magnetic fluff

Magnetism

Edward Cullen imagine requested by aniqua! “Hello, I have begun reading your writing and I am very impressed. I would like to let you know that you are an amazing writer and you bring the characters off the page really well, in a way that is difficult to do. May you do an Edward imagine? One where he is trying to distance himself from the reader in hopes of protecting her, but he ends up unable to stay away.” Hope you like it!

Your vision had been obstructed by his face, his skin as flawless as you had imagined, now mere centimeters from your eyes. His gaze was trained on your face, your shock reflecting vividly in his ocher irises, your lips parted in awe. He had never been this close to you; in fact, he seemed to go out of his way to distance himself from you. He parked on the opposite end of the lot, his silver Volvo gleaming like the day it was constructed beneath a plentiful coating of sterling raindrops. You rarely crossed paths in the hallways, and if you did, his Hulk of a brother stood between him and the rest of the student body, caging him in against the wall of lockers. But now… he was close enough touch with an ill-timed fluttering of your eyelashes, his lips pursed in a thin, stern line, his pupils unmoving on yours. You hardly noticed the chill of his hand against your back, though it seemed to be the only point of contact outside of the intrusive attention he supplied with his eyes. The temperature was easily disregarded, but the feel of his palm spread against your spine, his fingers clutching to the folds of your rain-slick jacket… you could never have let that slip under the radar. He exhaled, surprising you with the intensity of his breath, both in force as well as in scent; he seemed pained somehow, though he gave no sign of discomfort, even in your so precarious position. The perfume of his breath was intoxicating, inexplicable. His forehead dipped to touch yours, though only for a fraction of a second. His brow furrowed over closing eyes, his forehead wrinkling with strain, his lips downturned at the corners as he lifted himself from above you, tilting your body with his until you were both standing straight as boards, and his body as rigid. He ground his teeth, his eyes flashing open, the intensity of his gaze returning. His lips parted, allowing speech, but not much else.

“I…” he began, his voice silken, even at his most vulnerable, his most uncomfortable. Only his face betrayed the extent of his unease. When he spoke, his voice had tarnished some, but remained as shining and beautiful as ever. The only difference was the gravel in his tone: whatever troubled him was clearly taking its toll. “You need to stay away from me.”

You’d hadn’t seen much of him since that day. In fact, you hadn’t seen much of him before that day, either; his so livid objection to your company seemed to have evolved within the course of one class period. You couldn’t recall an offense you could have laid against him that would cause so potent a reaction; Hell, you didn’t even have a class with him. You’d gone to English, as usual, you’d joined your class in the routine stabbing of your fingertips in Biology, though you weren’t exactly keen on bleeding), you’d had lunch, all was normal. When the Cullens entered the cafeteria, you noticed a distinct shift. The beautiful boy was burning holes in the side of your head from his secluded table, surrounded by his silent, unmoving family members. There was no mistaking the subject of his gaze; his eyes never once left your face. Though you observed him mostly from your peripheral, you’d managed to catch his eye once, and what you saw in him was frightening. He hadn’t adverted his gaze, hadn’t falsified indifference; his eyes, dark then beneath the fluorescents, refused to shift a fragment of an inch from your face. When the bell rang, he was by your side at the exit, flanked by his older brothers (both had followed mere steps behind his rapid pursuit, their eyes glued to the back of his tousled hair, fighting to meet his eye), and Edward had reached for your arm, his fingertips brushing against your flesh in an almost… affectionate manner, though his eyes hungered for something dangerous, something alluring. You couldn’t help but project your fear upon your face; he was terrifying. Your interaction was short-lived. His brothers managed to edge him away from you, their hands inconspicuously gripping tight to his wrist and elbow. If you hadn’t known better, you’d think they were dragging him away.

His touch lingered like venom throughout the rest of the day, but it was his eyes that scorched the blank expanse of your eyelids, scarring their image into your mind. You were distracted in your studies, your mind replaying the so curious event that had lead to his departure. He did not return to the school.

