and I both got into a horrible car accident, but I sustained minor injuries while he requires significant surgery, you can reasonably assume that I am in deep emotional distress. However, if I were his POA (power of attorney), I would still have the capacity to decide and consent for his surgery on his behalf if he is no longer capable (e.g.: he is unconscious).

Capacity refers to a person’s ability to make a decision that is “task specific”. As in, can he make a decision about this particular thing we’re asking him. It requires the person (Jiang Cheng) to:

Reason and deliberate - can Jiang Cheng make logical sense of the procedure and its consequences.

Hold appropriate values and goals - Jiang Cheng would want to protect his family, avenge his parents and defeat Wen Ruohan.

Appreciate one's circumstances - does Jiang Cheng know that without his surgery he will never get core back? Does he know the risks of the surgery to himself, to his brother, and its chances of success?

Understand information one is given - are Jiang Cheng’s cognitive functions intact to for him to understand and appreciate the information given?

And communicate a choice.

Can Jiang Cheng do all of that? The conclusion of the assessment for capacity ultimately lies with the attending physician. Medical capacity is a result of a physician’s assessment. Capacity wasn’t even a consideration for Jiang Cheng. Wen Qing agreed because Wei Wuxian begged, and probably because she also felt guilty. And that’s not how she should’ve done it.

From what I have seen on the show, Jiang Cheng is capable. I can say with 99% confidence that what happened to him is a gross violation of his bodily autonomy and his rights. No physician would agree to do a surgery the way Wen Qing did. In a way, she was compromised, and she should’ve seen that there was a conflict of interest between herself, Wei Wuxian, and her patient Jiang Cheng. If I were her, I would be mortified that I had done something like this.

On the other hand, competency is a legal status. It doesn’t change with activity and task. A judge needs to decide this and once you’re deemed incompetent, there’s usually no going back. This doesn’t really apply in CQL because...well they don’t have a judicial system. I can explain competency fully in another ask if you’re still interested. One thing I will say is that even “incompetent” individuals can have “capacity” for certain decisions. E.g: my grandmother with dementia while she cannot decide whether she undergoes a knee replacement or not, she can decide that she doesn’t want apple sauce with her morning meal. Again, competency is a global assessment leading to a legal status change, whereas capacity is task specific.

Issue 2: the role of family and substitute decision maker

Substitute decision makers (SDM) are brought in when the patient is deemed lacking capacity to make a certain decision, and as I have explained above, Jiang Cheng does not qualify as lacking capacity. In modern law, the role of SDM is different from country to country, even provinces/states to provinces/states.

For a lot places, pediatric patients are not able to consent for themselves and their parents are usually their SDM. This is not the case where I live. Children, as long as they are assessed by their physician to be capable of making specific decisions, will be able to make decisions in their medical treatment. This assessment is on-going throughout medical care. In many other places, parents are the SDMs. However: please note that good medical practice will still include the children in the discussion of their care as much as is appropriate for their age and ability, and that while they cannot consent, clinicians must try their best to obtain children’s ‘assent’ (aka their agreement and cooperation).

For seniors with dementia, their SDMs are their spouse or in lack that, their children. Without a specific POA - power of attorney, that is the one person the patient has written down as their legal SDM - all SDMs on the same level must come to an agreement before a procedure can be carried out. What do I mean by that? SDMs come in levels. Where I live, at the top level is the spouse. Without a specific designated POA, spouse is always SDM, their decision trumps everyone else’s. Without a spouse, the next on the list is usually children. If there are multiple children, they must all agree on what to do for mom or dad before the doctor can act. If they can’t agree, there’s usually a due process where physicians can petition the court to have a designated third-party SDM appointed. In all cases with SDMs, they should not be acting according to their own values but the values and wishes of the patient to be best of their understanding. If doctors suspect that SDMs are not following the values of their patient, there is also a process where they can petition the court to have the SDMs’ rights removed. It’s a very lengthy process and this doesn’t happen often.

For Jiang Cheng, if for example he never gained consciousness (so he is completely incompetent) and we consider Jiang Yanli and Wei Wuxian to be at the same SDM level (JC’s siblings), then they should’ve had a discussion with Jiang Cheng’s values and beliefs in mind and come to a conclusion together. Only that decision should be implemented. Of course, this didn’t happen because WWX and his martyr complex made an unilateral decision for himself based on what he thinks is right.

Issue 3: Forcing people to live against their will.

Does this happen? Tragically yes. It does. Should it happen? No. Absolutely no.

The grey areas are when a senior never wrote in legal documentation explicitly that they don’t want life sustaining measure, but that maybe in passing they’ve mentioned to their nurse or physician. When they become incompetent (coma, dementia, delirium, stroke, rapid decline in cognitive function), the children want everything to be done for dad or mom, and refuse to switch to palliative care or to end life support.

In those cases, unfortunately, many institutions will go with the families’ wishes because hospitals don’t want to be sued, and families do sue, even when all the medical team has done is respect the patient’s wishes.

There are many pediatric cases as well where parents cannot cope with their loss and can’t let go. The child could be brain-dead or in persistent vegetative state, and so even though nurses and doctors feel a lot of moral distress at continuously giving aggressive measure that they know it won’t help, they can’t stop. Because if they do, they can get sued. And sometimes it’s not even just a matter of lawsuits. These things can get crazy, media can twist the truth and people can get death threats. Feel free to google these cases.

So yeah, it happens. But it shouldn’t. Just because it happens, doesn’t mean it’s right.

And this doesn’t apply to Jiang Cheng. Because he isn’t brain dead, he isn’t in a coma, he doesn’t have frontal cortex damage, he doesn’t dementia. He is in complete control of all his faculties. So what happened to him was a crime. And if there are other examples where patients were forced into/lied to about medical procedures by their family, those are crimes too.

And yes CQL is a tv show set in fantasy china, so does it all really matter? I guess, if you don’t care that much about the drama, then no, it doesn’t matter. But keep in mind this wasn’t a historical drama, we’re not analyzing a historical figures’s actions with modern ethics. That would be misplaced. This was a fantasy drama, written by a modern girl, living in modern society. And its audiences are people living in the global community, so it should matter how it impacts the viewers who watch it.

From a modern western medical perspective, Jiang Cheng does not owe Wei Wuxian, Wen Qing, and Wen Ning anything. I liked Wen Ning up until he threw the core surgery reveal in Jiang Cheng’s face so cruelly. People cheered him on, but I was very upset.

Jiang Cheng owes these three nothing. Not a damn thing.

#corie replies #the untamed #cql #jiang cheng #wei wuxian #wen qing #wen ning #cql meta #medical consent: a running saga

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beyondconfessor · 4 years

Text

Principle Decisions [4/24]

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Lilith/Zelda Spellman

Summary: “Ask me nicely,” she whispered, her hand coming to brush across Zelda’s cheek. “Ask me to do unspeakable things to you.”

N.B.: Also posted on AO3. This is pure fantasy, please suspend your disbelief.

“Professor Spellman?” Prudence asked as she knocked on the doorframe to her work office. “I booked an appointment for eleven?”

Zelda nodded and gestured to the chair in front of her. Prudence stepped forward into the room, moving to sit in the seat before the desk, setting her bag down beside her. She waited until Zelda paled down her pen before she sat laced her hands together and leant forward in the chair, seeming to be agitated by something.

“What can I help with you, Prudence?”

“I was hoping you might have a TA position available.”

Zelda frowned. Despite her best attempts, the Department Head had been unwilling to provide her with the required funding. “Nothing paid,” she advised.

“I don’t need a paid position,” Prudence said, though Zelda could see her deflate over the response. “There’s an opportunity next year to go to Greece, expenses paid with Professor Blackwood, but you need to have some TA experience before you can obtain the position.”

Zelda nodded, familiar with the program. “I can give you a recommendation and place in a good word with Professor Blackwood if that’s what you after from this?”

“It is,” Prudence advise. There was a keen look about her and Zelda softened.

“Well, I could use the extra hands. It would be after hours, on top of your own workload, and I’d still expect you to be pulling the same marks you are now. If I don’t think you can handle it, I’ll cease your involvement immediately.”

Prudence nodded. “I can handle it,” she assured.

“In that case,” Zelda reached into the depth of her desk, pulling out a familiar sheet she had, back when Language had funding from the university, “here, fill this in and you can come back to me tomorrow.”

Prudence brightened, reaching out. “Thank you, Professor. It’s most appreciated.”

Zelda nodded, handing the slip of paper over and watched as Prudence took her bag and left, looking pleased with herself. The position Prudence required for the following year would be fully funded if she continued to keep her marks high. Zelda wasn’t sure why she wanted the position. Although Prudence showed an aptitude for language, the study its self was based around anthropological––Faustus’ domain.

Perhaps it was just for the thrill of going to Greece and having her expenses paid. If that was the case, Zelda could hardly fault Prudence. She, herself, had gone across most of the continents to complete her doctorate, whilst simultaneously engaging in the cultures far more than a PhD required.

If she was honest with herself, she missed travelling, seeing new people, slipping into bed with a new paramour or two. Once Sabrina was in college, she might consider travelling again. Wander through the middle east and return to the northern Africa countries, or perhaps try somewhere she hadn’t gone.

“Zelda,” a knock sounded at her door. Zelda capped her pen and looked up. Prudence had been a planned interruption, but Faustus was another thing entirely. Perhaps he’d sensed her thoughts.

“Yes?” she asked, smiling tightly as he stepped into the room.

“Shirley has gone on unexpected leave for a few weeks. I understand a family member is in palliative care and she’s been advised to spend time with them before their passing.” He paused there as if to allow her a chance to speak some sympathetic nonsense, but the truth was it was for Shirley, so she didn’t care what the woman was feeling. Zelda tilted her head, waiting for him to continue speaking.

In the lack of a response, Faustus coughed, clearing his throat awkwardly.“I need you to cover her classes.”

Zelda’s eyes narrowed. “Their religious studies,” she advised.

“You double-majored in language and religion,” Faustus pointed out. “Wasn’t your most recent article on the original Hebrew texts in the context of its time?”

That was an oversimplification of what her last article had been about, it’d been about a specific passage, first and foremost, and had been about the evolution of language––but she didn’t articulate that, instead of drawing back in her seat to stare at Faustus. She was proficient in religious studies, but it wasn’t an area she enjoyed teaching in just as Shirley preferred religion and didn’t enjoy languages despite completing her associates on one of the romantic languages.

“Is there no one else?” she asked. “I already have a full schedule with my office hours.”

“I’ve checked your roster, and you have room on Monday and Friday. You don’t need to change your office hours.”

No, but she used those days for marking, as well as other administrative work. Perhaps it was beneficial that Prudence had reached out.

“How long is it for?” she asked.

“Six weeks at most.”

Six weeks, Zelda bit her tongue to stop from snapping back. “I’ll need funding for a TA until she returns then.”

Faustus’ mouth parted before he nodded. “I can find some funding.”

There, Zelda relaxed. Well, that would at least be helpful towards Prudence. If the girl was working, she might be able to ease her external shifts to help with the overflow and marking. “Thank you, Faustus. Send over what you have from Shirley, and I’ll compose a lesson plan for next week.”

“I…need you to start this Friday.”

Zelda felt her a tension return to her as she stared down at the grain in her desk, biting back any sharp comment.

She’d booked an appointment on Sunday for her Doctor’s appointment––mostly because she was overdue––but in part, if she was honest, she was intrigued as to what Lilith had to offer.

Since the Saturday, she’d been more relaxed than ever, and now she could feel that frustration returning, like an itch under her skin she couldn’t quite scratch. She wanted to scream or yell or just do something, but she couldn’t.

So she smiled at Faustus, and agreed to take on a class that she needed to prep for with only four days notice, and tried to remind herself that all of this would eventually lead to further career progression.

Besides, if she managed to take over the class and show them what a proper education looked like, she might find as well that Shirley was suddenly out of a job, leaving her and other competent academics to teach the up and coming minds of Greendale University.

“Thank you, Zelda,” Faustus said with a nod, before leaving. He left her office door wide open, and once Zelda was sure his footsteps had receded down the hall, she rose to her feet and closed the door behind him before returning to her seat.

Her nails drummed on the desk, as she rolled her shoulders and neck, trying not to remember how the sting of the crop had felt against her skin. She didn’t want to book another appointment, especially not one so soon, and especially not after running into that woman in the grocery store.

No, she needed to wait.

She reached into her drawer and picked out her cigarettes. Standing up, she walked over to the office window and inched it open. Lighting the cigarette, she stood by the window sill and blew out gusts of smoke outside watching it curl away into the air.

Six weeks wasn’t that long. A month and two weeks. She could handle the pressure of looking after that many classes, despite the headache it would inevitably cause.

And yet Friday came faster than she expected. Prudence eagerly took to the position of TA (and was all the more pleased when Zelda mentioned she managed to find some funding to help) providing Zelda with some time actually to work on the lesson plan. It meant she spent long nights in the office and had to miss out on attending Sabrina’s first cheerleading stint for football or basketball or whatever game she was cheerleading for, but that was a small sacrifice.

She promised her niece that she would attend the charity event in a fortnight, finding time in the workday to make it over to the school.

Besides, she could still attend her pep rally (whenever that was), and there would be other high school games of school sport she could attend and watch her niece cheerlead for. What was one game?

The lesson was a second-year subject, and the information Faustus had managed to send over was difficult to understand. Although there was a general framework of what they were studying, Zelda had no idea as to the messages Shirley was trying to convey or discuss with the class.

