#its such a dumb silly idea but i had the biggest urge to do it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

jincherie · 5 years

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florescence | iii

❀ — pairing: taehyung x reader x seokjin ❀ — genre: hybrid au, hybrid tae, hybrid jin, poly au, fluff, smut (future), angst ❀ — words: 5.7k+ ❀ — rating: sfw ❀ — warnings: fluff, fluff & more fluff ❀ — notes: I slipped in an extra scene and edited what I had for this chapter, and here we are!!! I still have a fair amount of excess so I’m going to continue working on that along with things like tentacledipity huhuhuhuh anyway hope u enjoy this!!!

Okay, so maybe you’re lonely, and maybe there is something missing in your life, a void that you maybe want to fill with a companion that may or may not be of human origin… You’re perfectly content not doing anything about it though, until your best friend calls you in desperate need for your help and you suddenly end up coming home with not one, but two hybrids that may or may not have been on the way to the chopping block had you not taken them in. They’re more than a little rough around the edges, and the situation is less than ideal but… maybe the best things don’t always come in perfect, shiny packages. Maybe they just need a little time to bloom.

— posted; 22.09.2019 // masterlist || prev. | next.

“Next, you put in the eggs?”

You hum in affirmation, feeling Seokjin hover just over your shoulder—far enough that the distance is polite, but close enough that the barest hints of his warmth from his body tickle your skin and make you yearn for more. A somewhat inappropriate and incredibly intrusive feeling that pops into your head, but not one that’s easily escaped either.

“Yup,” you chirp, already reaching for the ingredients. Before you can grasp them, Seokjin hastily retrieves them for you—nearly dropping them in the process but successfully delivering them into your hold nonetheless. You send him a smile and his cheeks flush pink, ears flicking back shyly. From the corner of your eye, you catch his tail attempting to whip eagerly from side to side behind him.

He is so cute you think you’re really going to burst.

“I hope these pancakes turn out better than the last ones,” you murmur softly as you stir, trying to fold the ingredients and mix them more efficiently. It was something that slipped out more as a musing, but you hear an affronted gasp from behind you as soon as the words grace the air nonetheless.

“y/n!” Seokjin says, tone taking on a reprimanding edge that has you fighting a smile. “The last pancakes were good! They were so good, I promise!”

You glance at him over your shoulder, finding him standing with hands in loose fists and a determined, somewhat distressed expression on his face. You really can’t hold back your smile.

“Thanks, Seokjin,” you said, feeling your chest warm as his cheeks flush on cue. “I appreciate that, and I know they must have been at least a little bit good since you nearly ate yourself sick with them.”

At the mention of the incident that occurred only a day or so ago, Seokjin’s blush takes on another degree of severity and a sound that seems awfully akin to a whine leaks from his throat. You’d learned from Seokjin that they’d never had pancakes at the lab, and had immediately nearly thrown a fit and had an internal meltdown that resulted in you making them right then and there, immediately, to rectify it. You aren’t the biggest fan of pancakes, they aren’t even your favourite food, but they feel like such a crucial experience in life that the idea of the two hybrids never having had the pleasure of trying them… you were compelled to fix it.

As it turns out, they love them, so much that here you are making them again, lowkey teaching Seokjin how to do it himself. You aren’t sure if he’s really here for your company or to oversee the production of the pancakes. You’re inclined to believe the latter, but letting yourself think it is the former is nice while it lasts. You gotta be a little kind to yourself sometimes, after all.

The rest of the cooking experience goes smoothly, save for Seokjin almost burning himself on the pan. He gets a little too excited when you hand him the spatula, ears upright and deceptively alert—you quickly realise you should have been paying more attention to the blur of his whirring tail as he focuses too much on the bubbling pancakes and not enough on his own movements.

When his wrist dips a little too low and brushes the side of the pan, the reaction is immediate—he jerks his whole hand away, spatula dropping from his grasp, and a whimper slips from his throat that has you immediately at attention.

“Ah, Seokjin!” You immediately move and grasp his hand, bringing it closer to inspect it. Subconsciously, you pull him over to the sink as well. “Oh, bub, are you alright?”

Seokjin’s free hand finds your upper arm, gripping the material of your shirt as he flounders and stumbles over a response—your close proximity has him a little flustered, it seems. Catching sight of the red welt beginning to appear on the tan underside of his wrist, you bring it over the sink and turn the tap, allowing cold water to run over the mild burn. He jumps, letting out an ‘eep’ before leaning closer to the sink and, as a result, further against you.

“I-I’m fine!” he attempts to reassure you, before a soft whimper slips out as you tilt his wrist. “I-I’m sorry, I should have been paying more attention… It was stupid of me…”

“A little bit silly, but not stupid. I’m not going to fault you for being excited, Seokjin,” you inform him, turning the tap off and inspecting the burn to assess its severity. When you deem it okay enough that it shouldn’t need too much more water or attention, you bring it to your lips and press a light kiss over it. “There. All better.”

In your defence, you hadn’t really realised what you’d done—for your job you’re around children often and do such things without so much as a second thought. But when you turn and see Seokjin standing stock still, staring at his wrist with eyes blown wide and his entire face turning pink, you quickly realise your folly and are immediately overtaken by the conflicting urges to coo, laugh, and apologise.

You’re a little embarrassed. He doesn’t seem upset about it though, just flustered, so you decide he can go without a flustered, bumbling apology in return and you can save yourself a tiny bit of your pride. You slap on a big, dumb smile and then shuffle back to the pan, flipping the pancakes before they can begin to burn.

With that little incident over, you get back to cooking. It takes a while for the flush to leave Seokjin’s face, and when you emerge from the kitchen with pancakes to greet Taehyung, he sends the two of you a curious, questioning look. The only thing that saves you from having to answer is the way the smell of the food seems to suddenly possess the two of them, and how as soon as it touches their tongues they’ve both completely forgotten.

You’ll have to be more mindful of your habits, it seems.

Over the next few days as you gradually get everything you had on your list and your orders arrive, you’re overjoyed to note that the two hybrids seem to be allowing themselves to open up slightly and draw a little closer, bit by bit. No longer secluding himself in the room or confining himself to the living room on his favourite couch, Seokjin will now occasionally wander into the kitchen when you’re cooking and hover as he had when the two of you made pancakes, curious gaze raking in everything you do. Sometimes he’ll make a comment and strike up a small conversation, ask whatever tickles his interest, but the silence that fills the air between you when he doesn’t isn’t an uncomfortable one, unlike how it might have been before.

Taehyung too seems to be allowing you into his heart in baby steps. While he still hasn’t spoken, it’s becoming easier and easier for you to stop associating his speech— or lack thereof in this instance — with however he might feel about you, and it means you’re able to enjoy the time he spends with you that much more. The tall russet-haired hybrid has taken to pulling you to sit next to him for a movie, sitting apart on the couch but just close enough that his shoulder barely brushes yours. He also, as his most recent effort, tugged you down to sit in the sun with him in your courtyard, both of you laying sideways across the hammock so that your upper bodies are supported and your legs hang over the edge. You can tell that he’s still warring with his incredibly shy nature, because both instances he spends with a pretty blush across his cheeks and nose. You think that both of the hybrids are beautiful, but you also think that the times Taehyung spends relaxing outside with you are where he is most beautiful; with the afternoon sun bathing his tan skin in rays of gold and melting his eyes into pools of ember, russet hair and fur gleaming like silk, he glows ethereal.

Seokjin doesn’t join the two of you when you lay outside, but sometimes when you enter and catch him by the doorway you swear you can see a glimmer of longing in his gemstone eyes.

It is perhaps a week after the events of the day that spurred everything into motion that you finally catch a glimpse of the most vulnerable parts of the silver fox hybrid.

Once more it’s a time of night where you should probably be asleep, yet you find yourself wandering into the kitchen in the dark with the intention of surreptitiously making yourself a tea and hoping you don’t wake your housemates with sensitive ears. You get to the point of boiling the jug when you notice the front screen door is slightly ajar and a breeze is sifting through to brush your skin with a cool caress. Curious, if slightly alarmed, you strain your ears and catch the slight creak you know too well as that of the hammock when it swings under the weight of a body. You pause for a moment, pondering how to proceed, and end up silently retrieving another mug from the cupboard, dropping another teabag in.

A few minutes later finds you padding softly to the door, sliding it open as carefully as you can with both of your hands full. You’re not sure who you expect to see occupying the hammock at this time of night, considering Taehyung is the only one who has shown an affinity for snuggling in it, but the animal he is spliced with is also not the nocturnal type. It is Seokjin that greets your eyes as they slowly adjust to the dark, and the sight of him makes your heart skip a beat.

