#short short hair i had done a buzzcut that spring

[agp]

forreal tme and tma is kinda dumb. thats like the terfs saying amab and afab as misogyny exempt and misogyny affected. exactly like them! why do we do identity politics so lazily?

#theres a middle conversation here thats so important #it just sucks that they insist this is all some kind of privilege?? fuck you cis white girls!!! #its a loss of life to be excluded from the experience of misogyny while experiencing it full blast like this #when i got my nose broken that was transmisogyny alison #when you defended me once on the street #from a stranger who very politely told me hey do you mind and i said whats up #and he said the world isnt ready for your outfit and i was like yeah but wig lol #and ALI ABSOLUTELY STARTED SCREAMING AT THE GUY ADDJSKKEJSKS #i was just in skinny short shorts and a skimpy pink striped top #mightve had a bra on who knows #short short hair i had done a buzzcut that spring #AND HE WAS RIGHT AND I APPRECIATED THE INPUT FFS LIESEL COME ON BITCH #CUT YOUR HAIR ALREADY I KNOW THE WORLD ISNT READY FOR IT BUT MAYBE YOU ARE YOURE A REALLY CUTE BUTCH #SORRY I SAID YOU LOOK LIKE A LESBIAN AAAAAAAAA

[1vintage]

Ocean Vuong on Metaphor

below is a transcript of an Instagram story from Ocean Vuong, available here in his story highlights under Metaphor.

Q: How do you make sure your metaphors have real depth?

metaphors should have two things: (1) sensory (visual, texture, sound, etc) connector between origin image and the transforming image as well as (2) a clear logical connector between both images. 

if you have only one of either, best to forgo the metaphor, otherwise it will seem forced or read like “writing” if that makes sense.

~

a lot of ya’ll asked for examples re:metaphor. I can explain better if I had 15 minutes of class time (apply to UMASS!). But essentially, metaphors that go awry can signal a hurried desire to be “literary” or “poetic” (ie “writing”), which can lose traction/trust with a reader. in other words, a metaphor is a detour—but that detour better lead to discoveries that alter/amplify the meaning of what is already there, so that a reader sees you as a servant of possibility rather than someone trying to prove that they are a “writer.” One is performative, the other exploratory. In this way, the metaphor acts as a virtual medium, ejecting the text’s optical realism into an “elsewhere”. But this elsewhere should inform the original upon our return. otherwise the journey would feel like an ejection from a crash rather than a curated journey toward more complex meaning.

example:

“The road curves like a cat’s tail.”

This is a weak metaphor because the transforming image (tail) does not amplify/alter the original. The transfer of meaning flattens and dies. Logic is weak or moot: A cat’s tail does not really change the nature of the road. You can certainly add to this with a few more expository sentences which might rescue the logic—but by then you’re just doing cpr on your metaphor.

Sensory, too, is weak: a cat’s tail has little optical resemblance to a road other than being curved (roads are not furry, for one.)

So this is 0 for 2 and should be scrapped. (Just my opinion though! Not a rule!)

okay so what about:

“The road runs between two groves of pine, like the first stroke of a buzzcut.”

this is better. the optical sensory of the transforming image (a clipper thru a head of hair) matches well with the original.

but the logic feels arbitrary. again it doesn’t substantially alter the original.

in the end this is just an “interesting image” but not strong enough to keep I’d say.

Now here’s one from Sharon Olds:

“The hair on my father’s arms like blades of molasses.”

Sensory connector: check. A man’s dark hair indeed can look like blades (also suggestive of grass) of molasses.

Logical connector: check. the father is both sharp and sweet. Something once soft and sticky about him (connotations of youth) sweets, has now hardened the confection no longer fresh etc.

It’s an ambitious metaphor that is packed with resonance. In other words, it does worlds of work and actually deepens the more you dit with it. A metaphor that actually invites you to put the book down, think on it, absorb it, before returning. a good metaphor uses detours to add power to the text. poor metaphors distract you from the text and leave you bereft, laid to the side.

lastly, the prior examples are technically “similes” but I believe similes reside under the umbrella of metaphor. although a simile is a demarcation, ie: this is “like” that. but this is “not”, ontologically, that.

however, I think something happens in the act of reading wherein we collapse the “bridge” and the mind automatically forges synergy between the two images, so that all similes, once read, “act” like metaphors in the mind.

but again this is all subjective. you might have a better way of going about it.

Another very ambitious metaphor is this one from Eduardo C. Corral:

“Moss intensifies up the tree, like applause.”

This is a masterful metaphor, risky and requires a lot of faith, restraint, and experience to pull it off.

Difficult mainly because we now see a surrealist “distortion” of the sensory realm: origin IMAGE (moss) is paired with transforming SOUND (applause).

There is now a leap in comparable elements. But the adherence to our two vital factors are still present.

Sensory: moss, though silent, grows slowly (the word “intensifies” does major work here becuz it foreshadows the transforming element). Applause, too, grows gradually, before dying down.

Logic: the growth of the moss suggests spring, lushness, life, resilience, and connotes anticipatory hope, much like applause. In turn, applause modifies the nature of moss and imbues, at least this moss, with a sense of accomplishment, closure, it’s refreshment a cause for celebration.

God I love words.

~

I’ve gotten so many responses from folks the past few days asking for a deeper dive into my personal theory on metaphor.

So I'm taking a moment here to do a more in-depth mini essay since my answer to the Q/A the other day was off the cuff (I was typing while walking to my haircut appointment).

What I’m proposing, of course, is merely a THEORY, not a gospel, so please take whatever is useful to you and ignore what isn’t.

This essay will be in 25 slides. I will save this in my IG highlights after 24 hrs.

Before I begin I want to encourage everyone to forge your own theories and praxi for your work, especially if you’re a BIPOC artist.

Often, we are perceived by established powers as merely “performers,” suitable for a (brief) stint on stage—but not thinkers and creators with our own autonomy, intelligence, and capacity to question the framework in our fields.

It is not lost on me, as a yellow body in America, with the false connotations therein, where I’m often seen as diminutive, quiet, accommodating, agreeable, submissive, that I am not expected to think against the grain, to have my own theories on how I practice my art and my life.

I became a writer knowing I am entering a field (fine arts) where there are few faces like my own (and with many missing), a field where we are expected to succeed only when we pick up a violin or a cello in order to serve Euro-Centric “masterpieces.”

For so long, to be an Asian American “prodigy” in art was to be a fine-tuned instrument for Mozart, Bach, and Beethoven.

It is no surprise, then, that if you, as a BIPOC artist, dare to come up with your own ideas, to say “no” to what they shove/have been shoving down your throat for so long, you will be infantilized, seen as foolish, moronic, stupid, disobedient, uneducated, and untamed.

Because it means the instrument that was once in the service of their “work” has now begun to speak, has decided, despite being inconceivable to them, to sing its own songs.

I want you, I need you, to sing with me. I want to hear what you sound like when it’s just us, and you sound so much like yourself that I recognize you even in the darkest rooms, even when I recognize nothing else. And I know your name is “little brother” or “big sister,” or “light bean,” or “my-echo-returned-to-me-intact.” And I smile.

In the dark I smile.

Art has no rules—yes—but it does have methods, which vary for each individual. The following are some of my own methods and how I came to them.

I’m very happy ya’ll are so into figurative language! It’s my favorite literary device because it reveals a second IDEA behind an object or abstraction via comparison.

When done well, it creates what I call the “DNA of seeing.” That is, a strong metaphor “Greek for “to carry over”) can enact the autobiography of sight. For example, what does it say about a person who sees the stars in the night sky—as exit wounds?

What does it say about their history, their worldview, their relationship to beauty and violence? All this can be garnered in the metaphor itself—without context—when the comparative elements have strong multifaceted bonds.

How we see the world reveals who we are. And metaphors explicate that sight.

My personal feeling is that the strongest metaphors do not require context for clarity. However, this does not mean that weaker metaphors that DO require context are useless or wrong.

Weak metaphors use context to achieve CLARITY.

Strong metaphors use context to SUPPORT what’s already clear.

BOTH are viable in ANY literary text.

But for the sake of this deeper exploration into metaphors and their gradients, I will attempt to identify the latter.

I feel it is important for a writer to understand the STRENGTHS of the devices they use, even when WEAKER versions of said devices can achieve the same goal via different means.

Sometimes we want a life raft, sometimes we want a steam boat—but we should know which is which (for us).

My focus then, will be specifically the ornamental or overt metaphor. That is, metaphors that occur inside the line—as opposed to conceptual, thematic, extended metaphors, or Homeric simile (which is a whole different animal).

My thinking here begins with the (debated) theory that similes reside under metaphors. That is, (non-Homeric) similes, behave cognitively, like metaphors.

This DOES NOT mean that similes do not matter (far from it), as we’ll see later on, but that the compared elements, once read, begin to merge in the mind, resulting in a metaphoric OCCURRENCE via a simileac vehicle.

This thinking is not entirely my own, but one informed by my interest in Phenomenology. Founded by Edmund Husserl in the early 20th century and later expanded by Heidegger, Phenomenology is, in short, interested in how objects or phenomena are perceived in the mind, which renewed interest in subjectivity across Europe, as opposed to the Enlightenment’s quest for ultimate, finite truths.

