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lambden · 3 years

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I return with another kiss drabble; this one is for Ledgea who requested Aiden/Coën/Lambert! I'm always delighted to write this OT3 <3

12. Kisses shared under a waterfall

T, 2070 words, some brief mentions of Coën's insecurities but no other warnings. Also on AO3!

The water rushing down into the lake is clean and clear, and it would likely taste as sweet as fresh rain. Aiden wants to taste and touch and feel the current, itching to jump in from the very moment the trio spots the clearing and lays their eyes on the wonder of nature. He discards his armour and doublet on the shore, turning around as he kicks off his pants. “It’s beautiful,” Aiden exhales, throat tight with unexpected emotion. This wasn’t what he expected when Lambert suggested they meander off the well-travelled path, but he’s hardly complaining.

Pleased with the praise of his idea and thus him, Lambert smiles, crooked and gorgeous. He strips out of his shirt too, toeing out of one boot and stepping on the heel of the other to kick it off. Lambert is just as breathtakingly beautiful as the vista awaiting them, and if Coën weren’t at his side, Aiden would run forward and kiss him senseless until both of them tumbled off the shore into the cool sapphire surf.

Coën meets Aiden’s eyes for only the briefest of moments before his gaze dips down, following the line of Aiden’s bare throat to his chest. The Griffin, almost unconsciously, drinks in the sight of his skivvies and the tight junction of his thighs. Aiden watches Coën pretend not to ogle him, and in turn he pretends not to feel the heat churning in his gut.

Lambert doesn’t know this, but Aiden dreams often of Coën naked.

It isn’t his fault, really, it’s Coën’s— as shitty as that sounds. The truth is that although Aiden’s reputation lends him an infamous tendency for perversion he’s always been a romantic, leaning more towards lovemaking than any quick flings or cheap thrills. That’s why this thing he’s got with Lambert works so well: he has unlimited love to share, and Lambert’s desire to be needed and wanted is bottomless.

That must be why Lambert fell for Coën too, years before he’d even met Aiden. The Griffin sought refuge at Kaer Morhen after the siege of Kaer Seren, and according to the Wolf himself, Lambert instantly liked his earnest personality and bookishness. They had danced around one another for much longer than Lambert and Aiden, only finally admitting their feelings after a close call with a leshen that made all the witchers reconsider their time left and what they wished to do with it.

Aiden is glad, really. Lambert, insecure after a lifetime of trauma, has asked him time and time again if he’s harbouring any secret jealousy. The truth is that while Aiden has never been jealous of Coën for getting to spend the winters with his summer lover, he has questioned his own proclivity upon meeting his lover’s lover. He understands what Lambert sees in Coën, no explanation necessary. The very first time Lambert had introduced them, the young Wolf had been delightfully flushed and flustered, glancing between them expectantly. Aiden shook Coën’s hand, and Coën had told him some smart one-liner about the Cat caravan, and Aiden had thought— so vividly that he remembers it now— oh no.

He has never given away his infatuation, worrying that Lambert might feel put upon to share Coën. Instead Aiden keeps the secret close to his chest, saving his summers for his beloved Lamb and only daring to dream of Coën’s depths in the winter. Truthfully, he wants it all— the romance from and between both men, Coën’s sincerity and Lambert’s strength, Lambert’s firm body and Coën’s…

Well. Like he said. He’s dreamt of it often, but he has yet to see it in real life.

When Lambert fully strips down to his underclothes Aiden is already knee-deep. The water ripples around his thighs as he turns to whistle at his Wolf. Lambert flips him off which just makes Aiden laugh, and Coën interrupts, still on the shore. He’s still wearing his full armour, as though he expects a drowner to rise from this picturesque waterfall. “Is it cold?”

“Not at all,” Aiden lies through his teeth. Then he cackles as Lambert dips his toes in and immediately swears, colourful and loud. “Well, perhaps it isn’t the famed hot springs of Kaer Morhen. But two mountaineers like you should be able to stand it, no trouble at all!”

“C’mere,” Lambert growls, wading through the clear lake. “I’ll drown you right now. See how many of those nine lives you’ve got left.”

“You’ll have to catch me first,” teases Aiden, breaking into a slowed sprint through the water. It’s easier when he dives, the lake bending easily to every stroke. The current is stronger as he approaches the fall but Aiden is strong too, and he hasn’t kept up his lithe figure all these years for nothing. He sucks in a puff of air and then breaches the waterfall; the spray is both lighter and faster than he expects. If any innkeeper could market this kind of water pressure, they’d be famous across the Continent faster than you could order a bath.

Something clamps around his ankle and Aiden makes a noise he isn’t proud of, shrieking and flailing. Then he recognizes the smug heartbeat and scent of his lover— even diluted by a rushing waterfall, Lambert is intimately familiar. Aiden does his best to kick Lambert, shouting and twisting to push him away. “You fucker! You scared the shit out of me!”

“Watch out for those kelpies!” Lambert releases Aiden’s leg only to grasp the curve of his upper arm. They float together until Aiden’s hip collides with a rock shelf, then he pulls himself and his beloved bastard man up onto the surface. Lambert huffs, breathless, “They might look handsome, but they’ll pull you under the tide and then you’re done for.”

“I surrender,” Aiden murmurs, sharing the last of his air with Lambert. This secluded nook behind the waterfall is the only privacy they’ve had in days, and while Aiden enjoys travelling with Coën, he did miss opportunities like this. Lambert kisses him back in the fresh spray, their ankles still dangling under the surface of the lake. Aiden takes his lover’s affection and runs with it, reaching between them. He wants too much, too fast, and he knows it— but Coën standing only a short distance away does nothing at all to quell that want, and that’s the part that Aiden has no idea how to confess. “Lambert,” he mumbles under his jaw, hand moving quicker than his mind. “Want you.”

Lambert huffs, “Here?” and Aiden nods, kissing his neck gently. His fingers dance lower until Lambert snatches them up in his grip, holding them away from any sensitive extremities. Aiden, ever the mature one, whines and bites him. “Not here,” he mumbles, ignoring Aiden’s teeth against his pulse point. “It smells like snails.”

“It’s romantic,” growls Aiden. At any other time his head would spin at the sensation of Lambert’s hand in his, but now he craves more touch than he’s likely going to get. “Surely you can’t blame me for taking advantage of a rare moment alone.”

Except he trails off abruptly after ‘taking advantage’, because destiny has other plans for them. Coën pokes through the falls, his disembodied head briefly parting the curtain of water. Aiden and Lambert look over, still entwined with one another, hands still tightly gripped as Aiden mouths at Lambert’s neck, their gazes searing into the Griffin’s nervous frown.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Coën apologizes, eloquent even when flustered. Of fucking course. He blinks several times before ducking his head, water rushing down over the back of his neck and his bare shoulders. “I didn’t— I— I’ll go—”

Four hands reach for him, pulling him under the spray and through the falls until he lands on the other side. Coën splutters, shaking his head and wiping his eyes dry as he struggles to find his footing. Lambert turns to Aiden, sharp as a sword’s edge, and demands, “So much for a private moment, huh? You pulled him in here too!”

“Well,” Aiden says hotly, “Can you blame me? I mean, look at him!” Both he and Lambert pause to admire Coën, nearly naked and soaked to the bone. The map of scars trails from his scalp down to his waist, hinting at a severe pox that he had been lucky to survive. Coën, embarrassed and confused, ducks away from their ogling but doesn’t shove their hands away. “He’s gorgeous,” continues Aiden. “I’ve got eyes, you know!”

“It smells like snails back here,” Coën comments as mildly as possible.

Lambert retorts, “You’re just putting on a big front because you’re jealous! I know you are, you do a fucking terrible job of hiding it—”

“Fine! Yes, I’m jealous,” Aiden cuts in before Lambert can start an actual argument. But both Lambert and Coën freeze, turning to him with equally nervous expressions. Coën slowly floats over to the rocky shelf, blinking errant droplets from the waterfall out of his blue and brown eyes, and Aiden shifts over to make room for him. “But… I’m jealous of you,” he confesses to Lambert, suddenly embarrassed for the first time in a long while. “Coën is beautiful, and I’ve never so much as seen him tear his shirt during training. I mean, the mind wanders, and imagining the two of you together… how could I resist? Fucking look at you, Coën!”

Instead of bashfully hiding his face in his shoulder as Aiden expects, Coën meets his gaze head-on. He narrows his eyes, curious, and replies, “I tend to keep my clothes on most of the time. I don’t want to frighten Ciri or anyone else I might encounter, and… it’s obviously a sight that takes some getting used to—”

“Insane,” Aiden scoffs. He turns to Lambert for confirmation, who just shakes his head in wonder. “Anyone would count it as a blessing to see you naked. I know I’m not taking this for granted.”

And he isn’t— even as they trade nervous, genuine banter back and forth, Aiden’s gaze hasn't stopped wandering the length of Coën’s body. He pays little attention to the scars, too enchanted by the broad veins running along Coën’s dark arms, the thin patch of hair along his chest, and his soft bare stomach that makes him look so vulnerable.

From behind Aiden comes a gentle touch to his shoulder; he leans into it without hesitating, accustomed to Lambert’s touch by now. “You should’ve said something, Cat.” Aiden shudders as that low, pleased voice rumbles through his chest, heading straight to his lower regions and flooding them with blood. “I could’ve introduced you years ago.”

“I don’t know what’s happening,” Coën breaks in, because of course he does. “But… the scenery is romantic, at least?”

“Ha,” crows Aiden triumphantly, twisting in his lover’s slippery grip to shoot a look at his wolf— something akin to ‘see?!?!!’. But Lambert isn’t wearing the miserable expression of a loser at all, instead thrilled and excited. Aiden’s heart thrums at the half-smile on Lambert’s face; a smile he leans in to kiss slowly, ignoring their company.

Then he breaks away, turning to their company and taking Coën’s hands in his. “Come on,” Aiden insists, tugging the Griffin away from the safety of the rock shelf and back under the spray. Coën barely has time to begin treading in the shallow water before Aiden is pulling him in and kissing him, wet hands looping over his bare shoulders. Coën kisses exactly the way Aiden dreamed that he would, with an unmistakably intense focus and a slight bite that leaves Aiden wanting more.

“I’ve been wanting to see that happen for years,” Lambert drawls, and it doesn’t ruin the moment but it does send Aiden and Coën into simultaneous fits of giggles. Coën kisses him again as they laugh, and then when they turn to face Lambert, water rushing down over their bare bodies, they see the raw desire written all over his face. Then nobody is laughing at all.

By the time they leave the safety of the waterfall, the sun is dipping down past the horizon and all their toes and heels have pruned up. But none of them care at all— not one whit. Coën pulls Aiden from the water who then offers Lambert a hand, and the three shivering men don’t let go of one another for a very, very long time.

#lambcoen fic #lambden fic #lambden #lambert #coën #aiden #ot3 i desperately need a tag for. it's fine #my writing #ask meme #lambcoden fic #lambcoden

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jaggedwolf · 3 years

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air support, we need you (or: tscosi 2x09)

some bomb dropping, ofc, spoilers below duh

same game, top three things i had feelings ‘bout in reverse order

3. time skip time! Everyone could use a bit of a breather, even if it can’t live up to Arkady’s goat farm dreams

I thought all the planet assignments made sense, even if the completionist in me wanted it to differ more from the split that had already happened this season

ok ok the shipper in me was 50-50 but we’ll address that later

2. my man park!! is back!!!

Showing up with an anti-aircraft missile launcher as a wedding gift. I kept joking that Park would keep up his finale trend of showing up as a surprise being cool (as cool as Park can be anw), and thought it wouldn’t happen till it did!

and him also quietly saying the defector wasn’t Shelly....Park...are you going to talk about this...

narrowly avoided extended crew singing for the third time, will he keep up this success rate?

I would take a mini-episode that just followed Park in the second half of the season (Park: I am an independent man who needs no crew)

1. Arkady attacking Krejjh because she thinks they’re an enemy, AND then McCabe pulling a gun on her to make sure she didn’t run away. Bro. Bro, that shit was a direct hit to the id. Do I even have words for how good that was

Knowing what was about to happen as soon as Arkady said “You” in that tone of voice, ugh

Krejjh saying Arkady instead of First Mate Patel in desperation, and then brushing it off with a :D after

But god, McCabe. They’ve been so compelling this season, and yeah, maybe they’re approaching everything like a nail with the hammer they’ve got that shoots bullets, but the point is, it fuckin works

Arkady buys the threat (the promise of her crew’s safety?) more than she buys Krejjh’s reassurances

(though reading the transcript, Krejjh specifically telling Arkady “Science Officer Liu will never forgive you”, not “forgive us”, is excellent too)

“the only authority figures yet to disappoint me” / “I’m not an authority figure” / “you don’t get to decide that” is just like. embedded in my mind. just McCabe going no, you don’t get to run verbally either.

Do you ever think about how Arkady and McCabe had like, different kinds of fucked up childhoods compared to the rest of the crew. Like obviously McCabe ending up an agent so young and the stuff about their family suggests a pretty secure background, but it feels like the IGR and Dwarnian war starting when they were 12 gives them a kind of cynicism that meshes well with Arkady’s, in a way that’s distinct from how Arkady and Violet’s morbidness mesh, or Arkady and Sana’s pragmatism

ok more character feels under the cut

don’t scandalize the grandparents

A married man!

Impressed he made it through the season with no baddies wrecking his oxygen

Always ready to point out that Arkady is actually as much of a nerd as he is

AKA I didn’t realize it was a Mozart reference till he said so. Arkady defies the jock-nerd chart

okay who of Arkady or Krejjh is gonna tell him about MMA fight outside, or did they do a whole team debrief. For Arkady’s sake I’m hoping not the latter, though I guess everyone else would like an explanation for McCabe’s gun-pointing??

likes solving problems without guns, would prefer solving them by FLYING SPACESHIPS

Krejjh watches McCabe’s gun strategy work on Arkady and goes “do you folks really live like this?? why???”

I do love that their first thought on what to do next is to run a bunch of supplies around, probably between human populations that are going to be a wary at seeing a dwarnian show up. (Eat it, Eejjhgreb)

Kinda wonder if their feelings about getting choked out by their buddy are in fact more complicated than “it’s chill dude, please don’t do something stupid”

The cutest vow

who needs to calm down your crewmates with annoying words when you can just point a gun at them

Seriously where is the human-dwarnian war AU where it lasts longer or happens later where McCabe is the baby sniper posted to Arkady’s unit and they squabble a bunch (and perhaps kiss? When I wrote my third ever ficlet for this fandom never did I anticipate actually being interested in that)

what % of their Mirzakhani choice was thinking “what if Arkady tries to run from the goat farm and no one’s around to point a gun at her” jk jk

Their exclusion of Park from authority figures that didn’t disappoint them is fascinating. Is it that he left hoping for Shelly when it probably wasn’t her, or that he isn’t an authority figure anymore, a combination there of?

Or worst of all, is it that when he didn’t kill Krejjh back in 1x10, that really was a disappointment, no matter how much it might’ve been mixed with relief, and you can’t undo that moment?

What if they and Park talked. But I don’t think Park is going to goat planet, so that seems unlikely.

Their apology to Sana for heightened Martineau security! And Sana reiterating the profound gratefulness bit, gah

mostly read other people’s words and yet sparked consideration of two different OT3s, her power.

you know what, everyone deciding Sana is the best person to read words makes complete sense

There was one specific moment this episode that sent my mind into a tizzy about V/A/S, and it was Arkady going FINE GO ASK THE CAPTAIN THEN at how firm Violet was that Tripathi would be the one driving her, not Arkady.

I need you to understand that my V/A/S OT3 opinions are such that my shipping feels were more set off by that than Sana and Violet telling Arkady they were proud of her for choosing goat planet or whatever, like I don’t even know what dynamic was so captured by that argument, rip at Arkady having to be systems apart from them again

Though ofc my heart was buoyed by Sana’s earnest “Kady, you do more than that”, I want these two to go do a job together again, I miss that

To shift gears, I cannot believe “Lenny” started out as Sana being absolutely furious at the people threatening her crew and has ended up a teasing in-joke between her and Park, my Sana/Park shipping feels were very content. (When does Sana learn that Park didn’t get to hear the long list of fake crimes the Rumor crew specifically confessed to Lenny? This must be fixed. Tell him about the diamonds!)

Campbell said “Park, let me show you where we’ve been sleeping.” and my brain went. Wait. This is actually a good OT3?? Park is already unnerved by Sana’s earnest captaining, he should get unnerved by Campbell’s default magnanimity, please consider this

this is also where I point out that all these major characters have very convenient names for indicating ships solely via letters. V/A! B/K! S/P/C! This may solve my ot3 tagging problem...

get off that cotton candy boat, vi

Haha I loved that line from Doc Robinson she’s so no-nonsense, love Violet agreeing to work with her

Doc also said menders and I thought about this post again and also the team split and ahhh

But no, I very much liked Violet gently crushing Arkady’s goat farm dreams, and the two of them awkwardly discussing the very awkward stage things are at while still getting a feel for how the other operates

These nerds are trying and I’m still fond of them

at some point I was gonna make fun of Vi for not being able to drive before realising 1. she probably didn’t want to deprive the others of a vehicle 2. that would be incredibly hypocritical of me

wait does the igr have excellent public transport when they aren’t bombing it i take back every bad thing i’ve said abou-

*ahem* same question about the MMA fight debrief I had for Brian, it would be so funny if the situation was so rushed that like, Arkady+McCabe explain to Brian on the farm and Krejjh has to tackle everyone else

tick, tock, walking bomb, when it stops, nobody knows

arkady is so whumpable, and this show knows it

Redundant, but love how terrified of herself she is after hurting Krejjh and how strangely reassured she is by McCabe’s gun antics. And how she doesn’t like thinking of herself as an authority figure on the ship even though she literally is as First Mate

is ready to monologue about all major life events and the crew frickin knows it

is trying to help herself and stuff, still grumbling about it. in worse shape this season than last - probably all the constant discussion of the inevitable war just kept building stuff up and she kept ignoring it because haha who wants to deal with this prickly mess of a person haha

did i mention she’s the best

hope she gets her full goat farm dream one day, even if it’s not on actual goat farm

#tscosi #tscosi spoilers #jaggedwolf rambles #real rambling times yikes #mine #tscosi reviews

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pengychan · 4 years

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[Coco] Mind the Gap, Pt. 20

Title: Mind the Gap Summary: Modern Day AU. Tired of Ernesto’s snide remarks, Imelda decides to put him in his place and her husband is more than happy to help. It was supposed to be a one-night deal. Things quickly get out of hand. [OT3, mostly porn and humor. Plenty of instances of Ernesto being Dramatic, Imelda getting Sick Of His Shit, and Héctor trying to be the peacekeeper. Don’t expect anything serious.] Pairings: Ernesto/Héctor/Imelda Rating: Explicit.

Art by @swanpit.

[All chapters are tagged as ‘mind the gap’ on my blog.]

A/N: Well, time for Coco to show up.

***

“What does it mean, you have a date?”

“I find your incredulous tone more than a little insulting.”

Sofía’s own tone is light, but Ernesto knows her well enough to tell she is not entirely joking there, and wisely decides to drop the matter. “All right, fine. I guess I’ll have to find someone else who is up to spend an enjoyable evening.”

“Oh yes,” Sofía mutters, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I am sure you have men and women lined up waiting for the chance to ride your dick.”

“Of course I--”

“Come on, it’s obvious you don’t,” Sofía cuts him off. Ernesto can vaguely hear her TV going in the background. “You must be on your last leg to call me now. Desperate, desperately horny, or both. I’m guessing both.”

All right, so that hit close home, but he has precisely no intention to admit as much aloud. To her least of all. “I just figured I’d be generous to you, is all.”

“Clearly,” is the deadpan reply.

“But since you have no taste, I will make someone else’s night.”

“Right. Good luck with that,” she chuckles, and pauses. “... Seriously, though, how are you?”

Ernesto bits his lower lip before glancing out of the window. It has rained most of the day, but now there is only a drizzle. On days like that, they’d-- no. No, he shouldn’t go there. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“... Better, either way. I’m doing much better.”

“That’s good to know. All right, maybe we can meet for lunch tomorrow. Over lunch break, the place across the street from my salon?”

“Sure. Can’t wait to hear all about your date,” Ernesto says, a slightly mocking tone on the last word, and ends the call. And then… he proceeds to call no one else.

It’s not that he’s run out of phone numbers to call or women to contact on social media, but so far he’s had depressingly little success. As it turns out, disappearing on every fling for a full year without so much a message and then just reappearing with no explanation given - much less a convincing one - is not a winning strategy to get them back in bed with him. Who’d have known.

Well, one did say yes, so they met at her place - only for her to step out, smack him across the face, and then go back in without a word. Ernesto had no idea what he may have possibly done to deserve it, but he knew better than to ask: there might just be a long, exhaustive answer to that question and he didn’t want to hear it.

With a sigh, Ernesto leans back on his couch and checks Instagram. His followers count is going up and up, especially after he and Héctor appeared on TV, and maybe he could go looking for someone interesting among them… but each time he opens a profile, he can barely focus on it at all.

All right, this is not working. I need something else.

He downloads Tinder again - when did he uninstall it? - and logs in, determined to give it a go. An hour and an undefined number of left swipes later, he briefly muses whether he should try again with Grindr. In the end, he throws his phone aside and leans back with a sigh.

Back to his old life, he said.

No strings but those of my guitar, he said.

Easier said than done.

***

This is the first time, as far as she can remember, that Imelda does not celebrate Día de los Muertos in Santa Cecilia.

It’s a simple matter of common sense, really: eight months into the pregnancy, getting on a plane to Oaxaca sounds like an all-around bad idea.

“I mean, if she’s born on the plane, she might get free flights for life with the company,” Héctor joked when they first discussed their options. “I heard it happened before.”

A lifetime of free flights sounds like a good perk, Imelda has to admit, but not worth birthing her child thirty-five thousand feet up in the air, possibly without doctors and with only a curtain separating her from the rest of the passengers - who, she suspects, would be less than thrilled about the disruption to their flight.

The alternatives, a long car drive or God forbid an even longer bus ride, were entirely out of question. In the end, the only practical solution was for her parents to come over, so that they could spend those days together in Mexico City. They set off that morning, and Héctor is preparing to go pick them up at the airport.

