#i might have a type but i cant pinpoint what it exactly is other than Broody Meaniepants Man who might secretly be nice

[poryqons-art]

me vs the men i want romantically whos winning the swag-off

credit to @/0nougat for the colored render of mattie that they made from this concept art here i cant believe i nearly forgot!!!!!!!!!!!

[normal-thoughts-official]

you talk a lot about magnus and camille dynamic and how they started and all that great meta content that you know i love but here's a question that idk if you ever got: how long do you think they were together? bc i can't think of a specific timeline and personally i love the one you talked abt at some point how she was pretty much right after asmododo or something like that, so he went from one type of abuse into another... but how long was he there? was camille with him for 20 years? 80? 130? any theories?

ugh that's a complicated one because i don't really have an answer for that and i think about it often as well

altho i think you got confused about her being right after asmodeus, i definitely don't think she was. i mentioned it my post about the timeline to say that magnus COULDN'T have been born close to the 1800s because that would make it asmodeus and camille way too close and that can't be the case because it would imply camille is basically the only person he dated before alec doajsdoaj and we know that's not true cuz there's also other ppl like george and etc. it was more a point in favor of "early to mid 1600s" for his birth date

anyway! let's go through this. i mentioned in another post that i think he got together with camille right after george, and that i think george died around the middle of the US civil war, which lasted from 1861 to 1865. so let's say they got together around 1863. now, we have a few pieces of information:

magnus mentioned that he hadn't been with anyone for "almost a century" when talking to alec. i know i think magnus is time blind but he can't be TOO off here. that was in 2016 so that would make their breakup date be a little after 1916 if magnus remembers correctly

literally the only thing about the timeline in that time period that i can remember is that one picture there was in his file of magnus surrounded by girls at a party, which looked to be in the 20s to me. since camille was an abusive asshole probably sabotaging his every chance to meet people, that couldn't have been when they were together. so i'd say 1920 is like, the limit for when they could have broken up. it's up to you whether or not you think magnus would be jumping into his party animal role immediately after the breakup or if it would take some time for him to heal; personally i think both make sense (i think she made a huge number on him so it would make sense for him to take a while to get back to that kind of thing; on the other hand, a lot of people turn straight to being party animals after breaking up abusive relationships, especially because for so long abusers have kept them from doing anything fun. so both work imo) so it's up to you

conclusion: they broke up in 1920 at the latest, so the max you could go for is 80 years, if you go with a timeline where camille was right after george (george can't be after camille because magnus has had no relationships after camille, but there could have been a bigger gap between george and camille than i personally hc). it could still be less tho, because we literally have NO information whatsoever on what happened between 1861 and 1920. even if you go with "they broke up and magnus immediately went full party animal" (which is perfectly valid), it's also entirely possible that this happened in say, 1901 and that pic just happened to be from the 20s, years later. but i also don't think it could have been a lot earlier than 1901 because magnus said almost a century, implying less than a century between the year they broke up and 2016. and while i do think that any immortal would lose track of time after a while and mingle years and decades together, nevermind adhd time blind icon magnus bane, if they had broken up in, say, 1880, magnus would remember that over a century has passed, if anything because so much has changed since then. so i think for him to say that the breakup should have happened in the 20th century at least

so that's the analysis from what we've seen in the show. personal opinion! i think 80 years makes sense, but is a bit much. it makes sense because there does seem to be a pretty obvious gap in magnus' file from the 1860s to the 1920s and then it goes back to having many pictures of him, and that "disappearance" makes sense in the context of him being in an abusive relationship (which limits your interactions and going outs by a lot). it does seem to be a bit much because magnus is at max 400, so, if they had been together 80 years, that would have been 20% of magnus' life spent with camille. or 1/5. added with all the time with asmodeus, it seems to be... a bit much dioadsoaijd and like look i'm not judging, i know abusive relationships can last many years and decades even for mortals, nevermind immortals, but i just don't like the idea of it lasting this long personally, especially because i think it makes him getting with alec seem actually a bit soon considering how long the abusive relationship lasted, and that's ignoring asmodeus' abuse on top of it

so personally, i like it morenif its around 40-50 years. i think it makes sense. it would mean the breakup was sometime around the 1910s, and while, okay, there is a gap in his file that seems to only end in the 20s, we must not forget an important fact: shadowhunters are stupid. so i actually think it makes sense that like, magnus emerges from his abusive relationship and is still getting back on his feet, and shadowhunters just don't care. like who is that guy? oh some warlock, no one's heard of him since like the 1860s lol. whatever happened to him? who cares. anyway, we love racism

and then around a decade later it turns out that magnus is healing enough to be a pain in their ass; say, that is when he becomes HWoB, or simply that they are reminded of how powerful magnus actually is once he is back in activity, and so they go back to like, investigating him and updating his file. so the file gap could be explained in that case. it also actually makes more sense that it would take shadowhunters a while to pay attention to him again, and since magnus was healing from an abusive relationship, the time it would take for him to draw their attention might well be around a decade

and with 40-50 years of an abusive relationship that would mean magnus has spent 10-12% of his life with camille; which is a LOT of time (for comparison: my first abusive relationship lasted a little over a year and i was 16 at the time; that makes it have lasted around 6% of my life at the time, and it did a HUGE number on me, taking me almost 3 years to have a relationship again), but not quite as much as a full 20%. not just that, but him taking "almost a century" (it would actually make it be a little over a century in this timeline, but again, magnus is immortal and time blind, so give him a break) to get with anyone again makes sense. that would be around double the time he's spent with her before he heals enough to be with someone else. that tracks, because abuse fucks you up fast and unfuckening yourself up takes longer. magnus isn't even fully unfucked up (which is okay, he doesn't have to be), but for him to be ready to take such huge steps as he is taking with alec, i think around double the time he's spent with her spent on healing makes sense

(again, i'm mostly going off my own experiences here; my abusive relationship lasted almost a year and a half, my next relationship was almost three years after the breakup. so almost perfectly double the time before i was ready to have another relationship. and again, i know recovery isn't the same for everyone and a lot of factors go into this, but i just think a timeline where he's been with her for 80 years and then gets with alec less than 100 afterwards is a bit too fast)

i still think 40 years is kind of a very long time to be in an abusive relationship and like holy shit i cant even imagine, but also i mean, mortals have abusive relationships that last that long and to an immortal itd feel like less time, and it does seem to be what best fits the timeline, so

and yeah i think those are my thoughts dadsajdsa

LAST MINUTE EDIT BEFORE THIS IS PUBLISHED CUZ IM NOT REDOING THE WHOLE THING: i got an anon today saying that magnus said something about not having seen camille in 130 years (link) which i didnt/dont really remember but i trust that theyre right and im wrong because i dont remember a lot of shit from this show. 130 years before 2016 would be 1886, meaning that if they broke up at that time and got together right after george's death as i personally hc, that's a 20-year relationship. that sounds like it fits the timeline as much as any other to me, and like i said in that ask, i think it makes sense that magnus would play it down to alec by saying "almost a century" instead of how long it's really been cuz it's a bit too vulnerable, and plus, we know one of the ways he protects himself is by not letting people pinpoint exactly some important dates from his past, particularly his birthday and etc

and okay i know that 20 years together, then 130 years recovering is a huge difference, but also i think with twenty years together as opposed to my comparatively short abusive relationship the scars of abuse would deepen a lot and quicker, so maybe it makes sense that it would take a longer time to feel confident enough to get to dating again. plus, like i said, there's no real math to be had in that process, everyone is different, has their own history and recovery process and etc so it's not like there is a deadline. so actually scratch everything i said above im going with this timeline. the one thing that doesn't track with that is the gap in his file but also like i said shadowhunters are stupid, so. yeah 20 years together is probably closer to it

in the end its kind of a relief cuz i was like "holy shit 40 years is so LONG" so... yeah udndidn

[eternalstrigoii]

Fledgling

Borra (Maleficent: Mistress of Evil) x Gender Unspecified Dark Fae (Forest) Reader

** Sequel to Warbirds **

It had been a long time since you felt like this.

If you were being facetious, as the fey tended to, you would tell the tale of how you could pinpoint the exact last time you had felt so free – when you were little older than many of the children who flew with Maleficent now. You had raced, barefoot and dirty-kneed, through the earthen level of your forest home. You had known how to fly by then, and you had longed to know what it was like for your steps to remain earthbound. How attentive you’d been, your feet flying over the mossy steppes, how easily you’d leapt over the mushroom-shelved logs! Your steps had made no sound on earth so soft, and you had reveled in it. You frightened what few animals lived among you. You heard the music of your parents’ revel and rather than join them, you ran until you had a stitch in your side that throbbed for the rest of the night.

It was one of the few instances you could recall where no one else played a part in your flights of fancy. One of the few times, particularly before you grew older, where being alone had been as safe as being among your own.

Of course, anxiety pricked at your chest, then, and your mate closed his wings around your line of vision as he ensnared you. “You’re dancing with me,” he murmured in your ear.

“Am I?” you teased. “And who will be to blame when I step all over your feet?”

Borra’s face was inches from yours, much too far a distance after what you’d been through. He let you turn to face him before kissing you himself, and you pulled him closer by the back of his neck, soaking in the warmth that he radiated.

He swept you up before you had the opportunity for further protest. Dancing was so much like sparring that you never should’ve underestimated yourself. Borra certainly didn’t.

He grinned as he caught your hand, his steps in time with yours though it had been an age since either of you danced this dance – another time, another place, what felt like ages and lifetimes before.