By the time Husserl “discovered” this, however, Tibetan Buddhists scholars have already been practicing Phenomenology as something called Lojong, or “mind training,” for over half a millennia.

Whereas Husserl believes, in part, that a finite truth does exist but that the myopic nature of human perception hinders us from seeing all of it, Tibetan Lojong purports that no finite “truth” exists at all.

In Lojong, the world and its objects are pure perception. That is, a fly looks at a tree and sees, due to its compound eyes, hundreds of trees, while we see only one. For Buddhists, neither fly nor human is “correct” because a fixed truth is not present. Reality is only real according to one’s bodily medium.

I’m keenly interested in Lojong’s approach because it inheritably advocates for an anti-colonial gaze of the world. If objects in the real are not tenable, there is no reason they should be captured, conquered or pillaged.

In other words, we are in a “simulation” and because there is no true gain in acquiring something that is only an illusion, it is better to observe and learn from phenomena as guests passing through this world with respect to things—rather than to possess them.

The reason I bring this up is because Buddhist philosophy is the main influence of 8th century Chinese and 15th-17th century Japanese poetics, which fundamentally inform my understanding of metaphor.

While I appreciate Aristotle’s take on metaphor and rhetoric in his Poetics, particularly his thesis that strong metaphors move from species to genus, it is not a robust influence on my thinking.

After all, like sex and water, metaphors have been enjoyed by humans across the world long before Aristotle-- and evidently long after. In fact, Buddhist teachings, which widely employ metaphor and analogy, predates Aristotle by roughly 150 years.

Now, to better see how Buddhist Phenomenology informs the transformation of images into metaphor, let’s look at this poem by Moritake.

“The fallen blossom flies back to its branch. No, a butterfly.”

When considering (western-dominated) discourse surrounding analogues using “like” or “is”, is this image a metaphor or a simile?

It is technically neither. The construction of this poem does not employ metaphor or simile.

And yet, to my eye, a metaphor, although not present, does indeed HAPPEN.

What’s more, the poem, which is essentially a single metaphor, is complete.

No further context is needed for its clarity. If context is needed for a metaphor, then the metaphor is (IMO) weak—but that doesn’t mean the writing, as a whole, is bad. Weak metaphors and good context bring us home safe and sound.

Okay, so what is happening here?

By the time I read “butterfly,” my mind corrects the blossom so that the latter image retroactively changes/informs the former. We see the blossom float up, then re-see it as a butterfly. The metaphoric figuration is complete with or without “like” or “is.”

Buddhism explains this by saying that, although a text IS thought, it does not THINK. We, the readers, must think upon it. The text, then, only curates thinking.

Words, in this way, begin on the page but LIVE in the mind which, due to limited and subjective scope of human perception, shift seemingly fixed elements into something entirely new.

The key here is proximity. Similes provide buffers to mediate impact between two elements, but they do not rule over how images coincide upon reading. One the page, text is fossil; in the mind, text is life.

Nearly 5000 years after Maritake, Ezra Pound, via Fenolosa, reads Maritake’s poem and writes what becomes the seminal poem on Imagism in 1912, which was subsequently highly influential to early Modernists:

“The apparition of these faces in the crowd: Petals on a wet, black bough.”

Like Maritake, Pound’s poem technically has no metaphor or simile. However, he adds the vital colon after “crowd,” which arguably works as an “equal sign”, thereby implying metaphor. But the reason why he did not use “are” or “is” is telling.

Pound understood, like Maritake, that the metaphor would occur in the mind, regardless of connecting verbiage due to the images’ close proximity. We would come to know this as “association.”

Even if the colon was replaced by the word “like,” the transformation, though a bit slower, would still occur.

In fact, when I first studied Pound years ago, I had trouble recalling whether this poem was fashioned as a simile or not—mainly because the faces change to fully into blossoms each time I try to recall the poem.

Now, let’s look at a simile that, to me, metaphorizes in the same way as the examples above, in the line we saw before from Eduardo C. Corral:

“Jade moss on the tree intensifies, like applause.”

The origin/tenor image (moss) is connected to the transforming element (applause). This metaphor suggests, not an optical relationship, but a BEHAVIORAL one.

Both moss and applause are MASSES that accumulate via singularities: grains of moss and pairs of hands clapping to form a larger whole.

By comparing these two, Corral successfully suggests that moss grows at the RATE of applause, creating a masterful time lapse effect. Applause speeds up the moss growth, connoting rejuvenation, joy and refreshment. That something as mundane as moss deserves, even earns, jubilance, also offers a potent statement of alterity, that the smallest flourishing deserves celebration, which in turn suggests a subtle yet powerful political critique of hegemony.

The poet, through the metaphor, has recalibrated the traditional modes of value placed on the object (moss).

And no other context is needed for that.

You might disagree, but when I read Corral’s line, I don’t SEE an audience clapping BESIDE the moss. I see moss growing quickly to the sound of clapping. Although the simile is employed, the fusion of both elements completes the action in my mind’s eye.

Like Maritake and Pound, metaphor has OCCURRED here—but without “metaphor”.

HOWEVER, the simile is still VITAL. Why?

Because the transforming element is abstract (applause) and looks nothing like moss. We don’t want moss to BE applause, we want the nature of applause to inform, imbue, moss.

The line, I feel, would be quite poor if it was formed sans simile:

“Jade moss is applause on the tree.”

The “is” forces transposition, which is here akin to slamming two things together without mediation. We also lose the comparison of behavior, and are asked to see that moss BECOME applause, which doesn’t have the same meaning as the original.

So, although the simile fuses into metaphor (via association) in the mind, such a metaphor would NOT have been possible without the simile.

Similes matter greatly—as tools towards metaphor. Why?

Because (thank god) our minds are free to roam.

To summarize, one of the central strategies (and, to an extent, purposes) of the Japanese Haiku is to juxtapose two elements to test their synergy. This impulse is grounded in Shinto and Buddhist concepts of impermanence and structural malleability. That is, all things, even ideas and images, are subject to constant change—and such change is the most pervasive nature of perception.

The Haiku then becomes the perfect medium to test such changes. This principle is of central importance to me because it is rooted in non-dualistic (or non-binary) thinking.

The poem becomes the theatre in which fixed elements can be transformed, their borders subject to being dissolved, shifting towards something entirely new—to “create”, which is the Greek root to the word “poet.” The metaphor, then, is more like a chemical, whose elements (like hydrogen and oxygen), placed side by side, becomes water.

In this way, Buddhism’s influence on my work and, specifically, my use and understanding of metaphor, is a foundational QUEER praxis for alterity.

The reason why I emphasize the malleability of simile’s impact is that, although syntax and diction can aide a metaphor towards its more luminous embodiment, the ultimate key to its success is you, the observer.

YOU have look deeply and find lasting relationships between things in a disparate world.

In this sense, the practice of metaphor is also, I believe, the practice of compassion. How do I study a thing so that I might add to its life by introducing it to something else?

At its best, the metaphor is what we, as a species, have always done, at OUR best: which is to point at something or someone so different from us, so far from our own origins and say, “Yes, there IS a bond between us. And if I work long enough, hard enough, I can prove it to you—with this thing called language, this thing that weighs nothing but means everything to me.”

In the end, it is less about how you set up your metaphors (you will eventually find a way that suits it and you) but more about how you recognize your world. THAT is not easy to teach—it comes with patient practice, with a committed wonder for a world that at times might be too painful to look at. But you must and you should.

Good metaphors, in the end, come from writers who are committed to looking beyond what is already there, towards another possibility.

This calls that you see your life and your work as inexhaustible sites of discovery, and that you tend to them with care.

That’s it. That’s the true secret to a strong metaphor: care.

Lastly, I want to recommend the work of BIPOC poet and theorist, Thylias Moss, who discovered the Limited Fork Theory, a theory which suggests that the mind engages with the world, and especially with ideas, including text and art, the way the tines of a fork engage with a plate of food.

That is, only so much can be held on the work/mind with each attempt to consume, and that no “work” can be possessed in its entirety, which I find happily congruent with Lojong.

What a wonderful anti-imperialist and forgiving way to engage with our planet and its phenomena. Thank you, Mrs. Moss!

And thank YOU for sticking around through my little seminar.

I hope this has been helpful. Again, this is just my 2(5) cents! Now I’m going to sleep for four days.

In the meantime, me-ta-phors be with you.

—O

#ocean vuong #on writing #long post #metaphor #u

[shardminds]

I would stop the world for you

Pairing: Emma Swan/Killian Jones Rating: E for smut  WC: 6975 ABO!AU

Scratching an itch is what she’d called it, over breakfast with a barely-there smile and a smear of whipped cream from her hot chocolate on her bottom lip. It. This. Them.

He’d known that it would be easy to fall for her. He’s been trying not to ever since.

Here it is! The ABO you’ve all been waiting for... maybe? 

I want to give a BIG thank you to Salem (@artistic-writer) who is not only the reason for this works conception but also the brave soul that beta'd the living shit out of it, helped me muddle together a summary after I killed my brain while writing and put up with my whiny arse throughout. The bitch is fantastic. Show her, her writing and her art some love!