They’re running later than expected because the flight was delayed, which hopefully won’t be too much of a problem for Ernesto. He’s going to see his parents for Día de los Muertos - ironic, that the one year they’re not going to Santa Cecilia, he goes - and he’s asked to borrow their car, so that he can go with his dogs instead of leaving them with someone else.

“Didn’t appreciate me being gone last time I tried,” he’s said, causing Héctor to chuckle.

“Could leave them with us, they’re used to being with us.”

“... I think you’ve got your house full as it is, amigo.”

There was a brief silence, which had been broken before it could turn sad, and of course they had agreed to let him borrow the car as soon as they’d used it to pick up her parents.

“Do you need me to get you something while I wait for them, mi amor?”

“Yes, thank you. I left you a list on the table.”

It is a long list, mostly items with enough sugar in them to sustain a small army, but Héctor makes no comment; he picks it up, just barely manages to get his facial expression under control before his eyebrows can shoot all the way up to his hairline, and steps over to kiss her. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Good luck.”

“The stuff you need isn’t that hard to find.”

“I was referring to driving my parents.”

A chuckle, another kiss on the bridge of her nose. “Your father’s fine,” he says, politely adding nothing about her mother before he leaves. Imelda glances out of the window to see him go… and Ernesto arrives. They stop to talk by the gate, Héctor probably apologizing for the delay in giving him the car, Ernesto shrugging in a way that is probably meant to convey it’s not a problem, he’s not especially eager to get going towards Santa Cecilia anyway.

And yet he’s going. That’s… odd, even taking into account the reconciliation with his parents which he still describes as a work in progress. Ernesto never cared all that much for the tradition, and as far as Imelda knows he never made an ofrenda of his own. He’d be more likely to go out partying, and pick up someone to spend the night with. How many times has she seen him from that same window, heading to the entrance with a man or a woman at his arm? More than she can count, although admittedly that has not happened… in a while.

Ever since things became serious between the three of us. And even after it ended, did either of us see him coming home with a date? Did he bring up a fling while talking to me or Héctor, brag about a conquest?

They haven’t and he didn’t. As far as Imelda is aware, Ernesto hasn’t been with anyone in the past few months.

So much for bouncing back, she thinks, and lets the curtain drop with a sigh while trying to ignore, with very little success, the part of her that has the audacity to be relieved at the notion.

***

“Hey! How are you doing?”

“Congrats on the album! Saw you on TV!”

“What about Héctor and Imelda? They’re not here, is their baby born yet?”

“Tell them I said hi!”

“Tell them to visit! Will they come to have her christened in the parish?”

“Hey, can I have an autograph so I can sell it?”

The walk to the cemetery and back - he promised Héctor to have a look at his parents’ grave for him, give it a clean-up, put on fresh flowers - was short, but it seemed to last so much longer with so many people recognizing him and stopping him for a chat. It’s not usually something he’d argue against, but there is a sting every time they ask about Héctor and Imelda and whether or not the baby is born yet.

He really hopes said sting can dull into something more bearable quickly, because it isn’t long until Coco is born and he’s expected to stand in as her godfather, which he’d really like to be able to do without feeling like something is squeezing his heart.

It will pass. It must pass, he thought, and took care to walk back to his parents’ home through a different route with fewer people. Walking back in to be greeted by his dogs did help a little. His father did mutter that they are more like guinea pigs, but at least he appreciates the fact they cannot climb on the ofrenda to steal the offerings. Though not for lack of trying.

The ofrenda at Ernesto’s family home is rather one-sided - which is to say, only her mother’s family is on it. Her parents, both dead by the time he was born, a couple of aunts, grandparents and so on. Plenty of García, a couple of Martinez, and not a single de la Cruz among them.

Then again, it’s not a name that comes with a lot of history attached; it simply filled in a blank space on the birth certificate of a child surrendered at birth.

“You ever thought of looking for her?” Ernesto asks suddenly, while his mother is away to get more flowers and his father is watching the food on the stove. He’s drinking some kind of bland, alcohol free beer that Ernesto has found himself drinking as well out of solidarity.

Estéban glances at him, a little confused, but comprehension dawns when his gaze moves to the doorway, onto the ofrenda in the next room over. He looks at the photos that are there, but mostly at those that are not. “... A couple of times. Never tried, though.”

“Why not?”

“She didn’t want me. I had better things to do than chasing someone who didn’t want me.”

Ernesto thinks back of the night he was kicked out and swore he was never, ever coming back. He thinks of what he desperately wishes he could have back, but cannot. He smiles bitterly. “I understand.”

“... I know you do.”

A brief silence, and once again it’s Ernesto to break it. “Might have had reasons. Might be that she wanted you, but-- couldn’t. Maybe things happened.”

We need to… to make some changes, Héctor said when breaking him the news. Even if we don’t like it.

Ernesto half-expects a scoff, dismissal, but what he gets is a thoughtful hum; he faintly wonders if his father discussed this while in therapy, but he knows better than to ask. He swore his mamá he would pretend not to know about the therapy part and, unlike her, he plans to keep his word.

“Guess it’s possible. Makes no difference, though. Did well enough regardless.”

Except for the part where he was an alcoholic for a couple of decades during which he also kicked out his only son because he happened to like dick, Ernesto thinks, and the part where he had in general the emotional capacity of an uncooked tortilla and the temper of a rabid coyote. But he supposes that, aside for those neglectable details, he hasn’t done too bad.

“Could have done worse,” he concedes.

Could have killed me, I guess.

“... Don’t patronize me. I know I haven’t been perfect--”

“Understatement.”

“-- but I am trying. And I don’t think digging in the past would help.” Estéban de la Cruz finishes his can of non-alcoholic beer in a long swig. “I was an asshole. No point in trying to pin that on my mamá not wanting me.”

That wasn’t precisely where Ernesto was going, but to be entirely fair he is not sure what point he truly had in asking his father something so personal, so in the end he just nods and finishes his own beer. If his father is wondering why he even asked he makes no mention of it, and to be entirely honest it is a relief.

While he appreciates his efforts there are some conversations they are simply Not Having, and Ernesto’s personal business with his best friend and his wife is one of them.

“I’ll go take a photo of the ofrenda,” he finally says, causing Estéban to raise an eyebrow.

“A photo? Why?”

“To put on Instagram.”

“Is it that website your mother hounded for photos of you?”

Ernesto hums, the notion of his mother going through his Instagram account and all the implications of it not really registering in his brain. There is an unread message flashing on the screen, distracting him - Héctor.

Everything good over there? Your mamá feeding you?

Ah, right, he was supposed to get in touch after visiting his parents' grave. He was so busy trying to avoid people he knew on the way back, he entirely forgot to.

I’m putting up a kilo a day. All good, he writes back, and sends over a photo of the grave, all cleaned up, with flowers and all. Ricardo and Emilia smile from the photo on the headstone, and it’s hard to tell whose smile Héctor’s resembles most.

Ernesto finds himself smiling faintly, too, as Héctor replies. Gracias. I owe you a favor.

You owe me nothing.

A drink, then.

I’ll take that, Ernesto writes, and puts the phone away without snapping any photos of the ofrenda, feeling just a little better.

***

If he had to describe that Día de los Muertos, Héctor supposes ‘bittersweet’ is the word for it.

It’s odd, not being in Santa Cecilia for it. Imelda is there with him, of course, as is her family, and there is an ofrenda in their living room - but not getting to visit his parents’ graves on the day is an odd sort of sting. He’d feel guilty, if they didn’t have excellent reasons not to travel that year.

Héctor is rather sure his mother would hit him over the head with a wooden spoon if he so much suggested putting his daughter at risk of being born on a plane or a bus in order to visit, and that helps. It also helps that Ernesto is there, looking after their grave in his stead. He is a good friend - the best friend he could have asked for, now more than ever before, and he’s glad he didn’t lose him. It’s good to have him back. And yet… and yet.

Gracias. I owe you a favor.

You owe me nothing.

A drink, then.

I’ll take that.

Héctor smiles a little, and… doesn’t click the screen off just yet.

Only to drop the phone with a yelp when Imelda’s voice rings out right beside him.

“All good back-- hey! Careful!” Her hands shoots out and somehow manages to catch his phone in mid-air, sparing him the utter pain of having to replace the screen or maybe the entire phone. She sighs. “Try to make this one last longer than three months,” she mutters, and glances at the screen. A moment of silence and then she gives a small, soft smile that Héctor suspects mirrors the one on his face only moments ago.

“Nice of him to take care of it.”

“Yes. We could have him over-- for dinner, or something. When he comes back.”

“Of course.” The smile on Imelda’s face fades a little, and she gives him back the phone. “Would be nice to have him over. We’ll tell Óscar and Felipe to be somewhere else for the evening. Cinema or something. Or maybe they can start getting some furniture in the room they’re renting,” she adds.

Imelda is in equal parts amused and somewhat concerned by her brothers’ decision to move into a room in a house a few blocks away - their bid for freedom, as they call it, though they are still very close by in case any help is needed once Coco is born. Héctor likes having them around, but he cannot deny he looks forward to having the apartment all for Imelda and himself in the few weeks left before Coco’s arrival.

And right now, it doesn’t escape him that she admitted she’d rather not have them there when Ernesto comes to visit. He glances at her, a mute question, and Imelda bites her lower lip. “... In case he needs to talk,” she says. Héctor nods. Of course - of course, it makes sense: if there are things yet unspoken, and God knows there are, they must be discussed without anyone else listening in. That need for secrecy is part of the reason why their arrangement couldn’t continue.

Maybe the twins will understand, Héctor thinks, and he finds he actually believes they would. They’re young, open-minded in a way their parents - and most in Santa Cecilia - are not. Still, he doesn’t voice that thought: it would mean discussing the possibility that maybe, just maybe…

“I’ll tell him to bring a bucket of ice cream for you,” Héctor says instead, and Imelda laughs, smacking his arm lightly before she returns in the next room over where her parents and brothers are. Héctor clicks the phone’s screen on, and follows her - knowing full well that an honest conversation is just delayed, and wondering who will wind up cracking first.

***

In the end, they never do find out who among them may have cracked first. The dinner never happens, because something else does crack right before they sit at the dinner table.

Break, more like.

And Imelda’s waters were not supposed to break for another two weeks at least, as Héctor repeats no less than seventeen times during the car ride to the hospital.

“We’re almost there, mi amor - stay calm, all right? Stay calm,” he is now saying to his remarkably calm wife, not at all calm himself. Ernesto chooses not to remark on that and keeps his eyes on the road instead.

All right, so it’s time. This is happening.

He’s had complicated feelings over the upcoming birth of Héctor and Imelda’s baby - his goddaughter, it’s easier if he thinks of her as his goddaughter - and he’s been bracing himself for her arrival as you do for an emergency landing: knowing that it’s coming no matter your feelings on the matter, that the plane must land and hopefully all will be well once it does.

Now, however, everything is moving so fast he has no time to think, much less to feel anything other than urgency. One moment he’d been sitting at the dinner table, one moment Imelda had emerged from the next room over, pale but in full control, telling them it was time for her to go to the hospital. Héctor sprinted to retrieve the small suitcase she had prepared beforehand while Ernesto rushed to get the car, and he’s now in the process of weaving through traffic and ignoring the GPS’ suggestions in favor of a route that he knows will be somewhat less congested.

There is a groan, a sharper breath, and he glances in the rear view mirror. “You all right there?”

Imelda looks back at him through the mirror, and for just a moment he can see how pale she is, how truly concerned for this monumental, frightening task ahead of her - deliver a new life into the world. And then she manages a smile.

“Just cursing over all that good food growing cold back home. The dogs and Pepita must be helping themselves to it. I won't be cleaning that mess,” she mutters, and Ernesto laughs, taking a turn. Even Héctor starts laughing - far more high-pitched than usual and somewhat frightened, but laughter it is. Imelda manages a chuckle before hissing again, a hand resting against her belly just as Ernesto takes another turn and gets right into the hospital’s parking lot, barely slowing down.

Imelda takes in a deep breath before opening the door. “I can walk to the entrance - they will be waiting for us, I called them before leaving,” she says, and steps outside. Héctor is immediately by her side, suitcase in hand, offering her his arm. He turns to look at Ernesto, eyes huge.

It’s happening, those eyes say. I am about to be a father, they say. I’m terrified.

But when he speaks, Héctor says none of those things. “Thank you,” he tells Ernesto. His voice is calmer, but the grip on the suitcase remains so tight his knuckles are almost white. There is something stuck in Ernesto’s throat, and he forces himself to swallow it; the weight seems to settle in his chest. Ernesto clears his throat before speaking.

“Well, someone with a still functioning brain had to drive. Go in, I’ll-- I’ll park the car and get in the waiting room. Are you going to, uh, go in the delivery room, or…?”

“He’d better,” Imelda mutters, and there is more snickering. The rock-hard thing in Ernesto’s chest melts away a little. “Can you let my brothers know?" she adds. "They’ll tell our parents. I’m ready to bet they’ll be on the first plane back.”

“Of course,” Ernesto replies, and watches them walk to the entrance before he sighs and goes looking for a parking spot. It is only as he steps in the waiting room and reaches for his phone that he realizes there is a slight problem.

He has absolutely no idea what Imelda’s brothers’ phone numbers even are.

***

It is amazing, Imelda thinks, how much a newborn can look like a grouchy old man.

“Mi amor, she’s beautiful.” Héctor’s voice is a little nasal as he still blinks away tears, cheek resting on top of her head and eyes fixed on the baby in her arms.

In Imelda’s opinion she is most decidedly not beautiful - newborns just out of the birth canal, she finds, are some of the ugliest things one can imagine, skull still misshapen and features flattened - but she has no doubt whatsoever that Héctor absolutely means it. Must be the tears of joy, or love goggles, or both. Either way, it gets a tired smile out of her.

“Well worth the hassle,” she says, and oh, she means it. Labor was exhausting, if relatively short, and she wouldn’t wish the pain that had followed to her worst enemy - but for the tiny thing in her arms, blinking blearily up at them with the expression of someone who’s just had the worst day, Imelda knows she’d do it all over again. She strokes a tiny hand with her thumb just as Héctor speaks.

“Hola, Coco,” he says, so much tenderness in his voice it almost hurts. “I’m your papá. Actually, wait, more importantly-- this is your mamá. She made you.”

Like she’s a pair of shoes, Imelda thinks, and chuckles. She cannot recall being this happy with any of her creations up to now. “Your papá helped,” she says, kissing Coco’s forehead. “Don’t ask how until you’re older.”

“Wha-- oh! No no no, don’t ask at all!” Héctor exclaims, causing Coco’s eyes to shift back to him. She blinks, and Imelda can almost believe it’s out of surprise. “You’re just here, I’m not ready to think about giving you the Talk! Best if you ask your mamá about it, really. And about shoemaking. But if you want to learn how to make some good music-- what is it?” he asks, blinking, when Imelda bursts laughing.

She cannot answer right away: she just laughs and laughs and laughs, causing Coco to start wailing, as though to join in, while Héctor looks at them both, saying nothing, taking in everything with a wide smile on his face.

***

More. More coffee.

Ernesto lets his last few coins drop into the machine, rubbing his face with his free hand. It’s been… three hours? Feels like more. There hasn’t been much for him to do, other than calling his mother with the odd request of trying to contact Imelda’s parents - he has no clue what their number may be, maybe she can find out or even visit them, they’re in the same damn town - to let them know what’s going on.

For the most part he’s been sitting in the waiting room, with a growing pile of empty plastic cups on the floor in front of him. He goes to sit again, drinks the bitter hot coffee in one gulp, adds the cup to the pile, and leans back.

He tells himself there is no reason to be nervous, of course giving birth cannot be done in a pinch, but the more he waits the more uneasy he feels. What if something went wrong, two weeks early shouldn't be cause for concern, but-- no, surely Héctor would come tell him-- or would he stay in, unable to leave her side while… while…

“ERNESTO!”

Héctor’s cry and the bang of the door slamming open causes several people in the waiting room and Ernesto to jump several feet up in the air, all hair standing on end, letting out a shriek he’ll barely manage to pass off as a grito later.

He has barely enough time to land again before Héctor throws his arms around him, laughing and crying, trying to lift him and failing miserably, dragging him into a clumsy half-twirl. “She’s here! Coco is here! She’s beautiful, the most beautiful baby girl you’ll ever see!”

Something aches just a little, a part of him that is still bitter and spiteful over being cast aside for her sake, but Héctor pulls back with such a wide smile it’s near impossible not to smile back. And he does.

“Imelda…?”

“She’s fine, she was amazing. Resting now, but we can visit later. Oh! They’ll take Coco to the nursery, there is a window - want to come take a look at your goddaughter?

Ah, yes. I have a goddaughter now.

The ache grows duller, and Ernesto’s smile grows a bit brighter. “I would like that,” he says.

And means it.

***

A/N: Imelda's reaction to Coco is kinda based off my grandmother's when she first saw my brother a hour after birth. He was ugly. Just, so damn ugly. All she could say looking at the crib was "... so, it's this one?", clearly hoping to be told that no, it was the next one over. And while grandma was never known to be the nurturing type, when an Italian grandmother cannot manage to pretend her newborn grandchild is cute, you know it's one ugly baby.

***

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#pixar coco #ernesto de la cruz #imelda rivera #hector rivera #coco #mind the gap

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makeste · 5 years

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BnHA Chapter 249: Todoroki Taco Night

Previously on BnHA: Nothing happened at all, because the manga was on break last week! Fortunately the anime had finally resumed after a billion years (estimation; exact length of time may be slightly off), so we had that to take the edge off in the meantime. Except we didn’t, because the anime also ended up going on break due to a rugby game or some shit. So that was nice. On a related note, when I die I’d like the Basement arc to lower me into my grave, so it can let me down one last time.

Anyway, Endeavor did some mentoring and gave Shouto and Kacchan a power-up assignment and told Deku to work on Air Force to help him master the fine control he needs for the Bloop. Then Fuyu called a week later and was all “HEY DAD, DINNER, OUR PLACE, TONIGHT, BRING THE KIDS.” And then as previously mentioned, we waited two whole fucking weeks and MY GOD, my body is ready, on to the new chapter we go!

Today on BnHA: Shouto, Katsuki, and Deku are cordially invited to Todosmith Farms for an evening of food and fun! They make it approximately six minutes into dinner before Natsu loses it and exits with more theatrics than a spurned reality TV show contestant. Baku and Deku spend the next hour being all “!!!” at each other back and forth, and whispering about how fucking dramatic the Todorokis are, which fully kills me and is my favorite thing ever to happen in the world. Deku then begins to guide Shouto through his personal healing process like fucking Mufasa booming at Simba from the heavens, and meanwhile Endeavor listens in while quietly kneeling before HIS DEAD SON’S PHOTOGRAPH, IN THE SHRINE THEY BUILT FOR SAID DEAD SON IN HIS BEDROOM, and sorrowfully wishing he could do more for his family. Anyways so I’m in ruins now, but otherwise fine. How are you?

(All comments are my unspoiled reactions from my initial readthrough of the chapter. I did a quick edit for grammar and clarity afterward, and added a few ETAs in the process, but aside from that there are no changes.)

well it’s Thursday morning, and I have just seen the picture of baby white-haired Touya because no one in this fandom knows how to fucking spoiler tag (and that’s on me too for browsing the BnHA tag on a Thursday; I know better, but I was just curious how this new group chat thing was working out), so here are my immediate thoughts

we never actually confirmed that the hair color correlates to their powers, huh. we just assumed. but come to think, there’s no reason why someone couldn’t have mom’s hair but dad’s quirk. it’s all Shouto’s fault for being a perfect 50/50 split and thus making everyone assume that THAT’S JUST HOW IT WORKS. damn you Shouto and your dramatic character design

anyways I tried not to look at the pic for too long -- once I realized what I was looking at, I averted my eyes -- but he does look like Dabi, I think. oh shit guys. it’s really fucking happening

and I also didn’t get a good enough look to determine whether this was a photo of Touya (that Deku or whoever happened to spot while visiting the Todochester Mystery House for the much-hyped dinner) or a flashback image (in which he is just standing really fucking still for some reason and staring directly at the camera), so I guess we’ll see. but anyways, Deku and Kacchan didn’t come all the way down to Todoroki taco night to not have their evening peppered with intricate family drama and reopened wounds and hysterical conspiracy theories, so you had better keep them goddamn entertained! lord knows the Todorokis don’t do small talk. this is literally their only way of spicing things up so their guests don’t die of sheer awkwardness while Endeavor sits in stony silence and Shouto just stuffs his face with soba all night

also aren’t we due some popularity poll results soon? just getting in all my random thoughts now before we dive in. anyways Horikoshi, so you know what I want to see now and you better deliver

aaaand now it’s Friday! so Happy Birthday Aizawa, and LET’S GET TO THAT CHAPTER

and we’re opening with Endeavor’s Redemption Arc: The Page. omg

holy fucking shit BnHA. you sure do have a way of making me wait WITH BATED BREATH!! FOR TWO WEEKS!!! ON THE EDGE OF MY SEAT!!!! for the new fucking chapter only to have me immediately suck in a deep breath through my teeth and seriously reconsider whether I am in any way emotionally prepared to handle this. “you think you know what you want?!” Horikoshi demands. “YOU HAVE NO IDEA.” sob it’s trueeee

okay. okay. we can do this. hell, if we made it through Tomura’s flashbacks then this should be child’s play. so all right, let’s go

-- oh wait, but before I click to the next page, I just want to note that Endeavor isn’t the only one who’s nowhere to be found in this pic, though! boy you have three sons. uno dos tres

“the hellish Todoroki residence” lmao this legitimately sounds like the title of a Buzzfeed Unsolved episode

ARE YOU TELLING ME ENDEAVOR PROVIDES LUXURY APARTMENTS FOR ALL HIS FUCKING EMPLOYEES OMFG

SO MY THREE SONS HAVE ALL BEEN ROOMING TOGETHER UNDER ENDEAVOR’S ROOF!? THE FANFIC ENDEAVOR AGENCY RESIDENCES?! WHAT KIND OF OT3 SHENANIGANS HAVE BEEN ABOUNDING THIS PAST WEEK OH MY GOODNESS THIS IS LIKE A DREAM

OH MY GOD

okay I have like... ten different notes I want to make about Katsuki and I don’t know where to start SO I’LL JUST START SOMEWHERE!