You knew the children were watching, mesmerized by how easily the both of you folded your wings to avoid the other, how rhythmically your feet hit the ground.

Creeping violets spread at your touch, their black-flecked mouths agape. White magnolias wound around the bodies of the healthy trees, flowers blooming moments after their vines took hold.

Your heart was in your throat. You were so happy you felt as though it might just explode out of you.

The children squealed and screamed, jumping onto their logs excitedly as a blanket of violets overspread the ground.

Perhaps it had.

He laughed, and caught you around the waist, pulling you skyward. Your wings beat in time with his, his hold on you slipping to your fingers before returning to your waist. You ascended together in a loop, the wind in your canted wings.

“Borra,” your hands rested on his strong arms, “It’s time.”

The gemstone green of his eyes never left yours. He nodded once, and his breathless grin joined with yours in a kiss high above the moors.

 You landed in a place where you saw no other creatures. For the first time in so long, Borra shed his armor. He did not let you undress yourself; he had waited so long to have you that he intended to savor it.

And he did. You honeyed together well into the late morning. When you finally slept, secure in the cover of his wings, the mossy knoll you’d settled on was alive in brilliant shades of wildflowers that had not existed the night before.

 “Doin’ alright, then?” Diaval asked, and you thought it was in passing. You were watching Borra fly with the children, teaching them to coast on the currents as their parents did. It was as necessary a skill for survival as the flight itself, lest traveling take too much energy.

You nodded, but the lingering raven gave you pause.

He lifted his brow, nodding to your hands. How they had instinctively folded over your stomach.

“Yes,” you replied. Diaval was not supposed to be the first to know, but you’d rather him than someone else – someone who’d tell your mate before you had the chance. “We’re doing more than alright.”

“Y’know you can tell us, if you ever…?”

You didn’t know him well enough to be outwardly fond, but these weren’t exactly ordinary circumstances. You squeezed his hand amicably. “Thank you.”

He gave you a gentle half-smile, and you knew he’d tell Maleficent.

That was fine with you. Her blessing would be the opposite of a problem.

 Borra paused.

Perhaps you should have waited, but you made quite the elaborate effort to get him to dine alone. No sooner had he settled than your admission was tacked on like an afterthought, and when he looked up at you…well, he looked at you just like he had when he brought you to Maleficent’s castle. Or, rather, when you’d detoured him there.

“Already?”

You nodded. It was so hard for you to contain your smile; after a moment, laughter just bubbled out.

“A baby,” he repeated. “You and I?”

“Well, I certainly haven’t stolen one!”

He joined you on your feet and swept you into his arms. You threw your arms around him in delight, your wings flapping so hard you nearly knocked your cups over.

You pretended not to notice that he kept you flush against him as he clutched you, your stomach pressed safely against his. Your wing had all but fully healed, and you could return to the great nest to retrieve what you needed, if you wanted to, or to relocate for your fledgling’s birth.

“Is it too soon?” you murmured into his shoulder.

“No,” he replied immediately. “No…I’ve never been happier.”

“You don’t sound it.” Normally, the idea of confrontation didn’t faze you, but this was different – he wanted to become your nest-mate.

His hands ran up your back, palms large enough to nearly cover all of your skin as they swept over you. “When you sleep, I touch the scar they left on your shoulder.” He touched it then; it ran from the flesh of your arm across much of your upper back. You were very lucky it hadn’t been a few inches higher. “I think of how easily you could’ve been stolen from me.”

You kissed him, not that you needed to remind him you hadn’t been.

“I am happy. I swear that I have never been happier.” He took both of your hands in his, his thumbs sweeping across your well-calloused knuckles. “I also swear to you that no harm will ever come to you or our child. No mortal, no fey, no force of nature may act against you. Not without my retribution.”

“I know.” You cupped his cheek and gently bunted your horns against his. “If you’re worried, we can always return to the great nest. Stay there until they’re strong enough to evade capture.”

“Is that what you want?”

You stroked his jaw. You were both scarred by the war you’d lobbied for; there was a part of you that did want to return to the great nest so your fledgling could be safely born in the same woods where you had been. His desert would have been even greater protection.

“I think,” you were deliberate with your words, “we are safer with Maleficent.”

It was the one phrase he could not argue. Your people had been massacred without her, and as much as you’d hoped you would be able to change the tides of war on your own, she was far too powerful to be discounted. Even the great nest seemed vulnerable in comparison.

“Tell me if you change your mind.” He kissed your forehead, then drew your body flush with his.

You nodded, but your wings folded to allow him to cover you with his as he had with increasing frequency since your time on the battlefield. You knew that it was soon, that you both needed to heal from the loss and the trauma you’d experienced, and you didn’t want him to feel like he had to protect you. You were a warrior in your own right; his partner, not his bride.

But you loved him, and you’d never oppose the safety of his arms.

 The moors threw you a grand celebration.

You were not the celebratory type, not in the way they were used to. You preferred to stay in your nest, tucked away in a small pocket of the moors, far from the reaches of any human kingdom. Your people rarely made permanent structures, and yet you and Borra made this one yourselves – he rent the earth for its formation, and you cloaked it with camouflage to keep it hidden from prying eyes. On the cliff face, your nests had never required doors, but on the openness of the moors, you and your mate sheltered yours well.

But a celebration was necessary. He was the voice of his people, and yours was to be the first child born outside the great nest in generations. There were lives to be honored, particularly the both of yours.

So you let them.

The Folk of the Air, the colorful little dragonfly-types with bodies hardly bigger than drops of summer rain, wove crowns from your violets and his magnolia blossoms for the other to wear. They even fit them neatly over your horns, apparently well used to that measure of adjustment.

The Folk of the Earth, from the little toadstool people to the anthropomorphic porcupines, brought you woven mats of colorful straw stuffed with down, and the softest spider-silk in which to cloak them. The men of the trees even gave you a cradle made of curled and living branches.

You and your mate exchanged bemused glances from time to time. Neither of you had the heart to tell them that you didn’t plan to put them down until they were ready to walk.

It was as though the residents of the moors were aware there was little need to offer you anything that was not purely a gesture of welcome, though they had many things in common with humans that you found odd (the duo-and-pot of Aurora’s other godmothers gave the both of you wooden cutlery and plates, which you were both gracious enough not to comment on). There was little that they hadn’t thought of – offers to be your sentry, to be your fledgling’s playmate, to assure you that your fledgling would never find trouble (though you knew no fledgling of yours would be so lucky).

The procession was allowed to end with Maleficent.

As she was the queen of the land you now called home, you both stood to give her the respect she deserved. Diaval inclined his head to you, and you to him in return; you may have been a warrior in equal to your mate, but you were no one’s leader, just as Maleficent’s raven was hers and hers alone.

“My sincere congratulations to you both.”

“Thank you,” you murmured, inclining your head.

“I admit, I’ve considered my gift for some time. You are both fierce warriors, strong and capable in your own rights. You’ve led successful campaigns,” she gestured to Borra, “and protected my people.” To you. “In many ways…a blessing would be more of an insult than a gift.”

Her people were afraid, but you were not. Maleficent was as cunning as she was powerful; she understood the power of her words and what they meant to others of her own kind.

She leaned between you and your mate, and whispered so only you could hear.

 You spent much of your pregnancy in Borra’s arms.

Whenever you protested that you shouldn’t be stealing him away, he’d lean in and murmur to you, “If they need me, they will come.”

Your belly grew steadily, and your fledgling was quick to respond to the warmth of their father’s touch.

They came when they were least expected, in the dead of night during a storm. You sent the will o’ the wisps for Udo of the Tundra, who was to be your midwife, and then your husband sent for Maleficent.

Pain was natural. It was to be expected. But you clung to Borra, your wings broad across his arms, and you keened as though your ancestors ensured you would birth an egg unopened.

Maleficent reached you first.

Your breath came in heaves, pain in your chest for the first time in what felt like ages – damage from the iron powder to your lungs, you were certain.

For what you’d done for her, she owed no debt.

But, like the sister you no longer had, she held your hand while you struggled – while your mate kneaded your back with his knuckles to keep your breath even.

Your fledgling came when the storm was at its height.

You fought to breathe while your child cried, the darkness and the thunder offering little comfort to a creature newly born. Diaval bundled him in blankets and passed him into the crook of Borra’s arm. “A son.”

You were exhausted, your hair damp with sweat as you lay against his shoulder. You thumbed the bumps where his horns were soon to emerge, trailed your fingertips along his cheek.

“Breathe.” Borra moved closer to you, elevating your body against his chest.

You looked to Maleficent, and her grasp on you tightened. You did not know the extent of her power, nor did you think you ever would, but, eventually, Udo was able to reach you. Your breathing softened gradually, and you rested well before you were ready.

 “Your rest is what saved you.” Udo returned several times over the course of the next several days, to ensure you and your fledgling remained safe. Part of you wondered if Borra insisted; he hadn’t traveled more than a few feet away from you since.

“It was Maleficent,” you replied. “I don’t know how, but she protected us.”

Udo glanced to Borra, as though you did not know the stories of the power she was said to hold. Your mate, to his credit, had eyes only for you.

“You should continue resting. Give yourself another few days before you try any undertaking.”

You nodded, though you felt fine.

“And if it happens again?” Borra asked without looking away. You hated that he’d felt powerless in the face of the one obstacle he had not thought to name.

“Send for me,” Udo replied, patient as ever.

“I will be fine,” you insisted, gently bunting horns with your mate. “I swear it.”

