#I do like the image of his flower crown shedding petals when he gets roughed up tho hehe - tossed around just a little too much! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

des-does-art · 6 years

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A Demigod’s Scars

Title: A Demigod’s Scars (IchiRuki Month Fanfic)

Written by: Des-Does-Art (a.k.a. Turtleninjaof-theday)

Summary: The goddess of the forest, Rukia, finds Ichigo, a demigod, sitting under her tree, and she feels the need to stay close to him and protect him.

Rukia Kuchiki straddled the branch she sat on and leaned over it to protect her image from the mortal walking toward her forest covered mountain. Her chest rubbed uncomfortably at the wood’s wiry, tough texture, making her floral dressed breasts pinch. A flower fell from her floral onesie, and the golden silk worms that followed her around spun a silk cloth to wrap around her. The silk worms were a gift from the goddess of love, and the floral crown was a gift from the god of virtue. Such lavish gifts helped her blend in with the colorful leaves surrounding her being; it was the season of fall, after all.

She admired the way he walked with such confidence, all wrapped in his tanned skin and orange hair. The purple of his clothes was a bit worn, but the cloth still shined in places where the world hadn’t touched it yet. His shoes were peculiar; they were browned with bits of silver shining in the cracks and bends of his toes. Narrowing her eyes, Rukia realized that his skin emanated a bright color, brighter than her own. Wherever his skin peeked, it seemed as if his skin was aglow with precious gold, all the radiance culminating at his orange hair.

“Hello, goddess of the forest,” came a sudden but familiar voice.

Not jumping nor looking at Renji, the god of the hunt, Rukia ignored the red headed deity in favor of continuing to watch the strange mortal below. Renji wore only a lavish red cloth around his hips and a bow around his chest. He folded his arms as he walked forward with ease, his footsteps silent upon the branches. Like his silver glowing skin, his tattoos burned a bright rose color, putting the fall leaves to shame.

The mortal was sitting at the base of the biggest tree, Rukia’s favorite. His clothes were crunched up and appearing to fall off of his figure, further revealing the golden aura. A tingle went up Rukia’s spine, so she looked over her shoulder to see the other god staring at her backside from a very close distance. She grimaced. “You’re being annoying, Renji. Leave.”

“We’re betrothed,” defended Renji. He stepped on the next branch over and plopped down on it to sit against the trunk. His left leg swung idly, while his arm rested on his other knee. Rukia was glaring at him now. “At some point, goddess, you’ll have to come back to Silver Peak and marry me with your father as witness. Then, you’ll have no reason to complain about my presence. You’d come to love it, I’m sure, especially when we’re alone.”

“You and my father are very funny,” bit Rukia as her face heated. She sat up and swung her leg over the edge. “Besides, a man whose heart I see with dark intentions has no place between my loins nor a place at my side.” With that, she slipped off the branch and landed on the balls of her feet. The cool breeze came through the trees, rustling the leaves and carrying a few petals toward the stranger sitting at her tree.

“There are no dark intentions!” came Renji’s reply as he landed only a few feet beside her.

“My father is Lord of the Gods,” Rukia explained as she still gazed over at the mortal. “Your purpose is clear as day. If we wed, you’d become the next Lord with free reign to do as you pleased.” From the corner of her eye, she could see Renji gaping at her with incredulous surprise. “Not to mention I’ve seen your wandering eye at the parties and your inability to keep your hands off of me. Your playing the suitor role only fooled the foolish, not me.”

“You think you can defy our bond?” challenged Renji. He eyed Rukia’s focused eyes and observed the object of her fascination. He grunted loudly upon seeing the other man, who he quickly assessed was fair in the face and strong in the body. He quickly questioned if she’d be so foolish to take a mortal, to leave him for a mortal. The thought pulled at his chest. “I see the way you’re looking at this man. I could mount this mortal’s head on my wall, and you could gaze at him all you wished.”