I’ve legit wanted to see how he would look with his mask pushed up into his hair like a headband for the longest fucking time (I don’t know why! I just wanted to see it!) so this. is. Christmas for me omg. if only he wasn’t making one of his (◣д◢) faces and was instead making a normal face. but that’s probably too much to ask of him at THE CRACK OF DAWN, which brings me to my next point,

I thought he was a morning person?? [furiously checking headcanon notes] kid you go to bed at 8pm. you have your full eight hours by four in the fucking morning. and the full nine and a half hours that GROWING BOYS ACTUALLY NEED by 5:30am, which is when I always assumed you typically woke up in order to get in your morning workout and BEAST IT UP IN THE PIT or whatever gym people do. yet here you are, half dead, while Deku and Burnin’ are raring to go. were you just burning the midnight oil and that’s why you’re grumpy? WAS IT THE FANFIC AGENCY RESIDENCES SHENANIGANS, OH MY GOD I CAN’T

lastly, look at that unzipped collar. why is it that the more disheveled he looks the more I want to pile him up in a headlock and give him noogies. I love him so fucking much, this is ridiculous, he was only gone for two weeks but it felt like SEVENTEEN YEARS anyway

so Burnin’ is all “catch any villains faster than Endeavor yet, LOL, LIKE THAT COULD EVER HAPPEN!!” and they’ve been putting up with this trolling for a fucking week now huh. no wonder Katsuki’s ready to pack it in and sleep for the next year

motherfucker holy shit

sure thing coach. Todoroki Shouto out here ready for the morning huddle. BRING IT IN! ONE TWO THREE PLUS ULTRA

meanwhile Katsuki better keep his hair like that for the rest of the arc now. the collar too. I am living for this

what is Shouto doing with his hands

are you blowing a kiss. or beckoning toward her like Neo in the Matrix. are you channeling your inner Iida. wtf is this

this one panel perfectly encapsulates everything I love about this OT3 dynamic oh my god

Katsuki screaming at Todoroki that he’s better than him (based on impeccable, flawless logic). Shouto completely disregarding this and calmly continuing to have a normal conversation at a normal person volume. and Deku ignoring them both while sending the chipperest, most positive energy in the world out toward this other person because he loves everyone!!

and now there’s three closeups of the boys showing how worn out they are

they’ve been working so hard I’m so proud of them and also they totally deserve a night off to go gorge themselves on soba at Toderly Manor

and then there’s a whole nother page continuing to establish that it has been a week! and they’re working hard! and YES, WE KNOW, though

yep yep yep we get it now WHAT ABOUT THAT DINNER oh my god. it’s been four pages! and if we’re only getting thirteen again then this is precious real estate we’re just wasting here, come onnnnn

so Endeavor is continuing to show off how great he is while the kids look on in frustration

heh but I like this panel because LOOK AT THEM

ALL THREE OF THEM CAN FLY (basically). I love it. yes. just let them be airborne for the rest of the series

meanwhile Endeavor’s thinking agitated thoughts about how Fuyu wants him to try and CONNECT TO THE CHILDREN ON AN ACTUAL EMOTIONAL LEVEL, like what do you think he is?? a human being??!

lol he’s got that look like “WHY DON’T YOU JUST KILL ME NOW AND BE DONE WITH IT.” things he would rather do than have a family dinner with his kids and his two new apprentices: literally. anything. else. ah, but Endeavor. no one said the path of Not Being A Bastard would be easy

he’s thinking about how happy Fuyu sounded on the phone, though. “the thought of us finally becoming a real family...” c’mon Enji you can’t just let your only daughter down like that

and also me. you better not fucking let me down. I was promised dinner at Todoton Abbey and DAMN IT THIS IS HAPPENING

lol he’s getting all fired up and the kids are just mindlessly yelling back like “FUCK YEAH”

even the guy in the background’s like “YEAHHHHHHH LET’S DO ITTT.” the best part is how not a single one of them has any clue what they are loudly agreeing to

OH MY GOD

TODOLAND RANCH, AT LONG LAST. YESSSSS

lmao Kacchan

“it’s not too late!” he is so desperate, bless him. all he wanted was to curl up in his room with a bowl of spicy ramen after a long day and watch old All Might clips on Youtube while blissfully not interacting with a single other soul. and now instead they’ve dragged him to fucking Todo-a-Lago for dinner with his boss, his two best friends who he hates, and SOMEONE’S SISTER. what a nightmare

FUYUMIIIIII

worst part is, I don’t think Kacchan will be able to resist Fuyu’s Kind Elementary School Teacher Energy at all. he’s totally screwed. -- OH MY GOD, IS HE HIDING

like, I know this is the Todoroki drama chapter and that’s where my focus should be, and I’M SORRY, but you guys all know what you signed up for by this point, right? you can read a million other Todo hot takes on tumblr today, but this will forever be the blog that spends paragraphs and paragraphs obsessing over Kacchan hiding behind the door frame and sulking and asking “why though?” in increasingly petulant tones like a four-year-old because SOMEONE DRAGGED HIM TO A SOCIAL EVENT and this is his personal hell! Fuyu’s gonna end up having to manually feed him chicken like Satou did at the party

meanwhile now that I’m actually READING THE REST OF THE PANEL LIKE A NORMAL PERSON, I have to pause for a moment to let my heart break over Deku saying that he hardly ever gets invited over by friends. hey Deku come here for a moment, I just have to give you a dozen hugs real quick and then you can continue as you were

anyway so guys I literally owe Todoroki Fuyumi my life and I want to send her flowers with a “THANKS FOR SAVING THE MANGA” card but it’ll have to wait until the chapter is done. let’s continue

NATSU’S HERE TOO, SHOUTO SAW HIS SHOES, OH M Y GO D

AHHHHHHHHHHHHH

(ETA: shout out to Natsu for wearing the greatest shirt of all time and taking Deku’s rookie-tier gags to THE NEXT LEVEL!)

I LOVE EVERYTHING. I’M SOBBING. BLESS YOU HORIKOSHI. LET THE GAMES BEGIN!!

holy shit Deku

Alton fucking Brown over here. chill my dude

NATSU BRINGING THAT DRAMA YESSSS

and look how oblivious Deku is to the general vibe settling in here

what the fuck do you see. you just literally had no idea how else to respond to that, huh

oh my god oh my fucking god

(ETA: I’m laughing so hard and I’ll explain in the tags. sob.)

guys let me just break down these two panels for you

1. Fuyu is all “NATSU YOU COOKED TOO”

2. Shouto is all “WTF, I ATE NATSU FOOD AND NO ONE FUCKING TOLD ME”

3. Natsu is all “YOU PROBABLY DIDN’T BECAUSE... THAT MAN PROBABLY WOULDN’T ALLOW IT”

how the fuck is there drama brewing over the fucking cooking. this fucking family. and Shouto’s face is two seconds away from being my new icon omg

LMAO

SO YOU TWO FINALLY FUCKING CONNED ON TO THE DANGEROUS SITUATION YOU’VE FOUND YOURSELVES IN, HUH. that’s right bitches. welcome to Todo’s Landing

and now Fuyu has finally made a FATAL ERROR IN JUDGEMENT oh no. that error being trying to fall back on Shouto of all people to ease the awkward tension. that boy literally is made up of awkward tension. right down to his atoms. Fuyu what were you thinking??

FUYUMI: [SLAMS HANDS ON TABLE] “SHOUTO WHAT KIND OF FOOD DO YOU EAT AT SCHOOL!!!!”

SHOUTO: [LEAPING TO HIS FEET] “AT THE CAFETERIA!!!!”

someone help me I’m fucking dying. actually, you know what, help them

“yo Deku, do you wanna get the fuck out of here right now.” “yes, yes I do.” turns out, they didn’t really need that internship anyway. maybe they can still convince the centipede man to take them instead

holy shit

like, I feel so bad for him, but also Fuyu looks so fucking sad and I can’t?? this is too much, and things haven’t even gotten spicy yet. this arc is going to leave me a wreck

DSFKSLDFJLK

“it’s okay,” Horikoshi says comfortingly, “here’s a panel of your two good boys helping clean up.” WELL THANK YOU, EXCUSE ME FOR A MOMENT, I’M GOING TO GO SIT. and think about Katsuki being a fucking gentleman whose momma raised him right and who helps clean up the dishes after being invited over for dinner. never mind that he didn’t even help clean up the Christmas party. but he saw Fuyu being sad and immediately went MY GOD, I’VE GOT TO DO SOMETHING TO HELP THIS STUPIDLY NICE LADY

anyway so are you two going to ask Endeavor why his kids hate him so fucking much. or just ignore it because you pretty much know the gist already because Shouto can’t keep a lid closed on anything

OH MY GOD THEY’RE HAVING A SECRET CONVERSATION ABOUT IT

FFFFFFFdfsLK -- “YOU GUYS WERE TALKING ABOUT IT RIGHT NEXT TO ME, ON ACCOUNT OF I WAS STANDING RIGHT THERE, IN THE SHADOWS, BECAUSE I WAS EAVESDROPPING, SHUT UP”

anyways so did you guys know that Deku and Kacchan having whispered conversations about how dramatic the fucking Todorokis are is my all-time aesthetic. I didn’t know either actually. but it is

Fuyu why are you apologizing to Shouto for making him help clean up

AND WHY ARE YOU PERSISTING IN MAKING THAT FACE. SON OF A BITCH. GIRL I’M BRINGING YOU SOME ICE CREAM AND SOME DVDS. WE’RE GONNA HAVE A SLEEPOVER AND FORGET ALL ABOUT THIS SHIT. PLEASE FEEL BETTER. I’M SORRY YOUR TWIN BROTHER IS DEAD AND YOUR WISH TO HAVE A NORMAL FAMILY IS NEVER GOING TO FUCKING COME TRUE BECAUSE WE CAN’T HAVE NICE THINGS OMG

oh my god she’s having a heart to heart with Shouto about how he feels about Endeavor. oh my god I see Horikoshi aiming a bow right at my fucking heart. he’s notching the fucking arrow, this is it, it’s been real you guys

that look in his one visible eye. god. there it is. oh god. hurts

(ETA: do you suppose all of the Todorokis have secretly had that exact same dream. we know Fuyu has, and Rei as well based on her letter. I’m starting to think that Shouto has too. it only makes sense that a boy who was denied a real childhood for the first fifteen years of his life is going to have some part of him that secretly longs to just have a normal family. in related news, Shouto had better get some fucking hugs in this arc!)

-- ARE YOU SERIOUS

WHAT IS IT WITH HORIKOSHI LATELY AND BEING DONE WITH JUST IMPLYING THINGS AND NOW VERY INTO SHOWING THEM IN EXPLICIT HORRIFYING DETAIL. HERE’S A DEAD DOG! HERE’S A DYING CHILD! HERE’S A SIX-YEAR-OLD WHOSE MOM JUST POURED SCALDING WATER ON HIS FUCKING FACE AND SHE DIDN’T MEAN TO BUT IT’S TOO LATE AND NOW THEY’RE BOTH TRAUMATIZED. AND SHE’S USING HER QUIRK TO HEAL HIM AND HELLO, THIS ONE PANEL IS ABOUT TO MAKE ME START CRYING. KATSUKI YOU WERE RIGHT. WHY, THOUGH

(ETA: yeah this does not bode well for an upcoming flashback in which a child was presumably burned the fuck alive. feels like Horikoshi was testing the waters to see how much he could get away with. we may be in for some brutal shit pretty shortly.)

OH MY GOD A LETTER

they’re going to discharge her soon!?? IMMINENT FEELINGS INBOUND. I HAVE NO MORE SPACE TO PUT THEM!! MY HOUSE IS PACKED WITH FUCKING FEELINGS ALREADY, PLEASE

ahhhh he says he doesn’t know

this is the most realistic fucking thing I’ve read in this manga to this date. not knowing how you feel about the abusive parent who did so much harm but is now trying to change. boyyyyy howdy I feel that in my fucking bones. Horikoshi is out there delivering the real shit. goddamn

KATSUKI MY HERO

it’s as though Horikoshi placed his hands on his shoulders and said “listen up sonny boy, I’ve got an important job that only you can do. defuse this tension. in any way you can.” and Katsuki looked him dead in the eye and said “I got this”

meanwhile Deku’s hoping he can spontaneously develop another new quirk which will open up a hole in the ground to swallow him up

DEKU: “I HAD PERMISSION!!!” KACCHAN: “I DIDN’T HAVE SHIT!!”

HE IS BITCHING LIKE A DISGRUNTLED HOUSEWIFE HOLY SHIT I’M LOSING MY MIND

“A NORMAL, PLEASANT EVENING!!” yes of course, that’s why you spent the entire ride over here clinging to Todoroki’s shirt and repeating “WHY” ad infinitum. anyways as usual this child is a nightmare whose fickle tirades absolutely no one deserves to be subjected to, god bless him and I adore him so

and Deku is again apologizing for him like they’re fucking married. this chapter is filled with so many highs and lows for me, it’s wild

this, to be clear, is one of the highs. god I love it

oh shit it looks like Deku’s getting ready to say something! SOMETHING WISE, I BET

YESSSSSSS

IS HE?? sometimes this kid can just peer into other people’s souls with perfect clarity, it’s uncanny

oh my god Shouto’s face

genuine shock. he doesn’t even know how he feels, but somehow Deku is able to cut right to the heart of it

oh my god Katsuki’s there to chime right in too and say “but if you feel like he doesn’t deserve forgiveness that’s fucking fine too”

this is actually incredibly fucking supportive? anyway so guys have I mentioned within the last five seconds how much I love Bakugou fucking Katsuki. I have? well that’s okay I’ll just say it again anyway. and also I love Deku and Shouto too oh my god. bless this chapter

oh lol nevermind that still Deku talking while Katsuki is just making faces. well he’s doing his best. anyways so like I said I love Midoriya fucking Izuku

(ETA: [chinhands] do you guys think. that perhaps. Midoriya Izuku might be harboring some unresolved feelings regarding his own absent daddo. maybe. ??? why does this chapter have so many layers??)

ah I see, Katsuki spied Natsu just STANDING THERE LISTENING IN THE DARK, as one does, and that’s why the face

and also YES, Shouto is like the kindest fucking person in the whole series possibly. thank you for acknowledging that?? I’m in the process of arranging all of these new feels into a comfy little pile now, so maybe I can curl up in them. if Horikoshi insists on delivering more and more

SLDKFJSLDKFLSHGLKJKLJSLGKJSDLFKSDLFKJLSDKJFLKSL

“THE OTHER CHILD WHO’S NO LONGER THERE” RED ALERT, RED FUCKING ALERT, IT’S REALLY HAPPENING, HOLY FUCKING SHIT. REMINDER TO SELF, NEXT THURSDAY I’M GONNA HAVE TO GO ON A SELF-IMPOSED INTERNET HIATUS FOR TWENTY-FOUR HOURS BECAUSE FANDOM’S GOING TO LOSE THEIR FUCKING SHIT WITH THE SPOILERS NEXT WEEK AND I’M NOT EVEN MAD

sdfhk. oh my god. and so it was a photograph! but one which appears to be a segue into a flashback! and the law of escalating tragic flashbacks states that Touya’s is somehow going to be even more horrific than our last flashback, in which, let me just think back for a sec, oh yes, an entire family was massacred and torn into bloody chunks including a six-year-old girl and a dog, and the surviving child was then adopted by a psychopath who adorned him with severed hands and was all “NEVER FORGET HOW FUCKED UP YOU FEEL ABOUT ALL THIS” and then the child murdered some people to feel better about himself. so this is somehow going to be worse than that. well that’s just. ...I don’t even know. I literally can’t think of a lighthearted way to end that train of thought lmao. WE ARE FUCKING SCREWED. get ready to burn, baby

but meanwhile, parting thoughts

so they really do believe he’s dead. that’s confirmed. and he died (or, well, “died”) young, too, based on this picture and on the toys on that shelf. fffff

Endeavor kneeling at a family shrine to pay respects to his dead son and miserably wishing he was still alive is just. repeated stabbings of my already mutilated heart. thanks. thanks for that

he heard EVERYTHING and he’s saying nothing, because what can he say?? I meanwhile have already said “oh my god” about 1600 times in this recap, but I’ll go ahead and say it again anyway one last time because oh my god, the fucking Todofam AND THEIR FUCKING DRAMA!!!

what can I do for my family at this stage? the last plea of a desperate man struggling to make amends and piece together something he’s already shattered into a million pieces. he keeps dreaming of them being happy together, even if he’s not in the dream. he wants to do right by them, finally. but he doesn’t know how. anyways so people have been saying and saying that this arc so far has been death flag after death flag for this old coot, and you know what, they’re fucking right. this does not have a happy ending. this is going to be fucking devastating. and here I am, fully obsessed with it. fuck me

anyways I guess that’s finally everything I can think of to say. this recap is already a million fucking words so that’s fine lol. why though

#bnha #boku no hero academia #bnha 249 #todoroki shouto #bakugou katsuki #midoriya izuku #todoroki fuyumi #todoroki touya #dabi #endeavor #bnha spoilers #mha spoilers #makeste reads bnha #so guys #when I'm writing up the initial recap and making notes of what screencaps to use #I use the first few words of dialogue from each panel I want to crop #for example: [why though]#anyway so long story short that led to me having one set of brackets which contained the words #[you cooked/endeavor]#and yeah. and then I was looking at natsu's face #and like #I don't know why I can't stop laughing?#'sis. you cooked endeavor??'#he's not sure how he feels about this. but he's probably going to allow it #anyway so when I'm busy sobbing next week I need to try and remember this to cheer myself up #'you cooked endeavor.' classic natsu #what a knave

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amaikana · 5 years

Link

another fluffy OT3 fic! (been a while since I write one :3) --- Rate: K+ Pairing: OT3/norrayemma Tag(s): Date Night, Fluff, Romance, Inspired by Honeyworks’ Song Note: the italic parts at the separations are me quoting the song’s lyrics :3 ---

You received a voice message (18:06)

“Hi, Emma. I’m sorry. I don’t think I can make it tonight. There are still quite a lot works that I need to get done here. I’m so sorry. Please tell Ray that I’m really sorry too.”

‘To repeat the message: press 1. To reply the message: press—’

Emma clenches her phone.

“…Stupid Norman.”

Does being an adult means to be patient? All the incomparable things are being put on a scale

But because we have ‘love,’ we can still be ourselves Yet we still get struck by the anxiety

* [Ne, Aitaiyo] ((Hey, I miss you))

Emma pouts silently as she gripped the mug in her hands which contains her already cold coffee. From the doorway, Ray—her other boyfriend who’s just gotten back from work and still clad in his formal suit—sighs and approaches her gently.

“Hey. C’mon, don’t keep pouting like that. It’ll make your face all wrinkly faster, you know?” her boyfriend tries to joke. “What’s gotten you so down, anyway? Aren’t you the one who’s most excited for tonight?”

“There’s no ‘tonight,’” Emma grumbles.

“Huh?”

“I said ‘there’s no tonight’! Norman can’t make it! He’s still at work. The plan’s cancelled!”

For a moment, Ray doesn’t say anything. Then, suddenly, Emma feels something landed on top of her head. Ray’s hand. A hand that ruffling her hair without a care in the world, as if she hadn’t just spent a full half-an-hour attempting to stylize it like one of those fancy hairstyles she often sees in magazines.

“Ugh! What are you doing, Raaay?! You just ruined my hair!”

Ray chuckles beside her. “Then just go style it again,” her boyfriend says easily.

“E-eh? Didn’t you hear what I just said? The plan’s canc—”

“Hurry,” Ray cuts her. “I think it’ll only take about forty minutes to drive to the office. The traffic is usually quite packed at this hour, though. So I probably should just use the train, it’ll be faster that way.”

“The…the office? Wait. You mean Norman’s office?!”

Ray doesn’t answer her. Instead, her boyfriend grabs two sets of coats and scarfs from the coat rack and starts dressing himself up. Before opening the door, her boyfriend turns back at her.

“Oh, by the way, can you head to the cinema ahead of us and buy the tickets? I think it’ll take too much time if we go together from here, so Norman and I will just meet you there.”

Baby Girl, your eyes, and nose, and lips Hey, I wanna touch you

The office is almost empty the moment Ray steps into the building. Most of the employee already went home, only a few still choose to stay behind. He presses the elevator button to a floor he remembers well, a part of the office that he and Emma frequently visited.

“What are you doing, staying up ‘till this late?” he says as a greeting. Not surprisingly, Norman is the only one left on that floor.

His boyfriend jumps in surprise and turns at him with an annoyed expression.

“Don’t startle me like that!” Norman complaints. “What are you doing here, anyway? Wait. What time even is it? Shouldn’t you be at the movie with Emma?!”

Ray raises his eyebrows. “So, you’re saying we really should celebrate our anniversary with only the two of us?”

Norman averts his eyes, starting to look a bit guilty at the sarcastic retort. “It’s not that… I mean, it’s just—”

“Well, whatever. If that’s what you want, so be it. Emma and I can still have a good time with only the two of us.”

Ray dumps the plastic bag that he’s been carrying on top of his boyfriend’s desk carelessly. Norman stares at him questioningly.

“What is this?”

“That? Oh, nothing. Just a few cookies that Emma baked this afternoon. Figured you might want some snacks while pulling an all-nighter again.”

He turns around and begins leaving. But before Ray could even take a step away, a hand reaches out, stopping him.

“W-wait!”

Baby Boy, your hands, and habits, and love Hey, I miss you

“W-wait!”

Norman doesn’t know what he was thinking. His hand just automatically reached out the moment Ray started leaving.

His boyfriend turns back around. “What?”

“U-um…”

Ray snorts. A beat later, Norman feels a hand landed on top of his head, ruffling his hair messily.

“Idiot.”

For a second, the thoughts about all the paperwork he wanted to re-read and revise for the nth time again entered his mind. For a second, he hesitates. But……

He shrugs, smiling up helplessly at his dark-haired lover. “…Thank you. Let’s go?”

The more we think about each other, the more it feels our distance grow

The moment Emma arrives at the cinema, her heart drops a bit, realizing her two boyfriends haven’t arrived there yet. Though, taking a deep breath and a firm step, she puts on her best smile before she walks up to the cashier.

