#with an enormous proportion of smut?

[duckbunny]

good news for porn fans, I reread one of my no-longer-available fics and it's very good actually and I'm going to scrub the label off and sell it

[wyvernest]

go easy on me (part 2)

part 1

pairing: miguel o'hara x f!reader

warnings: smut, fluff, inexperienced reader, dom miguel, unprotected sex, p-i-v sex, creampie, established relationship

summary: you've never had anyone bring you to the very heights of pleasure, and miguel changes that.

translations at the end

You shiver, eyes fixed on him. You feel the remnants of your orgasm slowly retreat from your body as you readjust yourself on the couch, digging your elbows into the head pillows. His eyes narrow, a stalking predator, scanning you for any signs of fear or hesitancy.

You feel open, pierced by the intensity of his gaze, almost willing to comply with anything he could ask of you.

“Would you like that, baby?” His face comes closer, inches away from your own, his hot and heavy breath raising goosebumps over your flushed skin.

“Tell me. You want me to make love to you, nice and slow?” The rasps in his needy voice make your head dizzy, and you wordlessly lean forward, tangling your arms around his neck, pulling him into you. Your palms graze over the defined muscles of his back, feeling yourself grow wetter as they shift when he pushes himself into you. 

You’re losing your breath into the kiss, moaning softly. He exhales through his nose, not wanting to break apart from you, and you can barely hold yourself together. This is really happening, fuck fuck fuck fuck-

“Eres divina.” he whispers breathlessly into your mouth as he rests his forehead against yours. You gasp with a whimper just to catch your breath, your heart rate already flown to the moon. He cradles you in his embrace, strong arms encircling your middle as his hands splay on your back, holding you against him.

“¡Di que me quieres!” he begs, his lips on your cheek, voice deep and drowned in the unbearable heat of desire. 

You close your eyes, letting his kisses dive back to your neck as he savours the small mewls you let out under his touch. Your mind is violently swinging back and forth between fear and excitement. What if your lack of experience will be evident to him, in a way in which you don’t entirely get to satisfy him the way you seek to, so badly? 

“I - ah!” Your voiced reply is interrupted by him finding a particular spot right below your jaw that has your thighs pushing together and eyes rolling back. He nimbles the spot, dragging his sharp fangs over the sensitive area and gently biting down before soothingly licking and kissing the mark.

He pushes himself further into you, burying you into the cushions under his enormous body. You feel the way his abdomen tenses and relaxes rhythmically as he brings his erection right between your legs, rubbing himself on you in slow, careful thrusts, displaying a mountain of restrained force and want. Your wet folds stain his boxers in the process, the fabric almost rough on your still sensitive skin. 

You glance down in between you only to be met with the image of his huge hard-on protruding obscenely through the cotton, naturally proportional to the rest of his body.

You roll your hips ever so slightly against him, and you feel just how massive he is, biting back a moan at the thought that he would struggle to fit himself inside you. 

He groans at the gesture, visibly surprised.

“You’re gonna be the death of me.”, he warns, right before his own hips drive harder into you, effectively rubbing his hard, still clothed cock against your clit. You begin squirming underneath him, eyes watery from the sudden intensity of emotions your mind and body are being put through. His palms move over your sides, from the dip of your waist to the sides of your breasts, his touch growing eager and possessive, his fingers clutching harder and harder everywhere they find themselves. 

In a surge of adrenaline, you take one of his hands and place it upon your soft tit, agape mouth gifting him a whisper of his name simultaneously. 

“¡Ay, mami!, he chuckles smugly into the crook of your neck, voice deep and low, squeezing the soft flesh before swiftly finding the hem of your (his) shirt and delving right underneath it, fondling your breast skin to skin, making you gasp and arch your back.

He continues to tease you, kissing at your pulse point and groping you in tandem.

“Te necesito. Let me have you.”, and you feel your whole body quiver at his request. It’s all so overwhelming, the weight of him on top of you, the heat radiating from his body, the sound of his voice right below your ear, driving you mad. 

“Please, Miguel” you sob, pressing your cheek into his for comfort. His dick twitches against you.

“Please what?”, he insists. You reckon he wants to hear you say it. Say you want him.

“Have me, Miguel, take care of me.” you whisper, eyelids heavy as you look at him, spotting an unnatural red tint flood his irises, pupils dilated. He stands up on his knees, shoving his boxers down his bulky thighs, his hard cock springing free, hitting his stomach. You forget to meet his gaze again, too preoccupied with the sight he presented you with. 

He takes you by surprise, grabbing at your waist and readjusting you on the couch, sliding you down, laying you flat on the cushions, manoeuvring you like you weighed nothing more than the pillow he found use of by placing it underneath your hips. He braces himself above you, one arm guiding his cock into you.

You feel the precum-stained head push against your folds, aiming to part you. You breath halts in your throat, betraying fear. He senses it, kissing the top of your head gently.

“I’ll go slow for you, yes? Trust me.” His voice is warmer, more compassionate and careful. You feel relief flush over you, knowing you’re in good hands. Until he pushes forward, the tip breaching you. You feel his whole girth enter you, stretching you, a sharp sting settling on top of the pleasure he had previously caused. You let a pained moan crawl out of your throat, and he comes down to pepper soft pecks over your cheeks, jaw and neck. 

You feel more of him enter you, the stretch near impossible. He stops suddenly, grunting when you clench around him involuntarily. His forehead falls into the crook of your neck as he swears and groans, sliding inside your warm cunt. His shoulders shake lightly with self-restraint. You flutter around him, and his cock responds with a twitch that has you whimpering his name. 

Tears threaten to spill from your eyes as he stops giving you quick breaks in-between the inches you were taking, finally bottoming out, his groin flush against yours.

His hips start rolling against you, the slow and steady rhythm of ocean waves crashing against the shore, immensely strong and impatient. Pushing hard into you, his thrusts are now angled downwards, his cockhead hitting that special spot inside you as your breathing picks up in gasps and pants. As he speeds up, you break apart in his arms, legs tied around his waist, nails scraping his massive back as he rearranges your guts even with the most held-back fucking. 

“Ay, que rico, mami” he moans, and you feel your heart rate shoot up at the sound of his deeply pleasured voice. You take in the sight of him, his immense body caging you underneath him effortlessly, claiming you in the first few ways he had imagined since you met. You shudder as his hot breath starts fanning over the top of your breasts, his head now resting on your chest. Before another whimper can exit you, he throws his head back, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he swallows back yet another grunt.

You feel the very first signs of your rapidly approaching orgasm, instinctively reaching a hand down to touch yourself. He is quick enough to grab your wrist and stop you, shooting you a warning glare.

A bit too roughly for the promise he made to take things slow, he moves his arms underneath your thighs, bringing them on his shoulders. The new position bends you in half as he hovers over you, opening new angles for him to drill his cock into you. You cry out as the hair above the base of his dick brushes harshly into your clit, the combined sensations rushing you towards the edge.

The couch creaks and trembles under his unfaltering force, and your legs go numb as your orgasm builds up so inevitably close, ready to thunder through your nerves and senses. 

"Miguel! M- oh, I'm -!"

And just like that, all the pressure fractures, the electrifying pleasure lighting you up, your cunt fluttering around his girthy cock, helping him towards his own release.

Still not relenting, he keeps fucking himself into you, his arms flexing on each side of your red-painted face, his abs rippling with each drive of his hips, chest heaving into your squished breasts as he groans, close to his own peak. 

You sob through the overstimulation, still eager to feel him finish inside you. The sounds of your love-making echoing in the night-silenced room, the strong scent of sex invading his lungs are enough to drive him mad. His loses momentum, burying himself inside you all the way, revelling in the feeling of the wet warmth of your post-orgasm cunt before his cock twitches, releasing inside you. With each pulse, there came another rope of come staining your insides. 

You moan his name at the strange, unfamiliar feeling, pulling him close to you by his enormous shoulders. He lets himself collapse into your embrace, his body engulfing you completely, chest to chest, skin to skin. He's breathing heavily into your cheek, wanting to calm down so he could kiss you like he had craved for so long. But you're not that patient.

Turning your head , you catch his lips with your own, having him exhale heavily into your mouth, the make-out now sloppy and lazy, but still so undoubtedly full of want and need. 

"Ahora eres mía. Eres solo mía." He breathes, licking over your bottom lip before deepening the kiss, still inside you. His arms encircle you, curling around your waist and torso with a large hand splayed wide on your back. 

"Y yo soy tuyo."

translations:

Eres divina - You're divine

¡Di que me quieres! - Say you want me

Te necesito - I need you

Que rico - How lovely (sexual)

Ahora eres mía. Eres solo mía - You're mine now. You're only mine.

Y yo soy tuyo - And I am yours.

a/n: would you guys be interested in a feral miguel next? with the reader-on-ovulation situation + pheromones + miguel going into a rut?

[no-droids]

The Secret

Pairing: Anakin Skywalker/Reader

Word Count: 4.2K

Rating: Explicit

Summary: On a dark and dreary night, Anakin tries to see if he can influence your dreams.

A/N: idk what in the hell this even is tbh I just started writing it two days ago idk what happened this is some inception shit but not the crazy ass mind bending plot twist part at the very end of inception but like just the cool middle part where you kinda get what’s sorta going on but not really okay anyways I gotta go

Warnings: There are DUBCON/NONCON ELEMENTS to this, smut/oral sex, a splash of m/m (sorta?), dark Anakin uses the force to mess with your dreams without your knowledge or consent so please read at your own discretion

***

Anakin knows it’s wrong.

It’s the middle of the night on a moon he never bothered learning the name of and Anakin knows it’s wrong when his eyes shift over to you for the fifth time in the past minute.  Curled up with your back to him and the crackling firelight illuminating this tiny little cave, breathing soft and quiet through your nose as you sleep, the wind roaring monstrously outside.  Anakin acknowledges it—the moral impropriety of even sitting here thinking about things he shouldn’t be with you so close by.  It’s wrong, no getting around it.

But there’s also something inside him that… wants the wrongness.

He likes it.  Anakin likes having secrets, he likes breaking rules even when nobody is consciously here to witness it.  It makes him feel alive in a way that battlefields just can’t anymore, not after two years of constant conflict where the only enemies to feel his wrath have been comprised of nuts and bolts, their robotic cries never leaving him with any satisfaction anymore.  At the start of the Clone Wars, sure, it was a thrill to slice through voice boxes and body parts, even if they were mechanical.  But the droids aren’t afraid of death, they’re just programmed to stay alive.  It’s like killing large, dumb swarms of bugs—it needs to be done for the common good but there’s never any true fulfillment in it anymore, it just feels like a task to be completed instead of an earnest, hard-earned goal.

He’s also been given direct permission to do it.  He’s even been ordered to carry out enormous droid massacres on behalf of the Republic, but that’s the thing.  Anakin isn’t looking for permission, see, it takes away half the thrill.

No, he wants to feel wrong.  He wants to wonder if he shouldn’t have.  He wants the quiet guilt, the sparkle of holding a secret he’ll never breathe a word about, the addictive power trip from having real influence over something, something equally as real.

Technically, Anakin is supposed to be on lookout right now.  He’s meant to stay awake and patrol the perimeter of the cave for enemy combatants, but he doesn’t even bother pretending to be diligent when it’s just you two here.  It’s not necessary.  He’d be able to sense another lifeform miles away in this secluded, barren wasteland; there’s no threat to be found right now.  He can keep warm by the crackling firelight in this cave, sheltered from the dust storm that spontaneously broke out a few hours ago.  He can stay awake without moving a muscle and listen to your slow breathing all night long, letting it fill him with shameful desires he spends the daylight hours fighting and suppressing.

He silently flicks his gaze over to you once more, blinking as he studies you.  He can sense your mind becoming creative in its slumber, beginning to swirl into dreamlike possibilities around yourself, about to choose a path for your consciousness to follow tonight.  Yes, this is what he’s waiting for.  He can’t force you to dream—that’s beyond his expertise as a Jedi.  But if he finds himself in the right place at the right time, he can certainly try his best to… give you a suggestion.

The wind whistles outside and the fire pops quietly and you continue to breathe.  In, and out.  In, and out.

Anakin closes his eyes, and begins.

He first maps your body with the Force, trying to understand it on a deeper level.  Gauge it—its proportions, its ambience, the thrumming lifeforce flowing through your veins even as you sleep.  He has to be careful—as a fellow Knight, there’s no guarantee you won’t immediately be able to spot him exploring your energy in this way, there’s nothing to stop you from suddenly rolling over and asking just what exactly he thinks he’s doing.

But Anakin is patient.  It’s one of the only times he can remember truly exercising that untapped potential inside him, perfectly content to allow you to drift while he works to find his bearings with you.  Minds are complex, especially when they’re unconscious.  They’re finicky and never stay in the same spot for long—it’s not like they evade, necessarily, but instead, they just… float around.  Pulsing.  In and out of existence, hiding behind and under immovable things, no rhyme or reason for it, vanishing into uncertainty and nothingness as soon as he thinks he’s found it.  Like trying to find a microscopic air pocket in the depths of a pitch black ocean.  He’s not losing any oxygen by existing right at the edges of your sleep, but it takes hard concentration to stay here, hidden, not allowing himself to slip.  He’s looking, he’s looking… but he soon realizes he just needs to wait longer.  He needs to wait until you float your way back around to him, until you present the opening yourself.

So Anakin waits.

And waits…

And then suddenly—

—There.  He locks onto a flicker in the Force and holds, finally isolating and breaching the surface of your inner subconscious.  Anakin smiles softly, a bead of sweat slowly dripping down his temple at the effort it took to locate you without alerting you of his presence.  There you are.  Maker, it sure is pretty in here, isn't it?  He has you, he’s cradling the buried, hidden, most fragile part of your soul as you slumber, not knowing any better.