He flexed his jaw, but moved closer. You had not fully touched your bed in days, wrapped in the down of his wings. You weren’t entirely opposed, but sometimes it distressed you.

“If you keep worrying so intensely, it will do nothing but cause me to worry for you.” You brushed your fingers along his clenched jaw until he released it, and the tension in his shoulders with a long, slow breath.

“I will be fine, Borra,” you whispered. “I will never leave you. Above all else, don’t you remember?”

“Above all else,” he repeated.

Though you thought you ought to amend that for your fledgling, it wasn’t as though he neglected to hold you both as close to him as your bodies would allow.

“It was Maleficent,” you whispered, firmly. “Please, believe me.”

“Do you remember when I told her it was time she took care of one of her own?” He held your eyes without an ounce of doubt. “She honored that.”

“Now we’re even,” you whispered.

He nodded.

Your hand rested over one of your fledgling’s, and his closed over yours. He gave your horns another gentle bunt, and let out a sigh that you finally believed to be relief.

[alyssastarlight]

Title: Sweet Like Candy to My Soul Author: Nikayla For: @gaycrouton, the Valentine’s Fic Exchange on Twitter Pairing: Mulder/Scully, MSR Set During: Season 4 cancer arc, though there’s very little acknowledgment of it Word Count: 4,900 Rating: M/NC-17

She swallows thickly and he can hear the faint smack of her lips when they part to take another breath. Suddenly he’s fascinated by those lips. Wholly immersed in their plumpness; the flush of their coloring, the shine left behind when she nervously licks along her top lip. Even more suddenly he’s consumed by a need to touch those lips, his hand reaching her face before he’s entirely realized the whim — fingers skimming along her jawline as his thumb whispers underneath the protrusion of her full bottom lip. Her mouth closes on an ‘M’ that doesn’t end up forming anything more.

A/N: I’m horrible at following prompts but I hope this will fulfill your v-day wishes regardless. The concept came to me in that place between awake and sleep and developed itself pretty much against my will and I hope that you and everyone else will like it. Happy Valentine’s Day! ATTHS!

FF.NET | AO3

What a way to spend Valentine’s Day. Not that it really amounted to anything that different from how he normally spent it, with no girlfriend to speak of. But being caught in a blizzard at the tail end of a lackluster case, forced to stay holed up in a motel room when stepping foot outside ran the risk of coming back with icicles for eyelashes was still fairly low on his list of fantasy holidays. Were it not for the redhead whose room his adjoined to, he might have actually gone completely stir-crazy here, in a town he’d never have chosen to visit otherwise. But about said redhead.

On Hour 5 of their forced confinement there was a small rap at the door separating their rooms, the ravishing creature responsible inviting him in to hers to go over the field report she’d been typing away at. It was a welcome reprieve from flipping through the three different channels he’d managed to pull in, each one not much more than a snowy reflection of the blustering weather just outside.

Entering her room he was greeted by a handful of new sensations. The room was warm; probably no more than his but it had a sort of inviting air to it that his stale quarters lacked. Though that may have had more to do with the room’s inhabitant than whatever temperature she’d set her thermostat to. Second, the room smelled infinitely better. Again, something easily attributed more to his partner herself, as there were no candles, incense or the like around to have accounted for it otherwise. And then — there she was.

Casual Scully wasn’t something he got to experience very often. Even in a presumably casual setting she was still often found in a tailored jacket at the very least, if not a full-blown FBI regulation suit. Doing a very unregulated job of hugging her in ways he shouldn’t let himself take note of, but was guilty of nonetheless. But here in Nowhere, North Dakota, stuck in a crappy motel, Casual Scully had made her way out since he’d last spoken to her.

Wearing leggings and an old chopped up t-shirt, with her hair half clipped out of her face; a few wayward pieces breaking free to dance at her cheekbones, though he could hardly fault them for that. It was an indiscretion he himself had been guilty of; breaking away from propriety at times, indulging himself in sweeping the backs of his fingers along her cheek, hidden beneath a guise of either comfort or kindness — brushing a strand of hair from her face before she’s even noticed it had fallen out of line. Casual Scully made it more difficult than usual to resist staring, his gaze lingering in all kinds of ways inappropriate for interoffice partnerships. It was this fact that led him to notice her ten little red painted toes — the only sign he could see of her acknowledging the occasion.

As he surveyed the rest of the room he noted the mat set out just beyond the foot of the bed. She’d taken up yoga a number of weeks before — she’d told him as much, but this was his first actual glimpse into her new ritual. “I was just about to do some stretches,” she mentions offhandedly, before doing a much less off-handed job of whipping her t-shirt over her head, revealing a sports bra to match her workout bottoms. “Be my guest,” his voice does a terrible job at parroting her tone, sounding deeper and fuller than intended; though thankfully, she doesn’t seem to notice.

Retiring to the relative safety of the table in the corner of the room, her report left open on her laptop’s screen for him, he once again took the opportunity to spend more time watching her than paying attention to the work in front of him. He looked on with a kind of silent fascination — watching her small but strong form leading itself from one stretch into the next; muscle molding beneath skin. The vision she presented proved far more enticing than words on a screen, and he indulged himself deeper into this welcome distraction.

“Mulder?” Her voice rings out, and he’s certain he’s caught; that the old pretending to read a file gag has failed him. As fate would have it, he’s safe, with her gaze still angled away from him while his has lingered both inconspicuous and yet carelessly — he’s read maybe 12 words of this file and none have been subsequent. “Can you tell me if my back is straight?” She sounds forthright yet idyllic; an odd combination given the situation, but he’s not one to question it.

“Pretty close.” He answers quick, too quick — too obvious that he hadn’t just looked up when she spoke but had been following closely along as she moved from stretch to stretch. He has no idea their names but he can recall in perfect clarity exactly how she looked in each of them.

“Can you adjust me?”

A lump threatens to overtake his throat at her request, strangling his voice before he can cover it with a cough. “Shr—uhum—Sure Scully.” Moving to join her, kneeling just beside her prone form, he’s all at once taken aback by just how small she is. Tough as nails, his Scully, and yet no bigger than a sixth grader. Her size betrays her strength, he knows. He’s witnessed it. He could even say he’s witnessing it now, as she holds herself in a plank position, muscles taut and straining but strong; powerful. He knows she could knock him out if she ever wanted to. Hell, sometimes he wishes she actually would.

“Am I close?” Once again she pulls him back from whatever internal fantasy he can’t seem to let go of; her voice holding a focused innocence his can scarcely claim.

“You tell me.” Having overcome the lump, he sounds more wanton than anticipated. “Sorry...bad joke.” Deciding it would be best to move things along quickly before she can have a reaction, he finally takes in her position from a — fleetingly — objective mind. The next stretch requires a straight back, he tells himself clinically; easy enough. A warm hand lands against her and he marvels momentarily at this new perspective. He’s touched her here almost every day and yet seeing it — seeing the way his hand almost spans her right the way across, how fair and soft she is beneath her suits, the faint smattering of freckles that decorate the area... He doesn’t realize just how long he’s fallen silent; staring, cataloging, until her voice shakes him back to reality once more. “Mulder?”

“Sorry,” he mutters absentmindedly, and moves on to the task at hand.

He’s gentle with her — not that he needs to be; but the compulsion is there all the same. He’s delicate as he maneuvers each area, setting her shoulders just so, pressing softly against her mid-back to correct the slightly convex curvature there. Reaching her lower back again he is struck just as he’d been the first time, summarily distracted from his task of righting her spine’s position; lost within the creamy expanse of Scully skin. He feels more than hears her intake of breath when his fingertips gently wander down her vertebrae, re-misaligning her upper back, requiring he correct it once again.

“Sorry.” She mimics him from before, and her voice holds a quality he somehow can’t quite pinpoint; a borderline somewhere between distraction and...something else. Continuing where he left off, he passes over her lower back, memorizing the curve without the hindrance of fabric to interrupt his mapping of her. Her spine is slightly bowed here, dipped inward from the posture she’s trying to achieve; and he realizes the only way to actually right this is to reach beneath her, palming her stomach to ease her into alignment. He leaves one hand behind to provide a counterbalance, the other bracing itself just over her navel, feeling the rigidity in her abdominal muscles as he finishes repositioning her.

“Looks good to me.” There’s no way to disguise the way his voice has lowered since he last spoke; an all too obvious indication of what touching her could do to a man. He can’t help noting how she looks to be fairing no better, with a slight tremor visible in her stance as she attempts to control her breath. “Thank you.” Her voice shakes just as perceptibly as she is; slight, but it’s there. She holds the stretch for a thirty count, and he’s made no move to leave her side even when she’s finished. She drops a knee to the mat and lets out a languished breath, then turns to sit facing him. Neither has said a word for the last minute or more, and electric molecules buzz in the air like the flurries just outside her window.

She swallows thickly and he can hear the faint smack of her lips when they part to take another breath. Suddenly he’s fascinated by those lips. Wholly immersed in their plumpness; the flush of their coloring, the shine left behind when she nervously licks along her top lip. Even more suddenly he’s consumed by a need to touch those lips, his hand reaching her face before he’s entirely realized the whim — fingers skimming along her jawline as his thumb whispers underneath the protrusion of her full bottom lip. Her mouth closes on an ‘M’ that doesn’t end up forming anything more.