If Taehyung is a child of the sun, then Seokjin belongs to the moon. His charcoal hair has turned to ink and shines like silk in the moonlight, tan skin tinged soft blue and rose petal lips painted violet. He is lost in thought, eyes glazed and glimmering, and beneath the moons rays he is aglow and radiant. The fur on his ears and tail is the same glossy ink as his hair yet looks so impossibly soft and fluffy your hands ache to touch it. When you take a step closer and his ears flick, registering the sound and your presence a moment later, and he almost jumps out of his skin.

“y-y/n!” he bursts, eyes wide as he scrambles from where he is curled in the hammock, almost tipping himself out of it in the process. “W-what are you doing up? Did I wake you? I’m so sorry—”

You can’t help but smile at his fluster, letting out a soft giggle. “You didn’t wake me, don’t worry Seokjin. I was up getting a tea and heard you out here so I made you one as well. Scooch over, bub.”

At the term of affection tacked on at the end, Seokjin’s face erupts into a violent blush. He sputters but he does what you say without thinking, cheeks glowing with heat. You ease down next to him so you’re both sitting with your legs over the edge, the nature of the hammock causing your shoulders to press together and your bodies to tilt towards each other. You hand him his mug and he takes it shyly, wrapping his hands around the heated ceramic immediately; it’s a little chilly, out here in the open.

“Thank you,” he murmurs softly, averting his gaze as he takes a sip. A pleased hum escapes him before he can stop it, his cheeks warming even further. You take a sip of your own drink to muffle your laugh.

The silence that sinks over you after that is comfortable, the two of you directing your gazes to the sky. You’re far enough from the centre of the city that you can still see the stars, and you’re admittedly a bit mesmerised as they glimmer. The moon, too, is hypnotically beautiful tonight. It’s waxing, and you don’t doubt that in a week or so it will be completely full.

Before long, you can feel a shift in the air, a slight weight that wasn’t there before, and your attention is drawn from the sky. Turning to face Seokjin, he has an expression like he wishes to speak, to ask you something, his eyes flicking periodically from your form to the sky and the flowers in your courtyard.

“Is everything okay, Seokjin?” you ask after a few moments. You wanted to see if he would voice whatever is on his mind by himself, but when he remains hesitant you decide to help ease him into it. “What’s on your mind?”

The hybrid eyes you for a long few moments, amber eyes glimmering, before he realises he is staring and promptly rips his gaze away. You fight a smile for the sake of his pride.

“I just…” he stops as suddenly as he starts, teeth sinking into his lip. Curiously, you note that his canines are a little bit longer than your own human ones—you hope that doesn’t mean he is prone to nicking himself with them. “I…”

You wait patiently, kicking your feet a little and taking a sip of your drink. Seokjin catches the movement of your legs and a small smile catches his lips. It drops when he sighs a moment later, apparently focusing on ordering his thoughts.

“I didn’t think this would ever happen,” he admits finally, voice small and a split second from cracking. His fingers tap against the mug in their hold, his eyes averted from your own and his brow furrowed. You give him a few moments, and he elaborates for you. “I didn’t think I would ever… we would ever, you know…”

When he risks a glance your way your head is tilted, eyes on him as you wait patiently for him to continue. He flushes, mumbling.

“I didn’t think… we would ever get a home.”

It’s as though your heart freezes in your chest for a moment, your mouth dropping open a little bit. Seokjin fumbles over his words a little, but now that he’s started he doesn’t seem to be able to stop.

“I-I mean, I kind of always knew Taehyung would get a home. He is sweet, and loyal, and he meets the aesthetic requirements of his batch. He’s shy, but it’s not a deal-breaker for everyone. But I…” he swallows, blinking rapidly; your hand itches to wrap around his own and intertwine your fingers to comfort him, but you refrain. “But I… I don’t fit what they want, what they aimed for. My features are a mutation—by the definition my creation was an experiment and my existence is a failure.”

“Seokjin…” you breathe, your own eyes stinging. He takes in a shaky breath, sniffling sharply once.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this…” he says, and you can see his cheeks glowing with heat once more. “I… I can’t help it, though. You…”

He flushes further, if possible, and looks incredibly embarrassed about what he’s about to confess. His tail whips anxiously behind him before wrapping around his middle, ears pressed backwards.

“You feel… safe, to me, to us,” he admits in such a soft whisper your ears strain to hear it. He can barely look at you he is blushing so badly, and you curse the way your heart flips in response to his fluster. “P-please don’t think it’s weird, b-but your scent… it is very calming. It… feels safe. For Taehyung, too. E-even though we haven’t scented y—”

He suddenly cuts off, eyes blown wide and an expression of mortification crossing his handsome features. Unfortunately for him, you can’t squash your sudden burning curiosity.

“Even though you haven’t what?” you prompt, eyes searching his features—Seokjin looks very much like he’d rather sink into the earth and become one with the soil than answer you.

“N-nothing. It’s nothing, it’s not important.” You thought he was just flustered, but to your surprise you note a bit of fear filtering just barely through his tone. What is he scared of? Does he fear that he’ll receive some sort of reaction in particular from you? The idea saddens you a little bit.

“Seokjin, please don’t be scared to tell me things,” you say softly, finally allowing your hand to reach and grasp his own. He jolts, looking to you with wide eyes; yet his fingers still curl around your own immediately, and the action soothes any sudden worries that might make themselves known in your thoughts. As you speak, you realise that part of his hesitation might stem from the feelings he hinted at the other day. “Nothing you say or do will ever be a deal-breaker for me, Seokjin. Nothing you do will ever be something that makes me take you back. In all honesty, unless it was something I knew you wanted, I’d rather chop all four of my limbs off than take you back or do something that would hurt you.”

The hybrid is more than taken aback at your words, his mouth hanging open and ears part-way extended from his hair. It takes him a few moments for your words to sink in completely.

“Do you mean that?” he asks, and his voice cracks. His eyes begin to water. “Do you… do you really mean that?”

You nod at him, smiling softly. “I’m happy with you and Taehyung, Seokjin. I want you.”

The last three words that fall from your lips are simple yet seem to have a more profound effect on him than anticipated. He lets out a whimper, a choked-sounding gasp of sorts, and jerks as though he wants to throw his arms around you but restrains himself at the last moment. He doesn’t speak, can’t seam to speak, but the second you catch his gaze with your own you find an ocean of emotions shimmering and swirling before you. Gently, you take his mug from his hands and place it with yours down by the end of the hammock. When you sit back up, you open your arms to him and he doesn’t waste a second, another whimper escaping before he throws himself at you, hammock rocking dangerously from the momentum of his movement.

His face is shoved in the crook of your neck once more, arms looped tightly around your middle. You feel secure, safe, and your chest warms with affection as Seokjin shifts and brings you closer to him, barely a few movements away from pulling your straight onto his lap. You run your hand up and down his back soothingly, fingers dragging over the firm curves of muscle.

“Thank you, y/n.” His voice is a barely-there whisper that brushes your neck gently, and you can feel the movement of his lashes as he scrunches his eyes shut and presses his face closer. “Thank you.”

You can’t help but let out a soft chuckle, leaning your head against his as you did last time he embraced you; he lets out a happy chitter. You feel at peace, content, and you can feel the shift in the air—can feel how he has opened himself a little more to you.

“You’re more than welcome, Seokjin,” you murmur.

And you mean it, you really do.

x + x + x +

The next morning when you awake, it’s not to your alarm like you expect. Despite the fact you’d still returned to bed later last night, especially after your little one-on-one with Seokjin in the courtyard, you still didn’t want to sleep in too late. To be fair you love sleep, but don’t particularly enjoy the feeling like you’re wasting the day when you wake up too late. Hence, you’d begrudgingly set an alarm despite the fact you don’t really have to be up for anything.

Even so, you’re quick to realise upon waking that the alarm you’d set on your phone isn’t the culprit. Instead the real cause reveals itself as you crack your eyes open and rub them blearily, eyesight gradually adjusting. To your complete and utter surprise, it’s Taehyung’s face that greets you as you come to your senses, his cheeks already flushed the second your gaze lands on him. Confusion filters through your mind and then concern in quick succession—Taehyung has never come into your room before, what made him now?

“Taehyung?” you query, sitting up suddenly and clearing your throat so your voice doesn’t stay so rough. “Is everything ok? Did something happen?”

His cheeks flush further but he holds your concerned gaze as he shakes his head, shifting nervously where he’s standing by the top of your bed. Something twitches on your shoulder and you realise quickly its his finger, his hand gently cupping the curve of it—he must have been gently shaking you awake with his hold.