I also want to thank Sara (@darkcolinodonorgasm) for giving this a once over at the 4k mark and screaming at/with me when I thought my muse had run out. You're wonderful!

Also on AO3

Tagging a few who showed interest early on! @thisonesatellite​, @kmomof4​, @hollyethecurious​, @winterbaby89​, @gingerchangeling​, @resident-of-storybrooke​, @tiganasummertree​

It started with a text. Usually, Killian would have let it be and left the message unread until his break for fear of Liam catching him slouched over the battered oak workbench in the corner of their somehow impeccably kept workshop, eyes glued to his phone rather than the carburettor of the ‘76 Impala he should be working on. It would have earned him a lecture on professionalism and appearance and the same ‘this business is important’ shpiel Liam came out with every time he caught any member of their small team in a moment of distraction. As CEO of Jones & Jones Auto Refurbishments, he tended to let his ruling Alpha traits come through as a business owner - assertive, confident, loyal and a little bit of an arse if he didn’t get his own way. Killian, similarly Alpha in his nature, knows they’re unfortunately similar in their personalities, although he likes to pride himself on not being an arse all the time and being the more likeable Jones sibling. Hopefully, many people would back him up on that. They’d butted heads throughout their lives but, at the end of the day, Liam is all he’s got and a simple text message is usually not worth losing his brother’s favour over.

Liam wasn’t there today though, choosing instead to meet up with some of their more high profile customers to discuss refurb schedules in the spring quarter. His absence bumps Killian up from CEO’s younger-not-little brother and head mechanic to CEO’s younger-not-little brother, head mechanic and acting CEO until Liam gets back from his weekend away talking shop with a bunch of ponces who buy classic cars but have no clue about the maintenance or upkeep. It’s a lengthy title. They’re working on it. The biggest take away from his temporary promotion is that he can check his phone whenever he damn well pleases. Will and Robin are working away on the rust bucket of a Mini Cooper that had been dropped off yesterday by a disgruntled Graham on the other side of the workshop. They’re bickering, as usual, over if the vehicle will need a respray or not. Killian lets himself zone out of their squabbling as he pulls his phone from the pocket of his jeans.

What’s waiting there for him has a thrum of arousal awakening before he can even compose himself to read it fully. Emma. His best friend, confidant and the occasional recipient of his knot whenever her heat gets the better of her.

It’d been less than 48 hours since he’d seen her last to fuck out the residual energy his rut had left coursing through him. It was needy and raw and, when his knot hit, he’d had to stop himself from clamping down on the gland in the juncture of her neck. There was no way he’d have been able to resist sinking his teeth into the supple skin there if his rut was in full swing but that’s exactly the reason they’re careful about the scheduling of their trysts – avoiding his rut and indulging her heat whenever possible. They have apps to log it and everything.

With spring coming in, most Alphas were taking time off to handle their season. Killian had felt his coming a mile off and immediately locked himself away and started prepping high-protein meals, sterilizing his toys and cancelling all his plans – including the ones involving a certain willing Omega. He likes her a lot more than he probably should, but he doesn’t want to force the obligation of his mark onto her. A lot of other Alphas would’ve already. He’s been told as much and knocked half as many out for trying. Always coming to Emma afterwards, battered and bloody. She welcomes him with open arms, cleans his wounds and thanks him in her own way. He knows she doesn’t want that whole marked, barefoot and pregnant life and he respects that. There’s no way he’s ready to bring kids into the world. His one-bedroom apartment above the workshop is no place to raise a child, for god’s sake. He knows Emma feels the same. Her reliance on the contraceptives Dr Whale supplies her with is concrete proof of that. She even keeps a box in Killian’s bedside table, just in case.

As much as he’d love a repeat performance of the other night, they’d already discussed their clashing calendars. Liam was away on business and Emma was covering for David at the station while he rode out his rut. Well… his wife rode it out. They’d be fine for a couple of weeks. Killian has a reminder in his phone for when Emma’s next heat is due to hit so he knows when to stock up on carby foods, ice cream and good coffee. He’s freed up that week for her, knowing how needy she can get through her heat.

Regardless, she doesn’t usually text him while he’s at work. She knows how Liam gets. It must be something important. He swipes open his phone, taking a second to smile at his lock screen. It’s a picture of the two of them, curled up with matching cups of hot chocolate and a shared blanket that he’d taken at some point to prove to Ruby that they occasionally do things other than fucking. Sometimes ‘Netflix and Chill’ means just that. Emma’s hair is a mess and so is his but their smiles are genuine and it makes his heart warm every time. He flicks up her messages with another swipe of his thumb and his smile falls.

Swan: I’m early. Need you now. Please.

She means her heat. He’s not stupid. Had it been a month already? A quick check to his calendar shows that she’s not due for another week at least. They meticulously planned these things. Killian Jones, a self-professed neat freak, and Emma Swan, the proud owner of a ‘floordrobe’, disagree on a lot of things when it comes to personal organisation. The one thing they do agree on, however, is keeping track of their cycles.

The last time she’d been early, they ended up fucking in the back of her Yellow VW Bug on the way home from a beach trip with the Nolans. She’d been wearing the smallest bikini he’d ever seen, the two black triangles only just covering her breasts before being secured by a thin strap at her nape and a second behind her back. Instead of matching bottoms, she’d gone with a pair of frayed denim shorts that brushed the tops of her thighs and hugged her behind so deliciously that he could barely keep a hold of the growl brewing in his throat. Sand clung to her arse and the back of her legs and he wanted nothing more than to brush it off and pull her into his lap. He could smell her arousal creeping up on her before she could, approaching as inevitably as the tide, and he knew they would not make it back to her apartment before it hit. For the sake of David, Mary Margaret and the rest of the families trying to enjoy themselves on a rare sunny beach day, Killian bundled Emma into the cramped back seat of her car and began the two-hour drive back to Storybrooke.

She had him pull over after half an hour to give her a hand, so to speak.

The upholstery stains had been a bitch to get out.

Before thinking of the consequences, he fumbles out a text back to her.

K. Jones: Be there in 5.

“Rob! Will!” He calls out across the shop, knowing he’s been heard when the incessant bickering turns to silence. The two Betas would be able to handle things on their own for the day. They’d get no work done, sure, but he could afford that. Work had been slow all morning and there was no sign of it picking up any time soon. As long as they finish the Mini by the week’s end, Liam will be none the wiser. Pulling on his leather jacket, Killian headed over their way. “Something’s come up. Can you cover for me?”

“What is it this time, lover boy?” Will chimes in, appearing from under the hood of Graham’s Mini, his white vest smeared with oil despite him not remotely touching the engine today. One eyebrow raised in a questioning glare. “Missus need you to lick her boots again?”

Rob issues him with a slap, sending his friend’s head straight into the hood of the car with a metallic thud and a groan. They’d have to buff that one out later. Well…Will would.

“That’s no way to talk to your superior, William. Show some respect.”

Rob laughs at the snarl he gets in return, reaching across to ruffle his friend’s buzzcut. Will clenches his teeth, biting out his response. “Call me William one more time and I’ll show you some respect.”

Killian had always found their relationship a little odd. Will is always ready for a fight, a punch first ask questions later kind of bloke and Robin is the one that drags him back to reality with a gentle hand…and maybe occasionally a firm shove. They’re two sides of the same coin and Liam would be lost without them in the shop. Hell, Killian would be lost without them in his life.

Especially now.

“Lads, I’m trusting you to not burn the place down. Lock up when you’re done, will you?” He launches his keys at Rob who plucks them out of the air and tucks them into the breast pocket of his pristine overalls, patting them for good measure. Rob, he could trust. Will, on the other hand…It’s a good job Liam had gone all out on their liability insurance.

They bid him farewell with a sarcastic “Aye aye, Captain!” before Killian can protest. He doesn’t have the time to bollock them for being insolent. Plus, they’re doing him a favour by watching over the shop, both automatically aware of the nature of his absence. He flips them off, jumping into his Jeep and slamming it into gear before speeding across town with little regard for the speed limit. It’s okay. He’s got connections in the sheriff’s office.

Well… one connection. The same connection he’s about to fuck the living daylights out of.

Scratching an itch is what she’d called it, over breakfast with a barely-there smile and a smear of whipped cream from her hot chocolate on her bottom lip. It. This. Them.

He’d known that it would be easy to fall for her. He’s been trying not to ever since.

Emma’s apartment building is tucked away on the other side of Storybrooke. Past main street and the town hall, almost on the edge of the town boundary. The whole apartment block is a sanctuary for unclaimed Omegas; tucked far enough away that they’re able to endure their heats in peace, but close enough that you can still get lunch delivered from Granny’s if needed. Alphas, upon entry, have to provide ID, evidence of their previous rut and what their intentions are while visiting. Luckily, Ruby was on duty today – pillar-box red nails offering him a little wave as he passes by the entrance checkpoint. Killian didn’t even have to slow his Jeep. She had the barriers open for him already. Emma must’ve called ahead.

Rolling his truck into the nearest parking bay, Killian almost forgets to check if he’s locked it before he’s vaulting over the fence and sprinting into the sterile building, taking the linoleum stairs two at a time to get to Emma’s third-floor apartment faster. The building smells of bleach and fresh laundry but, underneath it all, he can taste something distinctly her. Earthy yet fresh, sweet and almost spicy. It swells around him like a warm embrace when she throws open her door.