Rukia ignored him and walked onward to follow her petals, which had caught the man’s attention. “I can see his heart,” she whispered upon feeling the other’s energy radiating like a heated fire. For a moment, she wanted to weep as the golden aura reached out more toward her. The shade of the forest appeared darker around him as he brightened the ground and bark of the tree with just his curious eyes alone. Her violet eyes glowed in response to his. “He’s so pure.” A discomforting sense entered her; it had to be Renji. She shrugged her arm away in time to avoid the oncoming heat and grip of Renji’s hand.

Looking at Renji with narrowed eyes, she hissed, “Leave.” Then, she stepped away toward her tree. With just one look, her gaze locked with the mortal’s, making her relax with a curling feeling inside. More than before did she want to shed tears. None of it made sense to her as she held back from falling to her knees and crying a new river.

The flowers surrounding her body continued to flow, and the golden silk worms continued to spin their magical thread to cover what the flowers couldn’t. Renji’s presence was suddenly gone, but Rukia didn’t care that he’d complain to her father about her actions. The only one in her sight was all that mattered.

“Who are you?” he asked as he cradled the petals, which were reset in complete living flowers, in his hands with care. He had a bag sitting beside him; its nearly empty state mirrored the man’s waist.

She questioned if the petals fell the way they appeared in Ichigo’s hand. Something was off about him, but Rukia thought nothing of it. Sucking at her bottom lip, Rukia brushed aside a lock of her hair and replied, “I am goddess of the forest, Rukia Kuchiki.” She stepped closer and knelt before him to offer an apple that manifested in her hand. “Take it.”

Ignoring the apple, the human scrambled to his knees and bowed to her, making Rukia take a sudden step back to stand tall before him. She held the apple with both hands as she watched him stay in his position before sitting on his calves. “I am humbled that you’d offer me food,” he said. “My name…” He looked up at Rukia, his brown eyes wide as they gazed deep into Rukia’s. “My name is Ichigo.”

Smiling as gently as she could, Rukia took Ichigo’s hands, which were rough and scarred, and placed the apple there. Looking him over, she realized that his skin was covered in what were considered imperfections. Scars and tears that were healed over in heaps of new skin could be seen from just under the purple cloth. She frowned.

“What happened to you?” asked Rukia as she settled to her knees in front of him.

A sudden look of bewilderment overtook Ichigo’s features. He traced Rukia’s former gaze to his arms and pulled back the sleeves. Fresh healing skin shined a bitter red under Ichigo’s scrutiny. Touching at it, Ichigo shook his head. “I don’t—” he started before he heard his stomach grumble. With a blush, he glanced at Rukia and apologized.

“Please, eat,” requested Rukia as she pushed the apple closer to his face.

Ichigo looked the apple over and marveled the pure red color, no bruise or discoloration in sight. Taking a bite, he hummed; the sweet juice flooded his mouth as he chewed the crunchy fruit. His stomach growled again and lurched as if it were trying to grab the apple itself. As he ate, he took in the serenity of Rukia’s vibrant skin and dark hair. She smelled like the forest’s flowers and sweet syrup. Unlike his own skin, hers appeared smooth and well cared for as it was wrapped in gold, much like the skin of his shiny apple. For a moment, he took notice of the peace that surrounded them both, and he wondered when he felt like this before. He couldn’t put his finger on it.

Putting her hands together, Rukia focused her energy on the palms, hoping to create the power to heal, something she hadn’t done since the god of wisdom had decided that he’d jump from one tall hill to another in one leap. Pulling her hands apart, she was satisfied to see that they were emitting a green light that leaked from the creases in her palms and fingers. She reached out and hovered her hands over Ichigo’s arm; however, the meeting of her power and the scars resulted in a lightning strike coming down from the heavens.

Taking her hand back, Rukia frowned at the singed flesh on the back of her hand. The sky rumbled, and Rukia wondered if coincidence or consequence had struck her. In the midst of her thought, her hand was taken by Ichigo’s larger ones. Her heart leapt as she watched Ichigo look over her hand and surround it with his own. A golden light seeped from beneath his fingers, and she felt the burn and throb of her hand recede into nothing.

