#legitimately easier to have painted this with him in his fucked up form

[archi-pelago]

its MY weekend and I’m allowed to draw Radagon wearing whatever I want (reference)

#my art #elden ring #radagon #radagon of the golden order #im in my putting halos around people art phase #also i repainted his pecs like ten times #would have been #i kid you not #legitimately easier to have painted this with him in his fucked up form

[welllpthisishappening]

But Once a Year (2/5)

This is a trick.

It has to be. Something Pan planned, or some nonsense only possible in Neverland, because one second Emma’s sitting outside the Echo Caves and wondering how exactly things could possibly get worse, and then the world decides to take her up on the challenge. She’s not where she was. Or when she was, either.

And the future isn’t entirely what Emma expects it to be, but that might not be entirely horrible and Christmas with a husband and a family that quite clearly loves her is only kind of messing with her head. God bless us, every one.

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Rating: T Word Count: 9.1K which is also more than I remember writing. Which should probably be the subheadline of my life.  AN: Guys! All of you! Collectively! Separately! Thank you so much for your genuinely incredible response to this story that took on a life of its own. It’s very nice! You’re all very nice! More exclamation points! This time around we’ve got; a very discombobulated timeline, bedtime stories, peak!dad David, peak!dad Killian and f e e l i n g s. 

Also on Ao3 if that’s your jam || Or you can start from the start

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“How did you figure it out?” He lifts his eyebrow. Only one, and exactly the same way he does in whatever part of time the real Killian Jones is lingering in, but the thought of this Killian Jones not being entirely real makes Emma’s stomach knot. Several times over. She can’t stop staring at his eyebrow. It’s off-putting. And the complete opposite of that. “Out?” Killian echoes. “Not when?” “No, no I figured you knew pretty much from the get, but—” Emma shrugs. Tries very hard not to fall off the kitchen counter. Which might actually be made of granite. 

God, maybe they’re legitimately rich. 

She can’t imagine what the mortgage on a house like this is. 

She can’t imagine there are actually mortgages in Storybrooke. 

“Were you thinking about going to get your sword? Because it seems shitty to challenge an unarmed person to a fight.” The eyebrow gets higher. Arch'ier. Pointier, even. “As you’ve already pointed out today, I am a pirate. And that’s not really an answer to my question.” “Or mine,” Emma challenges. “Are you not a pirate anymore, then?” “You know you’d make a rather atrocious spy, darling.” Sneering is decidedly juvenile and the only thing Emma is capable of doing in the moment. “You are dancing around any answer and—” “—Well, if you’re a time traveling, abysmal spy then it seems wrong to provide you with any more information than what you’ve already gleaned from your day here, doesn’t it?”

She deflates. 

Shoulders sag and exhaustion creeps up the wholly unnatural and very uncomfortable curve of Emma’s spine, fear tickling the back of her mind because Killian hasn’t actually made a single move towards the basement, but she’s only passably sure of where the basement is and the specific sort of glint in his eyes makes her even more confident that he wouldn’t mind brandishing his sword at her. 

Literally in this instance. 

“I’m not sure it’s time travel,” she mumbles, staring at a floor that is questionably clean if it does in fact belong to her. Maybe Killian cleans. “Fascinating.” “I’m not the bad guy here.” “Because I am?”

Her shoulders can’t sink any lower. They try all the same, shamed by the hitch in his breath and the tilt of his head, angled to make his hair drift across his brows and eyes that are as distracting as ever and far too easy to get swept up in and—

Emma swallows. 

Exhales. She doesn’t remember when she decided to hold her breath. 

“I don’t know,” she admits softly, barely able to move her lips and no one remembered to turn the Christmas tree off. Lights reflect off the ridiculous number of windows in the wall, painting streaks of color on paint that isn’t blue and shouldn’t remind anyone of a ball gown Emma knows she hasn’t worn yet, but it’s pretty all the same and she wonders why she wound up here. At this point. This moment. 

Killian might not be breathing either. 

“What do you know, then?” 

Emma bites her lip. Hard. “That one second I was somewhere else, and then I was—” Shaking her head does not help what is undoubtedly a migraine blooming behind her left eye, but she hasn’t fallen off the counter yet and she imagines victories are going to be few and far between, so it seems fair to cling to them as they pass by. Six of her knuckles crack when she grips the kitchen counter. “Waking up, and you were telling me we had to go get paint, and people were bowing to me.” “They don’t do that where you’re from.” “Not a question.” “No,” Killian agrees, which is a very strange way of doing that, “more like a documented point. You haven’t tried to attack anyone yet, though. So I suppose that’s at least one marker on the positive column.” “I’m not going to attack anyone!” Eyes flashing at the crack in Emma’s voice, Killian’s neck all but snaps as he glances over his shoulder. Towards a staircase, and she hasn’t spent too much time upstairs yet, but those same stairs are as empty as they were sixteen seconds earlier and the force of Killian’s exhale ruffles the ends of his hair. 

“If you wouldn’t mind being just a touch quieter,” he all but growls at her, spinning back around with far more grace than Emma thinks is entirely fair, “I’d really appreciate it. Takes her forever to fall asleep.” “Hope, you mean? Don’t I, well—don’t we or…” “I’d suggest you stop talking.”

“And you’re still avoiding my questions,” Emma accuses through clenched teeth. That only hurts her jaw. And the rest of her, really. She’s so tired, she can’t believe she’s still forming coherent sentences. Counting that as another marker in the positive column is probably a dick move. 

And the standoff that ensues over the next twenty-seven and two-thirds seconds is something in the realm of ridiculous. Clenching her jaw tight enough to crush a variety of diamonds, Emma resolutely refuses to blink, and Killian’s an ass, apparently, so he simply stares right back, while his shoulders heave on every inhale. 

She doesn’t know what to say. Has no idea what string of words will convince this relative stranger, who still feels like someone who could potentially be hers in an overwhelming sort of way, that she’s not a threat and wouldn’t do anything to hurt that kid upstairs. Not when that kid did her own bit of staring at Emma all evening, like she was the sun and the moon, and a variety of constellations and—

Killian drags a hand over his face. Leaves red streaks in his wake, twisting the skin on his cheeks and the stubble there doesn’t move because it can’t, but Emma’s admittedly starting to teeter again. In more ways than one, really. 

The crinkles around his eyes are deeper. As if he’s used to laughing and smiling, and Hope had clung to him on their walk home. 

There’s that word again. 

Doing something silly to Emma’s heart. 

“I know you’re not going to attack anyone,” he sighs, “although I don’t really know if you’re in a position to demand I tell you anything, either.”

“What if we call it a request?” His lips twitch, fighting off the smile Emma can see tugging at his mouth and it’s definitely wrong to find any confidence in that. Charming a guy who’s already married and procreating with a different version of her shouldn’t be regarded as another victory. 

She’s going to do it anyway. 

“Tell me who you are, then.” “I’m—” Grunting hurts Emma’s throat, both of her elbows threatening to damage her ribs when she flails her hands. “I’m me. Just—” “—Not mine?” “Oh, that’s decidedly possessive.” Humming, Killian’s nod is barely that. More like a quick jerk of his chin and swipe of his tongue across the front of his teeth. She’s got to stop staring at his mouth. “Aye, it might be. I am having some difficulty wrapping my head around this, though. So you’ll have to forgive me.” Emma scoffs. Nearly laughs, really — which is as surprising as it is nice, and nothing about this can be nice. On principle. Her body doesn’t seem to care, and her heart certainly cares even less, and it’s still a struggle to rationalize this version of Killian with the one she left, but there are far more similarities than her brain is able to process quite yet and that same dark and distant part is very quick to point out she’d like to. 

No matter where she might be sitting.

If she’d let herself. 

“You can feel my magic?”

Killian nods. “Usually.” “What does that mean? It doesn’t always work?” “I—” Gritting his teeth only shows off how frustratingly straight there are, and at some point she’s going to ask about that. Pirates don’t get braces, after all. “I’d rather not disrupt all of time by telling you things you don’t already know.” “I don’t know anything,” Emma argues, trying very hard not to scream the words. And only sort of succeeding. 

“Did you fall into a portal?” “Are you fucking with me?” Killian glares at her again. “I’d advise very strongly that you answer the question, Swan.”

“Or what? You’ll legitimately go get your basement sword? Why do you keep your sword in the basement, anyway? Aren’t there—I mean, a monster a week in Storybrooke, right?” His goddamn fucking tongue is going to be the death of her. Sooner or later, Emma is positive. Shifting and poking at the side of his cheek, and she can hear the gears again, trying to place the few clues she’s given him with a life he’s already lived and it is absurd that she even thought the word clues. 

“Not in quite some time,” he admits, and Emma’s mind leaps. Back to conversations and knights and realm-borders. She needs a map. Or Regina, God help her. “That’s not the point, though. It’s—” Another head shake and hair movement, and pinching the bridge of his nose only makes it ten-thousand times easier to see the ring on his finger.

There are a lot of Christmas lights in this house. 

“You’re not someone else,” Killian finishes softly. 

“Disappointing, I know.” His head moves so quickly it’s hardly more than a semi-dark blur of hair and slightly pained eyes. Both of which make Emma very glad for her spot on the counter. If she had been standing, she would have fallen over. In a rather undignified heap. 

“No,” Killian exhales as the magnets make a glorious return. He crowds into her space before she’s entirely ready for it. Although that also suggests Emma would ever be ready for the way his face has twisted and how ridiculously warm he continues to be, the hand that’s already resting on her knee threatening to burn straight through her jeans. “Strange,” he adds, clenching his fingers when Emma flinches, “and possibly a little terrifying, since—” “—Your Emma has disappeared entirely.” He grins. It’s disarming, and inching closer to the kind of flirting they’d been dancing around before and Emma’s got to get off this dancing metaphor kick. She’s not a good dancer, anyway.  “No portal, right?” “No portal,” she confirms. “And I’m not entirely convinced this isn’t a very lucid dream, so.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. 

She realizes that about halfway through the sentence. Any hint of camaraderie or déjà vu-based flirting disappears from Killian’s face and immediately shifts into the same brand of pain that came when she called him Hook. 

Biting her lip is really Emma’s only option.

“You don’t think this is real,” he whispers, another statement she doesn’t feel the need to point out. Shrugging, Emma’s vocal chords fail her again, and the step Killian takes away from her resembles a rather large chasm. 

Grand Canyon-esque. 

“We’re back to things I don’t know,” Emma says, “but um—do we have other kids? Aside from Hope, I mean? I—” Heat rises in her cheeks, the weight of the compliment threatening to burst out of her both foreign and necessary and Killian doesn’t do anything. Well, he lifts his eyebrows again, but that’s something like second nature to him and Emma refuses to count it and his fingers find the back of his hair. 

Huh. 

“Henry,” he replies.

“And you’re counting Henry? As—” Her tongue is really going to become a problem, if it’s going to remain this size in her mouth. “As your kid too?”

Strictly speaking, Emma’s not sure she actually wants an answer. Can only imagine what her emotions will do if she hears the confirmation that’s quite obviously pressing behind the seams of Killian’s mouth, but that confirmation might also prove several thousand things that have been at war in her for far longer than she’d ever be willing to admit, and he nods once. 

“In all the ways that matter,” Killian says. “And Neal is…” Shaking his head, all Emma gets is another smirk as soon as she huffs out her frustration, but the frustration is also kind of lacking when it feels like her whole body is running on overdrive and there’s no way he could fake the emotion behind those words. Even in a dream-like state. She’s not creative enough to come up with that particular voice inflection. 

“How’d you know?” she presses. “Honestly?” “Aside from your rather startling inability to act like yourself?” “Yeah. Aside from that.”

Stairs creak behind them, a not-quite ominous warning that this conversation has lasted longer than it should and there’s a kid of indeterminate age demanding to be put back to bed just out of sight. Emma should figure out how old her kid is. 

Hopefully that won’t ruin the space-time continuum, either. 

“You’ve got this lovely habit of calling me babe,” Killian drawls, leaning close enough that Emma swears she can smell him. Wishful thinking, maybe. “And I can’t remember the last time you called me Hook.”

He flashes her another grin — reminiscent of a man who is not this one, and then he’s gone, scooping up the kid and muttering promises against her hair, and Emma never knows how long she spends sitting on the kitchen counter. 

She does creep, eventually. 

Curiosity gets the better of Emma the longer she sits there, waiting without much hope for Killian to return. He’s not going to. She knows that. There’s only so many times he can come back, and this is a totally different thing than it was before, but it's also a perfect segue to the other reason she hopes off the counter. Her overall discomfort. Literally, and metaphorically. Marble, it seems, is a very fancy stone and good for the kitchen counters some alt-version of her eventually owns, but it also starts to dig into the back of her knees and those knees are bent kind of weird and in the grand scheme of where she wants to look again, inching up the stairs to peer through the barely closed door of Hope’s room is a much more appealing prospect than a basement that apparently houses weapons. 

So, Emma doesn’t spend too long thinking of the pros and cons, or how she should really be creeping towards the room of someone who might understand magic and why she’s here. Instead, she winces slightly on the creaky step halfway up the staircase and does her best to stay in the shadows, but these shadows aren’t quite as terrifying as they were in the realm she’s only just recently teleported from and that probably doesn’t mean a whole lot. 

He’s reading her a story. 

Captain Hook, terror of several storybook seas and probably a few Emma isn’t aware of, just to drive home the confusion point, sits propped up against a mess of pillows with his sock-covered feet stretched out in front of him, and curls pushed up against his side, a book balanced precariously on one thigh and she really would make the world’s worst spy. She hadn’t noticed the empty brace at the end of his arm. 

That’s never happened before. 

Honestly, she wasn’t even entirely sure it was possible, which is total asshole territory and maybe she’ll just collapse. Right here in the hallway. The carpet looks almost plush, so it might not be the worst move. 

And trying to memorize the look of it only feels like a half-dick'ish move, if only because the lack of a hook does sort of confirm the overall safety of this place, and Emma figures that outweighs whatever scene she’s interrupting. Or trying not to, as it were. 

Knotted scars line his skin, some of them looking older than others and that makes a few more of Emma’s internal organs flip. Something that feels a bit like anger rises in the back of her throat, an unexpected emotion that isn’t really directed at anyone except the people who caused those scars and that pain and he looks comfortable. 

Now, at least. 

Even slouched as he is against pillow cases that are far too frilly and remind Emma far too much of her mother. She keeps documenting. Lets her eyes trace over every inch of Killian — the way his fingers fluttering mindlessly against Hope’s back, brushing away strands of hair with the kind of ease that makes it clear this is a regular occurrence. His shoulders aren’t as taut as they were in the kitchen, but his head lolls towards the side more than once as fatigue starts to color his gaze. 

The story has princesses in it. Well, one princess. On a rather expansive adventure, if Emma’s actually keeping up with the plot. Dropped into a place she’s unfamiliar with, the princess in question naturally has a dashing love interest — although his name is Charles, so...maybe not all that dashing — and they get into several more adventures. Which include, but apparently are not limited to; taverns, a ridiculous amount of flirting, interactions with pirates, kissing as a distraction, the last of which endlessly entertains Hope, and the overall force of the little girl’s laugh makes Emma’s breath hitch, but then there’s more to the story and of course there’s a ball. More royalty, too. Obstacles are faced, only to be immediately overcome and Emma’s smile happens without any thought to the overall inappropriate nature of it. 

“And,” Killian says, shaking his head until his nose grazes Hope’s hair, “the exceptionally dashing prince took on the guards single-handedly, telling the princess to go and get the treasure they’d been looking for. While—” “—’Feating all of them, right?” Hope exclaims. As much as it’s possible to exclaim while also sounding half asleep. 

“In dramatic fashion. There was quite a lot of spinning involved. Made his jacket look all the more impressive. Fluttering tails and whatnot.”

Eyes flicker towards Emma’s garbage hiding spot, and she’s still not breathing correctly, so the odds aren’t very good he heard her, but she’s wondered more than once if he doesn’t just have a sixth sense when it comes to her and possibly them, and she pulls her lips behind her teeth. 

“What happened after that?” 

Most of Hope’s question comes out as a singular word, Killian’s soft laugh both indulgent and decidedly parental and he kisses her once before muttering, “Nuh uh, you’ve already gotten more story than you should, and you’ve got to get some rest.” “But I—”

Shaking his head once is all it takes for silence to descend on the room, although it does come with a slight pout and that’s—weird, it’s weird. Watching her own facial expressions reflect back to her from a kid she didn’t know existed a few hours earlier is more than enough to send Emma reeling. Wobbly knees shake underneath her, retreating in just enough time to not look totally suspicious as Killian mumbles something else and closes the door behind him, and she might have been right about the eye thing. 

They practically fly towards her. 

And the wall that was far closer than Emma anticipated. Hitting her head on it hurts more than it usually would, she imagines. 

“Truly,” he says, “an absolutely Gods awful spy.” “Was that supposed to be plural? On the Gods, I mean?” Tilting his head is the only response Emma gets, and she can’t blame him for that. For anything, really. “Does that happen a lot? The, uh—the stories.”

Silence. 

Relatively speaking. There’s the distinct sound of disgruntled kid on the other side of the other side of the door, what Emma figures are four flailing limbs as it appears Hope is determined to beat her half a dozen pillows into submission. 

Little sea monster makes a bit more sense now. 

“I do that too.”

Fatigue disappears. To make room for the invisible two-by-four that settles between Killian’s shoulder blades, shifting them until his spine is ramrod straight and he’s staring at Emma like that was the most obvious statement in the history of the world. 

“I’m well aware,” he says, but his voice drops, gruffer than it’s been all day. She’s going to bite both her lips in half. 