His heart thumps with excitement even though he’s barely done anything yet.  To someone without sensitivity to the Force, they might just think the both of you are asleep right now.  Just the two of you sitting still in this relatively small space, eyes closed, neither of you are touching, nobody has said anything or made any substantial movements in hours, nothing has changed in this world.  All of it is existing in another plane, a place most people wouldn’t be able to recognize unless someone informed them of its existence, and even then, it would be beyond understanding.

But he has you now.  He’s there, and he’s not going anywhere.  He can allow his focus to dip just slightly, knowing your mind will pull him along through the comatose current.  He senses you already working through the beginning whispers of dreams, but they’re not the kind people can ever remember.  These aren’t formed, there’s no substance to them—it’s just pure, abstract dreamspace for your mind to drift through while you slumber.

Finding your true consciousness through all the murky, shapeless slumber was the test in skill.  Now comes the luck.

Very carefully, without arousing any suspicion or drawing undue attention to himself, Anakin begins to drag the tip of his tongue against the back of his teeth.  He doesn’t open his mouth, he doesn’t move a single muscle outwardly—he just lets his tongue begin to flitter around slowly in its enclosed cavern as he breathes, making the movements as soft and hypnotic as he can, matching the aimless way you’re carrying your mind and his shadow through the darkness.

He’s tried this before.  Once or twice, with a pretty Ambassador he was tasked with protecting for a few months at the start of the Clone Wars, but the results were always less than ideal.  He could never seamlessly transfer his desires through her consciousness before she awoke, perhaps because she wasn’t Force sensitive.  The dream would either never happen, or he would push too hard and it’d turn into a rabid nightmare that fractured her thoughts and made her terrified to close her eyes for weeks.  Not this time, though, Anakin isn’t going to allow it.  Not with you, not after all the unprecedented effort it took to even just get himself here.

He finds a bit more passion to put into his movements, his jaw beginning to work with more purpose.  Stars, he wants this to work, and while it’s probable that there’s an easier way to accomplish it, this isn’t something the Academy trains for.  There’s only so much he can do except just be patient and giving with his soft, muted thoughts, urging you to make use of them without ever saying them aloud.

And suddenly, like the dark waves of your sleep decide to illuminate for him all on their own, your subconscious mind responds to the gentle stimulus.  It carefully reaches out and studies the suggestion he’s silently offering, having spent what feels like an eternity trying to entice your rawest, most fundamental being into going somewhere it normally wouldn’t go, all without letting you know he’s even there.

His tongue is still moving.  With purpose, with a specific intent in mind, Anakin allows his head to slowly fall back as he lifts his chin up towards it, wanting it more and more the longer you take to consider it, as if your mind is actively trying to tease him by playing hard to get.  He can feel you right there, feel you thinking about it, and the whole thing is almost like some elaborate courting ritual while he waits with bated breath for you to decide whether or not to humor him.

But then, just when Anakin fears you may be too strong to be swayed, too powerful in the Force to be tempted by an outside source, you abruptly snatch the idea from him and start to run with it.

Suddenly parts of your spirit begin illuminating that should be dormant right now, and Anakin follows you, wherever you’re leading him.  He knows none of this is necessarily intentional on your behalf—nobody can consciously pick and choose their dreams, not even Jedi.  But this endeavor proves that it’s absolutely possible to subtly inspire them in each other, regardless of the morality behind it.

The wind continues to howl outside the cave and remind him that an entire universe still exists beyond your beautifully soporose mind, but the dreamscape gradually begins unfolding around him without any further prompting, requiring nothing more than what he’s already provided.  Anakin’s tongue continues to simulate and suggest regardless, only now he feels the ghost of it beginning to materialize somewhere else besides the roof of his mouth, the sensations appearing before the images can be conjured to fill in the gaps.  His hands suddenly tighten on his thighs at the soft, enticing feeling beginning to take root in you.

And oh.  It’s… good.  It feels different when his own body isn’t really the target of the stimulation, when he’s doing nothing more than simply experiencing it vicariously.  Anakin supposes he could’ve bypassed all this effort, just aimed the pleasure more directly from the very beginning instead of working to inspire and coax it out of your own consciousness, but that was never his intention and it misses the point entirely.  Where’s the challenge in it?  The finesse is lost, it doesn’t appeal to him.  It’s brash and brutish and not his style.  No, this is what he wanted.  He wanted to get just close enough to plant the most basic, fundamental idea in your head and then witness the rest of it all play out as a phantom passenger.  Step back, strap in, and see how you kindle and manipulate the desire yourself, exactly the way you want it.

Anakin starts to breathe a little heavier through his nose, shoulders tense as he works to ride the slow swelling of your own prolonged pleasure with you, not knowing if or when it’s going to peak.  He’s never made it this far before, he has no idea what to expect.  Your consciousness does all the heavy lifting for him, your floor muscles move and contract without him needing to do anything to encourage it, the dream he seeded now completely taking over and whisking you both away.

But then… then suddenly Anakin doesn’t understand.  Because yes, your mind works exactly the way he hoped it would—everything goes the incredibly precise direction he intended, and yet the destination is somehow… here?  Back at the very beginning?

You dream of a cave.  It’s exactly the same as the one you’re both silently holed up in for the night, and no new faces have appeared.  If Anakin fluttered his eyes open at this specific moment, absolutely nothing around him would change.  Except, perhaps, the subtle glow around everything—the watery way the air seems to be moving, as if it can’t decide whether it wants to exist or not so it strangely succeeds in doing both at the same time.  He’s not really here—at least, he doesn’t think he is, he’s just seated on the dirt floor, appearing as nothing more than an invisible witness to it.

No.  No, actually, he takes that back, he… is here.  It takes him a moment to see the full picture as you’re still putting the puzzle pieces together, but… that’s him.  A projection of himself at least, looking only slightly different but recognizable enough.  Dark robes, robotic right arm, steady gaze.

But where are you?  Anakin looks around the empty cave, still trying to understand how you’re painting this, his conscious mind moving much more rapidly than your own abstract one and yet also somehow taking so much longer to catch up to you.  You’re not here.  Why aren’t you here?  He’s getting stuck on the details, he knows he’s lagging behind.

It takes a moment longer.  Just one, before Anakin suddenly realizes that… he’s not just an invisible witness, is he?

He looks back down to see his own head now buried between his thighs.

But they’re not his thighs, not really.  They’re yours.  He’s just seeing everything from your point of view, feeling everything you’re feeling from the small little space he’s occupying in your mind.

At this point, Anakin needs to anchor.  He feels himself—his real self, the one currently stuck in a cave in the midst of an unexpected dust storm—curl inwards and clamp his legs together.  This will work.  If he focuses enough to pinpoint the way his knees feel pressed tight together, he can have a tether to separate himself from your dream, the way yours are currently… wide open.  This is all too similar to your true surroundings—he didn’t expect this, he doesn’t want to get lost.

And yet… Maker, it feels good.  His long curls feel so soft in your hands, his tongue drags slow magic between your legs.  When Anakin first suggested the idea to you, he didn’t think you’d assign the role back to him.  He assumed you had someone else in mind, somewhere else you wished to be besides this dull, dreary setting.  He gave you just an inkling of a prompt, and this is what the most creative part of your mind created.  Something he could be doing at this exact moment, if only he’d known you’d be interested.

Then again, Anakin thinks, you may have just recognized him subconsciously.  You may have attached him to the idea already, if only because he was the truest originator of it.  But it doesn’t matter now, he can’t process such complex thoughts while maintaining the suspended mental state he’s in—he feels like he’ll either completely fall into it or out of it if he tries.

But as your muscles continue to work and your pleasure continues to build, it becomes harder and harder to separate where he is in relation to you.  Anakin clenches his legs tighter together as you open yours wider apart, the dream gaining more strength as it develops.  Stars, it’s—it’s—

Anakin starts to lose it and he needs to tug on that tether to his surroundings again, but it’s way more difficult than it should be to recognize himself.  His calloused fingers on his left hand tremble as he reaches up and uses them to cover his face, biting his tongue to stop the low rumbles of ecstasy that want to claw their way out of his throat.  Maker, this feels so… different from the build he knows.  He thought—if he was successful—that he’d be able to handle it as silently and stoically as he’s able to handle his own pleasure, but this is something else entirely.  Why does it feel so… so spectacular?  Maker, he never realized the sensation was all that different on the inside, much less that he was actually missing out by having a dick between his legs.

But then suddenly there’s a pause, a break in the way you’ve been rhythmically squeezing and flexing your body for him.

The dream adapts to it.  Anakin looks down between your open thighs just in time to see himself pulling away from your warmth, putting two fingers in his mouth, before slowly easing his hand back down between them.

No, he thinks, a bright flare of panic sparking inside him as he immediately snatches and yanks the tether to reality, popping his eyes open and pulling away from your mind entirely, oh no—wait, that’s not what I—

But see.  That’s the thing about being so meticulous about conjuring something that doesn’t actually exist.  Once his brilliant creation decides to backfire on him—a fool-proof way to escape it doesn’t actually exist either.

He… he can’t wake up.  No matter how much his body struggles backwards on the dirt floor of the cave, how wide he can feel his eyes are right now, how excruciatingly aware he is that none of this is real, none of this is actually happening to him, he’s caught in the dream he planted and you’re hauling him along for the ride.  The closest he can describe it is like having footage play in one eye while the other can see perfectly fine.  He knows where the line that separates reality is, but he can’t escape your consciousness’s crushing gravitational pull; it’s too massive and overwhelming now, he can’t gain enough velocity to get home.  Real life exists but only through a window, and being stuck on the other side like this—knowing he’s dreaming but not being able to jolt awake when he’s very ready to leave—is suddenly more terrifying than any nightmare Anakin has ever experienced.

It also has unintended consequences.  Clinging so desperately to his own body has made him completely aware of it in the purgatory he’s now trapped himself in, but the pleasure is still there so the source of the stimulation is still there.  They’re not your thighs anymore, they’re his thighs again.  But that’s also still him between his legs, continuing to ease his fingers forwards.

He keeps retreating back and away from them no matter what, but there’s nothing more he can do.

Anakin helplessly watches on as his own fingers slowly disappear up inside himself, and his eyes instantly lose focus and his jaw goes slack as he feels it the way you would.  They’re not real, so there’s no pain, no true pressure or stretch, just… hard, unadulterated stimulation starting to burn up inside him.

He doesn’t realize his body kept moving until he suddenly feels the wall of the cave slam into his back and he has to brace himself against it, frantically shoving himself back into it as far as he can with his legs and digging his nails into dirt at the base, scrabbling for breath and stability.  Anakin tightens up wickedly as you both bear down on the phantom intrusion, sweat beading at his hairline as he works to process the foreign sensation and you whimper quietly in your sleep.  His cock is rock hard between his legs and he shudders to think that his mind will compensate for the difference and his alter ego will actually take it into his mouth—but no, the projection doesn’t change because it’s still coming from you, still being led by your own desires.  Dream-Anakin’s mouth drops and his tongue comes out to keep licking your slit but to the real Anakin, it just looks like his mouth disappears somewhere near his balls, and then a magnificent swell of bliss suddenly kicks in before he can fight as savagely against it as he wants.  He’d normally be repulsed, and maybe he currently is to some extent, but because your pleasure spikes so dangerously with it, his hips stutter into the sensation just as desperately.

He’s making noise, he knows he is—he can feel his throat working too hard for just air to be moving through.  No, he’s whimpering, or moaning, or doing something but he can’t hear himself at all.  His instinct is to yell as loudly as he can, to try and wake you up manually, but it doesn’t seem to work, you’re way too far gone now.  He listens for the dust storm that should be screaming outside, the popping of the fire somewhere in this cave, but they’re suddenly nowhere to be found.  He’s being dragged under by your enormous current that’s somehow still continuing to build in strength, losing oxygen by the second.  He’s not ready for it, he doesn’t want it, he’s terrified, he needs to wake up—

Anakin slams his head back against the wall hard enough to make himself bleed and gasps raggedly as he loses his grip on everything, shutting his eyes tight with his fist shoved up against his teeth.  Nothing exists at all anymore but the swirling typhoon that continues raging forth.  Beyond purgatory, and then beyond heaven.

When you finally do manage to find the absolute peak of your climb, he’s sure he all but blacks out with it.

It’s pure, blinding rapture on all levels—physical, metaphysical, whatever else exists after that.  It surges up with razor-sharp claws of merciless ecstasy and he’s just not equipped to experience anything anywhere close to it.  The connection between your minds thrums and sparks violently; Anakin feels the way your body practically soars over top of the pleasure while his is just being ruthlessly pummeled into the ground by it.  He’s not meant to handle this, he literally wasn’t made to survive the devastating anomaly—it’s as wicked and excruciating as it is dazzling, and he wonders if he’ll ever truly be able to come back from it.

Eventually, Anakin manages to find his way back to himself.  Eventually.

His cock is throbbing, that’s the first thing he‘s able to notice.  The dirt floor beneath him that somehow feels slightly different than before, the fetal position he’s assuming on top of it, the once sturdy wall now crumbling to dust against his back.

The next thing he notices is the utter, complete mess he made.  Blood slowly drips in a line down his neck and more cum than he’s ever felt himself produce before drenches the front of his pants.  Anakin slowly blinks his eyes open, trying to fight the vertigo and wondering if he might have a concussion right now.  There are cracks and fractures in the ground that branch out from the small crater at his back, and the fire is completely extinguished now, charred logs splintered and strewn about like somebody detonated a bomb in here.

At some point, his gaze drags over towards you, and remarkably, you haven’t moved.  Still curled up on your side with your back to him, still breathing slow and steady and undisturbed.

Anakin pants in exhaustion and waits for you to turn over to address him and what he did.  There’s no way you’re still asleep, not after what just happened.  Anakin couldn’t get through it without sending a giant shockwave through the entire cave and quite literally rupturing the ground beneath him, he’s surprised you even managed to stay in one spot the entire time.  He doesn’t know if you feel violated right now and are refusing to acknowledge him, or if it’s just taking as long as he is for your brain to catch up and start functioning again.