He hadn’t even knocked.

She’s a sight for sore eyes dressed in one of his old band t-shirts, logo far too faded to be legible anymore, and a pair of boy shorts that do nothing to hide how slick she is, wetness seeping through the material with every second spent stood in the doorway. She’s gorgeous and glowing, a thin sheen of sweat causing her to glisten under the fluorescence of the hallway lights, flecks of gold catching in her lust-darkened eyes. Her hair hangs in matted curls over her left shoulder and he knows she must have been too impatient to blow dry it that morning, instead opting to let it air dry while she took care of herself in other ways. Fuck. He can’t think about that right now. The tang of her heat in the air makes him want enough as it is. He does not need filthy images of Emma trying to get herself off with the knot toy he’d bought for her last year when her heat and his rut had clashed. He does not need to think of how she was probably whining for him, aching to be filled by something real, way before she texted him to come over.

She wants him, needs him, and he can smell it rolling off her in waves.

It’d be rude not to oblige.

She must’ve had the same thought because she pounces on him the second he moves to step forward, arms surrounding his neck and legs circling his waist. He can’t help but reach down to her arse, giving it a light pinch which has her letting out an indecent moan before she’s crashing their lips together. He shouldn’t miss her. It’d not been two days since he last had her, hard and fast against the tiled walls of his shower and yet, when she’s like this, desperate and begging in his arms, he damns every second they were apart. The door slams shut behind them and Killian promptly shoves her up against it, swallowing down the noise it earns him.

Emma kisses are urgent and powerful, overwhelming in their ferocity. Omegas aren’t usually celebrated for their power but she’s different. Her heat brings out a side to her that drowns out his comprehensive thought with fiery kisses and insistent touches. She tears down his resolve so completely. Is there any way he can deny her when she’s like this, hands impatiently tearing at the buttons of his shirt?

Omegas are commonly seen as the weaker class, apparently only superior in their fertility, and abused by the archaic roots of their world. Killian had never understood the prejudice held against them, even as a boy. He’d been born into privilege and he accepted that. As the son of an Alpha father, sibling to an Alpha brother and an Alpha himself, he will never be able to comprehend the struggle that comes with being born with a target on your back. He will never know the pain of suffering through twelve heats a year or the immense risk that other Alphas pose on a regular basis when you’re unclaimed. He will never know the sheer unadulterated bliss that Emma feels when he fills her so full of his come that it leaks around his pulsing knot, mixed with her sheer slick on its path down her thighs. He will never know just how much trust she puts in him when his teeth graze over the patch of skin along her neck that calls for his bite. But, for her, he tries.

“Stop thinking.” She growls, tugging on his bottom lip with her teeth, utilising probably more force than intended. Her hands make their way under his shirt in an attempt to push it off his shoulders but it doesn’t budge far, the buttons she’d missed in her haste straining to accommodate. Her eyes, emerald and dangerous, flutter shut as he lets the hand that is not supporting the small of her back slip beneath her sodden underwear. The scent of her hits him stronger now and all he can do is bite back the groan in his chest. She’s soft and silken and he can see how absolutely consumed she is by her pleasure in the way she relaxes into his touch. Her lips part against his mouth in a gasp. He wants.

“I came all this way and that’s all you have to say?”

“Killian, please.” Her thighs clench his hips as he dips one finger into her centre. He’ll never tire of this. Feeling her twitch and whine as his deft fingers work their magic. She unravels beneath his touch and it’s maddening. Teasing her, caressing her core and revelling in the slick that spills beneath his ministrations, builds his own arousal in an agonising burn. Her lips take his again in a breathless kiss, a mess of mouths and tongues and teeth. Fire rushes through his veins as he fights the urge to fuck her senseless right there. As much as he wants to slam her against the white varnished wood and take her so deep she can’t help but cry out, he doesn’t fancy a repeat of the last time they’d been so impatient. He’d awoken on the floor, half-hard, after literally fucking the door off its hinges and knocking himself out on the frame on the way down. Emma had laughed about it for weeks after and the apartment block billed him for the repairs.

Beds are easier to replace and Killian has fucked her in his fair share of them.

He smells her orgasm approaching before it hits. He always does. The heady scent of her sex becoming richer, sweeter, thicker before he dips a second finger inside her cunt, pushing deeper to massage the rough spot that sends her over the edge every single time.

Emma can’t help but run her mouth as she comes. Shaking in his hold, fists balled in his hair, cursing his name between kisses until she’s spent and boneless. Each expletive sending a throb to his cock, straining against his jeans. Such foul language doesn’t come to her naturally but Killian drags it out of her with each circle of his index finger against her clit.

“Such a filthy mouth, Swan.” He smirks, breaking away to press a kiss to her neck. The resulting shiver that creeps down her spine has her clench around him once more, a wave of slick coating his hand. Her shorts are ruined, completely soaked through. It makes it all the easier to tear them off as he removes his hand from her folds, seams protesting as the fabric splits, revealing her in her entirety to him. Pink and wet and fucking delectable.

He’s wearing too many clothes.

“I can’t help it.” She shrugs, still breathless, fingers returning to the buttons on his shirt that she’d missed in her insistence to run her hands through the thick hair there. “Blame it on my heat, or your fingers, or both.”

Killian chuckles. His chest jostling her ever so slightly where they’re still stood. With practised ease, he begins the short distance to the bedroom.

“I’d love to take all the credit but you were already halfway gone by the time I got here.” Together they shrug the shirt from his shoulders, letting it fall to the hardwood floor as they make their way. Emma leans into him then, letting her head rest against his chest, just over his heart. He knows she’s got more in her and the next wave will take them both in its wake, but for now, he’s content to just hold her as she recovers, her breathing falling into sync with his own heartbeat, avoiding the cluttered glass coffee table as he walks her through the living room.

“I’ve come four times today.” Her breath is hot against his nipple, which hardens with the combined weight of her confession almost as if commanded to do so. He stops short of her bedroom, adjusting her weight in his arms so he can open the door without disturbing her further from her rest. “I was hoping I’d be able to get it out of my system without you. I know you’ve been busy.”

“Emma, love, don’t be stupid. That’s why you keep me around.” Pressing a kiss to her crown, inhaling the soft vanilla of the shampoo that she loves so much, he steps inside the room she calls her own. It’s messy, not as much as it used to be but more than he’d allow his own space to get, and he has to tiptoe between abandoned outfits she’d probably tried on that morning before deciding that work was just off the cards today. It’s never advisable for Omegas to be in public for their heat, claimed or otherwise. He can imagine her pouting in the mirror, hair wet, arousal rearing its head between her thighs, unsatisfied and wanting. “I can make you feel good. I want to.”

“Ah yes, my own personal fuck toy. How chivalrous of you.” He dips her onto the bed, ignoring her sarcasm, and pushes aside the toys she’d clearly been using, still sticky with her essence – a couple of small vibrators, a string of anal beads and the knot toy he’d supplied her with over a year ago. She’d admitted to him that it didn’t get much use. She’s come to rely on him for satisfaction, these days. Why would she need a toy? Killian adds washing them to his mental to-do list because she will definitely forget once he’s done with her. Emma unfurls her legs from around his waist and lets her back slump against the mattress with a soft thud. In the soft light from her bedroom window, he gets a good full look at her core, fresh slick coating her outer lips in a delicious glaze. Maybe later he’ll get the chance to feast upon it, eating like a man starved in that way that makes her toes curl and her voice hoarse from screaming.

“If that’s what the lady wishes?” He hums, dragging his eyes from her cunt to her tits. When had she removed her–his shirt? The swell of them is enough to drive him wild, their pert buds the same soft dusky rose as her mouth. He leans down to take one into his mouth, not missing the relaxed sigh it earns him. Looking up at her from this angle makes his cock stir, her head thrown back, long pale neck exposed in a subconscious invitation. He squeezes at her neglected nipple with slick coated fingers, trailing patterns into the quickly pebbled flesh there.

Fuck, he wants to mark her. Take her as his over and over again. He wants to fuck her through his rut and show her how deep under his skin she has managed to crawl. Every inch of him yearns for her. Every second they’re not like this, together, entwined, is agony. He can’t let himself think that way, not like this. Emma is not an object, not a thing to be possessed and claimed. She’s headstrong and stubborn as any Alpha. She belongs to no one.

Her moans sear into his mind, a permanent brand, a reminder of everything he cannot have.

Tonight, like many other nights, he pretends she belongs to him.

“This lady definitely wishes.” She sighs, bringing him back to reality. Somehow she always seems to ground him, despite being the root of all his desire. A smile, a laugh, a cry. It always brings him right back. Back to her. She squeezes at his shoulders, pulling him up so she can kiss him again. It’s languid and warm, passion simmering beneath her tongue as it finds its way into his mouth. These are his favourite. The kind of kisses that burn slowly, growing deeper and deeper until they’re both left gasping for air. He could kiss like this forever. Suffocation be damned. Her hands slide down his chest, through the hair she loves to toy with so much, down across his firm stomach. The muscles there flutter under her touch and Killian’s cock aches to be released from its denim prison. She seems to notice just as he does. Her hand makes the final stretch to where he wants her most, cupping him roughly and giving a hard grasp. He snarls, animalistic desire shooting through him. It’s inevitable, the call of her heat claiming him fully. She loves it this way the most. Rough and hard. Alpha.