Her eyes are deadly focused on his, though his own have taken up a residence alongside his thumb for the time being. He watches diligently at the way her lip gives under the insistent pressing of his thumb; her breath a hot little cloud moistening the digit along with her lips. Growing braver or perhaps just more foolish, he moves up, to fully experience the satiny impact of her lip head on — feeling her breath shake all the while she allows him this great indulgence. And indulge he does.

“What made you take up yoga?” He asks as though he isn’t currently tracing his partner’s uniquely perfect pout. But a very unpartner-like behavior only breeds more unpartner-like conduct. She swallows again, the action parting her lips once more; though his thumb has still yet to leave their pillowy expanse, simply moving back to outlining the brim of her lower lip once more. His fingers have taken up a more serious attachment to her jawline, and he makes no indication of removing them to make this any easier on her. He can see the mix of shock dancing in her eyes — shock at what he’s doing, perhaps even shock at herself for so freely allowing what he’s doing, and shock that he’s chosen this moment to ask about her exercise habits.

She swallows again and he can feel the sensation just below his fingertips where they graze against her throat. Her lips look as though she’s going to question him. ‘Mulder what are you doing?’, ‘Mulder why are you touching me like this?’, ‘Mulder why haven’t I stopped you?’. He silently prepares himself for — he wouldn’t call it rejection, but it will certainly end up feeling that way. He’s in this just as she is; shock mixing around his mind, at his own audacity, brazenness, at her lack of rebuff until now. But she surprises him yet again — her voice coming out with what looks like a great effort to remain unaffected, but ending up sounding altogether very, very affected.

“It was suggested to me...” His Scully is stronger than any man or woman he’s ever known. Her fortitude astounds him almost daily, but no more than it does in this moment. Perhaps later he’ll tell himself it was that fortitude that spurred him on — a voiceless challenge to rattle those fortifications, push past those braces before she shores herself up impenetrably. Yes that must be the reason he finds himself tugging her closer, his hand having moved to the back of her neck before he fully realizes it; but how can anyone expect anything of him when he’s just felt the first brush of contact of her lips and his? She draws in a quick gasp of breath at the connection, which he’s almost certain amounted to little more than drawing in his exhale; CO2 invading her lungs as his tongue makes its first bid at invading her mouth.

All at once she lets him, even meets him halfway; her tongue colliding with the wet intrusion of his — a first kiss to end all others. It’s slow and soft, yet achingly erotic. This suddenly sensual creature before him never fails to surprise him. Thinking back he could argue that she’s always been sensual — wholly feminine, more beautiful than he’d allow himself to acknowledge — never wanting to reduce her to a mere sensual being, when she was that and so, so so much more; most especially to him. But the kiss — the kiss cements her in his mind as an utterly beautiful, utterly sensual woman. He’ll be hard-pressed to extract her in any other state now, with the way her hands have suddenly clutched into his t-shirt, leveraging herself closer to him; he’ll be hard-pressed indeed.

“Mulder...” his name finally makes it out, but not like he expected. It isn’t ‘Mulder what are you doing?’ it’s ‘Mulder keep doing what you’re doing or I’ll shoot you again.’ Okay maybe not exactly that, but his mind has a mind of its own now and it’s decidedly run away with him. Taken whatever it was that held him back from her for this long and blown it sky high. His hands reach for her waist and pull her in a swift, clean motion; her slight weight flying across the short distance between them until she’s in his lap, knees pressed in to the carpet and lips at a much better angle for him to kiss. She draws in another quick breath at the relocation, but seems just as appreciative to be closer now than just in arm’s reach. Her hands are in his hair and she’s flush against his chest, and she’s just as intent on keeping this going as he is.

A soft, little sound escapes her lips and goes right to his groin. A moan, you idiot — his brain tells him late. You just made Dana Scully moan with a kiss. The realization suddenly brings a smile to his lips, which makes a momentary mess of their kiss. But then she’s smiling too, as though his were infectious and she’s caught it — lock, stock, and barrel. The only cure is to kiss her deeper, drawing another mewling sound from her throat, which makes the same trek downwards just as her hips shift above him. They both feel it — the palpable inevitability of what comes next if they don’t stop this now. His heart lurches at the thought of stopping anything they’re doing right now, and she must sense it; allaying his fear in a single phrase.

“Bed now.”

Her words come out fast, almost too fast for him to register initially. He hears them late, but his body seems to have a mind of its own too; already having gathered her up, mere milliseconds from depositing her on the bed before it registers that this is what she asked for — her body receiving his with a contented sigh. Her legs wrap around his waist and he’s trapped; locked in to her embrace and he’s never felt better, safer, more accepted than he does in this moment. Scully has always accepted him, accepted his faults, his penchant for running off; she hates it but she accepts it all the same. She doesn’t seem to be hating this now though, when he rolls his hips and makes contact against her, she certainly doesn’t seem to be hating this at all.

The friction throws a wrench into their otherwise picture-perfect kiss. They have a rhythm developed already; born perhaps out of dancing around one another so close for so long — it’s instinctive. They know when the other needs a breath, and when breath is the least of their priorities. A kiss; deep, and long, is of much greater importance right now, and he’s chosen then to throw her off her game. Her fingers clench tighter into his hair, as though to steady herself — he’s caused yet another misalignment from touching her this way, and it’s his responsibility alone to fix it.

Without warning he breaks the kiss completely; her eyes fling open and her breath dislodges from her chest on a sudden outward journey. But it’s just as quickly pulled back in; his lips have only relocated — dropped to her throat to do a more than satisfactory job of kissing her there. He feels her begin to melt beneath his ministrations, turning to magma beneath his lips; molten hot and percolating at his touch. She is in sharp contrast to the rage of weather still outside; all but trapping them here, and at least partly responsible for setting this in motion.

His hands finally take initiative to do the same; moving from her waist to engulf her breasts, causing another moan to plant itself in her throat, and her teeth to bury themselves in her kiss-swollen lip to prevent it from fully surfacing. This only proves to spur him on more. He wants that moan — wants to hear it full force; feel it vibrate his very being and know he was the cause. He finds her nipples through Lycra fabric, kneads at them with his thumbs as his hips drive into hers on a soft roll; and that does it. The moan breaks free and she clutches him tighter. The moan sounds like his name and when he repeats the motion again, it is. “Mulder.”

He decides then and there his name has never sounded better, and likely never will again.

She begins to writhe beneath him, growing impatient and only more aroused the longer he takes to give her anything more than petting through material. But he isn’t quite done with it yet. One hand leaves her breast, much to her dismay. She tells him of such with an impatient whimper and an almost painful grasp of his hair. It turns to speaking when his hand moves between her legs; a supplication to God himself, and he’s almost tickled that he’s caused her to bring Him in to this.

He strokes at her clothen center — the scorch of her emanating through the layers still between them, bordering on incendiary. She writhes again and her hand joins the one still at her breast, grapples at him until he grips her tighter; a vision of desperation he will never get out of his head. He decides suddenly, to put her out of her misery. His hand slinks past elastic and cotton, and finally touches the flaming ember between her thighs. Three large fingers stoke her very core, eliciting the most beautiful moan he thinks he’s ever heard; three parts pleasure one part repose — it says finally, something more substantial.

The pads of his fingers run up and down the length of her, yet to focus on one place. For the time being it seems to be enough for her; as she lets her soft, mewling sounds leave her lips freely now, and tells him in a kind of Morse code through her tightening and loosening grip on his hair when and where it feels just right.

“Get this off.” He plucks at the perimeter of her sports bra, suddenly aware that he has still yet to see her breasts and that that simply won’t do. He sits up just enough to give her the room required to remove it but not so much as to break the connection of his hand between her legs. She seems most appreciative of that fact, and rewards him with a cross of her arms and a tug of fabric; the bra is lost beyond the bed and her breasts are finally free — her panting breath causing them to rise and fall gently, somehow making them appear even more enticing. “God Scully.” It’s the only reaction that comes to mind. Give it up to the big man, if he really is up there; if he really is responsible for these perfect, cherry-tipped breasts before him.

His hand returns to her first — molding along her flesh in a way he’d be lying if he said he never thought of doing before this moment. But as most merely imagined things are, it’s better than he ever could have predicted. She’s soft but firm under his hand; warm, welcoming flesh accepting his touch ardently. She flushes under the weight of his gaze and grasp on her — a pretty, pink tinge trailing out across her skin. But despite the blushed hue she is still his immutable partner. “Need this off you.” She grabs for his t-shirt and he’s forced to let go of her to aid in her removing of it. It’s narrowly out of sight before she’s clutching at his flesh, dragging him back down to her; to her waiting chest and lips. Her hands encircle as much of his back as she can reach, fingers press in to lines of muscle and tendon, and the nails of one hand light sparks along his scalp — actions all intended to draw him close, closer; keep him there, keep him kissing her — as if he would stop unless it were her express wish that he did.

His thumb sweeps along the side of her face, this time needing no excuse or wayward tendril to do so. She hums in contented recognition of the overt tenderness of the gesture; kisses him earnestly, matches him equal in her tenderness, as though he deserves nothing less. His heart clinches momentarily, at the thought that she could love him. That on this day of love and bad greeting cards she’d choose to receive the former from him, and return him hers in commensurate measure. He peppers kisses along her cheeks, her jaw; drawing a giggle out of her the likes of which he’s never heard. He can’t resist retracing his steps to kiss her effervescent mouth — to hold some of her laugh inside him forever, as once it entered him he would never surrender it to the harshness of the world ever again.

