Ahh, it’s back

i have disproportionately strong feelings about this.

every time i say “nah i’m not gonna watch it again.” BUT I STILL DO EVERY TIME.

YEAUGH

Gifts, Large and Small

A/N: A Christmas bit of canon divergence for you. Set in Season 3 at the end of the Neverland arc, assuming that Pan never came back with them to Storybrooke and no new curse was set. ~3200 words.

Also on AO3.

Edit: now with a part 2!

They’d missed Thanksgiving, stuck as they were in Neverland.

In hindsight, now that everyone is home and alive and safe, Emma finds she’s almost relieved to have skipped the holiday. As much as she’s spent her life longing for a family and a place to belong and birthdays and holidays that didn’t have to be spent alone, the reality of it is a little overbearing. Her parents are bound and determined to have a grand Christmas celebration, their first real holiday together as a family, and it’s… a lot.

Emma did enjoy shopping for presents for the first time in her life, scouring YouTube for wrapping tutorials (how did Mary Margaret make her perfect packages and gorgeous bows so easily?), and even set up a little tree in her new apartment (she walked in on her parents once and signed a lease two days later), but there were other things to worry about.

Henry, for one. Buying presents for a pre-teen boy was easy enough, but working out logistics when there were two other parents to share him with – one of whom had only recently stopped trying to kill her and the other who was about as subtle as a sledgehammer in his futile efforts to win her back – was an ordeal she’d rather not go through again. They eventually worked it out; Henry would spend Christmas Eve with Neal, the next morning with Regina, and then join Emma and her parents at the loft for lunch.

Between that, her mother’s cookie-baking parties, a month of non-stop Christmas music, and trying to get settled into her new place, Emma finally understands why people call the holiday season stressful.

She hadn’t known, before. She doesn’t know whether to feel sorry for herself or get angry about it.

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Crinkly wrinkles are adorable

hey

guess what

you’re so close to surviving 2017

you can make it

i’m so proud that you’re still here

keep going buddy

i love you

Yesterday, sometime around 4:50 a.m., I was awakened by the sound of a scuffle outside my bedroom and a bit of hissing. This is a fairly normal occurrence when you have two cats who alternate between snuggling while they lick each other’s buttholes and attempting to reenact War of the Roses.

I rolled over in bed and thought nothing of it. But then Watson made a noise I’d never heard come out of him before and something clattered loudly enough to make me jump, so I stumbled out of bed and clicked on the light to see what the hell was going on. Maybe he and Teddy were playing Jenga and Watson’s just a really sore loser.

So I shuffle out the dining/kitchen area like a George Romero character wearing nothing but a ratty camisole and underwear, blinking around bleary-eyed without my contacts or glasses. The cats actually playing Jenga probably would have surprised me less than what I saw.

There’s a raccoon sitting on my dining room table.

We just kind of stared at each other for a minute, me blinking at him and squinting and hoping that I’m either still asleep or that maybe Watson had somehow gotten into my eyeliner and developed a really puffy tail overnight. He (I’m assuming it was male, because of course a man would do this) tilted his head as he took me in but otherwise didn’t move.

“…what,” I said. I’m still proud of that.

And then Watson hissed again, and while it still wasn’t enough to snap me out of my disbelieving stupor I realize that both of my cats are hunched on the floor, staring at this raccoon, utterly terrified, and then I forget how cute raccoons are and remember it’s a wild fucking animal and that rabies are a thing and I’m trying to remember how many humans have actually survived the Milwaukee Protocol, and I’m standing between this adorable masked bandit with very sharp teeth and his only route out of the house.

Then it hissed at me. Did you know raccoons could hiss? I didn’t. It’s messed up. It’s also the moment my brain shifted from “WTF is happening” to “oh, fuck you, buddy.”

Trying to keep an eye on everything and praying the animals didn’t start attacking each other, I back up and prop open the door leading out to the garage and contemplate my next move. I didn’t have a harpoon handy, so I went for the next-best thing I could find without actually leaving my cats alone with this apparently angry fluff-demon - a cat toy, one of those things that’s a long stick with a string and a squeaking mouse hanging off of it.

…I was tired, okay?

I wrapped up the string in my hand so it wasn’t dangling and held this little two-foot plastic stick in my hand and approached, trying to get around the damn table so I can have a good angle to chase him out of the house. I held this little stick like a fencing foil between us, and the whole time he didn’t move. He just stared.

At this point I realize I’ll actually have to scare this thing to get it to move. I wave the stick like a magic wand (”Raccus exumai!”). He hissed in response.

Had I not been half-blind, half-naked, and half-asleep, I probably would have realized that poking it would be a bad idea. I was none of those things, so I poked, and it actually jumped down from the table and sauntered - fucking sauntered - into the living room and over the couch before it realized that yes, I was driving him towards the door and yes, I meant business, so it humored me with this shitty little smirk and went along its way.

Once in the garage, I realized how he’d gotten in - I’d forgotten to shut the door that night and the latch on the actual door to the inside of the house was iffy, so the wily little bastard pushed his way in - and I’m getting more and more angry about how casual he’s acting over being chased out. No scurrying away at top speed for this insolent little hobgoblin, noooo. He waddled away at medium speed while I shooed him into the yard and prayed to every god in existence that none of my neighbors get up too early because I’m barefoot and scantily-clad and haven’t shaved my legs since the Bush administration.

When he’s finally gone I go inside and lock up and check on my traumatized cats (spoiler: they weren’t happy, especially with me). Just as I’m about to go to bed, the smell hits me. I’m still half-blind and pretty sure I’m the victim of some elaborate prank, but my nose leads me to the source, and all I can do is sigh.

In addition to taking up residence on my dining room table, the raccoon elected to take a giant shit on it as well.

So that’s how my week started. And raccoons are assholes.

Reblogging because it’s best non-fic thing I’ve written in years. And because I want everyone to know that raccoons are giant dicks.

Another Hook portrait~ I love drawing his face.

Six Weeks (1/1)

As requested, here is the first-sex-after-the-baby-is-born Captain Swan smut. Rated Explicit, obvi. 

Warning the first: this got long, and clocks in at ~7500 words. 

Warning the second: this is what you guys asked me for, so there are some less than sexy, perhaps even unpleasant, things in here of a biological/sexual nature. I think on balance it’s sexy, but I wrote it, and YMMV. Read at your own risk. (Also, this is based as much as memory allowed on my own experiences, not on a thorough, scientific survey of postpartum women, so again, your mileage likely varied. Which is fine.)

This is a followup to The Swans in the Evening. 

Thanks to @j-philly-b for the beta. Probably not her favorite thing that I’ve written, but she read it enthusiastically nonetheless!

Killian stood at the front window, swaying back and forth and patting the baby on the back. It made a satisfying thumping noise, the way his pats resonated in her tiny chest. Sunlight streamed in through the window, warming his face and contributing to the sense of well-being he was filled with, here in his home with his daughter.  Maureen nosed against his clavicle through the burping cloth, uttering soft baby grunts as she fidgeted.

A bright yellow car pulled up and stopped in front of the house. “Mama’s home,” he murmured, kissing the top of the baby’s head.

His eyes followed Emma as she let herself through the front gate and trotted up the walk. Her long hair hung loose, cascading over the shoulders of the red plaid wool coat she wore. Her leather jackets were buried in the hall closet (I can’t even zip this one up, she’d moaned of her favorite jacket part of the way through her pregnancy, and he hadn’t seen it since). As the door opened, he turned to greet his wife.

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❄ sweet precious cupcake Colin + snow 

❄ Happy Holidays ❄