When he shakes his head, you feel all the tension leave you in one big huff of relief. “Oh thank goodness,” you manage to say before a yawn stopped you in your tracks. “What’s up, bub?”

Again you tacked on the nickname unthinkingly, and it seems to fluster the poor hybrid even more than it did Seokjin the night before. Taehyung stares at you with wide eyes, tail trembling behind him—his ears aren’t flattened against his head, though, so you take that to mean you haven’t embarrassed him too badly.

Instead of speaking—not like you expected him to at this point, in all honesty—he bites his lip and moves his hand to grasp your own. You have barely a moment to register how soft and warm his palm is as it cups yours before he’s tightening his grip and tugging it gently, urging you to follow him. Confused but curious to see what he’s up to, you allow him to guide you from the bed and out of your room, following him as he makes a beeline for the kitchen.

To your surprise, upon entering the kitchen you’re greeted with the sight of two plates with some cut up fruit, boiled eggs and toast placed neatly on top. Off to the side is a third plate covered in plastic wrap so nothing gets on it, and you assume that one is for Seokjin whenever he wakes. You return your gaze to the other two plates as you draw closer, sniffing and absolutely salivating at the smell of freshly-made coffee as it brushes your nostrils.

“Oh, Taehyung, that smells and looks delicious,” you praise him readily, keeping your hand in his as you move closer to inspect the meal that had been so nicely prepared for you. You can’t deny the way your heart skipped a beat, the giddy feeling tickling your stomach, at the fact that Taehyung had taken the time to do this—for you. And Seokjin too, but honestly considering how close they are you wouldn’t expect anything less.

He shakes his head shyly, blushing, and attempts to shake his hair so that it hides his face from you. His ears flick towards you at the giggle that escapes your lips, and he bites his lip as he forces himself to return his gaze to you. You watch as he reaches with his free hand to grasp one of the plates, before standing still and waiting pointedly. Quickly, you do the same, begrudgingly releasing his hand so you can grasp your drink as well. His arm twitches towards you before falling to his side. Cheeks burning, the male makes sure your attention is on him before he turns and begins walking from the kitchen. It doesn’t take you long to realise where he is going.

The sun is warm as it kisses your skin but the air is cool enough to elicit a shiver as you step outside, following the male closely. He moves to the hammock, already smiling as the sun hits his skin, and settles down before looking over at you expectantly. You really can’t hold your grin as you move over quickly, sitting down carefully so you don’t rock the hammock too much. You have to take a quick sip of your drink as you lower yourself so that it doesn’t spill over the top, and let out a pleased hum at the taste. He made it perfectly how you like it—it seems he’s more observant than he lets on.

“What a pretty day,” you comment, taking in the cool shadows of the morning in contrast to the crisp patches of sunlight. Taehyung nods from beside you, lifting his fork but hesitating before using it. You’re confused for a moment, before you realise its something both him and Seokjin have subtly done ever since they’ve been here. They won’t start eating until you do. You’re a little disappointed in yourself for not noticing earlier, since it’s clearly a carry-over of whatever rules they were taught at the lab. In your defence though, as soon as you see food you develop a tunnel vision of sorts. It’s clearly something you need to work on.

Quick to pick up your own fork and start eating so he doesn’t have to wait, you tell him he’s always welcome to start before you. He blushes, but after holding your gaze for a few moments nods in acknowledgement. You beam at him and he averts his gaze, shoving a piece of melon in his mouth. Cute.

You chatter idly as you sit there with Taehyung, not in an attempt to fill the silence so much as just because you wanted to—most of what you were saying were praises and thanks, anyway. He’s clearly flustered at your words but also seems to preen, clearly a little bit proud of himself. You’re pleased to see that. Little by little, he seems to be coming out of his shell, and the prospect is exciting.

Taehyung finishes before you, and the second the last item of food leaves the plate and enters your mouth, he takes the ceramic from your hands and moves it with his own out of the way on the ground. A temporary location. You’ve barely finished chewing when he pops back up, looking somewhat hesitant but with a shimmer of something else hiding in the depths of his gaze. His fingers clutch each other as he looks at you, tail winding and then unwinding around his waist as his ears lower then raise again.

Your immediate instinct is to ask him what’s up, but you hold yourself back—part of you wants to know if he’ll tell you himself, even if it isn’t with words. You want to see how he will proceed.

He seems to catch on quickly that you’re waiting for him, as he wriggles and averts his eyes nervously. He takes a deep breath, straightening his back, and frees one of his hands so it can lift—before it falls back down quickly and he loses his nerve. His cheeks are flushed still, so whatever is on his mind is clearly flustering him, and you continue to wait for him to do what he wants to do in his own time.

His hand lifts again, fingers tentatively touching your hand, then your arm, then your neck where it meets your collarbone. He retracts his hand immediately after, looking troubled as to how to convey what he wants. Curious, you watch as he gathers his thoughts and seems to steel himself once more, before he reaches out with only the slightest tremble to his hand and points at you. He then moves and wraps his arms around himself, looking at you pointedly.

You’re a little lost on what he means, a few possibilities trickling through your mind, but you decide to take the least likely and tease him a bit. “Are you asking if I’m I cold?”

Taehyung’s face drops, his ears twitching as he realises how you could have gotten that message. He huffs, shaking his head, and wraps his arms tighter and higher around himself. This time, he drops his head gently to the side onto his shoulder, looking at you pointedly with pink cheeks.

Biting your lip to contain your smile, you can’t help but tease him a little more. “Do you want a teddy bear?”

A grimace twists his features for a moment, before his expression drops completely—something that makes your stomach fall with it since he seems to be about to give up. He seems even more embarrassed now, in combination with downcast, as he straightens back up, and you’re quick to try and remedy the situation you just created.

“I’m kidding, Taehyung,” you smile softly, fingers fiddling in your lap. This will be really embarrassing for you if you misinterpreted what he was trying to say. “Do… do you want to cuddle?”

Immediately, his expression lights up, and he’s nodding so hurriedly you’re worried he’s going to pull a muscle in his neck. A laugh spills out of you of its own accord as you adjust your position on the hammock, moving to lay down along it and opening your arms to the male.

Taehyung, in what has to be the boldest movement you’ve ever seen him make, dives into your arms so eagerly that the hammock rocks dangerously as a result. It pulls another laugh from you as he stiffens and tries to hold his balance for a moment, tail a little more raised than usual and wriggling in excitement. Once he is sure the hammock has calmed and he wont be tipped to the ground, he eases himself down next to you and wriggles closer, so that he isn’t pressed too closely to the edge.

He seems pleased to have gotten where he is, but you still catch some hesitance in the way he is lying next to you, his arms curled at his chest and tail flicking restlessly. Your shoulders are pressed together, he’s not apart from you, but you get the feeling he is itching to be even closer still. You catch it in the small shifts and wriggles he does, the way his fingers twitch and legs move despite how still he stays.

“You’re too cute, Taehyung,” you laugh, the soft sound catching his attention as he looks up to meet your eyes. “Come here and actually cuddle me.”

With that, you shift and slip your arm beneath his back, wriggling into a more comfortable position and pulling him closer. He blushes madly, but seems relieved you’ve given him the go-ahead as he’s quick to wrap his arms around you, too. You’re on your back and he curls around you on his side, one arm slipping beneath the curve of your lower back and the other draping across your stomach—funnily enough, the way he’s holding you is like you are a big teddy bear in his arms. His tail is soft as it curls over his hip and, as a result, over yours too. The fur tickles you a little and you can feel Taehyung smile against your skin where his face is pressed to your neck. Part of the hammock is in the cool of the shade, but with him cuddled so close you’re more than warm enough.

Humming, with one hand you play with the hair at the nape of his neck and with the other you smooth and brush through the fur on his black-tipped tail. Instantly, the hybrid absolutely melts in your arms, body going so slack in contentment that it melds to your own. You catch him inhaling deeply and then letting out a big breath, the puff of air hot against your skin. His ears flick against your jaw, taking in each and ever sound around you. It’s…. serene. You feel so at peace, and comfortable—you can only hope Taehyung feels that way too.

The silence that settles over the two of you isn’t uncomfortable, in fact it’s quite the opposite. It’s like a blanket of warmth, and before long beneath it and the suns rays the two of you find yourself getting sleepy. Not long into your position on the hammock and you feel Taehyung’s breathing even out completely, his body curling around yours even more as he buries his face further into your neck. You follow him soon after, sleepy eyes drifting closed and sleep eagerly reclaiming you in the comfort of his hold.

x + x +

It can’t be much later that you’re shaken from sleep by movement on the hammock. Blearily, you open your eyes and blink away the remnants of sleep, struggling to focus them and see the cause of the movement. Taehyung shifts against your side, pressing futher into your neck and clutching you tighter. It’s not him.