The next week, Emmett (you’d done some digging, he was the walking P90X commercial) was guarding his brother in the hallways… or acting as a buffer. Edward was mostly hidden from your view, but when he did catch your eye, you noticed something strange in his appearance. His dangerous, frightening eyes had changed colour. Your mind had regurgitated the image so often… had your memories somehow warped them? You would have sufficient time to drill yourself for answers in the coming days, but you were never presented with an opportunity to scrutinize Edward again. He didn’t return to school. His siblings were all present; the smaller one and the brother whose hold had seemed almost painful against his brother’s elbow, Emmett and his beautiful girlfriend, but Edward was gone. Maybe his actions had been a result of an illness. Victims find themselves incredibly hostile and obscenely charming. You couldn’t think of any viruses that would cause a host to reach out and trail their fingertips against someone’s skin in such an intimate way. It was the evening of his third day of absence when next you saw him, sheathed in the milky light of the moon, his skin was cast in a ghastly hue, your stomach twisting with anxious excitement; with the clouds passing shadow over his features, you couldn’t help but wonder if you ought to be afraid of this boy. He was, after all, lingering outside of your house. There was no other plausible explanation for how he had reached you so quickly. It shouldn’t have been so extraordinary; you’d simply tripped on your way to your front door, but instead of making contact with the edge of your aging and unfinished concrete driveway, you’d found yourself hanging in the elusive arms of Edward Cullen, his hand spreading along your spine as he balanced your staggering step, pulling you fluidly from the light shining from your porch. He’d saved you from what could have been a messy injury, but his presence, while appreciated, was a curiosity. He was wordless, searching for secrets within your eyes with an intensity that silenced your curiosity, your initial fear. Every emotion outside of awe fled from your body; here before you, he was devastatingly beautiful. His skin seemed to glow from within, or perhaps reflect the light of the moon, gleaming like the smooth curve of a pearl. He scent radiated from his chest in world-turning waves, enveloping you within his embrace, sealing you into his arms without struggle. There was no reason to struggle, at least none that you could fathom in that moment.

When he moved to stand and whispered his warning, you were entirely under his spell. When he spoke of a separation, your heart cracked within your chest. Hazy with the scent of him, you protested to his parting, your fingers clinging to the opened folds of his coat, watching his eyes target your movement, his forehead smoothing out as he concentrated on your hands. He had halted mid-step, his foot dropping to the ground, deserting his plan to step away.

“You shouldn’t do that,” he warned, speaking through his teeth, his voice a feather against your cheek, calm contrasting his physical restraint. His unoccupied palm covered your own, his velvet skin removing your hand from his chest until you were grasping nothing of substance. As much as you wished to revel in the foreign texture of his hand, Edward retracted his palm as quickly as he had raised it. Once more, his fingers left a mark on your skin, unseen but prominent, like a ghost of his contact. Your hands dropped, fluttering to your sides like wounded birds, your pulse racing in your ears. The questions you’d been steaming in your mind these past few days could not bubble to the surface, their urgency discarded. There were other inquiries occupying their vacancies, questions you hoped he could supply an answer to. Edward’s hand moved from your back, lingering on your hip when your voice interrupted his departure.

“Why should I stay away from you?” Your voice was surprisingly, thankfully, audible. You had worried, in the seconds before you decided to speak, that your voice would tremble in such close proximity to the mysterious boy. At your words, Edward’s hand, paused on your hip, relocated at the small of your back, securing you to his chest as he moved his body as close to yours as was possible, his eyes intensifying once more on yours. The hand that had held yours lifted now to graze against your cheek, his touch as soft and as gentle as a breeze. He smiled crookedly, faintly, his eyes softening above yours.

“Because I don’t have the strength to do it myself.” Before you could be distracted by the lingering kiss of his fingertips trailing along your cheekbone, you countered.

“I don’t understand,” you began, watching his brow furrow as he prepared for your statement, your eyes flickering from his wrist, so close to your cheek, to his lips, so much closer to yours. “How can you possibly find difficulty in avoiding someone you hardly know? Don’t know at all, actually. What makes this different from last week, or the week before? This is the most we’ve talked, Edward.” He ducked his head, his smile growing as he hid his face from view. as quiet as the night was, you could hear the catch in his breath when you whispered his name. When he raised his eyes, they were burning internally with an intangible fire, his features aglow with an emotion you couldn’t place, an expression you had never witnessed before. He licked his lips, his brow furrowing now in concentration, his eyes never leaving your face. His hand on your back tightened, though his embrace remained gentle.