After the release of her hand, Rukia took it back and gawked at the clean canvas of her skin. “You,” she started. “You healed my hand.”

“I did,” replied Ichigo. He looked at his own hands for a moment. “Yes, I did.”

Coming closer, Rukia peered in to Ichigo’s eyes. Very few humans could heal in such a way, but Ichigo’s eyes didn’t give away the spark. “Where did you come from, Ichigo?” she asked. She felt the need to tie up the loose threads of Ichigo’s identity. “How did you learn to heal that way?”

With a tilt of his head, Ichigo appeared, once again, flummoxed by her words. “I didn’t,” he replied. He glanced at his hands and at his skin again. “I don’t know.” He touched at his clothes and rustled through his pockets, revealing nothing in them. “I don’t remember anything. I-I don’t even know how I came to wear these.” He touched at his face and panicked at the realization that he was lost.

“Ichigo?”

Suddenly getting up, Ichigo began to walk. Although his mind was unsure of where he was going, his legs were sure that he was ambling in the right direction. The clarity of his muscles versus the fogginess of his mind confused him, but he knew that he shouldn’t stop. His chest felt jumpy at the thought of getting to where his gut said he should be. There’s a goddess, he remembered. He turned around and waved as he said, “I’m sorry! I have to go somewhere!”

“Ichigo!” came Rukia’s call. “Wait!” She followed behind him and caught up. She hesitated at trying to get his attention again, for his gaze was cemented on the path in front of him. “Ichigo?”

Glancing at Rukia, Ichigo again remembered that there was a beautiful goddess in the forest and that she’d given him food. He also recalled that she’d given him peace of mind, a rare luxury for him. “Rukia,” he said, “why are you following me? I just have to go somewhere; I can visit again.”

Stepping in front of him, Rukia put her hands on her hips. “Ichigo,” she concluded, “you’re not well.”

“I can’t be,” replied Ichigo. “I can’t get sick.” He touched at his head as a pulsing housed itself there, increasing in speed and force. “It hurts...”

Gently taking his arm, Rukia guided him to a nearby patch of grass and sat him down. She questioned how someone could know so little about themselves and forget so easily, especially someone with magical qualities. Considering accidents and magical failures, Rukia couldn’t pinpoint what could have Ichigo cradling his head like he did. Only when Ichigo scratched at a specific part of his head, the recognizable entrance of the spirit, did she consider an interference of divinity.

After pulling his hand away, Rukia noticed a scar marring the spirit entrance. “This is it,” she whispered under her breath. “That lightning was no accident.”

“What do you mean?” asked Ichigo, surprising Rukia with his proficient hearing. “Nature didn’t strike you? I-I don’t understand. It just hurts.” He was still cradling his head. All of his thoughts were meshing themselves together in his mind, and flashes of images he didn’t recognize, some of himself with moon white skin, crossed the darkness of his tightly shut eyes.

“I’m a part of nature,” Rukia illustrated as she sat in front of him. “Nature doesn’t strike unless I say it does.” She quickly looked at Ichigo’s hands and at his arms, following the many paths of his scars. I’ll help him, she thought, since this poor man has been attacked. Touching palms together again, she anticipated the amount of magic and endurance she’d need. Her hand felt little from the first bolt, but a barrage of it may sting a little more than a lot.

“I have to go,” Ichigo announced.

Shaking her head, Rukia replied, “Don’t move. I’m going to try and reduce your pain.”

“I’ve tried healing myself,” rebutted Ichigo. “My hands keep getting struck down.” He brought his hands forward, revealing his scars again.

“Then let a goddess help you,” Rukia insisted. She came closer and put her hands up. With a deep breath, she placed her hands over the scarred tissue on Ichigo’s head. Immediately, lightning came down and began to fry her hands. A grunt spilled from her lips as she held her hands in place; whines followed soon after as she poured her power into her hands.

“Rukia!” gasped Ichigo as the heat of the lightning surrounded him and mixed with the tickling feeling of the goddess’ healing. He tried to put his hands up to stop her, but the lightning struck his hands, as well. “Please, stop!” He touched at her arms, but they wouldn’t budge. His heart was sinking as he watched Rukia shed tears as she bit her lip to keep from screaming. “Rukia!”