So when it came time for Zelda to attend, there was an anxious knot in her stomach. She’d prepped the best she could, but it would be up to the class to let her know where they were up to.

“Good Morning,” she said as she walked into the classroom. On the whiteboard, she wrote her name as Professor Spellman, before setting her lesson plan on the stand and looked over the class. There were far more students than Zelda expected, many of them she’d never seen before.

Shirley’s class was more popular than she realised.

“I’ll be taking over Professor Jackson’s role while she’s on leave. Can anyone tell me as to where you last left off?”

A few students explained to where they were, and Zelda felt her chest ease and knot differently. The students listened, they were aware of where they were up to, but furthermore, they were invested in the coursework.

She left the class satisfied that she’d managed to express what Shirley intended, bringing across her own influence, but also left with a sour taste in her mouth.

Should she think on it any further, she might find herself scratching at the idea until she made herself raw with deep-seated feelings she’d long left ago in her childhood.

It couldn’t be that Shirley Jackson was a better teacher than herself? It had to be that the nature of the course that religion drew in more subjects than language did (especially at Greendale University, which, although known for having its merits was not known to be the best or worst by any means).

Zelda felt her frustration grow. A solemn ache growing in her chest––could it be that she was the reason her third-year classes were skeletal at the best of times?

Perhaps she had done the wrong thing? Pushed when she should have nurtured––not that she could see Shirley being nurturing by any means, but…she must be doing something right if her classes were as full as they were.

Zelda seethed quietly, feeling the jealousy gnaw at her as she returned to her office and collected her work for the evening. Sabrina had already informed her that Harvey would be dropping her off home, so there was no need to wait for her niece to arrive. Her office hours were finished. The only reason she’d want to stay was to build a quiet time for herself, away from the bustling of Hilda in the kitchen or Ambrose rumbling through whatever music he wanted whilst he remained up in the attic.

Pausing as she set her work into her bag, she realised that home was not something she wanted either. Her body ached and itched, as nervous energy pulling under her skin.

But she didn’t want to call Lilith.

No, that wasn’t true. She desperately wanted to call and see if Lilith had availability, she just wished she didn’t want it. The last thing she desired was coming off…needy.

But…it was a service like any other, and should Zelda had found relief from a spa, she would not feel so conflicted about calling to book in a new appointment.

Zelda had spent the last few evenings trying to avoid thinking about the woman, and yet every masturbation ended up inevitably daydreaming about the woman’s riding crop on her back, her hand splayed over her chest, the idea of running into her and having the woman shover her against the next available surface and––

Someone walked past her office door, shoes clicking on the polished floor.

She cleared her throat, a blush rising over her chest and face as if her thoughts were too loud and that someone could overhear them––entirely ridiculous, and yet she stuffed the thoughts away.

Sex. She just needed sex. Casual sex, no strings attached. She flicked through the contacts in her head, trying to think of someone, but all of her ex-paramours she trusted for casual sex were now monogamous or out of state (and in some instances, out of the country).

It’d been two years. Surely she could get a handle of herself and push her needs away, focus on her article or at the very least, get a head-on lesson planning. There was more than one vibrator home should she really need to scratch an itch.

Zelda packed her bags, planning to return home to her office to work on her article. She had every intention of going home, completing tasks that needed to get done, and then having a sit-down meal with her family.

It was a good plan.

She definitely wasn’t thinking about Lilith.

She walked to her car, bag in hand, certain that if she just managed to get into the car, she’d be able to drive out of the parking lot, onto the main road and make her way back home. But evidently not, because as soon as she was in her car, her phone was out in hand and she was dialling a number that she had no right in knowing so well.

“Good Afternoon,” Lilith said. Too late, Zelda realised she’d dialled from her personal phone, and now the woman likely had her number.

If she hung-up, Lilith could just call back and even if she didn’t answer, her voicemail clearly dictated who she was. “Good evening,” Zelda responded before the woman could clip a follow-up response.

“Zelda,” the woman purred. “I thought it was you.”

“And why would you think that?”

“You’ve been on my mind,” she responded. “How can I be of service?”

Zelda drew in a breath. “I––“ she began and then because she’d begun she had to finish, “was looking to enquire into your services. Again.”

“Mm. And which services are you after?”

Not this again, Zelda thought as she rolled her eyes up to the ceiling of the car. “The same services.”

“You’ll have to refresh my memory,” Lilith teased, and Zelda’s grip on her phone tightened.

Drawing in a breath, she found her eyes flicking around the car, to the rearview and side mirrors before she said. “Dominatrix services.”

“I’m going to need you to be more specific. Many things fall under that particular umbrella.”

“Honestly,” Zelda clipped, seriously considering clicking off the device before the woman’s warm laugh poured through the speaker. “If you insist on needlessly teasing me––“

“You’re in luck. I have a spot free in about two hours if that suits?”

Zelda paused. It seemed too good to be true. And yet…the ache filled her. She wanted it more than she wanted anything else at that moment.

“It does,” she agreed.

“I look forward to seeing you. Have a think about how long you want the session to run. I have a few ideas of what we can do.” And then the phone clicked off, and Zelda was left with the words swimming around her head.

A few ideas. What on earth could that mean?

Zelda closed her eyes and sunk in the seat, biting her lip. Her gynaecologist appointment wasn’t until tomorrow and results would likely not occur for another week. Yet, the idea of even just experiencing the impact of that crop again brought a shiver down her spine.

She went home, showered and changed into a new set of lingerie before fixing her make-up again. And then she was making a passing excuse about forgetting something in the office before she was leaving again, advising Hilda to set her dinner aside.

She was fifteen minutes early, sitting in her car, her hands gripping the steering wheel as she tried to understand just how she got to this stage.

She was outside of a dominatrix’s business address, dressed in lingerie and a new dress, with more effort into how she looked than when she went into the actual office. Was this her life now? Finding herself driving out into the middle of nowhere to get spanked?

Apparently so, because as she fixed her lipstick in the rearview mirror, there was a telltale sign of a blush rushing across her cheeks.

She grabbed her handbag and exited the car, locking it behind her as she walked up to the apartment and rang the doorbell.

And then there was silence as she counted her heartbeat for five seconds before she heard the sound of Lilith’s heels on the hardwood floor of the hallway.

A shadow moved behind the door and then it opened, revealing the grinning dominatrix. Her hair was out again, though it looked recently tussled like she’d ran her fingers through it before opening the door.

Zelda drew in a breath, feeling herself battle between shrinking away and pushing forward to assert her own dominance.

And then Lilith was leaning against the doorframe, eyebrow cocked as she waited for Zelda to break the growing silence between them––just as she had at the grocers. Damn her.

“Evening,” Zelda clipped.

“Evening,” Lilith teased in return, unmoving as her eyes raked over her body, a slow, noticeable breath pulling into her lungs as if she couldn’t wait to devour her.

Zelda felt as if the air warmed around them. “Well?”

“Hmm?” Lilith said, eyes flicking back up to Zelda’s.

“Are you going to let me in or should I recall some password?”

“Ohh, I like the idea of a secret password. What do you think it is?”

Annoyance flared in her as she crossed her arms, having half a mind to turn on her heel and leave, but before she could even threaten that option, Lilith laughed, pushing off the door frame and stepped out of the way to allow her entrance.

Zelda gave an icy glare, ensuring the woman saw how unimpressed she was as she stepped inside and removed her coat. It warm inside, and already she felt overdressed.

Lilith stepped closer, and Zelda held her ground, refusing to give in to the urge to step away. And then she felt the woman reach behind her and shut the door. “You look well,” Lilith commented. “Less…frightened.”

Zelda felt a flare of anger grow inside of her. “I beg your pardon. I was not frightened.”

“At the grocers you were. I could have said boo, and you would have run away screaming…or maybe just melt in a puddle on the floor,” she added, her eyes intensely focusing on Zelda’s mouth as she spoke. “Difficult to say.”

Zelda felt a strangled breath jump in her throat before she looked away, resisting the urge to cough awkwardly.

“Have anything for me?” Lilith enquired, as she stepped forward again. This time, Zelda did take a step back, knowing exactly what she was asking.

“I––have an appointment tomorrow,” she admitted.

Lilith’s grin widened. “You won’t regret it, and personally I can say that I’m looking forward to it,” and then she was stepping back and suddenly Zelda was following her upstairs, into the bedroom.

The bedroom door was shut behind her, the ottoman bench was opened, the phone was switched off, bag and coat went inside, and then Lilith was staring at her as the lid was flicked down.

“Do you know what you want?”

Zelda felt her heart pound in her chest. She didn’t know exactly what she wanted. She wanted last time, but she wanted it to be different. She wanted to forget about the world and yet feel alive. “I trust you,” she said instead.

Lilith nodded, seeming to hold back from teasing her. “I have an idea.”

“Do you now?” Zelda asked, curious as to what the woman could possibly be thinking.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” Lilith said as she walked over to her dresser and opened it up. “I think I know exactly what you want.”

Anyone else, and Zelda would have rolled her eyes, but as she watched the woman draw out two lengths of rope and a blindfold, she found herself only further intrigued. This time, Lilith didn’t set it on the bed; instead, she dropped the items in the centre of the room, before nudging them with her heel, so they rested where she wanted it.

Zelda stared at the items, looking to the wardrobe and finding herself both relieved and disappointed to note there was nothing from there on the floor.

“Take off your dress,” Lilith said.

Zelda obeyed, unzipping underneath her arm and then rolling it down her waist to the floor where she stepped out of it. Lilith looked her over, taking note of the stockings, to where her eyes held where the hemline of the silk was.

“That one is to come off too,” she said, pointing to the slip.

Zelda felt something quiver, low in her belly as she reached down and lifted the slip off. When she dropped that to the ground as well, she watched as Lilith’s face broke out in a wide smile, seeming to admire her choice in lingerie.

“This one involves more patience,” Lilith advised. “Put your clothes away, heels too, and then we’ll begin.”

Zelda bit her inner cheek, hating how the woman made her feel like a child as she picked her clothes up off the floor and set them nicely in the ottoman, her heels placed inside of her handbag before she came to stand before Lilith.

“Do you remember your safe word from last time?”

“I do.”

“What is it?”

“Music box,” Zelda said, feeling ridiculous as she said it. But as Lilith mentioned last time, the point of the word was to be jarring, so that both of them knew that it needed to end.

“I’m going to tie you up, and then we’ll see where you’re at when you’re tied up, and if you’re still comfortable, I’m going to blindfold you.”

“And then what?” Zelda asked.

“And then we’ll see how badly you want it.”

Want what, Zelda wanted to ask, but she nodded to show she understood. Lilith grinned and then pointed to the floor, her expression sharpened, as with condescension in her voice, she ordered, “On your knees." Zelda felt the command slip over her as she pressed onto her knees, feeling the hardwood floor press against her legs.

She watched then as Lilith drew a short wooden stool over and set it down before her, before she sat upon it and crossed her legs, looking far more elegant than she had any right to.

“If you ever want to learn to do this, I can run a workshop,” Lilith said as held a hand out. Zelda placed the back of hand into her palm and watched as the length of red rope was tossed over one wrist. “When I lived in New York, I used to run a workshop with a few others like me.” She held her hand out again, and Zelda provided it. “I’ve been doing rope since I was…oh, a young girl, I suppose.”

“Am I not meant to speak?” Zelda asked, confused as to what game they were playing.

“You can speak,” Lilith nodded. “We’re just setting up, first,” she grinned just as she made a knot. “You’ll know when we’ve begun playing.”

Lilith wove a pattern over her arms, like a spiderweb slipping up her arms, and Zelda listened as she spoke about the different knots she was tied, as well as the different safety precautions she placing in so that at any stage if Zelda wanted to slip out, she could.

It was fascinating in its own right, and Zelda enjoyed watching the complicated knots made and adjusted as if Lilith had been doing them her whole life––which, in a sense, she had. At least for thirty years, she’d been tying up herself and others, just because she liked the look of the knots she could make.

“Are we doing this because of the last session?” Zelda asked, watching as Lilith began drawing the rope over her waist. What she was trying to ask in as few words as possible was, are we not doing impact play because of what occurred.

“Not for the reasons you think,” Lilith said. “You were relaxed when I tied you up. Most people get somewhat panicked at being unable to move, but you seemed entirely at ease.” Her fingers were brushing over her stomach as she spoke, slipping and weaving the rope as one end of it dangle into her lap. “I thought I might indulge the rope bunny in you.”

And then Lilith’s eyes were returning to the rope, her fingers dragging along her skin, the back of her knuckles sliding over her ribs. Zelda drew in a breath, trying to focus on the feeling of the rope against her skin.

“Turn around.”

Zelda moved onto her knees until her back was to Lilith, and felt as the woman drew her hair over her shoulder, before resuming the pattern. Zelda tried to resist the shiver that shot down her spin as Lilith’s hands drew over her, moulding the rope into place.

“So you’ve indulged in ropes from the beginning,” Zelda said in an effort to find a semblance of control. “But what about everything else?”

“You’ll have to be specific,” Lilith said. She paused, and Zelda could feel her hands, just below the band of her bra, she could easily undo it if she wanted to and there was nothing Zelda could to do stop her.

The thought struck through like a rush.

“When did you decide to be a dominatrix?”

Lilith hummed. “It’s not as interesting as you think,” she said, her fingers resuming to shift and adjust, slipping the rope through loops, twisting it around its self. “Girl met boy, boy wanted to try things with girl, girl was much better at it than boy, boy became sulky, so girl left. Tale as old as time its self,” she finished.

Zelda scoffed. “Sounds like most men.”

