#my thumbs are fine but i need ny other fingers to bend at a certain angle to hold the switch

[reallysporadicsterekart]

by a moment in between

read on ao3

                     Summary:            

Set a day or two after the finale of season 3a.

Trying to process, before they can find ways to heal. A LOT of feelings, some easy, some not. Sorry?

     It’s been almost two days. They haven’t really talked yet, about anything other than what concerns the Institute's most immediate post crisis management or necessary medical procedures. With all this loss and all those shocks to their foundations, this time, they just don't seem to know where to even start.

 Because where to start?

The faint scent of antiseptics still lingers in the air, when Magnus closes the door behind him inside Alec’s room. The heating is turned up higher than usual and it’s dark, yet this is so much more preferable than the infirmary's sterile, all encompassing white only yesterday. Anything is, really.

Alec is speaking on the phone, subdued and practical tone of voice, and of course he is; time doesn’t stop for no one, least for the Head of the NY Institute. But he seems to be following the order of bedrest. And that tells Magnus a lot.

Magnus discards his blazer over a nearby chair and goes to sit next to Alec on the mattress.  He is acknowledged by a lift of brows, and although Alec keeps talking and listening on the phone, the fingers of his free hand curl into Magnus’ shirt right above his waist; playing with the fabric, opening and closing in a loose fist, tugging at the delicate material. The shiver it sends along Magnus’ side makes him look down in a smile, and when he still feels Alec’s eyes on him, he gives in.

Shoes are toed off wordlessly, and Magnus settles in on top of the covers. One arm propped up lightly, it brings his lips to Alec’s temple, and his other arm loosely across the center of him; inside that circle of contact, Alec exhales deeply into a speaking pause, the person on the other end of the line taking over the conversation.

Magnus closes his eyes.

Alec turns his face further to the side, into the press of Magnus’ mouth, and Magnus listens to him adjusting his grip on the phone to still be able to talk at all.

Magnus smiles and just breathes Alec in.

Sleep's not been a friend of Magnus' these last few days and he might finally be near the end of his reserves.

So, just for a moment, he allows his reality to be made up by nothing but the low rumble of Alec’s voice, vibrating along his own arm and chest, and the thick scent of hair, slept on and unwashed, that Magnus doesn’t really mind at all.

And he must drift shortly, because the next thing he knows, Alec isn’t speaking on the phone anymore, and there’s a warm, dry touch of lips just above his collar bone.

Magnus hums, and feels Alec’s fingers, slightly cooler than usual, pull down the collar of his shirt, just a bit onto his shoulder, and then Alec’s mouth is there.

On instinct, Magnus’ hand comes up to caress Alec’s jaw, which is at a mildly odd angle with Alec still on his back, shoulder trapped by Magnus’ form. But Alec keeps kissing every part of Magnus’ neck he can reach, and Magnus lets him, because his skin tingles faintly but pleasantly where Alec’s lips have been.  And Magnus really wants those tingles right now.

His name, softly spoken, makes his surroundings a little clearer.

“Magnus. Can I touch more of your skin?” Alec’s voice is low and syrupy, and Magnus’ mind is caught up in it, lingering in that sweetness for some slow seconds, but his body moves before he even answers. “Yeah. Yeah, of course you can.”

He strips off his shirt, a little dizzy, pins and needles in the arm he's rested on, while Alec shrugs out of the open zipped sweater he’s been wearing. Despite the room temperature Magnus shudders a little, and that might be why he reassumes his position next to Alec this time underneath the covers. Or it might be to feel a little less laid bare, somehow.

Once they're turned to each other on their sides, Alec’s hands are on Magnus' shoulders and Magnus finds he's strangely startled by how tentative Alec's touches are, fingers moving almost gingerly, so very, very careful. Like Magnus is the one injured; like Magnus' body must be just as tender and sore with hurt.

Magnus looks at Alec, wants to question, to protest, to tell him he's fine.

Before he can, though, his body finally does seem to wake fully, into the stretch of raw, intimate silence between them.  And he feels the dull ache that must've been there all along, across every part of him, now that the masking numbness falls away.

He feels the wrongness that he refused to stop to name before now, skin fragile and not quite right, stretched too thin around hollow spaces, like missing a crucial layer of protection.

And it makes too much painful sense.

It makes Magnus' head spin. And there is Alec, and he is simply giving back Magnus' gaze, waiting for him to say or do something, to react, to figure it out maybe.