That is, until he hears a small snore come from your unmoving body once more.

Anakin blinks.

No.  You have to be awake, he figures, moving to prop himself upright and wipe the blood from his neck with the dark sleeve of his robe.  There’s no possible way that the orgasm you both shared is actually… normal, no, the sheer power of it had to be influenced by his presence somehow.  He must have… increased it, or something.  Anakin doesn’t know how, but he knows he must be directly responsible, this had to have been the strongest you’ve ever cum in your life and you just don’t know how to confront him about it right now, so you’re pretending to sleep.  Yes, that’s what it is, that’s what it has to be.

He’s not going to check, though.  He’s not going to find any lingering energy left within himself to summon and look for the thick darkness of sleep still enveloping you, he’s not going anywhere near your signature right now.  No, Anakin is fine just like this, exactly where he is.  Instead of verifying or confirming his own understanding, he’ll just be extra confident in it, that’s always worked well for him.

So he just sits back and takes a deep, shuddering breath, feeling like his whole body is weak and trembling with fatigue.  Maybe you are asleep, he shrugs.  Maybe he’s wrong, and selfish, and an idiot.  Or maybe.

Maybe you just like keeping secrets, too.

[paisley-print]

1:00pm : Secret Mission

About: Since you and Jack are trying to have a baby, you thought it would be fun to visit him while he was at work. 

Rating: 18+

Word count:  2082

Characters: Agent Whiskey x Reader

Warnings:  Angst, fluff, smut (fingering, P in V), Rough foreplay/ sex, degradation,  sexual dysfunction, marriage problems, family drama.  

Series Master List

Tag List: @sherala007​

Notes:  I hope y’all are liking the way this series is turning out. 

1:00pm

“Agent whiskey?”

Jack looked up from his desk, his lips quirking into a smile when he saw you. “Well, I’ll be damned. What are you doing here?” 

He got up from behind the desk to give you a peck on the lips, his large hands coming to settle on your hips.

This was the first time you visited your husband at work. You didn’t expect the agency to look so unassuming from the outside. “Thought you might need these.”

You reached down to pull out an eyeglass case from your bag. “They’ve been making noise all morning, I didn’t want to open it though.”

“Virtual meetings” he informed you, taking the case and placing it on the desk behind him. “Thank you, darlin’ I appreciate it.”

You broke from his touch and wandered around the office. “Of course. I’ve always wanted an excuse to come here anyway.”

Jack sat on the edge of his desk, watching you. 

His office was beautiful. Mahogany and leather dominated the space. You let a hand trail across the back of an armchair as you passed it in route towards the enormous set of windows behind his desk. They allowed a view over the entire distillery. “Nice view”

“I’ll say.”

You turned around to see him staring at your ass and rolled your eyes playfully. The sundress you had on hugged your curves in all the right places.

Moving to his desk, you took a seat in his armchair and leaned back lazily. “I’m basically you now.”

Jack took his hat off, then reached over to place it on your head. It was a little too big and fell over your eyes. 

He laughed and pushed it up, “Can you crack a whip, though?” 

“Uh yeah,” you said sarcastically.

“So you didn’t hit yourself in the leg with it and start crying when I tried to teach you?”

You sputtered dramatically “must have been someone else.” You lowered your voice and mimicked his accent “because when you give me a whip boy, I am like a tornado in a trailer park, let me tell you. Ye ye.”

“Funny.”

“I did well with the lasso though,” you pointed out. 

“You caught a fence post that wasn’t movin’.”

“If that goat didn’t have such a bad attitude I could have caught it too.”

Jack didn’t respond to that comment, he simply looked at you with a knowing smile. The goat charged you, and it was frightening….even if it was a twenty-pound kid with no horns yet. 

Your eyes scanned the desk. His computer took up most of the space but he had a few pictures as well…..none of them were of you.

‘He probably didn’t even notice. These must have been here for years,’ you told yourself.

You looked up at him with a bright smile, shaking off the feeling of hurt. The last thing you wanted to do was blow something so little out of proportion. “I bought some food for your coworkers so most of them are having lunch now... that door? Does it lock?”

Jack looked confused, but reached over and flipped a switch on the side of his desk.

The gears in the door clicked into place. “And the windows?”

He flipped another switch next to it. The glass behind you turned dark. Jack appeared to be catching on. “What are you…?”

You cleared your throat and arranged some files in your hands. “Agent Whiskey, I am here today to inform you of a top secret mission you need to complete. Should you be up to the task?”

He seemed amused. “I’m all ears, honey.”

“It is a time sensitive matter, you see. I was looking over the calendar and it seems like this is the peak time to conceive. Now, judging by my calculations, your coworkers will get back from lunch in about fifteen minutes - meaning the mission must be completed by that time. You up for the challenge, son?”

“That was sexy until you called me son,” he smirked. You could see him thinking it over, a whirlwind of thoughts racing through his mind as those brown eyes fell upon you. “Desk, now.”

“Sir, yes sir” you smiled and did as you were told, moving from the chair to sit on the edge of his desk. 

Jack came around to face you. Leaning down, he brushed his lips against yours in a soft kiss. You could hear him moving a few things out of the way to allow more room. He also made it a point to turn the pictures of his first wife face down. 

When he was done, and he could finally focus on you, he kissed you harder and let a hand travel up your leg. You shivered as his fingers lifted the hem of your dress and brushed along your thigh. 

He broke away to look at you, his face serious. “Jesus H. Christ girl. You spoke to all of my coworkers without any fuckin’ underwear on?”

“I came ready for my top secret mission.”

This seemed to ignite something in him. With a lust that hadn’t been there before, he yanked the straps of your dress down, exposing your bra. His lips kissed the swell of your breasts before trailing upwards and sucking a hickey into the spot just above your collarbone. 

“Jack,” you whined, “don’t leave a mark.”

“Why not?” he teased.

“Because people are going to know.”

“Good, let em’.” 

Suddenly Jack pulled you from the desk and spun you around. He placed a hand between your shoulders and pushed you against the wood. 

“How about this? This what you want? Coming here while I’m at work?” he growled. Reaching down and rubbing your clit with those calloused fingers quickly, too quickly. You gasped as you felt a pinch and closed your legs in order to halt his movements. 

It was hands off immediately. “Sorry, sugar,” he whispered, “too much?”

“You can do it like this,” you told him, “but maybe a little slower to start.” 

He kicked your legs open with his boot and started touching you again. Softer this time, like you requested. “Better?”

You nodded and closed your eyes, trying to keep your knees from buckling. 

“Look at you, I’ve only started using my fingers and you’re already shaking.”

A moan escaped your lips. Then the feeling of his hand disappeared.

You lifted your head to see why, only to feel him push you back down against the cold mahogany. 

He reached up and un-knotted the fabric of his tie. “Open,” he instructed.

As soon as you did, Jack was laying the fabric across your mouth and tying it above your head. “You act like a little slut today. I’ll treat you like a little slut.”

Without warning, he pushed two fingers inside of you. Your back arched beneath his touch. It was rare he showed this side of himself. Usually you got Jack, the fun loving, smooth talking cowboy. You hardly ever got to see Whiskey, who was colder, darker, more calculated than the man you knew as your husband. It wasn’t a surprise, though. Even before you came here, you knew which version of him you were going to get. 

He started to move his fingers, pumping them inside of you slowly, while his other hand slid from between your shoulder blades to grip the back of your neck. You moaned something inaudible and pushed back against him, needing to feel him deeper. 

“God, you’re desperate for it, aren’t you? Couldn’t even wait till I got home-”

He curled his fingers upward, causing you to let out a cry. He shushed you gently, thumb brushing back and forth on the soft skin of your neck. “Now darlin’ do you want everybody in the office to hear you get fucked on my desk?”

You shook your head in response. 

His hand left your neck to grab a fistful of your ass. You whimpered as his nails dug into your flesh and your hips pressed uncomfortably against the edge of the desk. You made a mental note to visit him at work more often. 

He pulled his fingers out and rubbed your clit again, your whole body straining for his touch. “Cum for me like a good girl and I’ll think about giving you my cock” 

You could have fallen apart from his words alone. That deep southern accent telling, nay, commanding you to perform for him. You could hardly keep your balance as your orgasm washed over you. Knees shaking, he continued to stroke his fingers through your folds slowly. 

He leaned over you to coo in your ear “that feel good, honey?”

You nodded and hummed.

“Alright, here’s what’s gonna happen next- I’m going to sit in this chair- and you are going to ride me until I cum.... got it?”

You nodded.

“Good” You felt Jack undo his belt, then his trousers. He sat down in his chair and started stroking his cock. “Alright hun- times a wastin’.”

You turned around and tried to pull the fabric out of your mouth, but Jack grabbed you by the wrist to bring you forward a little. “Follow directions. I never said to take that out, don’t make me tie your hands.”

You nodded again, knowing that he was dead serious. You placed your hands on his shoulders as you put a knee on the chair and pulled yourself up, straddling him. 

 It was a tight fit, but it worked. He turned to back the chair up against the desk so it wouldn’t move, then took you by the hips to sink you down on his cock. Brown eyes watching your face the entire time. 

You started to move; the chair squeaked a little as you did. God, he felt wonderful. 

It took a few minutes before you realized something was wrong. This had been the case for the last few weeks. You both had been actively trying for a baby, but it seemed he had a problem keeping his….. stamina.

You tried to let him know it wasn’t something to be embarrassed about. It was normal and could be fixed easily with a prescription, or therapy, but Jack wanted none of those conversations. He would get angry and shut down at the mere mention of it.

Sometimes everything would go smoothly, and other times you could see that his thoughts were wandering. 

“Get off,” he sighed, pulling a hand across his face in annoyance. 

You did, untying the gag in your mouth. “What about if we tried it another way? From behind worked last time.”

He cleared his throat, tucking himself back into his boxers, then zipping up his trousers. 

You wished he would just talk to you. There was no reason to get angry. You were his wife. Nothing he could tell you would ever make you think less of him. This was a minor problem, nothing more. “Or we can just consider this practice and try again tonight.”

“Yep,” he said, pulling the chair up to his desk again.

You moved around the desk awkwardly, picking up the hat that had been knocked to the floor and handing it to him. “Ok well. I’ll see you at home. Um... have a good rest of your day.”

 You lingered there, wanting to hear if he had anything more to say, but it was clear that the conversation was over. You moved to the door and placed your hand on the knob; it unlocked with the flick of the switch.

He couldn’t even look at you, and you didn’t understand why.

“I love you,” you told him.

He scratched the back of his neck impatiently “love you too.”

You offered him one last smile before you left the room and closed the door behind you. As you walked along the corridor, all you could hear was the sound of your footsteps echoing off the walls. 

‘This was just a storm to be weathered, that was all,’ you told yourself. 

The two of you would get through this and everything would be alright, just as it was before. The next pregnancy test would be positive. The next time you faced his family they would welcome you... and the next time he said he loved you, you would believe him. 

Everything would work out in the end, two-and-a-half years was a long time to just throw it all away. He would come back to you, you just needed to try a little harder.

[nikki-writes-stuff]

Beauty In the Blood - Part Two

Summary: One day your friend convinces you to join a dating website that matches people based on their search histories, and when you match with Loki Odinson, a handsome, intelligent coroner who’s a fan of your murder mysteries, you’re absolutely thrilled. But there’s something off about Loki, and as your relationship progresses, you discover that his dark side is even darker than you could ever have imagined…

Pairing: Serial Killer!Loki x Writer!Reader

Read part one here!

Read part three here! 

A/N: This story is based off of this post! I hope you guys enjoy; this is my first time writing Loki, and this will probably be the darkest thing I’ve ever written. Please let me know what you think as the story progresses!

Warning: This story contains graphic descriptions of death! This chapter also has mentions of smut in it, so read at your own risk! And, above all else, enjoy!

Your bottom lip was bright red from how ferociously you’d been chewing on it. The menu in your hands was crumpled from where you’d been gripping it, and your thigh was starting to feel sore from how fast your knee was bouncing under the table.

Another glance at your phone revealed the time to be 12:14, and your heart fluttered with a fresh wave of anxiety; you and Loki had agreed to meet at noon, and he didn’t seem like the type to be late. What if your first date with him hadn’t gone as well as you’d hoped? What if you were going to be sitting here, alone, for the next hour or so, waiting for a date who had no intention of showing up? What if-

Your musings were drowned out by a flood of relief when you saw the man in question walk through the bistro’s doors, and immediately you chided yourself on being so paranoid. His crystalline eyes scanned the small restaurant until they finally fell on you, and his face lit up when your gazes met.

Your heart squeezed as he started walking towards you, and you slowly scanned him up and down as he made his way to your table. Today, he was dressed in charcoal grey trousers with a light green shirt tucked into them, and though you knew it was silly, you couldn’t help but grin when you saw the briefcase he was holding. How professional.

“I am,” he huffed, sitting down across from you, “so sorry for being late. The police strolled in today ten minutes before my break with a body they’d dredged up from the Hudson this morning.”

“Just another day at the office, then?” you joked, and he chuckled under his breath.

“When you’re in my line of work, yes.”

“Well, it’s ok. You could’ve called to cancel if your work needed your attention-“

“No,” he shook his head resolutely. “I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind since the café. Nothing was going to make me miss this.”

Your cheeks felt even hotter, and you tried to hide your enormous smile behind your menu. A cold hand wrapped around one of your wrists, and you glanced up as Loki pulled your hand to rest in his on the tabletop. You shared a small, almost shy, smile with him before your waiter approached.

“Good afternoon,” he greeted the two of you. “My name is John; I’ll be taking care of you guys today. May I start out with your drink orders?”

After you’d placed your order of iced tea and Loki had requested a water with lemon, you sat your menu down and turned to him.

“So… How have the past three days been for you?” you asked, and Loki’s eyes flicked up from the menu as he answered.

“Busy. But not unmanageable; the police have been particularly obnoxious this week, but then again, New York’s finest have always been a pain in the arse.”