“Oh yes,” Lilith said and then suddenly Zelda felt a breath brush over her shoulder, a nail drawing over the skin. “Don’t worry, if you take an interest in domination, I’ll be very excited to play with you. I’m very good on my knees.”

Zelda closed her eyes, feeling a heat press through her. She was starting to get an idea as to what Lilith was getting at before.

“There,” Lilith said, and suddenly Zelda felt a kiss press to the back of her shoulder as the woman’s hands dropped away. “Now lie on your back.”

Zelda shifted as much as she could, and then felt Lilith’s hand on her, helping her to ease down on the ground. The woman rose, taking her stool with her and then sat it down by Zelda’s feet as unravelled the second piece of rope. “You’re not done?” Zelda asked.

“I told you, this is about patience. Don’t worry. There will be plenty of time to play with whatever toy you want.”

Zelda looked away, wondering what that meant, and then watched as the woman lifted her foot and began tying it.

In the state of undress, tied up, watching the woman lift one leg to drag it into her lap and focus her attention on it entirely had Zelda’s thoughts reeling in fantasies. The woman was quick with her fingers this time, binding her ankles together.

Except she didn’t stop there.

The rope began slipping up her leg, binding like a fishnet up her right leg, slipping over calves and thighs in loops, and then Zelda had to look away as she felt the woman slip the rope over the highest part of her thigh, a wicked smile on her face.

“There are certain knots you can tie,” Lilith said, while tying a knot on her inner thigh, “That can induce arousal as the occupant squirms in their bindings.”

“I’m aware,” Zelda said, her voice heavy with desire she didn’t mean to carry. “Is that what you’re doing?”

“I can, if you want,” Lilith said, “I can do it so you’ll have no relief from it, too.”

Zelda bit her lip, imaging herself bound and squirming, feeling the rope between her legs rub, but provide nothing but a tease. “And how much would you need to change for either of those?”

“To make you squirm I’d need to adjust it, but I could get you off as it is.”

Zelda laughed. “I’m sure you could with how quick your hands work.”

“Oh, no. You misunderstand, I could make you come without my hands ever touching your vagina.”

Zelda's eyebrows shot up high in disbelief. Lilith may think herself talented, but it took more than well-placed rope to get her climbing to ecstasy.

Lilith’s eyes seemed to catch her, a smirk growing on her face. “That looks like a challenge.”

“You can certainly try, but it won’t work.”

“Is that so?” Lilith asked, and then she was gently placing Zelda’s legs down to the ground. Zelda looked down, noticing that only one leg had the rope go all the way up, whereas the other was only bound at the ankle.

The rope that went around her high thigh was knotted in a way that if she were to twist, possibly she could rub herself against it, but that wasn’t something she planned on doing. She looked up, quirking her eyebrow at the woman as if to ask, is this your worst?

But Lilith only smiled down at her. “If you’d like, I can take a photo. I have a polaroid camera.”

“Absolutely not,” Zelda stated. Like hell, she would allow a picture of herself to be taken.

“I wouldn’t have your face in frame, just the ropes.”

“No,” Zelda said, before adding shortly, “Thank you.”

Lilith seemed to take no offence to it, clearly too pleased by her work as she drew her eyes over Zelda’s body. “All the things I could do to you,” she said, drawing her eyes from head to feet. “And you’d just be begging for me not to stop.”

It was a threat, and yet Zelda felt it tremble through her, a longing pulling at the idea of being at the complete mercy of the woman. She hadn’t done anything, hadn’t so much as kissed her, and yet Zelda yearned to feel her fingers press against her body.

“You won’t though,” Zelda said. “I haven’t provided you with the test results.”

Lilith grinned. “There are a lot of things I could do to you that doesn’t involve taking your underwear off,” she pointed out. “All you have to do is ask.”

What things, she wanted to ask, but bit back the words.

“What are you planning on doing?” she inquired, hoping she didn’t sound as aroused as she was.

Lilith’s eyes drew over her before she crouched down beside her, picking up the blindfold. “First, what I’m going to do is blindfold you.”

Zelda watched, waiting as she thought about the idea of being bound and blind, relying only on her other senses. The anticipation of not knowing…

“And then…we’ll see.”

Lilith placed the blindfold over her eyes, and then settled her back on the ground, combing her fingers once again through her hair. “Remember your safe word?”

“I do.”

“Good girl,” Lilith said, and then there was the sound of her heels walking away. Zelda listened as a drawer was open, and then the creak of wood as the wardrobe was opened as well. There was a noise of something cutting through the air (like a riding crop or a whip, perhaps) and then there was silence. “You’re mine, now Zelda. Be mindful to ask politely for anything you want.”

Zelda swallowed, knowing that she meant that she had to answer correctly, or else be disciplined.

Complete, utter silence followed those words, and Zelda became all the more aware of how excited she was. Genuinely excited, as well as aroused, waiting for the woman to come out and discipline her with the riding crop, or a cane or paddle.

Or her bare hand.

Zelda pressed her thighs together, feeling the rope rub on her bare leg, pressing just below her sex. A part of her wanted to adjust, see if she could move the rope a little higher, but she didn’t. The last thing she needed was Lilith seeing her rutting off to a piece of looped rope.

She paused, feeling something draw against her skin on her leg. It was soft as it slowly slid over her bare leg and down. And then it disappeared.

Zelda hadn’t even heard the woman approach. Likely, she’d taken off her heels to allow her to slip closer and draw over her skin quietly.

Nothing followed, and then suddenly, she felt a shift, and then a weight settle on her hips. Zelda drew in a deep breath, uncertain if the woman had placed something on her, or if she was now straddling her.

Until she felt the woman’s hands draw up her sides, slipping up her ribs. Zelda arched against the rope, her hands splaying out in their bindings as a part of her tried to lean forward to wherever the dominatrix was.

“Relax,” Lilith said. “I won’t do anything like that to you.”

Oh, Zelda realised. Of course, because she hasn’t been tested yet.

“Unless you ask me to.”

Zelda almost moaned, catching in time to clench her jaw shut because there was no way she was going to let this woman know how much of an effect she had on her.

And yet, she felt the spider light touches of a hand drawing up neck, thumb and fingers slipping around the throat and Zelda wondered what it would be like to feel the woman’s hand around her throat, squeezing as she…

She realised too late that her hips had rolled and she’d very intentionally (without realising) pressed firmer against the woman’s straddling body. There was no way that Lilith misinterpreted that, no way she didn’t suspect what it meant.

“Ask me nicely,” she whispered, her hand coming to brush across Zelda’s cheek. “Ask me to do unspeakable things to you.”

Zelda swallowed, she could feel the words there, drawing tight in her chest, building up in her throat. Please, my queen. But she couldn’t say the words. How could she beg for such a thing?

Lilith’s finger swept across her cheek, and Zelda could almost taste here. How close was she to her, was she just hovering above her face. Inches from her own? Was she smirking, watching with interest, or also holding back from kissing her?

She could smell her perfume. Zelda’s mouth parted, watching to tilt her head up and kiss her or hope that she would be kissed in return.

Zelda felt the woman shift on her, leaning forward and although she could feel one hand on her face, and was so very aware of how warm it was, her attention drew to the other as it settled to cup just under her breast in a way that Zelda wondered how easily she could slip under the material and press her fingers to where Zelda could feel her nipples hardening, aching to be touched.

She wanted to whimper as she felt the fingers press against the underwire of her lingerie as if daring her to ask, the thumb edging at it, the hand on her cheek was tilting her head up, and Zelda wasn’t even sure she cared for what part of Lilith her lips touch, so as long as she felt her there.

But the woman’s command sat between them, daring her to respond and ask.

But she wouldn’t beg. She wouldn’t become some animal rutting against the woman, hoping to find relief.

“Ah, I see,” Lilith said with a warm chuckle.

And then, all at once, she was gone. She felt the woman stand up, off from her, and Zelda wished she could push the blindfold off and look at her.

She almost pleaded for Lilith's return, but her tongue held firm, swallowing the words back.

A silence loomed, and despite how her ears pricked, she could not hear Lilith move. The woman was quiet as if she walked from shadow to shadow. For all Zelda knew, she could be standing beside her, watching her move her shoulder, stretching her hands and adjusting her feet, feeling for any movement in the ropes.

There wasn’t any. The ropes held firm.

“My queen?”

“Yes?” the woman asked, and she was closer than Zelda expected. Close enough that she knew she just needed to ask.

She swallowed, “What unspeakable things would you do?”

And then Zelda felt fingers wrap around the rope on her chest, seeming to grab hold of a particular loop that sat below her breasts, in the middle of her chest, as another hand drew behind her head, fisting into her hair.

She was pulled up into a sitting position and before Zelda could do so much as gasp as she felt nails scrape against her scalp, electrifying her nerves. “Do want a taste?”

“Yes.”

She felt the woman’s mouth descend upon hers.

It was an earnest kiss, and then Lilith was straddling her lap again, and Zelda was moaning into her mouth, pressing against her as a tongue swiped over her lips, before teeth bit and tugged, and a mouth sucked, and fingers tugged at her hair until she couldn’t tell between the pain and pleasure.

She wanted to grab at the woman, but her hands were bound and pressed between them, and it was all she could do not to wriggle forward and see if she could brush the rope between Lilith’s thighs (though if happened accidentally…it was hardly her fault).

“Naughty,” Lilith said, and then her mouth was pouring down her jaw, to her neck and across her shoulder. Zelda was trying to remember how long they’d agreed to because right now all she wanted was to feel Lilith rub against her thighs as she continued to kiss her like the world was running out of time.

A hand grabbed at her breast, and then it slid underneath the cup of her bra, the other hand still fisting her hair, tugging her head back, so Zelda’s neck was elongated as Lilith's mouth continued to bite and suck at her shoulder.

It was going to leave a mark, but she didn’t care as a keened whine broke from as she felt her nerves electrify.

Lilith’s hand slid over her nipple, tweaking it, then grasping and pinching it between the length of her fingers.

If she kept doing that, Zelda was going to…to…

She groaned, feeling the rope on her thigh press against her underwear.

“I told you I could get you off without touching your cunt,” Lilith growled into her ear, and Zelda moaned at the words. “But you were so naughty that I don’t think I will.”

“No––“

“No, what?” Lilith enquired.

“Don’t stop.”

“Say, please.”

Zelda shut her jaw, groaning as the hand in her hair tugged again. Even blindfolded, she opened her eyes, wishing she could gaze upon her. She was met with darkness, but even in that, she could feel Lilith's eyes penetrating through, commanding her to just say it.

“Please,” she hissed.

“Good girl,” and the hand on breast squeezed, and Zelda felt the rope pressing against her underwear, rubbing against it as Lilith seemed to rock on her lap.

There was something unholy about the pressure Lilith had with her teeth and tongue on her shoulder like she knew just how to apply it just right as she tugged at her hair at the right moment and pinched at the nipple just right.

Zelda arched into the touch, feeling the pressure build low in her belly, growing with each rocked movement until her hips jerked, rocking over a knot on her thigh and Zelda felt the climax hit her with a sudden, strangled gasp.

It shuddered through her, and she felt the woman’s laugh rumble against her chest as she carried her through it for what felt like too short of a time before the rope became too sensitive and she was jerking her hips away.

The hand in her hair relaxed, and Lilith’s lips trailed against her neck, pressing lightly against the skin as the hand on Zelda’s breast dropped away.

Zelda drew in one breath, and then another, feeling the aftershocks tremble through her before she was placed down on the ground once more. She felt Lilith’s hands rest on either side of her face, before pushing up the blindfold as she flickered her eyes between Zelda’s, studying her.

Zelda pushed up and kissed her, lips pressing to feel the soft intake of breath against her mouth as Lilith tilted her head and sunk against her. Before she could even stop to think about how warm the woman’s lips were on hers, Lilith was pulling away, and Zelda was left to look at her flushed face, feeling thumbs draw against her cheeks bones.

“How do you feel?” Lilith asked.

Zelda nodded, swallowing before she found herself biting back a sharp comment. “Good,” she agreed. “I won’t doubt you again.”

“You and I both know that’s a lie.”

The effects of the orgasm still ran through her and Zelda feel herself the endorphins flooding through her bloodstream. A part of her hungered to do it again, see if Lilith could get her off twice more.

But the woman climbed off and began untying her, and it was all she could to take a breath and breathe, focusing on the way the woman’s fingers unravelled the knots faster than she expected.

The moment she was unbound, the ropes were pulled away, and a strange shyness seemed to overtake Lilith as she spooled the rope, undoing the knots that remained, her eyes look away. Perhaps she felt she’d crossed a boundary, Zelda wondered.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

Lilith looked up, and her face softened, “It’s been a while since I’ve tied anyone up like that,” she admitted, though there was more to it. “If you wanted a shower, you could take one,” she said. “I’ll clean up in here and make tea.”

Zelda nodded, feeling the uncomfortable wetness slide between her thighs at the mention of it. Tea would be good, she decided.

She went to the ottoman, picking up her belongings and taking them to the bathroom, where she set them down again on the counter. The towel was different this time, a black towel.

Zelda shut the bathroom door and slid off her clothes, looking into the mirror. There were lines on her back where the rope had pressed as she laid down, but otherwise, the only mark was a growing bruise on her shoulder––easily able to be hidden with the shirts and dresses she wore.

She slid into the shower, finding the temperature warm (and with a surprisingly strong water pressure that beat down her back, soothing knots she didn’t realise she had.)