“Yeah, yeah, that’s—makes sense, I guess. I, um—” No one actually told her to take her boots off, but Emma might have assumed, and the carpet does feel soft. Through her socks, at least. While she tries to dig a hole into the ground with her toe. So she can fall into it. “Seemed like a popular story.” “Aye, it is. Big fan of sword fights.”

“Ah, well, when they’re full of dashing princes who wouldn’t be?”

It’s another thoughtless sentence. One that makes Killian’s tongue shift and then his mouth shift and Emma only stares at that for a few seconds before her eyes drop to his arm and his wrist and—

He twists his arm. Behind his back. 

Her inability to dig a hole with her foot is genuinely disappointing. 

“A question for the ages,” he says. “What are the other ones, then?” “Excuse me?” “I cannot keep telling you how badly you mask your expressions. It seems redundant. So while I also can’t imagine getting too much information will be good, you’ve obviously got questions. As do I, if we’re being honest.” “Are we being honest?”

The lack of sword belt — or actual pants — makes it all the more absurd when he leans forward, thumb hooking into the top of the sleepwear he’s got on, and Emma’s fairly proud of her ability to not linger on that particular thing. Less so in her ability to temper the butterflies in her stomach as soon as Killian leans forward. 

Directly into her space. 

He must radiate heat. 

“I’ve never been anything except entirely honest with you, love,” Killian says, and there’s no way to doubt those words or that voice and Emma hasn’t. Ever, actually. 

“Yeah, that’s true.”

“Eventually you really do believe it.” Blood hits her tongue — sharp and absolutely disgusting, threatening to make her retch in the middle of the hallway. Only marginally better than her hole idea. By some miracle, sent from an apparently merciful God, Emma manages to take a deep breath, jutting her chin out and meeting Killian’s almost cautious gaze with a determination of her own. 

The kind that sends magic shooting down her arms, and directly into the tips of her fingers. His eyes widen. 

“That’s never been the problem. It’s—” They’ve got to stop cutting themselves off. Sentences that hang without end will torment Emma for the foreseeable future, but the muscles in her neck are going to seize up if she doesn’t twist them, and Killian’s fingers tense at his side when her hair moves. Like he wants to brush it away from her face. “Where’d the tree come from?” “Anton.”

“No.” “Swan, we just proclaimed honesty and now you’re—” “—Don’t know if it was a proclamation,” Emma grumbles, but Doc did call her your highness before so maybe she wields that kind of power now. Killian’s lips tilt up. 

Finding something else to stare at should be number one on the list of things Emma needs to be doing. Desperately. 

“Aye, that usually requires your mother’s seal anyway.”

“My mom? Why would...isn’t Regina mayor of this town?”

Exhaling through his teeth is oddly attractive. “Not as such, no.” “Huh.” “That’s about the right reaction. But to get back to your original question—” Emma sticks her tongue out, Killian’s laugh soaring out of him. Directly into her. It feels that way, at least. Warmth blooms between her ribs, another pulse of magic she resolutely ignores in favor of watching his shoulders shake and his eyes crinkle and it would be very easy. All of it. Is, currently. If she’s being honest with herself.  

That’s a problem.  

“You’re a picture of maturity,” Killian murmurs. 

“Well, depending on who you ask, I either got tugged through time, or I’m being tormented in my dreams and—what?” His eyes have gone very thin. “Tormented, is it?” “That was a shitty choice of words.” Humming, Killian’s eyes move anywhere but Emma’s face, and the regret in her gut is like a black hole and dying star and several other space-based puns she does not understand at all. All she knows is what a mess this is becoming, and she’s been a mess for as long as she can remember so that’s all the excuse she needs, hands moving on a mix of want and instinct that she’ll let herself over analyze later. 

He doesn’t flinch. 

For another moment, it feels like he’s going to do something drastic. Parting his lips, Emma hears his exhale, the quick flick of his tongue making her toes curl and her fingers tighten, and she wants to run. That’s her schtick. She can’t. She’s rooted to the spot and this carpet, and there’s nowhere to go really. 

Getting back to Neverland already seems impossible. 

“He’s very happy here,” Killian says, and it takes her a second to realize they’re talking about a giant again. “Has been for years. Grows all sorts of stuff, and you didn’t see the Christmas tree your parents have, but it’s ridiculously massive. Apparently there’s some sort of giant-type gene that helps with that.”

“Well, yeah of course.”

Whatever sound he makes isn’t the laugh Emma selfishly wants it to be, but the air that finds her cheek is warm and his left arm isn’t behind his back anymore. “You can take the bed.”

“What?” “We do have a bed, love.” “Yeah, but—” “—Very gallant of me, I know,” Killian quips, stepping away from Emma and the moment and she can’t believe the moment included talk of a giant growing Christmas trees. Somehow that’s almost comforting. “But it’ll be fine, and well if you’re going to talk to Regina tomorrow—” “—You think I should talk to Regina?” “Don’t you?” Nodding hurts. Standing hurts. The whole thing’s ridiculously melodramatic. “Probably,” Emma admits. “Um, but...maybe on my own?”

She’ll never admit to wanting an objection — this isn’t her life, or her Killian, but it also feels wrong to claim any Killian, and this constant flipping between emotions is going to snap her skull in half. “Whatever you think is best,” he says. “Two doors down on the left.”

“Ok, thanks.”

Nodding again, Killian gives her a barely-there smile before moving back towards the stairs he only sort of rushes down. That one step creaks again. 

Sleeping doesn’t happen. 

Emma didn’t think it would, but it’s disappointing and frustrating all the same. Her muscles ache, practically begging her for unconsciousness, but every time she closes her eyes all she can see is Killian’s face and the space between them and she’s got to get back to Neverland. 

Soon. 

Emma’s got to fix this. 

No one’s at Regina’s house. 

Waiting until everyone left her own house is something of a massive copout, and using that particular possessive makes Emma feel like a liar, but she couldn't bring herself to get off the bed until the front door slammed shut and she wasted quite a lot of time sitting on the mattress. 

Also very comfortable, despite the distinct lack of sleep it witnessed. 

So, it shouldn’t come as much of a surprise when no one answers Emma’s rather pointed knocks. Or the few kicks she levels at Regina’s front door, just to be sure. All that does is make the wreath hanging out front wobble precariously. “God, fucking—” Snowflakes land on Emma’s face when she tilts her head up, as if the gods she’s challenging are responding. She’s still a little caught on the polytheistic. “Alright, alright, where would she go?”

“Emma?” Spinning, she doesn’t wobble at all — a testament to Regina’s salting regiment for her front steps, and the blonde twenty-something with impressively thick glasses who called her name far too easily grins far too quickly. “What are you doing out here?”

There’s no hint of confusion to her question. At least not in regards to who Emma is. She’s obviously surprised to find her standing there, though, and nothing about her is familiar. 

“I’m looking for Regina. Do you know where she might be?”

“Yeah, of course. She went into the office early this morning, said she had to deal with the knights situation and magic acting up and—” “—Magic is acting up?”

“Didn’t Uncle David tell you?”

“No,” Emma shakes her head, already moving because there are only so many offices in this town and it’s got to be the same one. It isn’t until she makes it back to Main Street that her mind catches up with titles, but then the woman is jogging up the stairs of town hall and swinging open doors and Emma’s jaw drops. 

At the “Regina Mills, Queen of the Combined Realms” etched in glass in front of her. 

“You coming?” this nameless person asks, jerking her head towards the office and at least the wallpaper is the same. Emma gives a jerky nod, willing herself to step forward, but it’s shaky going at best and Regina is on the phone. 

The buzzing in her ears makes it difficult to hear the conversation, but Emma picks up the gist. Magic, and knights and the sound of her dad’s vaguely frantic tone, while Regina sighs at regular intervals, rolling her eyes occasionally as well. 

“Aunt Gina,” the woman hisses, slumping into the closest chair. Sliding a small handful of bills across her desk, Regina widens her eyes meaningfully, not bothering to cover the receiver before she mutters—

“Only what was on the list, ok? Henry’s stuff is already taken care of, don’t let Doc try and swindle you.”

She gives a crisp salute, Emma’s mind practically tripping over itself because that’s like a slap to her entire being and the sanity she’s only just clinging to at this point. “I’ll sic Killian on him, if he even tries,” she promises, leaning across the desk to kiss Regina’s cheek before breezing out of the office with a quick “see you later, Emma.”

Emma doesn’t move. 

And Regina hangs up on David. 

“Well,” she says, somehow dragging the word out until it sounds like those royal decrees Killian was talking about, “here you are, then.” “Should practice your surprised face.”

Gasping as dramatically as possible, Regina widens her eyes and jerks back, making her chair squeak on its wheels. Her hand flies to her chest, and the necklace that hangs over her shirt. It looks a bit like an arrow. “How was that?” “My dad called you.” “Probably two seconds after you left the farm. So,” she props her chin on her palm, “time travel, is it? You fall in another portal?”

Blinking as quickly as she is makes it difficult for Emma to stumble into the chair only recently vacated by that girl, but she manages somehow. And doesn’t twist anything in the process. Victories, she’s claiming all of them. “How many time-altering portals are there?” “Only one that I’m aware of, but you also didn’t answer my question and I don’t think you can alter something that hasn’t happened for you yet.” “Because this is the future.”

“Frankly?” “You’re going to do it either way,” Emma grumbles, Regina’s sneer not quite as challenging as she expects it to be. 

“Nothing is ever set in stone, not really. Which is why you can appear here. We're...a possibility for you at this point. So, no—I’m not sure you can destroy yourself with knowing. With staying, for sure, but—” “—Wait, what?”

Regina’s fingers flutter against her cheek. “When did you come from?

“Not here.” “Obviously.”

Slumping further into the chair, Emma’s knees nearly slam into her chest. It’s definitely an arrow around Regina’s neck. “Neverland,” she says, “we’d just left the Echo Caves and you’d gone off with Gold somewhere.” “Rumor has it you met Ariel.” “Is that seriously who that was?” Regina nods. Emma exhales. Loudly. “Ok, ok, well—” Recounting the rest isn’t as hard as she expects it to be, details flowing out of Emma like some other water joke she’s not willing to make and Regina doesn’t interrupt. Occasionally her hand drifts back towards the necklace, but Emma chooses to ignore that as well and her mouth is only sort of dry by the time she’s done. 

And then Regina purses her lips. 

Which speaks volumes, without actually saying words. She says words too. “A giant plant. That crawled out of the ground and—” “—Ok, I never once said it was giant, just that it exploded out of the ground.” “It’s not much better.” “Killian can feel my magic here.” “Yuh huh.”

Lifting both her hands in what Emma can only hope is obvious frustration and soon-to-be-resolved confusion, Regina doesn’t look all that impressed. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Emma demands. “Is that a normal thing? I—as far as I know he can’t in Neverland.” “Well, normal is in the eye of the beholder, really, but have you ever actually asked the captain if he can feel your magic?” “Why would I—did you just call him captain? Are you and Killian friends now?” Clicking her tongue, Regina makes a noise that’s neither confirmation nor objection. “I’m not supposed to be here. This isn’t—none of this is real.” “Ah, that’s actually a little rude.” “How did this happen, then?” Another noise. More guttural that time, and Emma hopes it hurts the inside of Regina’s throat. She’s feeling a little vindictive. No one’s explained the Unified Realms concept to her yet, that’s why. “I’ve got several working theories, some people who would know far more about Neverland’s vegetation and what its capable of than I would, and the deep-burning desire to know whether or not you told Killian about the plant.”

The gods are clearly feeling particularly charitable to Emma right now. All things considered, she feels like she deserves that. 

And she doesn’t fall out of the chair. 

“Do you think he remembers this? If I disappeared in Neverland, but he still married me here...God, that’s weird to say.” “Is it, though?’ Regina challenges, scrunching her nose like this is a conversation they can have.

“Why are you also being so goddamn weird?” “Time travels a funny thing. Lots of twists and turns, and potential pitfalls. And I’m not being weird, this is who I am now.” “Huh.” “Make it sound less like an insult next time,” Regina advises. “But I do think you’re right, you need to leave this part of the timeline. It’ll fall apart otherwise.” “You say so calmly.” “I’m almost very confident in your abilities.” “Almost,” Emma echoes, fully prepared for the snark-filled grin that gets her. Flames flicker between Regina’s fluttering fingers, not the first time that’s happened, but it usually only happens in times of particularly high stress and for as even-keeled as the so-called queen is acting, Emma knows at least part of it is a facade. “What happened with the knights? Also, shouldn’t knights from Camelot be under Arthur’s rule?” “That’s a whole other story. One your husband could recount much better than me.” “He’s not my husband.” “Not yet, I suppose.” Grimacing makes it harder to pull a breath in, but Emma’s butterflies make a triumphant return and the coffee maker was still on when she got downstairs. That might not be the coincidence she wants it to be. “The knights,” Emma demands, “what’s their deal?” “Nefarious, it seems. Which isn’t usually how they operate, and is wholly against the law.” “Of your kingdom?” Maybe Regina and Killian are friends. She’s much better at arching her eyebrow now. “Something like that. Anyway, the knights are here, without the proper paperwork, because they claim magic has been acting strangely in Camelot. And they’ve tracked it to our forest. What that magic is doing that’s so strange appears to be some sort of state secret, but Snow’s got a bird on it, so maybe we’ll find out eventually.” “That keeps happening.” “The fleeting nature of a bird’s attention span?”

Emma rolls her eyes. “Is she not Mary Margaret, anymore?”

The flames disappear, Regina sitting up a little straighter like they’ve finally delved into the serious part of this conversation, and whatever’s churning in Emma’s gut is a bit like regret. “Not in the way you’re thinking.” “How am I thinking about it, then?” “As someone who still hasn’t found Henry in Neverland yet.” “Sounds like we do.” “Not something you ever should have doubted.” “I don’t,” Emma says, only kind of a lie because she still can’t really shake her worry and her fear has always been such a strong part of her; the concept of letting that go is as terrifying as anything else. The coffee had been good that morning. “Why this spot? I mean—if I was going to get tugged to any point in my timeline, Christmas in Storybrooke seems a little out of left field, don’t you think?”

Regina considers that for a moment, drumming her still-flameless fingers on her vaguely imposing desk. “Honestly? Seems like a test.” “Of what?” “You, obviously.” “Speaking English, Your Highness.” “Majesty,” Regina corrects, sliding away from the desk so she can stand up and rest her palms on it and Emma’s eyes nearly roll into the back of her head. “And you’re being obtuse on purpose. I understand, but it’s—well, it’s only going to get more annoying, for both of us. The point is, games were part of Neverland. Tricks and sleight of hand, making you believe something that wasn’t there because that belief fueled the place. Belief’s even stronger for you, Emma. Because of what you are, and what you’ve done. Or will do, I guess.” “No pressure.” “Some, but—you’re distracting me. That’s still an unconfirmed theory.” “What is the point, then?” “The point,” Regina repeats archly, “is that pulling you out of Neverland, away from a place that made you feel like the Lost Girl you believe you are, turns this into something of a Utopia. Home, and safety. When’s the last time you celebrated Christmas?” “Never?” “See, everything you’ve ever wanted all tied up and—” “—I don’t want to be married to Hook.”

Disbelief colors every inch of Regina’s face, the sound of her laugh far more evil than she’s been all morning. “You’re an awful liar, Emma Swan. No matter what you do, and all you’ve ever been able to do is make eyes at the pirate.” “I don’t make eyes.” “Don’t worry, he does too. Even now, which is romantic if you like that sort of thing.” “The point, Regina.”

She grins. “You’re being offered a choice. Here, or there. Past or possible future. It’s a dangerous option, Emma, and one you can’t give into, no matter how much you might want.”

Finding her dad is far easier than Regina. 

Emma’s feet drift down the path towards the farm, boots squelching in the snow, but none of the moisture gets to her socks and the screen door opens before she can think about knocking. 

“Would have been offended if you had,” David says, pulling her against his chest and answering a question she didn’t have a chance to ask. It’s the hand that does it though. Cupping the back of Emma’s head, there’s something inherently safe about the whole thing, her cheek scrunched and her eyes stinging with more unshed tears and the first whimper she lets out is so goddamn depressing she can’t believe it came from her. 

“It’s ok, it’s ok,” David chants. Over and over, pressing the promise into her hair and her temple, the bridge of her nose once Emma finally lifts her head, and the slight jut of her chin because she’s nothing if not consistently stubborn and falling apart feels like failure. 

“C’mon, we’re going to sit down,” David continues, already directing Emma back into the hallway. And through the hallway. Past more pictures, and this couch looks even more comfortable than the one she’d woken up on, and she’d been right about her mother’s taste in pillows. An excess of frill. 

“Was I that obvious that you had to immediately call Regina yesterday?" David shrugs, lifting his arm in unspoken invitation. Emma slings her legs over his when she moves, the flannel now under her cheek oddly comforting. As is the kiss she feels pressed to the crown of her head. “A little,” he chuckles, “but mostly it was Killian’s blatant freakout.” “He wasn’t freaking out. At least not here.” “He was. Not loudly, maybe. But obviously. And you looked at Hope like you’d never seen her. That also kind of freaked out your mom.” “How old is she?”

Emma doesn’t bother being anymore specific. She knows she doesn’t have to — not when her dad’s arm tightens around her shoulders, and she wishes she’d come here first, if only to help keep her balanced on the precarious edge of lingering sanity, and she’s got absolutely no idea where Killian went. She should ask about that too. “Four.” “Shit. That’s—shit.” Another chuckle and second kiss, and David has to shift slightly to make sure Emma’s elbow doesn’t impale his side. “Reasonable response, really. Anything else?” “About a million and two things,” Emma admits, with enough acid in her voice to do permanent damage to the atmosphere. Making science-jokes is apparently a coping device now. “Regina thinks it’s a test. Of whether or not I really will leave, when given some sort of idyllic future.” “Well you’re not a selfish asshole, so I’m sure you’ll do what you have to.” “Kinda blunt, Dad.”