Magnus swallows. Or just waiting for him. Hands gently roaming the lengths of Magnus' arms.

For a second Magnus wants to tell Alec to stop. Because it's too much. Too much sensation. Too much emotion.

But then his eyes fall down onto the scar in the center of Alec’s chest, raw-looking while Alec is still so pale against the sheets.

And he notices the tremble in Alec’s right arm again for what it is, the stiff bend of muscles, still weak after mending. Caressing Magnus.

His feelings rearrange.

He looks down, and he finds his own fingertips tracing around the freshly sealed wound, hot to the touch with circulation; with a body trying and healing itself.

An awe-filled, crooked smile he can't seem to help tugs at the corners of his lips; makes him bow his head and place a careful kiss above the welted skin, lips catching on shaved stubble and the sticky taste of some herbal ointment from bandages only recently shed.

Alec sighs softly beneath him, then, and the heat in Magnus' chest changes shape once again. It's muscle memory taking over, and a mind too tired to fight it. He lets his mouth move up, surer now, all along Alec's neck, rough and unshaven, addictive as it always, always is.

There's so much raw need in the both of them.

It's so very easy to get swept up in. Sighs become gasps, become hot little puffs of breath, and eager, uncoordinated hands pull Magnus on top. He has to balance his weight, to not lean too much of it onto the middle of Alec’s chest.

Their sweat comes fast, battered as their bodies are, clinging coolly to prickling skin, and Magnus feels a sting of unclean, but Alec tugs him closer still, before he can move back; kisses Magnus slow and deep.

And Magnus forgets, caring for nothing but the taste of Alec’s mouth.

Hands roam ceaselessly, and Magnus rolls his body against Alec’s to find him half hard underneath thin sweatpants. It’s a rush and roar in their ears, with all that’s happened, and Magnus suddenly feels frantic with the need to be closer still. By the grip of Alec’s fist in his hair he can tell it’s the same for Alec.

But what he can also tell is how the hand that is cupping his neck is subtly shaking. He can tell how Alec’s thundering heartbeat is maybe a little too fast, a little too unsteady. How Alec's breaths are a bit too short, lung tissue recovering from being punctured, iratzes only able to do so much.

Magnus pulls something wild inside back, stomach contracting, and kisses Alec with a little less urgency.

He knows Alec can feel him retreat, because he breaks their kiss and speaks against Magnus' lips, words cracking at the edges:

“Do you want to get the lube? You could… you know…” He hooks an ankle across Magnus' underneath the sheets,  bracketing Magnus' body between his knees.

A flush of red resolves into a prickle all along Magnus skin at the invitation, the deep yearning to be inside.

He rests his forehead against Alec’s for a second, and closes his eyes. From the echoes of Alec’s voice in his mind, he is almost certain that Alec already knows the truth of what he’s going to say.

“I don’t think we should risk that kind of exertion, Alexander.”

Alec huffs out a breath and nods against him, humming reluctant agreement, but still holds Magnus’ face close, hands behind his ears, thumbs lining his jaw.

Neither of them is really prepped or prepared for anything like that tonight. It’s not just a snap of fingers anymore.

Alec presses his nose against Magnus’ cheek, and takes a heavy breath in. “It’s just… Magnus, I don’t think I can-” He stops and falters promptly over a yawn.

And Magnus can't help but smile. The bone deep fatigue is seeping through every point of contact between them, even if Magnus senses the honest willingness through Alec’s hold as well.

They're both in no shape to be taking things further tonight.

Magnus ruefully shakes his head inside the grip of Alec's hands.  “I’m sorry, Alexander, I should have known not to push...”

“No, I shouldn’t have started anything when I knew I probably wouldn't be able to follow through.”

“Alexander,”  Magnus moves back just far enough to seek out Alec’s eyes, making a point he’s sure Alec already knows, "You know it doesn't always have to lead to orgasms to be a worthwhile experien-”  Alec stops him short by pulling him in for a sealing kiss.

And something inside unwinds.

Magnus lets Alec chase his lips, then, languid swipes of mouths and deep kisses petering off in to gentle pecks.

They're both hanging by that moment in between what's past and what's to come, smiles and brushes of noses and nods against each other.

For a minute. Or two. Or maybe more.

Finally Magnus sinks down his weight beside Alec, resting his chin against Alec’s shoulder.

So he starts slightly, when only a hitch in Alec’s breath precedes the deep rumble of his voice, trying for an even lower pitch:

“Or, you know, you could let me get to my stele…” He lets it hang in air like an afterthought, abs contracting to keep the dry tone of the delivery.