One eyebrow quirks up, behind a mop of messy blonde hair, with kiss bruised lips and eyes so dark they’re almost black. A challenge. He loves a challenge.

“Why are you still wearing clothes?”

Their fingers clash while trying to unbuckle his belt, caught between the dark thatch of hair there and the soft leather. Emma retreats first, choosing instead to utilise the belt loops and tug him to his knees between her spread thighs. Laced with urgency, their kisses grow sloppy, insistent and chaotic. Killian struggles to shove his jeans low enough to let his cock spring free. They don’t have time for anything else. She needs him now. Slick glistens as it trails down her thighs, the sheets below soaked with it and every hitch of her breath drives him wild with hunger. Everything smells of it, the inescapable musk of her sex drowning his last rational thought.

His Omega needs him.

“Killian.”

Pushing into her is better than anything he could have ever prepared for. Years ago, the first time she’d invited him to bed, he’d popped his knot embarrassingly fast from just the sheath of her alone. The feeling tight and foreign. He’d never had an Omega before. He hadn’t been prepared for the intensity of her heat. It hit him like a train. It still does. They’d laughed it off, her face pressed into his neck, and he’d vowed to make up for it in other ways, ensuring she was thoroughly satisfied by the time the swelling in his cock had dispersed half an hour later.

He’s had more than enough practice now, though. She’s hot and wet and still so impossibly tight. Slick gathers on the tip of his length as he slides true. All of him. Emma doesn’t even flinch, taking it all in her stride and demanding more with small cants of her hips, breathy moans falling from her lips with every inch. Killian was fucked from the get-go. With shallow pants, she writhes against him, legs winding their way around his hips again, only wanting him to move deeper, faster, harder as he tortures her with devilishly slow thrusts. The drag of his thick cock against her insides draws out the most sinful sounds and Killian can’t help but slow to take it all in, hands gripping her hips.

“You’re desperate for me, aren’t you?” Arousal coats his voice, deep and gravelly. An entirely different man to who he was five minutes ago. Not a man at all. An Alpha. Killian the Mechanic didn’t have the balls to so brazenly ask that question. Killian the Alpha definitely did. Emma’s resulting moan at his speech makes him throb, his cock dragging deliciously against that spot inside her that makes her only cry out for more. It’s intoxicating to watch himself disappear completely inside her sopping heat, folds moving to accommodate his size. “You fucked yourself over and over wishing it was me. Wishing I was here to fill your greedy wet cunt. Am I right?”

She can’t even form words; head thrown back, hair splayed out in a crown of gold against soft white sheets, eyes fluttering shut and mouth falling open as she allows herself to sink into bliss. Like this, a slave to her desire, she’s otherworldly. This is his power.

He takes her chin in his hand, forcing her to look him in the eyes while his hips snap with a little more force. Not as rough as she really wants it but rich with the promise of more. Always more. “Answer me, Omega.”

“Y-yes,” Hearing the words break through a deep moan only fuels him further. Knowing he’s responsible for every ounce of her pleasure proving to be a greater turn-on than anything else ever could be, flames of his impending orgasm teasing at his base. He might be the Alpha but she holds all the power here. “But it wasn’t enough.” She sighs, teeth catching her bottom lip as his cock drags almost fully out, taking a second to nudge her clit and the slick gathered there before plunging straight back in, deeper, drawing a sob from her in return. “Fuck, Killian! It’s never enough.”

“And why’s that, love?” His voice is calmer than he feels. He leans down to press a kiss between her breasts, letting his tongue drag in the valley between them. Salt blooms on his tongue along with the unmistakable tang of her. All five of his senses are under siege by the very presence of the Omega – his Omega – in his arms; her sharp taste, her rich scent, her needy touch, her fucked voice and the sight of her completely at his mercy all adding to the sensory overload that has his own release building low in his gut. It tears at whatever shred of control he has left, leaving only raw impulse behind.

“Because it’s not you, Alpha.”

With that, Killian breaks.

He pulls out completely, cool air hitting his length, barely noticing Emma’s cry of protest. She clenches around the open air, slick leaking from the space left in his wake. Seeing her like this, open and wanting, has electricity fizzing beneath his skin. The primal urge to take her over and over clawing deep in his belly. Her thighs tremble, still clinging to his hips despite the distance he tries to put between them, resisting his attempts to untangle her crossed ankles from behind his back. He wants to slide in, take her until she’s filled with nothing but him, and ride it out that way until they’re both spent and softening in the glow. He wants to tell her he loves her while they’re tied together. He wants to sink his teeth into the juncture of her neck and be hers until his last breath. He wants to be her Alpha. Wholly. But he can’t.

He can fuck her but he can’t love her and, in some ways, that’s worse.

She drags her nails through the carpet of hair at his chest, noticing his hesitation and striving to bring him back from the edge of madness. Back to her. With one touch, she’s expressing more than she ever could with words, not that she could even form words at this point, her breath coming in gasps. Totally ravished. It says Are you okay? and I’m here and, atop slick soiled sheets and freely given moans, Mine.

It does nothing to ground him now. Nothing can.

One word pulses through Killian’s mind. Instinctual. Carnal. Feral. Slamming her ankles to the bed and flipping her onto her stomach with abundant force, it rips from him with no hesitation.

“Present.”

In another life, maybe it’d be different. Maybe he’d be a gentle lover, revelling in every inch of her skin, tasting wherever his tongue could reach. Maybe he’d be able to worship her in the way he wants, with prayers dying on his lips, finding god in her thighs and the devil in her curses.

In another life, he would not have to hide the fact that Emma holds his heart in her palm, deft fingers holding the ability to destroy him entirely. But that’s what he does. He hides, always, behind filthy words and hungry kisses, giving her everything she wants in the form of his thick cock coaxing her to completion again and again. She loves it, informing him in screams when pleasure hits. He loves her, irrevocably. It’s too easy to forget that they’re nothing more than friends when she’s like this.

Pushing to her hands and knees, Emma slides her hips up from the bed with a hiss of yes alpha. Slick, viscous and rich, leaks further down her legs. She flips her hair over one shoulder as she looks to him, revealing the curve of her spine from her arse to her nape and the scars of their previous encounters. They litter the pale expanse of her back, evidence of where he’d clawed too hard at her flesh and drawn blood. Regret tinges the memories a little, but not enough to stop him. Killian lets his eyes drag over her, ready and willing and calling out for him. Half lidded eyes, lust glazed and begging, find his as his gaze reaches her face. She’s beautiful, ethereal in a way he can’t quite describe with words, and like this, submissive and yet still fully in control, he falls just a little bit more.

“Please, just fuck me.”

Did he ever stand a chance?

He sheathes himself in seconds with no resistance, a snarl pulled from his throat by the overbearing heat of her dripping cunt. It’s almost too much and his fingers grip at her hips; the stark slap of skin on skin, broken moans, and laboured creak of the bed an overwhelming cacophony of sound that stokes the flame in his belly. The telltale signs of his release tug at his periphery but he staves it off. What kind of Alpha would he be if he didn’t ensure his Omega was satisfied first?

No. Not his.

Bypassing the thought completely, he slides a hand from her hip to her core, gliding over the engorged nub he finds there. One pinch. That’s all it takes for Emma to collapse face-first into the bed with a scream caught by her pillows, arse still proudly presented because she’s nothing if not obedient. Her orgasm hasn’t claimed her just yet, but it’s close; insides gripping him impossibly tighter.

“You're naughty, Omega, presenting like this, arse up and suffocating me with the scent of you,” Killian tries his best to enunciate, channelling every modicum of control he has left into keeping his voice deep and authoritative. The Alpha. Her Alpha. It calls to her basest nature, making her writhe with want. It must work. Along with the caresses of his fingers against where they’re joined, it has her insides fluttering. Any noises she makes are caught in the sheets below and he’s glad for that. Anything more would be a death sentence. “But you know how your Alpha likes to fuck you, don't you?"

No. Not hers.

Emma turns her head to the side, sweeping blonde waves shifting just enough that he can see her face as he fucks her with renewed vigour. The broken please cuts like ice down his spine, before it breaks off in a whine. It’s too much for her, being filled and stroked and brought to the edge. And yet, she wouldn’t have it any other way; always urging him on when Killian ever dared to fuck her slowly. She delights in the aches and bruises he leaves behind.

He could fuck her for hours like this, pounding into her with reckless abandon and not a care in the world but, perhaps selfishly, he wants more. He wants and wants and wants. He wants an Omega to call his own, to fill up and care for, he wants to nest together through her heat and shower her in gifts and make her breakfast every day. Instead of some faceless Omega in the fleeting moments he lets himself think this way, it’s her. It’s always her.

He snaps hips in time with Emma’s hurried heartbeat. Staccato thrusts hitting her just right as his fingers match the pace.

“Alpha!” She sobs with her eyes clenched shut, balled fists clutched in sheets. He can feel her teetering on the edge. The precipice of her orgasm stirs his own and, when she screams at the fervent attention to her clit, her whole body shudders. He’s close, so close, fucking her through her climax as she convulses around him. The scent of her release permeates his skin and fogs his mind in a way that nothing else can. It’s heady and seductive and her.