“Three tickets for this movie, please.”

The ticketing employee looking at her confusedly. “You’re alone, Miss? This one will start in a few minutes. If you’re waiting for some people, you might want a different schedule, or—”

She shakes her head. “No, it’s fine. They’ll arrive soon.”

Still wearing her cheerful smile, she takes the tickets.

Best smile for best occasion. Also for the people she loves the most.

Baby Girl, your eyes, and nose, and lips Hey, I wanna touch you

It took them about five minutes walk from the office to the station. From there, it should be around twenty minutes before they arrive at the nearest station to the cinema.

The whole way, Ray practically dragged Norman on his feet. Snapping at the sleepy man every few minutes and receiving weird stares from the strangers on the street.

Ray groans for the nth time. He knows that his boyfriend must be very tired from pulling all those late working hours this whole week. ‘The overworking idiot probably even did it without really realizing,’ Ray grumbles inwardly.

But…still! It shouldn’t be this bad, right? Right?!

Ray can feel some white hair strands start tickling his cheek again as the head on his shoulder lolls slightly from the train’s movement. He bites his tongue. Luckily, what would’ve probably been an embarrassing yelp didn’t manage to escape his lips.

‘Stupid! Idiot! Stupid Norman! Why at a time like this?! Why in a public place like this?! Ugh, wake up! Wake up, idiot! This is so embarrassing!’

That’s what he silently complaining, but…

Awkwardly, with his probably now very flushed face, Ray moves slightly and adjusts his sitting position so that his boyfriend can lean on him more comfortably.

He steals a glance at Norman’s fancy watch.

“Still about fifteen minutes until the station…” he mumbles.

Ray sighs, averting his eyes and silently tangling his fingers to his lover.

‘Better put up with this, then.’

Baby Boy, your hands, and habits, and love Hey, I miss you

There’s patience. And there’s “how freaking long anymore do I need to wait for my two stupid boyfriends to arrive” patience. Besides…will they even able to make it here on time?!

Emma doesn’t care whether her probably annoying groaning would earn her another weird stares from the strangers around again. At this rate, she really will strangle them.

“Aaaaargh, stupid Ray! Stupid Norman!”

Just as she said that, her phone rings from a chat notification. She lits up as she reads the sender name.

Ray (21:09) “Emma, I can’t get this idiot out of the taxi. Help.”

Emma frowns confusedly. “…Um, what?”

Swinging back and forth, I recalled it Back when we first gazed at each other’s eyes *

“Are you kidding me?!” Ray groans.

He has tried everything: from tickling, to pinching, to slapping his boyfriend’s face and practically shouting beside his ear. Still, Norman wouldn’t budge!

He has somehow managed to drag his boyfriend to get out of their train and get onto a taxi. But the moment they stepped inside the car stupid Norman immediately slumped onto him again. And now they have arrived, he can’t get his boyfriend’s head off of his lap!

Ray grimaces and glances at the taxi driver apologetically. It’s probably their luck that the dark-skinned woman driver only chuckles and waves him off from the front seat.

“Ahh, young love~ How sweet~”

Feeling desperate, Ray finally resorts to texting their girlfriend.

Emma (21:10) “Eh? What happened?”

“Aaargh, stupid Emma! Just come here already!” he grumbles.

On his lap, Norman’s head lolls again, somehow facing his stomach now.

‘This is so awkward…’

And I remember that moment, When I first touched you

Emma understands what happened the moment she finally sees her boyfriends—who are still adorably cuddling inside the taxi, she notes.

She chuckles. ‘How come Ray doesn’t realize it?’ she muses.

Emma shakes her head. “Norman~ C’mon, it’s wake up time, baby!”

Ray stares at her flatly. “I told you. He won’t budge even though I tried everything on him! How do you think he would wake up if you’re just calling him like th—”

Her boyfriend’s ranting got cut off by a sudden kiss to his cheek. The reaction is immediate: Ray flushes as bright as tomato and starts stammering.

“W-what– wh—”

Emma bursts out giggling. But even her giggles got cut off by another sudden unexpected peck to her cheek.

“This one’s for our best girl.” Norman grins at her before giving a small kiss on her nose.

“You– You were messing with me?!”

The still-red faced Ray starts pushing Norman unceremoniously out of the car. Her white haired boyfriend lands himself on his butt. He whines petulantly at her and Emma eventually can’t contain her laugh anymore—doesn’t mind that it makes her already re-stylized hair all messy again.

They’re basically making a ruckus at the parking lot now. And it takes Norman suddenly asking about what they’re actually supposed to be doing here for them to remember again that the movie they were planning to see together is about to start soon.

…Or rather, already started now.

“Why did you even buy this schedule?!” Ray complaints at her as they’re all running inside the cinema.

“W-well, the sooner the better right? Besides, it’s certainly better than having to wait another few hours for the next schedule, right? Right? Norman! Hey! Defend me!”

“Um, well…I was hoping I could go back home to change my suit first, though…”

“See?! That was an idiotic choice! Idiot!”

“Stop insulting me, stupid Ray! Are you actually my boyfriend or my bully?!”

Halfway through the cinema entrance, they all suddenly remember that they forgot to pay the taxi.

…Which sets another troublesome task, as they need to run back to the parking lot and run again to the cinema.

“Ah, young love~” the taxi driver woman shakes her head.

‘Yeah, it is,’ Emma silently agrees.

It really is.

Hey, I fell in love with you Hey, let’s fall in love again

#norrayemma #tpn full score trio #tpn fic #tpn ot3 #the promised neverland #yaksoku no neverland #fanfic #fanfiction

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thechaoscryptid · 5 years

Text

Writer’s Tag Game, Bouncy’s Edition

Many thanks to @tipsyraconteur for tagging me ❤❤ I know I said this was going to be my strictly Naruto blog but there’s definitely some of my other fandoms that are going to worm their way in heh.

Rules: brag to your heart’s content, you’re awesome, and then tag 5-10 people to do the same.

I’m tagging (if you’d like to play, no obligation): @magnustesla, @scarecrowinthewoods, @dunloth, @caped-ace, @alexianite, @benicemurphy, and @ocean-in-my-rebel-soul (you Voltron peeps, it’s Ary 😉)

1) What’s a paragraph you’ve written that you’re really proud of?

From Order and Obedience (KakaIru):

“Think Konoha’s dog is going to be an easy fuck, ranger?” Kakashi asked, eyeing every possible exit. Just in case. “That my allegiance is so easily swayed?”

“I think if you were still wearing your boots you’d be trembling in them,” Iruka said without missing a beat. “Your desire to serve the light may not make sense to me, but even I can see that the way your skin drinks in the moon would be pleasing to any god. I’m not demanding darkness, only obedience.”

2) Pick a favorite scene from your longest fic!

The scene in Wake the White Wolf (KakaIru) where Sera and Kakashi part ways. I still get chills at the lines “You are no longer my problem. I am no longer your whore.” There’s plenty of fantastic scenes from that fic, but that still remains one of my favorites. That whole arc, really, from when she finds out the news to when it’s finally 100% over.

3) Give us a snippet of your most recent WIP:

Voltron! This is a part of one of my stories for the Sheith Big Bang coming up:

A galaxy will never be enough to contain my love for you.

Mechanically, Keith’s hands go through the motions of powering up Black as Krolia’s voice comes through the comm link. It’s another diplomacy mission--another he’d rather skip in favor of liberating some far off colony from oppressors or just staying in bed, unmoving. The lion doesn’t speak to him the way she used to, and neither does anything else. The universe, for all its glory, has become simple.

Dull.

Grey, even with color sprays from passing planets and nebulas.

He chews on the side of his lip as he lets his head tip to the side, checking to make sure things are in order. His mother’s still rattling off information about the mission and he just wants to tell her to be quiet, he’ll figure it out on his own later. He wants to hear the ghost of Shiro’s voice whispering it loves him again.

Keith…

Ghosts are never enough, but Shiro’s I’ll love you until forever ends echoing in his head assuages the pre-mission blues. “Not that it’s ever anything else these days,” he says under his breath. Krolia asks what he said, and he blames it on a squeaky chair. “Gotta get in here and tune up the cockpit when I’m back. Project for Shiro and I.”

“Well, just as long as it doesn’t interfere with things now. You ready to give ‘em hell?”

Keith pastes a smile on his face, though he knows she’s not on the video link. “Would you expect anything different?”

4) If all of your published fics sparred, who would win and why?

Ohh, tough one...based off of stats, Wake the White Wolf, no question. Off of personal preference? Probably Crescendo (SakuOro) right now.

5) What’s a fic/author you’ve taken inspiration from and in which one of your works did you incorporate that inspiration?

I won’t lie, Tipsy, a lot of my recent style choices came from Scar Tissue 😅 I found I really enjoy storytelling in present tense, with longer flowing lines punctuated by short lil ones for emphasis. It’s appeared in...most of my recent stuff? I switched within the last year or so.

(putting the rest under a cut because there’s some longer answers)

6) Which fanfiction character do you enjoy writing the most? In which one of your fics do you think you wrote them best?

This is another tough one xD I think I actually have to go with a three part answer here, though really, I enjoy writing so many more.

Kakashi Hatake: Shatter Me (KakaIru), best fic

Dazai Osamu: Marionette (Dazushi), best fic

Keith Kogane: since I can’t tell which one of my bang fics yet, I’ll go with my favorite published, which is Unsteady (Sheith). Truly, it’s going to be the fic from the above snippet hehe

7) Smut or fluff? Give us a sneak peek of your favorite fluffy/smutty scene you’ve written.

Mmm, smut. I’ve really got to be in the right mood for fluff, and my not-so-guilty pleasure reading is angsty smut.

My favorite fluffy/smutty scene...I think it’s probably from Reciprocity (KakaSaku)!

He wishes he still had the Sharingan to capture these moments. Sakura’s still got her thin undershirt on, but the delicate hollows of her collarbones call to him as she reaches over to light their lantern. There will be no fire tonight save for the one burning low and heavy in his stomach, as if he’s swallowed molten rock.

“Do I need to do the rest?” she says, dragging her hands up her legs as she stands. “Should I strip for you, Kakashi?”

He stands along with her and tugs off his mask first, then his shirt. Sakura gasps as the angry red of fresh scars is revealed, fingers twitching toward him before he shakes his head. “Let me,” he murmurs.

Inch by inch, the pale curve of her stomach is revealed. Shadows flicker and dance over it along with the flames, and when Kakashi pulls Sakura’s shirt the entire way off he thinks not even the prettiest sunset could compare. There’s several scars--no shinobi makes it out without them--and no shortage of muscle packed into her small frame, but somehow she makes a battleborn body beautiful.

Sakura makes life beautiful.

Her breath hitches when he tells her this, something shifting in her at the tender touch of his lips against her forehead. “You’re sure you don’t want me to just jump you right now?” she says breathlessly.

“No jumping,” he says. “Only falling.”

8) What’s a scene in one of your fics you wish you would receive fanart for?

Uh, literally any one 😅 My top choice, though, I think would be of my favorite OT3 in Desperately:

“I’ll be a lot cuter when the day comes.” Sakura shoved the bandana up and crunched her nose as she looked back with Ibiki. “You might have to leave me at the altar to catch everyone fainting at the sight of me.”

Ibiki’s laugh rumbled through the living room as he gathered her back to his chest. “We’re never leaving you there, baby, you know we couldn’t,” he said. “Or maybe we could take turns catching them. How d’you think your clothes will hold up, Rai?”

“They’ll be fine. I volunteer for catching duty as long as it’s you two falling for me at the end,” he said, spreading his arms over the back of the couch as he watched them sway. “And of course, falling into bed with me later.” Ibiki cocked an eyebrow as Sakura giggled into his scarred chest. “What, you think I”m joking?”

“Never considered it,” Ibiki said. He pulled away from Sakura to trail his hand up her arm, urging her to spin. His uniform lifted from her creamy skin and Raidou sucked in a breath as the purple lace on the bottom of her underwear was revealed. She knew he couldn’t resist those, and Ibiki certainly didn’t mind them either.

“Come here,” he said. Ibiki let her go and gave her a gentle push toward Raidou’s outstretched arms before flopping next to them as the song began to repeat. “I saw those. You can’t hide them from me.” Her hair tickled his face as he kissed over her cheek down to her ear. “Wearing my husband’s shirt and my wife-to-be’s favorite underwear, how scandalous, Sakura,” he purred.

“I’m sure your wife-to-be will be so very displeased I stole them,” she said, pulling back with a mock pout before turning to beg a kiss from Ibiki. “I hear she picked them specifically for tonight because she wanted to get laid.”

9) Would you ever consider turning one of your fics into a podfic? If no, why not?

Not on my own? I have hearing problems, so it’s just really never occurred to me. If anyone else wanted to, though, I wouldn’t say no!

10) The best (or your favourite) 5 reviews you’ve ever gotten! Don’t forget to tell us which one of your fics received them!

There’s so many 😭😭 My commenters are all fucking awesome, but I’ll trawl my saved comments for some highlights!

P5eud0Nym on Wake the White Wolf (KakaIru omegaverse): So, I just wanted to say you’ve been doing a fantastic job. I appreciate that this isn’t, and hasn’t at any point been, a dumb tropey kink fic. That you’ve taken the time to put so much heart into all of this. The fact that you’re exploring the politics, the social issues, and writing all of the characters as being more than just their A/B/O designations, so good. The multifaceted way you write is just really and truly refreshing. It’s obvious how much work and thought you put into this. You’re tackling a lot of really important stuff, from consent to civil rights, and it’s some grade A USDA certified Good Shit. Thanks for the fic and keep up the good work <3

Lilmeliz on Monster (ShigaDabi): AAAAAAA GUARANTEED I CAN BLOW YOUR MIND mwa. Please excuse the lame dua lipa reference I’m so sorry I’m so sorry I couldn’t-- Delicious. Finally some fucking good food. I want to congratulate you. This is such a beautiful, touching, heartwarming masterpiece. I even cried a little. I usually read shiggy with his dark past and his (soul) scars and all that jazz, and venturing into the thought of him having a mere fiber of good will in himself, in his actual self, is risky and prone to be ooc. But here it sounds right. It feels personal, private and even possible, my boi :( Dabi is an angel, I’m dying. I like the reminder “they lie, they kill...” Yes he’s an angel but he’s still evil. I don’t know what else to add but really, this is stunning! IM GONNA TATTOO THISSS amazing work

Prism0467 on Forbidden (KakaIru): You have written their mutual dependency with such nurturing attention to detail I feel as if I know them. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt...embraced by a work of fanfiction before now...this may well be a first. Your enthusiasm for this pairing comes through loud and clear, I’ll tell you that :)

PearlBear on Crescendo (SakuOro): Wow. Just wow. This is brilliant, heart-wrenching, creative and extremely, extremely well-written. You have such a way with words, I was actually crying. And you adapt their lives as shinobi so seamlessly to situations that happen in real life (how many partners give up on possibilities for their significant one and get nothing in return?). This story managed to move me deeply and all the while, they all were in-character (it hurt when Tsunade looked at Orochimaru in the same way they all do, also loved how Tobirama and Madara are his parents). The omegaverse wasn’t heavy at all, instead it’s well integrated enough that I, who don’t particularly like it, barely noticed and completely accepted it. It’s just the way things are. You manage to convey so, so much in a few words. I’m amazed. So, thank you for sharing this! I am very, very excited for what’s next, whether Orochimaru experiments to save himself, whether Sakumo commits suicide (or worse, dies on this mission), whether... So many possibilities. Your story is outstanding. Thank you for writing this gem!

(insert special shoutout to Tipsy’s review of Testing the Waters...)

and no comment appreciation section would be complete without at least one from @magnustesla!

This one from Of Scale and Steel (Sheith naga AU): Ary, sometimes I am left speechless and I don’t quite know how to articulate my thoughts after reading one of your fics. Like, everything is just so...so brilliant that it’s like my brain fucks off when I try to get my thoughts down onto a page. Turning well known and beloved characters into something else entirely isn’t easy and often they miss the mark leaving the reader not really connecting with it. But you, you are brilliant and clever in all that you write because damn, I love Naga Keith. It feels like it IS part of canon. And your oc? Super adorable and she just belongs. I really loved her interactions with Shiro and the chewing on his finger had me rollling because it reminded me of when J would test everything by chomping it. Not relevant but it sparked a good laugh from me, especially because it is totally something kids do. I’m so fucking proud of you and I’m excited to see you get your mojo back with this fandom. Love you ❤

#tag game #get to know me

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juniper-and-lamplight · 6 years

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Recent Reads - May 19, 2018

Multifandom--Dirk Gently, Sherlock Holmes, Harry Potter, a bit of Star Trek--and a mix of old and new, as usual. I've already recced some of these fics individually, but life's too short not to be effusive about the things you love, so I'm including them here too <3 Recs under the cut...

The Answer to a Question - @a-candle-for-sherlock - 22k, T, Holmes/Watson

"These are the stories behind the story we know: what really happened to Watson's marriage, and what made him follow Holmes to Reichenbach; what secrets were hidden in the mountains, and what a dead man wrote to the man he left behind." This fic made me Feel Feelings and also made me (almost) late for work.

To Join These Men in Holy Matrimony - A_Candle_For_Sherlock - 10k, T, Holmes/Watson

"Sherlock Holmes is a contradiction, an enigma, a force; at once the most generous spirit and the most self-contained man I have ever known. I've known more of him, I think, than anyone on earth. Yet for years I'd learned nothing about his boyhood, nor his fears, nor his future hopes, nor his father’s name. I never felt it as a lack until I knew he loved me." A moving story about family, forgiveness, self-acceptance, and historical queer marriages.

The Narrator - candle_beck - 8k, M, Holmes/Watson

"Watson is a degenerate gambler, a reluctant romantic, and the least reliable narrator in the history of the written word." A brief, gritty glimpse of my favorite Victorian disasters.

where the falling angels meet the rising apes - @cosmicoceanfic - 26k, T, AU (crossover, Dirk Gently & Discworld)

"A story of Death and the boy who could see him, through the years." In my sadness over finally finishing the Tiffany Aching books, I allowed myself to indulge in Discworld/Dirk Gently fics, and this one was an especially satisfying blend of the two universes. Highlights include Dirk & Bart's friendship, and Farah having a stare-off with Death.

you could bring my healing - cosmicocean - 38k, T, Dirk/Todd, AU (fantasy)

"Where the whole thing takes place in a fantasy world that is not unlike but not quite mostly for legal reasons Ankh-Morpork, Dirk is generally an existential dragon, Todd is a washed up electrical lute player, everyone is kind of awkward and useless except maybe for Amanda, and there is a boatload of fantasy references, plus one (1) Star Wars one." Sheer escapist delight.

Start at the Beginning - @dont-offend-the-bees - 61k, T, Dirk/Todd (AU, fake relationship)

”Y’know, make it up. Pretend to be in a relationship with someone. Can’t be that hard to fake, right?” it was still a stupid idea, but Todd was actually pretty invested in it now. He leaned forward, folding his arms. “C’mon, think about it- you got any other desperate homeless friends?” Takes a wacky ensemble piece and transforms it into a different sort of wacky ensemble piece. Sparing use of fake dating tropes makes this fic all the more enjoyable.

Absence Makes The Heart Grow Fonder: A Lovely Sentiment, But Rarely Applies To Anniversary Gifts - DontOffendTheBees - 7k, M, Dirk/Todd

"In which Dirk and Todd celebrate three years together- but forgot they were supposed to be doing that." Featuring: Todd Brotzman's "funhouse of self-loathing," Dirk & Todd's mutual uselessness, Amanda & Farah's mutual exasperation, winks to Douglas Adams canon, and a clever meta twist.

How We Go Together - ekb112 - 3k, E, Kirk/Spock

"'Have you ever been in love, Spock?' A series of moments in Jim and Spock's relationship." I like a semi-annual spot of K/S. It's a classic ship for a reason, and this fic scratched the itch just right.

Easy As Breathing - electricteatime | @kieren-fucking-walker - 1k, G, Dirk/Todd

"Their days start together. Warm and close, but all elbows and knees, tangled in covers and noses buried into hair. It takes time to swim up through the pull of sleep to break the surface, but when they come to they wake up to each other." A lovely soft distillation of a relationship.

Dress You Up in My Love - electricteatime - 3k, T, Dirk/Todd

“'So, what? Your solution is a pair of skin tight leopard print pants? How is that better than anything I’ve worn?'

Dirk just grins wildly at him, it’s the most like himself he’s looked in days. 'Put them on.'” A fluffy missing scene fic with a wonderful sense of interiority. (How is electricteatime is so good at characterization?!?)

A Flame Undamped - Frayach, read by wench_fics - 5k, 40min, M, Harry/Draco

"A happy ending. Because I can finally imagine one." Hurt/comfort doesn't even BEGIN to cover this sequel to The Price We Pay for Wings. No one does pain and poignancy--and sometimes, healing--like Frayach.

Saturn in Retrograde - gooseflesh - WIP series, M, Dirk/Todd

"As with most things in Dirk Gently's life, things are fine until they're not. A mystery and minor inconvenience for Todd Brotzman takes a terrifying turn when Dirk insists on investigating, and it'll take more than a hunch for them to hold onto to all that they've built." I'm not typically an angst gremlin, but I can't stop reading this WIP, even as the characters' situation worsens exponentially.

Death by Kittenshark - howldax - 1k, G, Dirk/Todd

"'You know,' Dirk says sternly, 'if you murder me, there will be nobody around to feed you.'" Cats (even cats who are also sharks) are gonna cat. Charming and fluffy.

i was born in a summer storm (i live there still) - janeseyre - 10k, G, Farah & Todd & Dirk

"Farah confronts the vestiges of her past as she, Dirk, and Todd travel east to visit her mother. It turns out Farah isn’t as over her father’s death as she thought she was." A deeper look into Farah’s families, both biological and chosen; full of lovely little smile moments and Farah getting the closure she deserves.

The Burning Heart - @may-shepard - 119k, M, John/Sherlock, AU (post s3 fix-it)

"Although he’s certain he’ll never get over Sherlock, John plans to move on, and build a new life with Mark, unaware that Sherlock is not quite as dead as he appears, and that Mark is hiding secrets of his own." As is my habit with zeitgeist-y fics, I didn't get around to this one until well after the rest of the fandom, but I'm glad I did. Here's to an assassin plot that's actually plausible and compelling!