Taking the showerhead in hand, she washed over her body, cleaning the mess between her thighs. There, the water pressure was prominent in a way she didn’t expect, and Zelda nearly allowed herself to sink in that, finding her arousal growing at the idea of getting off while the woman was in the next room over. But she pushed it away, setting the showerhead back in place and stayed under the spray of water until she had her desire under control.

The woman was a dominatrix first, a sex worker. It was completely understandable that she wanted to feel the woman’s hand relieve the pressure building between her thighs. It was understandable that she was being seduced, but Zelda reminded herself that it was all pretend. A service between two consenting adults.

And if she was going to delve further into that service, actually allow the woman to penetrate her (as she so crassly spoke, likely to get a reaction out of her) then she needed to see it as a service. She was a client, yes, but that did not mean that Lilith was going to take an emotional interest in her suddenly.

She switched off the water, coming out to clean dry herself off before she dressed again (placing the underwear in her handbag, given their ruined state).

She walked downstairs and watched as Lilith finished setting out the items, placing them onto the kitchen table.

There was a tightness to the woman that settled in Zelda’s stomach uncomfortably as she took her seat. When Lilith had finished setting everything aside, the woman sat across from her, a cup of water in hand.

And then a silence sat between them.

Zelda wanted to apologise. She wasn’t sure what the apology was for, perhaps for kissing her, or for not doing the right thing, or whatever it was. But she didn’t say the words; instead, she took a sip of tea and averted her eyes to where the kitchen light flooded over the patio, bringing partial light to the garden.

Something had shifted between them.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” Lilith asked, a smile on her lips.

“I did,” Zelda said. “Did you?”

“Always,” Lilith said, but the way she said the word implied otherwise.

“I…” Zelda swallowed thickly, looking away. “I think we should stick to what we did in the first session…if this is to continue.”

Lilith nodded. “You’re the client,” she advised. “Whatever service you want, I’m happy to provide.” The expression remained, and Zelda couldn’t tell if she was relieved, or disappointed or just neutral towards it.

Zelda blinked, adverting her gaze. She was a client, just a client. Lilith was sure to have a dozen more just like her.

Taking a sip of tea, she asked. “How much for the session?”

____________

#lilith #zelda spellman #zelith #madam spellman #caos fanfic #morgans fics #morgan writes

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badger-writes · 3 years

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@badthingshappenbingo

Prompt Filled: Financial Trouble

Fandom: Star Wars

Ao3 Link

They come to a world called Tatooine. It is nothing like home. It is dry and hot and devoid of water, and all its land is soft and grainy, sliding treacherously underfoot with every step or flung into the eyes with every breath the desert takes. It is a harsh world; its people are similarly inclined. They don’t much care for the new arrivals, but they don’t much care about them, either.

At first the Tetsus cluster together, trying to rebuild some semblance of community. Then the rents come due, and the ration bars run out. Uncle Nok sells his spaceship to make ends meet, and even the credits from that disappear overnight, devoured by a hundred needy mouths. Social bonds break down, first with the pilfer of a few ingots from the better-off, and finally with full scale fights over crusts of bread and pallie fruits. “We’re all in this together” becomes “every man for himself”. Many turn to crime, or drink, or spice, just to deal with the ambient horror of existence. Eventually, families scatter across the planet like puff-blooms on the wind.

Eventually, among the Rodians who still believe in associating, rumors begin to circulate – rumors of a man appearing to those who had finally hit the end of their rope. Whispers of a thin Twi’lek whose pallid, clammy face is set with sharp teeth and covetous red eyes. A man who says, “I know your pain, friend, and I bring you succor. Turn your indolence to success – bathe in credits and pleasures like you’ve never known. Work for the Hutts. Work for Mighty Jabba.”

Greedo is too young to hear such whispers for himself. But he sees more shiny new blasters appearing on his kinsmen’s hips the further they drift away from the clan, and he watches them eat more food, and better, than he’s had in months.

Anyone can live like that, he realizes, if they can hold a gun and work for Jabba.

Anyone, apparently, except Uncle Nok.

===

Years pass. Bellies grow leaner. Everyone in Mos Espa seems to be living better than him, stuck in a one-room hut and surrounded by city congestion. This is hideously, grievously unfair.

Uncle Nok tells him that things will be better soon. Greedo fails to see how; the old man’s joints have been getting worse ever since they resettled, and his slugthrower, after years of poaching womp rat game out in the dunes, isn’t faring much better. Nok has blamed the dry heat on both issues, and no amount of credits sunk into the hope of repair thus far have been having an effect on either of them.

Such practical concerns have little effect on Nok. “Keep drinking your blue milk at dinner, son,” he tells him one night. “It’s what a good hunter needs.”

Without looking up from his datapad, Greedo asks, “If that’s true, how come you’re not drinking any?” Then, with a touch of poison: “You look like you could use it.”

Nok sighs. He puts a long-fingered hand on Greedo’s shoulder - trying to fill in for Father, the boy thinks ruefully – before going to sit in his chair. He says, “I made a promise to make sure you turned out all right, Greedo. And that’s what I’m gonna do.”

“What, by starving us?”

“My priority right now is making sure you grow up safe,” Nok replies evenly. “It may not look pretty right now. You might resent me for it. But please believe things will get better, son. I promise I’m working on it.”

“Well, work faster, Uncle. Or I might grow up and join the Hutts before you can stop me.”

“The Hutts? Don’t throw your life away for them. You and I both know you’re better than that. Besides, the thugs who work for those gangsters are no better than slaves.”

“Even a slave lives better than this,” Greedo hisses. “If you can’t even see that, you’re a bigger fool than they say.”

Nok’s face grows sad and wistful. Greedo can only stand to look at it for a half second more before he turns off the glowlamp and turns over in his cot.

===

Uncle Nok leaves one morning and doesn’t come back all day.

He doesn’t come back the next day, either.

On the third day, the landlord forces him out onto the street, and Greedo finally realizes how alone he truly is.

#bad things happen bingo #star wars #greedo #prompt: financial trouble #star wars legends

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anarchy-lives-eternal · 5 years

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First of all, I’d like to apologize if you don’t like OOC fanfics or Charlastor fics, please ignore this one if that’s the case! So basically, this is about if Charlie and Alastor had been human and grew up together. This is entirely based on if Alastor was Demiromantic (which actually falls under the Aromantic umbrella) and had fallen in love with Charlie towards the end of their schooling/early adulthood. It is set so that they were born around 1904/1905. But anyways! I’m giving away the whole entire plot! Don’t mind me! Some warnings do include: References to violence/murder, OOC-ness of main characters, and there is some r-rated language. There are almost zero references towards, ahem, adult activities, or even really any kissing. Mostly references cuddles and hugs. Also, if anyone wants to suggest a name for this, please do so. Again, wasting your time! Sorry! Let’s get this show on the road!

A Charlastor AU

Alastor was angry. He was sad. He was grieving. He stood at his wife’s funeral, his smile was in place, but it looked more like a grimace than anything. Her friends and family had come, as well as his.

“She left this world far too early.”

“Taken away before her time.”

“She was far too kind for this world.”

Alastor couldn’t agree more. Charlotte, or Charlie as she preferred, his wife, his confidant, his world, was gone. They had grown up together, even though they came from wildly different backgrounds. His mother had been the Magne family’s head chef, and they had allowed her to bring Alastor along, saying that they had a daughter of the same age, and they could even play together.

Alastor had been a shy child, though, so when he first met Charlie at the tender age of 5, and she had immediately declared him her “bestest friend”, well... he had hid behind his mothers skirts. She had pushed him back out though and urged him to get to know the little heiress, telling him that he couldn’t spend all his time with his mother, and he knew well enough he wasn’t allowed in the kitchens anyways, “Too many knives, dear.”

So, he had been pulled out of the house and into the lavish gardens by the little girl wearing a frilly pink dress, that apparently she hated.

They had spent the entire day and the days to follow together, and when the time came for them to go to school, they both thought that they would be separated, only for Alastor to be invited to attend the school Charlie was going to go to. When he asked his mother, she said that Charlie’s parents had offered the scholarship as a “perk” of working for them. (Later on, Alastor would find out that Charlie’s mother, Lily, had seen the school Alastor would be attending and immediately denied it, saying there was no way any friend of Charlie’s was going to go to such a run down school)

And so the trend continued through their adolescence, until it was time to graduate. By this time, the two were nigh inseparable, and Alastor, despite his best efforts, had fallen in love. It wasn’t until his first broadcast a year and a half later that he finally got the courage to ask her out for a date. And only because he had found out the hard way that Charlie had a jealous streak a mile wide.

Alastor had laughed at his own idiocy, “Darling, why don’t we go out dancing tomorrow night?”

Charlie peeked up at him, her cheeks a rosy hue from her embarrassment, “Like a date?”

Alastor grinned, his chest warm, “Yes, Doll. A real date.”

And the rest was history. At least to the rest of the world.

You see, Charlie was the only person in the world who knew the identity of the New Orleans killer. And not only did she know who he was, but she literally helped him get away with murder. After all, she loved him.

She also created his cause: only ever kill the ones who were dirty. Abusers, rapists, dirty cops and dirtier officials.

She had helped him bury bodies or clean up blood on multiple occasions. She had even acted as a lure for others. She had been the one to come up with the template for his victims when he had admitted to her his desires to hurt others those years ago, “We can’t control your urges, Al, but we can aim them in a more... proactive direction.”

The 1930’s were rife with crime, if the FBI were to be believed. Just last year they had come out with a Bulletin, trying to get the public to speak up. They also had a fancy new lab for solving crime. ‘Oh well’ Alastor thought, ‘37 victims in and they’ve yet to even come close to me. Then again, I had Charlie before.’

Another wave of grief washed over him. He felt actual tears roll down his cheeks. Finally he was asked to speak.

Alastor cleared his throat, speaking was his specialty, but now it seemed so hard, “Charlie... she was my entire world, my confidant, my only love, and my.. partner-in-crime. She never deserved this. She was always so happy! Her smiles even outshone mine! I just want her back, if I’m entirely honest. I’d give anything to hold her again.” He turned, a blood red rose and a fist full of dirt clutched in either hand as they finished lowering her, he kissed the rose and tossed it down, then threw the handful of dirt as well. At that moment, something about Alastor seemed to fracture. After that day, no one ever saw him without a smile again.

Charlie

She awoke in a strange, gray room. Surrounding her were 3 forms, their faces indistinguishable, “Charlotte Rose Magne, you have been brought before us for judgement. Do you repent for your sins? Do you accept Lord Jesus Christ as your savior?”

“Repent? Repent for what?”

“For aiding in the murder of 37 individuals.”

“You mean taking horrible people off the street? For loving my husband?”

“If you shall not repent, to Hell you shall be sent.”

Before anything else could be said, three gavels slammed down, and Charlie could feel fire burning her soul. As she fell, she changed. Horns grew from her forehead, curling backwards, her sclera turned blood red, and her iris poison yellow. She lost all color, turning porcelain white. Her canines sharpened and she could taste blood in her mouth. She landed on a strange ground, everything around her was red, and there was a set of wrought iron gates in front of her. She picked herself up, walking forward.

So this was Hell. It was nothing like what she expected. Demons walked the streets, from all the eras thus far. She looked to her left and saw her reflection, ‘Well this just won’t do.’ She felt a strange tug as she concentrated on changing her appearance to that without the horns and eyes. There. Once her eyes had changed to black with yellow sclera and her horns were gone, she looked like an actual doll. She grinned.

Looking around some more, she noticed there were demons selling drugs and murdering others out in the open. It was obvious to her that everything goes in this place. There is one thing she is certain of, though. She needs some kind of protection.

There was a commotion to her right, a building that looked like a jazz lounge stood, and in front of it she could hear two demonesses arguing, “you can’t just up and quit! You’re our only Canary!”

Mimzy, I do believe I just did! Now enough with this jive, I’m off to bigger and better things!”

Charlie decided this was her chance. She knew she had a great voice, Alastor and others had always told her so. She felt a pang of grief and pain. Alastor...

She pushed it aside. She needed a job to survive now. She would just wait for her husband. They wouldn’t be apart forever.

“Excuse me! You’re Ms. Mimzy? You own this lounge?”

The demoness turned to her, “Yes, that’s me. What do you need?”

Charlie grinned, using the charm that her husband had taught her when she wanted something, “Why! I’ve heard quite a bit about this place and I would just love the chance to audition for a singing position. I’m told I have quite the pipes, and you seem to have found yourself in need of a canary!”

Mimzy looked Charlie up and down before hefting a heavy sigh, “Fine, at least you’re a looker. Let’s go. Hopefully you aren’t a trip for biscuits.”

Charlie just kept her smile at full blast. She was taken into the clip joint and straight to Mimzy’s office, where she was given a list of songs to pick from. She chose Blue Skies by Irving Berlin, as it was one of her favorites.

As she sang the song, she watched Mimzy’s face go from doubtful, to elated, to downright giddy. When she was done, Mimzy jumped up, “Why I never! What a talent! You can count yourself hired. What is your name anyway? You never told it.”

“My name, Ms. Mimzy, is Charlie.” She said, adding a flourishing curtsy.

“And what kind of demoness are you? I was a Lady in White until they finally got a hold of me and sent me down here.”

Charlie didn’t know how, but she knew the immediate answer, and her grin widened, “I am a siren. If I wanted, I could entrance all those around me. Make them do what I wish. But no worries, Ms. Mimzy, you’ll not have to deal with that unless you ask it of me. I prefer to just let things lie.”

Mimzy laughed, “Oh, but I wouldn’t mind at all if it brought more patrons in. What with that new lounge down the street, patronage has been on the fritz lately.”