“Emma.”

His knot comes, to no surprise, as quickly as she did. Swelling out from the base of his cock and dragging a moan from her spent form at the familiar stretch of it. His thrusts slow, movement stilted by the knot that secures him, emptying himself within her centre without a second thought. She hums as he fills her with warmth, eyes fluttering open just a little. Her smile is dangerous and his breath catches in his throat. Generally speaking, she’s fucked; hair even more of a mess than when he arrived, lips bruised from kisses and bites, sweat beading at her temples and in the dip of her collarbones. She’s fucked and when she looks at him like that, a smile teasing at the corners of her mouth, he can’t help but groan as his cock stirs. How does she even have this effect on him? Even now, with his knot still solid inside her. With laboured breaths, he gently manoeuvers them onto their sides so they’re curled together on the bed. His jeans, still shoved just below his hips, making it slightly more difficult than it should be.

Emma relaxes against him for a while, resting against his arm tucked up under her head with that same secret smile. Only the sound of their own breathing breaking the silence between them. She’d be sated for a couple of hours after that, residual energy from her orgasm would see her through until the early evening. With a little help from his friend, double shot espresso, he’d be ready to go another round by then. If she asks him to stay, that is. Sometimes she does, sometimes she doesn’t. He doesn’t force it. She can handle herself. It’s one of the things he likes so much about her.

Time passes agonisingly slowly and, as much as Killian could stay here forever with Emma Swan pulled close against him, he’s lost feeling in one of his arms and both of his legs.

“My Alpha?” The smirk is audible in her tone. Killian freezes, his whole body tensing beneath the weight of her words. She snuggles back against him, dragging his other arm over her waist, entwining their fingers together.

“What?” He can feel her chuckle against him and it jostles his softening cock, knot still full but well on its way to receding.

“You know how your Alpha likes to fuck you.” She grunts in a terrible impersonation of his dirty talk. Heat spreads from his chest to his face, a blanket of shame at his own outbursts. Now sated, his primarily Alpha urges were all in check, leaving Killian alone to deal with the consequences. Leaving Killian to explain why, in not as many words, he’d told his best friend that he was hers.

“Got caught up in the heat of the moment, is all.” He feebly tries to brush it off, but she turns in his arms to look him in the eyes. With hair splayed out in a halo of gold, there’s no fear or anger or shame on her face. Only the same smile. Any other protests turn to ash on his tongue. He wants to tell her the truth but he couldn’t bear the rejection. Having part of something was better than having none of it at all. Right? “You know how it is.”

“Maybe.” She pouts.

They lie together in silence for a little while longer, her fingertips tracing idle patterns on his wrist. He doesn’t know how much time goes by but he’s holding his breath for most of it. Cautious. He doesn’t want to fuck this up. If this is the only way he can have Emma, in friendship and in heat relief, he will take it. His knot is almost fully receded when she next speaks, turning and pressing a kiss to the column of his throat as he fully slips from her, soft and wet.

“Maybe next time my Alpha can let me ride him senseless?” She purrs, fingers tangling in the hair coating his chest. Killian doesn’t know how he has any strength left in him but, somehow, with Emma’s lips at his throat and her voice in his head, he does. Rolling her onto her back just as they were joined earlier, he hovers above her. She’s still smiling and it’s beautiful, one eyebrow raised as if to challenge him on it.

“Yours?” He almost chokes on the word, knowing that this step would be one they will never return from. She nods, shuffling so she can lean up to kiss him softly. It’s barely a press of lips, Killian too busy processing her words to be able to respond. “Really? Not just...?”

“I’m not ready to be marked yet, Killian, but It’d be nice to keep you around for more than… well… this. What do you say?” His forehead falls against hers, noses pressed together in a sweetness Killian never thought he’d be able to witness. She cups his cheek with her palm and he meets her halfway for another kiss, firmer but no less sweet. They come together, over and over again, taking their pleasure all over her apartment until he’s not sure where Emma ends and he begins. He would never have it any other way.

Killian doesn’t make it home that night.

He doesn’t make it home all week, actually. Rob and Will do not burn down the workshop but they also don’t finish the refurb work on Graham’s Mini and the suspicious head-shaped dent on the bonnet had yet to be buffed out.

Liam is going to kill him.

#cs ff #cs fic #cs smut #captain swan fic #captain swan #ouat fic #Ficminds #WHAT DO I EVEN TAG THIS AS I NO LONGER HAVE A FUNCTIONING BRAIN #let me know what u think tho! #em's foray into abo

[peaches-of-1]

Peachtober | Day 14: Overgrown

Black!Reader x Monster Woo

Summary: Monster Woo is a simple man who sells flowers for a living and you are an Instagram photographer. Your models’ faces are better known than you yourself, but Woo wants to see what’s behind the camera.

Genre: Fluff

Moodboard and reaction requests open! Mstrlst in bio!

During a sunny Spring Day, a new shipment of flowers come in at 꽃벌 (play on words of flower and bee). It is the largest one since it is the start of the season. Valentine's Day is long gone, and White Day was a hit. All of the red and white roses being 70% of the seasonal inventory and now going back to its regular 40% since roses would sell no matter what season or occasion.

Youngwoo rolled up his burgundy sleeves to help the part time worker carry large sacks of fertilizer and dirt into the back while she balanced seedlings and vases under her arms and even atop her coily buzzcut.

“Naveah, once you’re done bringing in all the pots, can you start organizing them please?” He asked.

“Sure, Big Daddy.” She replied.

The tall man sighed, “I told you to stop calling me that.”

Naveah just smiled in response and continued to carry the rest of the product until the truck was empty. Then she began sorting pots by height and material while Woo worked on answering calls and writing down some new clients and jobs they were wanted for. A few weddings, a birthday, two divorce parties. One he turned down because they were planning on burning flowers, and he could never imagine putting his beautiful gifts through that.

A young woman about 20 or older came in dressed in purple slacks, heels to match, and a white shirt. Her typha colored hand reaching into her purse for her phone to check if she was at the right location.

She entered the store and Woo told the woman on the phone, “One second.”

“Hello.”

“Hello, I am Y/N and I run a photography blog. I was wondering if you would be interested in hiring me to take pictures of your flowers for advertising. I have experience with both still life and live models.” She said, setting her card down on the desk.

Woo picked it up and read the Hangul and the English translation. She was a photographer for sure.

“Why does your name seem so familiar?”

She gave a smile, “A few of my models have walked during Seoul Fashion Week this past bit cuz they saw my photos.”

He smiled, “Ah, right. It seems like  with a face like yours, you would be the one in front of the camera.”

Y/N began to blush, “Oh, um. Thank you.”

The two just stared at each other and smiled for a moment before she spoke up.

“Well, I should get going. You have a phone call to get back to.”

Woo nodded, “Oh, right. Yes. It was nice meeting you and I will be in contact.”

The woman left and the florist finished the call, thankful they hadn't hung up. Y/N...jeez she was beautiful.

The sound of a glass vase breaking snapped the tall man out of his daze. He sighed and called out the worker's name before heading over to get the broom to hand to her.

After work, Woo locked up and said farewell to his worker before taking a taxi home. Before going to bed, he looked up the Instagram page that was on the card Y/N gave him.

She was really good. Like, it was so much better than he had expected. Pictures of flowers in vases and people and so many beautiful faces. A lot of her stuff was currently flower based. It seemed she didn’t delete the stuff from her early days either. The camera quality had gome up so much too. Woo couldn’t help but like one of them that made him think of a tattoo. Wait, no.

It was from 4 years ago! She was going to think he was a creep! No, no. Y/N wouldn’t do that, right? It was just a possible employer checking out an employee’s past work to see if it would affect his current business. He made up his mind. Woo would hire the beautiful black girl to work for his company. All of his current photos were taken by him and Naveah, so they weren’t that great. If they could up the photo quality of the inventory, then they would sell more.

The large man soon fell asleep thinking about what floral arrangements he would make for each tier. Each one was linked with a color, so he could make it monochrome. Or maybe most of that color. Y/N looked really cute in purple. Hair like an allium.

The next day at the shop, Youngwoo called her while setting up the flowers he would use for this week’s specialty arrangement.

“Hello, this is Photobomb Productions, Y/N speaking.” She said in English and then repeated it in Korean.

Woo smiled, “Hello. This is Youngwoo from 꽃벌. I would like to take you up on your offer of becoming our floral photographer. I have been meaning to take some new pics for some summer deals.”

He could hear her squaling out of excitement in the background and then she cleared her throat and talked professionally, “That is great to hear. What day or time would the photographic subjects be ready for me to photograph?”

“Today is Friday, so I will be busy all weekend. I can get them done by either Tuesday or Wednesday since I already have sketches. All I have to do it put them together.”

“Perfecto! How does Tuesday at 2pm sound?” Y/N asked.

Woo looked at his schedule, “I have a delivery at 1:30 in the afternoon, but I will probably have my worker handle that one.”

“I see. Alright, well, I will see you then. Do not hesitate to call me if we have to move it to Wednesday. Have a nice day.”