It’s not the first time she’s used that word — but titles have been thrown around in enough conversations already, and Emma’s really very wobbly on her metaphorical cliff and she wants something. Solid and dependable and she refuses to acknowledge how Killian might be both. Is definitely both. 

In any version of this life. 

“Kinda,” David agrees, “but the knights showed up when you did, and I don’t know if that’s a coincidence. There have been reports coming into the station, too. Stuff feeling out of whack across the realms—” “—How many realms are there, exactly? Is Regina in charge of all of them?”

“There was something of an election.” “For a queen?” “We’re a very progressive united coalition.”

“And you’re what? Prince of that?” David makes a contrary noise, and it takes longer than Emma expects to detail the hierarchy of this realm, but she understands why her mom would need to make royal decrees now and why people keep bowing to her and— “So that makes Killian a prince,” Emma says, pleasantly surprised to realize she does not in fact die when her heart explodes. Or when she realizes that some parts of that bedtime story may actually be based in reality. 

She kind of wants to see him spin in the middle of a sword fight. 

“Tell him that,” David suggests. “I’m sure he’ll enjoy it.” “Makes me think he won’t.” “Sometimes people bow to him, just to see what he’ll do.” “Challenge them to a duel?” “Nah, that’d mean he has to get his sword and that’s a whole thing. Plus, he’s got stuff to do in the station and there’s a fair bit of sailing involved.” “He keeps his ship?” Emma asks, sharper than she intends because something’s fluttering at the back of her brain and it’s big and important and she’s got absolutely no idea why. “And did you just say station?” David hums. “Doesn’t like wearing the badge though. Which I think is an affront to the position of deputy, but—” She nearly hits his chin. Jerking her head up, Emma’s eyes widen quickly enough that they also water and her dad might be the asshole here because he doesn’t do anything except smile knowingly at her. “You’re happy here, Emma,” he says, “after everything. And there’s a lot of everything, but it ends eventually. Gets the happily ever after it deserves, that both of you deserve. Although he’s a merciless cheat in Monopoly, drives me nuts every Christmas.”

It’s not a laugh. Not really. Sagging forward, air flies out of Emma’s lungs and her very dry lips, and that second thing is because she keeps breathing out her mouth, and trying to piece together a puzzle she wasn’t all that interested in finishing before. Now it’s all she wants, desperate to see what the picture is, and it’s probably very pretty. 

A covered bridge, or an oceanscape or something. Thomas Kinkaid, maybe. And part of her hears the warning, knows all too well that she’s already failing the test, but the rest of her absolutely does not care. 

“Are you really here, or is that some kind of trick my mind came up with because you’re actually stuck in Neverland?” David kisses her nose. “Here. And for the time being, so are you. Which means you can sleep.”

“Mind reading isn't one of your talents, as far as I knew.” “I get better at it,” he promises, tugging an exceptionally soft blanket off the back of the couch and Emma doesn’t put up much of a fight before resting her head on his shoulder and promptly falling asleep. 

There are lights on in half a dozen windows when David’s new — at least as far as Emma’s concerned — truck comes to a stop in front of her absolutely massive house, and she’s got to get out. Easier said than done, particularly with trembling fingers and obviously fluttering curtains in that one bay window, and it takes no less than four tries for her to undo her seatbelt,

“It’s going to be fine” David says again, “no matter what happens.” “Even with magic being weird?” “We’re not sure that’s entirely your fault.”

Scoffing, Emma tries very hard to believe that. No one’s updated them on the location of the bird. She kind of hates this bird. Possibly all birds, really. “Sure it’s not. So, what—I’m just supposed to go back into this stupidly large mansion and—” “—Wouldn’t all mansions be large?” David interrupts. “By default?” “Did we rob a bank to pay for this?” “You’d have to ask Killian, but I don’t think so.” “He says I call him babe.”

Wincing, Emma belatedly realizes this is probably not a conversation she should be having with her father, but she hasn’t really seen her mother and she wants to talk about it to Regina even less, and she obviously can’t bring it up to Killian when she’s avoiding him so much and—

A door slams. Footsteps rush towards them, voices on the breeze and the snowflakes that have kept falling all day because it’s New England and as far as Emma knows it’s required to snow in New England on Christmas. Or in the days leading up. 

David nods towards the door she should have opened five minutes ago. 

And it takes her about one sharp inhale, two eyes that very nearly fall out of her head, and that maternal-type adrenaline she’s starting to get used to, for Emma to tumble out of the truck, sprint the few feet between them and practically launch herself into Henry’s waiting arms. Arms that are much more adult than she’s familiar with. 

Although that does also make it easier for him to tighten them around Emma’s middle, and she supposes time-traveling beggars cannot be choosers. “Hey,” Henry breathes, mostly into her hair. Wind whips around them, only kind of unnatural and a little magical and the door opens again. Emma doesn’t look up. Seeing Killian standing there, with his feet crossed at the ankles, she’s sure, will only drive her closer to a line she’s not all that willing to cross. Yet. Or ever. 

No, definitely ever. 

Everyone calling him Killian is nice. Exceptionally, so. 

“Killian said it was bad, but…” Trailing off, Henry pulls back and Emma’s crying again. Like a total, entirely incompetent ass. She’s got so many questions still. Her arms tighten, a fresh round of terror rattling around her soul, or some other ridiculous sentiment, and Henry doesn’t argue. He kisses the top of her hair too. 

He’s much taller than her now. 

“Did Killian talk to you?”

“Mom,” Henry sighs, “c’mon—even when I was a kid, that shouldn’t have surprised you.” It doesn’t, not really. But there’s a grown man in her arms, and snow flying around them, and Henry’s barked “not now, Lu” causes another kid to scamper back up the porch. Towards Killian and his ridiculous grey-streaked hair, and he picks her up without looking away from Emma. 

He’s looking at Emma. 

Still, or always, or whatever. 

“Don’t ask what kind of favors he had to pull in to get us here,” Henry adds, “but he said you’d need it, and it might help and Ella definitely wanted to leave, even if she won’t admit to it, so—”

“Stop telling lies, Henry Mills,” another voice calls from behind Killian, and Emma’s going to pass out. For a variety of reasons, least of all her lack of caloric intake today. 

Henry clicks his tongue. A family trait, apparently. “It’s not a lie, she didn’t even really want to go, but Lu gets a ridiculous present haul, so we had to and—” Several puzzle pieces fly into place. Helped along by Lu’s rather loud screech of “papa” directly into Killian’s ear, and Emma is glad she hasn’t eaten. Throwing up on Henry’s shoes is not the festive reunion it should be. “I’m really here,” Henry adds, reading Emma’s mind. Or her face. “No matter what you think might have happened in Neverland, it didn’t. I’m here, and you’re here and Killian made food, so you should probably eat.” She’d been right about the puzzle, it is a pretty picture. One that doesn’t belong to her, entirely. But pretty all the same. Desirable, maybe. 

That’s a dangerous line of thinking. 

“Hook can cook? Ignore that rhyme, please.” Henry grins, marching them back towards the house as David yells something about getting Snow from school and then there are smells and kids and that goddamn Christmas tree. And it takes Emma a few moments she thinks she deserves to realize—

“How did Henry know I’d come from Neverland?” she asks Killian, standing in the middle of the kitchen. He’s stirring something. She’ll think about that for at least two hours. 

“I told him.” “How did you know?” Leveling her with an incredulous stare, Emma once again fails at the whole no blushing thing, and they own a stand mixer. Only adults own stand mixers. “How many times should I request you give me more credit before that also becomes redundant?” “This is probably good enough.” “Generous of you, and it wasn’t very hard. Although I am still trying to pinpoint when it was, exactly. Quite a lot happened in Neverland.” “Looking awfully smug about that.” He shakes his head, offering her the spoon and there’s sauce there. Delicious sauce. This must happen a lot. “Hard to do that when you can’t look at me straight on, but—” “—Echo Caves,” Emma says, rushing to interrupt him. Killian’s eyebrows jump. 

“Huh.” “Regina doesn’t think telling me things will affect anything.” “Huh.” “Nothing to add to that?” Silence. More relative, at least. The TV is on, and a pillow fort is apparently being engineered in the living room, and everyone was very quick to leave the pair of them alone. With the sauce. “Thank you, though.”

“For?” “Getting Henry here, whatever favors you had to call in. I—well, Dad told me some of the stuff, and it’s...nice.” His lips disappear when he presses them together. Emma’s still staring, it seems. “Part of the deal, I think.” “Of?” “You really want me to answer that?” “Probably not,” Emma exhales, “but—still. It’s nice, and I...well, I appreciate it.”

“That’s not something you have to thank me for, love. Now, c’mon, I know you haven’t eaten and there are some ravenous kids out there who will mutiny if we don’t get them spaghetti soon.”

Emma nods, not able to say anything else because nice is suddenly a vast understatement, and she eats a second bowl of mostly sauce, and she never really knows how she gets back into bed, only that she fell asleep under the pillow fort with Killian’s shoulder close to hers. 

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #captain swan fic #cs fic #but once a year #festive fic a thon 2k20 #true story: i wrote this chapter #forgot about the absolutely bonkers state of the show's legitimate timeline #and had to go back and age up robyn #or however it's spelled #honestly i did very minimal research for this story

[ixchel-sketch]

TITLE: Cacalotl / El Cuervo  GENRE: Crime & Romance FANDOM: Mayans M.C. SHIP(S): Coco & Original Female Character STATUS: Complete LENGTH: 4,057 words

Coco is beginning to feel worn down by balancing his responsibilities with the MC and his relationship with Maya. Before she goes away to a festival for a week he gets a letter letting him know that he’s being placed back on active duty. The club is supportive now that he is a fully patched member and all that is left to do is tell Maya about it. Meanwhile she discovers some game changing news of her own.

The honeymoon phase was officially over, whatever the fuck that meant. Five months into their relationship and there was no longer any novelty about coming home and finding arbitrary art supplies scattered into every corner of his place. Or the small piles of clothes that remained stacked where they’d been removed until he reminded her to do her fucking laundry. Though he didn’t have too much of a leg to stand on with complaints, his beer bottles and cigarette butts were practically a form of interior design by this point. Both of them had low moods where they weren’t productive, much less focused on avoiding the other’s pet peeves. 

When he was still a prospect Coco could get away with disappearing for a few hours to a night or two spent somewhere else. Now that he was a fully patched member he didn't have to stay late after parties and runs to clean shit up. There was more freedom and some stability now that the club business was going good. Maya had decided to cut down on the amount of travel she did a year, her nights spent split between the RV parked in the back of Coco's house and his bed. Sometimes it was great, he felt a sense of peace coming home and seeing her face light up when he entered the room. Or her head popping out from behind the thin door of her van once the sound of his motorcycle cut off. The feel of her pressed against him at night. But on the hard days, ones where she would suddenly stay in all day and only move to finish a painting or pop something in the microwave reminded him of just how trapped all of the so called stability made Coco feel. 

And the guilt at having those feelings just made him feel even more fucked up. Maya would look at him with those big dopey eyes and say sweet things at him.  Even when his temper would flare and he would push her away she would just shut down and give him space or worse...be outright accepting. The guys didn’t see it as a problem and Coco had gone long past the point of trying to explain. As far as Angel and Gilly were concerned she was damn near perfect, never causing drama or getting into Club business. She didn’t even give Coco a hard time when they would spend nights at Vicki’s for some celebration or another that usually involved other women giving them attention. 

 Which was just another sin Coco could add to his current list of burdens. While Maya had remained faithful and filled her time making art Coco had not been able to resist flirting and stealing kisses from the women at Vicki's. He hadn't slept with anyone, an embarrassingly small point of pride he still wore like a badge. Though the longer it took for them to see any kind of excitement or danger the more his resolve weakened on that front. When they finally got a job doing a run that their northern charter couldn’t complete, crossing over territories that would take at least a couple of days to cover and keep up with the necessary hospitality, it felt like a breath of fresh air. An eager distraction from confronting the news he’d gotten earlier that week. 

Maya certainly hadn’t seen it that way. 

“Oh.” Her shoulders slumped and the look of disappointment that wormed onto her face made his stomach clench. “ I have to leave for that festival in a couple days…” 

“Yeah.” She’d been gearing up for that for weeks, only adding to the stress of their interactions. A smudge of red paint on her cheek told him she’d been working on the collection again.  Finally being able to get away for more than a day was exactly what he needed. “And?” 

“I just thought you might want to spend it together.” Her words were loaded and it sent Coco automatically on edge. They had never set restrictions on the other’s behavior before but now she was going to disapprove of the Club business? 

“It’s not exactly a choice.” 

“But you want to go, right?” 

His shoulders bunched up, making the shrug more apparent and he turned his back to where she was standing in the kitchen to head towards the room and begin packing his bag. The plan was to leave early in the morning and cover as much road as possible. Maya stayed at the doorway and even not facing her Coco could guess that her arms were crossed over her chest. “I gotta go. It feels like I’ve been stuck in the house for fucking weeks.”

“That’s kind of funny,” Though her tone made it clear that she felt no amusement. “ considering you’ve had more shifts and club stuff these last two weeks than in the past couple of months. And when you are here you’re practically itching to leave.” 

“How the fuck do you know what’s going on in my head?” The clothes were tossed onto the bed with little care, just a couple things that would fit into his military surplus backpack. 

“Are you serious?” She scoffs, turned to head back into the kitchen so that she could finish putting away some dishes she’d been working on clearing out earlier. Maya had a habit of leaving them in the sink until the end of the day and felt the need to clean from the rising tension come over her. “The only time you want to talk to be around me is when you want to fuck.”

“Wait wait,” He calls from the other room and the sound of his pack being dropped to the floor is the only noise until he’s standing in front of her with an incredulous expression. Dark brows are lowered into a glower and Maya squares her shoulders in preparation for the oncoming fight. 

They didn’t get into arguments often. In fact she could probably count the number of actual fights on one hand, usually resulting in one of them leaving the house until they had both cooled down and were ready to actually talk about it. There was always some sort of catalyst, or some slow building thing that was finally too much for either of them bare. The former was always an easier fix...but something about the way that he’d been pushing her away made her think the resolution wouldn’t be so simple this time. It had only become obvious that something was wrong when she noticed the way he would lean away from her, the casual brush of his hand against her waist or ass had long since stopped when they were in public. And even though she knew the club had legitimate connections and business at Vicki’s, Coco came back smelling more and more like cheap perfume instead of just cigarette smoke. 

“Don’t pull that fuckin shit. If I’m not at the club or work I’m here just hanging while you do your art so you can take the fuck off again. And when I gotta do the same you wanna start shit? Fuck!” One of the drying plates from the sink is swept off the counter in one fast movement, sending glass shattering on the floor and making Maya jump a couple inches in the air. Her eyes are wide with shock and he purposefully doesn’t meet them, only stares at the organic shaped pieces of ceramic that decorated the tile. 

“What the fuck is goin’ on with you?” Her Appalachian draw picked up as her heart started to race. There was definitely something deeper that caused this kind of reaction in him and the dread that it was something big began to loom in her mind’s horizon. “This isn’t about me wanting to spend time with you before I leave town for a couple weeks is it?”

“No, it’s about you never leaving me the fuck alone!” She’s silent, watching him try to breathe some level headed thoughts back into the conversation, his hand swipes at his mouth where some spittle still clung from when he was shouting. “You’re always here, and when you’re not you’re in my fucking drive way. I agreed to date you, not put a fucking ring on it.” 

Coco felt out of control. As though the topic they had was covered in a metaphoric sheen of gasoline and in his hand held the match. Sure, there had been times when Coco had done his best to lash out and push Maya away, but all of those had been weighted down by his infatuation with her. Now, all he could think about was how good the road was going to feel and the hours of silence and distance. Of action. Of getting away from the conversation at hand and where he knew it would lead. There was far more comfort in the life that he’d known than there was struggling to find himself in a life of domesticity with her. 

“Well it’s a good thing I’m leaving then, I guess.” To agree with her out loud would be too spiteful so instead he went to work picking up the mess he’d made. Shoulders still held high and tight and each action was careful, like he was desperately trying to keep whatever he was feeling buried. Each silent moment made the void of anxiety in her chest open just a little bit wider. “Do you...still want me here? Or is this about something else?” 

Coco’s dark eyes snap to her face and Maya swallows heavily. There’s a severity to his grimace and she had a feeling if he didn’t have a dust pan full of broken plate he’d probably be reaching for a cigarette right about now. After dumping them in the trash can he ran a hand through his hair. A few moments of tense silence later and Coco crossed the kitchen to pull out an official looking envelope, her own gaze drawn towards the seal of the US military at the corner. “What the fuck is that?” 

“Got this a couple days ago. “ Her hands were practically shaking as the piece of paper slipped free from its packaging. A quick scan of the first page gave her enough information...he was being called back to active duty and would have to leave at the end of the month.  ��I already told the guys, they got no beef with it.” 

“But you didn’t want to tell me. You didn’t even tell me you were still enlisted!” “Signed up for six years, they can call me back if they want.” 

“So? Fuck them!” 

The glare she receives for that outburst tells her all she needs to know. His mind was made up and the withdrawing made total sense now. A lump formed in her throat and she retreated back to his room to climb onto the bed and wait for him to follow. The painting she’d just finished earlier was still hung on the wall to dry and caught her eye. When Coco finally came in to finish packing Maya waited, the air heavy between them. There was an emotional pain blooming in her heart that felt like the coming of the end. Her voice wavered when she finally worked up the courage to speak. 