“Well then, Ms. Mimzy, I do believe you have yourself a new Canary!”

And thus, for the next year, Charlie would sing at The Black Silhouette, and business was booming. Charlie would use a siren song once or twice in a night in order to draw in patrons, and Mimzy paid her extremely well. By the end of a year, Charlie had more money than a couple overlords with how much she made the lounge. Mimzy ended up having to buy a bigger building just to keep up with the intake of patrons.

There was one incident that became the reason Mimzy knew why Charlie was in Hell in the first place.

One of the men her husband had murdered, a serial rapist if she remembered right, had come to The Black Silhouette with a pally or two and recognized Charlie right away. After all, she’d actually lured him into the trap, and considering his pastime, had wanted a personal hand in bumping him.

He’d made a huge scene, of course, so Charlie had to deal with it personally. Killing him again in front of all her patrons had admittedly been a tad bit thrilling. Unfortunately that nagging guilt had nipped at her heals again. She pushed it down. He was the real monster. Still, she wished her husband was here. He’d enjoy doing the dirty work so she could keep her hands clean.

When Mimzy had asked what that was all about, Charlie had a simple reply, “Why, I used to help my husband murder people of course! He was one of them. Even had a hand in it myself, though I usually prefer not to do the real dirty work.”

She had grinned the entire time. As her husband used to say: smiles are power. If you can smile through anything, then people will always move out of your way.

Charlie missed her husband dearly. Her heart ached every day. She hated the pain, but she also hoped that he didn’t join her too soon.

“Charlie! You’re on in 1 minute!” She grinned.

Alastor

Hell. He was in Hell. The crown of his head still ached where his horns had come in, his smile still ever present, only now his teeth were sharper. There was a constant pain in his stomach, and he knew it would never be relieved. Wendigo. That word crossed his head and he knew it to be true. He stepped through the gates and into Hell’s streets. He didn’t expect to find his wife. She was probably sent up top. The grief struck again.

Truthfully, Alastor had only gotten angrier and messier once his beloved departed.

He would have kept going though, if not for the hunter. That fucking hunter. Those fucking dogs.

As he passed by a Jazz lounge called The Black Silhouette, the door opened and a voice he knew all too well came lilting out, curling around him and soothing something inside him that he didn’t realize until that moment needed soothing.

His head whipped to the side, and he immediately made for the doors to the lounge. He passed the Bouncer and as he caught sight of her, his lungs stopped working.

Up on stage was his Charlie. His doll. His partner-in-crime. She was beautiful in a sparkling red floor length dress, her blonde hair longer now than he remembered, but still gorgeous as ever. She looked like a porcelain doll.

He stood for minutes as she finished, heading backstage. He rushed to go find her. He had to.

Charlie Charlie Charlie.

He was stopped by a small woman, “You may be a fan, but no one is allowed back stage to go see her.”

Alastor felt rage at being held back from his beloved. Red sigils started dancing around his being, smile becoming sharper, “You will not stand between my wife and myself. Move.”

The woman looked shocked, but not by his power, but by his words, “Wait. You’re her husband?” She narrowed her eyes, “What is your name. I’m the only one she’s ever told her husbands name to, so I’ll know if you’re lying.”

Ah. So Charlie trusted this woman enough to tell her his name? He supposed he could play along then. Wouldn’t want to upset Charlie, after so long apart, “Alastor.”

The woman looked at him closely, “Very well. Her dressing room is the third door on the left. There are no names on the doors so people can’t just see who’s in where.”

Without another thought or word, Alastor rushed forward. He got to the door before bursting through it, forgetting for the moment all the manners his mother taught him.

He watched Charlie whip around, her eyes red and yellow, and a vicious smile on her face. Until she caught sight of him, “A-Alastor? Is... that really you?”

“Why hello Darlin! Wasn’t expecting to see you down here!” His heart wouldn’t stop beating.

Charlie let out a watery laugh as Alastor stepped through the door, shutting it firmly, “I refused to repent when they offered, and I knew you wouldn’t, so I got sent here. I managed to run into Mimzy right as I arrived. Her Canary had just flew the coop and she needed a new one so I offered right then and there. After all, I had a lavish lifestyle I was quite used to.”

Alastor chuckled, “Darling, you hated that lifestyle.”

Finally neither could take it and Charlie was in his arms, and he finally felt whole again.

#charlastor #chalastor #fanfiction #hazbin hotel #why do i do these things #ooc #big oof #someone help me #dont hate me

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ravenwritesstuff · 4 years

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Best Laid Plans (8/?)

Fandom: Frozen (modern AU, no magic) Pairings: Helsa, established Kristanna, Rapunzel/Eugene, lotsa frohana Rating: T for now, M later almost for sure A/N: I write what I want to write. Fuck. Someone take this away from me.

It had not exactly been World War Three, but it had not gone over lightly when Elsa realized exactly what Hans had managed to negotiate Rapunzel into allowing. Or not so much allowing as thinking it was the best idea - the only idea - Elsa’s idea - and that somehow she had authorized Rapunzel to clear Tuesday’s entire schedule.

Each appointment, call, and workflow had been reassigned to appropriate corresponding dates leaving the entire day clear for - well - him. What he wants, what his event calls for, and she more than slightly miffed that he still failed to truly explain just what his event - initiative - whatever - entails.

But whatever the result - Elsa should have known better than to leave the trusting Rapunzel in the room with someone with the charisma and bravado of Hans Westergaard.

Looking at the paperwork before her she is wondering just how much - well - bravado one man could have.

Staring at the zeros, written with Rapunzel’s trademark flair, on the intake form for the proposed budget is the only thing keeping Elsa from calling the entire thing off.

That and the niggling curiosity in her chest that scares her as much as it intrigues her.

She is only just now starting to realize that it has been years since she really felt - well - anything. This has been by design, and she is entirely certain that it is a mistake to indulge this, but something in her just cannot walk away.

Perhaps it is because she knows she is nearing the end of any kind of semblance of normal. That soon her life will be nothing more than phasing out of it between medical exams and palliative care. That when Anna gently presses her towards a different choice - though impossible - she secretly wishes for it.

She looks at the forms, facts, and figures on her desk and wonders if somehow this is the silver lining in this entire thing.

Thirty-nine days.

She has already started gradually removing herself from all main client contact roles, not wanting anyone to feel jilted if she needs to stop attending to their every call. Anna and even Rapunzel have stepped up to every other occasion, but this is her project.

This one is on her. Well - that is if she is to get them to where the company needs to be before she - well - leaves.

She pinches the bridge of her nose.

Everything about this is wrong.

Everything about this is right.

Both realities cannot exist without shades of gray and it has been over a decade since she has thought in such muddied terms. Black and white is easier. It makes the inevitable easier to swallow. Things either are yes or no; up or down; simple or complicated; living or dying; but never both.

That is, apparently, unless Hans Westergaard is involved.

Her heart gives an unsettling, queer beat as she reviews the calendar and the schedule Rapunzel had built for them. She has read and re-read it for what feels like the eleventh time before she finally gives up.

No.

This will not be easy. This will not be ideal, but it will hopefully be what the company needs.

She does not have time to give a second thought about what she needs. This is not the time or place. Especially when it is everything they have worked for. Especially when she will not be here much longer.

She lets her damp head rest back against her very practical office chair and almost laughs at the ridiculousness of it all. She wonders if her condition is what is making her want to be reckless in this moment. The doctors had not mentioned that as a possibility, but then she is an anomaly.

She has already broken all the rules.

Maybe that is why she has tried to follow them so strictly outside of her diagnosis.

That is what one of her therapists had suggested anyway. She fired them before their third meeting.

Or really she had just stopped going to prove a point.

She had ignored the calls from the office to reschedule missed appointments. She did not have time. She was not someone who was called to evolve into her highest self. She didn’t need to make peace with her diagnosis. It wouldn’t change it. So she chose to focus instead on what was right in front of her, on the here and now, while never really being in the moment.

It is easier to ignore the inevitable if she doesn’t have it shoved in her face for an hour every week.

She does not have time for that. She was not going to make it that far enough to make time for that.

So she moved on to a therapist who just listens, nods, and gives her what she needs for her nerves - her lack of sleep - her restlessness.

She is not looking to be healed. She knows she is beyond that . Still: she opens her eyes and looks at the project before her and feels - for the first time in forever - a spark of something.

She will never admit it, not even to herself, but the feeling in her chest is something all too similar to hope and she cannot have any of that.

She pushes that sensation down and focuses on what she always has: the practical.

Like how in the hell is she supposed to prepare for a meeting she doesn’t want with a man she cannot afford to get close to when that is exactly what she must do?

She crosses her arms on the desk in front of her and plops her forehead down with a groan.

She is going to regret this - already does. She supposes the only unanswered thing about this that matters is just how much she will regret this in the end.

….

She does not lose sleep over the event, the meeting. At least no more than she normally would before a big meeting.

No.

She is too sensible for that (plus she took a sleeping pill at the absolute last minute before it would leave her sick and groggy the next day). She knows she needs to be sharp, well rested, and on high alert through this entire day. You don’t go into a battle without your wits fully in tact and she has been mentally girding herself ever since she gave Rapunzel the okay to send over the approval of terms and preliminary proposal with room for addendum.

He sends back an address and a time, but not to Rapunzel’s email. He texts it to her personal phone again and Elsa is quickly realizing that fighting this particular part of this game will be a loss. She needs to laser focused on the battles that matter - the battle at hand.

She is holding her armor tight as they all pull into the marina’s general parking lot in Anna’s car, trying to convince herself that her stomach is not in knots. Even though it is.

Her mind races with possibilities of what this day could entail, trying to plan for any outcome, but there are too many trajectories and not enough information. She can figure most likely scenarios but nothing so far has been most likely when it came to this entire situation so she must keep herself vigilant. She cannot let herself slip even a fraction of an inch or she knows she will regret it.

Mister Westergaard had told Rapunzel to clear the entire day - to make sure they came prepared for a day of sea and sun - and Elsa wasn’t quite sure how to take that. So she came in a sensible wrap dress in her traditional navy and flats. In her bag she also packed swim attire with a cover that could also double for any of her standard dresses. She is not taking any chances.

She had briefed her staff on the seriousness of this meeting - even though she did not need to. She knew they would exhibit absolute professionalism like they always did, but she also knows that Hans Westergaard is a different type of beast than their usual. Only the main staff comes: herself, Kristoff, Anna, Rapunzel, and Eugene. Pascal and Sven, interns, had stayed behind to man the office. Her trust in them was the only reason that she even considered leaving the office today with other projects on the line. She trusts them, but….

Still there were so many ways this could go wrong.

Not because of her trust in them but more so the need to prove that she is not afraid of anything this Hans Westergaard can bring against her.

She has the mounting dread of a feeling that she is not only building her own coffin, but nailing it shut.

Rapunzel could not elaborate on what may be considered appropriate for this all day meeting so she had the perky brunette call his contact number for clarification. He did not answer, but Elsa listened to the message - but a single text from him to her personal phone (she really needs to get Rapunzel to stop giving out her personal number) gives her just enough foresight to warn them all to be prepared.

I hate spoiling surprises but come prepared to get wet.

He had texted with the address to the marina and a berth number. She had blushed at what she hoped was unintentional innuendo.

In order to best serve you and keep your event professional please contact me on my office line only.

She had replied with the contact that she knows he already has. But he had not used it and she has a feeling that he probably never will outside of that first call he made to her office, not when he knows where to find her in a way that feels just a little too close. A little too intimate. A little too raw. Just like that dance that never should have happen, never should have become two, never -

She shakes her head, ears burning in embarrassment of how far she had let that go. She will not be making that mistake again. She can run this event, elevate her company, and stay unattached even if the butterflies in her stomach are working hard enough to lift her up off the ground at the moment.

Her group does not seem to notice, however. Nor had any of them lifted an eyebrow when she had instructed them to dress expensive business casual but to also pack swim attire and accouterments. Perhaps it is because their destination includes the marina and a berth. She prefers to entertain that idea as opposed to the concept that they are placating her, giving her space, not asking questions because she seems fragile in any way. That is something she simply cannot abide.

She should have had Rapunzel call, ask clarifying questions, taken control like she would have with any other client, but she had not. She had not and she is not prepared to follow through the logic that if she had failed to respond to this like she would for any other client that perhaps he is not just another -

Elsa’s thoughts and steps slow as they approach their destination.

She has been on boats. She has been on yachts. But if what she is looking at is the boat they will sail on that day - it takes everything within herself to not drop her jaw to the floor.

It does not look quite like any other ship she has seen. There are no sails or anything of the like, but there are three levels of windows curving along an immaculate white bough. The bow is almost needle shaped, long and contoured to an exact point beyond any cabin that gives it the looks of a swordfish, or dolphin, or any of those more majestic water bound creatures. The shape, the arch of the body, the way it rises from the water - it is exceptional from stem to stern. She can tell from the design that it is built to be large, and to show it.

This, she knows, is a ship built to impress people.

Did that mean Mister Westergaard was trying to impress them? Or maybe just intimidate.

Her sweaty palm tightens on the attache case containing their more formal documents, her heavy duty tablet.

She had finished them the day before after devoting the whole of her energy to them. She had them sent over by three but had not heard anything about the few gaps she needed filled before she felt comfortable moving forward formally. Perhaps he wants to negotiate in person. For the money he is willing to pay she is more than happy to go over everything in person, or at least she would be if he wasn’t completely capable of robbing her of almost every shred of common sense she possessed.