“You too.” Woo replied and the woman hung up.

“Who was that, Big Daddy?” his worker asked, carrying in a box of seeds to set up in the seed bin near the front.

He rolled his eyes, “That woman who came in yesterday. A photographer. She’s gonna take photos for us from now on. I’m gonna be up late drafting up a contract and then we’ve gotta--” The tattooed florist sighed. “I shouldn’t bore you with technicalities. Let’s get these arrangements done.”

“Let me bring over the vases.” The short haired woman said.

Woo looked at the workbench, “Neveah, where are the Calla Lilies?” he asked after her.

“We had two weddings that wanted them, so we are getting an emergency shipment in, but not until tomorrow.” She replied, making sure the seed packets fell flat before adding more on.

He nodded, “Right. Right. Um…” then he remembered the thought he had last night and went to a sky blue bucket and picked out a bulbous purple flower with a long stem. “We’ll use these today instead.”

And so for the next few minutes before the sign was flipped, the two made matching arrangements. Neveah had always wanted to do more now that her probation was up. Woo’s shop was known for flowers and arrangements, served weddings of all types and even funerals. The most important thing about it was who it employed, however. Former convicts and people who were needed someplace to work while on probation.

Youngwoo believed that everyone deserved a second chance and that humans could change, which is why he hired who he did.

“Ah, it didn’t come out as well as yours.” Neveah said as hers had a bit of a bend in the long stem and just seemed overall more messy than the one her boss made.

“Don’t worry about it. This is only the third one you’ve ever made, so I think you did really well. In fact, yours will go on the box instead of mine so people will see it first.” The man set hers onto the white wooden box in the window and placed his next to it.

Dark pink roses and sunflowers graced the top of the white vase with solid aster placed in here and there. The allium rested above each one like a proud head. They would stay in the front for the week and then they would be dead and turned into compost for a nearby flower nursery.

The woman smiled and then it was time to flip the sign. Business didn’t pick up until around lunch which was the usual thing. People buying either a single flower or a dozen on the way to a date. When Neveah left for the day, Yieun clocked in and hugged Woo having started this business together before she tried and failed to become an idol.

“Is the car filled up yet? Remember, I have to drop off some stuff for a business meeting and a 16th birthday today.” She said.

“It’s all packed up and ready to go. Feel free to double check, but it had been pretty quiet today.” He replied. “Ah, are there business cards still inside?”

Tuesday came, and Woo was nervous to see her again. They had talked over the phone for the past couple of days to finalize things. Y/N was really kind but he could tell how much her work meant to her. It was a small business that she was ultimately running on her own and often didn’t get paid for her time because people hardly ever took the arts seriously. Photography was no exception.

People thought it was just sitting in good lighting, point and click, which it wasn’t.

Woo had three different arrangements made for each color level. White, green, purple, and yellow. Each added the amount of flower types and the default price was a clear glass vase. A custom vase color/type would cost $3 extra. The second and third were in custom vases and set up in the workshop.

It was extra clean for today and there were no arrangements to be made. Mondays through Wednesdays were the slowest of the slow most of the time. That meant today was perfect for Y/N to come in.

She arrived right on time in a yellow long sleeve top tucked into a rainbow skirt and white and rainbow shoes. Rainbow accessories too, but carrying a duffle bag of work stuff.

Yieun was out on her current delivery, so Woo fixed his brows and hair before greeting her with a poliot bow.

“Hello, Y/N. How are you doing today? Have you eaten?” He asked.

“I am doing well, and yes I have. I went to a taco place. It was good, but the sauce stained the jacket I was wearing.” The woman sighed, tying her hair back before she set up everything.

It wasn’t the most glamorous thing, but Woo asked if he could watch. She said as long as he stayed behind the camera, it was ok. However, the man wasn’t watching the flowers, but instead watched how she worked. The way she bent over to get a better angle from her tripod and set up the lights.

She seemed so delicate, like she herself was a rose petal in need of much care. However, they way she pursed her lips seemed to go perfectly like thorns. The man knew she wasn’t thinking about him. Her eyes were on the flowers, but at the same time, Y/N was all he could think about for the past week.

Sometimes his imagination would try to run away with the idea of her, but that wasn’t fair to her. He barely knew her last name.

The shy and strong Woo was enchanted by the photographer. Ah, he wanted to say something to her. To ask her out, but she was so professional. This was just work for her, and he didn’t want to get in the way of her job. Still, wasn’t it worth a chance to at least get a proper answer instead of wondering “What if?”

“No, no.”

“Um, Youngwoo? Can you help raise this up a bit more?” She reached her brown hand towards the top of the light.

As the taller man helped her, he decided to just go for it, “Hey, um, Y/N. Feel free to say no, but I was um. I was wondering if you would possibly maybe want to go on a sort of kind of date with me?”

“Oh, um, sure. Right there is good.”

Woo tightened the stand, and she began taking pictures again.

“What kind of place were you thinking?” She asked. “Y’know, for our date? Dinner and a movie?”

“I’d like to take you on a picnic. I know it’s sort of cliche, but Han River is really nice and there’s usually some nice busking that goes on there.” He said was her felt his heart beat outside of his chest, “I am leaving the shop to Yieun and a part timer this weekend. We can do it then.”

Y/N smiled up at him as she stood on the other side of the arrangement, “Sounds like a plan, Youngwoo. I shall wear a dress.”

“You can wear anything you want. I’m sure you’ll look great.” The man answered earnestly.

A surprised smile before Yieun called for him. Woo said he’d be right back and went to go talk to his co-worker about what had to be done. It wasn’t much. Just a bit of organizing here and there and sweeping. Simple things that took a while.

“By the way~” She whispered. “Did you ask her out? Niveah said she’s all you talk about.”

“I did.” He replied, playing coy.

“And? Did she say yes?”

A smile broke out on his face, “She did.”

Yieun put her hands up for a high five and asked for details one their hands met in celebration.

The following days, Woo kept sending his friend photos for potential outfits. She kept telling him to ditch the dress shirts because he looked awkward in them. It was just a casual thing, so he went with some gray sneakers, khakis, and a black and white striped top. Because of the pollen forecast, he opted out of contacts and just wore his glasses. The most expensive thing he wore was his gold watch from a birthday.

He had decided on a simple picnic instead of the ferry for dinner. Maybe if things went well, but he didn't wanna look too far ahead. He knew of a spot away from the main busy area where a few weeping willows provided the perfect shade.

“Youngwoo-ssi!” Her familiar voice called.

The man was breathless as could be as Y/N walked towards him, her copper skin covered in a blue and white dress that allowed for her arm to be bare except for a gold and white bracelet. Simple makeup other than a pink matte lip that accented her smile.

They bowed and greeted each other.

“You look...amazing.” He couldn’t help but stared.

“Thank you. You look great, too. I think this is my first time seeing you without an apron on.” She replied.

Woo smiled in response, “Thank you. I have a super special spot for us. A friend told me about it.”

She smiled, “Sounds great.”

“Have you had any other clients lately?” He asked.

“Oh my gosh, so I had this really sweet woman come in yesterday with her pregnant wife so that we can do the pregnancy announcement pictures and stuff. This is fine. I had it set up and such for that because she made an appointment.”

The tall man smiled, “Oh, that is really nice.”

“However, she went into labor in the middle of me taking the photos.”

“She what?”

“Right?

Woo asked, “Did she not know she was going to give birth?”

Y/N shrugged dramatically, “I guess not, but luckily, my next door neighbor is in her last year of training to become a nurse. She helped to deliver the baby in my bathtub.” She laughed. “I spent most of the day cleaning it.”

Both of them laughed at the whole story. That’s what it was like to have an at home studio as a photographer.

“Ah, here it is.”

Behind the leaves of a willow tree, there was a perfect little alcove where a red gingham blanket was spread out and food was separated between the two in the form of sandwiches. Conversation flowed smoothly as the overgrown tree provided shade for the couple that fate decided to put together. They talked about work and of family.

Kim Youngwoo blushed when she complimented him on being a good person, taking in people society had rejected because of a series of bad mistakes.

He told her about how he just wanted to help people like him, how the U.S. basically deported him back to Korea because of--

“I don’t care what you did, Youngwoo.” Y/N said honestly. “You’re obviously not the same person you were back then, or at least you are doing much better. Besides, that isn’t the person I’m starting fall for.”

“Who are you starting to fall for?” Woo asked, hoping his heart was beating for all the right reasons.

She bit her lip and then looked up at him after hesitating to say the truth, “You.”

#Monster Woo #Woo Fam #Kim Youngwoo #Monster Woo x Reader #Reader x Monster Woo #Youngwoo x Reader #Reader x Youngwoo #Florist!AU #Black!Reader #Female!Reader #Photographer!Reader #Instagram #Fluff #cuteness #Peachtober #Inktober '19 #Inktober #Inktober 2019

[elvendara]

Werecat Mc having a a protective older brother and he first meets the werewolf twins and the rfa. They are kinda tence but once they break the ice that learn he can be a big goofball Like seven .

I finished it! I finished it!!!!!! Whew…this was a long one!

I thought this was such a great ask! My MC isAmerican, cause that’s what I know! Don’t judge me!