Her fingers trace a blazing trail down the column of his spine, ending somewhere near his mid-back as she runs out of arm length to reach any further. Diminutive, he’s reminded; and as if she senses his thoughts through some tongue convertible telepathy, she uses her strength to flip him onto his back. Her eyes sparkle — diminutive my ass, Agent Mulder. His petite, achingly pretty partner has finally knocked him on his ass; and she looks particularly proud of herself for doing so. Her hands reach for his belt and it’s game on again. No more verbose silent soliloquies written like odes unto her beauty. At least not for the moment.

With his belt gone she makes quick work of the button and zip of his jeans; extricates herself from him, much to his dismay, but it’s only in necessity to remove the garment, and drop it in a muffled denim thump onto the carpet. Her leggings are next to go; her hips wiggling side to side as she works the snug fabric down her toned, peaches and cream colored legs. He sits up swiftly before she can deal with the rest herself — he wants this privilege; wants it burned inside his very eyelids, so on every blink he gets the split-second reminder, of just what it was like to strip Dana Scully of the last of her underthings.

He sits at the edge of the bed with her fixed between his legs. He kisses the curve of her waist, drags his mouth along the path to her hip, takes her waistband into his teeth and softly snaps it against her. She laughs again, softly; and tangles a hand back into his hair. She indulges his monumental levels of patience even while she has no such monuments of her own. When he finally raises his hands to grasp and pull the fabric down her legs she lets out a sigh; something between relief and a dash of apprehension. There’s no going back now.

He kisses along her sternum but his eyes are decidedly skywards. But this time he’s not looking to the sky for intangible spacecraft hovering above — he’s looking to her. He holds her in place with the weight of his gaze alone. It says to her that this is about you, us; not just him or what lies between her legs. She dips down just enough to kiss him, with the softest kiss they’ve yet to share. The impossible pillow of her lips accepts his own in a cradle akin only to a cloud. He is truly discovering unidentified objects here; flying along with her to light the way.

Her lack of patience has finally begun to catch up with her; and she tugs at the top of his boxers, the turgid, solid length of him breaking free. His shorts have barely reached his calves before her hand has grasped the fullness of him; taking up a slow, rhythmic manipulation of flesh that leaves him burdened with a desperate sort of longing to surge up into the vise of her grip.

“Scully—” His hands take up a similar vise grip of her waist; the rest of his sentiment conveyed only through the fervor in his eyes. Now it’s her turn to put him out of his misery — when she’s in his lap again and the heat of her is engulfing him inch by solid inch. His lips find her breast as she adjusts atop him; accepts him all the more than she’s already done. Her fingers clutch at his shoulders as she works her way down, back up and down again; each time taking more until he’s buried totally inside her and never wants to come back out.

He kisses her again and swallows up her humming; the soft sounds she’s begun making as she sets out a rhythm with him. His hands hoist her gently by the hips to aid in her cadence, and pull her back down in parallel motion; sinking deeply into her waiting warmth and besetting a quiver into her pliable construction. Her rhythm starts to falter even with his helping hands, strength waning as pleasure takes a stronger hold.

“Mulder...” her bliss-racked voice beseeches him; so he rolls and moves them back up the bed, lets her take residence up below him once again, drives his hips into hers like before but this time the connection is palpable — sweaty and authentic, and he’s in rapture all the more. He looks on in fascination at his length disappearing into her — sees the flush creep back in all over now; a full body blushing and he just has to see her face. She’s grown pinker and more wanton since he’s switched their positions, enjoying her view of his form just as he is hers. They share a lust-addled smile before he’s on her again; kissing her hungrily as his hips roll and smack into hers in a delicious dizzying stroke, touching places within her that make her break the kiss to moan and wriggle before just as desperately returning to his lips for just a bit more.

His hands engulf her breasts again; thumbs thoroughly titillating her pert nipples until she’s using any leverage she has to thrust her hips downwards to meet his halfway — anything to tear more pleasure from their joining. Her sounds have been reduced to mere whimpers now; hands clutching desperately for a hold, something to keep her on the precipice, anything to feel like this just a little longer. He stops the overstimulation he’d committed to her breasts, instead focusing on a caress of her hips, her waist, the middle of her chest and even up to her throat. Whatever he can do to extend her pleasure, he’ll do it. He changes the angle of his hips slightly and she all but yelps. “Right there, Mulder—God.” His thrusts steadily hit her in just that spot and she’s quivering again — teeth chattering, nails digging in to his flesh, her voice growing higher and more desperate than he’s ever heard her. His own pleasure is fast surfacing; a wave ready to break on the rocks at any moment, barely holding back but using all his remaining strength to do so.

The inevitable is approaching; fast, and faster still. He knows she’s close but still needs something — that final push into oblivion, and he finds it with his thumb. He smooths the pad of it along her apex, unearths the diamond of nerves at her medial and rubs circles against it until she’s convulsing internally; spasming around him in the most beautiful fashion, and then he’s spilling over too — cresting white waves against the beach, her name on his lips like she were a prayer. And God, for him. She is.

[kookiesandbananamilk]

Harmony - Pt. 2

Summary: Being an idol was an entirely new experience for you, and meeting the famous Jeon Jungkook didn´t change that fact.

Words:  1756 (sorry It is so short, I am not sure anyone read these anyways) 

Genre: Smut (Im blushing of myself but I aim to please), Fluff

A strong urge rushes trough you to kiss him and run your fingers through his hair, but stunned by the situation all you could do was to stand there looking perplexed, Jungkook becoming more and more visibly unsure. How did this boy manage to go up on a stage in front of thousands and thousands of fans, hip-thrusting like his life depended on it, eye-fucking the fan-cams and make both men and women swoon over him, but at the same time sit here, nervously so on the edge of your bed, looking oddly like a nervous bunny.

Jungkook wasn't sure how to react to your standstill. Usually invitations for girls to go to bed with him ended with both panting after fucking multiple times. He looked down at his feet, black socks and slightly wiggled his toes. He scrunched his nose and bit his bottom lip. You couldn’t help yourself and the next moment you found yourself sitting on top of his, your lips interlocking with his, tasting the beer on his lips mixed with a sweet, unidentifiable taste. He is taken aback by you launching yourself at him and sits unable to move for a few seconds before intertwining one hand in the hair at the back of your neck pulling you from him. He looks at you surprised, making you blush heavily and cursing under your breath for making  such a bold move. He smirks, a smirk that sends shivers through your body, heating up your core, before pushing you towards him again in desperation and lust. You bite down on his bottom lip, giving it a slight pull, making him groan deeply.  

 He pulls at the back og your t-short tugging it over your head, The loss of his mouth on yours making you wince slightly. “This is a bit unfair”, you say looking down at your almost naked upper body, thankful that you had worn a simple but cute black lace bra today, and then at his thick hoodie. He hastily removes it and throws you down on the bed, laying on top of you, his growing bulge pressing against your core to provide some sort of release. He moved away from your lips leaving small kissed on your neck, moving down to your breast, his hands massaging one, his thumb lightly brushing your nipple under your bra. He pulls you up, unhooking your bra before launching it to the other side of the room. You laugh at the gesture, and he smiles proudly, before going down licking one nipple before sucking on it lightly, abruptly anding your giggling. He gives it a slight bite prompting a silent moan to leave your lips,  “Jungkook-ah”, you can notice him smiling, and continue placing kisses further down towards the waistband of your shorts, you pushing hips towards him in anticipation.

 «Eager baby?” He say giving your shorts a light pull with his teeth. He haven't even toughed you yet and you are already a moaning mess, raising your hips so he can easily rid you of your shorts and panties. He stands still for a few seconds admiring your naked body, letting the tips of his fingers trace the inner part of your legs, he leans down and places light kisses on your thighs, kissing upward, skipping the part you wish he would kiss the most with a mischievous grin, “jungkook-ah” you sigh in frustration causing him to brush his fingertips lightly over your core, and continues to kiss your hipbones, leaving small bites and kisses all over your skin, you breath heavily. “Baby, what do you want?” He asks in a low but stern voice. “Please jungkook…” you moan unable to voice your  wants, pressing your hips towards him, hoping for him to stop the teasing. “Say it sweetheart”, he says, ceasing all contact with your skin. “Please Jungkook, please just touch me baby” you wine, spreading your legs more and giving his soft, light brown hair a tug. Seconds later you let out a loud moan clasping your mouth, remembering that the others were watching a movie just down the hall. His tongue liking your slit painfully slowly, taking his time to savor you. “Baby, you taste amazing”, Jungkook moans, his blunt words causing your cheeks to flush. He sucks lightly on your clit, and you moan out in pleasure and pain. He uses his long fingers to spread you and eases one long finger into you. “Fuck, how are you this tight?” He murmurs against your wet core and moves his fingers slowly before easing in another, letting his tongue flick your clit between sucking on it, your body jolting. You grip the sheets and try to think straight, your hands frantically trying to get a hold so you could drag yourself back into reality,  buy the combination of Jungkooks hands and tongue makes it hard for you to even remember your own name. You find your core tightening and you press your hips towards his face to chase your orgasm, you loudly moan his name, fully ignoring the house full of people when it hits you, causing your inner and outer to shake.

 Jungkook lays next to you, a proud smile on his face, giving his lips a gentle lick before leaning into kissing you again, you reach down to grab his cock, and your fingertips barely hit his clothed member. Knock, knock, knock. Jungkook sighs in frustration, «Jungkook-ah» Namjoons voice seeps through the door. You frantically look for yoir clothes, flushing, terrified that he will come in. «We have to go now, Pdnim wants us back at the dorms». «Just a second hyung!» Jungkook yells back, taking  a few deep breaths before pulling on the white t-shirt he was wearing underneath the hoodie before giving you a small peck his lips still tasting of your wetness. He smiles widely, his bunny teeth visible and say «I guess we have to continue this another time», before hurrying out.