You chuckled and took a sip of your tea.

“Well… I’m sorry they’ve been giving you a hard time.”

“It’s fine; after all, that’s what they do best.” Having apparently decided on what he’d have for lunch, your date set his menu on top of yours and squeezed your hand. “How about you, though? Any new projects you’ve been working on?”

“Maybe,” you hummed. “I actually just sent the second draft of my latest novel to my publisher, so hopefully it’ll be on shelves in a few months’ time.”

Loki’s eyes lit up, and he leaned forward on his elbow.

“Oh? What is it about?”

You laughed at the eager look on his face and quirked an eyebrow.

“You don’t really want me to spoil it for you, do you?”

“Spoil it? No, but just a brief summary of the plot would be enough to satisfy your most dedicated reader. For now, at least.”

You pretended to think for it a moment, biting your lip and tilting your head to the side.

“Hm… I don’t know…”

Turning back toward Loki, you watched as he lifted the back of your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles as he winked at you.

“Please?” he asked, his voice just a note huskier than it had been a moment ago. “I can think of a few ways I could repay you…”

You swallowed, the cadence and timber of his voice going straight to your core, and you clenched your thighs at the implication of his words.

“Wh-what do you have in mind?” you stammered, and Loki gave you a knowing smirk.

“The only way to find out is if you tell me what I want to know,” he murmured.

Before you could say anything else, though, your waiter arrived with your drinks, and Loki’s eyes didn’t stray from you for even a moment, not even while he placed his order. You hoped the waiter hadn’t overheard your conversation as he walked up, and you stuttered your way through asking for the lunch special.

Once he was walking away, Loki’s smile stretched into a full-on, mischievous grin.

“I believe you had something you wanted to tell me, love?”

You blinked a few times and cleared your throat.

“Ah, yes. So,” you started, “the title I finally settled on is Cracked Glass, and it’s about two detectives who are partners – their names are Smithback and Charles. And the premise of the story is that one of them is a serial killer who keeps dropping bodies all over Chicago, but you don’t know which one is the killer until the very end. I’m actually pretty excited about it! My editor said that it’s her favorite of my works to date.”

Loki grinned, setting his chin in his palm while tracing your knuckles with the thumb of his other hand.

“That sounds incredibly intriguing, my dear,” he praised. “I’m guessing that there’s a plot twist of epic proportions at the end?”

“Well, I don’t like to brag, but…” You trailed off with a laugh, shrugging. “I just hope people like it. Especially my ‘most dedicated reader’.”

“I know that I’ll adore it, just as I have all your other works,” he assured you.

After that, the two of you made small talk until your food came. You found out that Loki’s favorite color was green, that he had a black cat named Lovecraft, and that his brother was planning a trip to New York to come visit him.

“We decided on May,” Loki informed you, “which gives me two months to prepare myself mentally for the onslaught that is Thor Odinson.”

“I’m sure he’s not that bad,” you chuckled, and Loki gave you a skeptical look.

“My brother once ate two entire rotisserie chickens in one setting while singing ‘Don’t Stop Believing’ drunkenly with his group of Neanderthalic friends,” he deadpanned. “We were twenty-eight at the time, and he’d consumed… I want to get the number right; I think it was twelve Jaeger Bombs.”

You almost choked on your tea from laughing so hard, and the smile he gave you was so genuine, so full of affection, that it made your heart swell almost painfully in your chest.

After finishing your meal, Loki insisted on paying the bill, and the two of you walked out of the bistro arm in arm. It was a beautiful, albeit cold, day in Manhattan. The sun was shining; the birds were singing; a saxophone player could be heard performing on a nearby street corner.

“It’s days like this that make me fall in love with New York,” you sighed, tilting your head back as the wind whipped through your hair.

Loki’s eyes followed the curve of your neck as you tilted your head towards the sky, and he licked his lips as he imagined wrapping his hand around it. He wouldn’t do any permanent damage, of course; he would sooner destroy a stained glass window than take the life of the woman he was already madly in love with. But his cock twitched at the thought of you walking around with bruises he’d painted across your body, starting with that elegant neck…

“Loki?”

He cleared his throat, snapping out of his reverie as you raised your eyebrow expectantly at him.

“I’m sorry, darling, did you say something?” he asked distractedly, and you chuckled before repeating yourself.

“I asked when you have to be back to work,” you said, and Loki glanced down at his watch.

“In about twenty minutes,” he sighed. “But the hospital is only a fifteen minute walk away.”

You hesitated, debating whether or not to ask the question that had popped into your head. You didn’t want to seem desperate, but at the same time, you didn’t want your date with Loki to end just yet.

“Would it be ok if I, um…walked with you to the hospital? If it’s ok,” you quickly added. “If you would rather have the time to yourself, then I can head home. It’s just-“

You were cut off by Loki’s lips as they pressed against yours, and you smiled as you sunk into the kiss, resting your hands on his chest as he nipped lightly at your bottom lip.

“Of course you can,” he whispered, running one of his hands through your hair. “I would leave work early, if I could, to spend the rest of the day with you.”

You grinned and stood up on your tiptoes to peck his lips again, warmth blooming within you.

“Okay…”

Reaching down, you laced your fingers through his as he started off in the direction of the hospital, and the walk was mostly silent as you took in the sights and sounds of the city around you. People were milling about busily, oblivious to you as you watched them. Loki, for his part, was too focused on how warm your hand felt in his and how good your hair smelled when the breeze carried its scent in his direction. This was only his second date with you, but you were already driving him mad; he’d never desired another person this way before. All of his previous attractions had been fleeting and superficial, but your mind drew him in like a moth to flame.

Before either of you knew it, the Bellevue Hospital Center was rising before you, a monolith of brick and glass, and you couldn’t help but feel intimidated by it. After all, it was one of the oldest hospitals in the city; Loki must have been fantastic at his job to be able to work in such a prestigious establishment.

“This is the office,” he joked, leading you in past the front doors.

You weren’t able to form a response as you stepped into the modern entry hall of the hospital. Curved walkways lay overhead, and the walls and ceiling were mostly made of glass. People were milling about everywhere, not sparing the two of you a single glance as they went about their business.

“Wow…”

Loki chuckled at your wonder, stopping next to a set of elevators as he rummaged through his pocket. You glanced down to see him pull out an ID card with his name, picture, and the words ‘Medical Examiner’ in bold font on it.

“I’ve never been to such a fancy looking hospital,” you admitted.

“After a while, it gets old,” he admitted, glancing around with an unimpressed look on his face. “It’s big and expensive, yes, but it nearly takes me twenty minutes just to walk from my office to the cafeteria.”

The two of you shared a laugh, oblivious to the detectives who had paused too look at you. Natasha turned to Steve, both of them shocked at seeing Loki actually laughing with someone. Not just someone – a pretty young woman who was currently holding his hand.

“I…don’t think I’ve ever seen him genuinely smile,” Rogers mused, and Natasha quirked an eyebrow, and unreadable expression on her face.

“Neither have I…”

They watched as you leaned up to press a kiss to Loki’s cheek, and something in Natasha stirred at the sight, something that hinted at feelings she’d never even considered having towards Dr. Odinson.

“I’ll text you tonight,” Loki said, oblivious to the officers staring at him from across the room. “Maybe we can do something this weekend? After all, I still need to repay you for letting me in on what your new masterpiece is about.”

Your cheeks heated up, and you playfully rolled your eyes.

“I definitely wouldn’t call it a masterpiece,” you insisted humbly.

“Mm, we’ll agree to disagree on that, love.”

You made to pull away, but Loki’s grip on you tightened, making you turn back to him curiously.

“Before you leave,” he murmured, “can I ask you another morbid question?”

“Of course,” you laughed. “I’m always up for one of those.”

Loki’s thumb traced your knuckles as he spoke to you in a hushed tone.

“Last time, you told me how you’d kill someone out of necessity,” he said, a twinkle of mischief alight in his eyes. “Tell me how you would kill someone who deserves to die. Maybe someone who’d done bad things to innocent people.”

You chuckled at the sincerity of the question; if it was anybody else, you’d be worried. But this was Loki; he had a morbid career just like you, and you knew better than to put any thought into his question.

“Is this going to become a game between us?” you giggled. “Exchanging ideas for murder?”

Loki snickered at the question.

“It can be, if you’d permit it.”

“Oh, I’m always down for some homicide.” You thought about it for a moment, biting your bottom lip in contemplation. “I guess… I would probably drown them. I’m not the strongest person in the world, but if you put someone in a bathtub and hold their legs up, it’s nearly impossible for them to right themselves. And, plus, it’s definitely not a painless way to die, so whatever horrible things they did will be paid for, I suppose.”

Loki nodded, filing away the information for later use.

“Elegant,” he praised, and you playfully bowed your head.

“I aim to please.”

After you said your goodbyes, the two of you parted ways, oblivious to the detectives still watching you. They were too far away to overhear your conversation, but both of them were intrigued to see Loki seemingly happy with someone.

As you walked out of the hospital, your eyes caught a flash of red hair, and you turned to see a drop-dead gorgeous redhead standing next to an equally attractive blonde man. Typically, you wouldn’t of given them a second glance, but… They were both watching you. Intently.

For a moment, you faltered in your step, the distinct feeling of being watched prickling at your scalp. But then the blonde man smiled at you and politely inclined his head, the way two strangers might do if they were both in line at a coffee shop.

You hesitantly returned his smile before walking out the doors, still feeling unsettled by the exchange. Because despite the friendly gesture of the man, the woman with him hadn’t even faltered in her stare. She’d just continued to watch you impassively, her arms crossed against her chest and her lips pressed firmly together.

The couple left your mind soon enough, though, and after sitting in a cab for twenty minutes, you were once again in your comfy townhome. You spent the rest of the afternoon in front of your computer, an empty word document open before you. It was true that you’d just finished up your latest work, but you knew you couldn’t get to comfortable. Bills would continue to come in whether or not you felt inspired, and though you had a comfortable cushion of money in the bank, you still didn’t want to get too comfortable.

And so, you’d decided to move on to the next project. But what would you write about?

Your mind, indubitably, strayed to Loki once more, turning over the last few minutes of conversation you’d had that day. He was so…elegant, with just a hint of a sinister edge that you were sure had come from his work. You were intrigued by his career, truth be told. How couldn’t you be? You’d written about death for years, now. But he’d lived it; he’d touched it.

And it was that thought that sent your fingers typing away at your keyboard.

It wasn’t that she’d chosen to live on the line between life and death; she liked to think that death had chosen her to be among its closest of companions, shaping her since her youth to be the walking Death Knoll that she’d become…

___________

Loki didn’t consider himself to be a full-on sociopath, but it was typically hard for him to empathize with others. Or, rather, it wasn’t that it was difficult for him; it was that most of the time he simply didn’t care to try to feel sympathy for other people.

But even he had some broken semblance of a moral compass, and no matter how dark his inner feelings grew, he knew that he would never be able to harm a child. Unfortunately, not everyone agreed with that particular sentiment, but at least he could do something about it.

He stayed late at the hospital two days after your lunch date, that familiar hunger within him having only grown since seeing you again. Usually, he could keep the beast under control, but something about you fanned the flames within him until he felt as if he’d burn alive if he didn’t do something, anything, to satiate them.

And so he found himself sneaking into the pediatric ward at 7 pm, just as the day-shift nurses were finishing up and the night-shift nurses were starting to take their place. A pair of deep purple gloves clung to his hands, and he was careful not to make too much noise as he snuck into one of the doctor’s offices. He went down the hallway, trying three before he found one left unlocked. HIPAA would have a field day if they only knew…

From there, he searched the room for a password to the computer, not surprised to see it written on a sticky note hidden beneath the keyboard. Whoever this doctor was, Loki made a mental note not to trust him with any of his medical records.

Taking a seat at the desk, he located the file of patients seen that day, scrolling through them for what he was looking for. A case of the flu, a sick stomach, an allergic reaction – no, no, no. He let out a huff of frustration as he pulled up patients seen the day before, then the day after that, looking for something he could use.

And that was when he saw poor little Annie Rineback.

He pulled up a picture of the five year old, frowning when he saw the deep purple bruise around her left eye. Loki skimmed through her vitals, scrolling down the page until he pulled up the doctor’s and nurse’s notes.

Patient refused to say anything in regard to how she’d received her injury. Pt’s mother insisted that Annie fell down while playing in their yard, but could not answer specific questions as to what specifically had caused pt’s injuries, the nurse had written.

Suspected case of abuse, the doctor had followed up in his own records. When asked, pt’s mother said that her husband had been at work during the time of the incident, though I have my own personal suspicions. Will call pt’s mother in a week to follow-up.

Loki made quick work of retrieving the little Annie’s address before closing out of the browser and locking the computer once more. After doing a quick scan of the room to make sure he’d left no trace, he made his way out, a sinister smirk on his face.

Time to get to work.

_________

It was Friday night when Loki got your call. His heart leapt with joy upon seeing your name flash across his screen, and he didn’t even hesitate as he answered.

“Hello, beautiful.”

Your own heart contorted upon hearing his voice; it had been Tuesday when you’d gone on your little lunch date, and the two of you had been texting each other at every opportunity ever since. But his voice just did things to you; you would always prefer it to texting.

“Hey, Loki. How’s it going?”

“Oh, same old, same old,” he replied, glancing around his basement. He’d recently dusted the space and sprayed it down with linen-scented air freshener, and he was quite happy with the result. The knives and saws gleamed against their white pegboard, and if he walked over to the examination table resting in its middle, he’d be able to see his reflection in its surface.

The only thing out of place was the large tub of water he’d dragged into the room. Well, that and the woman he had tied up in the corner. She was still passed out from the blow he’d landed to the back of her head, and he’d preemptively gagged her for whenever she woke up; his ears were still ringing from the way she’d screamed when he grabbed her in the alleyway near her apartment.

“How about you, darling?” he asked, leaning back against the metal sink behind him. “How’s the new book coming along?”

