I do not own Ratched.
I do not own my angel boy Huck. But I love him.
Huck Finnigan Lives Again: A Ratched Fairytale
Interlude (Wherein Grace Does Not Smack Huck With a Hairbrush)
They drive down the coast, a few hours south.
An enjoyable afternoon cruise, big band on the radio, two lovebirds in the front seat.
Rice in their hair and pink in their cheeks.
Stars in their eyes.
They chat about everything and nothing at all.
Luggage bags in the trunk and gold bands fresh upon their fingers.
They try (and completely fail) to exude a casual, unassuming air around the few people with whom they come in contact.
". . . lobster for the, uh, lady . . ."
"Very good, sir . . ."
They stop for a light meal.
". . . Mr. and, uh, Mrs. Finnigan checking in . . ."
And afterward find a suitable beachside bungalow in which to enjoy their honeymoon.
All bright, Art Deco colors within.
Sun dipping into the sparkling ocean waves beyond the sand, the windows, without.
And Huck Finnigan gathers up his blushing bride . . .
"Mrs. Finnigan."
. . . and carries her . . .
"Mr. Finnigan."
. . . over the threshold.
"You be gentle with your wife on her wedding night, Huck. You be gentle with her."
"Ma-"
"I smacked your father with my hairbrush on our wedding night."
"M- Really?"
"Well, yes. I was young. I had no idea what I was doing. I felt like I was being attacked."
"Did he, did he get mad?"
"No, not . . . per se. He sort of laughed it off. We both did. My point is, Huckleberry, be gentle. You're . . . invading her body with yours-"
"Ma-"
"- and you'd better appreciate that fact."
She's come out of the washroom of their cozy beach bungalow, Grace has.
Grace, his wife.
Grace Marie Finnigan.
And if she went in a beauty, even moreso she is out.
Makeup removed, lips a natural pink, cheeks seeming a constant blush these last few hours.
Strawberry blonde waves framing lovely oval face.
In she went in a slim white skirt and jacket.
Out she is now, figure asheen in a long blue satin gown.
Demurely v-dipped lace bodice, naught but the thinnest of straps over her shoulders.
Feet bare, toes a pretty painted pink.
And Huck realizes he is smiling, as broadly as his left side will allow.
A little more than a touch aroused.
And shy.
He had accepted for so long that due to his scars, it would be a rare thing for him find a mate, a sweetheart.
He could not bring himself to visit paid ladies, the thought of it sickened his stomach, his soul, even in his most yearning and lonely and needful of times.
And knowing emotional and physical love in the arms of a beloved before, it was that much more difficult to accept that he may never experience it again in his life.
And yet, against all odds, . . .
"You are so beautiful, Grace."
. . . standing here now.
With her.
With Grace.
His wife.
"I don't have the words to tell you just how beautiful you are."
It is her beauty he speaks of, yes.
But everything within her mind and soul as well.
All the things he is sure he could never coherently express with mere words.
And so he does not try.
Not for now anyway.
Instead only gazes on as she smiles, drops those riveting blue-green-green-blue eyes down.
Raises them back up once more.
So lovely, it almost makes his heart ache to look at her.
And then she steps to him and his arms go around her.
And he can feel hers wrapped about his shoulders.
And she, Grace, face aglow, eyes dazzling, reaches up.
And brings her lips to his.
He kisses her gently, adoring in her, savoring her.
Feels his desire for her swell up within him.
"Grace," he begins.
And she draws back, just enough.
Puts a finger to his lips.
"Huck, I've waited for you for so long. You're everything I want, everything I've ever hoped for."
Pretty pink blush brightening her cheeks.
"Please make love to me. I want you to. I'm ready. It's okay."
And he smiles, he feels so happy.
Starts to reach over, turn off the light.
And is stopped by her gentle hand . . .
"No."
. . . on his scarred one.
"Leave it on. I want to see you. And I want you to see me seeing you."
And so he . . .
Grace-
. . . leaves the light on.
Careful with her, he is so careful with her.
She who is so gentle and tender with him, with others.
She who is so innocent.
She who is a virgin . . .
"Grace-"
"Huck-"
. . . and must not be hurt in any way.
He takes his time, as much as he can.
Gentle hands, caressing fingers, loving lips.
He uncovers her form from its flowing blue satin nightgown.
Discovers her body underneath for the very first time.
Soft in all the right places. Firm in all the right places.
He revels in it, how wonderful it is to him.
He rejoices as her fingers move of their own accord to remove his clothing as well.
Running her hands over his bare chest, touching him with burgeoning curiosity and blushingly delighted interest.