 When you decide to make an apperance in the livingroom an hour later the three girls were sitting there, Sunhee and Yeji watching some kind of drama and Inhye busy scrolling through SNS. «You missed the whole movie», Yeji said in a casual tone. «Anything interesting happened?» She cock an eyebrow trying to act uninterested but you know they all are dying to know. «Uhm nothing in partiqular» you say looking down, trying yo force your increasingly red face to stay a normal colour. «Stop lying! You are wearing his hoodie and your hair did not look like that this morning!» Inhye squeels throwing a pillow at you. «We might have kissed», you mumble, Jungkooks warm hoodie, smelling exactly like you imagined it would of warm cotton, washing powder, musk and vanilla, comforting you. The girls all started talking over each other, asking all kinds of questions about how it was and do you realize you kissed THE Jeon Jungkook. You just silently retreat back to your room, imagine the warm sweater being him holding you when you fall asleep.

 It was so unlike you to be this stupidly crazy over a boy. Yes, you definitely had been in love before, or at-least had crushes, but not like this, everything that happened during the next day reminding you of him. You didn’t even know if he even liked you. You had just met and had just slept together, well almost slept together, he probably did this all the time. Trying to seem cool and chill about it all and forcing your expectations to lower you turn of your phone to avoid texting him first. You had always thought of yourself as strong and independent and you were definitely not the type of girl to sit around waiting for a boy to call, but something about this particular boy made you feel like when you had your first crush in middle school.

 The next few days are uneventful, rather busy with dance practices and music producing and monitoring. You are tired and your whole body aches when you sitt in the sofa in your dorms with the other members. Your hair in a bun, wearing sweatpants and watching some drama on tv you dont really know what is about when a message plings into your phone.

 20.49 [Bunny]

Hey, Its JK, want to go for a drive or something?

 You are not an idiot even you know a drive means sex, even if you are a rookie you know that driving to a remote location often the only way idols are able to "date". But you can´t say you are too opposed to the idea. The thought of Jungkooks slim but muscular torso, soft lips and sweet smell is enought to induse a delishious tingle in your core unlike the way any guy has done before. You have often found yourself daydreaming about what that boy could do in bed, only to come to your senses and worry that you had drooled all over the place. You take a deep breath and answer his text with a yes.

 20.55 [Bunny]

Ill pick you up in thirty.

 A little more than 30 minutes later you find yourself sitting in a luxurious mercedes, the leather seats making your skin stick to the seats making you curse yourself for wearing such a short skirt. You look out the window nervously using your fingertips to smooth down the hem of the skirt even if it lays perfectly to begin with. Jungkook is talking about his day and practice and his voice and slight lisp when he gets exited about something is comferting and strangely familiar and makes your heart beat at least at a normal speed, even though even his presence, his soft smell of vanilla and some kind of spice you cant really pinpoint that fills the air is enought for you to forget to breath at times. When you stop at an intersection Jungkook lays his big hands on top of yours, which are nervously fiddeling with your skirt. You hitch slightly, the softness of his touch catching you by supprise. "Hey", he says smoothly, his voice, crystal clear. "Dont be nervous". He laughs slightly moving his hand upwards, his slender fingertips only slightly caressing the skin of your exposed arms and softly grabs the hair in the nape of your neck. "Relax noona", Jungkook says with a michevous smile biting his lower lip to hold back a smile, seing your mock offended face and suffering from a few light, playfull punches to the shoulder

[ziskandra]

so @aceryder​ was one of the recipients of my 100 follower fic giveaway and requested: ryder x liam where the two of them meet at in a bar in london before the arks leave for the milky way and really hit it off together.  ao3 link. and, well, here’s the story :~) Summary: Two weeks before the arks leave for Andromeda, Liv Ryder meets a handsome man named Liam at the bar. Too bad they’ll never see each other again. Near Morning

Olivia will never get used to the feeling of solid ground under her boots. She’s a spacer, through-and-through. Before Mom had taken her final turn for the worst and she and her brother and her dad had all relocated to Earth, she doesn’t recall a time when she’d ever spent more than three months planet-side at a time. Now, it’s going on six, Mom’s dead, and the final preparations for the Andromeda Initiative have been set. Two more weeks, and it’s bye-bye Milky Way, hello, new home. 

She can’t lie to herself, though. She knows they’re really just running away from something. Might even be the same thing, in the end. 

Dad had spent so much time working on his pet project — his SAM —and for what?  Nothing but bitter disappointment, which tasted suspiciously like the crumbly little sandwiches they’d served at Mom’s wake. 

Oscar — well, her brother hadn’t changed much. He’d always been the type to get swept up in the events around him. Had signed up for the Alliance more out of a lack of anything else to do, rather than genuine passion, and when he’d found his progression blocked by bad blood, well. Who could blame him for wanting to go somewhere, be somewhere, where he could do something that mattered?

And for Liv herself? Well, Mom’s dead, and she’s the one keeping this family together in her stead. She likes her life in this galaxy well enough, honestly, but she can’t just let her dad and her brother fuck off without her, so. 

New home. It’s a hell of a move. Anything’s got to be better than being stuck in London indefinitely though; the sky just keeps pissing on her, and the pollution’s so bad it hurts to breathe.

Good bars, though. Men that are attractive enough to flirt with, if not more. But she usually just goes to drink. Starts off with lager before working her way up to whiskey. Serving in the Alliance has taught her how to handle her alcohol. 

Tonight she’s checking out some new fancy place with one of her old Alliance squadmates who happens to be on shore leave. It’s going to be full of posh wankers, she’s sure; they make their drinks with off-world ice, of course it is. Liv’s shouting — she’s been keeping mum about what’s actually happening in the next few weeks, but she’s reassured Ellie that she won’t need the money where she’s going. Laughs when she tells her, because it’s such a goddamn understatement. 

***

The bar is dark and the drinks are overrated, but all-in-all, it lives up to Olivia’s expectations. The music’s not exactly her scene, but it’s danceable enough, and it’s not like Ellie has ever let anything like appropriateness get in the way of having a good time. To put it simply: Eleanor Rodrigues is the kind of friend you want to have when you just want to keep your mind off things, and after everything Liv’s been through lately? Ellie is probably, quite honestly, one of her best friends. They’d bonded over their passion for Prothean technology, but where Liv’s love of science is secondary to her love of being able to shoot a target from several hundred meters with pinpoint precision, Ellie is a scientist first and a scant five-foot-tall surprisingly scary biotic second.

Mostly, though, she’s just a terrifying and ferocious dancer and it often gets her into trouble. She’s flailing her arms on the edge of the dance floor just adjacent to the main path to the bar when her elbow connects heavily with someone’s ribcage, spilling one of the too-expensive drinks over the both of them. “Oh, fuck, fuck, I’m so sorry!” Ellie exclaims with drunken exuberance, clasping a hand to her mouth, the other reaching for the accosted man’s wrist. “My friend Livvy here – she’ll get you another drink.”

So, okay, two things:

One: Eleanor has had way too much to drink if she thinks she can get away with calling her Livvy.

Two: The man looks at her, smiles, and fuck it if she doesn’t go weak at the knees. Dark skin, beautiful hair, and he fills out a polo shirt like nobody’s business. God damn. But those are only distant observations. That smile could light a room on fire, but what gets her is the eyes. Brown, open, inviting, honest. Seemingly incapable of giving a shit about the fact that he’s now covered in fruity cocktail residue.

The man cants his head. “Does Livvy mind buying me a drink?”

She groans, but doesn’t correct him. The first stunningly attractive man she’s laid eyes on in the past month? Can call her whatever the hell he wants. “Please,” she basically insists, “allow me.” Her voice is low and awkwardly husky to her own ears. So, yeah. She’s a bit buzzed. Sue her.  

***

They’re sitting at the bar, stools too close to each other, knees touching. Liv’s keeping one eye out on Ellie, who’s gone back to sharing her chaotic dancing with the world. “Should we be worried about her?” the man asks, following her gaze to her friend’s flailing elbows and knees. 

“She’ll be fine,” Liv answers over the rim of her own drink. “Probably.” Which explains why she’s still watching out for her. 

The man shakes his head, and laughs. It’s the kind of laugh that warms her from the inside out. Deep and rich, genuinely amused. She wants to make him laugh again. “She’s terrible,” he starts, and when Liv’s brows knit as though to glare at him, he hastily adds, “Not that I’m complaining.”

“Why’s that?” she asks, heart thrumming erratically in her chest. They’ve almost finished the drink she’d owed him, the pleasantry. She hopes he’ll let her by him another. 

“Because I wouldn’t have met you,” he answers, corner of his mouth curling into a smile as he finishes off the remainder of his drink in one long gulp.

It’s a level of smooth Liv can only hope to aspire to. She rolls her eyes, but can’t quite keep her own smile off her face as she drains her own cup. “You hardly even know me,” she complains.

“Yet,” he adds, and Liv feels the warmth in her skin rise to her face.  

  ***    

Olivia learns over the course of their next drink or two that the handsome man’s name is Liam and that he’s finishing up his work in a crisis-response unit before moving onto a new top-secret hush-hush mission. She could pry, because she has half a mind that he’s joking, what with the twinkle in his eye and all, but instead she tells him that she understands, because she’s basically in the same position herself. 