You look up and catch Seokjin frozen in his movements, looking at you like a deer caught in headlights with wide eyes and flushed cheeks.

“Uh, y/n…” he stumbles over his words, clearly embarrassed. You quickly realise what he was trying to do as he goes to pull away.

“’s okay, Seokjin,” you smile at him, if somewhat sleepily, and grasp his hand in yours—you use the grip to tug him gently down. “You can come cuddle too.”

The hybrid is visibly overjoyed at your words, and wastes no time in crawling completely onto the hammock as he’d been trying to do before, curling into your side like a puppy. His bushy tail is wagging slightly, before he forces it to calm and wraps it over his hip so it flops over you as well. He seems a little unsure and hesitant of where to put his hands and head, and with a soft giggle you guide his head to your shoulder and his arm to drape over you. You don’t realise Taehyung is awake as well until he moves the arm across your abdomen to hold Seokjin’s hand, resting their conjoined palms over your stomach. The action warms your heart like nothing else and even in your sleepy haze you can’t help but grin, nuzzling into both of them and enjoying the warmth on your skin from the sun and their embrace.

You can only hope that they won’t be afraid to hold you like this again after today.

a/n: thank u for reading, pls let me know what u think!! and feel free to let me know its not total trash by dropping a like or rb,,, if it’s not too much trouble!! and if u enjoyed this and would like to support me, pls feel free to drop by my ko-fi :3

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ckret2 · 5 years

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Okay time for some Actual Thoughts about Detective Pikachu, particularly the villain. Spoilers below.

In This Essay I Will compare and contrast the game’s villain to the movie’s villain, explain why I like one better than the other, and then talk about something that bugs me about both and tbh about a lot of action movie villains.

I liked the movie villain more than the game villain, for one specific reason: I thought the game villain’s motive was dumb for the game. Not dumb overall for a villain to have, but dumb for him.

Quick overview of the game villain: this hotshot rising star in a news station has been secretly using a chemical to make Pokémon go berserk; and every time they do, he just so happens to have a couple of his reporters on the scene, to cover the carnage. A couple years ago the station was sinking fast. Since he’s joined—and since they’ve started airing broadcasts about Pokémon going berserk—the once-struggling station has flourished. Now, they’ve got an exclusive deal to cover a huge Pokémon parade... where the station exec is planning to unleash a monstrous supply of this chemical, sending every Pokémon in the parade on a rampage.

Why, you ask, is he doing this? If you said, “Because he’s a corrupt, sleazy exec, who’s manufacturing emergencies and sending people to record them to boost the station’s reputation and make himself rich,” you’d be wrong!!

No, he wants to take over the world. Sssomehow.

It’s over-the-top, it’s out of nowhere, and it doesn’t line up with what he’s actually been doing the whole game. He hasn’t even taken over the station yet, and we’re supposed to believe he wants to take over the world?

And it’s unsatisfying. The fun from taking a villain down comes from stopping them just before (or even just after) the culmination of their master plan. We stop the exec just before he ruins the parade and films it all. If his goal were to make his station rich and famous by filming disasters, then we would have narrowly thwarted his master plan! Except, it turns out, it wasn’t his master plan after all. It was step 1 in his 20-step master plan. We thwarted his ambitions before they could even get started. He was nowhere near taking over the world when we stopped him. Where’s the satisfaction in that?

In contrast, take the movie’s villain: the father of the aforementioned news station exec. (The station exec who gets framed in the movie, to great effect. I’d suspected the dad was lying, but I’d thought he and his kid were in cahoots—I did not catch on to the sunglasses. brilliant.) He’s a rich idealist futurist, kinda Tesla-esque in a way—he struts about boasting about grand ideas for the future and throws a lot of money at making them happen. The city that practically the whole movie takes place in is in fact his own pet project. It’s so much his personal project that visitors to the city are treated to a video of him talking about how and why he made the city: it was a response to his concerns about his own ailing health, and it was a realization of his dreams to bring humans and Pokémon together in a way they never had before.

When we find out his master villainous plot, what is it? It’s both a response to his concerns about his own ailing health, and a realization of his dreams to bring humans and Pokémon together in a way they never had before.

The motivations line up perfectly. Everything we need to understand what he’s doing—from the method itself to the breathtaking scale of it—is presented in the little promo video where he talks about his utopian city. It doesn’t show you what’s going to happen, but once you know, you can see how it was coming. Ryme City is step 1 in his master plan. Fusing humans and Pokémon is step 20.

The method also perfectly fits his character. The game villain? Not so much. A TV exec should have a TV exec’s evil plan, not a burgeoning dictator’s. What kind of evil plan would an unhinged idealistic billionaire have? Something unhinged, and idealistic, and expensive.

In real life, you might see the absurdly rich postulate that the solution to starvation and disease is spreading to Mars rather than paying their own lowest-level employees enough to eat and go to the doctor, or that the solution to traffic is self-driving cars instead of having less cars on the road to slow each other down. The movie’s villain sees a problem—the frailty of humanity, the sickness and weakness that comes with disease and aging—and, instead of solving the problem in a mundane but realistic way, like pouring more funding into health care, he reaches for a lofty, flashy, futuristic ~Solution To Everything~: human/Pokémon gene therapy—no!—human/Pokémon FUSION!! And, just like similar flashy futurist plans from the absurdly rich in real life: it’s not a solution that anybody asked for; it either solves a problem too far outside normal people’s real lives for them to care about or else doesn’t do a thing to solve any real problem at all; and the rich dude with the funds to make it happen is going to pursue making it happen anyway, whether or not anybody wants it.

(To be fair to irl useless billionaires, at least self-driving cars and spaceships don’t actively directly ruin anybody’s lives like fusing humans with animals would, and in fact are actually cool if you don’t think about all the things not being done with that money; but then, irl useless billionaires aren’t over-the-top movie supervillains, so the point is moot.)

His motive makes perfect sense, character-wise. The scope and shape of his plan fit perfectly within the type of character he’s been presented as. Unlike the game villain, the movie villain is thematically cohesive. He’s MUCH better put together.

... Except, the thing is, his evil plan is “make a bunch of Pokémon at a parade go berserk with Mewtwo’s genes, put Mewtwo itself in a berserk state with its own genes, and use this berserk state to control Mewtwo and then use Mewtwo to dissolve humans and put them into Pokémon bodies to pilot, which is, apparently, a power that Mewtwo, just, has.”

And it’s all kind of... silly.

In contrast? The grand plan of the game villain—not taking over the world, but what he was actually doing—was “make a bunch of Pokémon at a parade go berserk with Mewtwo’s genes... and put the incident on the news. Eventually build up to conquering the world from there.”

It kind of makes a lot more sense. Like, it’s a very workable plan. It doesn’t rely on giving Mewtwo supernatural powers that go beyond the scope of the drugs-and-gene-splicing we’ve seen in the movie up until now—venturing out of sci-fi into what looks like straight up magic. Sure, the plan fits the villain, but it’s... a bit too much.

That’s the thing that bugs me the most about both villains—and, quite honestly, a lot of other villains in a lot of other movies. By all means, villains SHOULD be over the top, they SHOULD pose a big threat, and they SHOULD be at their most dangerous during the climax; but if the rest of the movie has been about elevating the threat from 1 to 20, and then at the end instead of more naturally jacking the threat up to 40 or even to 100 it blasts off to 1000, it’s... it’s a bit disproportionate, you know? “This villain has been all about drugging Pokémon and filming them, because that’s what he does, he’s a TV exec... but now he wants to take over the world, that’s a bit much, isn’t it?” “This villain is a big, powerful billionaire who’s channeled normal fear of aging/death and love of human/Pokémon companionship into an overzealous Pokémon gene therapy project with a dangerous drug byproduct... but now he’s magically sticking humans in Pokémon bodies, that’s a bit much, isn’t it?”

It’s not just a problem with Detective Pikachu. The first time I can recall going “isn’t that a bit much?” at a movie was with Iron Man: the main villain, for most of the movie, was a greedy sleazy corporate exec who was making immoral business deals behind the hero’s back and alternating between trying to get the hero killed and trying to get him kicked out of his own company so that greedy exec could take over it. Buuut at the end of the movie, after very carefully keeping his hands clean and keeping himself coldly distant from all the violence he’s helping perpetuate, suddenly he’s ready to climb into a double-sized Iron Man suit and brawl with the hero directly? Instead of, as he did the rest of the movie, paying some mercenary to fight his fight for him? Isn’t that a bit much?