The Easiest Way - nntkiwff - WIP, T, Dirk/Todd, Farah/Todd (“basically OT3”)

"'Is that everything?'

'Yes, essentially,' Dirk says, as Todd is saying, 'I don't have magic powers.'" A slow burn WIP, set immediately after the return from Wendimoor, featuring multiple perspectives (including Ken!), in-depth characterization, and some excellent lines, like this one about Farah: “She says all of this as though she is ashamed of being cursed, instead of proud that she blew up an evil warlock.”

Blood Magic and Rebirth (or, The One Where They Are All Feminist Academics) - @notcaycepollard - 1k, G, gen (Harry Potter)

"Moon cups, Luna thinks. Moon cups and blood magic. And she remembers the old itch under her skin, and a music box fluttering into a flock of birds, and wonders just how powerful it could be." This is 1000% headcanon for me now.

A Little Bit Scandalous - @oneprotagonistshort - 1k, E, Dirk/Todd

"Dirk Gently was self-aware enough to admit that he had… a thing. A quirk. One of those idiosyncratic little peculiarities that made up a tiny part of his personality. A kink. He just liked that extra edge; the need to be quiet or someone might hear, the blood pounding in his ears while he stayed hyper-alert for footsteps, the way Todd kissed him so urgently that he lost his breath." I especially appreciated the characterization behind the kink in this one.

Relative Distance - Quesarasara | @itsnotgonnareaditselfpeople, read by @lockedinjohnlock-podfics - 45k, 5hrs, E, John/Sherlock

"Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end." One of the author's tags on this fic is "What if everyone just acted like a damn adult for a change?", which really clarifies how the fic differs from the later seasons of the show.

it's an institute you can't disparage - @shortcrust - 19k, T, Dirk/Todd

"Todd wakes up beside Dirk Gently four years to the day after having met him realises - abruptly and with categoric certainty - that he wants to do so every day for the rest of his life. What the fuck, he thinks." Hilarious, insightful, and absolutely nails a) the ridiculousness and pathos of Todd Brotzman mired in needless self-doubt, and b) my favorite Ship Dynamic: compatible disasters.

there's cell reception on this widow's walk - strix_alba - 2k, T, Farah/Tina

"In which Tina sort-of-kind-of asks Farah to stay with her in Bergsberg, and Farah kind-of-sort-of wants to say yes." Awkward flirting, Farina styles! Tina mentally describes Dirk & Todd & Farah as a “bunch of hot, uptight weirdos,” which is p e r f e c t.

Just Like That - @sussexbound (SamanthaLenore) - 8k, E, John/Sherlock

"For the first time in what feels like years he WANTS." The perfect combination of unf and feeeels.

Further fic recs | Fic Bookmarks

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lambden · 3 years

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i have absolutely nothing to say for myself. here’s more bingo smut for @novigradmarket ... happy holidays!

Prompt: tinsel bondage

E, 3.2K words, Aiden/Lambert/Coën (with established Lambden)

Tags/warnings: modern AU, ... tinsel bondage

“I have to say,” Coën says, more apprehensive than Aiden has ever heard him before. “This isn’t what I expected when you said you needed a favour.” He still has yet to step through the open door into Aiden and Lambert’s apartment; his eyes may be wandering, but his feet are firmly planted in the hallway outside.

He thrusts his hands deep into the pockets of his sweater— a hand-knitted gift from Eskel, which Aiden only knows because Lambert has a matching sweater of his own. Even though Coën might not technically be part of Lambert’s family, he’s practically one of the pack by now. He’s Lambert’s best friend, which has been more than a little daunting as Aiden tries to navigate the emotional minefield that is Lambert’s family. Coën has been there long before him. And although he’s far too kind to ever say it, should something happen between Aiden and Lambert, Coën would definitely be around to pick up the pieces.

But that’s exactly why Aiden needs to cement this friendship— or, at least, that’s the rationale he’d prepared before Coën actually came over. Now he just feels foolish, and he hasn’t felt foolish while standing shirtless in front of a gorgeous man in a long time. To make up for his nerves, Aiden holds out the massive roll of tinsel to Coën. “I know, but I didn’t expect it to be so much work,” he practically whines. “I’ve been looking up bondage tutorials for hours and they all say a partner is key.”

Though he frowns in bemusement, Coën accepts the proffered tinsel. Aiden counts that as a minor victory and steps back into the apartment, clearing a path for the man to enter. He continues, “If you’re uncomfortable then of course you don’t have to, it’d just— it’d just be a massive help! I mean, the shops were all sold out of sexy one-eyed blow-up dolls, so I had to make do with what I already had at home.”

That terrible joke finally draws a smile out of Coën, and Aiden instantly relaxes at the warmth in his eyes. It’s easy to see why Lambert used to have such a crush on this man when they were teenagers, even if Aiden is glad that Lambert chose him instead. “I’m not uncomfortable,” Coën tells him, sounding very uncomfortable. “It’s just… not what I expected. Where do you even find bondage tutorials?”

“Reddit has everything, my friend,” laughs Aiden. As if he hasn’t been scrolling through the same weirdly devoted Tumblr blog for most of the day, half-trying to find inspiration and half-grinding against his palm. He balances that palm against his bare waist now, and watches without comment as Coën’s gaze sweeps over his naked chest once more. “So… you’re alright with this? Really?”

“It’s a great present,” says Coën, ever the fair and balanced dork. Aiden can’t imagine how he puts up with an asshole like Lambert— he’s only able to manage their relationship on account of being a massive asshole himself. Finally Coën steps over the frame and shuts the door quietly behind himself, and Aiden exhales for the first time since he showed up. Then, for reasons unknown, Coën adds, “Lambchop’s a lucky guy. We should probably get started if he comes home from work soon, yeah?”

“Yes,” Aiden nods eagerly, then remembers exactly how weird this favour really is. “Um. Would you like water or anything, first?”

“I’m alright.” Coën begins twisting the tinsel in his hands, looking for an end as if it’s tape or yarn. It takes tremendous effort but Aiden manages to tear his gaze away from the shifting muscles in those broad arms, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. How can anyone look that good in an ugly, homemade Christmas sweater? It defies the imagination. “So am I tying you to the couch here, or…?”

He could ogle Coën all day but the man’s right— they’ve got work to do. Aiden shakes his head and gestures for Coën to follow him into the bedroom, where he’s already set up a jazz vinyl. Lambert can’t stand the sound of jazz but Aiden adores it, and if he’s going to relax enough for another man to tie him up in tinsel, he’s certainly going to need calming music.

The record is quiet enough that the neighbours won’t hear, but loud enough to drown out the creaking bed frame as Aiden reclines onto it. He starts on his back, drawing his knees up and spreading them until his feet are by his wrists, and he can easily hold his ankles. Raising his head to peer at Coën, Aiden mumbles, “I thought something like this, maybe. You know, you could just tie my wrists and ankles like this, um…” Still holding his bundle of tinsel with one loose end, Coën stares at him from the entrance to the bedroom. “Fuck, sorry, I didn’t expect this to be awkward.”

“You didn’t?” Once more Coën laughs, although there’s no meanness to it at all. “So this is your first time having a friend tie you up, then?”

Aiden releases his ankles, huffing sheepishly. “First time having anyone do it, actually,” he admits, and sees Coën’s eyes bulge in surprise. “I mean, I don’t want anything too intense! I just want him to be surprised.”

“I don’t think you need to worry about that,” says Coën. Aiden watches him pace over to the nightstand to retrieve a giant red bow, the type that would belong on a new bike. Not a trussed up boyfriend. Aiden flushes, embarrassed, but Coën just holds the bow up, frowning thoughtfully. “Is this meant to go around your neck?”

“I hadn’t thought about it,” Aiden bleats out, instead of I thought maybe you could hang it above my gaping asshole, actually! He reaches for the bow, meaning to arrange it around his neck to test how it might feel, but before he can grab it Coën snatches it away. He huffs, shifting his shoulders around to get a little more comfortable. “So are you up for this or not?”

“Sure, I’d love to help.” His tone is almost too perfectly kind— Aiden flushes again as he wonders if he’s being teased. Lambert has always raved about Coën’s sharp wits but honestly, Aiden never gets that impression from him. Coën seems too honest and loyal to have a cutting sense of humour; he’s booksmart, not necessarily clever. But now, seeing him walk around the bed and admire Aiden’s body like it’s a new project to be worked on… Aiden starts to think that maybe Coën’s hiding a laugh. He’s surprisingly flustered by the idea, which must be why the next question catches him so off-guard. “Are you going to keep your pants on?”

“I don’t have to,” Aiden volunteers almost instinctively. Coën doesn’t move, and eventually he realizes that that means the onus is on him to undress himself. Feeling more demure than he’s ever felt in his entire life, he reaches down to unbuckle his belt. The mood music isn’t doing a good enough job calming him down, and the tiny clink of his buckle is almost more than he can bear. To keep the conversation going, he blurts, “I told Lamb you might help me with his present, you know.”

“Yeah?” Coën holds a hand out for the belt. “What’d he say?”

Aiden, stymied, hands it over— then he watches Coën open their closet and carefully hang it next to the rest of their belts. That’s almost too much to handle, so he focuses on stripping out of his jeans in one smooth motion. “Uh, he said that was good, that he liked the sound of that. Because, uh, apparently you always give really good gifts.”

“He flatters me,” Coën scoffs fondly. When he turns back to the bed to take Aiden’s discarded jeans, Aiden watches him falter. Which is entirely fair— it’s not like Aiden had warned him about his underwear, and he knows that this piece is a scene-stealer. Aiden is privately pleased when Coën doesn’t immediately look away from the red lace garment sitting low around his hips. It wouldn’t be fair if he was the only flustered one here.

Then, as the music swells for a heated moment, Aiden realizes that Coën is staring not at his festive underwear, but at the plug that must be visible through the semi-opaque fabric. Even if he can’t see its ridiculous candy-cane colour he would be able to see the flared ridges of its base where they’re pressing against the lace.

Aiden inhales and curls his toes, flexing his thighs so that the plug moves inside him, and Coën honest-to-God squeaks. Aiden opens his mouth to reflexively deflect, perhaps to give the man an out. After all, he’d signed up for ‘hey, we’re friends, we’ve been to three concerts together now, could you perhaps tie me up in tinsel because I forgot my boyfriend’s Christmas present?’ He had not signed up for this, and Aiden knows he’s taking it too far. But he can’t help put on a show, not when Coën is watching him with such narrowed, focused intensity.

But before Aiden can defuse the situation Coën steps closer to the bed. He doesn’t touch Aiden but he sets the bow down on the mattress and Aiden swears he feels the impact anyway. Coën says, low and serious, “I guess I have a reputation to live up to,” and before he remembers their previous conversation Aiden can’t, for the life of him, parse what the fuck Coën means. Then the implication sets in— I guess I have to make you look good for him— and a shudder runs down Aiden’s spine, making him tremble. Coën doesn’t relent, continuing in that sinfully low voice, “If I came in here… alright, let’s try something else. You’ve got a lovely face, but if I came in here expecting a present, perhaps I’d want you on your hands and knees.”

“Right,” Aiden pants, scrambling to do exactly that. He flips over on the bed so quickly he nearly topples off the edge, but before he can fall he feels a hand on his upper back. He nearly jerks at the motion, unsure why he expected Coën not to touch him. In order for this whole plan to work, Coën is going to have to touch him a fuck of a lot. “Sorry,” he grits out, shaking his head. “I’m good, I just… you startled me a bit.”

“I’m sorry,” Coën says sincerely, coming around the bed to stand at his side without touching him. “If you need me to stop or untie you, really, just say the word. I’m only doing this because you want to— if it starts to feel weird, you need to tell me, alright?” Aiden nods, digging his teeth into his lower lip. Again, Coën prods; “Is that alright?”

“It’s alright,” says Aiden, embarrassment fading slightly. God, Coën is such a dweeb. He’s going to choose to focus on that and not the undeniable fact that this encounter is already much, much sexier than he’d imagined it would be. He had thought the tinsel would be unimaginably itchy and the bow hilariously goofy, not… well. He hadn’t thought that any of it would go like this, with him on his hands and knees, ass in the air for another man. For his boyfriend’s best friend, no less. Even though Aiden knows Lambert wouldn’t mind, the thought still makes him tremble.

Apparently satisfied by his answer, Coën returns his broad, warm palm to Aiden’s back. “Lower, I think,” he suggests gently. Aiden obliges, folding himself down so he’s resting on his elbows. Then Coën taps those too, pulling his wrists up behind his back. Like this Aiden is face down against the mattress, preventing him from enjoying any part of the display, but he can imagine how it’d look for anyone entering the room. For Lambert entering the room.

His legs spread a little at the thought, at what Lambert will surely do when he comes home to find Aiden like this. Coën takes the cue and moves down there, taking Aiden’s ankles and gently spreading them even further apart. “Is that comfortable? Do you feel like you could hold this for another half hour?”

“Holy shit, we’re cutting it close,” Aiden laughs against the pillows. Coën laughs too, and it sets them both at ease, dissolving some of the tension built up between them. “Yeah, that feels alright. Feels good.”

“It looks good too,” Coën assures him. “I’m going to tie your legs like this, then, but I’ll leave him a little room to move them around.” All of a sudden Aiden is extremely glad to be face-down as heat sparks through him and his cock twitches with desire. Not room for Aiden to shift his legs, but for Lambert to move them as he pleases. Aiden exhales heavily and the pillows only partially muffle the sound.

If Coën notices Aiden’s growing problem, he graciously ignores it, wrapping tinsel around his knees and ankles. Aiden expects it to itch abominably— this is the part he’s been dreading all day, honestly— but it only feels like a light tickle. A rasp, maybe, if he leans into it. He nearly likes the idea that it’ll leave his skin flushed red even after the gentle restraints are removed, like how rope would cut into him and leave an impression. He closes his eyes and lets Coën tie his legs up however he likes.

“Stunning,” Coën says. Aiden gnaws on his lip again, worried about the kind of noise he might let out if he doesn’t. “Really, just… this was a great idea. I had my doubts, but it looks… Yeah. Wow. Lambchop’s gonna black out.”

“Well, let’s hope his reaction is slightly more involved than that,” grins Aiden. Coën chuckles, this time lower than before. Suddenly Aiden desperately wants to know what the view is like for him. Not what it’ll be like when his boyfriend gets home, but how Coën is feeling right now. “Hey, if you’re gonna black out, at least finish wrapping me before you do!”

“What a mouthy gift you’ve brought home,” Coën teases, and Aiden is the one who nearly blacks out at that. So he does know how to tease! Aiden redacts his earlier musings about Coën not having the capacity for cleverness, and wiggles his hips slightly in lieu of a response.

But Coën just reaches down to take Aiden’s wrists in one hand, grabbing the tinsel with the other and tying them together above his ass. The angle is just shy of uncomfortable but at least Aiden won’t be like this for long. He tests the bonds, curious to see how Coën’s handiwork will hold up against the most minor struggling— but to his surprise, the knot holds fast. “Oh,” he breathes. “You’re very good at this. Hey, I can’t believe I forgot to ask this earlier, but have you done this before?”

A beat hangs in the air as both of them breathe, silence interrupted only by the record player. “No,” Coën finally admits. “I was a Boy Scout, though.”

“Course you fucking were,” Aiden says, delighted. “I would pay to see pictures of that. Do you still fit into your uniform?”

“I didn’t keep the shorts, but I’m sure I wouldn’t,” Coën laughs. He moves up the bed and at first Aiden can’t fathom why, but then when Coën’s gentle hands draw a ribbon around his throat, it’s all he can think about. Right. The bow. Coën ties it more loosely than he expects, and leaves the large bow dangling around Aiden’s neck, ends trailing over his shoulders.

Perhaps Lambert will grab the ends while he fucks him— the thought makes him shudder, and he really shouldn’t be having reactions like this while Coën is still so close. Valiantly trying to return the conversation to safe territory, Aiden begins, “So was Lambert a Scout with you? Or was that before the two of you knew each other?”

Before Coën can answer, both of them freeze as they hear a sound from outside the bedroom, distant but unmistakable— the doorknob turning as someone opens it. They hadn’t even fucking locked it. Aiden can hardly lift his head to look but he tries anyway, and when he turns he sees Coën staring back at him with wide, dark eyes. “You said half an hour.”

“Guess he’s home early,” Aiden breathes. His traitorous cock twitches with want again. Why is that the most dangerous situations always make him feel the most turned on? “You weren’t supposed to be part of the present, Eagle Scout. Any ideas?” Because Aiden can provide a couple, but he’s pretty sure none of them are appropriate enough for Coën to say yes.

“I’m gonna go talk to him,” whispers Coën. Despite his serious tone he looks uncertain as he stands and slowly crosses the room, shutting the door quietly behind himself. Aiden doesn’t blame him— for all Lambert’s many winning attributes, he does have a lightning-quick temper. Coën’s involvement in this whole ordeal was only supposed to be a funny story, shared after Lambert fucked Aiden silly. Aiden feels guilty that Coën now has to go explain this whole thing to his best friend.

And also, he feels especially guilty that none of this awkwardness has, at all, made his dick less interested. He strains against the tinsel but Coën did a fantastic job tying him down. If Aiden really wanted to free himself, he’d have one hell of a time doing so. He rolls his hips forward in a tiny, locked motion, grinding against thin air. It provides no friction or relief and the plug in his ass doesn’t move against anything, only moving when Aiden flexes. He moans into the pillow, low and quiet, and as a result he nearly doesn’t hear the awkward conversation happening just outside the room.

“Coën? Didn’t know you were over. Is everything alright?”

“Yes, everything’s fine, sorry! Aiden asked me to come over.”

“Oh, cool. … Where is he?”

“Uh. Well. It’s kind of a funny story.”

Aiden’s knee slips out towards the edge of the bed a little more and somehow the motion pushes his panties up his hips, jerking the plug slightly more inside him. He misses the rest of the muffled dialogue from outside, too busy trying to catch his breath. He’s overwhelmed— has been ever since Coën pushed him down onto the bed, to be honest, and he’s starting to lose what little control he’s got left. He bites down on the soft fabric of the pillow, thinking absentmindedly about the laundry they’ll have to do later, and the apologies he’ll have to deliver to both Lambert and Coën.

Then the bedroom door opens, and he hears a quick inhale from— well, from either of them. Like this, with his face shoved into the pillows, Aiden has no hope of being able to tell who’s who. That thought— that it could be either one of them standing behind him, ogling him right now— is too much to bear, and he groans again, trying to bear down against the plug.

“Holy fucking shit,” Lambert says, already sounding hoarse. Well, that’s one question answered.

“Merry Christmas, baby,” Aiden mumbles, trying to spin his head to look over his shoulder. He can’t without straining, but he catches a brief glance of not one, but two men in the doorway. Well, they both might be mad at him for this, but if he’s going to be naughty, this feels like the right time to do it. Aiden breathes, turning to shove his head down again, “Coën, you sticking around?”

#lambden fic #lambden #lambcoen #lambcoen fic #ot3 i desperately need a tag for. it's fine #aiden #coën #events #my writing #lambcoden fic #lambcoden

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theandrogynousdragon · 3 years

Text

I posted 13,815 times in 2021

i spend too much goddamn time on this hellsite

12 posts created (0%)

lmao

13803 posts reblogged (100%)

holy jesus

For every post I created, I reblogged 1150.3 posts.

I added 617 tags in 2021

#0 - 60 posts - idk if this is for untagged posts or what

#skyrim - 171 posts

#lmao - 123 posts

#elder scrolls things - 61 posts

#he's the android sent by cyberlife - 58 posts

#oh no i didn't need my heart or anything it's fine - 46 posts

#lmaooo - 25 posts

#dbh - 25 posts

#pevensie siblings - 24 posts

#evan buckley - 24 posts

Longest Tag: 140 characters

#markus is making that face bc he just saw connor try to eat the glitter while north is doing shots and cheering on con's bad ideas in the bg

i deadass don't remember making that tag lmao

My Top Posts in 2021

3 notes • Posted 2021-06-11 23:32:54 GMT

For the Brotp/Notp thing: Will?

OH HO HO HO, thank you!!

OTP: merwill :D it's the childhood friends to lovers <3

BrOTP: i feel like will and gwaine would get on fantastically (much to the terror of whoever is currently in charge of the braincell lol)

OT3: merlancewill, we stan a supportive choatic feral trio

NOTP: will/arthur, hunith/will bc that's just. awkward.

3 notes • Posted 2021-05-21 16:19:41 GMT

Radiation

i am afraid of heights unfortunately so no skydiving but i might rob a bank lol

https://theandrogynousdragon.tumblr.com/post/649754207947276288 link for the ask game

3 notes • Posted 2021-04-29 05:35:17 GMT

I don't know these Hank, Connor, and Lukas people you are posting about, but I am very concerned for them. Is it a movie? A video game? Are they okay?

Hiya! They’re characters from the Detroit: Become Human video game! And no they are not okay lol XD everyone needs So Much Therapy

4 notes • Posted 2021-01-26 02:26:07 GMT

Brown, but like laser tag way.

So you're hunting me for sport? 👁️👁️

6 notes • Posted 2021-03-07 22:25:37 GMT

Get your Tumblr 2021 Year in Review →

#my 2021 tumblr year in review #hellsite (affectionate)#hellsite (derogatory)

0 notes

juuls · 7 years

Note

Got any stuckony recs?

YES! Absolutely yes!

My apologies this took until today. I had a busy weekend and had to rest a lot, but I’m here now. :) Also, I don’t have my old bookmarks list (long story) so I’m having to go through and look for my favorites, old and new. Long process! (This took me over four hours, though I was doing a few other things as well. Still, I’m a bit of a slowpoke.)

See below the cut for some of my favorites, and don’t forget to leave kudos and comments (even just an “I liked this!”) for the authors, to let them know their hard work is appreciated!

(If someone knows an author’s Tumblr handle, let me know or tag them so that I can edit this rec list and tag them appropriately!)

Equilateral by FestiveFerret @festiveferret

It was the way Steve had said, “I found him,” the desperate, agonized hope, that had Tony replying with, “Bring him home,” without any hesitation.

But now, now he was hesitating like fuck.