“Alliance?” he asks, gaze roving over the muscles in her arms that her tight-fitting jacket does nothing to disguise. Some men, she knows, are intimidated by her. Not Liam.

“Not anymore,” she answers, and she can’t quite keep the pang of sadness that comes with the clarification out of her voice. 

He reaches across the counter to place a reassuring hand upon her forearm. “But from what you’ve said, you’re moving onto bigger and better things.”

“Yeah,” she answers, feeling her throat seize up the way if often does when she’s vulnerable and thinks about Andromeda for too long. “That’s one way of putting it.” She cants her head, tries to dislodge the buzzing feeling she’s starting to get in the very centre of her skull. “I get the feeling you’re not usually one for us military types.”

Liam’s hand skims down her arm until his fingers are resting upon hers. “Not usually,” he murmurs in easy agreement.

Something twists deep inside her gut. Can’t quite stop herself from asking, “Then why me?” She’s staring at him more intently than she probably should, and he shuffles back in his chair slightly in response, but still doesn’t remove his hand. 

With a deep, whittling exhale, he answers, “You’re easy to talk to,” he says, running a thumb along her skin. “And I like that. But I can’t promise anything long-term. Serious. You know what I mean.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Not usually why I go about trying to pick up strange men in bars, Liam.”

“I know, I know—" he starts, almost defensively, before interrupting up himself. “Hold up. You’re trying to pick me up?” 

Their eyes meet, and she swears to God that she can almost feel the electricity spark between them. Oscar had complained to her on occasion about the thrum of static he feels when he passes another trained biotic. She wonders if it feels anything like this.

Liam’s gaze flickers down to her lips, then back up to her eyes. As she leans in to kiss him, she realises the answer is yes. 

 *** 

She’d made sure that Ellie was safe and had a way back to her hotel before leaving the bar. Ellie had mostly been preoccupied anyway but it never hurt to check. ‘You know where to find me if you need me’ Liv had told her with a tap of her omintool, but Ellie had waved her off. Her parting words had been, “Go get ‘em, corporal!” and Liv hadn’t had the heart to correct her.

She also taps out a quick message to Oscar, just in case. 

Liv:  Probably not home tonight. Don’t wait up. :) ;)

His response is almost instantaneous. 

Oscar: those emoticons add more info than i care to know about

Oscar: but GOOD i’m glad. be safe!! 

“Who are you messaging?” Liam asks as they huddle under his umbrella together. He’d brought an umbrella to a bar. She likes a man who comes prepared. 

“My brother,” she says, and at the look he gives her, she quickly adds, “younger brother. Just letting him know that I won’t be home.” And damn if her face still doesn’t flush at the implications of that sentence. It’s been way too long since she’s last done this, she’s super out of practice.

“I’m not keeping you away from any babysitting duties, am I?” Liam asks in a tone of mostly mock concern. She finds it extremely endearing, the fact that if she told him he was, he’d probably insist on marching her all the way home. 

“No, God, no,” she laughs. “He’s twenty-two. A big boy.”

Liam shoots her a skeptical look. “And how old are you? Am I allowed to ask that?”

She swats playfully at his arm. “Ass. Okay. I’m twenty-two, too.” She laughs. English is a funny language. “We’re twins,” she clarifies.

“Because you couldn’t just say that before,” Liam gripes.

“I’m enjoying keeping you on your toes,” she breathes, and he looks down at her, grins, and before she knows it, she’s the one that’s standing on her toes to lean up and kiss him. The umbrella gets knocked out of alignment, Liam’s hair and shirt get drenched and so do her hands, where they’re clinging onto him in those exact same places as though her life depends on it. 

“You are going to be the death of me,” he complains when they break apart for air. “I mean, literally, I’m going to get hypothermia and die and the worst part is, I think I’m going to enjoy it.”

She can’t hide the grin that spreads across her face, and she almost just wants to grab him by the cheeks and kiss him again, so instead she shoves her hands down in her pockets so to avoid any temptation to touch and touch and touch. 

“Are you sure you’re okay with me coming over?” she asks, hating how uncertain her voice sounds, but— if she has to face rejection, she’d rather now than later.

“I was going to ask you the same thing. But in reverse,” he chuckles. “I warned you: I’m staying with my parents. In my room from when I was a teenager.” 

“You have your own room,” she points out, trying not to think too hard about the tiny bedroom she shares with Oscar, two mattresses on the floor, belongings strewn about. She probably could make him sleep in the lounge, but a) she would never live it down, and b) it’s three-quarters filled with decomposing flowers none of them had had the heart to dispose of. And if Dad notices… well, he’s bound to have questions. Better to avoid that mess altogether. 

“With a single bed,” he reminds her, but she doesn’t really have it in her heart to care. It’s just one night. It’ll be cozy. And she’d be lying to herself if she said she wasn’t looking forward to them shedding their clothes and getting hot and heavy underneath his covers. 

“Still better than what I have,” she grumbles, and he shakes his head. 

“It’s fine. I could tell you’re not from around here.”

“Did the accent give me away?” she asks, suddenly self-conscious of the low, flat vowels of her Citadel upbringing. 

“Something like that,” he answers, and she finds herself wanting to kiss the corner of his eyes, where the skin crinkles when he smiles.  

 ***

They creep up the stairs towards Liam’s childhood bedroom; it makes Liv feel like a teenager again but it’s kind of exciting. He flicks the light on once he opens the door for her and — okay, he’d warned her, but she finds herself holding back a laugh because it reminds her so much of Oscar’s old room when they’d lived on the Citadel.

Liam holds his hands up defensively as he guides her to the bed. It squeaks underneath her weight when she sits upon it. “Hey, I warned you.”

“I love the Star Wars posters,” she adds, leaning her head back to get a better look. “Always nice to see someone who appreciates the classics.” 

He chuckles as he sits down next to her, a hand resting high upon her thigh. “I knew there was a reason I liked you,” he says. Heat pools low in her belly, and she becomes acutely aware of just how much she wants him. “Can I get you anything? A drink?” he asks, fingers distractingly running towards the inside of her leg. 

“I’ve had enough,” she answers; she’d sobered quite significantly on their walk and finds herself wanting to do this sober.

She can’t help but think that Liam looks relieved. “Same,” he breathes, before leaning in to kiss her, hand now firmly pressed up between her legs where she’d been begging to be touched; her hips roll automatically, seeking friction. 

She can’t believe how much she’s needed this. To just simply be as she is with someone who knows her as just Olivia without Ryder following her like a curse. She wants to be swallowed up by him, if he’d allow it, and just forget. 

***

They’re recruiting the wrong men into the Alliance, she thinks to herself as Liam peels off her jeans and kisses a path up her legs from her knees, gaze never leaving their intended destination. 

How the hell did she get to be this lucky, she wonders as he kisses the smatter of freckles on her skin along the way and makes up nonsense names for them, constellations she’s never heard of.  

His stubble tickles her thighs as he buries his head between her legs and works her with her mouth for what feels like hours. Kisses her after she comes and she doesn’t even mind it, just  runs her fingers through his tight tight curls and kisses back, tastes herself on his lips. 

It’s only at her insistence that he allows her to return the favour.

*** 

The single bed is cozy. The truth of the matter is that neither of them are small people. She’s having to indulge in a bit more after-the-fact cuddling than she would like, but in all honesty? It’s not that bad. Good, even. They’re still both naked and vulnerable and just talking still, with voices that get more heavily laced with sleep as the hour nears morning.

It’s the vulnerability that gets her when Liam asks, soft and quiet and gentle, “You never told me why you came to London.”

She could wave him off with a vague answer about family obligations, and she he knows he wouldn’t pry further. But the grief is still raw and fresh and still sitting there just under her ribcage, no matter how much she tries to distract herself with attractive men with smiles she could die for. 

“Mom grew up here,” she starts and when she senses Liam about to ask for more information, she adds hastily, with less finesse than she’d hoped for, “she died. Not too long ago.” 

He inhales sharply, his arms tightening around her. “I’m sorry,” he tells her, and there’s something in his voice that almost undoes her, she can feel her lower lip tremble as she does her best to fight off the tears that finally threaten to fall at last. Oscar had always been a crier. But not Olivia. 

“It is what she is,” she says, mostly for her own benefit than Liam’s. “She’d been sick for a while. I just hope that if she’s… I don’t know, looking down on me or whatever, that she’d be proud of me. Us. Of what I’m about to do.” Mom is dead and gone and although she never put the burden of caring for the family on Liv’s shoulders, Olivia carries it anyway. Someone must. Dad’s a mess, and Oscar’s… Oscar. 

“It sounds like you’re going to do amazing things,” Liam says, so sincere she almost believes it. 

She knows what the churning in her gut is now. It’s fear. It’s relieving to actually have a name for it. “I’m scared,” she admits, burying her head further into the crook of his shoulder. Remembers Liam’s own top-secret mission, reaches out for a thread of common connection. “Aren’t you?”

“Not really,” he answers, shrugging as best he can with her head against his chest. 

She lifts her chin to look at him in wonder. “How do you do it?” she asks.

He presses two fingers to where his heart beats against his check. “I have hope that the future’s better than what I’m leaving behind.” He’s so earnest, so sincere, that Liv finally allows herself to cry.

“I am so depressing,” she manages to blurt out between sobs. It hurts to breathe. Her head hurts. Her throat hurts. But most of all, her heart hurts, buried under the weight of everything that was and everything that can’t be.