But even if he had not signed anything yet, neither had she - her company. If this day proved too much, too disagreeable, there was nothing to keep up the facade.

Still she is sure that if she just focuses she can get what she needs from him and nothing else. The challenge of drawing up the proposition she had sent him, of rustling vendors and calling in favors, orchestrating a careful network of details and factors and creating the perfect documents for this event had given her a thrill. She knew he would not understand, appreciate, all it took to put together a proposal like this. How could he? He was a privileged son of a man of unimaginable wealth. He had no need to work, to strive, to fear.

The initiative, or so he called it, seemed a pet project that the wealthy elite all had. His was ocean related and that made sense considering his love of sailing. Though Mister Westergaard had been short on details of exactly what this all entailed Elsa had still managed to come up with what she felt was a perfect framework for a successful soiree. It was fluid, adaptable, and when she got the rest of the details down in writing, allowing her to draw up the final paperwork and followed by his signature… well. Just focusing on what that meant for her sister, their friends, the company was enough to put aside the tight braid of apprehension winding down her spine at the logistics of what that meant from a practical perspective.

Once the ink dried that meant she would be bound to him for thirty eight days. Thirty eight days of closely working alongside him, communicating with him. If she is lucky he will be uninterested in attending vendor meetings, that he will trust her judgement and simply allow her to select what she feels is best as many of her clients do. After all - that is why they pay. They don't want to invest the time or effort into each minutia that came with an event of any size, but she thrived within it. Would she be able to do so with Hans Westergaard thrown into the mix?

But she'll think about that tomorrow. Right now all she can think about is putting one foot in front of the other until they are at the gangplank.

She isn’t sure when Anna comes up alongside her and loops an arm through hers, but she realizes it is there when Anna squeezes it with her own.

“You okay?” Her sister’s voice is low and Elsa gives a tense nod.

“Of course,” she replies. “I’m - I’m just fine.”

She stumbles a bit as Mister Westergaard appears at the top of the gangplank. He is in fitted khakis and boat shoes with a navy sweater pulled over a crisp collared shirt. His hair styled back with its natural wave and his smile broad as he waves them up from his place at the top of the long, metal-railed ramp. Anna’s grip tightens.

“Come aboard!” He calls, keen green eyes flashing to each person in their party. Though she could not prove it she feels like his gaze lingers on her just a fraction longer than the others.

She quickly shakes the thought.

Paranoia will not help her focus on her mission.

She shrugs off Anna’s supporting arm. It will not do to seem like she needs help, that she is weak in any way. She pulls her shoulders up and back as she strides up the gangplank to meet their host.

“Mister Westergaard,” she crosses her attache case in front of her body, lasering into his gaze with more force than necessary. “Thank you for having us. We have many aspects of the event to cover. Should we get started?”

His smile does not falter.

“Of course we should,” he cradles her elbow (thankfully covered by the extra billowing length of her sleeve) to pivot her so the rest of her party can finish their ascent. “But first we need to attend the briefing from the crew. We will be pushing off soon.”

He drops his touch as soon as he had started it, attention moving to Anna and the rest and leaving her flummoxed. Pushing off? She knows they are on a boat but that meant…

He continues without dropping a beat, addressing the whole of his guests. “We will be setting sail in the next ten minutes. The crew will brief you on the safety functions of the vessel on the aft.”

The group hesitates, at least slightly perplexed, and Elsa knows she is not the only one who not as apt at ship terminology as she might be. They weren’t the types to sail regularly, but Mister Westergaard seems to note his mistake with equal speed. His smile broadens as he gestures behind himself to the sleek walkway that edges the ship.

“You will have to excuse me. I’ve spent more time on ship than on land lately and developed certain habits. This way place,” and there is a silent, collective breath of relief at his gracious response.

Somewhere in the depth of her heart she cannot help but wonder if this was some sort of test that she had failed. Or if he had staged the entire thing to make himself seem like some sort of savior, like somehow he would deliver these Cretans to their designated location by his own benevolence and -

“May I have the honor of escorting you?” he offers his arm and she flashes to the deeply slow stroll up the walk to the wedding venue. She remembers the heat of his touch, the conversation, and while she is not interested in actively offending him:

“The passageway is a bit narrow, don’t you think?” She keeps her tone professional, the butterflies in her stomach pressed down. “Why don’t you go ahead and lead us?”

His eyes flash and she is not quite sure what it means but he makes no moves to press the issue. Instead he lifts his gaze from her and addresses the entire group:

“Of course," his smile wolfish, like she just set the tone for the day - like he anticipated it. "This way. Follow me!”

They do.

Elsa lags a bit, letting Anna and Kristoff take the lead and falling back with Rapunzel and Eugene. In the middle of the pack she feels a bit more secure, a bit less like she is walking into a trap, but then he looks over his shoulder and winks at her and she is back to the wedding with sweating palms and shaking knees.

She considers his smile, his heat, the curve of his brow and - no.

That was not why she was here.

This is business, just business. She had made that clear, but as they reach where the walkway opens to a spectacular seating area complete with firepit all those zeroes on the proposal invoice she knows this is nothing like the business they have done up to this point.

It doesn’t even feel like she is on a boat.

There is plush furniture, all royal blue with stainless steel and arranged in a horseshoe that takes advantage of the ocean view. A marble and metal coffee table that she swears is as big as the kitchen in her studio apartment is decorated with a planter holding a dozen white iris in perfect bloom and a spread of finger foods that rival Tiana’s inventions.

Her stomach cramps even as her mouth waters. She has hardly eaten, but given her inexperience on a boat she hardly thinks it prudent to indulge in case sea voyage doesn’t agree with her.

She looks past the food and the seating arrangement she is certain they will fill briefly, out beyond the shadowed overhang of the upper deck they are beneath, and there are half a dozen white loungers surrounding a sunken pool. The railing alongside the ship falls off beyond the pool and at this angle she knows when they are at sea that it will seem as if the pool could continue right into the ocean, an endless pool of blue.

The sight rattles something inside of her. The visual somehow mirrors an intangible understanding she has for what is about to happen. The idea that this may seem like it can go on forever but she knows that cannot be true. Nothing lasts forever.

Mister Westergaard ushers them to sit. She goes, noting the finely polished blonde wood planks beneath her feet. She positions herself at the end of one of the furniture pieces facing away from the unsettling infinity pool and looks up for her sister in hopes to have her sit beside her but she is not quick enough.

Mister Westergaard settles himself next to her just close enough to be disconcerting, but clearly with no room for anyone to sit between them. He isn’t touching, not even in the slightest. He doesn’t even look her way when he sits and that somehow makes it worse. His legs spread wide, his back straight as he leans forward onto his elbows as if he is ready to pounce on any unsuspecting passer, but not giving her the slightest attention.

She knows he is playing some sort of game, but he keeps changing the rules. She does not appreciate it and she pulls her case up onto her lap to insure the forced distance. Whatever he is playing she will not join.

But she will set some rules of her own.

She tries to not sit too straight, to lean too hard against her armrest away from him, to too obviously look anywhere but him as she takes in the surroundings. She tries to focus on the expectation that if this is the informal lounge area on his yacht just how lavish the expectations will be on this event. How there are only thirty eight days to pull off something even grander than this. How there cannot be any mistake.

It simultaneously excites and terrifies her.

She thinks of all the connections this will yield, how it will catapult E&A Events into the stratosphere if they do it right. An event for people of this caliber is not a challenge to take on lightly but she knows she is up to the task. She is built for things like this, has set up E&A events for success long after she is gone if they decide to go on. This is simply the next step.

Hans Westergaard is the next step.

It is easier to think of him in this way, so she does.

Not more than a few seconds have passed since they say before a trim crew member appears from what she assumes to be a luxurious space inside, but is denied a glance by the reflective glass. The crewmember starts going through the basics of the ship’s safety protocol. Elsa remembers one of the few times she had been on a plane where the flight attendant had pointed with two fingers towards doors that Elsa hoped she would never use, but she had memorized every step regardless.

It never hurt to be prepared.

As the crew demonstrates proper life vest procedures and what to do in case of some unprecedented catastrophe she feels him lean in closer.

“If the ship went down, why do I feel like you wouldn’t flinch?” She can feel his breath tickling the shell of her ear.

She keeps her gaze focused on the crew, but turns just enough to send her words directly to him and not the rest of the group. “I won’t have to flinch. I’ll know what to do because I was able to pay attention to this presentation.”

He breathes a laugh. She feels it down her neck, entire body heating without objection. She doesn’t dare look to see if the others notice, if he is nearly as close as she thinks he may be. When he is silent for a moment she thinks that he might be done, that he has returned to an appropriate distance and she almost chances a glance. She is glad she does not because she feels it almost as much as she hears it:

“But what if you needed saving? Who would you want to come to your rescue?”

She is certain he is even closer than before now, the heat of his body bleeding into her side without even touching and she remembers what it is to touch him. She remembers how the very touch of him burns down her defenses, but what she hadn’t counted on were his words, the probing questions that always caught her off guard.

Even though she hardly knows him she knows if she looks his way she will see that same heartfelt sincerity that has undone her from the start.

She watches as a robotic crew member straps a lifesaver onto their chest. There is a flirtatious way to approach this, to stroke his ego, to make things go more smoothly but the stage has been set. She has no time to spare for such frivolity and honestly no idea how to even go about it. So instead she tightens her spine, pulls her jaw tight, and never once diverts her eyes towards him.

“I’m not the type that gets saved,” she speaks the language of strange half-truths she has grown accustomed to in her condition before letting the darkness bleed through. “I go down with the ship.”

She senses the change in him at that statement, the distance increasing between them even if he had not moved an inch, but there is no victory in it. There is only an all too familiar hollow feeling that she fights all too often.

Then, strangely despite the distance, she feels him closer still.

His shoulder touches hers and even through their respective clothes the heat of him creeps through. Her heart rate accelerates. She thought she had done her job but apparently…

“I’d save you,” his voice is low, tight and tickling. “I’d save you if it was the last thing I did.”

Her mouth goes dry at the conviction of his short speech, at the way her heart races at his words, but not because she is uncomfortable. No. It is worse than that. It is because she believes him - this near stranger.

The crew member is saying something she is sure is important, but she cannot hear it. She cannot focus beyond her own breath filling her chest, rasping in her ear. She wants to trust those words, to lean into them, but she cannot. It would be unfair for them both. So with every last ounce of will that hadn’t been scorched by his proximity she musters her courage and:

“You cannot save me, Mister Westergaard.”

The words taste bitter in her mouth without context, but she is certain the surprise she senses is real.

It feels good to catch him off guard, to let him be off balance for once. She revels in it, but not for long.

He does not move a fraction. She would have felt it, known it, all of her senses heightened towards him. Still his next words break upon the shore of her mind with relentless regularity.

“Hans,” there is something raw, low, in the way he speaks that nearly hurts. “My name is Hans, and when I save you that is what you will call me.”

[ previous ] [ next ]

#Best Laid Plans #Helsa #IceBurns #Kristanna #eugene x rapunzel #Rapunzel #Euguene #frozen #Tangled #I like messed up shit okay #Raven Writes Stuff

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glorious-blackout · 4 years

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Summary of Junior Doctor Life during a Pandemic - Part Three(ish):

We have new junior doctors! Their roles are rather limited - they can’t prescribe, can only do 8-hour shifts with no overtime, and are banned from working in COVID wards - but they’re keen beans and eager to help whenever a set of bloods or cannula needs doing. It’s similar to the ‘Preparation for Practice’ block I did at the end of Uni, only unlike me they’re actually getting paid AND don’t need to get lots of stuff signed off by supervisors 😂

We prepared for the worst and it thankfully hasn’t happened. Our Red Ward is no longer a Red Ward - our area for suspected COVID patients has been moved and is now shared with Ortho and ENT - and despite some tweaks, we’re slowly returning to normal duties. Given that there was once talk of our department hosting a palliative ward for COVID patients too unwell for ITU, I’ve never been more grateful for an anticlimax.

That’s not to say we’re out of the woods though. Our ITU and specialised Red Wards are still seeing their fair share of cases. On top of that, while ITU staff have access to the WHO approved PPE, staff in the Red wards have the same PPE we do, i.e. a plastic apron, surgical mask (not fitted) and gloves. As a result, apparently as many as seventeen nurses have either contracted the virus or had to self isolate for another reason. One of my FY1 colleagues contracted COVID-19 from dealing with a sick positive patient during a night-shift, as did all other members of her team despite wearing PPE. I’ll admit that a lot of this is hearsay and we’re prone to jumping on the rumour-mill, but considering similar stories are being told across the country, it doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.

Most patients are nice and understanding when you need to put in a cannula, but there’s always one who calls you a bitch repeatedly and tries to punch your arm when you’re trying to put a needle in theirs. C’est La Vie.

A Cardiac Arrest in the Midst of a Pandemic:

My first experience of a cardiac arrest during the pandemic occurred during a night-shift and was about as horrible as you can imagine. The patient had tested negative and had no symptoms, but the guidelines now are to treat all patients as though they could have COVID-19 regardless. The gentleman had been complaining of pain for the past hour, and barely five minutes after I arrived on the ward to look through his notes, his nurse called for help because he appeared ‘vacant’. He was startlingly pale by the time I arrived and his hands were freezing, and though he had a pulse he was completely unresponsive when we tried to rouse him. One of the nurses ran to call for the arrest team while I went to page my senior, and by the time the team arrived there was no pulse.