“I may not know a great many things about you, your favourite colour, your favourite book, whether or not you enjoy the rain, your favourite albums and places you miss, I know enough to make it difficult to stay away. You… interest me. Everything about you calls for my attention.” He paused here, the corners of his mouth lifting as he thought back on your few interactions, content with his memories. ‘It’s in the way you walk, the warmth of your skin. It’s in the way you smell.” Your head bobbed backwards at the mention of such an observation, your eyebrows knitting together with the strength of your confusion.

“I don’t-” you started, your voice unsure. He shook his head, chuckling to himself.

“I don’t expect you to understand, not now, but trust me: it’s a compliment. I’ve… contemplated whether or not I would visit you these past few days, weighing my options, weighing the danger of a meeting, and though I could convince myself to stay distant, I found my mind wandering back to your face. Every corridor I encounter winds back to your door. I’ve been told my decision isn’t wise,” he sighed, his eyes rolling at the thought of those who would have had him keep his distance. “because of how I acted earlier last week. I could very easily lose control with you… you drive me mad, at times. I shouldn’t be alone with you, but I can’t stay away. You’re like a magnet, too strong to resist, too powerful to fight against.” His thumb brushed along your cheek, his skin frigid to the touch, and smooth as polished glass. You were struggling to keep up with his confession, but the talk of danger and magnetism, of maddening and being advised against… well, whatever it was you were experiencing now, was too intricate to decipher. There were far too many holes in his explanation to allow for complete understanding. “I decided tonight that I’m finished fighting my desire to be near you. You draw me in, and I can’t resist your pull any longer. I don’t want to. I’d very much like to know you better.” Your cheeks flushed crimson, and you hoped blindly that the moon was bright enough to wash the colour from your inflamed face. You watched in silent admiration as his angel’s face twisted with subdued humour. “But you should still keep your distance. I’m not a viable option for you, Y/n. I’m only weak, is all.” The way he said your name… there was a reverence in his tone that mirrored that of a priest’s, an affection you couldn’t match to so new an interaction. Though there were many traits in him that startled you, there was an overwhelming amount of traits that charmed, and try as you might you could not shake the thrill of his skin on yours. He was well-spoken and polite, gentle and cautious… and yet he was warning you against a relationship (in any sense of the word, but the placement of his hand lead you to lean towards a romantic investment) due to his belief that he could very well be a daner. It didn’t add up.

“How can you tell me all of this, do all of this, and still… tell me that it isn’t a good idea to be with you? You haven’t really presented as a threat. I mean, other than showing up by my house and catching me before I could fall. And the glaring. The glaring was…” You trailed off, his eyes on your face. You were certain now that they had been black before, but had since lightened to a honey-hued gold. “But, other than that, you’ve been pretty chivalrous. I’m not seeing the bad idea behind this.“ His smile returned, his lips tight.

“It is not without great difficulty that I can stand by you tonight. Your proximity, your warmth… you overwhelm me, Y/n, but I am wholly content to suffer in silence if you chose to trust me. Not that you should.” He offered a strained smile, his hands falling to either side of your waist. You trailed your fingers back to his jacket, tentatively folding your arms through his and clasping your hands around his back. The embrace was odd, for so new a relationship, but you couldn’t deny how right it felt to be holding him, to be held by him. You were at peace, even if he was not. His chin was angled away from you just sightly, his chest unmoving with his shallow breathing. His lips were once again a thin, rigid line. You hoped whatever difficulty he faced would soon dissipate; there was so much more to Edward that you cared to know, and quite honestly, it seems like you were causing him some sort of pain.

“We should probably start with dinner then,” you noted, smiling at his comically twisted expression. He chuckled, running his hands along your waist before detaching himself, his fingers running over your own before he allowed your hands to drop.

“That may not be the best idea.” He grinned at you, his cheeks glowing beneath the moon as he backed away from your side, walking himself towards the road. “We’ll figure something out.”

A. Ryder Log #23

Aria and Jaal attend his cousins wedding on Havarl, and one thing quickly becomes clear.

His family has already accepted her as their own. Especially the kids.