Penny Candy and Sparklers by StrivingArtist @striving-artist

James Buchanan Barnes: formerly the Winter Soldier, formerly Captain America’s right hand man, formerly a sergeant, formerly a dock worker, formerly Stevie’s best friend…. currently a glorified prisoner of Prince T’Challa…. had trouble wrapping his head around all those former selves. He spent too much time thinking about all the bits of him that he kept gluing back together to pretend he was a person anyone would want to keep. He spent even more time picking at the cracks, pointing the flaws out to himself. Only thing he did more than that was make sure no one else noticed how far he was from human.

So, James Buchanan Barnes, who didn’t know what to call himself, who didn’t know how to go forwards, agreed, and moved back into the tower where his best friend lived with a husband orphaned by the Winter Soldier.

Hide A Heart of War by RayShippouUchiha @rayshippouuchiha

“You’ve got war in your heart boy,” Howard sneers, “don’t ever try and pretend to be anything but what you are.”

Tony feels the familiar burn of a flower mark being etched into his skin but he doesn’t look, doesn’t try and check to see what it is. Instead he keeps his eyes on Howard and his hands cupped around his bleeding mouth and nose.

Of Spiders and Super-Soldiers by AuddieAussie (Juulna’s note: I come back and read this all the time when I need some family feels and a smile. :))

After the hell that was Ultron and the Sokovia Accords, Tony doesn’t blame the team for wanting nothing to do with him. To make up for past mistakes, Tony disappears into his lab and focuses on using his money and brains to provide the Avengers with more fancy tech than they’ll ever need. By doing this, he also doesn’t have to worry about Steve’s grim frown, Bucky’s hateful gaze, or everyone else’s cold annoyance.

For six long months, this formula worked, but then fate decided to be a Loki-like dick and Tony wasn’t sure how it happened, but in the span of one week, he’d somehow acquired a kid.

and you needed someone to show you the way by SailorChibi @tsuki-chibi

Tony knows what the team really thinks of him. It’s a delicate balance: they tolerate him because of his money and his toys, and he gets to stay on the team and fight with them. He’s okay with that. So long as he hides the fact that Steve’s and Bucky’s names are written on his skin in the most embarrassing act of one-sided love affection ever, everything will be fine.

It just figures that a fantastically stupid villain, a kidnapping plot and a video camera will bring Tony’s well-kept secret out into the open.

The Mechanic, The Soldier, and The Captain by AvocadoLove (Juulna’s note: this is sad)

HYDRA need a replacement for Zola’s genius, and they have years worth of experience breaking and brainwashing a good man into something they can control.

Beware of Super Soldiers And Their Enticing Laps by Confused_Emo

Tony’s eyes shifted back toward the remaining occupants of the room only to realise there was literally no space in the sitting area for him.

This apparently was the best time for Bucky to make suggestive gestures, as the soldier patted his thigh lasciviously, “Why don’t you come sit on my lap, plenty of space right here.”

Just Far Enough by TheSopherFly (Juulna’s note: please read the tags. This is triggering and sad and angsty but fucking phenomenally well done and one of my all-time favorites… And I don’t like angst at all.)

Tony couldn’t honestly remember how long it had been like this. Probably since the day he’d called T’Challa and offered his help. At first it had just been compulsive self-denial: you can’t eat until you’ve drafted your opening remarks, until you’ve finished your research, until you’ve rewritten every last colon and comma and apostrophe in those Accords so that everyone can come home.

Those goals had been realistic. Lately, they’d become impossible. Until everyone forgives you. Until you forgive yourself. Until you make up for every bad thing you’ve ever caused.

He was fine. He was coasting in a dangerous place, but he was fine. He wasn’t taking it too far - just far enough.

Trinity by cinaea (immediately followed by pt. 2: Volition)

He’s become the kind of monster he all but died trying to stop.

A D/s, soul-bond AU set in modern day. More than two years ago, Bucky Barnes was lost during a Howling Commandos mission and captured by HYDRA. He and fellow prisoners Clint and Natasha—all submissives—are treated as slaves and forced to carry out terrorist attacks for their masters. An attack by the Avengers enables their escape but leaves Bucky with an incomplete soul bond to two superheroes.

Vowing to never be imprisoned again, Bucky and his friends go on the run from HYDRA, from law enforcement, and from the two dominants who will do anything to find him.

Don’t Tell Pepper by Crematosis

Tony convinces Steve that it is totally okay to include Bucky in their relationship because nobody will ever know. They’ll keep it a secret from the team and they’ll absolutely keep it a secret from Pepper because she’ll only yell at them.

Like most of Tony’s good ideas, it comes back to blow up in his face.

Underneath the Mistletoe by DreamcatchersDaughter @dreamcatchersdaughter

5 times Tony gets caught underneath the mistletoe and one time he doesn’t (and thank fuck for that).

and another like it by the same author:

Christmas Kisses (aka Sam is So Done With Your Shit)

Their mutual pining is driving him crazy, but its okay cause Natasha’s got a plan.

The Colors That Bind Us by yasminakohl @stuckonstoney

When Steve Rogers was six a boy saved him from a bully, then sky went from white-gray to brilliant blue.

When Bucky fell, the world stayed colorful and everyone told him it was because of the serum, he believed them.

When he woke from the ice and he finds the black and white he’d expected years ago, sixty-six years ago it seems, he’s crushed.

Now there’s color again, this time it comes with amazing reds and golds.

Until he wakes up and his sky is brilliant and his color mate is trying to kill him, his first color mate.

Will Steve ever be able to have his blue, red and gold?

The Melting, the Spark, and the Suffocation by btBatt @batterology

“So, Bucky,” he said, clapping his hands. “You ready to change the lives of asthmatic little punks everywhere?” Bucky sent a skeptical look Steve’s way.

“It seems to be my calling in life,” he said. Steve just smiled. He looked a little like he was having a moment, one of his oh-my-God-I-have-Bucky-back moments, so Tony smiled too.

“There are worse things,” Tony mused.

“Hear, hear,” Natasha said.

The Limitations of Wax by RayShippouUchiha @rayshippouuchiha (Juulna’s note: This has been untouched for quite a while but there are separate WiPs being written and branched off of this – and completed – that are fantastic, and the core character study in this fic is fantastic so I still recommend it.)

Toni Stark grows up with the tale of Icarus swirling in the back of her mind. Instead of taking it as a precautionary tale about hubris and overreaching she decides it’s more about the limitations of wax.

Years later when she builds herself wings of her own she makes sure to build them out of better material.

Difficult Conversations by yumekuimono @yumekuimono

HYDRA had brainwashed their Asset into silence, and then muzzled him to boot. It’s not that surprising that Bucky no longer considers talking to be one of his strong suits. So why does he keep having to have difficult conversations?

Or, the road to loving Tony Stark is never an easy one. (Juulna’s note: Eventual/Pre-OT3)

Strip it Down by Batfink

“Think about who you’re talking to Bucky. I am the technology king. What you’re asking me to do goes against everything I hold dear.” Tony looked positively distraught.

Bucky slid his hand onto Tony’s cheek, tilting his head until their eyes met. “Crying, Tony. Over the fucking washing machine.”

Giving a Friend a Hand by neunundneunzig (seasidesunset)

Bucky gets Tony’s help dealing with… anatomy malfunctions, and it turns into much more.

Operation: Knuckleheads by FestiveFerret @festiveferret

Bucky is enjoying his new, post-Winter Soldier life at Avengers Tower, until he discovers that the constant tension between Steve and Tony was caused by a recent (and mysterious) breakup. Determined to make his friends happy, Bucky gives himself a new mission: figure out what went wrong, and get these two idiots in love back together again.

Compass Heading by antigrav_vector @disco-pinecone

So… It’s complicated. Steve went and got himself killed on a mission, and, somehow, in the aftermath, Tony ended up getting together with Barnes. He’s still not entirely sure how that happened, really, but he’s not about to question it too hard. He’s enjoying it too much.

Then, because the universe loves turning his life upside down, they find Steve. It’s been two years, and things have changed, but Tony still cares about the asshole, and that, right there, is a problem.

Too Damn Short by MrShyRockstar

“I’m too short for this shit.”

This literally sums up this little ficlet. Tony’s too short, Steve is clearly (to anyone with eyes *coughnottonycough*) pining, and Bucky is just watching everything with exasperated amusement. That is all.

Put Your Arms Around Me, Hold Me Tight by StarSpangledBucky

Tony and Bucky desperately need to sort out the kink in their relationship, before they both lose Steve, or one of them does. It isn’t until the second week Steve is away on a mission that Tony goes through a nightmare, and Bucky decides to comfort him. From there, it gives them a chance to talk. And by the time Steve comes back, he’s more than satisfied by the results.

Minefields by arianapeterson19 (Juulna’s note: Please heed the tags! Content is triggering for abusive relationships.)

Being in an abusive relationship was a bit like needing glasses. He didn’t realize it until the damage was done.

Funny how people assume only men can be abusive.

And a new fic by a new author I would like to recommend to people to read:

Lonely Boy by thereddame @the-red-dame

Tony gets a visit from a Tony from a different universe and she needs him to help keep her children safe until Girl-Tony can kick some HYDRA ass. She’s being pretty tight-lipped about the father but he’s got a sneaking suspicion it’s Steve. Hey, maybe he can get ‘best babysitter in the universe’ award after this?

I’m sure since you are sending me an ask you know about my fics (though maybe not my oneshot), but I’ll list them anyway. ;)

Necrosis by Juulna

Necrosis (from the Greek νέκρωσις “death, the stage of dying, the act of killing” from νεκρός “dead”)

Tony always thought he’d die first, of the three of them. He’d accepted it, even. Hell, he wasn’t even sure that Steve or Bucky coulddie. Shows how much he knew.

Hanging From a Cross of Iron by Juulna

Toni Stark never - not even once - had a soulmark appear. Not one she can remember, at any rate. But when one finally appears, and the date of her rendezvous seems impossible to meet, does she decide to move on with her life, and forget the words written upon her skin?

Of course not. She’s Toni fucking Stark. Making the impossible possible is practically her family motto.

Well… there we go! I hope that that suffices for recommendations? If you want some more, I’m happy to provide them! Happy reading, and don’t forget:

Leave the authors your love in the form of a kudos and/or comment!

MUAH! xoxo

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lazaefair · 8 years

Text

Get To Know You (Again)

Tagged by @iwritesometimes

Nicknames: Laz, Lazae, Lazaefair. I’ve got a couple other active online handles that I like to keep separate from this one. Call it a holdover from 1990s internet paranoia. In real life, my sister calls me “Jess.”

Starsign: Capricorn

Height: 5’3” (about 160 cm)

Last thing I googled: Is James Bond a name or a title? (Conclusion: Most fans agree that Skyfall established that it’s a name, and that James Bond has always been the same man who just happens to have awful continuity issues. I don’t like it. I’m still headcanoning it as a title. So there.)

Fave music artist: Who on earth would have a ready answer for a topic this vast? Can we split this up into genres? No? Okay, okay, fine. I choose...Boards of Canada. (Downtempo electronica, if you were wondering.)

Song stuck in my head: Errr, this one’s a bit hard to explain. It’s the jazzy intro music that plays at the beginning of The Thrilling Adventure Hour podcasts, when the opening announcer states the names of the cast and crew in that episode. It’s got a nice swing to it.

Last movie I watched: Rogue One. And what a movie that was.

Last TV show I watched: Luke Cage! I am compiling some Thoughts that may or may not get posted, considering how late to the party I am.

When did you create your blog: Tumblr says my first post was 2014. But I know I created it earlier. So I have no idea. It’s a bit strange, as I consider myself a fandom old, but I wouldn’t be considered one on Tumblr. I was still hanging out on LJ until very late, so there’s a whole universe of memes and fandom history I missed out on - but at the same time, there’s a lot of fandom history I experienced that the youths on Tumblr have no idea of, despite still being impacted by it daily.

What kind of stuff do you post: A lot of fandom and social justice. Tends to be text-heavy and features long posts with no hesitation. Because I am a reader, I’ve always been, and my formative online social experiences were in old-school message board forums where it’s nothing but text. I’m comfortable with long discussions and stories. As a result, while so far I really enjoy the community on Tumblr, I think the structure of the website itself is just. The worst. This is a pipe dream, but my fantasy is that Dreamwidth gets together the capital to buy Tumblr, and merges all the best qualities of each site while getting rid of the worst. Anyway! This is all just to say, my Tumblr is my stream of conscious, and I make no apologies for what I do here.

Do I have any other blogs: I have a photo portfolio linked to my real name, and also a steampunk blog that I run for this production company I’m part of. Then there’s my LJ and DW (mostly abandoned), and yes, I did keep the login credentials for my Xanga (long abandoned, only kept around to remind myself of how embarrassing 2004-2006 was).

Do I get asks regularly: No. Send me asks!

Why did I choose my url: In the prehistoric era of 2003, I set up a Netscape email account. At the time I was, like any other good solipsistic teenager, an Ayn Randian libertarian, and I also just happened to like the verbal sound of the phrase “laissez-faire.” Alas, the username had already been taken. So I bastardized it with some cool vowel combinations and I’ve just kept it ever since. (I am now a progressive socialist, by the way.)

Gender: assigned female at birth, still identifies as female.

Hogwarts house: Ravenclaw. There’s not a lot of conflict on this one.

Pokemon team: Can I just bang all three of them together as a delicious OT3?

Favorite color: Red for life, red for passion, red for blood. When I was 12, a girl I had a crush on said I looked good in green, so I switched to green as my favorite color. But eventually I admitted to myself that red has always been the color that spoke to me, and I’m sorry/amused that this was ever a point of real psychological conflict for me.

Average hours of sleep: 6-7, and I desperately need more. But I can’t be trusted with technology in my room.

Lucky number: 29

Favorite characters: Hoo boy. This is like fave musical artist. It’s impossible. So I’ll just cop out and say my favorite characters from my most recent fandom are Chirrut Îmwe and Baze Malbus. I love these badasses.

How many blankets do you sleep with: Right now it’s a blanket, a comforter, and a lightweight blanket on top. In the summer I go down to a blanket. Back in Texas I used to sleep in sheets or nothing.

Dream job: Filmmaking in some capacity - probably editor - but without any of the hard work or sacrifice it would take me to get to the point of actually doing it for a living. At least I’m self-aware?

Following: 258 blogs. Is that normal? I don’t know.

Tagging @arbitrarygreay, @morganadasfadasrs, @cicaklah, and @frommybookbook (because it’s 2006 and we’re all back on LJ again)

#life

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pengychan · 5 years

Text

[Coco] Mind the Gap, Pt. 16

Art by Dara.

[All chapters are tagged as ‘mind the gap’ on my blog.]

A/N: Here's the funny thing about second chances: you've got to earn them.

***

Santa Cecilia has barely changed.

Ernesto can see that before the train even stops at the station. As it slows down it’s the same houses, the same trees, the same store fronts. Probably the same pebbles and dirt he walked on the day he left, a few pesos in his pockets and best friend in tow, determined to never set foot in that stupid town again. And now he's back, with plenty more money but without his best friend.

And a letter in his pocket, put back together with tape.

We are both so sorry and so proud. We miss you so very much.

Well, at least someone does, Ernesto thinks bitterly as he steps off the train. Is Héctor missing him at all? Is Imelda? Probably not. Why would they? They wanted a family, and they have it now. He’s no longer in it, no longer allowed anywhere close.

I fucked up.

It’s a grim thought, and it does nothing to improve his mood as he gets out of the station - the only idiot to get off at that stop - and into the semi-deserted street. He knows there must probably be far more activity closer to the plaza, but he has no intention to head that way: last thing he needs is someone recognizing him. They turned into small local celebrities, at least according to Héctor, and he really doesn’t want to deal with anyone stopping him and asking how he’s doing, how Héctor is doing, what were they up to.

If that happens, Ernesto will probably scream. But it doesn’t: keeping to smaller roads - small, small, suffocating, Christ has nothing at all changed in that damn town? Is it some kind of curse? - he is, soon enough, nearly at his destination.

At the end of the street, there is his childhood home.

Ernesto stops in his tracks, one thought and one thought only - nope, nope, nope, nope - hammering in his brain. Maybe she should have written back or called instead of just hopping on the first available train with no thought whatsoever of what he would say. What is he even going to say? The letter was written months ago at least; what if they changed their mind? What if he walks in there to be met with scorn?

What if they don't want me back either?

"Don't show your face here ever again!"

Stay away from my family.

The knot in his stomach, which just began to loosen, tightens again and painfully so. Any second now, the door could open and--

This is a mistake. Bad idea. Bad. Turn around and run.

He does turn around and starts to walk fast, not quite running but close enough, not entirely sure where to. Mexico City has been his home, but now he's lost most of what had made it home, and maybe there is no point going back there either. He doesn't want to face that mess, or confront what toll a split with Héctor will mean for his career, which was only just properly getting started. The contract was for both of them and now… now...

If I move first, if I tell Armando it's me or Héctor, they will choose to keep me. They must, I'm the main star. We can find another songwriter. I'm the real asset, not him.

That’s easy to tell himself, comforting, but he can’t bring himself to believe it. Héctor is more than a songwriter, he’s the songwriter and surely, good songs are harder to come by than good performers.

What if they decide to keep Héctor and let him go? What if he returns to Mexico City to find they already have, and that he’s been left with nothing? No, no, he can’t bear the thought. Maybe he should get on the first passing train and go wherever it takes him, anywhere but there, anywhere but here, as far away as possible from--

He turns the corner, now half-running, and bumps into someone. There is a yelp of surprise, grocery bags falling on the ground, and Ernesto stops in his tracks.

"Lo... lo siento," he finds himself mumbling without looking up, crouching down to grab the bags before the woman he's bumped into did. "I don't think anything is damaged, but just in case--"

"... Tito?"

Ah. Great.

Ernesto can feel his heart dropping down somewhere in the vicinity of his kneecaps. Barely holding back the temptation to stand, throw the bag in her face for distraction and run, he slowly looks up. It is his mother all right - just a bit fatter than she has been, with more gray in her hair than he remembered, eyes wide and both hands over her mouth.

Say something. Say something.

"... You let yourself go, huh?"

For fuck's sake.

"I--" Ernesto starts again, but doesn’t get to add anything: one moment later his mother kneels down with him and throws her arms around his neck, causing him to drop the bag in his surprise. Before he can try to think of something to utter he feels her tremble, hears her crying, and his mind goes blank.

"Oh, Ernestito, we've missed you so much! I'm sorry!"

"Mamá..."

Her grip on his tightens as though she’s terrified he will push her away. "Please, I'm so sorry."

The faint memory of his own childish voice - 'mamá, you're embarrassing me!' - resurfaces from some long-forgotten corner of his mind, and suddenly Ernesto really, really feels like crying. He almost moves to hold her back, but his arms remain motionless by his sides. "I know," he chokes out instead. "Got your letter."

"We're both so sorry. Your papá said so many things he didn't mean, but he misses you.”

Héctor, please, I didn’t mean it, I--

Bit too late, isn’t it?

“That’s… hard to believe.”

“I know, but he does. He really wanted you to come home," Adela sniffles, and pulls back cradle his face in her hands. She smiles through tears. "We both wanted you to come home. My handsome boy."

"... All right, now you're embarrassing me. We should get up and- why is the pavement wet?"

His mother blinks, and they look down. They’re kneeling in a puddle coming out of one of the paper bags. "I think we spilled the milk."

"And now we're crying over it?"

"Looks like it," she says, and laughs suddenly, throwing her arms around him again. “Stay for a while,” she pleads, almost desperately. “Please.”

And finally, slowly, Ernesto reaches to hold her back.

“I got no other plans.”

***

“You can’t seriously be planning this madness now.”

“It’s not madness. It is a sound business move I have been planning for over a year.”

Imelda’s voice is calm and flat, the kind of calm flatness that, on her, signals that she’s three more words away from attempting to silence the other party by taking off a shoe and shoving it into their mouth.

Unfortunately, her mother was never very good at reading her. Imelda rather regrets not joining Héctor, her brothers and her father in their trip to buy a crib, which they all seemed equally enthusiastic to get, as though they were embarking for some quest.

Actually, she kind of regrets not coming up with an excuse, any excuse, to get her parents not to visit them at all. Her father is overall bearable, but her mother began muttering how they really shouldn’t have a dog and a cat roaming around when the baby comes as soon as she stepped in, and barely stopped nagging since.

“But in your state, certainly you need to focus on the baby.”

“I’m pregnant, not dying. The baby is perfectly fine and I am not taking up competitive weight lifting. I’m looking for a suitable place to open a store, that is all.”

“But why? I thought sales are going well working from home and selling on that-- devil machine.”

Imelda takes a mental note to ask Héctor to just end her the moment she begins calling that any piece of technology she doesn’t know how to use before answering, her voice still calm. Before her, there is a list of materials she needs to get, with the budget at the side.

“Online sales are going very well, which is why I have the security I need to expand. Get an actual shop, hire a couple of people--”

“Can’t your husband do it?”

“He already helps.” And he’s not very good, she thinks. It’s something Héctor has no problem admitting himself, but Imelda will nail her tongue to the workbench before she says anything along those lines about her husband in front of her mother. She’s good enough at questioning all of her choices without the need of getting more ammunition. “He has his own career, too.”

“Not a very secure one, that of a musician.”

“But it’s going very well.” Imelda doesn’t quite snap, but her voice is dry. She finds she really doesn’t want to discuss that with her mother, or… anyone. Truth is that she doesn’t know, right now, where Héctor’s career may be heading. The first album is bound to come out soon, but with what happened with Ernesto… Imelda doesn’t know if their friendship can possibly be the same ever again, let alone their artistic partnership. And it is such a shame, after so many years, so much work from them both.

My fault. I should have expected things to get out of hand. I should have never let it happen again after the first night. There should have been no first night. I shouldn’t have thrown that stupid challenge in his stupid face.

And where is he, anyway? Imelda has been listening, and not a single sound has come from Ernesto’s apartment, even through the window below theirs; not a noise, no singing, no sound of a guitar, no yapping from his dogs. The apartment is empty, she is sure.

He must have left… but where to? What is he doing? Is he all right?