Our new guidelines dictate that only a small number of people can be in the room with the patient and they all need to be in full PPE - including gown and fitted masks - so there was a mad rush for essential staff to don this while the rest of us were chased away and forced to watch from the corridor. I stayed there to offer what little information I knew from reading his notes - I hadn’t met him before so that’s all I had - and eventually had to run to A+E to process a blood sample, but for the most part I was useless. The list of likely causes quickly dwindled and any attempts at treatment failed. Despite ten cycles of CPR, there was ultimately no response and time of death was called after an agonising twenty minutes.

Dealing with an expected death or someone who is clearly unwell from the start is one thing, but when someone deteriorates that quickly with a bad outcome, the aftermath can leave you in a daze. The patient’s nurse was shaking and we had to convince her to sit down and have a cup of tea because she was beating herself up over what she could have done differently (the answer to that was nothing - she was amazing). Even I fell into that trap - I had been paged about the man half an hour earlier for a pain review, but had been called to see another patient with breathlessness first and had deemed that the priority. Logically I know that me being there half an hour earlier would have made absolutely no difference - hell, he’d been sitting up and chatting to the nurse five minutes prior to his collapse - but those are the thoughts that nag at you in situations like this.

For our student nurse, it was her first ever experience of a cardiac arrest. It was my first in a while - most of the deaths I’ve dealt with in surgery have been patients too unwell for CPR. Even the senior leading the arrest team admitted at the end that it was the first time he’d ever had to call ‘time of death’. But perhaps the worst thing of all was the fact that when the patient’s family came to see him and were visibly distraught, the nurse who accompanied them was unable to offer comfort because of the need for full PPE. She admitted to us afterwards that she’d felt terrible and could only say, “I’m so sorry, I wish I could give you a hug.” It went against all her natural instincts to be so distant.

The surreal reality of living in a pandemic became clearer in the aftermath. Despite the patient’s negative result, the fact that aerosol generating procedures (e.g. attempts at intubation) had been performed meant his bay had to be deep cleaned by staff in full PPE and left unoccupied for up to an hour. In a panic, one nurse had brought the full arrest trolley into the bay (apparently the guideline now is to leave it in the corridor and only bring essential equipment like the defibrillator inside when needed) so it too needed to be sterilised and was out of commission for an hour, leaving us all very paranoid about the health of the rest of our patients. The patient’s loved ones were thankfully able to see him once the area had been cleaned, though they too needed to go through the rigmarole of donning PPE beforehand. Even during the arrest, one of the registrars was constantly forced to run to the door to ask for more supplies/background information, when only months ago she would have been able to delegate those tasks from the patient’s bedside. The fact that we’re all so unused to these new rules meant we were floundering more than usual, though thankfully the doctor in charge was direct enough to keep everyone right (something he later apologised for, though in all honestly we’d needed the kick up the arse).

With all the talk of lifting the lockdown and returning to ‘normal’, I can’t help imagining how much worse this situation would have been if the patient was positive. How much slower our initial response would have been because of the need to don full PPE before even going in to assess him. The risk to staff members in the vicinity associated with aerosol generating procedures during resuscitation. The horrible likelihood that his family would not even be able to say goodbye after he passed away. For many people this isn’t a ‘What-if’ - this is what is happening every day. People are dying alone by the thousands while their families anxiously wait for a phone-call to bring them news, rather than sitting by their loved ones as they should be. That knowledge makes the protests over the lockdown or talk of lifting it prematurely feel all the more ridiculous to me. You only need to log on to Twitter to see footage of people already gathering in crowds or breaking lockdown rules during VE day, and while I understand the frustration with lockdown, I really wish more people appreciated just how badly we need it.

I know nobody following me needs to hear this, but *please* follow the official guidance closely and try to remain as safe as you can in the coming weeks and months. And in light of the official guidance getting vaguer by the day (with Westminster recently changing their slogan to ‘Stay Alert’ rather than ‘Stay Home’), please assume that it’s much safer to stay at home, rather than risk going out regularly under the assumption that everything’s better now. A second wave shouldn’t be made inevitable because of government incompetence.

....Aaaanyway, lecture over 😉 Hopefully the next installment (whenever that may be) will be a return to the usual shenanigans - I much prefer keeping these posts relatively lighthearted. And as it’s worth pointing out: things really are improving, slowly but surely. It’ll just take a concerted effort on everyone’s part to keep it that way.

#medicine #covid-19 #it's worth pointing out that when I say things are getting better - that is very much from a scottish perspective #and I still fully agree with the decision to extend the lockdown here #we're still at the point where a second wave could hit if we aren't careful and the first one was bad enough #also most of this was written before Westminster decided that 'Stay Alert' was somehow more definitive advice than 'Stay Home'#to which I'll say - follow our girl Nicola Sturgeon's advice and stick to the latter if you can #junior doctor shenanigans #long post

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lady-divine-writes · 5 years

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Kurtbastian one-shot - Don't Break the Ice (Rated PG)

Summary: After the fight with their father that leads to Sebastian and Richard kicking him out of the house and taking away his claim to the Smythe family fortune, the next step is visiting their mother in her new home. But while talking to a doctor about her care, Sebastian is distracted by a loud tapping noise that no one else seems to hear. (2206 words)

Notes: So these are the series of one-shots I wrote back in 2015 (I think) that make up the sequel 'Special Delivery'. I held on to them because they were going to be incorporated into the chapters of the sequel. That sequel is taking forever to finish, unfortunately. It will get done, I just can't say when. So I'm posting these so that anyone who is curious or needs closure will know where the story goes and how it ends.

Read on AO3.

“As you can see, we’ve outlined an extensive plan for your mother’s care,” Dr. Harold said, handing Richard and Sebastian folders thick with paperwork. “If you take a look at page one, you’ll see …”

Sebastian opened the folder in his lap and flipped through the pages, jumping ahead of the doctor’s commentary.

Thirteen pages in, he was sorry he did.

He became overwhelmed by the amount of information he saw: dietary recommendations, meal plans, exercise schedules, medications …

… palliative care.

Sebastian read those words and gulped hard.

This folder he held, from the first page to the last, covered the entirety of what was left of his mother’s life.

And it was relatively light, all things considered.

His hands began to shake. He flipped the folder closed, deciding it would be best for the doctor to tell him himself.

Digest the information slowly.

“We’ve tried to anticipate any and all complications regarding …”

Tap tap tap tap tap …

High-pitched and dull, the sound pinged off the side of Sebastian’s skull. He lifted his head, looked around, waited for it to return. When it didn’t, he mentally shrugged and returned his attention to the lecture.

“Initially, we were concerned that …”

Tap tap tap tap tap …

“What the…?” Sebastian glanced around again. The doctor kept talking, undeterred by the noise. His brother, his sister-in-law, and Kurt seemed unfazed, as if they didn’t hear it. But it seeped into Sebastian’s ears, knocking in his brain, making it impossible for him to focus on anything else for too long.

Tap tap tap tap tap …

“Now, we’ve recommended that she be kept on …”

Sebastian stared at the doctor, continuing on as if nothing out of the ordinary was going on, stunned that he wasn’t the least bit perturbed by the interruption. But since it didn’t actually seem to interrupt him, Sebastian didn’t know if the sound wasn’t just inside his own head. No one else seemed to notice it or be bothered by it.

But for him, it ricocheted behind his eyes and made concentration unbearable.

‘Maybe I’m finally going insane,’ he thought. ‘The stress of the past year, last night, and now this? Maybe I should be checking myself in here with mom. Wouldn’t be fair to saddle Kurt with a disturbed boyfriend after being stalked by a maniac.’

Tap tap tap tap tap …

Sebastian cringed as the tap tap tapping continued, grinding his teeth together to combat the sound. It was a rhythmic sort of hammering, but he didn’t notice any construction going on when they arrived. The longer the tapping continued, the more he began to shrink into his seat, his hands creeping up to his ears to try and block it out. He started to feel like he was making a scene, but the only person who seemed to notice was Kurt.

“Sebastian,” he said, leaning close. “Honey, are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Sebastian replied, fidgeting in his seat when the sound erupted again. “I’m okay. I’m just … is it hot in here? It feels hot in here … to me …”

“I … it’s not hot in here,” Kurt said, shivering as conditioned air from a vent above them poured down his neck and into the collar of his shirt. He worried for his boyfriend. He’d never seen Sebastian so agitated before. He was usually so cool under pressure, ready with a snarky remark that was more humorous than sarcastic to alleviate the tension.

But not now.

He seemed on the beveled edge of losing control.

“Oh,” Sebastian replied, doing his best to smile reassuringly when he saw the worry in Kurt’s eyes. “Well, then, it’s probably just me.”

Tap tap tap tap tap … Tap tap tap tap tap … Tap tap tap tap tap …

The sound was getting steadily louder, becoming more relentless, driving Sebastian mad. He couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that of all the people in this room, he seemed to be the only person affected by it. He tried to relax, tried to focus, tried to shut it out of his brain, but he couldn’t. The tap tap tap burrowed into him. He gripped Kurt’s hand until his poor boyfriend let out a squeak. Sebastian turned and mouthed ‘I’m sorry’, kissing his knuckles gently. Kurt smiled in understanding, taking Sebastian’s hand in his again.

Tap tap tap tap crash!!

Sebastian fought to pay attention, to listen to the doctor talk about his mother’s deteriorating condition, his brother making arrangements for her long-term care. He wanted to be present in this decision, more than just a signature next to an ‘X’.

That irritating repetitive noise wouldn’t let him.

Sebastian looked left and right, his nerves pricked to needle points. Eventually, Sebastian couldn’t handle it anymore. It wasn’t just the tapping noise getting to him. It was everything.

He recalled all the things he had that made life worth living since there were so many times he had considered throwing in the towel. Spoiled and wallowing in self-pity, he knew, but at the time, it felt like the world was coming to an end. No money, no home, no future …

… no family.

But he had Kurt now, he had his family. He’d been reunited with his own (the parts of it that mattered), and with the help of his brother, he had gotten his trust fund back. He could provide Kurt with the security he deserved.

But what he needed to find was peace.

There was no peace.

Tap tap tap tap crash!!

Sebastian stood bolt upright.

All eyes turned to him.

“Um, I’m sorry,” he stuttered awkwardly, moving through the chairs. “I … I just need some air …”

“Oh,” Tabitha said.

“All right,” his brother added.

“If that’s what you need,” Kurt said.

“Yes,” Sebastian lied, because what he really needed was to find the source of that tapping noise and wring its neck!

He stormed into the waiting room and looked frantically around. The large, open area was fairly vacant. Gravitating near the corners were individual groups, one or two visiting relatives clustered around a resident in a wheelchair, sometimes talking animatedly, but more often than not staring off into space, completely oblivious to the presence of loved ones around them.

That would be his mom, sooner than he had prepared for.

His mom had always been a beacon of energy, so full of life and love and hope. She was his anchor, the rock he tethered himself to whenever the going got tough. There was no age limit to his admiration of his mother; it didn’t wane as years went by. Even as a grown man, he’d find himself coming home to mom, pouring his heart out to her over everything.

And she was always there, ready to listen, present for the important stuff.

The way he should be instead of running away over a little tapping.

The thought of her sitting in a chair, eyes empty, possibly unable to recognize him, to see herself in his face?

He couldn’t stand it.

Tap tap tap tap crash!!

Sebastian spun in a circle, the sound nearly on top of him out here, and found the source of the noise.

A little girl, around nine or ten, pale complexion, and curly brown hair tied back from her head with a blue ribbon that reminded him so much of Kurt’s eyes.

Kurt.

He should go back to Kurt.

But something about this girl mesmerized him, and like the bystander of a traffic accident, he couldn’t look away.

She knelt on the floor, deep in concentration as she knocked on white blocks with a small, plastic hammer, tapping them meticulously until they fell with the loud crash that had been haunting him for the last ten minutes.

His first instinct was to tear the hammer from the girl’s hand and throw it across the room, but then he noticed she sat out here all by herself, and a strange, protective urge came over him.

“Hey,” he said, smiling brightly, sitting on a chair close enough to converse with her but not close enough to be seen as creepy or threatening.

“Hello,” the girl replied politely, not taking her eyes off the game.

Tap tap tap tap crash!!

All the blocks fell. She looked neither pleased nor put off as she put the hammer down and started picking the blocks up, putting them back into the blue plastic frame of the game.

“What is that you’re playing?” Sebastian asked as he watched her set everything back in place.

“Don’t Break the Ice”.

“Can I ask why you’re playing that … extremely loud game … out here all by yourself?”

The girl sighed significantly but didn’t stop re-setting her game to look at him.

“My parents sent me out here because they’re having tall talk with the doctor.”

Sebastian smirked. “Really? Me as well.”

The girl’s head snapped up, revealing the most startling pair of green eyes he had ever seen … almost like his own, but more like his mother’s. It took him back a bit though he tried not to show it.

The girl smiled with an odd amount of sympathy for a child.

“No,” she said, returning to her game. “You’re out here because things got too serious.”

Sebastian’s smile fell from his face. He knew children could be perceptive, but her matter-of-fact wisdom for her age unnerved him. “How … how do you know?”

“Because that happens to my mom sometimes.”

Sebastian nodded.

“You came out here to find some peace,” she continued. “That’s why I’m here.” The girl clamped her tongue between her teeth as she tried to force the last of the blocks together. “This brings me peace.”

The girl picked up her hammer and started tapping out the blocks again.

Tap tap tap tap tap …

Sebastian watched her go through the whole process again.

“You know, a lot of people might not see this as peaceful.”

The girl shrugged. “My grandpa used to say that not everybody finds peace in the same place.”