And that’s what bursts out a laugh out of Magnus, albeit a wet one.

A laugh so abrupt, almost hurting his lungs, that his eyes are swimming with it.

It’s a surprise shock to his system, how the flutter reaches down deep into his belly.

The ridiculousness of the man in his arms, dead on his feet with fatique and still offering, even if half-jokingly, every last bit of him.

Magnus doesn't know how he even finds his voice, much less sound half in control about it:

"No, Alexander, there's gonna be no stamina rune for you today."

And for a fleeting moment, their words are allowed to carry a fluttery, fragile amusement and an almost-lightness they haven't felt in days.

"You sure?" So cheeky.

"Yes, thank you, it's fine." So tired.

"Ok. Just checking." Magnus loves him.

"Okay." So much.

Magnus' side stings with a breath he forgot to take, and he feels Alec’s chest beneath him softly shaking. And he just knows that hazel eyes are shining shy and grateful, with affection, mirth and that something altogether else.

Like a touch of sadness.

Strangely unmoored, as if laughing cracked something inside wide open, everything is suddenly a bit too close to the surface again.

Magnus presses his face against Alec’s shoulder, and it's all he can do to hold himself together somehow, to not float away and lose himself.

Alec must know, from the change of rhythm in Magnus' breathing.

Magnus can feel him thinking, weighing options.

They are silent for a minute.

Then Alec’s arms around Magnus tighten, a gentle resolution:

“Just like this then?”

His voice is rough, yet it still sends golden sparks of warmth along Magnus' skin.

And Magnus swallows, pulls himself even closer to Alec, burying the wet corners of his eyes against a warm chest.

“Yeah, just like this.”

 It’s been almost two days. They haven’t really talked yet, about anything other than what concerns the Institute's most immediate post crisis management or necessary medical procedures. With all this loss and all those shocks to their foundations, this time, they just don't seem to know where to even start.

 Still. What they do know how to say is this:

“I love you, Magnus.”

 And if Magnus takes a moment for his voice to catch,

“I love you, too, Alexander.”

 then Alec’s fingers on his arm never cease to caress gentle, unhurried patterns into his skin all the same.

 Spelling out love, protection, and healing.

                                 Notes:  

Boy, this took turns on me while writing. This is apparently what it wanted to be at last, I don't know. They are young and they are old and they are wise and they are struggling and they are sleep deprived and they are everything Thoughts? I love you all, have a hopeful, splendid new year!

[momscookingthebooks]

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"Good Morning Malibu, it’s another beautiful day on the west coast! I'm Noely Clark, your host: and I'm in the market for love…”

When the publicity team of the new local restaurant, Going in Blind, began their search for a hot, local celebrity to promote the wildly popular eatery, they couldn’t have found a better person than me.

Outgoing? Check.

Single? Check.

Open to finding love? Check.

I signed up immediately.

A hopeless romantic with an exceedingly demanding schedule, I've found it impossible to find the man of my dreams—so Going in Blind seems too good to be true! That’s until they start setting me up on dates—three very different, very attractive, very distinct blind dates—and only one thing is for certain . . .

I’m in big trouble.

Good Morning Malibu,

I'm Noely Clark, and I have a choice to make.

The question is who will I choose; the suit, the rebel, or the jock.

EXCERPT:

“There is no way that’s what that line means.”

“It sure as hell does.”

“That’s ridiculous. What, did you study palm reading as well as Spanish?”

He chuckles and says, “I just know things. And that line right there means you’re allergic to coffee.”

I shake my head and laugh. “You’re such a liar.”

He strokes my palm with his finger, running it along every line, making my insides flutter and my breathing pick up with each stroke. He’s so close, his body practically on top of mine, his breath pressed against my ear, his scruff rubbing my skin ever so gently. And me, well, see my hips? Yeah, they’re slowly gyrating in his direction. I would like to blame the margarita, or even the music, but I know that’s not the case. It’s my libido skyrocketing into dangerous territories from the way this man lightly strokes me in just the right way.

“Not a liar, just telling you what I see.”

“Is that so?” I lean in closer and ask, “Then how come I have coffee every morning and I’m fine? Seems to me like you just wanted an excuse to touch me so you pretended to be a palm reader.”

I hold my breath, waiting for his answer.

“You’re right. I did. Now give me a chance to touch you even more.” He retreats from the booth and holds out his hand for me to follow.