Jaal x Ryder, Post-Game, Established Relationship.

Thanks to @ariannadi for essentially being my Beta ♥ And gonna dedicate this chapter to @lynngo-art because holy hell, their Angara Babbie sketches just kill me with cute, and have basically become how I picture/write them now. So thank you for making wonderful and inspiring art! ♥

This got long. I’m sorry (not). Also on AO3 under ‘The Misadventures of Aria Ryder’. Enjoy!


When the invitation first arrives, Aria is confused.

Not because it’s from Jaal’s cousin. Not because it’s an invitation to her wedding.

It’s because it’s addressed to her.

“Why would she send it to me, instead of you?” Aria’s sitting at her desk peering at the email on her screen, wondering if she’s missed something, “I mean, I’m happy she wants me there - wants us there, obviously, you’re mentioned inside the letter - but why only send it to me?”

“Darling One, you are over thinking things again.” Jaal is laughing as he comes up behind her, hands landing on her shoulders to knead at the tense muscles, “This is simply Etta’s way of welcoming you to the family.”

Keep reading

thecorteztwins  asked:

Chrome: “ This is espresso, you know? It’s like Coffee-zilla. ”

Iron Gian meme // Accepting


Coffee—Zilla? You can’t be serious? Of course Erik figured that was probably the point of Chrome’s statement. After all, a cup of coffee wasn’t to be taken too seriously. 

Magneto perked a brow, actually finding some amusement in his follower’s statement. “You act like you’ve never had an espresso before, Allen.” There was a pause before Erik’s brow rose higher. “Please tell me that is not the case?”

Properties of Magnetism

AO3 link

By: Meadowfoam

Genre: Fluff, Emotional hurt/comfort, gap-filler

Rating: Mature

Summary:

Of all the thousands of words that interviewers had dedicated to describing Victor Nikiforov, none of them had mentioned he had magnets in his hands. Katsuki Yuuri, an amateur scholar in all things Victor-related, starts taking notes on this mysterious phenomenon.

Review:

I’m going to admit I am terribly weak for clingy Victor in fics, and basically this fic has hit all my sweet spots! I love how the author compares Yuuri to a scientist studying a specimen, the way they describes his observations of Victor like a a researcher and he has magnets on him that are attracted to Yuuri! There’s also some very mild angst in it, mostly from Yuuri’s own thoughts and anxieties, it’s really hard to describe what I feel but it’s very well written and the descriptions are A+++

Recommended by: @domokunrainbowkinz

h0ldthiscat  asked:

oh. mah. gah. the stars have aligned and my ritual sacrifices have been answered. you are TOO KIND. yes please I would love to give you a prompt since you so generously offered! i would love to see a small piece that involves mulder, scully, and queequeg. make of that what you will! *disappears into the ether*

Your wish is my command. 

+ + + + 

I hesitate before I knock on Scully’s door.  I’m standing in the hallway like an asshole when a couple of her neighbors walk by.  I nod.  They nod.  Scully’s neighbors like me, mostly.  They see the badge and don’t think about what it means.  Even the occasional breakout of police tape across her door doesn’t seem to dissuade them.

Anyway.  I’m stalling.  Not because I don’t want to see Scully.  The day I don’t want to see Scully will be a world event.  Not because of the case (although I can already tell it’s not going to be one of her favorites - the assignments we get shunted off on us from other departments rarely interest her).  

It’s because of the dog.

Look, I know dogs are carnivores, I know people are meat, I know all of that.  But this little puffball gives me the creeps.  You’d think he could have waited a little longer before he started chowing down on his former owner.  We don’t keep regular hours, and what if Scully runs out of dog food?  Is he going to take a couple of fingers for an appetizer while she digs out the kibble?  

Anyway.  I steel my nerves and knock on the door.  "Scully, it’s me,“ I say, and I hear her undo the locks.  Queequeg yaps and yaps.  I guess the feeling is mutual.  I wonder if her neighbors like him.