“It’s actually going really well; you’ve been quite the source of inspiration.”

Loki grinned widely, knowing that he must have looked like an infatuated schoolboy as his heart fluttered. But he didn’t care; the only person who could have seen the effect you had on him was currently passed out, and even if she hadn’t been, she would be soon.

“Really? I’m inspiring you? How so?”

“Well… The latest character in my book might be a suave, attractive medical examiner.”

His heart swelled at the idea of her basing one of her characters off of him, especially since he truly did love her work so much. He swallowed thickly before replying, internally berating himself for being such a sap.

“Oh? And do I have anything else in common with this fellow?”

“Not really. She also happens to be a woman. And she kills people, so… Yeah. I sure hope she doesn’t!”

Loki laughed along with you even as he cut his eyes towards his soon-to-be victim.

“Ehehe, yes. Well, I can’t wait to read all about her.”

His eyes widened when he saw Annie’s mom start to stir against her bonds, and he immediately straightened up.

“Hey, love?” he suddenly said. “Could I call you back in half an hour or so? I just got a text from Thor to call him, and I’d better make sure he isn’t setting something on fire.”

“Oh, sure thing,” you assured him, hoping that you hadn’t bothered him. “I’m sorry for calling at a bad time…”

“No, love, don’t apologize! I want nothing more than to hear your lovely voice,” Loki promised. “I’m just paranoid when it comes to Thor.”

You softened at that, letting the doubt you’d started to feel seep out of you.

“You’re a good brother, Loki,” you smiled. “I understand. Just give me a call back whenever you can.”

“I will,” he stated. “It shouldn’t take longer than thirty minutes.” He watched as the woman he had tied up started to blink her eyes open, and he knew that he needed to go before she started with her incessant screaming again.

“I’ll call you right back,” he said once more.

“Okey, doke. Bye, Loki!”

“Goodbye, love.”

Not a moment after he’d hung up, the woman made a small noise of panic, which amplified into a full-on wail once she saw the wall of torture devices Loki had constructed. With a roll of his eyes, and shoved his phone back into his pocket and marched over to her, kneeling down to her level to grip her throat.

“If you don’t shut up,” he growled, “I will cut off your fingers and toes one by one until you have nothing but bloody stumps left. Do you want that?”

The woman’s mascara was tracking down her cheeks, staining the rope that was currently gagging her, and after a few sniveling gasps she nodded her head.

“Good. Now,” Loki continued, “let me explain your current situation. You are in my basement right now under layers of concrete and insulation. This room is locked and sound-proof, and I live alone. No one will come to help you, and no one knows where you are.

“Now, I have a few questions to ask you, so I’m going to take your gag off. But,” he added when he saw the woman perk up, “if you start with that screaming again, I will slit your throat and call it a day. And neither of us want that, now do we?”

Once again, the woman shook her head, and Loki gave her a tight smile.

“Very good.”

He reached out and gripped the rope, tugging it out from between her teeth until it rested loosely around her neck. To her credit, she didn’t scream as he’d expected her to, nor did she persist in struggling against her bonds as she had been a moment before.

“Hm. Very good,” Loki praised as he stood up.

“Are you going to kill me?” the woman asked, looking up at him with pleading, tearful eyes. “Please,” she continued after a moment of silence, “please, I have a family.”

At that, Loki threw his head back and laughed.

“Oh, Mrs. Rineback, I’m aware,” he chuckled. “In fact, that’s exactly what I had questions about.

“See, I don’t have children,” he mused, starting to pace in front of her. “Nor do I think I ever will. But I do understand the general concept. You’re supposed to love your children unconditionally and care for them, nurture them, blah blah blah… But you, Mrs. Rineback, you do none of those things, now do you?”

The woman’s face grew guarded upon hearing that, and she stiffened.

“I… I don’t know what you-“

“Oh, don’t insult me,” Loki scoffed. “I already know all of your dirty little secrets. Poor little Annie… Originally, I’d started researching her, believing that maybe her father really hadn’t been at work the day she was brought into the hospital with a black eye and bruised rib. That was what the doctor assumed to be the case, at least.

“But all too often, the mother is overlooked as the possible abuser, is she not?”

Loki stood still in front of her, watching as horror started to fill her gaze. He took a moment to enjoy this intoxicating moment of complete power; he could get off on this alone.

“Yes, Mrs. Rineback,” he cooed. “I know. I know everything. I know of what you’ve put Annie through, and I know what you put little Micah through before his…untimely end.”

A whimper escaped her upon hearing her son’s name, and she looked away, no doubt feeling hot shame wash over her.

“Micha…fell down a flight of stairs,” she whispered. “It was an accident!”

“Oh, I have no doubt that he fell down some stairs. But I very much doubt that it was an accident.”

Silence hung heavily between them, until the click of his shoes accompanied his steps as he approached her.

“Tell me – how do you sleep at night with the murder of your seven year old son looming over your head? Evidently, not too restlessly, if you still continue to abuse your remaining child-“

“Stop!” she suddenly shouted, bowing her head. “Stop, please; I’m a good mother. I… I love my child. I loved… I loved Micah.”

“But that doesn’t stop you from drinking, now does it?” he snarled. “I only watched you for a day before knowing I wouldn’t be able to stomach another. Do you always start drinking with your breakfast?”

She didn’t look up at him, and he watched with a sneer as her shoulders shook with her sobs. He knelt down beside her, gripping her throat once more and forcing her to meet his eyes.

“You,” he whispered, “repulse me.”

With that, he hauled her to her feet, ignoring the way she writhed and twisted in his grip. Her attempts at fleeing were borderline laughable as he neared the tub, and with a kick to the back of her knee she was kneeling before it.

“The world will not miss you,” he assured her, twisting a hand in her hair and yanking until she was halfway in the water. “Nor will your family.”

And with that, he shoved her in, dropping to his knees and flipping her onto her back. Her restrained arms twisted, and most of her weight was placed upon her tied hands where they rested against her lower back as Loki grabbed her ankles.

From there, it was only a matter of time. He stood up, keeping her legs in the air, as she floundered under the water. It was delightful to watch her at this angle, and Loki once again said a silent thank you for the idea. He could clearly see her face as she fought towards the surface, resembling a fish flopping around on a pier as she struggled.

It didn’t take long before her harried motions started to slow down, though, and Loki almost was disappointed as the fight left her. He watched her chest expand as she took in a large lungful of water, and the sputters she made were music to his ears. And disappointment he had faded when she went completely motionless, and in her last moments, she opened her eyes and looked up at him through the haze. Even through the ripples in the water, he could distinguish the moment that she knew she was about to die, and the fear within her gaze was euphoric to him. He wondered, for a moment, if she was afraid of waking up in hell, even though he’d long since dismissed the idea of such fanciful, religious notions.

When he was finally sure that she was dead, he let go of his grip on her legs and took a step back, glancing down in disgust at the water that had gotten on his clothes. But, then again, he typically left his basement covered in blood, so this was amongst the cleanest ways he’d killed one of his victims.

Ten minutes later, he was in his bed, stroke Lovecraft as she laid against his side. He’d cleaned up and put on some sweatpants before settling in to call you, and butterflies flapped around his chest just at the sight of your name in his phone.

“This is ridiculous,” he huffed, sending a bemused glance towards his cat. “I’m a thirty-six year old man – I’m a fucking serial killer – and this woman already has me wrapped around her finger.”

His cat only blinked slowly up at him, not caring in the slightest about his internal distress, and with a small smile, he pressed the call button.

Meanwhile, you were in bed yourself, reading a book you’d picked up from the store a few days ago, when you heard your ringtone. With a squeal, you all but threw your book down and accepted the call, a huge smile on your face as you answered.

“Hello, again.”

“Hello, darling. Sorry again about earlier.”

“No, it’s fine! I totally get it. How is everything with Thor?”

“Thor is fine,” he smiled. “He needed my help installing photoshop on his computer. Why he needs photoshop, I’ll never know, but I walked him through it and now I only have a mild headache from the endeavor.”

“I really need to meet your brother in person. Just wait until I tell him all the things you’ve been saying.”

“I assure you, it’s nothing I haven’t told him directly in person. But he’s gotten me back a few times, despite his incompetence. One time, he tried to sell me on Craigslist.”

“Oh, no! That’s…that’s actually hilarious.”

“Mm, well. The concerning thing was that I had a few interested parties.”

You both laughed at that, and after a while you were both left in an almost awkward silence.

“So…” you finally began nervously. “I was wondering if you’re free tomorrow.”

“As a matter of fact, I am,” Loki said. “Did you have anything in mind for us?”

“Well… I was wondering if you would like to come over and be seduced by my cooking skills.”

“I think it’s fair to say that you’ve already seduced me,” he chuckled. “But I would love to. Can I bring anything?”

“Just yourself! …And actually, a bottle of wine would be awesome.”

“Then I’ll pick one up on the way.”

You grinned, sitting up in bed.

“Well, then. I’ll plan on seeing you tomorrow, Dr. Odinson.”

There was something about the way you said his title that made Loki’s cock twitch in his pants, and he absentmindedly reached down to give it a squeeze.

“I’ll look forward to it,” he breathed.

As soon as the two of you said your goodbyes, Loki practically leapt out of bed and hopped into the shower, both to wash the scent of Mrs. Rineback’s cheap perfume off of him and to quell his sudden lust for you. He couldn’t help but wonder what exactly you had in mind for tomorrow; he wasn’t sure how long he would be able to wait until he all but threw you onto the nearest horizontal surface and fucked your brains out. The way you made him feel was unlike anything he’d ever experienced, and he could only hope that you felt the same way.

Meanwhile, miles away, you were looking at the new set of lingerie you’d bought that evening as it lay atop your dresser. You closed your eyes and let yourself fall back against your pillows, fantasizing about the look on Loki’s face when he saw you in the dark green bra and panties you’d picked out just for him. A hand slipped into your pajama shorts at the thought, and unbeknownst to either of you, you both came at almost the same time that evening, your minds focused on the exact same thing.

Tomorrow night.

[yeojaa]

TO THE MOON AND BACK - ft. ???

You feel winded and you're not sure why.  Like you'd been walking on cloud nine and were now falling through the atmosphere, plummeting toward the ground at incredible speeds.  When you speak, it doesn't really sound like you.  "Yes."  Because he was exactly right - you were a hopeless romantic.  Always had been.  It was hard not to be when your parents were childhood sweethearts and love was the thing you'd been chasing your whole life.

alt summary.  You use your one brain cell for love.  It doesn’t always end well.

pairing.  who knows, honestly.  the obvious ones are kim taehyung and jeon jungkook, though.  

tags.  blind date, strangers, strangers to friends, strangers to lovers, getting to know each other, alternate universe, alternate universe - modern setting, romantic comedy, fluff, slow burn, smut, pining, unrequited love.

rating.  ... 18+

word count.  ~4000

chapter 9.  

FLASHBACK September 1, 2018

"Just post it,"  you're chiding, indignant and exasperated and still, so incredibly soft.  You're prone against his shoulder, bone of your chin digging into the muscle that lines his back and undulates with every breath.  He moves forward, not to dislodge you from your position, but enough to shift the sharp turn of your jaw.  You say nothing further and settle into the warmth that radiates off him, nose lost to the hood of his sweatshirt.  

The mouse sits heavy in his palm, an anchor rather than 67 grams of nothingness.  There's too much power in the little black device.  It makes his jaw ache and his brow furrow.  You can feel the uncertainty radiating off him in waves, invading your senses in an unwelcome assault.

"Kook, come on."  Again, softer this time, laced with tenderness and belief.  It spills off your lips, buttery and sweet like carnival kettle corn.  Your arms find a home around the slant of his frame, fingers locking neatly over his chest, right where his heart lies beneath flesh and bone.  The steady thud of it is a reminder of his humanity.  "You've worked so hard for this."

This, being his portfolio.  His life's work made reality, brushed with the most utmost care and so much talent you're not sure where it all goes.  

Gouache portraits, vivid blues and greens splashed over cream;  wondrous proportions laid out bare, rendered to perfection with a keen eye and careful hand.  Production of stories you'd never be able to express, painted with the most glorious skill and cut to maximize impact.  Melodies woven in between and above; the sweetest sound you'd ever hear, awash with the light and shadow.  

His finger hovers over the button on his mouse as if it's a Doomsday device.  You want to scoff but bite it back, pressing your face into the freshly-washed powder puff that is his hair.  It smells of peaches and honey, mingling with the distinctly Jungkook scent that lingers on his skin.

"I can't do it."  He whispers the words like they're shameful, yanking his hand away and stuffing his hand into the kangaroo pouch bundled around his waist.  You sigh.  It's quiet but with your close proximity, he hears it and it's an echo that repeats over and over in his ears.  Eyes squeeze shut, dent forming between his brows as he exhales a shallow breath.  "I heard that."

"You were meant to,"  you return easily.  Because while you'd always be in his corner, supporting him when he needed it most, you also weren't about to let him rest on his laurels.  

Before he can stop it, you've got the mouse in your hand.  Click - like it's the easiest motion in the world.

"Did you just—"  You're retreating as soon as he's speaking, skittering back five steps and out of reach when he whirls around in his stupid red and black gaming chair.  The fury is immediately apparent in the baring of his teeth, the tension in his jaw.  It propels him forward and he's so much taller, his strides so much longer, that he's upon you in a second.

"You needed a push!"  It's a meagre excuse, squeaked out in indignation as you anticipate death by asphyxiation.

Instead, he's crushing you against him so tightly you really do feel like you can't breathe, though it’s different.  Still, it's better than what you'd anticipated and you pat his back where you can reach, arms locked to your side by the intensity of his hug.  You think he might squeeze the life out of you but you don't move to untangle yourself from him, instead mumbling soft reassurances against his chest.  "There, there."

"Thank you."  It's so hushed you think he might've meant it only for his ears, but you feel the way the words ghost over the shell of your own.  It sends a shock straight to your toes, rousing an adoring smile along the way.