“Mija?” Imelda recoils, and looks up. Her mother is looking at her, frowning a little, and then does something she hasn’t done in years: she reaches to tuck Imelda’s hair behind her ear, as she did when she was a little girl. “Are you all right?”

“... I’m fine, mamá.”

“You looked--”

“A bit worried, maybe, first child and all, but--”

“Sad.”

Ah. Imelda lets out a long breath before she shakes her head, making an effort to smile. “I’m not. Only a little tired, maybe I will do rest once I’m done here, if you don’t mind--”

“You know your father and I will always help, right?”

She blinks. “Qué?”

“Héctor is… a dear boy, but a baby can be a strain on a marriage, there is no shame in that.”

“... Wait a moment--”

“So if you find you have any doubts, in case of a crisis - any problems you cannot work out - you must not feel trapped. Solutions can be worked out, and if you need us we’ll always be there--”

“Mamá,” Imelda cuts her off, her voice sharp. In other circumstances, she may appreciate the sentiment… if not for the fact that she knows her parents too well. They would try not to be judgmental, but in the end they just could never resist letting her know that ‘we told you so’. Which is not going to happen, anyway. Ever. “Héctor and I are not in any kind of crisis.”

Milagros blinks. “Oh,” she says, and has the good grace to blush a little. “Lo siento, you just seemed… very sad, all of a sudden.”

Where is that idiota? How is he doing? We never meant to hurt him, how can he not see that?

“Ah, it’s nothing. I was just thinking it’s sad that--” we’ll have to find her another godfather “... she’ll never know her paternal grandparents, you know. Héctor thinks about that a lot,” she adds, and well, it isn’t even a lie. He does, Imelda can tell; how could he not?

The concerned expression on her mother’s face turns to sadness as well. “Ah, of course he does. He lost his parents so early. It must be hard, going out into the world without a family.”

He had Ernesto, Imelda thinks. And now she has me, and my family is his own, and soon the baby. But Ernesto is no longer here and ah, it doesn’t feel right. Where is he?

“... He had enough talent to make it,” Imelda finally says, and her mother smiles a little.

“Fair enough,” she says. “So - where were you thinking to open the shop?”

She is clearly still not that keen on the idea, but she’s trying to pretend otherwise to get Imelda’s mind off her own thoughts and she… appreciates it. She really does. “Not too far, I was thinking it would be nice if I could get there on foot.”

“Maybe your brothers could come help you.”

“...What?”

“You could teach them a trade, can’t hurt them. They’re always tinkering with odd things, none of them useful and most of them dangerous. I can’t imagine even them making something dangerous out of shoes.”

“Always underestimating your children, aren’t you?” Imelda says, mostly joking but not quite, and that actually gets a chuckle out of her mother. For the rest of the afternoon, when her father and brother and Héctor come back with a crib the size of a small boat, Imelda does her best not to think of Ernesto again. But it’s always there, in the back of her mind.

Another day, she tells herself. Another day, and she’ll call him. He’ll probably yell some insults, but so be it. She can take that.

And at least she’ll know he’s okay.

***

There is no alcohol in the cabinet at the far end of the room.

It’s one of the first things Ernesto notices when he steps in the living room. When he left, that would have been unthinkable. They may be tight on money from time to time, may have to cut on expenses like clothing and car insurance or even food, but by God that cabinet would always be full of bottles his father would empty and replace at a remarkable speed.

Now it is… not empty, but the shelves are filled with small decorations, a few pictures of saints – Saint Jude, patron of desperate cases and lost causes, seems especially fitting – and, most of all, a picture of Ernesto that he remembers vaguely posting on Instagram. So his mother did hound his account. He’s not sure what is harder to imagine, his mother using a computer or his father actually going dry.

He stared a little too long, probably, because his mother notices. “I told you he’s quit, didn’t I? It’s… oh, almost three years now.”

“I see,” Ernesto says, still struggling to picture it. His father is not home, and it is a relief. He’s… still not sure he wants to face him at all. At least now he has a little extra time to prepare. “Must have been a pain to deal with.”

“It… wasn’t easy,” she admits, putting down the grocery bags, one of which is still sodden with spilled milk. She would normally go to the kitchen to set those down, but Ernesto suspects she’s not inclined to let him out of her line of sight anytime soon. “But he… you know how stubborn he is, he did it. He went and got some help for his temper, too.”

“What did they do to help with that? Shot sedating darts?”

He sure wishes he had some of those at hand right now, really. Sober or not, Estéban de la Cruz is not someone anyone would look forward to dealing with. Especially when the last words exchanged happened to be along the lines of ‘show your face again and I’ll break it’ and ‘I’ll only be back to dance on your grave’.

Unaware of his thoughts, his mother chuckles. “Well, they… did give him some medication.”

“What for? Cabrón Syndrome?”

“Language,” she chides him, some sternness making it in her voice. “Your papá, he… he worked really hard on himself.”

“Good for him,” Ernesto says dryly, picks up the grocery bags – more to keep himself busy than out of genuine desire to help. “These go in the kitchen, no?”

“Ah-- yes. I was about to make molé,” she says, following him to the kitchen. Following closely, like she fears he might just hop out of the window. “You’re staying for dinner, no?”

“… If your husband has no objections.”

“He won’t,” she says quickly. “He’ll be happy to see you.”

Ernesto tries to imagine his father happy. He cannot. “If you say so,” he mutters, putting the bags down on the kitchen table before he sits. It turns out to be a mistake, because his mother is now able to cup his face and tilt it up, the happiness of seeing him momentarily replaced by a critical look he knows well.

“Por Dios, you’re thin, mijo.”

“I don’t think I’m that--”

“You lost weight!”

“Maybe a little, but--”

“You need to eat!”

“Mamá--”

“Don’t ‘mamá’ me, you did lose weight.”

“Which was entirely on purpose.”

“I’ll make you some lunch. Here, have some horciata. I’ll cook something quick.”

Ernesto takes the glass, and rolls his eyes a little. He remembers Adela García de la Cruz’s idea of ‘cooking something quick’ all too well; when he was a boy it usually resulted in two hours of cooking, two servings of three different dishes, and a need to loosen one’s belt by the end of it. “Thanks, but I already had lun--”

“You need to eat more,” she insists, only to pause suddenly, staring at him. Her expression goes from intent to terrified so quickly Ernesto barely has enough time to process it. “Oh God-- you’re not ill, are you?”

He blinks. “Ill?”

“You look so tired!”

Oh. That. “I’m… not sleeping too well lately, but--”

“It’s not… you know…” she lowers her voice, clearly forcing out the word as though only naming it might make it real. “AIDS?”

Oh, Jesus Christ. “What-- No, mamá, why would I--” he groans a little, pinching the bridge of his nose. Of course, what was he expecting? Whatever idea she’s got of it all, it’s probably stuck somewhere in the Eighties. “I’m perfectly healthy. You don’t have to worry.”

She breathes out a long, relieved sigh. “Oh, good. I- I don’t mind you being gay.”

Ernesto briefly considers trying to explain her the concept of bisexuality, but it would probably take a few hours of repeating the same concept over and over, and he decides that’s not the hill he wants to die on. Not today.

“I know, mamá.”

“I just- you know, as long as you’re safe and healthy and it’s not dangerous… and you are...” she lowers her voice again. “Taking precautions, yes?”

All right, fine. One more such question, and Ernesto will probably get up, go outside, grab a spade and dig himself a grave to sink into. This comes rather close to being the single most awkward he’s been talking to someone. “Everything is fine, I-- I know what I’m-- doing,” he stammers a little.

Please stop asking. Please stop asking.

His mother opens her mouth again, forcing Ernesto to do some quick thinking. He’s just about to exclaim that you know what, he is really starving and would love some food just about now – but before he can say a word there is the sound of an engine, a car stopping right in front of the house.

Ah, mierda. There he is.

Ernesto turns to the door, tensing, and his mother reaches to put a hand on his shoulder. “Let me go talk to him,” she says, giving his shoulder a squeeze. Before Ernesto can point out that her talking to his father about him is historically a pretty bad idea she’s out of the kitchen – just as the front door opens and then closes.

Maybe he still is in time to get out of the window, he thinks, but he doesn’t move. He stays still, straining to hear what’s going on in the living room. He hears his mother calling out - “Estéban!” - and then little more. She must be keeping his voice low, they both are, and Ernesto’s stomach clenches. What is going on? What are they saying? Is his father really sorry, or was that his mother’s wishful thinking? Maybe it was, and he’ll get in there to scream again, looking at him like he’s something disgusting that got stuck on the sole of his shoe.

Well, if he does he’ll be ready. He only got older, and Ernesto got stronger. If he so much raises his voice, let alone try to raise a hand, he’ll make him regret it dearly and… and…

There are steps, hurried as they can be with his father’s bad leg – surgeons worked a miracle on it after his accident in the mine, but he was left with a limp – and there is no more time to think up scenario, much less to enact his first plan to get out of the window and run. Ernesto looks up and there he is, standing in the doorway, broad enough to block it almost entirely.

He has… changed. There is gray in his once inky black hair and beard, and he has clearly put on weight, even if the muscular frame is still beneath. His face, however, is what strikes him the most; no longer the ruddy red it used to be. There are some broken blood vessels across his nose – too much drinking, too long – but he looks so lucid, his eyes clear and alert.

And fixed on him like he can’t believe he’s actually there.

No screams. No sneer. No insults. He just stands there like he just witnessed him multiplying bread and fish, and maybe turn water to wine while he was at it. Slowly, Ernesto stands. His heart is hammering somewhere in his throat; he knows his mother must be there, too, hidden by his sheer mass. “Papá,” he says, his tone careful.

Estéban de la Cruz blinks, as though he just heard an apparition speaking. He has to work his jaw before he speaks as well. “Ernesto,” he says. His voice is a little less raspy than it used to be, clearer, no trace of slurring. “You’re-- home.”

Ernesto nods, swallowing. “Just visiting. A day or two. Or-- I don’t know. It depends.”

Do you want me here?

Estéban nods back. “Your old room is ready.”

Ernesto, who planned to stay at a hotel if he stayed at all, blinks. “My- ah. Turned it into a guest room?”

“We never touched it. In case you came back.”

Ah. Something is tightening his Ernesto’s throat, prickling at his eyes, but he refuses to let it turn into tears. It would only get him mockery, when he was a boy and cried over a bad grade, or a skinned knee.

“What, are you going to cry now? Huh? Like it solves anything? Go ahead and have a cry. It’s all you’re good for.”

“You said you didn’t want me to ever come back. That if I showed my face again, you’d--”

“I was drunk.”

“You said--”

“A lot of shit I shouldn’t have, is what I said.” A pause, and Estéban de la Cruz lowers his gaze. “I thought you were going to come back home the next day. Or the one after that.”

“I wasn’t going to come crawling back when you made it so clear you didn’t want me under your roof,” Ernesto replies, his voice just a little colder. The memory still hurts – the hateful looks and words, the blows, how he’d walked out with a bloody nose and bruised face, how dark that evening and how long the walk to Héctor’s place.

And of course, there was the detour he’d taken to the ravine at the edge of town. That, he’d never forget. How close he was to taking that one extra step, if not for the knowledge that Héctor would be there to take him in – that they still had so much to do, he still had so much to do, so much to prove to his parents and himself and the world, to make them regret ever rejecting him.

It hurts to remember Héctor’s help, too – how things had been before, when they were ready to take on the world, so sure nothing would ever come between them – but right now he focuses on his father’s grunt, the way he avoids his gaze,

“Of course you wouldn’t. You’re stubborn as a mule.”

“I wonder who I got that from.” Ernesto mutters, and his father’s lips curl up a little beneath the beard.

“Clearly your mother,” he says, the closest he’s ever heard to a joke from him in… a very, very long time.

“… She told me you quit drinking,” he says. He almost brings up the therapy or anger management or whatever it is, but he promised his mother he would pretend not to know that part, so he doesn’t.

“I did,” his father says. “It got out of hand. I did and said things I-- rather regret.”

That… wasn’t the most direct of apologies, but Ernesto supposes it can do. For now. “Right. I-- might stay for a couple of days. Got a lot to catch up with, I guess.”

“True.” A faint smile, and his father steps forward. He hesitates, then he holds out his hand. “It’s good to see you again.”

Ernesto doesn’t say anything to that, but he does reach out to shake that hand and it doesn’t escape him how, in the doorway, his mother is quietly wiping her eyes.

***

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#pixar coco #ernesto de la cruz #imelda rivera #hector rivera #coco #mind the gap

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pengychan · 6 years

Text

[Coco] Mind the Gap, Pt. 8

To see the version with art by Dara, check it out on Ao3.

Tag for all parts up so far.

A/N: Ernesto bit off more than he can chew. But then again he's been doing that since chapter one, let's be honest.

***

“The anniversary of your first date, are you serious?”

“Of course I am!”

“Who even keeps track of that crap?”

“I do!”

“Well, I don’t see you celebrating the anniversary of our first drink together!”

“I was fourteen, I got sick, and you laughed your ass off while I hurled my guts in the bushes.”

“Heh. Fun times.”

“I did not have fu--”

“Just try not to drink too much this evening, got to make a good impression. Put on your nice suit. We’re going at nine – bring the songbook, all right?”

“Ernesto, I told you, Imelda and I are going--”

“Sorry, I can’t hear you over the sound of us possibly getting a proper contract with a record label! It’s a huge leap forward, Héctor - we can’t just let this chance pass us by!” Ernesto argues, and now there is an edge of real frustration in his voice. “It’s what we’ve been working for the past-- I didn’t even keep track of the years. Our dream, amigo!”

Héctor bites his lower lip, already feeling guilty – but of course, the guilt doubles when he pictures himself telling Imelda their date night is cancelled. Same old, same old – the crippling fear of disappointing either, or both at once. “What if I give you the songbook?” he suggests. “You’re Mr. Charisma – I’m sure you’ll be fine on your own.”

A scoff. “Of course I could-- that’s not the point! Why am I always the one putting in the effort here?”

“Qué?”

“You know what I mean! You write the songs, fine. You play and sing – fine. But every time we need to get in touch with the right people, and sell what we’ve got for what we’re worth, I am the one doing all the legwork!”

“I...” Héctor begins, only to pause, passing his cell phone to his other hand to gain a few moments. That is true: Ernesto is the one to get them most of the work, and thank God he does. Héctor is perfectly happy writing songs and playing at home, singing with Imelda as they twirl around her workshop or in the kitchen… but none of it would get him any money, none of it would pay any bills.

Where would he be without Ernesto by his side? Nowhere, that’s where. Probably still in Santa Cecilia, doing odd jobs. Without a family. Without Imelda – if Ernesto hadn’t convinced him to try their luck in Mexico City, they may have never met again there and clicked the way they had. He owes him everything, and he’s letting him down. Again.

When he shares such thoughts with Imelda – never all of it, of course; just musings on how he doesn’t feel he’s doing enough to work with Ernesto to build their success – she dismisses it all with a shrug,

“You write the songs,” she says. “Seems only fair he puts in the PR work.”

Maybe it is true, but still--

“Is Imelda there?” Ernesto’s voice cuts through his thoughts, and Héctor blinks.

“Huh?”

“Get your ridiculously big ears checked. I asked if Imelda is there.”

“She’s in the workshop.”

“Let me speak to her.”

“… Are you well?”

“If you can’t see reason, maybe she will. She’s more practical than you are when you get your head stuck in heart-shaped clouds. Let me speak to her,” Ernesto repeats. Héctor does as he says, walking in the workshop and handing his cell phone to Imelda with an apologetic look.

“Ernesto,” he says, and she raises an eyebrow at him before she takes the phone.

“Imelda speaking. Are you chickening out for Thursday? Not that surprising, truth be tol--” she trails off, and blinks as Ernesto starts speaking at the other side of the line. Her eyebrows go up almost to her hairline, and she glances at Héctor, but she listens quite intently, hardly interrupting. The anger Héctor feared fails to make an appearance.

“I see? What record label again? Oh. Yes, I think I heard of it. That’s… good,” she finally says, sounding mildly impressed. “Not bad at a-- when? Tonight? Short notice, that. We’re taken tonig-- oh. Of course he told you.”

Under Héctor’s slightly anxious gaze, she taps her fingers on the bench and keeps listening. “Watch your mouth there, you’re on thin ice,” she warns, and gives a faint smile. “That’s better. All, right, I guess… Yes. I see. No-- wait a minute there, I’m loaning you my husband-- why on Earth would I dogsit for you?” Imelda listens again, and sighs. “If you walk them first and if you can guarantee I won’t spend the night trying to clean up after some mess on my carpets. All right, give me a moment.”

Imelda covers the receiver, and looks at Héctor. “Do you want to go?”

Well, he’s not precisely dying to, but… “I think I ought to,” he admits. “But our date--”

“We’ll catch up. This is important for you, too,” she says, practical as always, and Héctor smiles. Relief is like a weight lifted from his chest.

“Te amo.”

“Lo sé.” Imelda blows him a kiss, and brings the phone back to her ear. “All right, he’ll be there. Yes, the songbook – I’ll remind him. Don’t make him drink too much. Yes, you would – come on, we go way back.” She rolls her eyes, but her lips curl in a smile. “So… you’re confirming all will go ahead on Thursday. Hu-uh. We’ll see about that,” she adds, smile widening, and ends the call. “Believe it or not, he actually got you two a great chance for a contract. You’d be loco not to be there.”

Héctor smiles. “Oh, but you do make me un poco loco,” he says, gaining himself a tap on the nose.

“Good thing I’m here to bring you back down to Earth,” she mutters. “Come, we’re going out.”

“Are we?”

“We’ve got a date, remember? Since you’re taken this evening, it will have to be now.”

“What about those shoes?” Héctor asks, glancing at the workbench, but Imelda grabs his chin, turning his head back towards her.

“I’ll finish this evening, when we’ll both be in business,” she says, and smiles. “Ice cream?”

He smiles. “I wouldn’t mind eating mud, as long as you’re in the picture.”

“I know. I did get you to eat mud before.”

“I was four. And those mud cakes looked far to good,” Héctor points out, gaining himself a laugh and a kiss. They go out, have ice cream, and it is a lovely date – just the two of them, and the feeling of not being good enough doesn’t resurface once throughout it.

***

“Maybe they’re already there.”

“We’re forty minutes early, Ernesto.”

“Right, right,” Ernesto mutters, tapping his fingers on the car’s wheel. By some miracle, they were able to find a parking spot right across the cantina. All right, he had to steal it under the nose of another driver who’d yelled something about their family lines from mamá’s side that somehow involved goats, but he has no regrets. It isn’t the right time or place to be playing Mr. Nice Guy. “We should walk in at about the same time, no? So that we don’t seem desperate but also don’t make them wait.”

“… You’re overthinking this.”

“Someone has to, given that it’s the chance of a lifetime,” Ernesto grumbles, but the shove he gives Hector is lighthearted enough. His friend laughs.

“Relax, I’m sure we’ll be fine. And if it doesn’t go through--”

“It must.”

“-- There will be other chances, amigo,” Héctor adds, and Ernesto makes a face.

“Chances are scarcer than you think, and I’m not getting any younger.”

“… You’re not even thirty yet.”

“I will be next month, and I’m not famous yet,” he points out. They have a reasonably good following, and they make reasonably good money, but it’s not the fame he dreamed of, the fame he wants – must – achieve. The kind where people recognize you in the streets, and admire you and love you, and the whole world becomes your family – one that will never turn its back to you.

Héctor may have found his comfortable spot in life, one he’d be happy to settle in, but Ernesto has not. He needs more, and will not stop until he has it.

“We still have time,” Héctor is saying, and something about the good-natured patience in his tone grates his nerves.

“I found a white hair, Héctor!” he blurts out, causing him to blink, staring at his hair.

“Oh? I never noticed--”

“… Not on the head.”

“Ah.” There is a moment of silence before Héctor starts snickering, and soon enough so is Ernesto, leaning back against the driver’s set. They snicker and snicker like idiots, and when it finally dies down Héctor checks his watch.

“If it helps you relax we do, in theory, have enough time for a hand job,” he mutters, reaching to place a hand on Ernesto’s thigh. “So I can check out your white hair of doom.”

“Pfft. Hands off,” Ernesto mutters, trying to ignore the sense of heat in the pit of his stomach, and slaps Héctor’s hand off. “We must make a good impression, and we don’t want to make a mess of ourselves.”

A sigh. “Fair enough. I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“Good. Don’t mess this up for us, and I promise I’ll give you the best blowjob of your life.”

Héctor grins. “I’ll remind you once we’re back. Don’t worry, it will be all right. They like our music, and as soon as they have taken a look at the new ones in my songbook--” he starts, only to trail off with a sudden look of dread, hands patting at his coat’s pockets. “… Uh-oh.”

Oh, Christ. “Héctor. You do have the songbook, right?”

“Well. Do you mean right now, or--”

“For fuck’s sake – you had one thing to remember!” Ernesto growls, dread turning into frustration, and he turns the key in the car’s ignition. “All right-- if we go fast and ignore a few red lights, we might be able to make it home by-- what’s so funny?” he snaps when Héctor laughs. And laughs. And laughs.

And holds up a very familiar red songbook.

“Hahahah! Your face-- you should have seen your face!”

With a groan, Ernesto turns off the engine and lets himself drop back against his seat. “Pinche cabrón,” he mutters, heart still stuck somewhere in his throat. “I’m going to fucking kill you someday.”

Héctor laughs again, and clicks his tongue in mock disapproval. “Language, Ernestito. Language.”

“You can forget that blowjob,” Ernesto grumbles, and gets a pat on the shoulder.

“You should relax,” Héctor says. “Come on, let’s get in and have a drink. I’m sure this… Antonio?”

“Armando Abascal. Please don’t call him the wrong name.”

“This Alejandro Pascal--”

“Pendejo.”

“-- Won’t be offended if we have a drink while we wait,” Héctor finishes, and gives his shoulder a squeeze. “Come on, stop worrying. I’m sure it will be fine.” He meets Ernesto’s scowl with a grin. “I feel it in my bones. All will go well.”

***

“I take it the meeting went well.”

“Pretty well. We won’t know-- ay, sí, like that-- for sure until next month, once the board has met, but-- ah!-- he was… impressed,” Héctor gasps out, smiling at her. His face is all sweaty and he’s leaning back on the couch, shirt open and trousers to his ankles, with one had in Ernesto’s hair. He pulls it lightly. “Told you not to worry, didn’t I?”