“What does that mean for us? I don’t...I don’t want us to be over.” 

Tears finally break free and make tracks down her cheeks and Coco lets out a heavy sigh. Maya hadn’t even noticed that she had her palms pressed to her face until his calloused hands are gently pulling them away so he can wrap his arms around her. Falling for each other hadn’t been in either one’s plans and even though she’d never met another person that made her feel like he did --- some part of her had always known that Coco wasn’t ready for something permanent. 

“Nothing’s got to change right now, we got a couple days to figure it out.” She shook her head against his shoulder and let out a small hiccup of a sob. He was leaving to get away from her. He wanted it to end and there was nothing that she could do about it. The emotion at the forefront of her mind was heavy confusion at how they had even gotten to this point. More gentle than he had ever been, Coco buried his face against her neck and for just a moment she thought he might join her in shedding a couple tears. Instead he simply stroked her back until her chest felt a little less tight and her crying had slowed to a stop. The warmth of his palm against her spine and Coco’s steady breathing turned heavy as he pulled her closer still. 

“I love you.” Maya whispered into the space between them. He didn’t reply, simply placed a kiss in the corner of her neck, her jaw, her lips. His hands are careful but still hold a bit of desperation where they grip her. The fact that he doesn’t say it in return doesn’t go unnoticed but she valiantly pushed the fear of what was to come away so that she could only feel the familiar and comforting arousal that his attentions usually brought on. Maya kissed him back with fervor, hands splayed on his chest, smoothed over the loose white T-shirt he wore until she could wrap her arms around his neck.  The long steady strokes down her back slowly reach even lower until he’s grabbing her ass and pulling her into his lap. 

“I’m sorry.” She’s not sure if he means for the fight, or for something more final… Either way it doesn’t matter at the moment. Maya shushes him with another kiss, one of her hands going to card through the short black hair at the base of his head. His gentleness begins to fade when she arches her back so that their chests are pressed against the other,  though there is still a measure of care to his movements when Coco pauses to remove the sundress she'd thrown on earlier. 

His clothes are quick to follow and Maya takes the opportunity to stretch out on the mattress beside him, eyes roving over his bare form -- memorising the lines of his tattoos and the way they move over his muscles. Soon the shadow of him looms over her, his forearms bracketed either side of her and Coco places a kiss on her forehead. There's something heavy and too scary to name behind their intimacy. A slowness that neither had really had too much patience for before that night. Now it was as though both of them were determined to take their time, one of his legs sliding between hers and allowing the weight of his body to rub her in all the right places. 

"Fuck, you feel good." He groans, hips rolling against her. Maya smirks and brings her hand up to lick her palm before slipping it between them and around his member, earning a gasp of pleasure and fevered kiss for her efforts. Coco thrust against her hand, his own findinding purchase in gripping her thigh or calf where it's raised against his side. His breath is hot between them, warming the air between kisses placed on her collar and lower still. 

Maya lets out a small cry when he noses against her breast then his lips close around a raised nipple. At the same time Coco easily entered her, her hand on his dick going to scrape up his back and rest curled around broad inked shoulders in order to keep him close. She feels stretched and full in all the right ways, but it’s still not enough.

"Shit, harder baby--" Her tone breathy and heavy with desperation. The heat on Maya's belly growing and moving south with building pressure of pleasure. Opposite of her request, he comes free of her and laughs at the pouting frown that creased her full lips. Before she had time to complain though, Coco takes firm hold of one of her legs and brings it up to his shoulder. 

“Oh! Fuck!” At this angle it feels like he might be trying to split her open, hips pistoning fast and harsh until the sound of their pants and the slap of flesh is all that’s left. One of Maya’s hands traces up the muscles of his stomach to lay a palm over his chest and Coco meets her lust filled gaze with heavy lidded eyes. A wet kiss placed messily at the where her calf is balanced against his collar. Her own eyes fall closed as her orgasm ripples through her and pulls him closer to the edge, but she thinks she catches the words ‘Te quiero’ on his lips.

It’s almost a week before she talks to him again. Four days before she’s supposed to return from the festival. The next morning Coco had taken off hours before she woke up, leaving Maya full of insecurity over their future and the argument that had occured that night. There was no trying to talk him out of his decision and the longer that she spent thinking about the time that would mean apart --- the bigger the void got in her chest and the looming feeling of heartbreak. They had never spent too much time planning their future, but she had a feeling at least a year apart would require some kind of heavy talking. And if their last conversation was any judge of his feelings on commitment then she truly felt as though their relationship was living on borrowed time. The internal disquiet caused her stomach to let out a sharp pang of nausea, bile rising in her throat and Maya forced herself to breathe through it rather than go running out of her booth. 

“Hey! Maya!” A familiar voice caused her head to snap up and a grin pushed the dark thoughts momentarily at bay. Tati, the artist that ran the table next to hers came over with a water bottle in her outstretched hand. “Here, you’re looking kind of pale.” 

“I’m alright, just a bit of indigestion.” 

“Damn, that sucks. Do you think I could borrow a tampon?” 

“No. Please do not return it.” She laughed and went to get her purse, sure she had a few older ones lying towards the bottom of the large patchwork bag. Her mind ildely trying to think of the last time she’d used them and froze with a sudden icy chill of panic Maya couldn’t hope to hide. Her fingers shook as she fumbled to place the plastic wrapped tube in her friend’s hand. 

“You okay? You look like you just saw a fucking ghost.” 

“N..No, I’m fine.” Tati looked unconvinced but thanked her again before heading back over to the safety of her canopy. These were the times she wished she’d split the table with another artist so that she might be able to take a break and answer the scary question that was growing like a weed in the back of her mind. As it was she would have to wait until the end of the day to close up her booth and head to the nearest convenience store, each hour passing by impossibly slow despite the amount of decent foot traffic she had. Her gaze cast out and locked onto a nest of a black birds, most likely a crow, equally busy in the tree across the foot worn path. Whether they were a beautiful show of nature or a bad omen she couldn’t say.  Instead she counted the weeks since her last cycle, then again for good measure to make sure that it wasn’t just paranoia. Sure, she was on The Pill but had been known to accidentally miss a day or two...and she’d never been very good about staying on schedule with it. 

" Fuck me, shit.” By the time she made it to the store the sun had set and her anxiety was in full swing. Maya grabbed two boxes of tests and polished off the rest of her large water bottle. Privacy was pushed to the back of her mind in panic and the brunette locked herself into handicapped stall. Coco had been slow to answer her texts since he'd left, and even now left her messages on read despite the obvious stress behind them. With her heart racing and the test lining up on the sink accusingly, she was in no mood to be toyed with. 

"Pick up, pinche pendejo." Three calls, no answer. The sound of women coming and going in the other stalls completely ignored by the focus at hand. By the fifth call there's finally an answer on the other end, his voice tight and the sound of laughter in the background loud and obnoxious over the line. 

"What?" 

"Where are you?" She had expected him to be home, or maybe out with the guys. Though the familiar sound of music and women's laughter told her otherwise. "At Vicki's?"

"Yeah. Hello to you too."

"Hm." He'd never ignored her calls when he was there before.

"What? Qué paso?"

"I think we have a problem." She waits for him  to say anything but the only response is the quieting of ambient noise. He must have gone into another room or stepped outside. The tension grows so thick that her stomach spikes with nausea once again. One glance at the four tests lining the sink and she's unable to breathe the repugnant feeling away this time. The cell phone placed quickly on the floor before Maya emptied the contents of her stomach. 

With a tired sigh she wiped her mouth and picked the cell phone up, grumbling a weak apology. 

"What happened? You take something?"

"No, nothing like that." She'd called him from a show sick from drinking or tripping before, her impulse control severely lacking while on the road. The words felt foreign in her mouth but she forced them out. The bitter taste of bile still coating the back of her throat with a scratchy burn. "I'm pregnant." 

Nothing. Almost complete quiet except for where his breathing has gone rough and stilted. "What the fuck did you just say? Are you sure? I thought you were on the pill?" 

Multiple feelings strike her at once, rippling through her core like a physical blow. Intensifying with each question. Though her tone goes flat and cold, the cell gripped so tight Maya's knuckles go white. "I am. It's not perfect." 

"Yeah? No shit." 

Her eyes closed tightly and Maya swept the tests into the trash. There was no use clinging to them as though she could will away the situation. She clears her throat to make sure her voice doesn't break. "So...what do you want to do?" 

It's his turn to sigh, a slow whooshing crackle over the line and he sounds bone weary and utterly contrary to the wired and shaky energy that courses through her veins. "That's not on me. Look... I already got a couple kids, and I'm not in their lives for a reason. Ain't nothing really changed on that front." 

It's a conversation that they should have been holding in person. Both of them shared accountability for what had happened and not being able to see the look on his face only hastened the hysteria that swiftly encroached. "Right. So you don't...want to be involved. If I keep it."

"Maya...I'm not even gonna be here." 

"Right." Her heart sinks and Maya finally flees the small bathroom, rushing out of the store and shivering when the night air chills the nervous sweat that misted her forehead. The lock to her bike came free as she balanced the cell phone on her shoulder. Numb shock of what this meant making her movements mechanical. The consuming heartbreak just waiting until she was alone to attack, for now anger was her only defense. "You're right. I got this. Just do me a little favor, 'kay?" 

He doesn't answer but it doesn't really matter. There's no way that Coco would turn down this final request, especially since she wouldn't be back for another few days. 

"Pack up my shit so I can just swing by and get it? Thanks." 

#johnny coco cruz #coco cruz #mayans fanfic #mayans smut #mayans mc #Coco & Maya #Maya Ortiz (OFC)

[themoonandotherslikeit]

What the Rain Can’t Wash Away - Epilogue

*FINAL PART TO THE LOOK IN HER EYES SERIES*

Sixteen years after Lucifer rose, and Dean lost his wife he finds himself with a teenager, a Nephilim, an angel, and his brother living out a Full House rerun with some seriously dark undertones. How will he be able to raise his daughter, fight monsters, and deal with the loss of the love of his life? Sometimes moving on is the hardest part, but with the Winchester’s there’s always something harder around the corner. Isn’t there?

"No doubt.. Endings are hard, but then again.. nothing ever really ends, does it??"

Seven Months Later

Dean

The bar was busy, bustling. Sometimes it was hard to keep track of everything, but I was starting to get the hang of it. Deep breaths, focus on a specific sound, and block out the rest. It wasn’t always easy, but it was damn effective. 

Things were calm, for once in my life. It still felt wrong, like I was waiting for the other shoe to drop-- jokes on me, though, because it already did. Sometimes there just isn’t another shoe. Most people have only two feet, and I’ve had about a million fall on my head throughout the years. Maybe it is really over, at least that’s what Ave keeps saying. 

“Dean.” 

I’d recognize the voice anywhere, and at the sound of it I reached under the bar for the beer I’d been saving, and I tossed it to him. There wasn’t a crash so I had to assume that Sam still had good hand-eye coordination. Well, better than mine at least. “Sammy. Back from the hunt already?” 

“It was a milk run.” I could hear the grin in his voice. He was a proud fucker. He loved the hunt, and I couldn’t fault him for that. Sometimes I missed it, but mostly I didn’t. The squeak of his favorite bar stool told me he sat down. Guess he was planning on staying awhile. 

“Cas with you?’

“He went back to the bunker to check on the kids.” 

“They probably aren’t there. It’s summer. Can’t hardly keep tabs on them anymore.”

“Who does that sound like?” 

I laughed and shook my head, leaning on the bar. “Shut up, Sammy. Guess this is what I deserve, huh? After all I put Dad through.” 

“Yeah, man,” Sam said softly, reaching out and touching my arm. “It is. You seem good.” 

Sometimes I tried to remember what Sam looked like. Every day was harder. It all seemed so fuzzy, and I wasn’t sure what I was making up or what was true. 

“I am good,” I said, and it wasn’t even a lie. “Bar is doing great.” 

“I can tell! You’ve got a lot of business.” 

“We’re holding our own.” 

Sam was still in the life, and he came and went a lot, but he always ended up back home. That was all that mattered. 

“Where’s Ave?” 

“She ran to get limes. We were out.”

“So she’s not sick of you yet?” 

“Quit grinning, Sammy,” I said with a laugh. A familiar warmth grew in my gut as Ava’s face popped into my head-- well what I could remember of it. “Nah, she’s not tired of me yet.” 

“You made it, man.” 

“Yeah, I did.” 

“Excuse me? Can I get some service down here?” A voice called from the end of the bar. 

“Be right back,” I said to my brother, shaking my head. “Duty calls.” 

I slid down to the end of the bar in front of the girl calling for me. I leaned in toward her. “How can I help you?” 

“How about a glass of red.” 

“How about a soda,” I retorted with a smile. “Just because I can’t see doesn’t mean I’m blind. 

She reached forward and grabbed my head, illuminating my vision. Eleanor sat in front of me, my own patented grin painted on her lips. “Hey, Dad.” 

“Hey kiddo. What brings you around?”

“Going to take Claire on a date,” she said, blushing a bit. “And I missed you. Where’s Mom?” 

“Getting limes.”

Seeing her never got old. When she touched my hand it was like she turned the light on. She was happy, glowing, literally. I was proud of her. 

“Ah, maybe I’ll catch her before the movie.” 

I couldn’t stop staring at her. There weren't many things in the world that I loved more than looking at her. 

“Dean, I’m back.” 

I sat up straighter, turning toward the door. “El, can I--” 

It was like she clicked on global vision, and I was seeing the whole bar through her eyes. The door opening, and in the midst of the afternoon crowd my beautiful wife came in, arms full of a bag of bright green limes, bouncing against her large pregnant belly. 

“Nel, you’re here,” Ave said, dropping the limes on the counter before wrapping our daughter into a hug. Ella let go of my hand to hug her mom back, clicking the lights back off for me, but the sight of Ava’s round belly was still burned into my vision like I’d stared too long at the sun. 

She was almost ready to burst at any time. We had the nursery completed upstairs, but we’d been dragging our feet moving out of the bunker. It still felt weird that Eleanor didn’t live with us. I think we felt like if we left that we would be moving on without her. We didn’t know what we were having, Ave wanted it to be a surprise, and I wanted whatever she wanted. She deserved to be happy and stress free. My job was to be the best husband possible. No Hell Hounds, no hunts, no money problems. The goal was to be happy. That was it. 

She wanted to be a stay at home mom with this one. She didn’t want to miss anything else, and that was fine with me. I wouldn’t blame her if she wanted to go back to the force, but the itch is a lot easier to ignore when you aren’t faced with it everyday, at least that’s what I told myself. 

We were going away after we closed up tonight. They called it a ‘baby moon’ the last weekend away before the baby comes. I told her that we should go back to the beach, where we first started to fall in love with each other. I wouldn’t be against the sand in my toes, a classic shitty motel, the smell of the sea… 

I could remember her running out to the beach, her arms in the air, Sam and I following after her like the lovesick puppies we were. It felt like a different lifetime. I guess it kind of was. 

“Mom are you okay?” 

“What’s going on?” I asked, snapping out of my own personal day dream. 

Ave sucked in her breath, and I made my way around the bar, keeping my hand on the edge until I made it around to her. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she huffed. 

“You don’t look fine,” Ella said, suspiciously. 

“Ava, what’s happening?” I asked, touching her arm. She leaned into me immediately, and I reached down to touch her stomach. It was tight, and my eyebrows came together. “Are you having a contraction?” 

After a moment of gasping and gripping my shoulder with her hand she whispered, “Fine, yes,” breathlessly. 

“How long?”

“All morning,” she said sheepishly, letting out a pained laugh. 

“Damnit, Ave.” 

“Don’t do that,” she said dismissively. 

“Hey Sam, go get the car.” I dug my phone out of my pocket and handed it to El. “Can you get Claire to come close up shop? We’re having a baby.” 

My heart was racing. I couldn’t hide that I was excited, and fucking terrified. We didn’t have a great track record and even though this pregnancy has seemed pretty seamless, there was still a lot of risk. “Are you good, sweetheart?” I asked Ava, wrapping my arm around her. 

“Still hate that,” she gasped, another contraction racking her body. “But yeah, I’m good.” 

A honk came from out front and I put my arm under hers. “Ready?”

“It’s probably nothing, Dean… My water hasn’t even broken.” 

“Ava Winchester, just because I can’t see you doesn’t mean I don’t know you’re in pain. Let’s go get you checked out. If anything, we will just come home and watch a movie. Okay?” 

“Fine,” she huffed. Stubborn woman. 

We got in the car, Sammy was driving and Ave, and I were in the backseat. I let her lay down, and I held onto her. “I’ve got you, Ave.” 

I tried not to think much about the day that Eleanor was born. The day I missed, but as Ava writhed in pain in my lap I couldn’t help but wonder if Sam was holding her like this. I couldn’t help but wonder if she was afraid. 

She squeezed my hand tightly, pulling my arm around her. I could feel her tears on my forearm. I’d have given anything to take her pain away. “Wish I could switch places with you,” I whispered into her hair. 

“You couldn’t handle it,” she gasped out. 

She was probably right. 

We rolled up to the hospital, and they wheeled her to her room while Sam and I took care of all of the paperwork. Now that I was an official business owner, we had legitimate insurance. It was kind of weird putting our real names on the forms. 

“Is this what it was like the first time?” I asked. 

“Huh?” I could hear his pencil scribbling on the forms. 

“When Ella was born? Was this what it was like?” 

“No,” Sam said softly, his pencil stopping. “She didn’t go into labor then. She had to be induced. It was pretty scary, actually, but she did great.”

“I’m scared,” I admitted. 