"You're welcome,"  you hum in a voice thick with satisfaction.  You loved being right.  It didn't happen often - at least, not with Jungkook - so you revelled in it at every opportunity, allowing your ego to triple in size and engulf everyone in the immediate vicinity. 

Not one to let his defeat go so easily, he huffs.  The way he rolls his eyes makes you worry he'll sever an optic nerve.  "Still a brat, though."  

"Yeah, well—"  You're returning his childish petulance tenfold, tongue sticking out from between lips that taste like too-sweet plum wine and Sprite.  "—takes one to know one."  And boy, did you know one.  Had, for the better part of three years.  Sometimes you loved it;  sometimes, you didn't quite hate it.  At least, that’s what you told yourself.

The boy snorts from above you, withdrawing just enough that you can breathe and wiggle your arms.  He really was a muscle pig - your shoulders thrum with a dull ache.  "Shut up."  

"Don't think I will,"  you answer, watching the way his eyes glint and his jaw ticks.  He tongues the inside of his cheek as he glares down at you, silent.  You know what that means.  You brace for the feeling, feet planting into the hardwood like you're an oak taking up root. It's futile.

In a second, you're upside down, suspended over his shoulder like a toddler.  Well, not a toddler, because that would be incredibly bad parenting.  It's something funnier - a six year old playing airplane.  Except you're in your twenties and you've got much longer limbs than a child and they flail wildly, elbow knocking into the back of his head with a painful sounding thud.

"Watch it!"  He exclaims, fingers digging into the meat of your thigh.  He doesn't sound too bothered, though, the words dropping off into a laugh that bounces around the room and pitches higher.  "I wouldn't want to drop my precious cargo."

It's a threat that has you stilling, if only for a minute.  The last thing you want is to have your face make friends with the floor.  That'd happened once - on concrete, even - and you'd felt awful for days after.  Of course, he'd felt terrible, too, leaving an enormous fruit tart from Maybell Bakery outside your dorm the next day.

"Go ahead.  I've been craving some fresh bread."

"That was one time."  

You can tell you've struck a nerve by the way he tenses beneath you, forearm flexing over the small of your back.  You can't help but snicker, swatting his sweatpant-covered ass just enough to jostle him.

"I was kidding, Mr. Sensitive."  

He doesn't dignify that with an answer, instead shifting into action.  His bare feet carry him in a tight circle before he deposits you onto his bed and not a minute too soon.  You'd started to feel a strain in your neck, blood rushing to your head the longer you were hung like a rag doll.

"You're a pain in my ass sometimes."  Though the words are unkind, his delivery is not.  There's far too much tenderness in his eyes, the way they crease and nearly disappear when he offers you one of his trademark bunny smiles.  

You return the expression with ease, wiggling your thin, piano-honed fingers at him.  "Literally."

"Yeah, literally."  With another exaggerated roll of his eyes, he flops face-down on the bed beside you, arms curling around a pillow and dragging it under his cheek.  His knees hang off the edge before he's dragging one up, locking it over your legs in some contortionist cuddle.  He peeks at you from beneath his fringe - it's just the right side of too long, curling prettily over his doe eyes and obscuring his eyebrows. Despite the eye contact you carefully maintain, he says nothing, merely peering up at you like he's trying to read his future or see the stars.

Finally, you speak, turning your gaze back to his popcorn ceiling as your hands find comfort in the weight of his leg, the tendons flexing in the joint of his knee.  Your neck was beginning to kink.  "What?"  

"Thank you, again."  Because once isn't enough.  Never will be, when it comes to the two of you.  You've always pushed him to do what he needed, even when he wasn't so sure himself.  He can't thank you enough for that - or for the fact that you're always there, right at the edge with him.

You smile then and meet his stare again.  "You're welcome, Kook.  Happy birthday."

"What is this?"  

You're half-asleep and groggy, struggling to push past the awful clutches of Sandman and his dreams.  They linger in every crevice, coating your lashes in dust and your tongue in cotton.  Luckily, there's no ache behind the fatigue, no lurking monkey about to crash its cymbals in defiance of you and God.

Through the frame of lethargy, you make out the familiar slope of shoulders, of a delicate pair of hands.  Past that comes his adorable smile, all squishable cheeks and barely there eyes, mouth contorted into that peculiar shape.  He's not where he should be - in bed beside you, fast asleep.  Instead, he's statuesque, barely dressed in a pair of soft cotton shorts and nothing else with your breakfast tray held aloft.  There's a pile of waffles - they look surprisingly good - and two mugs.  Somehow, there's also an assortment of flowers thrown into what looks like a water glass.  

Had you died and gone to heaven?  Surely not.  

"Happy birthday,"  your - yes, your, you remind yourself - golden Adonis sings in a voice so rich, so tender, you immediately feel a lump forming in your throat.  He's looking at you like a kid on Christmas morning,0 hopeful and filled with childish wonderment.  It stokes the warmth that spreads through your veins, lava in place of platelets.  It burns from the inside out but it's pleasant - sitting too close to a fireplace on a chilly winter evening rather than an open flame. 

Nails bite into the fleshy underside of your palm in a belated attempt to rouse yourself from the very pleasant daydream.  It stings but nothing comes further.  You're not imagining things.  

You have to applaud your past self for whatever she'd done to deserve this.  

"You really didn't have to."  A moment after it slips off your tongue, you wish it hadn't.  The last thing you want to seem is ungrateful.  Luckily, Taehyung is steadfast and unbothered, dropping forward onto a knee to slide the tray over your clean white linens.  He looks so good, all honey skin and tousled bedhead, that you can't focus when he catches your lips in a lingering kiss.

His laughter crowds your mouth, along with the taste of peppermint toothpaste and, just behind it, honey and what tastes like tea, floral and earthy.  "I wanted to."

A sound most similar to a sigh - maybe a bit needier, filled with adoration - meets the air when he withdraws, settling himself on the edge of the bed with that same heartbreaking grin.  He pushes your birthday breakfast toward you, earnest and lovely.  He even unceremoniously shoves your utensils between your fingers, forcing them into your grip like a toddler.  

"Eat,"  he commands, though his tone is too light to really elicit any movement from you.  It's only the way he looks that prompts you to dig in, cutting a generation portion of waffle loaded with what looks like whipped cream and strawberries.  You raise your fork aloft, gesturing for him to take the first taste.  He simply shakes his head and with gentle pressure, redirects the forkful back to you.  His loss.

The strawberries are surprisingly sweet yet incredibly tart, their freshness breaking up the honey glaze.  The fact that you haven't even brushed your teeth isn't lost on you;  you can't bring yourself to care when you're melting into the flavours and humming delightedly.

"Is it good?"  

"If you'd just try some, you'd know."  You answer with hearts in your eyes and affection blooming like roses across your cheeks, sparkling shades of warmth springing across fields of baby's breath.  Another forkful is raised and this time you won't allow him to redirect, holding the mouthful aloft and meeting his stare with purpose.

A moment passes, then another.  The edge of his mouth ticks higher.  Your eyes burn from your refusal to blink.

When he accepts the bite, you allow an exaggerated breath, the sound expelling from pursed lips with triumph.  "Yum?"  You question, giddy and grateful.  You sneak another bite while he chews, tongue feathering across his bottom lip to catch some residual cream from the corner.

"I did good."  He sounds so proud, chest puffed like a baby bird that's learnt to fly.  You're torn between the intense desire to squish his cheeks or kiss him silly and you stare at him for a long moment as you swallow, the intoxicating flavour of honey and strawberries sitting like a spring picnic on your tongue.  It sinks into the spaces between your teeth - a shot of loved-up sugar right into the veins - and you set your fork down. 

Free hands find the slope of his jaw and act as a cradle, thumbs smoothing over the soft dry petal of his bottom lip.  He peers at you curiously, strands of silk brushing over his gaze as he works to meet your stare.  

"What?"

You want to pass all of your affection into the smile you offer and the kiss you press, chaste and light.  "Thank you."  The emotion in your voice rings true, echoes heavily in the breath you pair it with.  "You really, really didn't have to."  But I'm really glad you did, are the words you don't say, allowing them to hang between you like a gossamer thin thread - a spider's web interconnecting all the different ways you adore him.

"I know,"  he hums as he moves in for another kiss - one that lingers and pulls and draws you deeper into the abyss that is him.  Careful hands slide the breakfast tray to the farthest corner of the bed, far away from wandering limbs, and then he's dragging you closer, over the soft white duvet.  Fingers find a home in the small of your back as you find the same nearly in his lap, knees caught against the line of his side.  Like this, he envelopes you, all sharply angled shoulders and imposing, but you don't mind.  It feels nice being wrapped in his embrace. 

FLASHBACK April 24, 2019

You need to get this done.  You can't stop until you've finished because you've been losing steam the entire week and now you're running on fumes, halfway to the finish line and about to collapse.  The strain behind your eyes feels miserable, like hot coals have replaced your usual organs, and you've nearly chewed a hole through your bottom lip.  It feels like a punishment in and of itself to feel the constant throb and the metallic tang on your tongue.

Why did you always do this?  You'd had all semester to work on this and yet, here you were, stark raving mad and exhausted on a random Friday.  

No, Saturday now.  It was almost five in the morning.

Frustration colours your complexion, marks the tired skin in patchy shades of red, and you blow a sharp breath out under your breath.  You know you have no one to blame but yourself but you try to ignore the guilt that licks up the column of your spine and settles like a heavy collar around your neck.  You can't linger on it too much - you're too busy trying to hack this artist's block to dust.

Lids squeeze shut of their own accord and the heels of your palms dig into the sockets, as if that'll help drive the emptiness from your thoughts or, at the very least, alleviate some of the mind-numbing pressure that's been building since you started this futile task six hours ago.  The consistent press helps a little - draws blossoms of light against the back of your eyelids - and you exhale a beleaguered sigh, head dropping ever so slightly.  Between the headache that's settled in like an unwelcome house guest and the general tiredness of being up for nearly twenty-four hours straight, you're not sure which is worse. 

You also don't have much time to think about it when your phone starts going off, vibrating madly across the flat top of your desk.  It's face-down - you'd wanted as few distractions as possible - and you consider ignoring it for a moment.

Only when you consider the time do you decide to answer it.  After all, nobody just called at this hour.  It might be important.

You hardly hazard a glance at the screen before you're swiping across, dimly noting the familiar silly photo of your classmate and friend plastered across the pixels.  "What's up, Jeon?"  The words come out scratchy and for the first time, you realize how parched you are.  You're not quite sure when you'd last drank or stood up or anything.  God, you were a poor excuse for an adult.  

"Open the door."  

It's equal parts impressive and irritating how chipper he somehow sounds, as if he's just woken up from the best sleep in the world and powered his way through a strongman's breakfast.  Chapped lips twist, descending into a pout you know he can't see, and you force yourself to focus on what he's said and not how you'd give anything in the world to trade places with him and his sunny disposition.  

Wait— what?  Open the what?  

"What did you say?"  

You can practically imagine the lines at his nose and around his eyes, the dimples that you're sure are carved into those cheeks of his.  "I said open the door!"  

Before you can think anything of it, you're rising from your chair - nearly knocking over your neglected glass of water with the movement - and allowing your slipper-wearing feet to carry you out of your bedroom and to the front door.  You bump into the table in your hallway, earning a grunt and sharp inhale of breath as your fingers soothe what you know will be a bruise in the morning.  Maybe you should've turned on the light.  Maybe you should've stopped at the washroom to make sure didn't frighten him with your insane hair and sleepless pallor.  Maybe you should've done a lot of things.

Instead, you slide the lock, open the door, and nearly shriek when Jungkook’s upon you faster than you can react.

"Happy birthday!"  A single solid arm is crushing you to his chest, his breath warm against your temple, before he engulfs you fully.  You feel your feet leave the ground momentarily, fuzzy slippers clattering to the floor as he squeezes you with just enough force to steal your breath away.  It might be why you're not reciprocating - you physically cannot - or it’s the fact that your brain is playing catch-up and your limbs are already a little boneless from lack of sleep.

"What are you doing here?"  You manage to squeak against the smooth fabric of his jacket.  It's the same one he always wears - black with Yohji Yamamoto embossed across the left-side of his chest - and it smells intoxicating, a familiar blend of his cologne and laundry detergent.  You inhale the scent like it'll sooth your half-asleep, ragged nerves.  It does, a little, and you're grateful for that.  You don't even pull away when he finally releases you, stepping back just enough to let you slide back into your slippers and peer up into his face.  

He really had no business looking so good.  Despite the early hour, his dark hair is neatly styled or at the very least, freshly washed.  It's fully dry and surprisingly fluffy, falling over those big doe eyes in a way that makes you want to run your fingers through it.  It's a little longer than usual, too, and you reach a hand out to smooth strands behind a silver-adorned ear.

"It's your birthday,"  comes his response, as if it's the most obvious answer in the world.  

A brow quirks - tries to, at least - and you regard him with something not quite suspicious but definitely confused.  It plays across your features in shadows, peeking around the fan of your lashes and the frame of your mouth.  "It's also... four in the morning."

"Five, actually."  There's that stupid adorable smile of his, presented like a gift and topped with squeaky laughter.  "And I told you I was coming over."

"No, you didn't."  You'd have remembered that - right?

"I did."  As if to drive his point home, the glaringly bright screen of his phone is all but shoved into your line of sight, artificial light burning your retinas.  You shift away, swatting at his wrist as he watches in barely concealed amusement.  He thinks you're frustrated by his very 'I told you so' smile that fits snug over his mouth and wrinkles the delicate skin around his eyes;  he's surprised when you take the device back in your hands and peer at it like it's the strangest thing you've ever seen.