Her arms were becoming numb as the tissue beneath her palms came together. At the same time, she was pouring some of that power into her skin to combat the lightning; however, the pain still came in waves of her renewed flesh burning off over and over again. She clenched her jaw as she finished up her work, took her hands back, and fell over as she cradled her arms. How could I not feel my own body’s fatigue, she thought as her body remained still and her hands throbbed. Just as the pain would put her to sleep, Ichigo’s hands came over her and covered her in a golden glow. Her hands were restored, and her body wasn’t as tired as before.

“I’m sorry you sacrificed your hands for me,” Ichigo apologized. He looked her in the eyes and sighed at the sight of her relaxing. “You could’ve died.”

A smile came to Rukia’s lips. “No, you fool,” she said. She sat up slowly, taking Ichigo’s hand when he offered it. “I can’t die… Do you feel pain anymore?” Upon Ichigo’s confirmation, Rukia gave a sigh of her own. A quiet air hung over them as they stood still and stared at each other. Rukia’s chest felt as if it could burst at that moment, and little did she know that Ichigo felt the same way in looking at her.

A frown enveloped Ichigo’s features as he looked away, causing Rukia to blink and follow his gaze. “I must go,” he said. “Although my head doesn’t ache anymore, I still don’t remember much of who I am or what I’m doing here. However, my feet seem to know where they’re going, so I shall follow them.”

Before he could rise, Rukia took hold of his hands and said, “Your current state isn’t an accident.”

Remaining still, Ichigo stared at Rukia once again. “What do you mean? I didn’t fall or get cursed by the sky god himself?”

Shaking her head, Rukia turned Ichigo’s hands. “The scars here are that of lightning’s many strikes. The webbing is a giveaway. However, the scars on your arms are that from a whip-like weapon. May I?” She gestured to his jacket, which, upon given permission, she pulled back. “The scarring here is very specific and angry. You didn’t fall and stumble upon a curse, Ichigo. You were attacked and purposely set to wander in your own confusion.”

“You read all of that from my skin?”

“The wound to your head was the biggest clue,” explained Rukia. She pointed to a spot on the top of her head. “When one is born, the spirit enters here and is housed in one’s chest.” She placed her hand over her heart. “To injure a specific location like either is too sloppy for an offender to commit; however, they probably didn’t count on anyone knowing the difference between injuries from lightning and a whip. Moreover, the strikes of lightning aren’t far from a curse; whoever did this to you wanted to make sure you remained injured in every way possible. It looks like a repair to your head is the step in the right direction.”

“Well,” said Ichigo as he stood up. “Looks like I’m going to have to fix this.” Suddenly, a large blade appeared on his back; the strap of the sheathe was a ruby covered strip of leather, matching the red sheathe itself. “What is that!” He turned and looked over his shoulder, then he touched at the rubies across his chest with quick taps. He asked himself if the sword had been there the whole time, and a feeling in his gut cemented the idea that his thought was correct.

“Here,” Rukia said as she placed her hands on the sheathe, intending to lift the blade off his back. Her brow narrowed as her arms struggled to pick up the blade. Being a goddess, strength was not a strange feature of her power. “This-This is so heavy! Even for me!”

“Is it?” asked Ichigo as he put his hand to the blade and unsheathed it in one swift movement. The blade sung loudly and crisp, and its edge shined brightly as a black stripe. “This is mine, I think…” He held it away from himself, giving himself and Rukia room to admire it. Aside from its black edge, the sword was a golden silver color with tiny gems and markings on its face. He ran his finger over the golden letters near the end of his blade, the dazzling dips of each letter glinting upon renewed revelation to the sunlight.

Taking a closer look at the golden letters, Rukia read aloud, “Zangetsu… Zangetsu!” The name of the blade rang around in her brain, bringing forth all that she heard in the heavens. From what she knew, the blade was not just a random tool of war; it was much more than that.