I get that the urge is there to go for the biggest possible threat they can squeeze out of their villain. But there are a lot of movies where it feels like, in the final act, the threat is disproportionately large, or fantastical, or out of character for the villain they’ve written and the story they’ve told. The biggest possible threat feels unwieldy if it’s bigger than the story that they’re telling.

I wouldn’t mind a few less explosions and slow-motion punches and previously hands-off villains who are suddenly inexplicably fighting their own battles, if in return it meant less action movies and the like where it feels like in the last twenty minutes the villain and/or villainous plan have suddenly been replaced by something a couple orders of magnitude bigger and grander than what we’d been following up until then.

#detective pikachu #pokemon #spoilers #meta

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a-gay-bloodmage · 5 years

Text

—Wings—

Pairing: Merrill x Female Hawke

Pairing Type: F/F

Words: 1,985

Warnings: Kirkwall is a Pine Forest, Blue Hawke is the Biggest Sweetheart, So Much Pining, We Love Useless Bisexuals in This House

"Ser Hawke!" Marian turned around at the child's voice. She looked down to see a small elven boy who looked like he'd been rolling around in dust. He held a note out to her.

"Oh, thank you," she smiled, bending down a little to take the neatly folded note. "Here," she said, reaching into her coin purse to hand the boy two silvers for his trouble. He grinned and thanked her profusely before darting back off into the crowd. She leaned against one of the buildings bordering the crowded marketplace, opening the letter as casually as she could.

Dear Hawke, it started, in a familiar, adorable handwriting. I quite hope that this letter finds you quickly, because I have a bit of a situation at home. Don't worry, it's nothing very bad, but I would just like you to come over before you dismiss my situation because it's a little silly. Please, do not bring your dog. I'm afraid he would not be much help. Your friend, Merrill. Hawke felt her heart squeezing at the letter, the loopy handwriting addressed to her and her alone making her all but physically swoon.

She stuffed the letter into her breastband and left the marketplace without buying anything. She'd completely forgotten what she had even come to buy, but it didn't really matter at this point. She had an elf to attend to.

• • ♡ • •

She always felt a little out of place in the Alienage. Of course, it was partly due to her round ears and overall human-ness, with the fact that she seemed to be at least half a foot taller than everyone a major reason she stuck out like a sore thumb. At least her popularity with the elves was good. They seemed to approve of killing slavers and charity.

"Merrill?" She knocked three times on the door to Merrill's tiny little home. She cringed a little as she heard things banging around inside the house, a little just a minute! calling out from somewhere inside.

The door was yanked open after a second, revealing a disheveled but excited elf.

"Hawke!" She grinned. "You got my letter, then?" Marian nodded. "Come in, come in," Merrill said, gesturing for Hawke to follow. "Oh, I do hope Lord Stubs is at home," she said. "I don't think he would do much good here."

Hawke was glad Merrill's back was to her, not noticing the dumb smile on her face. Then again, Merrill wasn't very observant when it came to people liking her—Hawke knew this fact all too well.

"So... What is it you wanted me here for?" She asked, bouncing on her toes.

Merrill turned to her and smiled. "Wait here, I'll go get him," she said, running off to a corner of the tiny, one-room home. Hawke tried not to pay too much attention to the cracked mirror covered in moving darkness in the other corner as she leaned against the wall. "Okay," Merrill said, positively shaking with excitement as she reached into a small box. "Close your eyes, Hawke."

"If you put a spider in my hand, I'm going to be very cross," she said, smiling as she closed her eyes.

"Oh, I wouldn't do that to you!" Merrill giggled, her light footsteps hardly audible on the rickety wooden floors. "Alright, hold your hands out and cup them." Hawke did as she asked. "Now, be very gentle and don't squeeze too hard."

Hawke felt something light and fluffy being placed into her hands, and jumped a little when it started to move.

"Now," Merrill began, "why don't you-" She was cut off by a little peep coming from the thing in Hawke's hands. "Shush!" Merrill huffed a little. "She's supposed to guess!"

"Uh..." Hawke couldn't help but smile. "Is it... a tiny dragon?"

Merrill giggled. "No, don't be silly, I don't have the time to go searching around a dragon's nest for a little baby dragon!" She paused for a moment. "And spitting little bitty flames might not be so good in a wooden house..."

"Okay, what is it?" Hawke really wanted to open her eyes.

"Oh, just look, silly!"

It was a duckling. A tiny, adorable little baby duck. "Where did you get it?" Hawke laughed, holding the little thing tight enough so that it couldn't escape, yet gentle enough to not crush it.

"Well, I was down by the docks trying to buy some fish, you see, but the prices were too high and I decided that maybe I could go to the boats directly and see if they were willing to sell to me for a lower price. The fishermen are always so kind, really. Well, anyway, then I heard this itsy bitsy little peeping noise as I got closer to the shore," she said. Maker, Hawke could listen to her talk for hours. "So I went over to go look and see what this little peeping noise was coming from. And, what do you know, here's this tiny little baby duck with no mother in sight," she gave it a few pats on the head with her finger, making it peep again. "Well, I gave him a bit of lettuce I had in my bag, and I turned to leave. I figured he had a mum somewhere, but then he started following me!" She shook her head with a sad little smile. "So I scooped him up and brought him home."

"So you accidentally adopted a baby?" Hawke asked, stroking down the little duck's back with her thumb.

"Accidentally," she said, nodding. "So, I figured, you have Lord Stubs so you know how to care for babies. And your last name is a bird."

Hawke wouldn't deny that her mabari was just an oversized toddler with the capability to maim. "Well," she said, shaking her head with an amused smile, "looks like you need to either set him free or get ready for parenthood, Merrill."

"If I set him outside, he'll get eaten! Or stepped on!" Merrill shook her head. "No, no, I can't do that."

"Duck mum, then?"

Merrill gasped a little and smiled. "Duck mum," she repeated, nodding with conviction. "Here, hand him to me, please," she said, holding out her hands. Hawke handed the little guy over as gently as she could. "I'm going to put him back in his box," she said, walking over to the corner. Hawke followed to see the duck's accommodations. "See?" Merrill said as she set him down. "He has water-" She pointed to a shallow wooden bowl full of water that the duckling immediately jumped into. "- and food-" There was a pile of lettuce on a tea saucer. "- and light!" She had a small orb of glowing yellow light floating just over the makeshift pond. "I think he's pretty happy," she said, looking up at Hawke. "What say you, Hawke?"

"Uh, yeah, he seems content," she said, squirming a little under Merrill's adoring gaze.

Merrill tsked, shaking her head. "You're always getting hot flashes, aren't you?" She sighed. "Here, watch the duck for a moment, I'll get you some water."

Hawke nodded tightly as Merrill left. She let out the quietest breath she could as the elf went to fetch her a drink. Lord Stubs was going to have to sit through a long, drunken, love-struck rant tonight. Again.

She sat down on her knees and reached into the little crate, gently running a finger along the duckling's soft back. "Have you thought of a name yet, Merrill?" She asked, not looking up from the little duck that had stopped moving in favor of leaning into her touch.

Merrill hummed as she came over and sat down next to Hawke, handing her a glass of water. Hawke gratefully took it. "I was thinking... No, it's silly," she said, shaking her head. Her ears flopped a little with the motion and made Hawke's stomach flutter.

"Merrill, anything you say would be better than one of my ideas."

"Oh, don't talk bad about yourself Hawke," Merrill cooed. "Well, I was thinking when I was walking him home earlier," she said. "I walked by the stall in the marketplace where you bought me that journal, you see, and I thought of you." Her face went a little pink, and Hawke had to suppress the urge to think about why. "And, it's silly, but I just thought about how your last name is a bird, but with an e at the end..."

"So... duck? But with an e at the end?"

Merrill covered her pink face with her hands, laughing embarrassedly. "I know, I know!"

Hawke grinned, scooping up the little duck as gently as she could. "Merrill!" She said in a high, babyish voice, holding the duckling in front of the elf's face. "I think it's a wonderful name!" Hawke gasped, turning the duckling to face her. "You, too, Ser Ducke?" She asked, grinning. The duckling peeped at her, seeming to be on the same page. Merrill was looking through her fingers at the odd pair, green eyes sparkling. "Well, I think that settles it!" Hawke smiled, holding the fuzzy little thing to her face. "We both think it's brilliant!"