Werewolf AU

The doorbell rang and MC jumped, “Oh god, he’s here,ok, everyone, remember, he’s a bit intense so, give him a chance ok?”

Jaehee rolled her eyes, “If we can get used toSaeyoung, I’m sure we can get used to your brother.”

“Hey!” Saeyoung objected. Everyone else laughed.

The doorbell rang again.

“Are you going to let him in?” Saeyoung asked,eyebrows raised.

“Yes, right.” MC squared her shoulders and ran to thedoor. She swung it open and there he was. Her brother. He was taller thanSaeyoung with hair a darker brown than MC’s. it was in a buzzcut militarystyle. He wore a Captain America t-shirt and blue jeans with heavy work boots.He carried a duffle bag on his shoulder that he dropped when the door opened and MCwas standing in front of him. He was on leave from the US Air Force and decidedto visit his sister in Korea, he had yet to meet her husband (he was deployedto Afghanistan during the wedding), Saeyoung and his brother Saeran. MC hadbeen a little mysterious in her explanation of their situation and he wanted tomake sure that she was safe. He did not like that she had married someone thathe knew nothing about. He even googled Saeyoung Choi but nothing came up forthe man whose picture MC had sent. That alone was curious. MC explained that inhis line of work, having a social media presence or information online was anegative.

“Marshal!” MC screamed and threw her arms around herbrother who lifted her up and twirled her around. They had not seen each otherin almost three years.

“Come in come in.” she encouraged when he finally sether down. She could not stop grinning, she had missed her brother terribly.

He picked up his duffle and followed her down thehall. It ended in an open area with a large state of the art kitchen on theleft, a kitchen table in the center and a huge livingroom on his right. He wastrying to take it all in. MC had told him her husband was relatively well off,but he had not expected this. It was not ostentatious but he could tell it wasnot cheap either, everything was top of the line and there were several gadgetsand electronics around the room.

Several people were standing on the other side of thesofa in the living room and he was a little overwhelmed by them all.

“Here, let me take that.” A red-head grabbed hisduffel and he let him. “I’ll go put this in your room. Marshal was struck bythe color of his eyes, he had never seen that particular shade of green before.This must be Saeran, the twin, Saeyoung’s eyes were amber if he rememberedcorrectly. That was odd, weren’t they identical?

“This is Saeran.” MC introduced them. They shook handsbriefly and the man mumbled something and took off down the hall.

“Hi!” Piped up a short little blonde. His eyes werelarge and round, the color a mesmerizing purple.

“You must be Yoosung.” He said, remembering his sister’sdescription.

“Yes!” he was so excited that Marshal had known hisname.

“I hope you had no trouble finding your way to thehouse.” A tall man in a suit asked, that must be Jumin, the really rich guy. Marshalnarrowed his eyes and stared at the man, letting him know that he was not oneto be intimidated by fancy suits or fancy words.

“None, I assume the driver that picked me up was yours?”he asked.

“Yes, I had driver Kim escort you here. He is myfinest driver.” Jumin answered, feeling a bit unnerved by the intensity of theman’s gaze.

“I appreciate your kindness; the ride was very smoothand uneventful.”

“I wish you would have let us pick you up!” MC scoldedhim. Marshal smiled at her and took her hand in his.

“Don’t be silly, there was no need for you to drive sofar.”

Saeyoung walked around the sofa and held out his hand,“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” He sounded so formal, unlike himself.

Marshal glared at Saeyoung for a few heartbeats andSaeyougn thought he was not going to shake his hand. Marshal glanced at thehand and back at Saeyoung, finally, he grasped the hand and shook. His grip wasfirm, he noted with appreciation that Saeyoung’s hands were rough andcalloused, as if he worked with them a great deal. That was good. His sisterdeserved a man who knew how to work with his hands.

“You too, you too. I was surprised when MC said shewas getting married. I thougt she was too young for that.” He looked pointedlyat Saeyoung.

“Oh, uh…” Saeyoung rubbed the back of his neck and wasthankful when Saeran came back in to break the tension.

“I can show you your room when you are ready.” Saerantold Marshal. Marshal nodded in thanks. Yoosung skipped over to the green-eyedtwin and wrapped his arms around him. Oh, so it was like that,  he guessed theylooked kind of good together.

MC grabbed his hand and pulled him around to meet theother two, one woman and the other had to be one of the best-looking menMarshal had ever seen. MC had told him about Zen, but he assumed she had been exaggerating.

“This is Jaehee.” They shook hands, he was veryrespectful towards the woman, not glaring at all.

“And this is Zen.” Zen was the same height as him sothey looked eye to eye. They shook hands and tried to out squeeze each other. Theman was surprisingly strong, he must have muscles under that coat of his. Finally,they nodded at each other, reaching a mutual understanding without saying aword.

“Oh Kay…” MC looked from Marshal to Zen and backagain. “I guess a thing just happened. Anyway, you probably already guessed thatthis is Jumin.”

“Yeah, Mr Trust Fund Kid right?” he grinned tightly.Zen guffawed behind him.

“I prefer Jumin.” He eyed Zen then held out his handto Marshal. They shook and Marshal had to admit, the man had balls, he didn’ttear his eyes away, he held his own. He guessed his sister was in good hands.

He turned to her husband who still stood behind thesofa, feet shuffling. He looked nervous. Good.

“So, what do you do Saeyoung? MC was pretty vagueabout it.” he asked and sat on the arm of a chair. The others took that as a cueto sit as well. Saeyoung came around and sat on the sofa close to Marshal.

“I work for an organization that prefers I keep a lowprofile.”

“Why?” he asked pointedly.

“Well. I guess I can’t really tell you. I’m sorry.”

“I see. Does MC know?”

“Of course! I don’t keep secrets from her. Look, I knowyou want her to be safe and happy. I can tell you that she is, trust me.”

“How can I trust you? I don’t even know you. I’m notsure that you know my sister either.”

“Oh, he knows me Marshal, he knows everything.” She staredat him from where she sat next to Saeyoung, hugging his arm close to her.

“Everything?”

“Everything!” she answered quickly.

Marshal glanced around the room, no one seemedsurprised by his line of questioning. He looked at his sister again.

“Yes, they know too.”

“And nobody freaked out?”

“Of course we freaked out!” Zen said, “but MC being awerecat was the least of the things to freak out about.”

“What does that mean?” Marshal leaned forward. Elbowson knees.

“Um, well, Marshal, there is something about Saeryoungand Saeran that is different. Like us. But you can’t tell mom and dad ok? I don’twant them freaking out and trying to ‘rescue’ me. You know how closed mindedthey are.” MC began.

Marshal took another look at the twins. They were likethem?

“Cats?” he asked.

“No, something…else…” she said carefully.

“What?” he was impatient.

Saeyoung stood and took his glasses off, handing themto MC. “It might be better if I show you.” Marshal could feel the tension inthe room intensify. Jumin, Zen, and Jaehee stiffened but the others wererelaxed. Whatever was about to happen, he figured Yoosung and MC had witnessedit enough times for it not to elicit a reaction. The others must be new to it.

Saeyoung pulled off his shirt and began to undo hispants, whatever was going to happen, apparently, he was not going to becomesomething small.

Fur began to spring form his body, this was somethingMarshal was already familiar with. His hands elongated, his finger thickeninghis palms turning into giant paws. Marshal stood, his heart racing, a strongfight or flight reaction trying to take control of his body. MC stood next tohim and held his arm to steady him.

“It’s alright, just wait.”

Saeyoung was on all fours now, his face stretchinginto a snout and Marshal was sure he heard bones breaking. The transformationwas nothing like his and MC’s, it looked and sounded painful.

When he was done, there was a large wolf standingbefore him with shaggy reddish brown fur. He threw his head back and howledloudly. It made the hair on Marshal’s entire body stand on end! Saeran threw hishead back and howled as well. Yoosung piped in and tried to sound as fullthroated as his boyfriend but failed miserably. Saeran laughed and pulled theblonde against him to kiss his neck.

“Nice try babe.” Yoosung blushed but was also smiling.

Saeyoung turned away and padded to the bedroom tochange and get dressed.

“Werewolves?” Marshal asked. “You married a werewolf?”he was somewhat shaken by the news.

“I’m afraid so. It’s been wonderful though! You shouldgo on a run with us while you’re here! I’m sure everyone would love to see yourcat form! Well, everyone except for Zen, he’s allergic.” He glanced at the manbriefly, he was trying to process what had just happened. Saeyoung walked backin with a different pair of pants and grabbed the shirt he had taken off andput it back on.

“I…hope I didn’t scare you.” Saeyoung said sincerely.

“Huh? Scared?” Marshal’s face suddenly lit up with agiant grin. “That was fucking awesome dude! I mean, you got HUGE!” he clappedSaeyoung on the back, his eyes wide with excitement. “I fucking love wolves! Ican’t believe this! We should definitely go for a run while I’m here! You too brother-in-law’sbrother!”

They all had a goodlaugh and the pack welcomed in a new member.

Werewolf AU

#my posts #werewolf choi twins #werecat mc #saeyoung #saeran #yoosung #jumin #jaehee #zen #mc #mc brother marshal #long one #sorry #just kept going and going #couldn't stop #i have a problem #i actually kinda love mc's made up brother! #Anonymous