“What does it mean?” inquired Ichigo as he, too, took a closer look at the letters.

“This blade used to belong to the Shiba family, a section of gods out far in the West!” Rukia enlightened with enthusiasm. “However, it was gifted to their greatest member, Isshin, the god of the underworld. No one knows where he is, but he used to command demons and monsters with this sword. It was he who helped maintain peace between the non-humans and humans.” She looked up at Ichigo, seeing the bewilderment sunken in to his eyes. “If this blade used to belong to Isshin, then you must be his rumored son, the demigod, born from a human woman.”

“If I’m a demigod,” said Ichigo as he looked over his blade again, “then who would do this to me? Why?” None of it made sense to him as he thought it over, only meeting the dark blanks of his own memory. I thought I was all alone, thought Ichigo. I thought that I just came to be.

With a half-smile, Rukia replied, “We’ll find out. Together.” That last word brought a bright blush to her cheeks, but the warmth spread everywhere, swirling heavily in her chest.

“But you only just met me,” protested Ichigo. “I couldn’t burden the most beautiful goddess in all of the country to help me.” He broke away from Rukia’s presence, resulting in a heavy feeling weighing down on him. Ichigo hesitated in stepping closer again, and when he glanced at Rukia, he could see his own emotion reflected in the slight drop of her brow and the parting of her floral lips.

“Ichigo,” insisted Rukia, “I’m coming with you because in my heart, in my soul, I can’t part from you, especially with what has been done to you. This feeling. It begs me to be near you, for if I were to deny it, I would surely create another river in this forest. And as a goddess, I cannot allow this injustice to be carried out, not from another god whose head grew too big.” As she took a step closer, Rukia felt as if a flower had bloomed within the cage of her chest.

“You can feel that?” asked Ichigo. “In your heart?” He sheathed his sword and touched at his own chest. He could feel the jumpiness there and the twisting of his abdomen. “Is that what this feeling is? The need to be near you?”

“I believe it is.”

“Then, let’s go together,” concluded Ichigo with a smile. He took Rukia’s hand and ran his thumb over the soft skin there, appreciating the aid they had brought him only minutes earlier. Rukia had been hurt for him. “I’ll protect you. I’ll make sure that your hands won’t be soiled for me ever again.”

“No,” corrected Rukia as she held his hand even firmer, “we’ll protect each other.”

*This may or may not become a full story.

*This is the second part to the detailed piece I did a few days ago for Day 1.

*Hope this was enjoyable. Thanks!

#IchiRuki #ichirukimonth #fanfiction #Bleach #bleach fanfiction #Rukia Kuchiki #ichigo kurosaki #this took a lot longer than i thought it would #this is about 6 pages of work #I legit think I'll write more of it #I'll do that later

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hencethebravery · 7 years

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“Muscles Better, Nerves More,” 1/1

Summary: Emma Swan is protective of her softer parts. Killian Jones is more than willing to handle them with care. (Ao3)

Notes: Argh, mateys! Here there be flower crowns and explicit sexual content. “i like my body,” is a poem by e.e. cummings. I have never written sexual content this explicit, nor have I ever posted a new fic mere hours after posting another one. I have no idea what’s come over me, but regardless, here’s some pure filth with shaking headboards and Emma Swan putting flowers in Killian Jones’ hair because I’m a weirdo. Dedicated to the thirsty babes at the CS Writers’ hub, you’re the best: @abbadons-little-witch; @captainwiley; @the-reason-to-sail-home; @dassala; @zengoalie xo

+ 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?”

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 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 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.

“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.

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.”

“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.

“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.”

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.

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.

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.

“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.

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.

“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.

“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.

“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.

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.

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.

“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.

“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?”

#ouat ff #cs ff #cs fanfic #cs smut #captain swan #cs: shit is breathtaking bro #flowers and smut xo #@hencethewriter #can you believe it #two fics in like less than 24 hours #wtf is happening #this will probably never happen again #so i'm taking advantage of it #also mildly horrified about posting this #fingers crossed

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