Well, he certainly hadn't lied.  A handful of texts - maybe more than that - mock you, text bubbles indicating he had indeed sent you messages all throughout the night.  Little one-liners asking what you were doing, followed by a gentle head's up much later that he'd see you soon.  Of course, you'd ignored them all, far too engrossed in making near zero progress on your semester-end project.  It leaves a bitter taste in your mouth - equal parts tentative embarrassment and residual fatigue.  Lips purse, straighten into a firm line, and arms fold over your chest.  It's reminiscent of a spoiled child and frankly, beneath the burnout, you know it's not a good look.  Unfortunately, you can’t find it in yourself to rearrange your expression into something more socially acceptable.

Luckily, he's seen you like this enough times to not mind - you always fell into ruts like this when your procrastination met a hard deadline - the irritation seemingly unable to penetrate the sunny turn of his mouth and slope of his wide, open shoulders.  "So, are you ready?"  

"Ready for..."  You trail off, partially out of confusion and partially out of a lack of capacity to consider the question.  

"We're going on an adventure."  

Again, so simple and yet so cryptic.  It draws your eyebrows into a little knot, consternation setting into every thread.  "I have a project to do, you know."  Despite this, there's a pearl of longing that dangles from your syllables.

He zeroes in on it without hesitation, drawing you easily against him.  "I'll help you with it later,"  he says, as if that's a good enough excuse.  You suppose it is.  "In the meantime, go get ready?  You look like you have a rat living in your hair and I don't want you getting mistaken for a homeless vagrant on the train."  Despite the mockery, his expression is soft, smile sweet and playful as it always is.

It's impossible to deny him when he's like this, cherubic and enticing. 

With a sigh that blows past chapped lips and disappears into his chest, you relent.  "Fine."  You're careful to keep your tone just a little grating, as if you're somehow doing him the huge favour.  You know he can see right through it but neither of you mind;  it's all a part of your silly routine.  "Come in and wait for me and don't eat my cereal."

"No promises."

notes.  here, take my weird birthday-centric chapter.  i wanted to add more to this but my brain hasn’t been cooperating with me lately.  

i swear the next chapter will be better - with more exploration of the present! - but thanks for reading.  :)

[katehuntington]

Title: Ride With Me (part 11) Fandom: Supernatural AU Characters series: Reader, Dean Winchester, Bobby Singer, Ellen Singer-Harvelle, Jo Singer (Harvelle), Benny Lafitte, Garth Fitzgerald IV, Ash Miller, Castiel Novek, and many more. Timeline: 2008 Pairing: Dean x Reader Word count: ±6400 words Summary series: Y/N is a talented horse rider who is on her way to become a professional. In order to convince her father that she deserves the loan needed to start her own farm, she goes to Arizona for six months, to intern at a ranch owned by Bobby and Ellen Singer. Her future is set out, but then she meets a handsome horseman, who goes by the name of Dean Winchester. A heartwarming series about a cowboy who falls for the girl, letting go of the past and the importance of family.  Summary part 11: The company of wranglers sets up camp for the night. After spending the evening sharing stories and music around the fire, Dean has another shot to win Y/N over. Will he take it? Warnings series: NSFW, 18+ only! Fluff, angst, eventually smut. Swearing, smoking, alcohol intoxication, alcohol abuse. Mutual pining, heartbreak. Crying, nightmares, childhood trauma. Description of animal abuse, domestic violence, mentions of addiction. Financial problems, stress, mental breakdown. Description of blood and injury, hospital scenes, character death, grief. Music: The Weight - Jason Manns & the cast, Desire - Ryan Adams, Ada Plays - Gabriel Yared (final scene). Check out ‘Kate Huntington’s Ride With Me playlist’ on Spotify! Author’s note: Thank you @kittenofdoomage and @girl-with-a-fandom-fettishfor helping me. You girls are awesome betas. Thank you for your endless patience! Author’s note 2: In a paragraph of this chapter, Apache Indians are mentioned. This does not reflect my (or my beta’s) opinion on them.

Ride With Me Masterlist

    It takes the six riders another seven hours to reach Willow Spring. The rough terrain forces them to move cautiously, especially since some members of the fellowship have little experience with these kinds of circumstances. Another reason for the slow time could very well be that Y/N halts every once every so often, simply gaping at the amazing panorama. The views are absolutely breathtaking, the young woman from Freeport has never seen anything like it.      Drops that would give fear of heights a new definition, wide-open spaces that make her feel so small in this incredible world. Old volcanic remnants emerged from the depths of the earth more than a hundred thousand years ago and still stand tall today. African daisies and brittlebush decorate the grounds for miles, blossoming after last month’s rain. Copper-colored mountains surround them for as far as the eye can see, separated from each other by deep canyons. The epic proportions of the Superstition Mountains are difficult to grasp. It’s quite liberating, to move through an area so remote and untouched, with a horse the only possible type of transportation. She feels like an explorer, a conqueror from the old times. No car could take her here, not even a tank or a helicopter would be able to get Y/N over these boulders and through the narrow canyons. Only Joplin can. 

    The cowgirl rests her wrist on the horn of the saddle, the reins loosely in between the fingers of her left hand. Joplin still speedwalks under her rider, who stopped attempting to slow her down hours ago. Apparently, the dark mare does not wish to adapt her speed, even though she asked nicely a couple of times. Of course, Y/N could have made her point, but the argument that would probably carry on for days is not worth it. Where the little horse gets the energy to keep this up, she has no idea, but Y/N is glad she’s a forward-thinker. Dragging a horse up this God-forsaken mountain wouldn’t actually be a pleasure either.

    Dean reaches the final hill first, looking down at the small stream that gurgles and splashes through the worn stone several hundred feet below. A lone willow tree grows on the bank, surrounded by cattails, marking the year-round water source. It’s a heavenly sight, because the horses are thirsty, and finding Willow Spring means that today’s time in the saddle is over. Make no mistake, he loves to ride, but after ten or so hours in the saddle, his ass is starting to get sore.     “We’ll set up camp here,” he decides, glancing over his shoulder at the others before he gives Ted the aid to descend the steep slope.    

    Dropped back on his hocks with his hooves out in front of him, the gelding makes his way down the hillside, trying to find the easiest path as he snakes down the mountain. Dean sits back, maintaining the balance as he lets his horse figure it out. When Ted reaches even ground again, Dean gives his companion space to drop his head completely. Alert, Ted drags his feet through the cold water, his lips on the surface of the crystal clear spring as he starts to drink, rhythmic gulps moving up his throat every time he swallows. Gently, the wrangler rustles his fingers through the bay’s mane, then he swings his right leg over the back of the saddle and lowers himself into the shallow spring. The water is pleasantly cold after a long day out in the desert and he can almost feel it sizzle when he splashes the water in his face and on the back of his neck. He rarely gets a sunburn anymore, but his skin feels tense and dry today. As the droplets run down his chin and neck, he puts his cowboy hat back on and rises up to find Y/N next to him, copying his actions. While Joplin gulps down at least a gallon, the female rider cups her hands to capture the refreshing water and wash her face clean, after which she lets the air flow from her lips in delight.

    “Long ride, huh?” Dean sighs.     “Sleeping is not going to be a problem, not even if I have to spend the night on a rock,” she admits.     “We’ll rest up here, Benny will get dinner going soon,” he assures her.       “Better be good, Benny,” she warns as she leads Joplin away from the riverbed, trading places with the Southerner. “I’m starving.”     “The things I can do with canned food above a fireplace, darlin’. Those Michelin star joints can kiss my fine behind,” he returns, a bright smile and even brighter eyes adorning his face.

    Dean grins at the claim and walks with Ted to follow Joplin. All fun aside, they cannot sit down and kick their feet up just yet. They have a camp to build.     “Brad, Jon, you can set up camp on that plateau up the hill. Benny and I will take care of the horses. Y/N and Macy? Can find us some firewood?” He looks in the intern’s direction and she nods in confirmation. He takes over the reins of her horse so that she can get to the task at hand.     “Watch out for snakes,” he presses.     “I know. And kick over the wood before you pick it up,” she adds before her supervisor does.     “Jo already gave you the lecture, huh?” Dean assumes, grinning.     “And Ellen, and Bobby.” She giggles, looking over her shoulder as she joins Macy to find some dry wood.

    The women hit the jackpot after searching the dry terrain a little higher up the stream. What once was a sheep shed is now a heap of wood and nails, nothing left standing but one corner strut. With the rotten planks stacked up in her arms, Y/N and Macy return to camp on the plateau, about a hundred feet from Willow Spring. Two out of the three tents are set up and ready to be inhabited, while the horses are tacked down and resting. Dean and Benny created a small paddock with rope, using two large boulders and a large cactus as anchor points.     Within half an hour there’s a fire going and soup is bubbling in a pot above the flames. The sun is setting fast, still reflecting its orange rays on the few clouds above, drawing shadows larger than the mountains that create them. Tired from the long day, the six riders sit around their improvised stove, easy conversation and joyful laughs rising up from the valley. It doesn’t take long before the night darkens the sky, the stars and the moon shining bright. Suddenly the desert that seemed enormous and wide-open during the day, feels cozy. Almost as if the company of six are in a room as big as the light of the fire can reach. The soup, rich with meatballs and vegetables, together with the bread Ellen baked this morning, fills their stomachs. Y/N stretches her legs out in front of her, crossing them at her ankles while she sits down on a boulder, stretching her back to fight the dull ache.

    “Who wants a beer?”     The intern looks up surprised while Benny gets up and looks from one to the other.     “We’ve got beer?” Brad, apparently as astonished as she is, wonders.     Benny shows his set of pearly whites and descends down the hill towards the cold spring.     “Even better,” he corrects, as he pulls the six-pack from between four stones, the cold water dripping from the bottles. “We’ve got cold  beer.”     The wranglers cheer as the Southerner makes his way up the slope again, after which he rummages in one of the saddlebags, probably to find an opener. Casually Y/N glances over, but then she furrows her brow as something catches her eye before Benny closes the straps again. Was that the handle of a pistol she spotted? The gears in her head start turning. Why would they bring a gun on a trail ride? Y/N isn’t a stranger to guns. Her brothers and father have a hunting cabin up north at White Mountain and her oldest sibling, Jake, is a police officer in Los Angeles. At home, she knows where they keep the guns, and in case of an emergency, she knows how to use them. Still, she wonders; why bring one here into the desert, miles from a living soul? Wild animals, maybe?

    “Here ya go, darlin’.”     Benny hands Y/N a bottle of Corona, which she takes gladly. Then he hops up on the large rock the intern is leaning against. Dean walks around the fire after pushing in a new log, then settles down on a small boulder on the other side of her. He props up one leg, the other stretched in front of him, resting his wrist on his knee while he begins to play with the silver band on his ring finger.     “Cheers, y’all,” he says, raising his bottle.     The others respond with a mutual ‘cheers’ and he takes a swig of the welcome refreshment. Y/N does the same, but can’t help to glance at the saddlebag again. Eventually, curiosity gets the best of her and she leans into Dean.     “Can I ask you something?”     He looks aside, attracted by her whisper, a little bit nervous all of a sudden now that she’s so close to him. Apparently, whatever she is going to require from him is not suitable for the tourists to hear.     “Shoot,” he replies.     “Why do you guys carry a gun with you?” Y/N wonders with a soft voice.     Dean cocks his eyebrow and can’t help but to lift up the corner of his mouth a little. Someone is being observant. He huffs before he answers, but Benny, who apparently was eavesdropping, beats him to it.     “Seems like we’ve got a detective amongst us, Chief,” the Southerner comments.     A little embarrassed, Y/N stammers as she looks up at him and back at Dean, his slightly amused and soft smile taking away some of her insecurities. “I - I didn’t mean to sniff around,” she half apologizes, but Dean brushes it off.     “It’s fine,” he assures, then checks on the other three to make sure they aren’t listening in. The tourists are entwined in a conversation of their own, however. “And that gun is a safety precaution.”     “For what?” she asks, not settling for an answer that vague.

    Dean glances at his friend, shielding his face from her for a second. It seems like he is discussing silently if he should share this matter with the intern, but in fact, he’s telling Benny something completely different. The slight nudge of his eyebrow and the suppressed little smile says one thing only: play along.     “We’re not the only ones out here, darlin’. Apache Indians still roam these mountains,” the farrier from the South elaborates.     Y/N’s eyes widen, as her gaze darts from Benny to Dean, but both keep a straight face. They aren’t serious, right?     “Apache Indians?” she repeats, a little skeptical.     Dean nods, carrying a blank expression and she could swear they are telling God’s honest truth.     “Yep. You better watch out for the natives. Us white folks came here and stole their land long ago in a brutal manner,” Benny adds, taking a sip of his beer to prevent himself from breaking character. “You’re a smart Belle, you can guess what they’d wanna do to us, might we cross paths with them, out here in No Man’s Land.”    Stunned, Y/N stares at him. It sounds hideous, but the way he delivers the story is disturbingly convincing. Plus, she looked into the history of the true Native Americans for a project back when she was a sophomore and remembers that there used to be a large colony at Apache Junction, not far from here. She didn’t realize that besides dangerous five hundred feet drops, unbearable heat, venomous spiders, snakes and scorpions, there is more to fear out here in these wastelands. But then she notices how Dean presses his lips together, so tight that his jaw clenches for just a second as he fights a laugh. On to them, Y/N tilts her head and throws the two boys a glare, causing them to crack.     “Idiots,” she mutters as they laugh loudly.     Sniggering, the friends toast their beer bottles, celebrating their successful prank. Sometimes Y/N wishes she wasn’t the easily fooled city girl.     “All jokes aside,” Dean recovers, his tone serious again. “We always bring that gun on trails in case a horse injures itself lethally. We’re miles out from the road, let alone a veterinarian, so if it would ever come to a worst-case scenario, at least we can put the horse out of its misery.”     Y/N didn’t expect that answer and is silenced by the reason for the weapon. She only now realizes how far from civilization they are. Slippery slopes and narrow paths over high ridges are a recipe for accidents, but that a misstep could have such consequences somehow didn’t dawn on her until now. When things go south out here, they are truly on their own.