Merrill was shaking her head, smiling. "Hawke and Ducke," she said, laughing to herself. "Oh, what am I going to do with the two of you?" She gently scratched Ducke's chin, and he peeped happily, flapping his tiny wings. "Adorable, the both of you."

Hawke tried to keep her face from overheating, laughing a little awkwardly. "Well, I think he really likes you," she said. "Do you think he thinks you're his mum?"

"Oh, I hope so!" Merrill grinned. "I should make a little sling," she mused. "Walking around the marketplace would be very amusing with a little duck in a pouch." Hawke nodded. Merrill would look no stranger than usual with a fuzzy yellow duckling accompanying her. "I'll wait for him to grow a little bit more before I take him to Wicked Grace night," she said.

"Well, tell me when he's going so I leave Stubs at home," Hawke laughed.

"Oh, he does love chasing birds, doesn’t he?”

"Yeah, I-"

"Oh, Hawke!" Merrill gasped quietly, shushing her. "Would you look at that?"

Ducke had fallen asleep in Hawke's hands, his little head resting on Hawke's warm palm. It was adorable.

"Awe, you're like his second mum," Merrill cooed. "Here, set him down gentle in his box," she whispered.

Hawke set him down, shushing him as he let out a little peep of protest at being moved.

"Doesn't he look cozy?" Merrill asked in a whisper, her shoulder pressing against Hawke's. She held her hand over the little yellow orb of light, changing its colour to a dark red. "There, that should be better. Nice and toasty." She looked to Hawke, a soft smile on her lips. "It was nice having you over," she said, voice quiet.

"It was nice being over," Hawke said slowly, unsure of what to say. "You going to the Hanged Man for cards tomorrow?"

Merrill nodded. "I won't bring the little fella," she said, laughing softly. "So I think Ser Stubs would be welcome. I do enjoy playing cards with him."

Hawke smiled, shaking her head. Stubs was pretty good for someone without any hands. Merrill stood, offering her hand for Hawke to take. Her hands were small and warm.

"See you then," Hawke said, walking with Merrill to the door.

Merrill gave a quick nod, opening the door. The sun was setting, bathing the usually neutral-coloured Alienage in orange and pink. Before Hawke could say her final goodbyes, the words died on her lips as Merrill stood on her toes and planted a kiss on Hawke's cheek.

"Bye, Hawke," Merrill said, a gentle hand on Marian's shoulder.

"Bye," Hawke said, her entire body flooded with warmth.

Maker, Stubs was going to get an earful tonight.

#femslashfeb2019 #original content #dragon age #dragon age ii #da hawke #da merrill #merrill x hawke #i love my blue fem hawke #she's such a dork??? a giant warrior dork who loves the world's most oblivious little elven blood mage #oh boy this is late tho #like wow over eight hours later than usual.... oops #in my defense i was shopping with my grandma..... tomorrow's prompt is shopping so..... twas ''research''

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hencethebravery · 7 years

Note

Muscles Better, Nerves More for the commentary? it's phenomenal and poetic

First of all, thank you, glad to hear you enjoyed it. Let’s do this thing. btw, I will be providing commentary on “Muscles Better, Nerves More,” which can be found without my notes here.

I’m doing author commentary!

i like my body when it is with yourbody. It is so quite new a thing.Muscles better and nerves more.i like your body. i like what it does,i like its hows. i like to feel the spineof your body and its bones, and the trembling-firm-smooth ness and which i willagain and again and againkiss, i like kissing this and that of you,i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzzof your electric fur, and what-is-it comesover parting flesh … and eyes big love-crumbs,and possibly i like the thrill,of under me you so quite new.

– e.e. cummings

A/N: This is one of my most favorite poems of all time. I try not to pick opening poetry at random, generally, there’s some kind of reason the story is preempted with the poetry or song or what have you. I chose this poem because I wanted to write a story about physicality, and this is a poem that emphasizes touch and the body.

It’s early spring, and the flowers in Storybrooke have only just started to bloom, much to Emma’s quiet delight, when her precocious child makes it a point to upend her entire day.

“You can admit it you know,” Henry smirks, his look simultaneously knowing and infuriating all at once (not unlike a certain pirate, whose inability to concede to Emma’s pride seems to have been passed on to her son).

She’s not sure what she’s supposed to be “admitting” to, but the look on Henry’s face would suggest that she knows damn well to what he’s referring and she may as well confess now or he plans to spill the beans to all the wrong people (namely Killian and her parents, who would, undoubtedly, blow the whole thing entirely out of proportion).

“I’m not sure what you’re fishing for here,” she evades, sifting through one of the messier drawers at the station, no rhyme or reason to any of it, really.

A handful of vibrant, purple flowers appear suddenly in her vision, and she has to blink once or twice so that they re-appear in focus.

“I found these on the counter in the bathroom,” he explains, smirk still firmly in place, “And even more soaking in water next to the dishwasher.”

She sighs, “What do you want, Henry?”

The smile starts to waver slightly, and for a moment she feels a rush of guilt, until the smirk quickly returns as if it had never left, “I just find it interesting, that’s all.”

“It’s all the leather, isn’t?”

A/N: Ya know what’s really important to me? Emma Swan. You know what’s even more important? Emma Swan being soft and vulnerable and that being okay. One of my biggest problems with the OUAT fandom that I’ve seen (and not with everyone mind, just, it’s a common opinion I’ve seen floated around), is that Emma is not a strong character if she displays any kind of traditionally feminine softness. I think that Emma had to grow up sharper than usual, and I think she’s in a place where she’s finally safe, and she’s with people who she doesn’t think will abandon her, and I think if given half the chance she would go after the softer things. While wearing her leather jacket because you can do both.

It’s not surprising, really. She’s spent a good deal of her time in Storybrooke cultivating a reputation for herself, made damn sure that she would be the least princess-like Savior as it was possible to be. If the leather and the gun and the aggressive behavior didn’t clinch it, the chainsaw she took to Regina’s dramatic and heavy handed apple tree certainly took care of that.

Emma Swan had a secret, however, and although it was one of the more innocuous in her rather sordid, secretive past, it still rattled her to think that someone might find out. Obviously, Henry or Killian finding out was the best-case scenario, but still, she was protective of her softer parts.

She tries to ignore his flinch out of the corner of her eye when she slams the drawer shut, closing her eyes and taking a deep, cleansing breath before acquiescing to Henry’s, admittedly innocent, observation.

He surprises her by placing a gentle hand on her arm before she can speak, “It doesn’t make you any less of a hero, mom,” he urges quietly. Sometimes so like the man she loves she can hardly believe how lucky she is to have both of them in her life. “You’re the strongest, bravest person I know.”

He smiles and leaves the flowers behind on her desk before she can respond, and the guilt she felt earlier returns with a vengeance as she hears his steps get further and further away.

“Dammit,” she whispers fiercely, glaring half-heartedly at the slightly crushed, melancholy Irises on her desk. She wishes she could let go of it, this silly instinct to deny her fragility, her love of beautiful things, as if that could somehow make her weaker. Logically, she knows that it’s nothing more than a ridiculous, antiquated notion of gender and power that lingers in the frayed, damaged parts of her psyche, but that doesn’t make it any less disruptive.

A/N: I really love Henry Mills. I love thinking of Henry Mills as being a really enlightened kind of guy and wanting good things for other people he loves. And I like the idea of Henry Mills being the observant author who knows when his mother is worried or hurting. That’s the guy I tried to include here. I also really like the idea of Killian’s gentleness imprinting itself on the boy he’s basically helped raise.

A warm, refreshing gust of air blows through an open window and she sighs, relinquishing her firm, almost painful grasp on the back of her chair. It’s late afternoon, and the sun is at its warmest as it stretches itself across the open floor, heating her skin through the fabric of her jacket. The flowers are still soft in her hand when she collects them, the petals velvety and soothing against her skin despite their wrinkled edges. When she raises them to her nose, she can still catch an enticing hint of their scent, the enchanting blend of the spring’s warmth with their earthy freshness sends an eager thrill down her spine.

A/N: Like I said earlier, the physical was really important to me when writing this, so I tried to include a lot of atmospheric imagery that would really transport the reader (and Emma). I want people to be able to recall the feeling of petals on their skin, or how sun in the late afternoon feels. Hopefully I succeeded!

A vivid, almost vision-like image appears unbidden in her mind, as if the wind, the sun, and the small, innocuous flowers in her hand had somehow summoned him. The sun feels stronger, the air saltier, and it’s a familiar, soothing comfort to her frazzled nerves.

“Swan?”

The dulcet tones of his voice carry on the breeze, wrapping themselves in the heavy canvas of the ship’s sails, carried away by the crying of the gulls.