“You’d be crazy not to be,” Sam said, squeezing my shoulder. 

“Thanks for being there for her the first time.” 

“You’ll do it this time. It’s pretty incredible, honestly.” 

“You think you and Eileen will ever?”

Sam exhaled and was quiet for a moment. I could hear his pencil tapping. “Doubt it. I already have two kids, basically three with Claire. Plus, I like the hunt too much. So does she.”

I smiled a bit to myself. I used to feel that way. Incredible how your perspective can change. Guess I had to lose my sight in order to truly see. 

Ava 

I wasn’t ready. I hadn’t done the baby’s laundry. We hadn’t even fully moved into the apartment. I think I kept expecting the other shoe to drop, something to change, to fall apart. I didn’t expect this. 

I was laying in a hospital bed, with my feet in the air and some nurse had her fingers probing for my cervix. I thought I was going to throw up, and all I could think about was Dean. Part of me wondered if he ran, even though he wouldn’t have to see anything traumatic. I couldn’t stop thinking about how last time I did this I was all alone. 

Except for Sam. 

Sam really was the only constant for Dean and I. We should buy him a fruit basket or cigars or name this kid after him, or something. 

The door opened, exposing Sam and Dean. If I didn’t know any better I’d think Dean was about to throw up, and Sam didn’t look much better, if I was being honest. I instinctively reached out for Dean, forgetting for a second that he couldn’t see me. It was still hard sometimes. Sam nudged him in my direction, and he found my hand easily. “Are you okay?” He asked softly, gripping me tightly. 

I looked to the nurse who smiled tentatively, removing her hand and discarding her glove. “Ava you’re about eight inches dilated. I’m going to have the OB come in and check you out, okay?” 

“Sure,” I said with a hopeful smile before turning to Dean. 

Sam had slipped out with the nurse, leaving Dean and I alone. I was appreciative of that. I moved my feet from the stirrups, because who knew how long the doctor would take, and I scooted over. “Sit,” I demanded quietly. 

He placed his hand down on the bed and felt around until he was able to sit next to me, feeling him next to me immediately relaxed me a bit. “Sammy?” He called out. 

“He ditched out. My legs being up in the air probably scared him away.” 

“Good,” Dean said with an ornery smile. He leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to my lips. “He should be scared.”

I laughed lightly and kissed him before wincing from another contraction. He held me against him, his face curling down into concern. Ever since his eyesight left him, Dean was even more easily readable than before. Since he couldn’t see people’s faces, it’s like he forgot that we could still see his expressions. “What?” I gasped out a bit. 

“Huh?” 

“You seem… concerned.” 

“I am concerned,” he admitted, his forehead wrinkling as his eyebrows came together. “The nurse she sounded… worried, I guess. Shit, I don’t know. Maybe I’m just freaking out.” 

I smiled at him warmly and touched his cheek. He was so fucking cute. The big bad Dean Winchester, single father for sixteen years, and so damn afraid. I loved him so much for it. “No freaking out allowed. I’m about to push a living being out of my vagina. You aren’t allowed to freak out.” 

“Right,” he said, his face getting serious. “Sorry, I shouldn’t do that. You need me to be strong. I should be your support here, not cause more issues.” 

“You’re okay, Dean. I’m just giving you crap.” I pulled his face to me, and I kissed him desperately. “It’s your first time.” 

“I hate that I missed Ella’s birth. I think about it a lot.” 

“I wish you were there, too.” 

A knock came to the door, and I looked toward the door. “Mrs. Winchester?” 

“That’s me.” 

“I’m going to just check you out,” Dr. Laucklan said with a warm smile. 

I frowned a bit. “Why? The nurse just did.” 

“I just want to double check. I don’t want you to be concerned.” 

Concerned. Well I was. How could I not be after she said that? Dean stood up and held my hand tightly. 

“It’s good to see you again, Dean.”

“Good to hear ya Doc,” Dean said, beaming. 

I adjusted my legs back into the stirrups and scooted to the end of the table. 

They never really tell you how much it sucks getting your cervix messed with. It hurts in a way that is unnatural, it’s mean, and Dean has learned, and is already squeezing my hand in preparation. It was almost eighteen years ago that I was here with Ella, Sam snuggled behind me, but it didn’t feel like that long. My body remembered this feeling like I just went through it. I barely felt healed from the first time, but dying does weird things to you. Nothing is ever really normal after that. Not that my life with the Winchester’s had ever been normal. 

My OB was making sounds in reaction to whatever she was doing between my legs. It was a humming, a sort of judgmental noise that left me unsettled. 

Something was wrong. 

She pulled her hand away and discarded her glove. “Ava, Dean,” she began, and my stomach dropped. 

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want you to be worried, but there may be a change in plans,” she explained. “Your baby has flipped since your last appointment, he or she is now in a breech position.” 

“What?” I asked, my heartbeat pounding so angrily in my ears that the sound was virtually impossible to override. 

“Can we do anything about that? Turn them around? I think I heard of that…” Dean’s voice was far away. He couldn't see my face, and it was probably for the best, because I had to look absolutely terrified. 

I ran my hands over my swollen stomach. This was the last place that my little one would be safe. Inside of me, they’re safe, but now… what I was hearing from my doctor told me that I couldn’t even protect them. “What do we do?” I asked, the sound of my own voice snapping me out of that feeling that I was underwater. 

“I want to suggest a Cesarean.” 

“A C-section,” I said, dumbfounded. 

“What?” Dean’s voice was rising, and I couldn't even look at him. I couldn't process my emotions and his. It was all too much. “That isn’t a part of our birth plan.” 

In any other circumstance, hearing Dean Winchester use the phrase birth plan would be insanely entertaining to me. “Dean,” I whispered, reaching for his hand again. I finally turned to see his face, it was twisted, his cheeks wet from tears. I had to remind myself that this was his first time. Last time didn’t exactly go as planned. “It’s okay.” 

“No, Ave… it’s…” 

“Hey,” I said, tugging him to me. I brushed my nose against his. “I love you. Everything will be okay. We want to do what's safest for our little pumpkin.” 

He pressed his forehead to mine in a way that was so gentle that it made my heart hurt. “I just want you both to be okay.” 

“We will be. You’ll be right there the whole time.” 

“But I can’t see,” Dean said, his voice breaking into a soft, strained sob. 

I touched his cheek, holding his face, and I closed my own eyes so we would be on equal terms. “You don’t have to be able to see to be there. You aren’t defined by that, Dean. Not to me.” 

“Okay,” he whispered with a nod. “Okay.” 

Ella 

I’ve learned a lot of tricks in the last few months. Some Cas taught me, some Billie, and some I just learned myself. One of the best, though, is the most simple. I like to be invisible. Sometimes I just watched them, my parents. I watch them be together, be in love. Sometimes I’ll just rest my hand on Dad’s shoulder so he can see Mom. The look on his face when he does is always one of complete adoration. It’s kind of like how Claire looks at me. 

I wouldn’t ever admit it to them, but I spent a lot of time back in that bar, the one where they met. I even went back in time once, just to watch them meet. It may not have been obvious to them, but I could tell that they were already spent on each other. Especially Dad. 

I heard their prayers from the hospital like they were right next to me, pressed against my ear. With all of the power in the world I still didn’t know how to fix this. 

I popped into the operating room, everything was sterile, blue. The air was cold and Mom was shivering. Her arms were spread out and strapped down. She sort of looked like Jesus on the cross, and the sight left me sick to my stomach. 

Dad’s hands were shaking as he held her hand. He wore blue gowns, something over his hair, and a mask. He looked alien. I wished someone had taken a photograph. 

They were both behind a curtain that separated Mom’s stomach from the rest of her body. The doctor cut into her, pulled her organs out to expose her uterus, and I felt awful for ever being born. The human body was incredible. 

Mom was crying. I could feel the fear pulsing off of her in a way that was almost palpable, so I broke my own rule and I pressed my hand into hers. Her fingers curled in immediately and her head turned to me. Thank you, she prayed, and I squeezed her hand in response. 

I spent my entire life wanting a relationship with her, and the moment she got back I had to go and die. We were cursed. People always said that, other hunters, angels, demons. You Winchester’s are cursed. I never believed it, but I had started to. We were supposed to be Chuck’s favorites, but maybe there’s something not so good about being God’s favorite after all. 

I just hoped this baby didn’t get the curse. 

“Congratulations Mr. and Mrs. Winchester,” the doctor said as she lifted a wailing baby out of my mother. “You have a son.”

Dean

I have a son.

I couldn’t begin to explain the feeling that washed over me when the words came out of the doctor. Son. I had one already, of course. But things with Jack were always a little complicated. I love him like he’s my own. Something felt different, though. With this baby I felt like I had a fresh start. He didn’t know anything I’ve done. To him I am just his father. I’m not the righteous man. I’m not a dark shadow, murderer, knight of hell, monster. 

I am just me. 

The nurse placed my son in my arms, and I felt how small he was. He was tiny and squirming, and I felt myself cry. I hadn’t loved anything this much since the first time I held Ella. There was nothing like it. 

And in a blink the lights were on. The darkness dissipated, and I knew she was with me. She was giving me a chance to see my son.

I couldn’t look away from him. He looked at me with hazy eyes, his face pink and swollen. His head was perfectly round, like an orange. His tiny fingers flexed for me, pin pricked with dimples. He looked a little like Sam when he was a baby, and I touched his tiny chin. It was the size of my thumb and the sight of it made my heart squeeze. “Ave he’s gorgeous.” I turned so she could see him, and she was crying. She was beautiful, even pale and her hair tucked away inside of a cap. “You’re beautiful,” I whispered quietly to her.

Her face flashed in recognition. “You can see me.”

“I’ve always been able to see you.”

I held our son against my chest, with my daughters hand pressed to my shoulder, and for the first time in my life, we were all together. Everything was perfect. “I don’t need eyes to see you Ava Winchester.” 

She smiled as I laid our son on her chest, near her face. As I leaned down to her and pressed my lips to her forehead everything went dark again, but this time it didn’t scare me. This time I didn’t feel empty, and I was sure that I would never feel empty and afraid again. 

------

A/N: 

I can't believe this day is finally here. I've been dragging my feet really badly, because this series is what made me want to write again. This show has pulled me out of my absolute darkest places, given me a beautiful new group of friends, and a purpose. I think I associated my joys with the show and my feelings toward it with this fic... so what happens when it's over? I'm not afraid of that anymore.  

Now I'm just enjoying a large coffee, and the bittersweet feeling of endings. Please yell at me anytime. I live for it. 

Love you all

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Read part 3 on AO3 here

Tag list:

@deans-baby-momma

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@sonnierae26​

@ricky-666s-blog​

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#WTRCWA #What the rain can't wash away #The look in her eyes #Fanfiction #supernatural #mine #series #dean winchester #dean x ofc #Sam Winchester #Castiel #Claire Novak #Daughter!Winchester #Team Free Dads #C-Section #birth #love #otp #romance #angst #fluff #the end #epilogue #sad #sappy #Dad!Dean #Dad!Sam

[weartirondad]

Let In Light (At Christmas Time) 7/12

FF.net I ao3 I masterpost

Featuring Rhodey ‘cause there’s no Tones without Rhodey, tbqfh

Wednesday, December 19th: buying/ hiding gifts

“Hey Tones, I was wondering when you were planning on picking up –“

Rhodey breaks off and stops walking halfway through stepping into his best friend’s sanctum and workshop. His feet is hovering over the floor, leg braces whirring softly at the oddly timed halt.

“What the fuck,” he whispers softly when he can’t see past the first few meters of the lab because of the mess it is in and finally sets his foot down. “What the hell, Tony?”

And, James Rhodes knows messy. He’s known Tony for decades now and he’s familiar with the special kind of Tony Stark messes, but this? This is something else. What he is looking at right now puts messiness on a whole new level. Hell, it probably redefines the meaning of the word.

“Over here, honey bear!”

His best friend’s voice comes from the far end of the room, hidden behind various long pipes and piles of what looks like junk to a regular bystander and – is that glowing paint?

“Would you mind shutting the door and F.R.I.D.A.Y. put us into stealth mode again, please?”

Rhodey feels like an idiot but he can’t help staring at the messy shock of dark hair that’s peeking out from somewhere behind the – debris? That’s really the only word he can think of for this. “Stealth mode? What the fuck is going on here, Tony? Are you trying to blow yourself up again?”

“Language, platypus.”

He blinks. Then rubs his hand over his face in exhaustion because – what in the hell is he supposed to make of that? Has Tony been freaky-fridayed without telling anyone? (He probably shouldn’t be considering the option quite as seriously as he currently is.)

“Can you please come out of your cave and enlighten me what’s going on here?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he hears him mutter and shuffle through his materials, “give me a second. What are you here for anyway? Did you see the Christmas tree we put up? Pretty cool, right?”

That – that just stops him dead in his tracks for good like the final straw of sanity he has managed to hold on to through years of dealing with the man.

It’s not that putting up a Christmas tree is weird or unheard of. Just – that it kind of is.

In the all the years Rhodey has known Tony for, he has never been this excited about Christmas. Hell, he has never been excited about Christmas. Period.

When his parents were still alive, he used to hate all the public functions they would have to attend with Howard and not even his mum and Jarvis could really make up for how much Tony despised being put in the spotlights, especially during a time that was supposed to be quiet and peaceful. Christmas used to stress him out in his teenage years, would make him so anxious that he tried to hang out with Rhodey and his family whenever his father would allow.

Then came The Time After The Accident.

He’s not sure Tony has much recollection of the Christmas in 1991 but Rhodey does and it’s done enough of an impression on him to never let his best friend alone over Christmas again.

It didn’t matter whether there was a SI thing going on, some party or board meeting or whatever the heck could come up – Rhodey was either there with Tony or Tony wasn’t allowed to go at all.

For years he tried to hold on that much tighter around Christmas to not let him slip through his fingers again. He never wanted to see him that broken, that lost, that horribly gone ever again.

It got easier when Pepper came into the picture, especially when they started dating, but there’s still a big part of Rhodey that goes on high alert as soon as the holidays roll around. The unease to let Tony go on his merry way never really left and albeit he knows that the man is in a much better place now than he was before, he can’t help but worry.

It’s instinctual, so deeply ingrained that it has become second nature to him.

That usually means checking up every other day and this year that has mostly been limited to calls. Apparently, though, someone else has been looking after his friend and he has a pretty good guess that someone is also the one behind the whole Christmas Tree Miracle.

“You put up a Christmas tree?” he asks him when Tony has dug himself out of his own mess, oil-stained towel tucked into the back pocket of his jeans, Black-Sabbath- shirt hitched up to his elbows and a huge dorky grin on his face.

For a brief moment Rhodey wonders who that person is and what he has done with his best friend. Never, in a million years, would he have thought the man would smile so close to the 16th like he is now. It makes an anxious part of his heart settle for the first time in literal decades.

“We did,” the disaster on legs in front of him confirms, plopping down on the couch and motioning for Rhodey to join him which he does without hesitation, albeit more slowly. “Peter and I picked it up yesterday and, you know how much I hate patting myself on the back, but I think we did a pretty fantastic job. You should take a look before you head out again.”

The other man lets out a laugh, leaning back into the soft pillows and he slowly relaxes into the conversation. “I can’t even begin to imagine how much it must’ve hurt you to make that statement,” he jokes, “But what on earth have you been doing back there?”

“Uh,” Tony rubs his ear, smearing some of the dirt still on his hands into his temple and he looks downright sheepish. “Well, I’ve been working on Christmas presents. For Peter mostly,” he adds as if there has been any doubt in Rhodey’s mind about that at all.

“I have no clue what to get him, Rhodey,” he whines when he’s only met with a chuckle, “I’ve been working on a smart watch with panic button, integrated A.I. and all that jazz and I’ve been thinking about a car, obviously, or maybe upgrades for his suit? But he’s getting those anyway! Or what about –“

“Tony, Tones,” Rhodey breaks off his rambling, “Breathe, alright? Just. Breathe.”

Of course he doesn’t listen. When has Tony Stark ever been able to listen to anyone?

“The thing is – I’d be giving him this stuff anyway! He’s just – What am I supposed to get him that is special? I’m awful at this.”

“I honestly think you’re overthinking this,” he tells him quietly, hand coming out to rest on Tony’s knee to make him look at him and to ground him before he hyperventilates. “You know Peter and you know he doesn’t really want any of that –“ He shushes him with a raise of his hand before he can argue, “Of course he’d be over the moon if you got him any of that stuff but think about something that would make him really happy, Tony. He likes your tech good enough but do you know what he really loves?”

God bless this mess of a human being who just gives a halfhearted clueless shrug.

“You, Tony. That kid adores you and if you want my advice, I’d say get him something personal, something only you will ever be able to give him. No matter how small it might be, it’s going to be the biggest fucking gesture you can make. It’s going to mean the world to him.”

“Language.”

Rhodey laughs at him but Tony’s not even in the same room with him anymore. He’s jumped up and has started bustling about the room, pulling out papers and blue prints and sending them flying to the floor again, all the while muttering to himself like a maniac.

“Will you be okay?”

“What? Yeah, yeah, I’m good. Thanks a lot. Oh and don’t forget to look at that tree! Gotta get back to work! Love you, bye!”

He leaves him to his work after that, still reveling in the fact that his best friend seems fine. Genuinely, legitimately fine.  

For the first time in years he doesn’t have a lump in his throat when he’s leaving him to his own devices because he’s working on something fundamentally good, a Christmas present for his sort-of-son. He’s not biding his time until the next panic attack hits or riding out his anxiety by coming up with new blueprints for some fancy new tech. It’s a long way from where he’s been. It’s progress.