"Come in,” Scully tells me.  She’s got a towel in her hands.  Queequeg dances around her feet.  She’s been doing the dishes, it looks like.  I should do the dishes.  It’s such a responsible adult activity.  I guess I could wash the chopsticks that come with my takeout.  "I’ll just be a minute.  Have a seat.“

Q and I stare each other down.  Those beady little black eyeballs give me the creeps.  Dogs should have big brown friendly eyes and drooly, jowly faces, not button eyes and sharp little teeth.  I move toward the couch and he crabwalks along, still giving me the thousand yard stare.  If he can see that far.  All that fluff around his eyes seems like it would impede his vision.

We shamble toward the couch like a couple of gunslingers afraid to take their eyes off each other.  I break first and sit down.  Immediately Q is bounding up onto the couch (how?  It’s at least twice as tall as he is) and, as always, straight onto my lap.  

I like to think I’m not a particularly vain guy.  I do all right, and I’ve used my apparent charms to good advantage more than once.  Nothing big, just the nicest piece of pie in the diner (not a euphemism) or a skip to the head of the rental car line.  Mostly.  Anyway, leaving the rest of it aside, the one thing I do care about, the thing I spend my parents’ ill-gotten gains on, is my suits.  Armani.  Hugo Boss.  Suits with drape and structure.  Suits made of wool like butter.  Every one of them dark (nothing like Scully’s cranberry and taupe numbers for me).  Every one of them a perfect magnet for orange dog fluff.  

Enter Queequeg.   Doesn’t matter if I put the file on my lap.  He’s scratched through several case reports.  Doesn’t matter if I have anything else balanced on my knees.  Doesn’t matter if I stand up - he jumps and jumps until the net effect is the same.  The only difference is that if I don’t sit down, my balls don’t get stomped on by tiny little rocks with razors in them, but then Scully gets this face like she’s waiting for me to bolt, like we’re so far off the beaten path that I can’t even pretend to be some kind of functional human with manners, and I just can’t take that little pained crease between her eyebrows.  So I sit, and suddenly it’s dog from my knees to my hips.  How something that small takes up so much space is the real X-File, but here’s a first: I have no desire to investigate.

So there I am, sitting on her couch, lap full of dog, and he’s doing his best impersonation of an elephant staging a very localized stampede.  I’m holding the file up over him so I can read through it again.  If I try to move, he yaps.  If I stay still, he yaps.  If I turn a page, he yaps.  Meanwhile, he’s shedding like there’s some kind of intense windstorm happening, and I just had this suit cleaned.  Scully comes in, hands all dry.  

"It’s nice that Queequeg likes you,” she says, and god, she’s smiling that sweet, melty little smile she gets every once in a while and I can never muster any resistance against it.

“Yeah, he’s great,” I say, because what else am I going to do?  I’ve stepped on enough of her few and far between moments of happiness.  

“What have you got?” she asks, settling at the far end of the couch.  She’s wearing a cardigan I hadn’t seen at the office.  It looks comfortable, and strangely devoid of orange fluff.  Meanwhile, I’ve turned the corner of hairball and am heading toward full-blown muppet status.

“A few interesting robberies,” I tell her.  Queequeg yaps in my face.  "They’d like us to work up a profile.“  Q yaps again.  "Maybe you should just read it on your own, since I seem to be inspiring a lot of commentary tonight.”  Q cocks his head at me.  Outfoxed by a dog.  Again.  I hand the file over and sink into my corner.  

Devil-dog not withstanding, I can’t deny all of this feels cozy and domestic, which is not something I frequently experience.  Scully pulls her feet up and tucks them under herself, absorbed in absorbing the details in the file.  There’s a fire in the fireplace crackling quietly to itself.  Queequeg settles down, de-escalating our mutually assured destruction.  He might be some kind of evil dust bunny masquerading as a dog, but he’s warm.  In a way it’s comforting.  I lift one hand to pet him and he gives me a little glare, but doesn’t bark.  Good boy.  Scully makes a little “hmmm” noise and tucks her hair behind her ear.  I just breathe in the whole moment and hold it in my lungs for as long as I can.  Maybe some of this peace will diffuse into my blood and create some kind of antibody to the chaos that seems to infect my life.  Scully glances at me, probably noticing the hitch in my breath, and I just smile at her and pet her stupid dog, who’s trying to work his claws through my suit trousers and leaving a spot of drool on my knee.  

There are worse things than a daily trip to the dry cleaners.