A/N: I’m proud of this line y’all. I like wrapping Killian’s voice in soft petals and wind-whipped canvas and salty air. What a guy he is.

“Emma, darling?”

He sounds far closer than he should, his warmth far more heady than it could possibly be in a vision or fantasy, or whatever the hell she’s currently experiencing. Confused, she wrinkles her brow and nose, wondering if this is yet another facet of her power she has yet to explore.

“Emma.”

Firmer this time, and her eyes snap open in surprise at the feeling of his hands wrapped gently around her upper arms. “Killian—”

When she manages to tear her gaze away from the surprised, concerned blue of his eyes, she’s forced to squint against the shocking glare of the sun reflecting off the surface of the water, suddenly feels the gentle rocking of the Jolly Roger under her feet, the familiar smell of damp wood tickling her nose.

“Uh,” she gasps, “Hey?”

She smiles in a way she hopes is charming enough to avoid a flustered, overprotective smothering, and the delicate, yet undiscerning lift of his brow would seem to suggest she’s failed.

“This is a surprise, I must say, Swan. Not everyday a beautiful woman suddenly appears in my arms.”

She huffs in disbelief and silently considers the young, eager faces of the various men and women she’s observed following his slight frame with a heated, shamelessly obvious gaze. Not that she can blame them, obviously, but she is right there.

A/N: Excuse me, but why have we yet to see at least a small percentage of the Storybrooke townsfolk blatantly staring at Killian Jones? We all know it’s happening. We know.

She wants to say something flirtatious and charming, something along the lines of, “I’m in your arms everyday,” or “Humility is a good look on you, Captain.” But she’s finding it hard to ignore the note of concern in his voice, hidden behind the humor he tries so desperately to convey for her emotionally stunted sake.

“Kind of a weird day,” she admits sullenly, unable to acknowledge the selfless interest, awe, and love that she can almost always find in his unbearably kind eyes.

“Never had one of those before, have we?”

When she looks up she finds his smile, just as bright and disarming as she’s come to expect, his eyes no longer merely worried. She exhales and drops her forehead to his chest in exhaustion, feeling his soft chuckle, the heavy weight of her conversation with Henry lifting slightly from her shoulders.

Her voice is muffled when she speaks against his chest, “Henry found my flowers.”

A/N: In case people haven’t noticed, I also really enjoy writing Emma Swan with her teenage girl tendencies. She’s so stubborn and embarrassed and I kind of really love that about her. I also know the feeling of admitting to the person you trust most in the world that you enjoy something you feel a little bit dumb about. I ended up borrowing from real-life a bit when I wrote this fic.

“Come again, love?”

There’s a handsome, incredulous look on his face when she finally leans away, and she forces a stern look onto her face along with a pointed, enthusiastic finger, “You can’t laugh.”

“Cross my heart, Swan.”

From their place in the pocket of her jacket, the purple Irises have gotten a bit more ruffled than they were earlier, but the color is still vibrant, the scent still quietly biding its time within its frail petals.

A/N: Yes, a scent can “bide its time,” don’t test me.

“I’ve seen these,” he exclaims quietly, “they’ve been growing in the yard, by the shed.”

She smiles at his absurdly gentle touch of the flowers in her hand, and replies, “Yup, sprang up overnight with the warm weather.”

“You want to tell me what this is about?”

“I love flowers,” she admits desperately, crushing the petals beyond repair within the confines of her fist, “after the long, depressing winters… just, the sight of them.” She sighs and tries to ignore the twinkle in his eye, “I like to pick them, leave them around the house, just look at them… I guess.”

“Just when I thought the charms of Emma Swan could ever cease.”

“Shut up.”

She feels the last of the sun’s warmth on her face before his lips finally meet hers. A light, yet insistent pressure she can feel in the sudden tensing of her neck in playful defiance of his touch. The breeze is a few degrees cooler with the loss of the sun, and her skin prickles along with the heat of his hand against her cheek. He pulls away before she can truly appreciate the finer points of his kiss, and she flushes at the familiar feeling of his nose nudging against her own.

“Shall we, my love?”

His fingers are wonderfully rough when she tangles their hands together against her rapidly warming face, and when she anxiously nibbles at her own lips, she can taste a hint of rum and oranges that he left behind.

“We shall.”

A/N: And again with the sensory language! Can y’all taste the oranges? The rum? Maybe feel the sun on your skin? THAT’S WHAT I WANT.

Killian Jones is a remarkable creature that she hopes to never fully know. A maddening blend of confident righteousness and eager violence, tossed with a delightful smattering of gentleness and chivalric intention. Emma Swan wants to learn something new about Killian Jones everyday of her life, from the most lovable to the most infuriating, she wants to burrow inside that wonderful mess and remain there for the rest of her days. The good and the bad, she wouldn’t have it any other way.

A/N: To this day, this is one of my most favorite bits about Killian as a character that I’ve written.

Similarly, she hopes against hope that their frequent, decidedly enthusiastic, time spent locked away in their cavernous bedroom remains a constant surprise. Despite the gentleness he had shown moments earlier, his touch is suddenly rougher, more eager and impatient than she would have expected.

“You got somewhere to be?” she asks breathlessly, her voice barely above a whisper with the way his lips have begun their swift, perilous descent down the length of her neck.

When he speaks against her skin his tongue makes brief, teasing points of contact with her flesh and she feels a pleasurable tingling between her legs as he pushes her jacket from her shoulders.

“I’d be a bloody fool to imagine myself anywhere else.”

It’s hard to form coherent thoughts after that, what with the somehow rougher tugging of her top over her head, the feeling of his hand and hook securing themselves beneath her denim-clad thighs. She feels her stomach heave excitedly as he lifts her into the air, her legs wrapping around his waist, arms fastened tightly across his shoulders.

The night is largely silent outside their window except for the sporadic chirping of various insects awakening from their sleep, a cacophonous melody of sound blending seamlessly with her breathless sighs and soft moans escaping in the open space between their mouths.

“Cold,” she manages to whisper against his lips, the feel of the biting night air along the bare flesh of her back causing a vaguely unpleasant shiver to crawl across her skin. All day long she’d been luxuriating in the warmth of spring, so to feel a chill in the air, despite the warmth of Killian’s touch, has her feeling more sensitive to the cold than usual.

A/N: I would like everyone to know that I don’t write a lot of smut, this was one of my first times writing it, and I’m still getting a little flush reading it again. I’m so glad people enjoyed it, but I’ll be honest, it was a horrifying experience. And not to get too TMI with this, but I borrowed from real-life again, a little bit, only because I get cold ALWAYS and ruin the mood. But the mood doesn’t have to be ruined. Anyway.

He grunts in acknowledgement, and she suddenly finds herself delightfully pressed into the soft, wave-like warmth of their many blankets, the exposed, heated skin of his chest pressed against her own, and she wishes quietly, desperately, for the uncomfortable tightness of her bra to disappear. Her back arches in a silent entreaty, the softness of her breasts pressing meaningfully against his pleasant weight.

A/N: Bras suck.

“Problem, Swan?” He chuckles and she resists the very real urge to give him a small pinch, her legs tightly securing themselves along his stomach and legs in a vain attempt at scolding, “I thought I said no laughing!”

She can barely keep the breathless, frightfully high-pitched giggles out of her own voice, and the reprimand falls short of barely teasing, the soft, lyrical notes of her pleasure betraying any attempt at severity.

“Ugh,” she gasps, “please get rid of it.”

One-handed wonder that he is, the offending garment is unhooked and pulled away with an alarming quickness that would have had her thinking “magic,” if not for the distracting sensation of his mouth against her breasts, his lips steadily working their way down her torso to the top of her jeans.

An unacceptable amount of time passes before she feels his breath against the top of her pubic bone, her hands flexing against the top of his back impatiently. A hush seems to fall over the room, and before she can think to wonder where the sounds of the evening have gone, a cool breeze wafts over the naked skin of her legs as he slowly rolls the fabric down her thighs and over her knees.

“Still cold?” he asks the taut skin of her belly, the soft pressure of his lips against her skin creating an involuntary movement in the tense muscles of her stomach, a nervous, anticipatory reaction that she can find no way to hide.

Her underwear is almost uncomfortably damp at this point, but he makes no move to discard them, his nose and mouth pressing insistently between her legs, and she has to take a moment to breathe and forgo the dreaded feeling of embarrassment that they had worked long and hard to dissuade her of. She tries to say his name but the only noise that leaves her mouth is a gasp, and she huffs in frustration, her eyes falling shut at the gentle, probing feeling of his tongue against her heat.