Making his way upstairs to the penthouse Rhodey briefly considers warning Pepper about the changes in her fiancé but ultimately thinks better of it, a little smile tugging on his lips when he tries to imagine the baffled look in her eyes when she realizes what a sap he has become over the week she’s been making deals on the other side of the Earth.

Although, come to think of it, Pepper probably knows already. She’s ridiculously intuitive in handling Tony and foreseeing his mood swings, it’s downright scary sometimes. She’s truly a –

“Woah.”

Yet again his train of thoughts gets interrupted and he’s left speechless at the sight of the huge ass Christmas tree that’s shining with what looks like at least a thousand fairy lights, topped off with tinsel and a finishing touch of wooden hangers.

It’s not just the tree, though, the whole living room has been turned into the epitome of Christmas. There are glowing stars and corny stockings, an expensive-looking wooden pyramid turning ever so slowly and a nutcracker next to a bowl of walnuts and mandarins and candles, so many candles in all sizes, colors and forms.

Most importantly, though, and almost a part of the scene is the teenager crouched down in front of it, looking completely at home right where he is, albeit a little jittery with a neatly wrapped parcel in his arms.

He’s about to make his presence known when the boy turns around with a small wave of his hand.

Right, enhanced teenage superhero, he forgets that sometimes.

“What are you up to?” Rhodey asks him closing the distance until he’s standing beside him and then, because it feels weird to just tower over the much smaller kid, goes to take a seat next to him – carefully situating himself, mindful of his legs.

When he hears the soft whirring of the prosthetics, Peter scrambles to help him adjust, almost dropping the present he has been holding onto in the process. Only when the older man is comfortable, does he answer.

He looks sheepish, mirroring Tony’s expression from just minutes earlier to a tee.

“I, uh, I wanted to be the first one to put a present underneath the tree. And, uh, I,” he meets his eyes conspirationally, “I think Mister Stark is already working on his gift and, uh, it’s probably going to be something super fancy and if I get more time to think about it I’ll probably just throw it away because I’ll realize that it can never be good enough but right now I still feel pretty good about it, so basically I’m forcing myself not to back out by already putting it here where everyone can see it.”

To Rhodey’s delight he takes in a deep breath after finishing, seeing as he has completely forgotten to stock up on air while talking. Really, he gets why Tony loves this kid so much. They’re basically the same person.

“That sounds like a good plan,” he tells him, “And I’m sure Tony’s going to love it.” He loves you, kid. He really does. I hope it tells you that, too.

Peter smiles a little at that, fingers drumming on the package in an irregular pattern, “I think so, too. At least, I hope so. Anyway, what are you doing here, Mister Rhodes? Do you need anything?”

“I went to check up on Tony and when he mentioned a Christmas tree I just had to see it for myself,” he tells him with a grin and points to the huge thing with his thumb, “Gotta say I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

“It’s amazing,” the teenager agrees, smile spreading until his whole face is alight with joy and his eyes sparkle with the Christmas lights they’re reflecting.

“Also,” Rhodey adds because suddenly he feels like he needs to say this at least once and who knows when he’ll next meet the kid without his hovering mentor. “I wanted to thank you.”

Peter frowns, genuine confusion evident in his eyes. “What for?”

“Just,” the older man sighs and meets his gaze, trying to convey how much he means his next words with his eyes alone, “Just for being you and for being here. I have never seen Tony this happy on Christmas and you’re a big part of the reason why. So, thank you for giving him something to celebrate this year.”

As if just realizing what a major role he’s playing in his mentor’s life Peter’s expression morphs from surprise to determination. Rhodey watches in awe how he shoulders the responsibility that comes with it without missing a beat and straightens his posture, truly looking like the superhero he is and a lot more mature than most adults he knows.

“Mister Stark deserves happiness, especially on Christmas,” he declares seriously, “It’s the least I can do, after,” he waves his hand in the air, “after everything he did for me.”

“Still, thank you,” Rhodey repeats earnestly, gratefully and then, because this is getting too serious for such a joyous occasion asks, “So. What did you get him?”

Peter’s eyes go wide in excitement. “But you have to swear not to tell anyone.”

What do you think Peter’s getting Tony? And what is Tony going to end up making for his kid? I’d love to hear your thoughts!

#12fluffydaysofchristmas2018 #12fluffydaysofchristmas #irondad #iron dad #irondad fic #iron dad fic #peter parker #tony stark #james rhodes #josis fic #let in light (at christmas time) #christmas #fluff #christmas fluff

[cbk1000]

Of course, of COURSE, because every single FUCKING part of this goddamned process has to be fucked, there are more issues with the house.

First up: we have contracts for easements on two different properties that need to be signed by the homeowners in order for us to run our lines. We will not be trenching on their property or anything, the lines overhead will cross a small part of their property, so even though it’s only airspace, you still have to get an easement. And you have to have it notarised. Luckily, the office manager for Mr. Jenn’s company is a notary, and he volunteered to come out to the homes because we figure that makes it much easier on the homeowners and makes them more willing to sign. Mr. Jenn went out yesterday to figure out who owned the properties we’ll be crossing (we had parcel numbers and a general idea of which houses owned them, but he had to go knock on a couple of doors) and figure out which time would be most convenient for him to come by with the notary. The one couple was really nice, chatted with Mr. Jenn for a while, told him it was no problem and that they’d sign...but of course nothing goes that smoothly for us. The same guy he talked to knew who owned the other property, and told Mr. Jenn that unfortunately she doesn’t live out there; it’s undeveloped property. And the last time he talked to her was a few years ago, and he has no idea how to get in touch with her. Also, he didn’t know for sure if this was true, but he’d heard that she had terminal cancer, so she might not even be alive. The county assessor’s site has tax info and the name of the owner (which we already have), but no contact info. Mr. Jenn talked to some electricians today who have had to deal with easement issues before, and he explained the issue to them, and they basically said you’re fucked; the only way to get her contact info would be to open up the phone book. So we’re probably going to have to get a whole new estimate done because they’ll need to use a different route, and that will cost more because likely they’ll have to put up a third pole, instead of the additional two. This, of course, pisses me off because the amount we allotted on the loan for power was based on their original estimates, and the final estimate they gave us was actually lower than the amount on the loan. So now who the fuck knows how much it’s going to be.

Second: now the manufactured home company we purchased our house through is telling us we owe $1200 more. When you pick a house, you decide on any upgrades you want to make (they do a lot of customization), pick your paint, countertops, and floors, etc. etc., and then everything is added up, tax included, and they get a final number. Everything is broken down, and the sales rep writes the charges for each item on this form, not us. This is the purchase agreement. Everyone signs off on it: buyers and sales rep. I am almost positive the sales rep said his manager had to approve it as well, but this was over a year ago. Let me repeat that: OVER A FUCKING YEAR AGO, we all signed off on an agreement regarding how much we would pay for the house. This was the amount put on the loan, because it was the price we had been told FOR A YEAR. And now they’re saying, oops, we miscalculated, that’ll be an extra $1200. The main contention is that the sales rep originally said we got credit for the carpet and pads, because we decided to do linoleum throughout the entire house, except...for some reason we don’t actually get credit for the carpet and padding. A. Shouldn’t you know that? It’s your job to know that; we don’t know your fucking cost breakdown. B. Why WOULDN’T we get credit for the carpet that we didn’t put in our house? Carpet is automatically what is put down, unless you choose otherwise, so my understanding is that it’s folded into the cost of the house, and that’s why you get credited for it if you take it out. He also said (I should note here that Mr. Jenn was the one who went down to the company to talk to him, so I didn’t hear any of this firsthand) that it’s an extra charge to put linoleum throughout the entire house, which is what we did, so supposedly that’s part of the extra cost. But again: all those changes/upgrades are noted on the original purchase order. 

Regardless of whether they legitimately fucked up or not on credits they weren’t supposed to subtract, it is my (admittedly shaky) understanding that a purchase order is a legally binding document. Otherwise, what is the point of having us all sign off on it? All parties agreed on a certain price: that is what a purchase order is for. So that we the buyer can’t go back on it, and so the seller can’t pull a number out of their ass. I don’t see how it is legal for them to request more money from us. You don’t buy a car for a certain price, and then a year into your payments, the car lot comes back to say, “Hey, actually we miscalculated; pay us another grand.”

Does this sound like bullshit to anyone else?

#personal #$1200 in the grand scheme of things #when you're building a house #is not that much #but it's $1200 we need to apply to other things #like piping into the fucking well #also #that $1200 would have been put onto the loan if they had given us the correct amount from the beginning #not paid out of pocket #so i feel like we're getting kind of ripped off here

[heartofsnark]

NSFW Alphabet: Ota

Note: It is here, the final one for the bidders. (Or at least until I manage to play Luke, Shuichi, and Hikaru’s routes/ also figure out how to write Rhion). Ota is the only one who didn’t get a sex injury for his dirty secret, so good for him. As I said before, Ota along with Eisuke are the two I feel the least confident about in terms of writing. But, everyone who commented on my Eisuke said it felt in character. So, fingers crossed I did okay here too. If not, sorry...

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

He’s domming most of the time, though not always, so he pretty much just goes right into taking care of MC after sex, its’ borderline instinctual. Cleaning them up a bit, looking over any marks he left, etc. He doesn’t even asks just jumps to it, “It’s a master’s job to take care of his pet,” he’ll tease. Truth is he likes tending to his MC and it makes him feel just as good as it does them. Once he’s done, he’ll want some serious cuddles. He’s a pretty soft cuddle bug post orgasm, though if you point it out he’ll pout.

B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

His hands are his favorite on him, mostly because as an artist they’re very important to him. He’s kind of protective of them at times, sometimes he uses it as a cop out to get out of doing things, but he does generally worry about damaging them. Plus, he uses them to give his Koro pets and love, also extremely important.

On his partner, their ass. Don’t get him wrong, his MC is adorable all over, but his hands tend to gravitate towards her  ass the most. It’s also easier to touch and tease his partner’s ass in public without being noticed. He likes rubbing and giving small grabs to their backside to tease them throughout the day, each time acting like he’s not doing anything.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)

During blowjobs he likes pulling out right as he’s about to cum and shooting his load into their open mouth, it’s messier but he loves it. He likes seeing his MC swallow, but he wants to see his cum landing on their tongue and lips. It’s not quite a facial, he’s aiming for the mouth, though he’s not opposed to giving facials either. He likes calling his dick and cum a treat, seeing his MC eagerly swallowing it down in front of him. He also likes cumming on MC, it feels more claiming to him, like he’s leaving them ruined for him. Watching them swallow and cumming on their ass is his favorites.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

During the period of time between Doi stealing his art and joining the auctions; he had a brief worry about income. He was discredited from the world of fine art and had yet to rebuild himself as the “Angelic Artist” or start getting money from the auctions. So, he created an online account that couldn’t be linked to him and started doing commissions. He’s done a lot of furry and fetish art for people. It meant he could keep making art and supplement his income if needed. There is someone out there with a picture of their fursona jerking off and they have no idea it was done by the Angelic Artist.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

He’s never had a serious long term relationship, but he has had a fair amount of one night stands. Before he gets with MC, he tended to be get bored really easy and never really bothered with anything more than having some fun with people. So, he has a fair amount of experience in terms of sex, he knows how to tease and play with partner.

F = Favourite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual)

He likes doggy style, c’mon, you knew this was coming. It might be memey or predictable, cause of his Koro stuff. But, he legitimately likes doggy style positions. He struggles with vulnerability even when he’s with MC and usually tries to hide his face when he’s particularly overwhelmed with feelings, so he likes she can’t really see his face and see how much he’s enjoying himself. He likes being in charge most of the time and he likes his MC’s ass. He’ll also likes draping himself over his partner’s back in that position when he wants more skin on skin contact.

Doggy (duh): http://sexpositions.club/positions/140.html

Plain: http://sexpositions.club/positions/131.html  

Concubine: http://sexpositions.club/positions/236.html

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

He likes playful teasing of his partner, but his focus is to make them blush; not to make them laugh. He wants sex to be fun but not funny, if that makes sense. He wants to make his partner feel good and loved, he also tends to be more insecure than he likes to let on. If he feels like he’s being laughed at or mocked, he’ll probably get upset. Though once his partner apologizes and explains they weren’t being cruel, which to some extent he already knew, he’ll just use it as an excuse to “punish” his dear Koro

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

I personally like the headcanon of him bleaching his hair, I think maidofstars was the person I saw who came up with it. Both of his parents have darker brown hair and he does have that brassy strawberry blonde you get when you bleach dark hair and don’t use any toner. I also, don’t think he has a lot of body hair. Voltage generally tends to make all the men look like they have no body hair in their cgs (which doesn’t always suit the character), but I honestly don’t think Ota grows much body hair. A fact he’s fine with. So, his pubic hair is a small slightly thin patch of darker brown hair. It doesn’t require much upkeep.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

Unless something has happened to make Ota feel like him or his partner really need that during sex, he prefers for it to be more dirty and fun. He’d rather show his romantic love through subtle actions in day to day life, he likes sex to be more about just enjoying themselves and the fact he loves them should just be known.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

Doesn’t masturbate much, before he got with his partner, he had casual sex whenever he really needed to get off. Now that he’s with them, he still doesn’t masturbate much. Once in a while, but nothing major. Usually when they’re apart, it’s because he’s working on some artwork. He gets very into his work, so he’s not too concerned about his dick when he’s caught up in his art. If his partner is at work and he starts to feel turned on is, he’d rather go tease them or see if he can get them to take a break than jerk off. He has a few videos bookmarked in a hidden folder on his computer.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Petplay is going to be a big one for Ota and everyone knew this was coming. He likes treating his significant other like a puppy. He’d be completely into them wearing a collar, ears, and a buttplug tail. If they do it without prompting, like he just comes home to them running around as a puppy, it will make him a little weak in the knees. 

Grooming/Taking Care of his partner’s appearance, this might be a little to do with his petplay kink, but he loves grooming his partner. Brushing and blow-drying their hair or cleaning them in the bathtub. He’ll never admit it, but he likes when they return the favor too, remember when he played pet for an epilogue. In the same fine, he finds something very weirdly arousing/intimate about doing MC makeup and hair, he just loves it. 

Assplay, I don’t why I just headcanon him as really liking his MC’s ass. If they’re into it, he wants to finger, eat out, and use toys on their ass. Ota eats ass and no one can tell me otherwise. I don’t know why this is stuck in my brainbox, it just is. 

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)

The bathroom is a favorite, he really likes bathing with his MC and cleaning each other. So, once they’re both naked and wet, it’s fun to play. His other favorite would be in his art studio, where he and MC first had sex.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

Seeing his partner embarrassed and flustered, he thinks it’s so cute and endears them to him. He likes teasing them and their reactions just make him want to keep going. 

Cuddling, he almost has a kink for cuddling, there’s just something so nice about his partner wanting to snuggle into him. Then he feels their body nice and close, so his hands start to wander. 

When he sketches and paints his partner, it almost happens naturally sometimes when his mind wanders while doing art. It catches him off guard that he just unconsciously creates images of them, it makes him want to go find them and get closer to the real thing.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Super dangerous and/or painful kinks are out as well as the grosser ones, He might act and talk like he’s a sadist, but he doesn’t like seeing his partner in pain. He’s not into the really heavy forms of petplay, likes once you start getting into the rubber muzzles or fursuits, he’s out.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

He loves getting his dick sucked. He likes giving head too, but watching MC suck him off is irresistible. He does like playing up the pet and the master thing. So, sloppy face fucks are a favorite of his. He likes telling his Koro to come get their treat; his diiiiick. I’m sorry.

P = Pace (Are they fats and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

Unpredictable. He likes keeping his partner on their toes and driving them crazy, so he doesn’t keep his pace too consistent. Slow and sensual, then suddenly he’s pounding brutally just to slow down before they can hit their climax. Maybe he’ll let them cum next time, maybe not. Such a tease.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

He’s always teasing and working up his partner when they’re going about their day. So, it’s not uncommon for them to have to get to his suite because he drove them crazy. He loves when he can get his partner’s mind off work and have a quickie. If his partner wants to come by his studio and give him some “inspiration” real quick, he’s not going to turn them down.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

He loves playing with his partner in public, he doesn’t really want to deal with any repercussions if they get caught, but his Koro’s reactions are too cute for him to resist. Remember, in the butler café substory he basically tried to shove his hand down MC’s underwear in the middle of the café. He gives very few fucks. In terms of experimenting, he likes bringing different things up to try. He likes finding out what his partner might like. If they mention something, he’ll probably tease them and act disinterested, but they’re definitely trying it unless it’s a hard no for him.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

Despite having a fair amount of experience, Ota is still pretty young. So, I imagine he’s a case of not lasting particularly long but having next to no refractory time. He’s probably about average give or take on how long it takes him to cum, but he can easily cum four times before he needs a real break. Even then his break won’t be long. Benefits of being young.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

He starts to amass a small collection of toys once he’s with his MC. He likes teasing his partner with vibes, toys for assplay are also pretty common. Even if they’re not doing the pet play, he likes them having a princess plug or something in. He likes making them feel completely full when they have sex.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Biggest tease to ever tease. He loves finding them during work and just feeling them up in whatever way he can, then walking away like he didn’t do anything. Making them find him once they get desperate enough. He also likes edging them and slight orgasm denial.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

He’s slightly embarrassed about making noises during sex, but he’s definitely a bit noisy. He usually tries to dirty talk to cover it, but he makes a lot of soft gasping type noise, says ‘fuck’ a lot. And sometimes, when it’s more romantic and intimate, he can make noises that sound almost like soft little whines and whimpers. He’ll deny it though.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

He’s definitely into remote control vibrators in his partner that he randomly plays with. He likes having as much of his partner’s attention as possible. So, if he can from a distance still be able to steal their attention and tease them, it turns him on. He also likes doing it while they’re in the penthouse lounge and watching them try to work, seeing them frustrated is just too entertaining.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

His cock is kind of pretty, if a dick can in fact be pretty. It’s not super long or thick. Around 6-6.5 inches, straight with just a very slight upward tilt. The girth is proportional with the length, not overly thick, but not thin. No super noticeable veins and a rounded head.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

High sex drive, he's young and constantly ready to have sex. The only times hes not really into he’s really not into sex is if him and his partner are fighting, he’ hyperfocused on an art piece, or in the mornings. He’s not a morning guy and tends to feel grumpy when he first wakes up.