    “Did you ever have to use it?” she wonders.     Dean shakes his head gladly. “No, but Bobby did once,” he tells her. “That’s why he insists on us bringing the Colt every time we go out.”     “The Colt?” the intern responds. “The gun has a name?”     “It’s not just some gun. It was specially made for a hunter on horseback at the beginning of the 19th century. It has been in the family for a long time,” Dean explains as he takes another swig from his bottle.     “Well, I hope you will never have to fire that gun,” Y/N says solemnly.     He looks at her and agrees to that statement with a small nod, because he surely hopes he doesn’t have to either.     “How about some tunes, Chief?” Benny suggests.     The night is still young and he is looking for ways to fill the evening; musical entertainment will do just that. Dean throws him a displeased look, though, but his friend already pulled his harmonica from the chest pocket of his jacket. He holds the instrument in front of his mouth with one hand and partly covers the exhale holes to give the extra effect as he blows on it, playing a little riff that captures the attention of the others. Dean sighs; there's no way out of it now.     “What are you gonna sing?” Y/N asks the handsome man next to her.     The giddiness in her voice melts away Dean’s discomfort for being put in the limelight by Benny once again. He remembers her first day on the job when he sang a couple of songs. Her beautiful eyes sparkle just as bright as they did that night and he smiles.     “How about a duet?” he suggests.     She snorts, almost choking on her beer. “What? With me ?! God, no. Clearly, you’ve never heard my singing voice.”     “I have, actually,” he begs to differ. “You hum quite a lot when you’re working. And I heard you sing ‘American Pie’ the other day when you were cleaning tack.”     “Were you spying on me?” Y/N eyes him, jumping subjects to get out of a potentially embarrassing situation.     He averts his gaze, a nervous chuckle under his breath. His eyes have lingered on the new wrangler apprentice more than once. There is no denying that.     “I wouldn’t call it spying,” he corrects shyly.     “What would you call it then?”     She pulls up her legs and folds her arms around them, resting her cheek on the flat surface of her knee as she studies him. It amuses her how flustered he gets whenever she catches him taking an interest. He can be so cocky at times, so full of it, but when she corners him only slightly, he seems self-conscious all of a sudden. Now is no different, but he gathers enough courage to look back at her again.     “I’d call it admiring.”

    Dean holds her gaze for a few seconds after he speaks, fire dancing in his beautiful eyes that seem to have a shade of amber now that the flames reflect in them. Unable to look away, Y/N’s cheeky grin tones down into a small smile, the words warming her more than the desert ever could.     “C’mon, brother. This audience ain’t gonna wait all night.” Benny pauses his harmonica solo to rush the head wrangler, missing the conversation that was going on between the two.     “I’ll handle the main vocals. Will you back me up?” Dean asks the cowgirl, not letting his pal interrupt the moment.     “I-I don’t even know what you’re gonna sing,” she returns nervously.     “You’re into classics; you’ll know this song,” he assures, winking at her before he turns to Benny and mouths the title of the track.     Benny nods his head and then starts the melody to ‘The Weight.’ Dean looks over at Y/N as he taps his foot to the rhythm, waiting for her to identify the track just by the cords that Benny plays. Then her face lights up and he grins, knowing that she’s got it now.     “I pulled into Nazareth, was feeling ‘bout half past dead.     I just need some place where I can lay my head.     Hey mister, can you tell me where a man can find a bed?     He just grinned and shook my hand. “No” was all he said.”

    Nervous for her debut as a background singer and yet delighted by his warm voice, Y/N waits for her cue. She has never sung for other people before. In her own head, it sounds quite alright when she joins in with the vocalists of her favorite songs, either while mucking out or under the shower. But to claim she can sing? Absolutely not. God, you’re gonna make a fool of yourself. Are you truly so desperate to get his approval that you signed up for this? Then Dean nudges her softly, calm eyes telling her that she’s going to be fine.

    “Take a load off Fanny. Take a load for free.     Take a load off Fanny…”

    “- and you put the load right on me.”

    Y/N joins him on the last line, hitting a higher note simultaneously with Dean, creating a vocal harmony. The cowboy smiles widely at her, impressed with her voice. Relieved, she beams when Jonathan whistles and Macy and Jon cheer. Maybe she doesn’t sound so bad after all.

    “I picked up my bags, I went looking for a place to hide.     When I saw old Carmen and the Devil, walkin’ side by side.     I said, ‘Hey Carmen! C’mon, let’s go downtown.’     She said, “I gotta go, but my friend can stick around.     Take a load off Fanny, take a load for free.     Take a load off Fanny, and you put the load right on me.”

    They sing the chorus together and Y/N can feel herself loosening up, swaying to the music as she closes her eyes. The classics enthusiast knows most of the lyrics by heart and dares to play with the melody a little bit when there’s room, all the time carrying a smile on her lips. A smile that is pure bliss to Dean, and watching the woman he is losing his heart to express herself has him lost for words. This is what happiness looks like and he can’t get enough of seeing her in this state of mind.

    Benny finished the song with a little solo of his own, knocking his head back with the last notes and drawing applause from the others. Y/N exchanges a look with the two wranglers, thrilled with how that little collaboration worked out. As the clapping dies down, Dean becomes quiet, pondering on his next song. Curious of what he will pick next, Y/N watches him. She doesn’t know, however, that she is the one person occupying his mind.      Again Dean turns to his best mate. “You know the chords to ‘Desire’, Ryan Adams?”     “Sure do.”     He brings the harmonica to his mouth and lets the air flow through the instrument as he moves the intakes on his lips, testing the notes. Dean listens, staring into the fire for a moment as he gets the feel of it. Then Benny starts on the verse and the cowboy begins to sing.

    “Two hearts fading, like a flower.     All this waiting, for the power.     For some answers, to this fire.     Sinking slowly, the water’s higher.     Desire… Desire…”

    Quietly Y/N watches as he moves his upper body back and forth slowly, like waves rolling onto the beach and pulling back again. His voice overwhelms her with every note, so raw and pure and sincere that it gives her goosebumps. Sometimes his eyes close as he enjoys the flow of the song, but throughout most of his performance, they are open, looking up at either the sky or into the flickering flames. But ever so often he glances over, honest eyes strengthening the message. Is he…? Is he singing this song for her?

    “With no secrets, no obsession.     This time I’m speeding. With no direction.     Without reason. What is this fire?     Burning slowly, my one and only…hmmm.”

    Desire… Desire…”

    There’s a calmness that washes over her and for that moment, it feels like it’s just the two of them. While listening to the words, she brings her hand up to cover her mouth, afraid to make a sound and disturb the magic. Folded fingers press against her lips as she swallows apprehensively, feeling her throat is closing up. She is so moved, that tears shimmer in her eyes. Her eyes which never leave him, not once.

    “You know me. You know my way.     You just can’t show me, but God, I’m praying.     That you’ll find me, and that you’ll see me.     That you run and never tire.”

    Desire… Desire…”

    The harmonica echoes through the valley as Benny takes on the last part of the song, but the sound of the instrument fades out in Y/N’s mind. Dean watches his friend for a short moment, but then glances at her. Instantly his expression changes and she realizes he is able to see that her eyes are glazed over in emotion.     “Hey…” he whispers concerned, moving his hand to lay it over hers.     “I’m okay,” she assures, smiling, blinking away the tears. “In fact, I don’t think I ever felt this happy.”     Dean settles, the worry leaving room for his own happiness. Supporting, he gently squeezes before he retreats his hand, holding onto her gaze just a bit longer. Then he averts his eyes to watch the harmonica player’s grand finale.     Several other rock and country songs are covered and the evening flies by in record time. Adoring glances and little touches are exchanged between Y/N and Dean, without the others noticing. If it wasn’t for the company, who knows how the night might end, and she silently wishes it was just them, sitting here by the fire. It’s ten to midnight when she fails to suppress a yawn.     “You and me both,” Macy comments as she gets up, covering her mouth as she yawns as well. “I’m gonna get some sleep.”     It’s anything but a bad idea, because their bodies are drained. Macy’s friend and her brother get up as well, gathering their things before they go to their tent, thanking the crew for the good night.

    “You take first watch, brother?” Benny checks before he hops off the boulder.     Dean nods. “I’ll wake you up at three.”     “Already lookin’ forward to it,” the farrier grunts.     He shuffles to the tent closest to the paddock and unzips the canvas, crawling in on hands and knees, before closing the opening again. And there she has it, her wish granted; it’s just her and Dean now.

    The wrangler realizes it too, because a nervousness overcomes him. He adjusts himself a little, crossing his stretched legs at his ankles as he observes her for a short minute. Poor thing, she can barely keep her eyes open. Ten hours in the saddle and traveling across the desert under the ruthless sun are taking their toll.     “You should get some rest,” he suggests softly. “Tomorrow’s another day.”     Almost pleading, Y/N looks up at him, because even though her body begs to differ, she wants to stay. But when a yawn escapes her again, she has to admit her loss; she is so tired, she’s not even worth a dime. With at least two more days to go, the cowgirl needs to keep her strength up.     “You’re right.” She sighs as she gets up. “I guess I’ll see you in the morning. Good night, Dean.”     “G’night,” he returns, an ache developing in his chest as she moves away.     He watches her struggle with the tent and chuckles, but then she disappears inside, leaving a saddening silence. Within a couple of seconds he regrets his decision of letting her go, but remains seated on the rock, facing the fire. Pondering, he goes over the night, over every single moment, no matter how small.     “Chief?”     Dean looks over at the tent he shares with Benny, noticing how the Southerner has popped his head through the opening again.     “If you were waitin’ for the perfect opportunity,” his friend carefully starts, “that was it.”     The head wrangler glares at his friend, telling him that now is not a good time to judge his actions. Benny has a point, though; he missed his third shot. Let’s hope the rules of baseball don’t apply in this game of love.

    Wide awake, Y/N stares at the ceiling of her tent while listening to the wildlife outside. Crickets chirp loud enough to annoy the restless woman, but she can blame the insects all she wants, they are not the reason for her insomnia. She slept for about thirty minutes, unconscious before her head hit the pillow, but without significant reason, she woke up and hasn’t been able to sleep since. A sigh slips from her lips as she shuts her eyes stubbornly, forcing herself to get some sleep, but after a minute she opens them again and turns on her flashlight to check the time. For God’s sake, it’s almost 2 AM.

    Y/N switches off the torch again and tosses and turns, trying to get comfortable on the thin air mattress without waking Macy. But whatever she does, her brain continues its attempt to process and analyze every emotion that short-circuited her body last night. Every bit of hope, happiness, but most of all, the love that filled her. There’s no doubt in her mind; she knows she has fallen head over boots for Dean. The difference is that she strongly believes she witnessed his love for her as well tonight. She knew he was interested, he made that clear early on. But this… this is different. This is deeper.     Inhaling slowly, Y/N tries to lower her heart rate and calm herself, but it’s a hopeless case. Defeated, she gives up and rises from the bed, slipping back into her jeans. Somewhat angry with herself, she pulls a clean tank top over her head and squirms into her denim jacket, after which she crawls to the opening to unzip the tent.

    Apart from the crickets, it’s quiet outside. The campfire has decreased in size, only half a log fueling the flames. The faint light fans out and only reaches so far, drawing dark shapes past the rocks and tents. Beyond its range, the world is pitch black. A little uneasy, Y/N crosses her arms in front of her chest and tries to chase away the chill. It’s the beginning of October and the difference between day and night is growing larger. In contrast to the heat about twelve hours ago, the air seems brisk now, as it would be on an autumn night at home.

    She sits down on the boulder facing the fire, hunched over as she looks around for Dean. Every sound seems magnified, sounds that she does not want to know the origin of. Didn’t Benny mention that there are mountain lions in this area? One of the horses sighs a little further up and although Y/N can barely make out their shadows, she tries to ease herself with the fact that they are calm. Their instincts would make them the first to sense danger, so if they are comfortable, why shouldn’t she be?     Something rummages in the dark and slow footsteps follow. Her eyes dart in the direction where the sound comes from, but then Y/N lets out a breath of air when it is in fact the person she hoped to find.     Dean steps into the light and notices the intern, clearly surprised. “Hey… What are you doing up?”     “Couldn’t sleep,” she excuses simply.     For a second he wonders what caused her to lie awake, but decides to leave the reason for what it is and instead makes a joke. “Scared that the Apache Indians will invade the camp?”     “Shut up,” she mutters, embarrassed.

    Smirking amused, he shoves some dry branches into the fire, trying to spike it up a little. He then settles down next to her on the boulder that serves fine as a bench, careful to leave enough space between them. At ease, he watches Y/N from aside, who in turn stares at the fire, intrigued. How the flames lick at the wood, slowly swallowing the twigs. How little fireflies of hot amber twirl up into the night sky.

  The weariness that he felt when she left a couple of hours ago is gone instantly, her presence soothing him. She has her arms crossed in front of her chest, hugging herself to stay warm. It makes her seem so small. Without missing a beat, he reaches for the plaid blanket that he used himself earlier before he went to check the horses, and hangs it over her shoulders.     Grateful, Y/N pulls the wool fabric around her body a little tighter. “Thank you.”

    For a couple of minutes, the two of them just sit there, listening to the crackle and pop of the fire as they simply enjoy each other’s company. Reluctant to break the silence, Y/N steals a glance at the handsome man next to her. The radiance of the flames caresses his hair, highlighting it with gold and adding a soft glow to his freckled skin. Dark shadows bring out his strong jaw, his profile illuminated by the frantic light. There’s a softness in his eyes, his pupils slightly dilated due to the darkness that surrounds them, but they still leave enough for the beautiful shade of forest green to mesmerize her. Feeling his company’s lingering gaze, he turns his head to meet it. He smiles, the smallest chuckle rumbling deep down in his throat as he takes her in.

    “What?” she wonders.     “When you first arrived at the ranch, you seemed a little… out of place. We just brought the cattle in and we all looked ragged and dirty, probably smelled even worse. We had a few drinks, were loud. A proper bunch of country folks,” he starts. “And then you walked in, the complete opposite. