photographer's grip

mulders-boyish-enthousiasm  asked:

How would Scully react to Mulder dropping a condom wrapping in the office?

not fucking well, dude. i just realized this wasn’t in the office, sorry!

set… post one son.


She misses him. This detail is what sometimes turns that steady simmer of annoyance – always present, even on their best days, it’s just elemental to feel whittled and weakened by him, just as it is to feel his necessity – into a rapid, unforgiving boil. And she loathes it as much as he does. This anger wears her down. This anger makes her stupid. She is weighed by it, can’t control it. And when she misses him, it’s even harder to rationalize.

But how could she not miss him? Mulder rewrites everything she has ever known about companionship. There is a seeking missile in him that works and works to pinpoint all that Dana Scully is missing in her life, and then it works to fill it.

And he is sweet. Oh, he is sweet. The gentler side of Mulder is actually all grit: the sandpaper of it smooths her out, those rugged, wary edges of her oscillating mistrust. He doesn’t listen. He never listens. He is his own first thought when he wakes up and he is the one he falls asleep to. He betrayed her. But he helps her with her coat at the end of a long work day. He is patient with her, does not take her resentment for granted. He is a shock-absorber for her bitterness. A continent-jumper, all in her honor. He carries on with his half of their partnership as if nothing had changed, his unshakable optimism imploring her that it really hadn’t. He flirts with her. He fights with her. He gets her coffee right.

But this morning he takes it further. She begins to wonder how deep her hostility cuts him – she begins to worry. He comes into the office in a rumpled suit, his face unshaven. He downs aspirin and coffee in three hour intervals. It had been almost a year since she had seen him this disheveled, back when he had nothing to believe in.

Except for her.

He clings to her. In every other way but physically, finds a million different things to talk about, fills up even the healthy silences with his rambling chatter. “Scully?” he asks. Every time she takes too long to answer. “Scully?” And that total relief when she looks up to reply. He stays in the basement for lunch, eats nothing, when she tells him she brought her lunch with her. Follows her when she checks on results from the print lab. She’s annoyed, but mostly bewildered. Then there’s the physical. His hand on her back, yes, but her shoulders, too, her wrists. It bothers her that she doesn’t mind it so much. She can’t remember the last time she really had to take care of Mulder.

“Are you alright?” she runs her hand through his hair. She misses that, too. He looks up at her, startled, but quickly molds his face into something more neutral.

“Just not feeling well, Scully.”

She doesn’t press. She’s too doubtful of her place in Mulder’s life too often, these days. But she does let him cling. She softens her voice when she speaks to him. She doesn’t brush him off, she let’s go of all of the hurt, at least for the day. He seems more than grateful for it, almost to the point of awe. It bothers her… that she doesn’t mind it so much. That she needs to be needed like this.

At the end of the day, they’re putting on their coats. Their quiet is easy and Mulder, for the most part, appears recuperated. He drapes her in her wool, like always, keeps his hands on her for a little longer than necessary. She waits for him while he slips into his suit jacket, figuring they might as well ride out together.

“I was thinking… about those prints they lifted from the victim’s car. There’s something off about the sebaceous composition. The lab says they’ve never seen it before.” She lets him lead her to her car in the bustling garage, handing out her peace offering without the hint of a smile.  “Why don’t you come over and explain to me why that means it couldn’t possibly be terrestrial in nature?”

His face lights up. God, damn him. She feels like she’s been kicking a puppy in the same tender spots for months and months. “Scully, I thought you’d never ask.” He reaches into his pocket for his own keys. “I’ll bring pizza. You still eat that, right? If you think I’m going to argue with a Dana Scully fueled on nothing but coffee and granola – shit.” Not paying attention, his keys fall to the ground with a metal splatter.

“Here, let me – “ she bends down to scoop them up, but freezes when her eyes hit the concrete.

That dark, primordial filth inside of her, the rigid tension in her protoplasm. She blacks out, like she always does. In these moments she only has the capacity to feel everything wrong. She slowly picks up the keys, and the empty condom wrapper along with it.

“Scully,” Mulder says. “Scully.”

He uses too many words. The details of an event write themselves on his face so plainly. In ruined seconds she pieces out, from his guilty, avoidant eyes and the slowness with which he forms his thoughts, what happened, who it happened with. A full case report with only a mental photograph. Her grip around the keys and wrapper tightens, but he won’t take them from her. So she lets them fall back on the floor.

She never remembers what it’s like to hate someone this much. What inspires a woman to run her lover over with her car, empty out her gun into his heart, play in the meat left over. She’s in her car before she knows it, yanking the door out of his hands with less force than she meant for. In that moment, she doesn’t miss him.

Love in Other Words
(Part Two of Two)

Part One

By the time Jamie caught up to Ian and Claire, Ian had worn down much of Claire’s resistance. When she saw Jamie and the pleading in his eyes, the rest dissolved. She had come for more than just herself; she had come to bring him news of his daughter and was slightly ashamed to have been so quick to run away.

That didn’t make the prospect of meeting with him in the house he shared with another woman any more palatable, however.

With Ian accompanying them on the walk to that house, there was little either was comfortable saying to the other. Luckily, the lad––who had come to Edinburgh to surprise his uncle and enjoy himself––was more than happy with the excitement of the unexpected turn of events.

“Mam says ye’re the one told her to start plantin’ potatoes and that it’s a right miracle ye did,” he informed Claire as he worked on recounting everything he’d ever heard said of her, the mysterious aunt who healed folk and seemed to have the sight––might even be a fairy or possibly a witch.

“That’s right,” Claire confirmed for him.

“Dinna talk yer auntie’s ear off before we even get home,” Jamie chided, then flushed as he caught Claire looking sideways at him.

Claire took a deep breath as Ian ran ahead to the front door of what must be Jamie and Mary’s house; it looked like the two houses on either side had crowded in on it and in response it had sucked in it’s stomach and raised itself on its toes in an attempt to be taller and skinnier.

Jamie’s hand was suddenly on her elbow helping to guide her up the steps and through the door behind Ian.

It smelled wonderful. Mary had meat roasting in a deep skillet set at the edge of the hearth and Claire thought she smelled some vegetables and butter alongside them. The space, while small, was clean, warm, and inviting. There was already a small pallet in one corner with blankets that Ian was arranging for his use that evening. There were a few shelves with books, a shadow of the study and library he’d had at Lallybroch; perhaps he had even printed those copies himself. A pair of chairs sat opposite each other near the hearth, a basket of knitting and mending next to one, the other in reach of the bookshelves. Claire could easily picture them sitting together in the evening, Mary mending Jamie’s shirt while he read to her.

Jamie kept contact with Claire, his hand drifting from her elbow to the small of her back as he led her inside.

Mary appeared from the doorway that led to the kitchen and dining area and smiled encouragingly at Claire.

“Supper will be ready presently. Jamie can show ye upstairs to wash if ye like.”

Claire turned to Jamie who nodded but she could also see the self-consciousness in the flush creeping up his neck.

The stairway was narrow and steep and Claire was incredibly aware of everything around her as Jamie opened to what could only be the bedroom he shared with Mary. The bed sported two distinct depressions––she couldn’t help noting the space between them; there was a single small table that they clearly shared with Mary’s brush and hair pins on one side and a small stack of paper with a bottle of ink and a single quill marking Jamie’s side.

Claire spotted the second smaller table with its basin and ewer and a small mirror next to the door and moved to do something that, after years of surgery, she found incredibly calming. Jamie poked around the room while Claire poured the water and scrubbed away the dust and sweat of her journey then dampened a nearby cloth to wipe it from her face and neck too. She caught Jamie’s reflection in the mirror watching her from a seat on the edge of the bed as she toyed with some loose tendrils of her hair, repinning them and patting down the frizz.

It was easier for her to begin while not looking at him directly.

“I thought he was your son,” she said quietly.

“I ken what ye thought,” Jamie admitted. “He’s more a son to me than any of Jenny and Ian’s other bairns––they’ve six and near twice as many grandbairns now… But I’ve no children with Mary.”

There was a beat and Claire waited for him to finish the thought or by any other women but when his eyes found hers––even in the reflection of the mirror––she could see that it wasn’t coming. His fear that she would flee again was also evident when his eyes drifted from hers to the door just a foot away. She swallowed then carefully rinsed and wrung out the dirty cloth she’d been using before folding it and setting it next to the basin.

“I do have a son, but I need ye to let me explain,” he begged.

Claire nodded and moved to sit beside him on the bed, her hands flat on the fabric of her skirt.

“Go ahead,” she told him keeping her eyes on the fading redness in her fingers from where she had scrubbed the skin hard from habit.

Jamie told her about his time at Helwater and Ardsmuir before that; about Major Grey and how his brother had spared his life after Culloden; he told her about the cave and the one night he shared there with Mary.

“When we wed––Mary and I––she said that night had been consummation enough though it was years before. That night before I was handed over… she was right––it gave me something that helped me when I went to Ardsmuir… but it took something from me too,” Jamie tried to explain. He couldn’t look at Claire but he could feel her sitting there beside him listening and saying nothing. “I think she didna want me to lose more of whatever it was… that what there was to gain wasna enough to justify that loss.”

“And… you lost some of that with… with the woman at Helwater?” Claire asked.

Jamie nodded. “I dinna quite ken what it is but… I think it’s to do with you… with the man I was when I was with ye; the man ye made me.”

“Did the boy––your son––did… did he give some of it back?”

The corner of Jamie’s mouth ticked up but Jamie shrugged. “Perhaps. He was a braw lad and did bring me joy though I couldna claim him for my own. I didna see him much when he was a wee thing––more when he got so he could walk and would make his nurses mad wi’ findin’ trouble. His mother’s family would ha’ let him commit murder wi’out taking him to task but he minded me well enough and the horses fascinated him. I could see… He didna have my hair––and thank the lord for small miracles for that… but I could see a bit of myself in him and the way he looked. I always… wondered…” Jamie peeked up at Claire then but she was still looking at her hands in her lap. “I wondered… did he look like his brother? Was Brian that old when he walked first or started talkin’… I didna think you would be so indulgent as William’s nurses were.”

“Brian?” Claire blinked, momentarily confused.

Jamie watched tears flood her eyes as his meaning settled and Claire reached for something in her skirt pocket, something that rustled.

“You can see for yourself,” she explained extricating a small packet that had some sort of shiny film encasing it. “But, your William doesn’t have an older brother,” she handed him the packet. They seemed to be some sort of printed paper but of a thick stock and with a shiny finish that was different from the transparent film that Claire had removed. “I called her Brianna,” Claire told him, adjusting the item in his hands so that he could make out the image of a swaddled newborn. “She’s named for both your parents, actually––Brianna Ellen. She did inherit your hair…” Claire pointed to one of the images that was brightly colored, the lass’ ruddy hair vibrant enough to touch. She moved that image behind to stack to bring a new one to the front. Brianna looked out from the photo with annoyance and disgust as laughs escaped both Jamie and Claire. “She’s got more than a bit of your temper and stubbornness too.”

“She’s beautiful, Claire,” Jamie said, his voice full of tears and his fingers gripping the photographs tightly.

She looked up at him with worry. His eyes were still locked on the photos though she knew he couldn’t see them through the tears.

“I’m… I’m so sorry I couldna… that I canna…” he mumbled.

Instinctively Claire slipped an arm around him and guided his head till it came to rest on her shoulder. The photos fluttered as his grip loosened and they drifted to the floor, his freed hands and arms tightening desperately around Claire. She clung to him, too.

“Do ye think… Do ye feel…” Jamie mumbled into her hair.

“What do I feel?” Claire asked before sighing and letting her head rest against his, her cheek pressed to the warmth of his throat. “I feel… tired. I’m tired of missing you; I’m tired of being angry with you for making me go; I’m tired of being scared of what you’ll think or what you’ll say.” As she spoke her tears flowed freely, wetting his throat and dribbling down the back of his neck. She was vaguely aware of his tears dampening the collar of her dress. “I’m tired of living without you.”

“Aye… In twenty years there’s not a day I’ve not thought of ye and longed to have ye with me… that I’ve no wanted to talk to ye or just have yer hand to hold,” he murmured. “Now ye’re here… If ye go again…”

Claire sniffed and turned her face away from his neck, keeping her cheek pressed to his shoulder but looking at the table with Mary’s things on it.

“And what about Mary? If you didn’t have another wife…”

Jamie’s deep breath shuddered through Claire causing her to pick up her head and pull back to look at him. He rubbed at his red and watery eyes.

“If… If Mary weren’t my wife any longer…”

“I didn’t come here to break apart whatever it is you’ve built with her,” Claire interrupted firmly but with evident pain. “I’ve been close enough to the other side before––”

“Frank had a wife before ye and she came back for him did she?” Jamie quipped but Claire wasn’t amused. Jamie bent to begin retrieving the fallen photographs.

“I might not have loved Frank the way I love you––maybe not even the way you care for Mary––but I’ve been close enough to having someone else upend my entire life without asking. I’m not about to do the same to someone else––especially not someone who’s done nothing wrong,” Claire argued.

“Ye’re right… It’s no the same wi’ me and Mary as it was for you and Frank,” he said rising from the bed to retrieve the scattered photographs from the floor. “She never sought to replace ye or made me feel guilty for no bein’ able to let ye go. She’s been a comfort and no mistake but you…” He set the carefully stacked photographs with his things on the table and crossed to take Claire’s face gently between his hands, making it impossible for her to look away from him. “You alone heal me down to my very soul. Havin’ ye near makes me feel whole again, makes me feel stronger. Ye’re the heart of my life.” He bent his head and kissed the tracks of her tears along her cheeks until she took hold of his wrists and offered him her lips.

The kiss left her breathless and the silence stretched between them as he rested his forehead against hers. They could hear the commotion downstairs as Mary told Ian that supper wasn’t ready just yet and the over-eager teen whined about how hungry he was.

“I should go see if she needs any help,” Claire whispered. “It’s the least I can do.”

Jamie nodded and helped pull Claire to her feet. She led the way while he secreted the photographs of Brianna away.

Once his stomach was full, Ian curled up on the pallet in the corner and promptly fell asleep.

“Did anyone notice whether he turned around three times first?” Claire asked quietly.

It had surprised her how calm everything had been after she and Jamie came back downstairs; Mary smiled and asked Claire about her journey, about where she’d been and what had happened, how she’d heard about Jamie and found him after all this time. It was impossible not to relax confronted with such warmth and welcome. Ian too had chimed in with questions––what was life like for her in France, had she kept in touch with the other Jacobites who had managed to escape, why hadn’t she written to his parents once she was settled to let them know she lived.

“I’m sorry if it feels like I’m questioning ye too much,” Mary apologized, rising to remove the bowls and dirtied plates. “It’s just… ye always were such a mystery even before.”

“Let me help you wash up,” Claire offered taking her own bowl to the kitchen area. She heard Jamie rising and locking the house up for the night, adding a log to the fire and pulling a third chair over.

Alone with Mary, Claire felt compelled to apologize.

“If I had known about you and Jamie…”

Mary waved a dismissive hand at Claire. “If either of ye had kent the truth about the other bein’ still alive, there wouldna be anythin’ for ye to worry yerself over. It shouldna take too long to straighten this mess.”

“You… truly don’t mind?” Claire asked, still unconvinced.

Mary smiled to herself. “I ken ye didna notice me so much about Lallybroch when ye were there––no wi’ what ye had just gone through yerself.”

Claire blushed at the memory of those early days back in Scotland after everything that had happened in France. It did take a while for the comforts of Lallybroch and the reassurance of having Jamie with her where they belonged had healed those still-fresh hurts.

“I noticed you,” she assured Mary. “I don’t know that I ever told you how sorry I was about what happened to your husband––to Ronald, that is.”

Mary nodded. “I tried to dissuade him, ye ken. After the beating Jamie gave him and Rabbie goin’ to work in yer stables. I tried to get him to leave it but he wouldna heed and… Ye’d done my Rabbie a kindness and I tried to repay ye… tried and failed. And Mistress… that is… Jenny––she and Ian showed still more kindness givin’ me a place at Lallybroch too after the fire. And when ye came back and Rabbie had his fits…”

Claire heard the thickening of Mary’s voice as she rambled and the somewhat strangled noise as Mary swallowed her tears.

“I ken what ye would say––that ye’d have done as much for anyone––and I’m sure ye would. You and Jamie both… It’s just yer way. But it’s meant so much to me and mine… Yer Jamie needed someone to turn to when ye were gone and I’ve tried to be that for him since I couldna prevent what Ronald did before… I think I’ve done him some good though what he needed of me wasna what I first expected. Now ye’re here the best good I can do for both of ye is to let ye be. No… I truly dinna mind.”

Claire crossed and wrapped Mary in a hug surprising the other woman into briefly laughing before returning the embrace.

“Thank you,” Claire whispered. “Thank you for taking care of him.”

“Ye’re welcome, Mistress.”

Claire shook her head. “Claire. Please… call me Claire.”

“Ye’re welcome, Claire.”

Pulling back and wiping her own damp eyes, Claire rolled up the sleeves of her gown and moved to fetch the large kettle from where it was warming near the hearth, then brought it to the washtub where Mary was depositing the dirty dishes.

“Do you have an idea for what you will like to do once everything is settled? I don’t expect you’ll want to go back to Lallybroch.”

“My Rabbie’s settled in London now––with a wife. He’s asked me to come for a visit a few times now but I’ve no been in a position to do so before…” She looked to Claire conspiratorially casting her glance toward the light from the other room where the crisp sound of a page turning could occasionally be heard amongst the crackling of the fire in the hearth. “I’ve no told Jamie yet––the letter only came yesterday and I didna have a chance to go through it till this morning––but Rabbie writes they’re expectin’ a bairn.”

“Congratulations,” Claire whispered with sincere relief.

“Aye. Ye needna feel ye’re puttin’ me out. Like as not were ye here or no I’d be goin’ to London for a time anyhow. Now I dinna have to feel so torn about comin’ back or no.”

Jamie offered to sleep on the floor by Ian so the two women could have the comfort of a proper bed but Mary wouldn’t hear of it.

You ken better than anyone how easy I sleep in that chair,” Mary teased Jamie. “I enjoy the stories well enough but the sound of his voice sends me straight to sleep,” she explained to Claire. “He tried carryin’ me to bed once and put his back out and I scolded him enough he’s never tried it since.”

Claire pursed her lips as she took in the redness of Jamie’s face.

“Are you sure you don’t sleep better down here because you don’t have to listen to his snoring?” she asked, earning a glare from Jamie.

“I dinna snore so loud as you do, Sassenach.”

“Then I’ll sleep doubly well so far from both of yer snoring,” Mary said ushering the two of them to the stairs with a knowing grin that had Claire blushing alongside Jamie.

Nerves overcame Claire when she and Jamie were alone in the bedroom again. She crossed to where she saw Mary’s things and grabbed up the first things that her hands found.

“Mary will be needing these,” she stammered heading for the door again. “I’ll be right back.”

Mary already had a blanket spread in her lap and her feet propped up on a small footstool when Claire hesitantly approached.

“I thought you might want these,” Claire said, placing them on the floor beside Mary’s chair.

“He’s as nervous as you are,” Mary said quietly, her eyes still closed.

Claire rolled her eyes and slipped away again. Knowing Jamie was nervous too didn’t help quell the anxious fluttering in her stomach but it did steel her resolve.

A sole candle lit the room when Claire eased her way back in. Jamie’s clothes had been folded and set aside next to his boots and stockings. She could make out the shape of him sitting up in bed, waiting for her.

Reaching behind her, Claire took a deep breath that she let out as she pulled the zipper of her dress down to the base of her spine, the loose fabric slipping from her shoulders and baring her torso. The rest of the dress fell to the floor in a whisper of cotton a moment later. She swallowed as she stepped out of the dress, out of her shoes, and approached Jamie’s side of the bed in just her stockings.

“Jamie,” she breathed, extending one leg towards him in the dim, flickering light. “Will you help me with these?” There was nothing teasing or sultry in her voice, just a simple invitation to help them ease their way back into something that had once been accomplished with a look, a touch, a sigh.

Jamie shifted to the edge of the bed, his legs sliding free of the blankets. He took hold of Claire’s calf and gently raised her leg higher, resting her foot on one of his knees. His fingers skimmed their way up the silk stocking to find the garter holding it in place a few inches up her thigh and finding the gooseflesh his touch had raised when he overshot his mark.

The silk of her stocking was replaced by the light touch of his lips on her sensitive inner knee. Lowering one leg, she offered him the other and he did the same, resting his hand on her hip when he was done and guiding her closer to him till she stood between his knees. Her hands found their way into his hair, pulling his head back so he had to look her in the eye.

“Ye’re beautiful,” he whispered. “I’ve never wanted ye more than I do right now.”

She believed him and leaned into his kiss. He pulled her to him, easing back onto his elbows as she knelt above him on the bed before reaching between them and taking him into her. He closed his eyes for a moment, his head lolling back, then a smile lit his face.

“I thought when ye walked into the print shop ye must be a vision––one of my dreams escaped the night and found its way to me in the day,” he murmured as Claire slowly rocked her hips.

“Do you need me to pinch you to prove you’re not dreaming?” Claire offered. Her hand slid through the sparse hair on his chest as she reached for and found one of his nipples, gently squeezing between her thumb and forefinger and making his breath catch, his hands tighten on her waist.

“No, I ken ye’re no a dream,” he said, his hands applying pressure to her hips guiding her slowly forward and then back. “I could always tell when I took ye in a dream that there was something missing––I could feel my blood poundin’ wi’ yearning for ye but my chest felt empty. It’s full now, though; you are my heart restored to me. I am whole again.”

We are whole again,” Claire informed him before bending to kiss him once more and smiling against him as his need refused to be contained and he rolled with her so he could ride her hard and fast. They had all night and twenty years to make a start of remedying.

Witching Hour

Word Count: 1.1K

Genre: Smut + Angst

Pairing: Kihyun x Reader

Summary: Photographer Kihyun AU

Yoo Kihyun had an eye for the beauty found in the simplicity of everyday life.

The way the sunset danced off  the branches of trees stretching up tall towards the sky. Puddles fresh after rain reflecting God’s apology and hope for a new day. Even eyes that reflected emotions that ran so deep a mortal couldn’t decipher them. The rain dripped slowly, washing clear luminescence over the cafe windows turning people and structures into distorted figures with nowhere to go. One figure stood out amongst the mundanity.

Ethereal. That was the only word Kihyun knew to describe you. Your presence was ephemeral, for a moment you were there only to disappear within the next. This occurred for 3 days. Your eyes would meet through the window of the coffee shop only for you to walk around the corner disappearing into thin air. He imagined if your lips were as soft as they appeared to be, he wanted to make love to you with such vigor that you’d begin to question the realms of fantasy and real life.

But that’s what troubled him most.

It’s a crescent moon tonight. Kihyun is in love with the way she hides herself from the world, going through frequent phases of life. He reaches for his camera pointing and focusing the lens towards the sky, his finger releases the button slowly the sound of the shutter satisfying him in the deepest parts of himself. The moon is nothing compared to you, how nothing quite compares to you; you represent the vivacity of life.

Kihyun doesn’t expect it when you appear in front of his lens, his finger moving faster than his brain capturing you in your essence. He doesn’t even wonder when you somehow found yourselves sitting at his kitchen table steam encasing the short distance that separates you.

It’s midnight by the time he’s been able to catch his breath laughter filling the crinkle of his eyes and open spaces in his ribs. Nothing compares to the way your cheeks light up incandescently as you swear “It’s even better in person. “ One of the great loves of his life, Kihyun called his work motioning to the hundreds of photographs that littered the walls connected by clotheslines and pins. Each work different defining the minimalistic but deafening style of his works. He was praised and adorned by appraisers, he loved seeing the juxtaposition between those who viewed his work as a commodity and those who saw it as an expression of beauty.

Fantasy and reality coexist like pleasure and pain. One cannot be found without the other nearby, the balance of life.

It’s 1:00 AM, when his hands find their way to your waist and your lips to his neck, he tries not to think too much about the fact that you’ve just met and barely learned each other’s names just a few hours ago. The sound of the rain against the window calms his tense nerves, along with the way you tenderly kiss the skin beneath his ear. He admits the feeling is not foreign to him, himself having indulged in quite a few meaningless encounters before; but with you it feels vivacious. He taste life on your lips as his tongue runs against them craving entrance.

Kihyun eases you onto the bed watching the way your figure transforms under the crimson lights. He apologizes for the lack of space because after all few artists can ever be separated from their work.  Tables take up space in the corners of the room each covered with developing film immersed in chemical baths. The clothespins that covered every inch of the kitchen reappear in the room touching corners just as Kihyun’s hands meet your thighs.  Suddenly it’s as if your bodies have known each other for years, when sweat lines the nape of his neck as he pushes your leg back wanting to feel you just  a bit more.

You’re close and he can tell by the way you tighten around him, arms gripping his in an attempt to stop your orgasm from hitting you. It’s pure ecstasy for Kihyun, and  as he wished, you were beginning to question whether this was real or a dream you had conjured in order to escape the qualms of life. Your moans are music to his ears a symphony even Mozart couldn’t create, he meets your eyes guarded by heavy lids falling victim to the sensations Kihyun was creating. He couldn’t hold on much longer, the curve of your lips and the shape of your eyes were becoming a memory that he wedged between visions of clear skies and steaming cups of black coffee. He tensed for a moment, pulling away to litter your skin with viscous ropes of white.

“Kihyun.” You whisper, your voice is quiet but heavy in the small space between you.

“Y/N.” For a second Kihyun doesn’t recognize his own voice, he laughs to himself knowing the moment you touched his thigh he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself.

The moment you’ve both stepped out of the shower and found comfort in his sheets, sleep has found its way to you both. Kihyun’s sleep is dreamless and restless he tosses and turns till his mind is forcing him upright into the glowing hue of crimson. It’s 3:00 AM the vermillion digits mocking him, he looks to his side expectant hope filling his chest only to deflate at the absence of you. Kihyun rises from the bed sidestepping the cords and lines that connect and meet within his space, he searches for anything that has connection to you but comes up empty.

His throat feels dry as he reaches the kitchen, hands pulling at the hair on the nape of his neck. The connection couldn’t have been one sided or at least that was what Kihyun told himself as he made his way back to his makeshift darkroom. He searched among the bins for the film he had developed earlier, hoping your face would make it’s way amongst the blur and chaos. Until he found it…

Fantasy and reality coexist like pleasure and pain. One cannot be found without the other nearby, the balance of life.

Kihyun lifted the photo gently as if he was holding new life, sure that somehow his vision was betraying his consciousness. Where your silhouette had once illuminated the photograph was merely a  blur of white, leaving no evidence that your existence was even a possibility.

“Kihyun..” He was startled at the mention of his name dropping the photograph to the floor gripping the edge of the table.

After all it was 3:00 AM.

Together (Nathan Prescott x Reader)

Gif Credit to: © omgclaudiascum

Fandom- ℓιfє ιѕ ѕтяαиgє

Character(s)- Nathan Prescott

Words- 5,133

Prompt: Not gonna give it out but just; something I thought of.

Prompt Credit: my toilet.



Warnings- Language, Blindfolded, Having photos taken of you, Needles, Negative Comments directed at you, Gender-Neutral pronouns (They/Them/Their)


“Good morning, Nathan!” You greeted with a smile, walking over to the male who wrapped an arm around your shoulders. You two have been best friends ever since you moved to Arcadia Bay. At first, he was your bully more than your friend. He’s always call you names, pick on you for what you would wear, how you’d talk, and your weight. But eventually, you and him started talking after being near him during one of his breakdowns. He needed comfort, and you were the only one present at the time so you gave him what he needed. Nathan never did apologize to you for being so mean and a bully, but that didn’t matter to you. You were always the type to just accept and move on…and Nathan liked that about you.

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Undeveloped Photo (1/?)

 Summary : Jung Hoseok is an average dancer in the crew NEURON; though his group has been getting more popular and known for the lead dancer’s attractive features and magnificent abilities with his feet due to a certain photographer. This photographer is getting a bit more attention from the dancer with each encounter.

Ship: Yoonseok/Sope

Members: Yoongi & Hoseok

Genre: Fluff

AU: Modern Day

Word Count: 978

Originally posted by myloveseokjin

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You turned out of instinct, startled, toward the voice: Cas, appearing in the middle of your room from nowhere as he was wont to do. 

“God,” you said in a breathy laugh, hand at your chest, “You scared the hell out of me.”

“I’m sorry,” Cas replied, his brow furrowed in sincerity as he crossed over to you. He held a thin, white parcel in his hands, fingers playing at the edges. “I got them printed and just wanted to show you.”

You had to stop for a second as the whole of your chest, your heart, everything felt as though it had constricted at the sight of this angel with the shy smile gripping his photographs to show you. Your breath hitched and you held it as you thought of him out on the road with Sam and Dean with his forehead against the backseat window, making them pull over so he could snap a few shots of a sunset or a sky or even himself to show you later, to let you know that you had been there with him, even in a small sense. 

You nodded your head quickly and let out a half-incredulous laugh, amazed every day that you were the one he wanted to spend these quiet in-between moments with.

“Of course, Cas,” you said, patting the space on your bed beside you. “Show me your pictures.”


Imagine Gifting Cas a Camera Since He’s Always Telling You He Wishes You Were With Him

More gif imagines!

Pointed my Camera to my muse Haley @bahamian_girl1518 on set of Photographer Paradise. 📷

MUA: @shaunasinclairmua

GRIPS: @rahming.s @hiramcphotography

#bahamasphotographer #nassauphotographer #photographer #atlanta #atlantaphotographer #magazine #ellements #art #makeup

In Sickness and In Health (Part 4 of 4, COMPLETE)

Fandom: Miraculous Ladybug
Pairing: Marinette Dupain-Cheng x Chat Noir, Marinette x Adrien
Rating: Teen
Words: 11153

Read on AO3
Part One  Part Two  Part Three

It is done. @outsidethecavern @arejayelle @panda013 and everyone else who is interested!

“Did you see the video from that akuma attack last night?”

Alya’s voice echoes down the hallway, loud enough to be heard before Adrien even reaches the classroom. He smiles at that - the infamous Ladyblogger didn’t seem to have an off switch, even at seven in the morning. It was as strange as it was heartening, having such a big fan of him and Ladybug sat right behind him in class.

“You know I didn’t, Alya,” a voice pipes up. Marinette.

Adrien can’t tell if he should speed up or slow down. Seeing Marinette’s face (always painted pink when she looks at him, Adrien) is a compelling reason to enter class, but at the same time, he’s curious to hear what the two girls have to say about Ladybug and (hopefully) her dashing partner. It’s early, the hallways mostly empty of anyone who might question why he’s lingering outside of the classroom. He waits.

“I still don’t get why you’re not all about Ladybug and Chat Noir,” Alya huffs, “They’re pretty much the two coolest people ever.”

Marinette laughs heartily. He can practically envision her rolling her eyes - she’s preternaturally good at amused indignance. “It’s not that I don’t care about them,” she says, “It’s just that I’ve got enough on my plate without obsessing over two spandex superhumans, unlikesomeone I know…”

There’s more laughter, and a brief scuffle Adrien can only assume is some kind of play fight. When their giggles die down, Marinette speaks again. “Okay, fine, show me the video.”

“I knew I’d win you over, girl,” Alya says.

“Yeah, yeah…”

At this point, Adrien’s looming is bordering on creepy, but he hasn’t gotten caught yet. As devoid of people as the school is, Adrien has to guess that the flu is still running rampant. It’s currently proving to work to his advantage. From the classroom drift the tinny sounds of screams and rumbling. Last night’s akuma hadn’t been particularly difficult for him and Ladybug to take down, but it had certainly put on quite the show.

“Did you see that?” Alya exclaims, “Look at Ladybug’s sick move there with the street sign! Her reflexes have got to be amazing.”

“But did you see Chat’s dodge there? He not only managed disarm the akuma, but open up an attack for Ladybug and avoid getting hit. That’s really impressive.”

The warmth and pride that radiates from her voice nearly does him in then and there. Adrien wants to see her face, see how she watches him on the screen of Alya’s phone. He makes up his mind and enters the classroom.

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A Home, Once and for All

A PJO Mass Effect AU, 120% inspired by @spookypineapples art of Commander Annabeth in her N7 hoodie, here. I wanted to write a few snapshots focusing on Annabeth in her hoodie and very much got carried away. A little over 10k words. Warnings for language and maybe some violence? Featuring a bunch of our fave characters.




Two days before her birthday, Connor Stoll finds her at a table in the mess hall and hands her a neatly wrapped package, and he is grinning about it.

Annabeth feels it’s only wise to be wary. “What is it,” she asks, in the same manner she might inquire about a wrapped pile of explosive varren droppings placed in her lap. She lifts the box. It is light. It does not rattle when shaken. It is entirely too nondescript for the expectant look on Connor Stoll’s face. “Connor.”

“Just open it, Commander.”

She opens it. Sitting inside the box, nestled between thin tissue paper and neatly folded, is a black hooded sweatshirt. She lifts it free. A red stripe runs down the right arm, and embroidered at the chest is her N7 insignia, a badge long fought for with violence and blood. The cloth is thick and warm and surprisingly soft, and she’s staring at it overly long, she knows she is, but–there’s a knot in her throat and a tremor in her fingers and she blinks, hard.

“You pick this up on the Citadel?” she asks, rubbing a thumb down that red, red stripe, so much like her armor.

“Specialty shop.” Connor leans forward on her toes, hands in his pockets. “You like it?”

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anonymous asked:

you were asking for prompts for reylo so i was thinking of ren thinking finn is trying to date Rey and gets really jealous but it turns out Finns actually datine Poe and it ends with Rey and Kylo hooking up B)c (or if you dont like Finnpoe just jealous!Kylo is great)

Prompt written: Jealous!Kylo

His fingers were twitching. That partially stemmed from the unrelenting heat of this Force-forsaken jungle planet, and partially due to the fact that he really, really itched to forcibly pull the expatriate Stormtrooper away from her and throttle the life from his body.

“Rey, we’re going the wrong way! Look, just give me the map and – “

“Hands off, Finn! I told you I’d get us there, and I’ll bloody get us there!”

Four hours.

He had been subject to this for four hours.

Kylo Ren could only wonder at the Resistance’s complete ineptitude if they were sending these two on a reconnaissance mission already – although they had apparently managed to decimate the Starkiller base with surprising efficiency, so perhaps there was something to this after all.

But he quickly shook off thoughts of that ill-fated base, because those thoughts inevitably led to him thinking about a particular force-sensitive girl. The one who had saw fit to brand him, carving her mark upon his face just as surely and ruthlessly as she had done to his mind.

Despite the way in which their duel had ended months ago, the spark of pleasure in his chest had been surprisingly strong upon seeing Rey on his way to the First Order’s base here. His strange elation at the sight of her, face flushed and eyes determined as she marched through the overgrown jungle, had only been slightly dampened at the realization that she hadn’t been alone.

But he had been able to tolerate it…at least, until the touching had begun.

“Rey, look out – ah, gotcha!”

Watching the ex-Stormtrooper – what even was his name? Fly? Fern? – catch Rey as she tripped on a protruding tree root, tugging her protectively against his body, set Kylo’s fingers to twitching again. Only this time, the twitch was towards his lightsaber.

This was the third time in as much as an hour that this had happened, and Kylo Ren was almost tempted to show them the way to the damn base himself…but the only thing that would achieve was an hour of listening to Hux scream himself hoarse at him, and the brief pleasure Kylo would gain from ending their mission and getting the boy the hell away from Rey wasn’t quite worth that.

Resigning himself to yet another few hours of surveying the two hapless interlopers without revealing himself (for it was best that they departed none the wiser as to the presence of the First Order base), his head snapped up at the sudden pair of alarmed cries that rang faintly through the barrier of vines and leaves.

The ex-Stormtrooper’s distress barely registered – had it not been for the fact that rancors weren’t indigenous to this planet, Kylo would have fervently wished that the boy was being currently eaten by one. But the other one was…


Ignoring the intruding thoughts of what his Master would say (or worse, do) if he were to witness it, Kylo strode into the consuming depths of the jungle.


Apparently no one (namely, the Resistance) had thought to warn the two agents of the labyrinth of caverns that lurked beneath the surface of this planet.

Deep within one, far below from where the earth had suddenly crumbled and swallowed the former Stormtrooper and his companion, Kylo Ren knelt beside the prone figure of Rey.

She breathed yet, the steady rise and fall of her chest a reassuring match to her continued, thriving presence in the Force that Kylo had immediately checked on.

The worst of her injuries were limited to the deep bruises and scratches that painted her slim body, and a jagged cut upon her face that perversely mirrored his own.

His fingers smeared the congealing blood as he skimmed them over the wounds, healing them through the Force, erasing the ugly marks from her visage and limbs. After all, nothing short of his own blade, matched fiercely against hers in battle, was worthy of tainting her skin.

Black-clad hands lingered over her cheek, feathered over the contours of her lips, traced the soft curve of her brow. Her face was just as he remembered it – albeit lacking in the defiance and sadness it had bore in the interrogation room, absent of the beautiful pain and anger that had contorted it during their fight. In repose, he decided distantly, the peace she exuded was simply intoxicating.

He exhaled slowly, clenching his hand and withdrawing it from her.

Idly, and with nothing more to occupy him until she stirred, he set about gathering her scattered things. A pack – a bit worse for wear after her tumble – from which had spilled the usual tools of survival, as well as an old, worn blaster (some latent part of him constricted with pain when he recognized the model, and realized to whom it must have previously belonged). His grandfather’s lightsaber, he noted, was missing from the bag – a quick scan of the cave revealed its lack of presence there, as well as the fact that she must not have had it with her in the first place.

Kylo picked up the last remaining possession from the floor, a sneer working its way across his mouth beneath his mask. The photograph he gripped crinkled as he stared intently at it. It was of Rey, although not a Rey he had ever had the opportunity to encounter. She was smiling shyly, surrounded on one side by the pain-in-the-ass pilot he had been granted the pleasure of breaking, and on the other was that cursed ex-Stormtrooper. The Wookie (Chewbacca, the weak, weary part of himself supplied) stood behind her, his paw resting on her shoulder with affection.

One further second of staring at it, and then he leisurely closed his fingers about the pitiful scrap of paper. It was compressed into a satisfying, irreparably damaged ball within the confines of his hand.

He cocked his head as a quiet rustle sounded behind him.

An abrupt sense of warning gripped him, and Kylo swiftly ducked. A sizable rock, one that had apparently been aimed at his head, soared past him and shattered into pieces against the cavern’s wall. He stood unmoving even as the shards clinked against the hard floor.

“If you had used the Force,” he said calmly, pivoting around to regard the awake, panting girl on the ground. “You might have had a chance to send that through my skull without me being ever the wiser. But you are still untrained, I see.”

She replied sharply in a language unknown to him, but from the vitriolic tone of it, he felt secure in supposing her response was none-too-kind.

He watched as she struggled on the floor, subtly noted the way in which she favored her right leg over her left. When she lost her fight for balance, pitching forwards with a pained gasp, he easily caught her by the forearms.

“Don’t touch me!” she shouted, rearing back from him with a look of panic. All that achieved was her landing resoundingly and ungracefully on the ground yet again, glaring up at him.

Folding his arms, he pointed out reasonably, “You can’t even manage to stand. Does it really matter who aids you in that?”

“It does if that person is an evil bastard!” Her hand was already groping around behind her for another rock. Kylo was torn between commending her seeming determination to cause him bodily harm and exasperation at her unyielding tenacity.

Rey’s brown eyes flashed with alarm as he took one step, then another, until he was crouched before her and her back was painfully pressed against rock and stone. His arms raised to encase her, palms resting against the cold, uneven wall behind her.

“Evil is relative, Rey,” he informed her softly, feeling her go rigid at their proximity. Had his mask not been on, his breath would have ghosted lightly across her cheek. “But I give you my word, I’ll not hurt you today.”

Her head tilted, mistrustful gaze clashing with his hooded one in challenge. “And why should I believe that?” she demanded. “Last time we saw each other, you didn’t seem to much care about whether I got hurt or not.”

Beneath the mask, he smiled crookedly. “Because there’s still a chance you’ll agree to be trained. Until then, it’s in my best interests not to harm you.”

“I already told you, I refuse your offer! Or did the lightsaber in the face not make that clear enough?”

“We shall see.” Ignoring her screech of protest, he effortlessly scooped her up from the ground, deftly maneuvering around her angry flailing.

“You pile of bantha fodder! You sleemo!” she snarled. “Put me down right now!”

“When we get back to the surface, you are welcome to limp your way to freedom, Rey.”

“You can’t force your help on someone!”

“How interesting,” he said monotonously. “And yet here I am, helping you.”


“I still hate you. This doesn’t change anything,” she announced grandly, sliding from his arms with a wince and clinging to the nearest bundle of vines she could find to support herself.

“I didn’t expect it to.”

Rey ignored him and closed her eyes, tilting her face up to the sun. Kylo regarded her with bemusement.

“And here I thought you’d be running to find and rejoin your…friend. What are you doing?”

Her eyes peeked open to look at him, shining golden in the sunlight. “Enjoying the warmth,” she allowed finally. “When I was down there, in the dark, I missed it.” Rey smiled ruefully. “I’m not the only one that feels that way, I think.”

And there it was. The accursed reason he craved this girl like a man dying slowly from an addiction he couldn’t satiate. He wanted her, in ways that he couldn’t define and didn’t understand – and all he had to do was remove his mask and step nearer to her and just let her see

“Rey! Rey, are you out there!”

They both started at the pervasive shout. He looked on wordlessly, with a gnawing, burning anger, as Rey’s face became awash in relief at the audible proof of her friend having survived his own fall.

Hand already plunging into her pack – likely to hold her blaster in a death grip – she asked intently, “Does your promise today still hold true, then?”

It’s in my best interests not to harm you.

“If he dies,” Kylo said after a pause. “That will hurt you?”

She nodded.

“Very well.” Rey yelped as, for the second time that day, she found herself dragged against him – held in some bizarre mimicry of an embrace that was devoid of warmth and love and instead echoed sinisterly of a hapless bird ensnared within the predator’s claws.

“Today, you will have your lenience.”

They were both acutely aware of Finn’s worried footsteps, growing ever closer.

Rey’s mouth parted in surprise as dark curls brushed her forehead, full lips skimming across the top of her hair as he spoke quietly. A quick glance down revealed his mask loosely held in his hand, having been impatiently yanked off.

“But I suggest, Rey, that you consider training. And if you ever desire a teacher that will make you strong enough to protect your friends from anyone that would cause them injury…” He stared down at her; their difference in height affording him a perfect view of her stricken expression, her conflicted eyes. “Then come find me.”

Then Rey blinked, stumbling backwards when the hands that bound her disappeared and the boy with the sad, dark eyes vanished.

“Rey!” she heard Finn’s happy bellow. “Rey, there you are! I was so worried!”

She took a shaky breath, still numbly frozen in place. Then she was reaching up to absently smooth her mussed hair, and plastered on a bright smile as she raised her hand in greeting to her approaching friend.

Hope you enjoyed it! This went in a bit of a different direction than I expected, but I love insecure, jealous Kylo Ren in any form. 

Say Cheese, Pt. 4

This is the end of the road, people! I might revisit the universe from time to time, but I have already planned out my next fic (what have you people done to me?). So, enjoy the last entry in the Say Cheese ‘verse, dedicated to @damnslippyplanet - Happy Birthday! 

Want to catch up? Part 1, Part 2, & Part 3

Ben Jones was about 70% sure he wasn’t going to die. He quietly fiddled with the f-Stop on his camera, trying not to make eye contact with the two cannibals pacing in front of him. The things he does for Freddie fucking Lounds and a fat retainer.

“Why the fuck can’t he just go downstairs and point the camera up? Suddenly you’re too good for balcony sex?” Will gestured to Jones, who tried to make himself smaller on the overstuffed blue sofa.

When Will had grabbed him in the lobby and dragged him upstairs, Jones had known for sure he was going to die. So when the empath deposited him on the sofa and asked for his professional opinion about the setting and angles of the next TattleCrime Murder Husbands shoot, Jones found himself at a loss. Freddie had told him to show up, point the camera at the balcony of Honeymoon Suite. She hadn’t mentioned anything about refereeing a spat between the most notorious serial killers on the planet.  

“I have repeatedly told you that the Adriatic angle will not work. I prefer to be shot from the left.”

“You know what the left side of your face looks like? THE RIGHT SIDE OF YOUR FACE. You don’t have a bad angle, you goddamn fop!”

Hannibal Lecter, top of the FBI’s Most Wanted List, took a seat next to Jones smoothing the blue satin next to him. He sniffs at Will who continues to stomp, muttering about ‘prissy little cannibals’. Taking a moment to adjust the black robe around his legs, Hannibal lifted a silver platter toward the photographer, offering him a chocolate covered strawberry.

“Mr. Jones, may I offer you a treat?”

“Y-yes. No. Um, are…are they strawberries? Like strawberry strawberries?” Jones feels his throat constrict when he meets the warm maroon eyes. Hannibal furrows his eyebrows.


Still pacing in large arcs through the suite’s living room, Will snorts.

“He’s trying to ask you if they’re people.” Jones feels his pulse in his ears, he envisions a maid coming upon his rended body in a luxury suite in Montenegro. Understanding lifts Hannibal’s brow.

“I assure you, these were procured from room service,” Hannibal purrs, “and they do not share my recipes.”

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