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He usually gives some form of after care, so he stays awake for that. But, once he’s officially done for the night, he only stays up for a while longer for conscious cuddling. Though they cuddle in their sleep too, but he likes to be awake for a bit to fully enjoy it, then he drifts off.

#kissed by the baddest bidder #kbtbb #ota kisaki #kbtbb ota #kisaki ota

[returnsandreturns]

fuuuuck it, i’m ahead of schedule, here’s the first chapter if you want to read it:

Laurel calls Andy while he’s on his break, sitting in the cold outside the hotel wrapped in his coat and a highlighter yellow scarf he pulled from the lost and found. She huffs out a laugh in his ear when he immediately asks, suspiciously, “Why are you using your phone like a phone? Did someone die?”

“Our radiator,” she says, darkly. “Again.”

“. . .is it survivable?” he asks. “I’m willing to sleep in all of my clothes again.”

“It must have gone out after we left this morning, because I can see my actual breath,” she says. It sounds like she’s already packing, because Laurel has a girlfriend, which means she won’t freeze to death on the streets. “I’d advise abandoning ship for the night.”

There’s nothing like needing a place to emergency crash to remind you that you really only have one friend who cares about your limbs not getting frostbitten and are otherwise alone in this godforsaken world.

“You’re headed to Stef’s?” he asks.  

“Yes, and I’d invite you along, but there’s barely room for two people as it is,” she says. Stef’s studio is approximately the size of two refrigerator boxes. He could maybe curl up on the floor in a bundle of blankets like a cat, but he has dignity. Maybe. He wonders briefly if they’d let him curl up on the floor in a bundle of blankets like a cat, but then he realizes that they’re probably going to want to do stuff he can’t be present for.

“Plus, you’re going to get laid,” he says, sadly, which is when he is suddenly struck with a plan that he should probably be ashamed of. It’s not necessarily a bad one, though. And. . .well, he could get laid. “How morally reprehensible would it be for me to try to get a shady bar hookup to have somewhere warm to sleep tonight?”

Laurel makes a soft noise like she’s honestly contemplating it. Andy can practically see the fact that she’s making. She’s probably actually rubbing her chin.

“Can we really be judged for the things that we do to survive?” she asks, solemnly.

“I’m not sure. It feels a little like I’m. . .what’s her name, in Les Miserables,” he says, grasping for the character’s name from a novel he only skimmed for one of his classes. “Anne Hathaway. You know, like I’m going to shave my head and sell my body to sailors.”  

“It’ll be good material for your novel,” she says, just dry enough that Andy frowns at nothing, like he’s judging the middle distance. It earns him a glare from a passerby, but that’s what she gets for making eye contact.

“Leave my child out of this,” he says.

His novel is six thousand words and five hundred of them are in Google translated Russian. He wrote most of it while drunk, because he knows that Hemingway was a misogynistic asshole but drinking whiskey and aggressively typing on his duct-taped laptop just feels really romantic.

He hasn’t shared this sentiment because if he used the word Hemingway-esque in front of Laurel, she would probably beat him to death with whatever blunt object was closest. Also, whiskey’s gross, so it was kind of actually boxed wine. Definitely actually boxed wine. Which is probably more Nora Ephron-esque? But he’d rather not think about that.

She laughs.

“I support your sexy survival tactics,” she says, more earnestly. “Plus, it’s been awhile and I think it’d be good for you to experience some human touch. Just make sure you don’t get serial murdered, because I really can’t afford the rent without you.”

“Any of us could be serial murdered at any time,” he says, “but I’ll make sure not to go home with any overly charming white guys.”

“A good rule of thumb,” she says. There’s the distinct sound of her zipping up her half-dead Jansport, covered in streaks of paint and carefully sewn on patches, and slinging it over her shoulders. “Text me before you go to sleep so I know your lifeless corpse isn’t hanging from a meat hook somewhere.”

“We really need to stop watching true crime shows,” he says, faintly. “Have fun banging your girlfriend.”

“I always do.”

When he hangs up, he leans back against the building and tips his head back so it hits the concrete. The sky is grey and it’s starting to snow again, flakes barely grazing his skin before they melt. He briefly misses smoking, which he took up in high school because smoking makes you look cool and he needed a little push in that direction to survive while being noticeably not straight, but it mostly made him smell bad and cough a lot.  

This is the kind of time that he misses it, though. Say what you will about dying from lung cancer, but slowly smoking a cigarette in a borderline sexual way and watching the smoke swirl up into the snow really sets a scene.

Andy’s got three hours left on his front desk shift and then he’ll see if anybody’s interested in buying what he’s selling. He just needs to eat a protein bar and make himself look like he’s willing and ready to go before he engages in some completely legitimate sexual hijinks that will probably not end with him chopped in seven pieces distributed in dumpsters all across the city.

If he had a cigarette right now, he’d drop it to the sidewalk and crush it under his foot with a look of quiet but intense determination.

Instead, he takes a deep breath, takes a bold step forward, and immediately slips on a patch of ice in front of him.

Good start.

*

The hallway is subarctic when Andy gets inside. He’s surprised his key doesn’t shatter in the lock, but it opens like it normally does, with three aggressive shakes, one well-timed push and a quick prayer to a vengeful god.

The apartment is whatever is colder than subarctic. He’s not great with politics, but he’s pretty sure that Laurel would say something like colder than a Republican controlled congress’ heart. Regardless, fucking cold.

After he steals one of her Luna bars, he turns to see three hot pink post-its stuck to their radio that say, in Laurel’s barely legible scrawl: help me / oh god please / i am dying. He’s honestly surprised that it’s not in the form of a haiku.

He wishes that she was here, because she’s always good at dressing him up to look like a functioning human that somebody might want to spend time with. Since they met at NYU, they’ve done about fifty 80s makeover montages and about thirty have been successful. For now, though, he searches through the clothes that are hanging from the pipe that traverses his closet-sized room until he finds a dark blue t-shirt that he wore the last time he hooked up.

(It was sometime in the spring, after a party he didn’t really want to be at. The guy had an ironic mustache and insisted on playing death metal while they fucked, but he left Andy with some fond memories of his dick that he could revisit in his free time.)

It takes him fifteen minutes of both searching and comparison to find the tightest jeans that he owns—they’re probably a size too small and he’s maybe had them since he was an actual teenager, but a quick turn in front of the mirror confirms that his ass looks, at the very least, pretty decent.

He thinks about packing a bag before realizing that nobody’s going to look at the guy lugging a duffel bag around and think anything other than Unabomber, so he leaves the frozen wasteland behind with a phone, a charger, a wallet, and his will to survive.

*

Andy just needs two shots to ease this process, but the bartender is focused on the line of obnoxiously attractive men that are blocking the bar. They’re also tall. His life would be so much easier if he was tall.

He’s literally waving, shoving his way in to lean against the bar and try to make eye contact, when he feels someone step up behind him. He turns enough to see one of the obnoxiously attractive men, who smiles down at him before vaguely gesturing with his wrist and magically summoning the bartender.

“. . .how?” Andy asks, then turns around to point at the bartender. “Two tequila shots.”

He should probably offer Hot Wizard Guy one of the shots, but he’ll never see him again and he’s got a bigger purpose to fulfill. He shoots them both as soon as they’re in front of him and groans before turning around to eye him.

“What’s it like to have a face like that?” he asks.

Hot Wizard Guy grins, says, almost shyly, “Helpful, sometimes. I—I’m James.”

“Andy,” Andy says, taking the offered hand, big and warm and very compelling. “Has anyone ever told you that you look like Usher if he taught comparative philosophy at a small New England private college?”

James looks shocked momentarily before he laughs.

“No, actually,” he says. “Is that a good thing?”

“Is that—seriously? Yes, it’s a good thing,” Andy says, taking a moment to get a good look at his face, which is—wow—before he continues, “Anyway, James, thank you so much for your help but you’re way too hot and nobody’s going to hit on me if you’re talking to me.”

“Oh, uhm—I was hitting on you?” James says, smiling uncomfortably, shifting on his feet. “Or trying, at least. I haven’t done this in a while.”  

Andy stares at him for slightly too long, trying to figure out if he’s joking, then interrupts him when his face goes kind of sad and he tries to apologize by grabbing his arm and saying, “That is a plot twist, dude. Is your apartment warm?”

“. . .yeah, I think so,” James says, sounding pleasantly confused. His smile is ridiculous. Andy’s got to get him out of here before someone poaches him, and he’s willing to be kind of a slut to make that happen.

“Let’s go,” he says, taking his hand.

“Wait, right now?”

“No time like the present,” Andy says, brightly, probably bordering on desperate but he never quite warmed up even surrounded by sweaty dancing bodies. He did half-jog here without a coat, though, because looking like a bright red marshmallow isn’t the sexiest foot forward he could take.

James takes a moment before he finishes the beer in his other hand and sits it on the bar, squeezing Andy’s hand and smiling again. God, the smile.

“Works for me,” he says.

* 

“Favorite Star Trek,” Andy says. James never let go of his hand, which is cute and--so is he. Handsome when they were all pressed up together in the dark, blue lights on his skin, but outside in the snow he mother hens about Andy not wearing a jacket and makes dumb jokes and is completely awful at flirting.

“Star Wars,” James says.

“Oh, shit, I can’t sleep with you now,” Andy says, starting to pull away, and James snorts and pulls him even closer.

“You don’t like Star Wars?”

He gets an arm around Andy’s shoulder and Andy leans into it, resisting the urge to throw his arms around him and absorb his body heat for himself, and says, “I’m fine with a Star War. I’m willing to take sides, though, if it comes down to a fight.”

“I don’t care enough to fight you over it, so I’ll concede,” James says. “Are you into sports?”

“Please no,” Andy says, immediately, and James laughs.

“Got it,” he says, warmly. “Picked last for baseball?”

“Avoided baseball by hiding under the bleachers.”

“So you were a delinquent,” James says, sounding amused. It’s not too far off; he was more of a weirdo, slightly too gay and slightly too manic to be an acceptable member of the general teenage culture. That kind of existence lends itself well to minor acts of delinquency, though.

“And you were a. . .jock?” Andy guesses, not entirely sure.

“Speech and debate,” James says, with a lot of dignity.

“You were a nerd,” Andy says, delightedly, nudging him enough that they both sway a little towards the side. “I bet you care more about Star Wars than you’re willing to admit.”

“Well. . .” James says.

“I bet you like sports because of the statistics.”

“Yeah, okay, you’ve got my number,” James says, sounding the slightest bit embarrassed but mostly like he’s charmed, which means Andy’s playing this right. It isn’t hard, really. He actually likes him. They fit together nicely, and his laugh kind of does dumb things to Andy’s heart. It’s almost too bad that it’s just for the night.

They talk through the ten blocks to his apartment, and Andy’s trying to guess what James’ job is as they stop on the stoop.

“. . .underwear model,” he says, finally.  

“Close,” James says, smiling. “I’m a lawyer.”

“Oh!” Andy says. “Cool. I was almost a lawyer.”

“Almost?”

“I got through one semester and had what I think qualifies as an existential breakdown,” he elaborates, figuring if it’s just one night, he may as well share some embarrassing personal anecdotes. As long as he doesn’t mention how many bathrooms he cried in that year. “Now I’m in hospitality, because I need money to buy food and survive.”

“You know, existential breakdown aside, you might’ve been a good lawyer,” James says, in a tone like he’s about to say something that’s going to make Andy really happy. His head’s tipped to the side and his face is kind of goofy and Andy wants to kiss it.

“Oh, yeah?” he asks.

“Well, you’re pretty damn charming,” James says, and Andy feels like he’s actually warm all of a sudden, grinning hard before he rocks up on his toes to kiss him. It’s cautious and sweet and slow, like one of them just walked the other home after they split a milkshake and held hands under the table.

When Andy moves back, he almost falls backwards off the step, and James catches him effortlessly and pulls him into another kiss that’s less sock hop and more foreplay. They should get out of the cold. They should get out of the cold and they should get out of view of the general public, because Andy wants to undress him and see everything.

“Take me upstairs,” he says, before leaning into one more kiss.

“Okay,” James breathes, against his mouth.

On the stairs, two flights into four, Andy asks, “What kind of lawyer are you, by the way?”

“Public defender,” James says. “The—poor kind, basically.”

“Oh, that’s honorable,” Andy says, humming softly. “I was going to say that if you’re one of the wealthy corrupt ones, I might work a little harder at whatever happens tonight. I’ve got, like, a lot of student loans.”

James laughs, almost too loud, echoing up the stairwell.

“Yeah, I’m fully anticipating dying before I pay all my debt,” he says. “Sorry.”

“It’s cool,” Andy says, happily. “I’ll give it 90%, at least.”

As soon as they get inside, James backs him up against the door to kiss him again, intently, hands sliding into Andy’s hair and gripping it lightly. Andy pushes back against him just to feel him push, too, grinding together. They’re wearing too much clothing. Andy’s brain is already operating on a base level, but he knows that one single fact.

“Bedroom,” he says, firmly.

“Bedroom,” James echoes.

They don’t untangle themselves as they try to walk, kissing their way into the next room, knocking against the door frame before they stumble inside. There’s a moment of still, heart-beating hesitation, standing close, James’ big hands clutching lightly at his waist, before Andy realizes that he’s going to have to make the first move. He presses one firm kiss to his mouth before he drops to his knees.

James looks startled.

“You good?” Andy asks, looking up to see his face go through about five emotions before it softens and he nods.

“I’m great,” he says, dropping a hand to run it through Andy’s hair, which--yeah, that’s nice. He leans up to press a kiss to his erection through his jeans and short cut nails skim lightly over his scalp. If humans could purr, he’d probably be doing it.

“If I could unzip your pants with my teeth, I would,” Andy says, genuinely, already breathless and losing his cool and they’re both still completely clothed, “but I know my limitations.”

“Let me,” James says, amused, and Andy bites back a sad noise when he lets go of his hair but watches with interest as James deftly undoes his fly in front of him and unzips his jeans enough to push them and his boxers down.

“Oh, wow, good job,” Andy breathes, which is nonsense, but James’ dick is--it’s nice.

“Thanks?” James says.

“So welcome. Take your shirt off,” Andy says, and he muffles whatever over-enthusiastic thing he was about to say at the sight of James’ abs—because holy shit—by curling a hand around his hip and pushing up on his knees to take him in his mouth.

James looks overwhelmed for a while, and Andy wonders how long it’s been since he’s been with somebody until he decides to chase that look and see how out of control he can make him. He hasn’t been this invested in anything in a long time, which doesn’t say much about him as a person, but--something about tonight has him wanting to make this guy scream.

A few minutes in, he pulls off with a wet obscene noise to catch his breath and say, “Just so you know, dude, you’re really good at getting your dick sucked.”

“What—what does that even mean?” James asks, laughing.

“Just the right amount of hair pulling,” Andy says. “Authoritative but you’re not, like, actively trying to choke me to death. I just thought you should know that I’m having a really good time.”

“Oh,” James says, sounding kind of touched, tugging lightly on Andy’s hair. “Me, too. Come up here.”

Andy kind of wants to keep going, but he follows the motion, tightening his hold on James’ hip to stand up and fall into another kiss.

“You should take your pants off,” he says, brushing their noses together when they pull apart, split between frantic and tender in a way that has him mildly concerned. It’s probably just the brain chemicals, though. There are a lot of things firing off right now.

“You first,” James says. “I want to watch.”

“I—I can do that,” Andy says, feeling like he should be as honest as possible in case he literally falls on his face, “but just know that stripping involves a type of grace and poise that my body is not capable of performing.”

“You don’t have to perform,” James says, gaze soft and heated, one hand curled almost aimlessly around his dick after he sits on the edge of his bed. “I just want to see you.”

“Oh,” Andy says.

Oh, Andy thinks.

He takes his time, anyway, too distracted watching James touch himself to make eye contact as he undresses entirely, until he’s standing naked in front of him.

“Take your pants off,” he says, softly, and James grins and pushes his jeans down, kicking them away before he reaches up to grab Andy’s arm and tug him down into his lap. They make out messily, laughing into each other’s mouths. Andy’s just drunk enough that he’s not too aware of his body, and he likes the way that James just moves him, lifts him higher, flips him over to straddle his waist.

“Hi,” Andy says, grinning up at him when he’s settled down on his back.

“Hi,” James replies, cupping his cheek before he slides fingers into Andy’s hair again. He probably picked up what it does to him. “I want to fuck you. Do you want that?”

“Oh my god,” Andy says.

“That’s not an answer,” James says. His fingers tighten in his hair, just enough that Andy can feel it tug at the roots. His eyes go wide and his skin goes electric, shifting underneath James.

“Yeah,” he says, earnestly. “Yeah, yes, please.”

“Good,” James murmurs, leaning down to press a lush kiss to his mouth. “How do you want it?”