A/N: I’ve seen other, far more talented writers do this too, but I think it’s really important to at least hint at the possibility that we’re not all comfortable with sex all the time. Oral sex in particular can be particularly nerve-wracking for both parties and I wanted to emphasize that here. I also think Killian would be particularly understanding about this stuff.

Just as she’s prepared herself for the welcome relief of her remaining piece of clothing sliding away, the feeling of his body re-acquainting itself with the length of her front returns, and the fine hairs along her arms seem to rise excitedly with the unexpected feeling of his warmth and weight.

A/N: I’m not super crazy about my language here, that’s a long-ass sentence. I’d probably break it up a bit now, possibly get 2 or 3 sentences out of it instead of the great big long one. Ugh.

“What’re you doing up here?” she asks curiously, a note of wonder to her voice that she barely recognizes.

When he smiles, there’s a lovely crinkling at the corners of his eyes, and she feels her heart flutter rapidly in her chest in the reverent tone of his reply.

“I missed you.”

Her responding kiss is harsh and insistent, hands fiercely tugging at the dark, soft strands of his hair, scratching at his scalp, and he moans loudly before bringing his hand to her thigh and lifting it eagerly over his hip as he ruts uselessly against her.

A/N: I just thought there was something almost sickeningly romantic about the idea of oral sex creating just a little bit too much distance. Obviously, it’s one of the more intimate things you can do, but at the same time he is all the way down there, idk.

“Pants,” she whines against his chin, the scruff of his jaw scraping delightfully against her lips, and she knows they’ll be slightly red and chapped in the morning, but it’s a blissful, fading irritation that she can hardly think to acknowledge.

The final moments before he’s finally where she needs him to be are swift and incomprehensible, as if each second bleeds meaninglessly into the next, her heart racing almost unpleasantly in her chest as she makes to frantically pull the fabric of her underwear aside, and it’s only when he’s exquisitely buried inside her, wet and inviting, does the sensation of time return. She can hear the chirping of the insects in his stillness, the heavy, sultry weight of him hovering over her, the now welcome rolling of the cool night air over their heated, flushed skin.

His hand leaves her hip to return to its place against her cheek and jaw, a mimicry of their kiss on the Jolly only an hour or so earlier, and she feels a familiar hardness at the back of her throat, a pressure behind her eyes that she’s become far too comfortable with in recent years. “Killian,” she finally manages to whisper before he’s practically devouring her, his hips barely moving against her.

A/N: How would these two idiots not cry during sex at least 50% of the time? Literally everything about their relationship is intense. She’s also in love with a man who’s so goddamn Extra™ that he’d probably find it nigh-impossible to contain all of his Emma Swan feelings. Especially when she admits to loving purple flowers? Come now.

“Oh,” he sighs, his brow enticingly furrowed with a lingering grasp on his self-control, his teeth gently tugging on her already swollen, kiss-stained lips.

The encouraging tap of her knee against his side seems to snap him out of whatever Emma-induced reverie he seems to have found himself, and she very nearly yells with the unexpected pleasure of his body snapping hard and fast against and within her, the sound of the headboard cracking against the wall creating a loud, purposeful echo in the otherwise quiet space.

He mouths a wonderfully accented “Fuck,” against her neck and the beginnings of a long, drawn-out tightness in her belly takes her by surprise; the contradictory, erotic events of the evening coming to fruition with the filthy words tumbling out of his mouth and across her pink, feverish skin. She begins to notice beads of sweat rolling between her breasts and down her sternum, but she only drags the blunted tips of her fingernails harder across his back, circles her hips with more strength than she thought she possessed.

A/N: Again with the soft/hard juxtaposition! As you’ll soon find out, I’m pretty sure I was prompted to write this because there’d been a discussion at some point about how Killian would 100% wear a crown made of flowers in one moment and slam you into a headboard in the next.

When she comes it is quiet, nary a sound crosses her lips besides a soft, gracious “Thank you,” against an exhausted, proud smile that has worked its way across his sweaty, flushed face, before he finishes with a few final, well-placed thrusts that have her hand wrapped tightly around one of the bars behind her head.

As soon as he drops to the side there’s a dryness in her mouth that begs for water, and she places a quick, wet kiss to his cheek before swinging her legs over the bed and pulling his shirt on, making a quick beeline for the bathroom before running downstairs for a glass of water. A full moon shines through the window above the sink, and a welcome, all-encompassing tiredness seems to weave its way through her body, her eyelids drooping, mouth open in a silent yawn.

A flash of color catches her eye, and she remembers the purple Irises that Henry had mentioned that morning, soaking in water, their heads tilted towards her in a silent question. She scoops them up before returning to bed, a small, delighted smile obscuring her otherwise sleepy expression.

If it were in his power to do so, Killian Jones would choose to awaken to the sound of Emma Swan’s laughter everyday for the rest of his life. It’s so soft he can barely hear the cadences of its movement, but it’s there, a bright, loving thing that he feels just as surely as he can feel the early morning sun against his face.

A/N: Me too, Killian. Me too.

He had fallen asleep before Emma had returned to bed the previous evening, waking only briefly to the light, tickling sensation of her fingers running up and down the length of his arm. A familiar, repetitive motion that he’s begun to suspect comforts her more so than it does him, but he had fallen back into a deep sleep regardless, his mind and heart full with thoughts of Emma, her long, blonde hair covered in the pale pink petals of Middlemist roses.

A/N: I give my fiancé chills all the time because I find it comforting and he fucking hates it. Oh, well. DEAL WITH IT.

“Morning,” she hums somewhere close to his ear, and he smiles before opening his eyes to the no doubt wondrous sight that awaits him.

“I know you’re awake,” she continues, “it’s creepy that you won’t just admit it.”

“Just savoring the moment, love,” he explains, and the sight is indeed, just as, if not slightly more beautiful than he expected. “Would you look at that.”

“Cut it out, I am not at my most elegant this morning.”

Practically speaking he supposes she’s right; a large, cotton flannel hangs off one shoulder (and what he thinks might be a coffee stain covers the breast pocket), her hair is a knotty mess on top of her head, with rather sizable, long strands that she had clearly missed in her hurried attempt to look marginally presentable. She still looks vaguely tired, but content, and sometimes it’s enough to be thankful for.

It’s then that he notices the busy motion of her hands, the purple of the flowers she had shown him the evening before tangled around one another in an indiscernible pattern.

A/N: Can you even believe that it took me this long to get to the flower crown? That was the whole freaking point. I had to add all that superfluous backstory about how much Emma loves flowers to even get here. Go fuck yourself, Alana.

“What’s that you’ve got there, love?”

“Oh, nothing,” she answers mischievously, and he notes a playfulness that he would happily take in exchange for the tiredness that lingers around her eyes. Besides, he thinks with only a slight hint of astonishment, there was always time for a nap.

He’s propped up against the headboard, a mug of hot tea in hand when he feels her fussing with his large, messy nest of hair he’s yet to tame. The flannel she wears is only partially buttoned, so the view is distracting enough that he briefly forgets about whatever’s going on up there, but then he notices a small, violet-colored petal fall in front of his eyes and he forces himself to look up.

“What’s this, now?”

“There,” she says wistfully, her hands coming to gently frame his face, desperately in need of a shave or a trim at the very least, “perfect.” She plays with a few strands of hair that have fallen over his forehead, and the softness in her expression makes his chest tight.

He sets the tea aside and tries to sit straighter despite Emma’s weight in his lap, his attempts to construct a princely countenance encouraging yet another wonderful stroke of laughter from her lips, “What do you think, Swan? Will the King and Queen approve?”

It’s somewhat surreal to think that the man currently beneath her; this shirtless, sleepy, miracle of a human being (flower crowns, untrimmed beard and all) could be the same man that had fucked her quite ardently into their headboard the night before. The sun has begun to make its way out from behind the early morning fog, but she can smell rain in the air, observe the heavy clouds in the distance, and quietly makes the decision to stay in bed until at least the afternoon.

There’s clearly an element of humor in the question, but there’s a deeper chord, something about meeting her parent’s approval and being “nothing but a pirate,” and she can’t quite kiss him deep enough or gentle enough after she responds, her voice quiet and firm in the early morning silence that falls around them like a cocoon, “Who gives a damn?”

A/N: Oh, Killian, always with the self-doubt. Will he ever learn? Probably not, no. But Emma Swan doesn’t care and she’ll love him forever and now I have gone full-sap. btw, I’ve always had a sequel in mind for this fic. Hopefully I’ll get to it soon.

#@hencethewriter #attn blogging #shady-swan-jones

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