I take it without even giving it a second thought. Smiling devilishly, he guides me to the dance floor and immediately spins me into his arms where he takes my hands and links them behind his neck. Pulling me into his body, he places his hands on my hips and presses his forehead against mine.

As if it’s second nature to him, he starts moving us back and forth along the dance floor, his feet effortlessly gliding us. Intimidated at first, after a few passes across the floor, I start to feel the music and my muscles begin to loosen up.

“That’s it,” he whispers just loud enough so I can hear him over the music. “Loosen those hips, Sassy.”

A distinct trumpet and cowbell echo through the room, setting the pace and tone to the dance. It’s fast, yet commanding, encouraging us to grind together, and that’s what Beck does. His hands slide from my hips to my butt where he grips tightly and pulls me flush against his crotch. With my legs entwined with his, we stay in place as our hips gyrate together.

Breathless and turned on, I match his gaze with mine, his seductive eyes penetrating any last wall I might have had before this date, and for once in a long time, I let loose . . . completely.

“Just like that. God, you look so sexy.”

Leaning my head back, I let my hair fall behind me and give it a little shake before lifting my head back up and meeting his lust-filled, greedy eyes. His hands grip my butt tighter and I’m greeted by a noticeable hard-on.

I did that to him, and if that isn’t a turn-on, I don’t know what is.

My fingers start to play with his hair, twisting and turning the short strands, causing his eyes to haze over. Is it weird I want more? That even though our pelvises are pressed against each other, I want to be closer?

The music now flowing through me, controlling my every movement, I glide my hands down to his shirt where my fingers dexterously undo two more of his buttons, exposing more of his tan skin, his necklace in full view now. It’s a medallion I can’t quite make out, but it doesn’t matter right now, because all I care about is the muscular expanse of chest in front of me.

I slip my fingers inside his shirt and dance them across his chest, feeling the sinew of muscles flex with every move we make together.

When one of my fingers accidentally caresses one of his nipples, he growls into my ear and turns me around in his arms, causing me to temporarily lose my breath, that’s until his hands find mine again, securing my butt right against his crotch. I sigh and loop my hand around me to the back of his neck, anchoring me in place while he swivels our hips together, his lips pressed against my ear.

“Fuck, you feel good against me,” he whispers. His breath sends chills up and down my entire body as the music continues to guide me.

I push my butt even harder against his erection, heavy and obvious, swiveling my hips, loving the way I can feel his excitement so easily. I love that I affect him like this.

I’ve never been with a man so comfortable in his own skin that he doesn’t care about how I affect him. It’s like he’s proud of it. Of us.

It’s extremely rewarding.

Feeling the music, we dance slowly in tandem, letting the beat guide us. Still hanging on to him, my other hand now on top of one of his, he starts to feel the length of my leg, his body bending just slightly to reach the hem of my dress. When he moves his hand under the fabric, my breath stills for a second before he pulls away and lifts his hand back up my body until both of his hands reach my ribcage.

Oh God.

His head peers over my shoulder, his eyes trained down the valley of my cleavage. “I told you this dress was going to get you into trouble tonight and the way you’re moving against me, my self-control is slipping, Sassy.”

Taking a deep breath, I move his hand farther up my body and say, “Then let your will slip.”

“Fuck,” he growls into my ear, letting his hand move to just below my breasts. I suck in a breath from the contact and wait for him to move a little higher, but he doesn’t. Instead, he swivels his hips with mine and moves his hands down my sides until they’re resting on my thighs, his thumbs closing in on the juncture between my legs.

The heat level between us rises to inferno in the matter of seconds and my skin starts to prickle with need, a yearning I haven’t felt since . . . well since Jack, but before that, since I can’t remember.

“I don’t know how much more dancing I can do with you,” he says into my ear. “I’m about to combust here.”

I turn in his arms and look straight at him. “Then let’s get out of here.”

The way the words fall off my tongue sound so foreign to me, but then again, there’s not a chance in hell I want to take them back.

About the Author:

Author, wife, adoptive mother, and peanut butter lover. Will dance for laughs, won’t eat anything spicy because you asked, but will squeeze boobs in replace of a hug. Grew up in Southern California (Temecula, anyone? Anyone?) lived in New York (the armpit of NY, not the city) and now resides in Colorado with my wife, son, two dogs, three cats, and my multiple book boyfriends. Loves love, anything romantic, and will die if I ever meet Tom Hanks. Yay, books!

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