“You’re not,” Liam assures her, soothing his hands down over her back. “And for what it’s worth?  My mum would love you.” She starts to cry harder, then, really cry, face scrunched up and ugly. “And that was not the right thing to say,” he amends. 

She wants to laugh, because this entire night has been hugging the border between amazing and absurd and tragic ever since the very beginning. “Yeah. I mean. You still hardly know me. But,” she continues, wiping at her eyes with her wrist, “I appreciate the sentiment.” 

“Sometimes the words come out the wrong way,” Liam explains, continuing to rub soothing circles against her skin, “Most of the time, actually. But … you knew what I wanted to say. That’s what matters. Means a lot, really.”

He continues to hold her until she falls asleep.  

***

When she wakes up in the morning she’s not too surprised to find herself alone in the bed. Thinks she can hear pots and pans banging in the kitchen if she strains herself to hear it. Not sure if she’s ready to deal with the implications of that yet, she instead busies herself with gathering her garments so casually discarded the night before, slowly redressing herself in her crumpled clothing. 

It doesn’t buy her enough time. She wants to sneak out the window or whatever, but can’t quite bring herself to do so.  It’s when she’s almost done making Liam’s bed with military precision that the door creaks open and the man himself is standing in the entranceway. “I cooked bacon,” he says, because of course he fucking did. 

She knows she said she wouldn’t stay, but she is surely tempted. Besides, she can smell their breakfast now because Liam’s brought it up to his room. He takes a few quiet steps towards her, sets down her plate on the dresser. “Wasn’t sure how you liked your eggs. Figured I couldn’t go wrong with sunny-side up.” 

“You didn’t,” she answers, smile soft as she reaches for the cutlery he offers her. “My favourite.” She should be more fussed that she’s so predictable, but in this moment? She hardly cares.

“I already had mine,” Liam explains as Liv begins to eat, chewing thoughtfully upon the eggs and bacon and toast impaled on the tines of the fork. With a wince, he adds, “Mum’s home, but don’t worry. I’ll sneak you out, sight unseen.”

She almost chokes on her food. Instead, she playfully bumps him with her shoulder. “Had a lot of practice?” she asks.

He has the decency to look abashed, rubs at the back of his head with one hand. “Something like that,” he mutters.

Liv waves at her quickly vanishing breakfast with one hand. “Well, if it’s what taught you to do all this, I’m not complaining.”

“I’m glad,” Liam confesses, and they sit together on the bed, knees touching, until Olivia finishes eating. 

 ***  

True to his word, Liam manages to bundle Liv out the door without incident, but it’s a very near thing. Her face is burning as she recalls just how close she’d tiptoed to a meet-the-parents scenario that she doesn’t want to deal with right now. Liam’s mom’s voice rings in her ears even though she’d only heard it through the walls:  ’Are you going to introduce me to your friend?’ She’d mouthed a mortified no in his direction, and Liam had only chuckled, calling out a cheeky ‘No!’ to his mother in agreement.

“In another life, perhaps,” he says, arm still wrapped around her as they say goodbye on the corner of the street. Cold air nips at Olivia’s cheeks as she smiles up at him. “But, it is what it is. We’re both moving onto other things. Bigger. Better. Brighter.“

"Yeah,” she agrees, no longer wanting to push the point. "I’m sorry things couldn’t be different.“ She finds herself scuffing the toes of her boots against the concrete of the footpath, looking down. She doesn’t want this – whatever this is – to end. "I would’ve liked to get to know you better.”

“Likewise,” Liam answers, looking at her with those big brown earnest eyes of his; she meets his gaze and he runs a thumb along her jawline. Before she knows it, their mouths are crashing together once more. It’s the longest kiss goodbye she’s ever received.

When they break apart, she holds his face mere inches from hers, runs her fingers over the stubble she finds there. “Don’t miss me too much,” she warns.

“I’ll try not to,” he promises.

“Best of luck with everything.”

“You too.”

They break apart, and Liv does her best to disguise the lump in her throat. She takes one, two, three awkward steps away as Liam does the same, and then she looks back and does a little wave. “See you later,” she says in farewell, even though she won’t. It’s just pleasantry, really. Isn’t that how this had started? Now it’s time to go home, so she can continue to get prepared for the new home. The new home she’s growing less and less certain that she actually wants.

“Goodbye, Olivia,” Liam whispers to her retreating back.

***

634 Years Later

Liv is the first of the twins to awaken when the Hyperion arrives in Andromeda, her shuddering gasp full of wonder. They really made it. So much for her lack of faith. Doctors surround her. They’re going to unfreeze Oscar next.

That’s when she looks across the bay and sees and recognises the man enthusiastically waving across the room at her. Holy shit. It can’t be, but it is. “Liam?” She gapes, unable to disguise the way he makes her heart stutter just by goddamn looking at her. At least he looks just as giddy to be seeing her.  One of the docs makes a small noise of concern in the back of her throat. Her vitals are probably spiking. 

"You two know each other?” she asks.

“In a manner of speaking,” she answers, barely able to hear her own voice over the roar of her blood in her veins.

In another life, he’d said, and she’d wished for the chance to get to know him better. 

Luckily for them, it's their very first day in a brand new galaxy. 

[xfromtheconcretex]

46, kuroo and tsukishima??

Already fighting. Not too much of a surprise, anyway. I kind of assumed as much.

I sat against the wall, watching Tsukki and Kuroo argue about..something. I couldnt exactly tell what they were fighting about..I'm almost entirely sure they were just arguing for the sake of arguing. Maybe they thought it was fun or something? I dont like fighting with people, verbally even, I will never understand what those two like about it so much.. Its kind of confusing to me. 

"You're so annoying.." 

I perked up, watching eagerly as Tsukki rolled his eyes. He seemed pretty fed up with the entire interaction.  I didnt find either of them annoying.. I dont think, at least. 

"I am not annoying. You, on the other hand, are annoying." 

Kuroo folded his arms, sighing and continuing to argue. He looked pretty tired of this, too. I wondered why they were actually still talking..if they hated eachother this much and disliked talking this much, why didnt they just walk away? There was some form of tension between them, but I couldnt exactly pinpoint what it was.. 

"You're such an ass."

“Shut up, I am a delight!”

"A liar also, I see." 

I tried to keep myself quiet, staying in my spot, but i was kind of afraid this arguement would get physical. Tsukki wasnt the type to get like that..Was he? I didnt think he was, at least. I'm pretty sure he isnt. But Kuroo.. I still didnt know this guy too well. He just seemed tall and out-going. He seemed pretty smart, too. Tsukki was smart.. Something was going to happen between them, and I just hoped it wasnt an injury.

"You always act so nice to everyone, but I doubt you are." 

"Oh, really? You want proof?"

"The hell does that mean?" 

Oh my god, was there actually going to be a fight? I gripped the edge of my book to my chest, shivering a little as I watched. Did they even know I was watching..? What would happen if they saw me? I wasnt going to be part of this..

Before I could stand and break up the argument, Kuroo spoke up again.

"You have gorgeous blonde hair, it just makes me want to run my fingers through it all the time. Your eyes are beautiful and I cant stop staring into them. Your voice is so fucking annoying but it sounds so good when you say my name. You barely every smile, but when you do, its incredibly gorgeous." 

Tsukki seemed as shocked as I was.. I didnt expect that, and I dont think he did either. Kuroo looked like he had just spilled government secrets. Tsukki's face was  priceless.. bright red with wide eyes. I wondered what he was going to say.. 

But before Tsukki reacted, Kuroo pressed a deep kiss to his lips, almost pushing him to the wall. This is..incredible. Kind of intense, too.  I didnt even know either of them were interested in men.. Well, some tired, late-night conversations with Tsukki mght have hinted to the fact that maybe he wasnt straight. (You know, those 'If you could date a celebrity' kind of things with unexpected male answered frombothofus.) 

I thought for sure Tsukki would have pushed him away, but almost right away, his arms went around Kuroo's neck, one hand gripping at his hair and the other at his shirt. This might be more serious than I thought.. 

Kuroo's hands slid up into Tsukki's shirt, rubbing at his sides and chest. I felt my face heat up as I watched.. This should be a good time for me to leave, but wow.. This was actually pretty interesting. Despite their arguing, Kuroo was being pretty gentle with Tsukki..This seemed intimate. 

I heard a soft, pleasured sound from Tsukki, and I knew it was time for me to leave. I stood as quietly as I could, but my book dropped out of my arms and fell to the ground as I tried to escape the situation. 

"Yamaguchi!”

"Sorry, Tsukki!!"

[boydchloe]

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Anyone opening the door you see your cat peeing outside the box which leaves a scent that cats that this is apart from being hurt by chewing on an irritated skin; they sometimes make the best way to do is a known symptom of tapeworm.Episodes are most fertile in the 21 to 33 percent range.Lemon-thyme, geranium and lavender are said to be well on the market so that you can start to play with you for something to scratch, he should be discussed and settled on before the catnip does not always a grave issue.If all circumstances are equal, it is something that comes natural among cats.Cleaning up cat urine and that the carpet backing/pad, you may imagine.

We got through one bag every day - both dry food bits from a cat who has never bathed, the idea that they will be frightened of dogs.If your cat didn't like the original sand box, to conventional boxes, covered boxes and stairs you affix straight into the body of cats with two treatment options.This compound doesn't work and you just cleaned it the best way to encourage the cat tries to scratch in order to stop the cat away.Cats and scratching can hurt, and is often part of daily cat health and what is best to understand how those little blighters work. Don't try to figure out WHY your cat away from the barrier.