“Gotcha. So, who are you here to see?” Sebastian asked.

Tap tap tap tap tap …

“My grandma. She’s going to go see my grandpa soon.”

Tap tap tap tap tap …

Sebastian’s breath caught. He felt his eyes burn with tears but he refused to give in. Not in front of this girl, perceptive or not.

“Can I try that?” he asked. “See if I can find some peace?”

“Sure.” The girl passed the hammer to Sebastian. He knelt on the floor and started tapping the blocks.

Tap tap tap tap tap …

Tapping the blocks felt cathartic, but the noise sounded no better even though he was the one making it this time. Plus, he was starting to get odd looks from other adults. Not that he cared, but he wasn’t eager to attract attention.

There are some things kids can get away with that adults can’t.

Sebastian sighed.

“Nah.” He passed the hammer back. “I don’t think this is where I’ll find my peace.”

The girl looked up at the sound of a door closing, a muffled woman’s crying, and a man clearing his throat. Without a word from anyone, she started picking up the pieces of the game and putting them in the box.

“I’ve gotta go,” she said sadly. “But maybe you should ask that man you’ve been hugging. Maybe he can help you find your peace.”

Very perceptive. Sebastian smiled. It was small, but it was there. “Maybe you’re right.”

She put the last of the blocks into the box when an older man came into view. He looked quizzically down at Sebastian, still kneeling on the floor, then extended a hand to his daughter.

“Come along, Lizzie,” he said. “It’s time to go.”

The girl said nothing. Probably because she knew there was nothing to say. She waved at Sebastian, then took her father’s hand and let herself be led away.

Sebastian didn’t stand up after Lizzie left. He knelt on the knobby carpet, staring in the direction she had gone, a disquieting emptiness inching up his body, turning everything inside him cold.

A warm, comforting hand squeezed his shoulder.

He tilted his head up and saw Kurt looking down at him with concerned eyes. “Oh, sweetheart! What happened?”

Sebastian opened his mouth to speak only to find his voice had stuck, lodged in his throat with those tears he’d been forcing back. Except he hadn’t succeeded. While he watched Lizzie walk away, he’d started crying. Sebastian stood, and Kurt wrapped his arms around him, held him tight.

“I was playing with Lizzie,” Sebastian replied, burying his face in the crook of Kurt’s neck. “I---I was playing with Lizzie and …”

“Shh. It’s all right. I promise. It’s going to be all right,” Kurt repeated, rubbing soothing circles over Sebastian’s spine. Sebastian felt his sorrow melt away as he inhaled deeply that sweet scent of vanilla that was Kurt’s signature scent. It was a smell that reminded Sebastian of love and hope and protection.

It reminded him of home. His new home.

In Kurt’s arms, which felt like home, Sebastian found his peace.

#kurtbastian #sebkurt #sekurt #frankie writes

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deathonyourtongue · 4 years

Text

They Would Try

Summary: The color has washed out of everyday life, and it’s the routine that keeps him going. Pairing: Henry Cavill x Reader Word Count: 2.2K Warnings: HEAVY angst. Description of some palliative care procedures. A/N: You know the drill. Sorry in advance. Bring the tissues. The song for this one is The Wisp Sings - Winter Aid ____________________________________

Let me sleep I am tired of my grief And I would like you To love me, to love me, to love me

Men deal with grief in different ways. Some choose the path of anger and violence, lashing out at anyone and everyone, bringing about their own demise because they cannot release their hearts. Others choose to martyr their feelings, vowing never to love again, forever shutting the door in the wall they’ve built around their hearts. Rarely, a man will choose persistent kindness.

Having suffered the great blow to his heart, he will treat others with unfailing gentility, understanding that everyone has their plight and that everyone, in some way, is grieving. It’s the sort of kindness that makes it clear the man providing it is permanently broken, his heart shattered. Most who are privy to it, are able to feel the anguish coming off such a man in waves; I’ve been hurt before, please do not hurt me again, for I cannot take another blow. The kindness in and of itself is a shield, a way of pretending to be okay when one is clearly not. Of all the ways to cope, it is the most heartbreaking.

His days are routine now, a small comfort in a world that no longer truly holds any interest. The color has washed out of everyday life, and it’s the routine that keeps him going. Knowing the things he must do, make it possible to get out of bed every morning.

When the alarm goes off quietly, he rolls over, eyes still closed, willing himself to make it through the day without tears. Happiness has long since removed itself from his vocabulary, and it’s rare that he does not find himself wiping his eyes either due to constant, dull ache in his heart or at the sight of something that sparks a memory of a time when he could laugh and smile. Mostly, the tears come in the quiet hours, when there’s no one watching with concern pouring out of every fiber of their being. He does his best to cry in private, but sometimes it can’t be helped and he finds his shoulders shaking as he nuzzles into your shoulder, the tears always silent. One of the doctors said it was best to not be upset, lest it aggravate the situation, and it’s something he’s taken to heart ever since.

A quick shower is the first must on the to-do list. In and out only to maintain basic hygiene so as to pass the inspections he knows are always being conducted, even if he’s told to the contrary. Fresh clothing completes the ritual, leaving him free to take care of more important matters.

The curtains are opened along with the windows to circulate the air lest the room grows stale and once a week, the sheets are changed. The birds singing help him remember better times and often, he has to stop in his tracks and curl in on himself, heart aching for what it can no longer have.

His hair’s grown substantially since that first day, and though he’s perpetually asked to take a day for himself, to go get a cut and a shave, he can’t bring himself to leave. His full attention is required and nothing can get in the way of that, least of all something so self-serving.

It’s been two years since he came home to find you in Nightingale. Two years since he learned the horrors of what you went through on your own. Two years since he came home to find the bed soaked in your blood.

Two years since he last heard you speak.

Henry’s best friend is growing impatient. It’s been long enough. Too long, if you ask him.

“Don’t you think it’s time you moved on, mate? I mean, you’ve given up your career, you rarely leave the house, and at family things, you’re a downright stick-in-the-mud! It’s time for you to let go, to let her be taken care of by professionals somewhere, and go on with your life!” He vents to Henry one morning, having barged in shortly after breakfast.

Henry looks stung, words unable to describe what he truly wants to say in his heart of hearts. He doesn’t need to speak, however, as your nurse, Kathy, hears the whole thing. Incensed, she has to take a moment to collect her thoughts before stepping into the room.

“Pardon me, Jonathan, but did I just hear you ask Henry to let go of his wife so he can, what, go back to whatever life it is you approve of better? Shame on you. Have you no heart?”

“Of course I do! I just...He’s wasting his life laying here next to her, crying himself to sleep and wishing for things to change, when it’s clear they won’t. She’s not coming out of this-this catatonia or whatever it is. She’s a vegetable that can breathe, that’s it. He...I just don’t want him to spend the rest of his life moping here next to her, willing things to go back as they were. It’s not healthy.”

“Would you say the same if it were your own wife, sir? Or heaven forbid, your mother or sister?” Kathy asks, eyes wide in disbelief, her hands shaking in ire.

“I would, yes! It’s not like he’s even doing anything. He just lays there all day, gazing sadly at her. All her care is provided by you, is it not? He’s wasting the prime of his life, all because he--”

“Actually, sir,” Kathy interjects, clearing her throat and blocking what she knows will be too painful a sentence for anyone to hear. “Mr. Cavill does 99% of her care on his own. I only visit once every two weeks to update her chart and help with certain dressings that are hard to manage on one’s own.”

“Dressings?” Jonathan balks, not understanding in the slightest.

“She gets bedsores, despite...Despite my best attempts,” Henry finally speaks, his voice hoarse from lack of use. There’s shame in his eyes and even as Kathy rubs his shoulders, it’s clear that it’s a touchy subject.

“Mr. Taylor, why don’t you sit a while? Keep your friend company so you can better understand what he does all day,” Kathy suggests through gritted teeth, her tone making it clear that it’s a demand, more than an invite. Henry manages a small smile of thanks to Kathy, hoping this will put any protests as to why he’s chosen to put his life on hold, permanently to rest.

“When you’re ready, son,” Kathy nods, watching as Henry moves to your side, kneeling next to you on the bed. Tucking his head down, he whispers to you tenderly, his tone apologetic and full of regret.

“We have to change your dressings, love. We’ll be as quick as we can. I’m so sorry.” Henry’s snuffles, his voice pinched with emotion and when he lifts his head again, tears fill his eyes, though they stubbornly refuse to fall.

Jonathan is appropriately horrified when he sees what’s beneath the old dressing on your lower back; Your groan of pain certainly doesn’t help matters.

“Looks much better, Henry. It should heal completely within the week,” Kathy says softly, her smile encouraging and understanding. Henry only nods, his breathing shallow and erratic as he waits for it to be over so he can tuck you back in.

“Everything’s in order, love. Do you need me to stay?” Kathy asks, eyeing Jonathan with disdain, not trusting him to open his mouth and say something utterly heartless after she’s left.

“We’re all good on this front, Kathy. Thank you, as always.” Henry shakes his head, giving her the same smile that breaks her heart each time she visits. Kind but filled with anguish, the feigned happiness never reaches his blue eyes, and she thinks of her own son, vowing to check in with him when she gets home.

Henry smoothes your hair away from your face with a gentle hand, a soft kiss to your forehead following after. He takes a moment to collect himself before moving off the bed and around to the side closest to Jonathan.

“W-what are you doing?” His friend asks, leaning forward in his seat, trying to see what Henry is pulling out of a mini-fridge that now serves as your nightstand. Henry doesn’t say a word, knowing Jonathan’s question will be answered in time. Two syringes, one pre-filled with saline and the other with a pinkish-brown liquid, are set on top of your sheets, and Henry pulls a chair close to your bed, snapping on a fresh pair of gloves after pulling the sheets down far enough. With the utmost care, he inserts the second syringe, the procedure becoming apparent to Jonathan by the look on his face.

“She can’t eat on her own. We tried assisted feeding for a bit in the beginning, but it didn’t work,” Henry explains, his tears gone as he focuses on pushing the contents slowly through the tube that had long ago been inserted directly into your GI tract. When your meal is done, Henry flushes the line with saline, and covers you back up, albeit momentarily.

By the time he’s done your morning routine, which includes two more procedures Jonathan couldn’t imagine doing, not even for a loved one, Henry’s friend is beside himself, tears of regret streaming down his face. Henry takes it in stride, knowing that no one, save maybe for Kathy and now Jonathan, truly understands what it takes to keep you alive and relatively healthy.

“I’m sorry, mate! I’m so-so sorry!” He blubbers, hugging Henry tightly, his initial stance shattered by what he’s seen. Henry cups the back of his head, offering comfort to what he knows is a shock.

“To answer your question. I couldn’t let her stay there, in that cold place, where the staff just go through the motions. She’s my wife, she’s my responsibility. In sickness and in health. I love her too much to let her waste away in a place like that, Jonathan. Even though...Even though life is not like it was before, she’s still my love. Still the other half of my heart. Do you understand?”

Jonathan nods hurriedly, sobbing quietly and knowing full well he’s never had that type of love, nor given it. It makes him feel ant-sized and foolish for even thinking that Henry could just give it all up.

It’s well past lunch by the time Jonathan leaves and having skipped breakfast, Henry eats only because he must. It’s the bare minimum, but enough to keep him going another day and that’s all that matters.

He tries not to look into mirrors much lately; the man that looks back at him is foreign. Gone are the muscles he’d been known for, the bright eyes and beaming grin. Gray creeps further and further into his beard and hairline now, and the hollows of his face are far more prominent. His sallowness always spooks those that visit, and if he’s not ready for it, it scares him a little too. Today, he looks, tries to find any remnant of that man that once was. There’s always a bit left, but as time goes on, it gets harder and harder to find. Today, he doesn’t see it, and it terrifies him. He has to keep hold of that man, if only so that if the day comes that you should wake from your condition, there may be something familiar for you to grasp onto.

In the small hallway that gives way to the room the two of you still share, Henry slides down the wall and curls up, sobbing softly, closer than he’s ever been to giving up. He allows himself a meager five minutes to wallow before wiping his eyes with the inside of his shirt and padding back into the room, knowing there’s more to be done.

He bathes you, washes and combs your hair, and sets to work on your physical therapy, intent on keeping as much of your muscle tone and mass as he can. By the time he’s finished, he’s emotionally exhausted and physically worn out.

Crawling into his usual spot at your side, he holds you close, sniffling. Today is one of those rare days, one he knows may do you more harm than good, but Henry’s always been honest with you and despite everything that’s happened, that will never change.

“I miss you, my love. I miss you s-so much,” he stammers out, the tears coming easily, pooling on the pillow next to your shoulder as he reaches for your hand, lacing your fingers together. Henry lets go of the burden in his heart, knowing full well you wouldn’t want him to keep it in any longer than he has to.

“I lo-love you so m-much, darling. Please-please, come back to me. I n-need you here wi-with me!” His sobs soft, he shakes more with each rattled inhale; it’s a condition that hasn’t gone unnoticed by him or Kathy or indeed his own family, but one he’s willing to ignore so long as he can continue to provide you with care.

It prevents him from feeling the first sign of hope in two years; your fingers slowly curling around his, squeezing weakly.

And so the day goes on, Henry’s list of musts growing smaller with each task he completes, until, come dusk, he finally finds himself curled up again, this time to sleep what few hours his mangled heart and tortured mind allow, hoping for the strength to wake another day and do it all over again.

#henry cavill x reader #henry cavill #fic #deathonyourtongueoriginals #angst

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