There’s been just enough hesitance in his voice since they’ve been here that Andy’s pretty sure he doesn’t pick up random guys very often, but he’s also sure that’s the reason that this has been so good already. Cautious and sweet even though James could probably wreck him if he wanted to, based on his--well, everything, and his fingers in Andy’s hair and the way his voice slipped temporarily into something dark and heated.

“On my back,” he says, failing to come with something hotter and being honest instead. “I want to see you.”

He stretches out while James grabs a condom and lube and lets himself be treated nice. James spreads Andy’s legs and opens him up with soft praise and slow strokes of his fingers inside and enough lube that Andy can almost feel it dripping out of him, waits for Andy to tell him when he’s ready before he even puts a condom on.  

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re kind of a sweetheart?” Andy asks, reaching up to brush fingers over James’ face when he moves to kneel between his legs.  

“I’m—not sure that’s what you want out of a random bar hookup,” James says, cautiously, holding onto Andy’s hips. He spreads his legs wider and James’ fingers squeeze lightly.  Andy smiles up at him.  

“Maybe not,” he says, pulling James down to press a kiss to his cheek and add, softly, in his ear, “Fuck me hard enough and I might change my mind.”

 James’ answering grin sends a shiver down his spine.

 *

“Wow,” Andy says, shakily, sprawled out with his legs wide and come drying on his stomach. James is still mostly lying on top of him, panting hot against his neck. “Good fuckin’ job, dude.”

“Thanks,” James laughs out, softly, biting gently at Andy’s neck before he moves to collapse on his back next to him instead.

“Like, five stars,” Andy says, yawning. “Ten out of ten.”

“Well,” James says. “Tell your friends.”

Andy laughs sleepily, turning to nuzzle against his shoulder and press a kiss to it.

“I’ll tweet about it immediately,” he murmurs. “Do you spell James with one J or two?”

“Silent P at the start.”

God, Andy likes him. Maybe he can just stay in his bed forever. It’s warm and James kind of smells like a forest or something manly like that and Andy wants to curl up against him and sleep for at least twelve hours. They could get brunch. They could fuck again and then get brunch.

He’s about to casually suggest this when James sits up enough to lean over him and kiss him, slow and sweet, before pulling back and saying, “You can take a shower before you leave, if you want.”

“Before I—oh,” Andy says. “Leave. Like, right now.”

There were some post-coital oxytocin butterflies fluttering around in Andy’s stomach, but that effectively murdered them. There’s a crime scene in there. James kisses him one more time before he gets out of the bed; Andy sits up on his elbows but can’t even enjoy the view as James says, “Give me a second, I’ll find you a towel.”

Andy sighs and lets himself fall backward. The bed is comfortable, too, on top of everything. Soft, worn cotton sheets and stupid comfortable pillows, which are Andy’s particular fetish.

He stretches out to enjoy it, trying not to think about the fact that he’s less sad about having to go back out into the cold than he is about the fact that this is definitely a one-night stand.

Which is what he wanted. With—more night, admittedly, but still.  

He really wants to have brunch with him. 

*

Andy takes a purposefully long shower and comes out smelling like pine trees and hiking and woodworking, and he accepts an old jacket and a kiss on the mouth before he lets himself be pushed out the door. Rejected and a charity case. He’s really killing it, lately.

After wandering around a 24 hour pharmacy for a while, he walks to Stef’s apartment and knocks on her door until she comes to it, half-dressed and her hair in a tangled pile on her head. She at least looks like she’s been sleeping and not like she was in the middle of rocking his best friend’s world.

“Oh, fuck,” she says, flatly. “It’s you.”

“I have no home and just got my heart broken,” he says, trying to look pitiful and probably succeeding, because he’s not far from pitiful. “I just need somewhere to rest my weary head.”

“Where exactly are you planning on sleeping?” she asks, gesturing behind her.

“Between us,” Laurel says, pulling on a t-shirt before she sits up in bed and grins at them. “Like a three-year-old. What happened, kid?”

“Well, I didn’t get serial murdered,” he says, shrugging out of the jacket and sighing loudly as he crosses the room to collapse on the bed next to her.

“I couldn’t get so lucky,” Stef says, and Laurel snorts and crooks her finger so Stef gets close enough for her to kiss.

“Be nice,” she says, softly.

“You said we’d be alone,” Stef says.

“I said we would be alone for at least three hours.”

“I thought that was a joke.”

“Guys, I just had the best sex of my life and got kicked out five seconds later,” Andy says, because they need to sort out their priorities here. “He was perfect. He was a hot lawyer.”

“. . .rich?” Stef asks, apparently curious now. Andy covers his face and groans before he sits up and scoots backward, so they can all sit on the bed, an extra-large twin shoved up in a corner and layered with old quilts.

“No, but—so hot,” he says, making a face at her. “He had abs.”

“Everybody does, technically,” she says.

“Don’t be obtuse, Stefanie, he had abs,” he says, drawing out the word for emphasis.

“What have I said about calling me—”

Laurel grabs Stef and pulls her into a hug before she can finish her sentence, pressing a firm kiss to her cheek. She gives Andy a baleful look and says, “Don’t push your luck, little orphan.”

“Sorry,” Andy says, genuinely, sitting back against the wall and tilting his head back. “I was just expecting a night of—well, hopefully cuddling but at the very least body heat. And now I’m here. Surrounded by lesbians.”

“Okay, you’re not sleeping between us,” Stef says. “But—you can sleep on the couch.”

“That is a very large chair at best,” Andy says, solemnly, “but thank you and I accept.”

“Sweetheart, did you fall in love with a guy over the course of an hour?” Laurel asks, reaching out to poke his thigh with her foot, making an exaggerated concerned face when he looks up at her.

“. . .I just wanted to go to brunch with him,” he says, despairingly, and Laurel laughs and crawls forward to hug him, too.

“I’ll take you to brunch,” she promises. “You just have to go to sleep now, because if Stef doesn’t get at least seven hours, she gets mean.”

“. . .have you ever gotten seven hours of sleep?” Andy asks, before he can help himself, laughing when Laurel shoves him gently off the bed and tosses a quilt and a pillow on top of him. He sits up and holds the pillow close, smiling when he says, “I love you, Stef.”

“Sure,” Stef says, but there’s not even much heat to it, and then she’s tackling Laurel onto the bed and dragging the remaining quilts over them. They kiss and mumble to each other and fall asleep quickly, and he curls up on the alleged couch and tries not to think too hard about how much he’d like to be falling asleep with somebody else right now.

#nanowrimo 2017 #my fic

[filmsnarktm]

Split

October 3rd

I first saw Split in theaters back in 2017 the day it was released, marking it as the first rewatch of the month. Me and my friends had long been fans of Shamalan’s films, from his genuinely good films like The Sixth Sense to his “so bad they’re good” movies like Devil. After the release of The Visit in 2015, we were excited at the prospect of Shyamalan returning to form and making genuinely good films again. At the time, viewing it in the theater, hyped, with a group of friends who were equally excited to see what the film had to offer as I was, I left thinking it was a great movie. At the time, my personal IMDB shows I considered it to be an 8/10.

Unfortunately, on a second viewing in my dorm room with one tired friend and a shitty microwave pizza, it didn’t quite hold up to the quality my memories painted it in. Now, that’s not to say the film is awful by any means. I still enjoyed watching it, and there’s plenty to praise, so let’s start there.

The clear star of the show, in both of our opinions, was James McAvoy’s performance as the film’s antagonist Kevin. It’s hard enough to properly portray one character, and yet somehow McAvoys manages to seamlessly flip flop between 23 entirely separate personalities. Every single character has a seperate cadence, way of speaking, accent, way of walking, posture, every single tiny difference that real people have but don’t think about. Every emotion from him felt fully genuine, in ways specific to whichever personality he’d donned for the time being, and it was an absolute treat to watch.

The rest of the actors all do acceptable jobs as well. Anya Taylor-Joy does a fantastic job with the lead character Casey in giving personality to a character that could have come off very stoic or lifeless. The remaining actors all do serviceably in their rolls, which is fine, as they are all relatively small parts, McAvoy and Taylor-Joy taking up the majority of the screen time.

The film also did a good job of creating tension. Even having seen the film before and knowing what was about to come next, I still found myself holding my breath throughout nearly the entire run time of the film. The plot flows and builds very reasonably, and is quite well paced.

Now here’s where our issues with the film come in, and it’s a big one: does Split wanna be a fucking sequel or not? While standalone sequels are perfectly valid if that’s what you want to do, it simply doesn’t work with the concept of this universe. If you have no idea what Unbreakable is, as Chelsea did not, a mentally ill kidnapper suddenly magically being able to transform his entire body and stick to walls in the last 10 minutes of a film previously well grounded in reality just seems silly. To someone who does know what the film is supposed to be, the lack of supernatural elements anywhere else in the film makes the inclusion of this so suddenly at the very end just feel out of place. I understand this this film was intended to set the stage for further films (we may watch Split 2 at a later date), but as it stands it just creates an effect for the film itself.

We also found the abrupt supernatural aspect to somewhat undermine the fascinating and much more legitimate struggle of the 23 initially spoken of personalities. While they still help to make him a tragic and almost (keyword: almost) sympathetic character, they feel cheapened, and the silliness of the so called “beast” personality makes it easier to dismiss the character as a whole, which is a real shame.

Chelsea would also like to know if anyone else who has seen the film noticed a thing with windows. I presume if you know you’ll understand.

Final Rating: 7/10

#horror review #horror films #horror #scary movies #spooky szn #spooktober #spooky #movie review #movies #film recommendation #movie recommendation #film #film review #split #m night shyamalan #shyamalan #unbreakable #thriller #horror movies

[schpiedehl]

An open letter to Hamilton (etc) fan artists, Re:whitewashing

Hello. Time for another ill-constructed rant on probably already well-tread ground. Specifically whitewashing in fan art (even more specifically Hamilton art though this could be applied to any fandom) and when it is ok. lol jk it’s never ok. PLEASE NOTE: I am an (amateur) artist. I am not ragging on artists because I “don’t understand how hard making art is,” “how hard artists work,” or what have you. These are legitimate problems of representation in fanart (that I have witnessed firsthand) and this is my earnest attempt to elucidate these issues. Feel free to interact with this post as you see fit. I am always free for debate if you disagree, would like clarification, or have anything to add.  

+Look out for those embedded hyperlinks for more content 

Preface: I am a member of far too many fb Hamilton groups. Sometimes people post their art, apparently forgetting that when you post things online you open yourself to critique. Hilarity ensues.

I often see Hamilton characters (generally portrayed as original Broadway cast members - Lin-Manuel Miranda, Okieriete Onaodowan, Anthony Ramos, etc.) who have been horrifically whitewashed - complete with lightened skin, bizarrely red or light brown hair, lightened eyes, and so forth. The most common defenses for this misstep, from both artists and fans, are personal style and apparent inability to approximate accurate skin tone (“I tried but skin color is hard”). Here’s why both of those excuses are utter bullshit.

1. Personal Style:

A lot of things in life are open to interpretation and all art is inherently interpretive. But the racial and cultural identity of a real life person is not one of these interpretive things. [PAUSE: before anyone says that this is precisely what Hamilton is doing with its casting, don’t.] First of all, I get it, personal style is important to art. Some people trend toward realism while others prefer more abbreviated, abstracted, and/or cartoony styles and part of that is selecting stylized color palettes, interpreting color in new and inventive ways, and playing with light, value, line, form, etc. This is NOT what I am talking about. It is entirely possible to honor a person’s background using relative or approximated shading/tone/coloration and to create beautiful art in the process [example: Chris Vision’s color series]. This little rant is specifically directed at people who "attempt" to depict Hamilton (etc) actors/characters using realistic/semi-realistic color palettes (as in, how they appear irl, accounting for abstraction, drawing style, etc) but fall short when it comes to depicting the actors, particularly in regards to racial background. You can find excellent examples of what I mean at Calling Out Whitewashed Hamilton Art and I’m positive you can find far too many examples in this and many other fandoms simply by scrolling through the tags on Tumblr and Instagram.  So without further ado, lightening a person/character’s skin in fanart is racist. There’s really no ifs, ands, or buts about it. Foremost, the practice of editing a person of color to appear more European (skin, hair, eyes, even facial features) intentionally erases the cultural, racial, and ethnic background of the person in question. This is incredibly disrespectful to the actors who portray these characters and works to undermine what Hamilton as a whole is trying to build. If Hamilton is trying to reclaim American history for People of Color, stripping the racial, ethnic, and cultural backgrounds from the actors represents a rejection of conceit and, perhaps, even a form of appropriation. It is as though “fans” are saying that they want the art that is made by and for POC while simultaneously rejecting the distinctly racialized aspects of that art. When artists depict Lin!Hamilton as white, they are rejecting the Nuyorican background which Lin brings to the character in both writing and performance and projecting faux whiteness upon the character. In doing so, whether consciously or not, they are rejecting the actor’s race as well. Lin is beloved because of the art that he makes which allows many fans to look past his racial and cultural identity rather than accept it as an intrinsic aspect of both the man and his art.  Moreover, the ubiquity of this whitewashed art also reveals a lot about what “fans” find visually appealing and acceptable - e.g., the Eurocentric standard of beauty. Whitewashing in art represents not only a rejection of POC’s culture but, obviously, their physical attributes as well. Dark skin is lightened and or whitened, hair is often straightened and/or lightened to a light brown or red hue (with the exception of Laurens, whose features, hair in particular, are often feminized as a form a queer fetishization but that is a rant for another day), and features are changed to appear more European. Often, depictions of characters are changed so much it is nearly impossible to tell that the art is based on any particular actor. In addition to being, again, extremely disrespectful to the actors, this further perpetuates the extremely harmful notion that beauty only exists in European features and sends a direct message to POC fans that their appearance is neither beautiful not accepted by the fanbase of a piece of media that was made by other POC specifically to appeal to them. This seems especially true of dark skinned black individuals who are often completely stripped of the melanin in fan art, further driving home notions of ingrained cultural colorism and anti-blackness. With Hamilton in particular, it is fine to “change” a character’s race if and only if you are depicting a character as a different actor. For instance, while Lin!Hamilton is Latino, Michael!Hamilton is a black man and depicting Hamilton as such, while uncommon among fan communities, is better than fine [*the lack of art of dark skinned actors is another point of contention. Not only are dark skinned actors frequently whitewashed, many are ignored altogether]. Depicting Michael!Hamilton as light skinned or white, however, is obviously not fine.  Having established that lightening a character’s skin or depicting them with more European features is inherently racist, the claim that whitewashing is a stylistic choice is invalid. If you make the “stylistic choice” to depict a POC as white, you are racist. End of story.  And if you want to do better but find yourself wanting to draw Lin!Hamilton as white, remember that this guy existed and just draw him instead. It’s not that hard.  2. Technical Difficulties:

One of the most unfortunately common excuses for whitewashing in fanart seems to be that, for some reason or another, artists have difficulty accurately approximating actors’ skin color so they presumedly just make something up, This results in Lin!Hamilton and Phillipa!Eliza looking a bit like Snow White, Oak!Mulligan looking a little tan, and so forth. As an artist, I understand that approximating realistic skintones can be rather hard, especially with traditional mediums, but it is glaringly obvious when artists don’t put in any effort.  With traditional mediums such as paint, markers, or color pencils, artists can blend to create the colors which accurately (or as accurately as possible given the limitations of certain mediums like watercolors) approximate actors’ skin tones. If the colors dry lighter than intended, the artist generally layer and blend more to achieve a better approximation. If they then scan their image, they can use a photo editor to fix or correct any mistakes. It might not be the easiest to find good matches (speaking from experience, there aren’t a ton of good warm brown toned markers and thus a lot of blending is sometimes required) but, as previously stated, it’s generally easy to tell when someone at least tried to get close to a correct skin tone. With digital art, it’s even easier. Fact: Nearly all art programs have a nifty eyedropper tool which can be used to pull color swatches directly from a reference picture. Even MSpaint has this function. By pulling multiple swatches from a variety of reference images (to account for different lighting conditions), an artist can build a relatively accurate gradiented palette for skin tone. It’s really that simple! And if an artist notices that the color isn’t quite right, it’s nothing a few tweaks to hue and saturation can’t fix!  If my tone seemed a bit sarcastic/passive aggressive in that last paragraph, it’s because it totally was. I see this excuse so much more often than I see any other excuse for whitewashed fan art and it is incredibly frustrating but also, as an (extraordinarily mediocre) artist myself, it rings incredibly inaccurate, especially for digital art. I completely understand that it sometimes takes a lot of time to get used to a medium but when an artist’s color palette is literally limitless, there is absolutely no reason (aside from personal, possibly subconscious/implicit but no less real, biases) for an actor/character to be depicted as white/light skinned when they are not. As previously discussed, that is disrespectful and harmful, and really only serves to make the artist (and those that support work) look like a jackass.  And look, if you find yourself making whitewashed art, it’s not as though it is impossible to change. When someone criticizes your whitewash-y art, don’t get defensive. Don’t claim that it’s your style or that you don’t know how to color POC. It looks and sounds really fucking ridiculous. Instead, evaluate your art and place it into a cultural context. Take it as an opportunity to improve. And maybe also take the opportunity to learn a little about yourself and your biases.  This wasn’t meant to be a call out post and I’d like to end this on a positive note so here are a few wonderful Hamilton fan artists who are worth a look:  terror-in-a-dream zzzoehsu linmanwhydididothis mikiprice thegentlehoneybee dorothywonderland maeng

#hamilton #lin-manuel miranda #fanart #fan art #whitewashing #racism #longpost #rant #daveed diggs #Okieriete Onaodowan #phillipa soo #alexander hamilton #anthony ramos #lams #discourse #Renee Elise Goldsberry #john laurens #michael luwoye #jasmine cephas jones