On the floor in front of him, Ernesto hums around his cock before he resumes bobbing his head, a little faster now. Imelda chuckles, and sits on the couch next to Héctor, giving him a deep kiss.

"I knew you’d do well,” she murmurs, pulling back just a little and cupping his cheek. His arm slips around her waist. “No one in their right mind would pass up the chance to have you under contract, mi amor.”

“ Mmfph.”

“... And him too, I guess,” Imelda mutters, smiling a little. As annoyed as she still is at him, seeing him pleasure Héctor like that does something to mellow her. She has to admit he’s not bad company… as long as his mouth is otherwise occupied. Not a bad sight either, with his lips stretching over Héctor’s cock, his cheeks hollowing as he bobs his head.

It feels almost wrong to admit he’s good at anything – he’s not bad at all with the guitar, a good singer and an excellent dancer, though hell will freeze over before she says as much – but if the look on Héctor’s face is anything to go by, he’s got a real talent for blowjobs, too.

“Ah, damn-- I might-- not be able to hold back much… longer,” her husband gasps, and Imelda leans in to kiss him again, whispering against his mouth.

“Let go. He’ll swallow,” she says. Her hand sneaks down Héctor’s chest, over his thigh and then on his hand, resting on Ernesto’s head. Her own fingers slip in his hair; it isn’t as soft as Héctor’s, but not unpleasant to the touch whenever it’s not coated with... whatever gels he keeps putting on it. “Won’t you?”

There is a muffled groan, almost covered by Héctor’s gasps, and Imelda pulls away from his mouth to lower her head on his thigh, her lips only centimeters away from Ernesto’s ear. “To the last drop,” she whispers. A moan and Ernesto’s head jerks forward, swallowing Héctor’s cock down to the base, cheeks hollowing and lips stretching, nose buried in his pubic hair. Imelda reaches beneath Héctor’s lifted thigh, cups his testicles and gives one single, gentle squeeze.

“Ay-- madre de Dios--!” Héctor chokes out, and his hips rise and fall in a few jerky motions, causing Ernesto to grunt – but not to pull back, on no. He doesn’t do that until Héctor has collapsed against the couch, hair disheveled and mouth hanging open, legs twitching; only then does Ernesto lift his head, letting his softening cock slip out of his mouth. He looks up, breathing fast, and wipes his lips with the back of his hand before smirking.

“Good, huh?” he asks, and looks at Imelda; his expression turns, if possible, even more smug. “Would you like to be next?”

That gets Imelda to raise a skeptical eyebrow. Last time he tried to eat her out at Héctor’s suggestion, he’d sucked – and not in the good way. It was painfully obvious he’d never in his life given a woman oral sex: it was dull at best and annoying at worst, with his tongue just all over the place as he lapped at random. In the end, she had to tell him to quit embarrassing himself and let Héctor do it properly.

“Wasn’t last time enough?”

“Don’t I get a rematch?” he challenges. Héctor’s arms lace themselves around her waist, and he nuzzles her neck.

“Let him give it a try,” he says. “If it’s still that bad, I’ll take over.”

“You know I can hear you, right?” Ernesto says drily while Imelda gets rid of her underwear, pulls her skirt up to her waist, and leans back against Héctor’s chest – legs spread and sex exposed, already wet.

“You know that wasn’t you, so don’t start,” Imelda says when Ernesto slips a finger inside, and he rolls his eyes – but, instead of giving some kind of remark, he just buries his face between her legs, closes his lips around her clit, and sucks.

“Ah--!” Imelda lets out a startled gasp, and her hips twitch at the sudden pleasure. She reaches to grasp Héctor’s hands around her, hard. All right, so that is a pretty good start, if she says so herself. There is surprise and maybe some annoyance – he wasn’t supposed to be good, what happened? - but it is mostly drowned out in pleasure while Ernesto presses his tongue against her clit, circling it, and slips a second finger in her at the same time, pressing down just in all the right spots.

“Shh, relax,” Héctor murmurs against her temple, kissing her hair. “Just enjoy.”

“Did you--?” Imelda manages, turning to press her face against his neck. Did you teach him, she means to ask, and he understands immediately.

“Just gave a few pointers,” Héctor replies, and he does sound surprised himself. There is a chuckle, the lightest scrape of teeth across her folds – he’s keeping them open with his thumbsd now, giving him full access – before Ernesto pulls back. The sudden lack of sensation in her sex – the lack of contact, of heat – nearly makes her whine. Her legs twitch and she almost, almost wraps them around Ernesto’s shoulders to pull him closer and make him continue.

And thank God she was able to hold back, or he’d never let her live it down.

“Oh, I got someone to show me the ropes,” he says, twisting his fingers briefly. “As it turns out there are better ways to teach a skill than calling someone a mindless hoover, would you believe it?”

He says that with such a supremely offended tone that Imelda can’t help herself: she burst laughing, causing Héctor to snicker and Ernesto to huff.

“What’s so funny now?” he demands to know.

Imelda glances down. He’s looking up at her in clear confusion from between her spread legs, and she smiles. He does look better like this, with his hair disheveled and the smugness gone from his features. “Not half bad, but wait until I come to brag,” she says. Somewhere in the back of her mind, there is something stirring at the thought he went to another woman to learn - that he has been doing this to someone else. It is none of her business, of course, and the sensation doesn’t quite border into annoyance, so he does her best to ignore it.

What he does and who he beds when not with her and Héctor is, after all, not her problem.

Unaware of her thoughts, Ernesto grins. “Not a long wait, then,” he says, and his tongue is on her the next moment-- in her-- and a finger is pressing firmly against her clit, making small circular movements. Soon enough he’s eating her out as though he’s been starving for the taste of her. It doesn’t drive her up the wall the way Héctor could, because he doesn’t known nearly as well what truly makes her lose control, but it is good.

He will be insufferably smug over it, no doubt, so Imelda figures she may as well let herself enjoy it. And she does, gasping and trembling, leaning back against Héctor while he whispers in her ear, kisses her neck, fondles her breasts. Orgams hits her like a wave, and she clings to her husband’s arms while her hips shudder, buckling against Ernesto’s face as he reaches beneath her, gripping her ass and lifting her up against his mouth. She knows better than to fight the tide, and so she does not - although she does muffle her moan against Héctor’s neck.

When she comes down from her high, Héctor’s mouth against her temple murmuring how beautiful she is, how much he adores her, Imelda feels too sated to be really bothered by Ernesto’s smug expression as he stands and looks down at her. He looks all the world like he’s scored some great victory, but her mind is somewhere where annoyance cannot reach, it seems. Imelda hardly notices the smirk: all she focuses on are her juices glistening on his face.

“Well?” Ernesto is saying, and she finds herself smirking back between pants.

“It’s nice to see… you can improve, after all,” she says, and lets go of Héctor’s arms with one hand to reach up and grasp Ernesto’s hair, pulling his face closer. He winces, taken aback, but doesn’t try to pull back. Her smile widens at his confusion. “You could use some more practice.”

Ernesto scowls. “Can you just admit it was good?” he very nearly whines.

“It was.” She lets go of his hair, and runs her hand down his cheek. “But it can be better.”

“And how?”

“... Do you want us to tell you, or you’d rather we show you?” she asks, letting her hand slips off his cheek in what’s almost a caress. “On Thursday, maybe. If you’re good.”

Oh, there is something there for a moment - a flicker of huger, naked desire in the midst of apprehension for what awaits him in two days’ time - but in the end, he hides it all and nods.

“On Thursday,” he says, and he almost manages to keep his voice firm.

***

“You will not speak unless spoken to.”

“… Right.”

“Repeat.”

“Come on, I got it--”

Whack.

“Ow!”

“ Repeat.”

Somewhere on his right, he hears Héctor snickering. How can anyone find it in himself to be amused with a collar around his neck, he has no idea – but at the moment, his attention is entirely taken by Imelda. With her hair tied back and the jacket, she looks all the world like a teacher.

Except that his teachers back in school were more likely to carry around a stick then a riding crop, were usually well above the age of fifty and, did not, with one memorable exception, wear high-heeled, thigh-high black leather boots.

Plus, while some of them were a complete pain in the ass when it came to detention, Ernesto honestly cannot recall any of them ever using him as a footstool, least of all while he was naked from waist down. He glowers at her for a moment, but she returns his glare with steely eyes. There is a challenge in them, he can read it clear as day.

If you don’t think you can handle it, you can say the safeword. Come on. Go ahead.

You wish, Ernesto thinks, but bites back the retort. “… I will not speak unless spoken to,” he grits out. Imelda nods in approval, idly scratching Héctor under the chin with her free hand, and her gaze stays fixed on him. Her eyes look somewhat darer, more heated, the pupils wide. She shifts her feet just a little, and Ernesto can feel the hardness of the heel pressing against his spine. “You will do as I say.”

“I will do as you say,” Ernesto repeats, not quite as grudgingly, because hell knows how distracting she is. He briefly catches a glimpse of the look Héctor is giving him – I know, right? – before Imelda speaks again. She is holding the rod again, and letting the tip trail down his lower back, brushing just barely over the crack of his ass. There is a shudder he is unable to suppress entirely. If it makes her feel smug, she doesn’t show it and he is inwardly… well. Not grateful, but something not too far away either

“In my absence, you’ll to as he says,” she adds, running a hand through Héctor’s hair. He grins at him, and Ernesto swallows. He’s been on his hands and knees for a few minutes now, and they have seen like this before, but somehow he just now starts to feel truly exposed in a way that is both exciting and somewhat frightening.

“I’ll do as he says,” he manages. Heat is pooling in his groin and it must show, because the next moment Imelda’s legs shift and one booted foot is beneath him, pressing his half-hard cock up against his belly. It makes him shudder.

“And do you know, why that is?” Imelda is saying, brushing the boot against his cock a few more time while the rod traces his ass. He shakes his head.

“Speak up.”

“No,” Ernesto says quickly, and dares peer up again. The pleased look is back on her face, and it’s a relief. He quickly tells himself it’s because he won’t be struck again.

“Because you have control over nothing, Ernesto,” she says. The words alone make him suddenly feel like he’s on fire, but then there is a sudden pressure against his cock from her booted foot, and Ernesto gasps.

“Ah, fu--”

Whack. The rod comes down across his ass, leaving a thin line of fire and tearing a cry from his throat. “AH!”

“You know what that was for,” Imelda says, her voice almost sweet. “Don’t you?”

“S-sí.”

“And what was it for?”

“I… misspoke.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“I-- no.”

“That,” Imelda says, running the rod down his back almost tenderly, “was not a question.”

Ernesto shuts his eyes, bracing himself for another blow, but none comes. She smiles at him – Christ, the way she smiles – and turns her attention on Héctor. She unclips the leash from the collar he’s wearing, runs a hand through his hair. “Mi amor.”

“Diosa,” he breathes, and for a moment they just stay still and say nothing more, gazing at each other in a way that makes Ernesto’s insides clench – with childish disgust, he will tell himself later, like he could ever hope to really fool himself into thinking what he felt was anything other than longing.

“… Get him ready,” she finally says, and gives him a kiss before standing, and looking down at Ernesto again. “One more thing,” she adds. She crouches, and lifts Ernesto’s chin with the tip of the rod. He stares at her with wide eyes, breathing already quickening, pulse racing. He is vaguely aware that this isn’t how he’d pictured himself reacting; he was supposed to resist, to make a point. But now… now he can’t even bring himself to remember what point he was supposed to make anymore. “Tonight, you’re ours," she says, and pulls the rod away.

Close to crying out for the sudden loss of contact – he’s already so painfully hard, he wants them, he wants so much and he wants it now – Ernesto chokes out, “I’m yours.”

He is rewarded with that pleased smile again, and the rod brushes over his throat in a caress before she stands. “Take off that undershirt and get down on your elbows. Forehead to the floor,” she orders, and he does; both actions make him feel even more exposed than before. “Now, mi amor. You have a minute,” she says, and he hears her heels clicking on the floor as she walks off – probably to get rid of the clothes. At least, Ernesto hopes it’s to get rid of that. He needs to see more of her skin than this.

“All right, amigo. Hope you’re ready.” Héctor’s voice reaches him as though from very far away, along with a pungent scent he recognizes immediately as that of fresh ginger. He peers up to see Héctor is holding it up in front of him: a peeled ginger root, carved to be roughly the size and shape of a cock. There is a notch near the widening base that, he was told, will keep it locked in place unless it’s pulled out.

He knows what is coming, they have talked it all through, but there is still a sense of utter unreality. Talking about figging and how it works is one thing; realizing your best friend is about to shove a ginger root up your ass is... quite another.

"Ready?” Héctor asks, brushing back his hair, and Ernesto finds it in himself to scoff.

“O-of course,” he mutters, and leans his forehead on the floor again. The tiles are cool against his heated skin. He stays still as Héctor gets behind him, running a hand down his back and gentle fingers down the welts that, he knows, Imelda’s blows must have raised. They seem to burn even more at the touch, no matter how delicate.

“You’ll have a lot more of these by the time we’re done,” he muses aloud, the leans down to brush his lips across his lower back, causing Ernesto to shiver. “But don’t worry, I’ll be taking good care of you.”

Then start now, Ernesto almost says, but the words never make it past his lis: the next moment Héctor is running the fresh ginger root down the crack of his ass, presses its tip against the hole, and starts pushing it in, slow and steady. Ernesto’s cock twitches and he bites his lower lip, but he doesn’t make a noise. He refuses to.

And at first, there doesn’t seem to be much to make any noise about. The root goes in smoothly enough, if slowly - lube would lessen the sensation, apparently, hence the extra care - and for a few moments that’s it. Ernesto is about to scoff and ask if that’s all, but Héctor places a hand on his ass and chuckles.

“Give it another few moments,” he says, and goes to sit on the bed in front of him. He’s wearing the high-heeled red boots Imelda apparently made specifically for him, and slides a foot beneath his chin to get him to look up at him. He’s grinning from ear to ear, the pendejo.

“It should kick in just about now,” he says, just as a tingling sensation reaches Ernesto’s addled brain. And once the tingle starts, it doesn’t stay just that for long. It’s like tinders turning into a wildfire; suddenly it burns, and burns, and burns.

“A-ah-- shit--” Ernesto blurts out a few profanities, and clenches his hands into fists, bringing his head back down on the tiles – or rather, on Héctor’s boot. He instinctively clenches around the root, but it only makes the burning worse, so much so he cries out.

“No worries, It’s perfectly safe,” Héctor is saying in a somewhat sing-song voice, sounding like he’s having the time of his life. Ernesto takes a mental note to kick his ass at the first chance, possibly once his own has stopped feeling like someone shoved in a hot poker, and gives in to his next instinct – trying to push it out.

“You can’t get it out, but of course you’d try,” Imelda speaks up suddenly, and then her boot is resting against his ass, and something – the heel? – is pressing the ginger root deeper still. Ernesto hears her laughter over his own cry, and drops his head back down on the floor. “Didn’t you say you could take it?” Imelda muses aloud.

He can, of course, and he will. It is a relief, being able to think of it that way; it is purely a matter of pride now, of refusing to back down - not of arousal. Never mind he’d hard and panting and so, so desperate for more touch.

And he does get the touch, sort of; he feels the tip of the riding crop brushing up his spine and then back down, so slowly, raising goosebumps on his skin. He focuses on that, trying to ignore the burning sensation in his ass, the prickling in his eyes, the heat on his groin-- and, then, suddenly, the rod is lifted and comes back down, hard.

He knew it was coming, but nothing would have prepared him for the intense burning when he instinctively clenches his ass at the blow. It gets a choking gasp out of him, and something spills down his face, but Christ, he’s still so hard. The part of his mind still capable of rational thought registers a pause, with no blow following the first, and suddenly Héctor is crouching next to his head and brushing back his hair. “The safeword--” he begins, and Ernesto shakes his head.

“I’m fine,” he gasps. More, he thinks, but the plea doesn’t leave his lips. He refuses to acknowledge it, let alone to utter it. “I don’t need it.” Stop holding back.

“Yes, yes. But if it’s too much--”

“It’s not,” Ernesto snaps. It’s not enough.

“All right,” Héctor says, and next thing Ernesto knows the blows have resumed - whack, whack, whack - across his ass and thighs and lower back, and Héctor is pulling down his underwear with one hand, the other grasping his hair in a vicious grip. The tip of his cock is pressed against his lips, already wet, and Ernesto parts them to allow it in, let Héctor sink deep in his mouth, deep down his throat with a loud groan.

Well, not like he can say the safeword now, Ernesto thinks. Of course they agreed beforehand to other ways he can get them to stop immediately, but that’s a neglectable detail. His mind is a little too taken by the cock thrusting in and out of his mouth, the pull at his hair, the maddening burning sensation in his ass and where the blows have landed, how painfully hard he is.

Then the blows stop, the rod is thrown away - he hears it clatter somewhere on the floor - and he can’t hold back a whine in the back of his throat when the root is pulled, almost yanked out of him. The burn is still there but oh God, he feels so empty.

“Do you want it back?” The ginger is pressed back against him, barely slipping in before stopping. Ernesto whines again, trying to push back, to be stopped by Héctor’s grip in his hair. A sharp slap on his ass causes him to cry out around his dick, tears spilling down his cheeks.

“That was a question,” Imelda says coldly, and rakes her nails down his back, hard.

Héctor pulls back enough to slip out of Ernesto’s mouth, and he coughs, head spinning. “I-I…”

“Do you want it back in you, or not?”

Ernesto swallows. He longs for Héctor’s taste, he longs to be filled again, he needs to come and he knows what he must to. When he speaks, his voice is a weak croaking sound. “Y-yes.”

Her nails sink into the sensitive skin of his ass. “Beg.”

“Por favor,” he blurts out. Normally he would be so embarrassed - so ashamed - for giving in so easily, but right now he doesn't care. He needs more; shame can wait another day.

“Por favor what?”

“Put it back,” he chokes out, and sniffles, his chest seizing up in a sob. “Please.”

Imelda shoves the root back in him roughly, a hand suddenly tightening around his cock and giving it a squeeze, and that’s all it takes. Climax is like a blow, and the cry that leaves him fades into a sob, which he muffles against Héctor’s stomach. He slumps down, or at least so he thinks, because everything spins and suddenly he’s on his back, staring up as Héctor and Imelda tower over him. Héctor is still hard, a big stupid smile on his face, and Imelda looks impassable as always, holding up a pair of handcuffs.

“We’re not done yet,” she says, but there is a pause - a chance for him to say it is enough.

Ah, but is it?

Shuddering, lightheaded from his orgasm, ass and back on fire, Ernesto licks his lips and says nothing. Imelda smiles, and nudges at him with one booted foot. “Get up. On the bed.”

He does, barely able to stand on shaky limbs that feel like jelly. He’s turned on his back, cuffed to the bedpost; then Héctor is coating himself in lube, Imelda lowers herself on his face, and what follows is a whirlwind of pain and pleasure, moans and pleas, cold lubricant and heated skin. He loses himself to it. Imelda was right - tonight, he has no control. He gave it up willngly.

And he’s not scared.

***

“Now that wasn’t bad at all, was it, amigo? Just relax,” Héctor is saying, the first words his mind can truly register once he comes down from the high of another orgasm. The handcuffs are off, and his friend is massaging his wrists to restore circulation.

Ernesto can hardly feel his hands, and they will probably feel like pins and needles later, but he doesn’t care. He hums, face burrowed in the pillow, as Héctor lets go of his hand and speaks again. “I’ll get you something for those welts. And the bite marks. And… everything else.”

Ah, yes. those. Ernesto had forgotten about it all; the sting seems so very, very far away. He just nods and leans his head back down on the pillow, heart hammering in his chest and breathing fast. He hears footsteps, a drawer being opened and he knows Héctor must be getting some salve - but what does grab his attention is something else entirely: absence.

Imelda is not in the room anymore.

Somehow, that stings more than anything else did throughout the whole evening. Even as Héctor returns to the bed and starts spreading salve over his backside, Ernesto finds he cannot even enjoy the soothing coolness. He scowls and struggles to lift himself on his elbows.

“Where--” he starts, only to shut his mouth when there are more steps, Imelda’s own. He lets himself drop back - he won’t look at her now, he suddenly feels something will break if he does, he has never felt more fragile in his life - and shuts his eyes, trying to pretend he never looked around for her in the first place, expecting some sort of mockery.

“How are you?”

Her voice is quiet, and the mattress tips slightly as she sits right by his head. Eyes shut, Ernesto swallows before speaking. “Fine,” he rasps.

“Good,” Imelda is saying, and suddenly her hand is in his hair, brushing back the dishevelled locks. “You look fine, too,” she adds, a hint of humor in her voice that sounds nothing like mockery. All the retorts he thought up seem to vanish in his mind, and Ernesto can only blink in surprise just as she lifts his head and lets him lean it back down on her lap.

She is still naked, her skin is so warm, and she doesn’t stop stroking his hair. Ernesto closes his eyes, and lets out a long sigh. Above him Héctor is still spreading soothing salve, massaging it into the reddened skin with light touches, occasionally pausing to place a kiss on a welt.

“I’d be careful not to sit around too much for the next couple of days,” he murmurs against his skin, and gives a small laugh. “But it was worth it, wasn’t it?”

He could deny it. He would, if not for the fact his eyelids feel so heavy, their touches so soothing. He is so tired, and sated, and he finds an argument is the last thing he wants. So he just nods, and leans his head into Imelda’s touch. She cradles his head, and her thumb brushes across his cheek before she leans in and places a kiss against his temple.

“I’m running you a warm bath. Think you can stand up in about twenty minutes?”

Of course, he should say. I don’t need your help, he should sneer. But he could melt there and then, so he doesn’t. “If you help,” he murmurs, and feels her smile against his skin.

“We will,” Héctor says. His hands go up and down his back in long, soothing strokes. “Stay for the night.”

“My dogs--”

“I’ll walk them and get them here, once we’re done with you,” he reassures him and really, that’s all it takes. Ernesto closes his eyes again, sated and boneless, and rests there under their touch, their scent in his nostrils and hushed words in his ears. All is right in the world.

For a time.

***

[Back to Part 7]

#pixar coco #hector rivera #imelda rivera #ernesto de la cruz #coco #mind the gap

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