He's prepared for her hesitancy, her anxiety of being so touched when her body has been all her own.
She seems, though unpracticed, decidedly unhesitant.
Not shying away from him, his unfamiliar man's body.
No, not that.
Nor the scars either, does not seem repulsed by them.
Covering the left side of his head, his face, down his neck.
Splattering out, fading down, onto his collarbone, back over his shoulder blade.
His left hand, stretching out beyond the wrist twisted scars standing white, so lucky his fingers didn't melt together in a ruined mass.
The scars are but a part of who and what he is.
And yet they are not all he is.
He does not wish to hurt her in this her first time.
So he takes his time, shows her gentleness and pleasure and love he's been so yearning to worship upon her.
And hopes that his own pleasure . . .
"Are you sure? I don't want to hurt you."
. . . does not come at the cost of her . . .
"Yes, Huck. I'm sure."
. . . pain.
And as he is experiencing the most intense physical pleasure a man can experience, Huck Finnigan is also experiencing a rising wave of emotional response nearly as overwhelming and all-consuming as the physical.
He is close to his wife, yes, bodies joined together and moving in rhythm.
He's almost hugging her in a protective, loving embrace.
Her arms are around his shoulders, she is holding him tight and right.
Face to face and close.
She is filling up his vision, her pale oval face, those entrancing eyes looking right into his, open, trembling rosebud lips, her perfect nose.
And he is captivated by her beauty, her radiance.
But moreso, more than he could have ever anticipated, yet so purely it makes perfect sense and understanding to his soul, he is being completely filled up and spilled over with love and gratitude and joy by her.
She is here. She loves him.
She doesn't see him as a monster to be reviled, pitied.
She simply sees him as a person.
As a man.
Here with her now.
Like this.
And as far as he can tell . . .
"Oh, Huck . . ."
. . . she wants to.
The emotion overtakes him, he finds he cannot fight it.
She is so beautiful, she is so wonderful and pure and . . .
Grace-
. . . beyond anything he could have imagined, . . .
I love you-
. . . he cannot help himself.
As he succumbs to the single most intense, pleasurable release he has ever felt in his entire life . . .
"Grace,-"
. . . Huck Finnigan buries his gnarled half face in his wife's soft neck.
And whispers his tears into the silky waves . . .
"-I love you."
. . . of her strawberry-blond hair.
He's aware that for a few moments, his body is heavy upon hers.
Her arms are looser now around his shoulders, fingertips tracing soothing caresses on the skin of his back.
They are breathing together, deep and heavy.
And though he could gladly stay as he is, wrapped in the warm, accepting embrace of her body, he also does not wish to crush her, hurt her.
And so he respectfully . .
"I'm . . ."
. . . lifts himself up and away.
"I'm sorry."
To the side, onto his back.
"I didn't mean . . ."
To give her space to collect herself, if she feels the need.
"I mean, I don't-"
Only to have her shift toward him. Press to him as he automatically puts an arm around her, struggles to speak.
"I won't always cry. I know I shouldn't, it's not what a man should do, I didn't mean to, I don't always, I just-"
And she shushes him quietly, gently.
"Shhh, shhh, it's okay. Its okay, Huck."
Warm, soft hand to his face.
"I love you. I love you just as you are."
And he is . . .
"I love you, Grace. I love you so much."
. . . so grateful for her.
"Did it hurt? Did I hurt you?"
She smiles and it's sweet and honest.
"A little."
And he feels instant regret.
"But it's okay. My sister said the first time does. And that it gets better."
Slightly assuaged by her reassurance.
"And I could tell how gentle and kind you were trying to be."
He nods.
"I never want to hurt you."
She smiles again.
"I know. I know that."
And her blush is back.
"And it didn't all hurt."
Pinker and sweeter than ever.
"It felt good too."
He grins, he can't help it.
"It did?"
Relatively certain he's blushing pink as well.
"Yes."
And he thinks . . .
"I'm, uh, I'm glad about that."
. . . he's never been . . .
"Maybe, uh, maybe next time there will be less pain. And it will feel even better."
. . . more childishly happy . . .
"I imagine it will. I very much look forward to finding out."
. . . than that moment.
"Me too."
And then, inexplicably . . .
"I love you, Grace."
. . . they also share, along with deepening love, . . .
"I love you, Huck."
. . . a bout of tension-relieving laughter as well.
Well, hope you enjoyed this little interlude here. I suppose it's weird for a Monday morning post. But I just couldn't wait (and I don't think Huck and Grace could either ;). )
Thanks to IHeartSPN and DinahRay for reviewing the previous chapter!
Up next? More of the same. Hope that's okay. ;)
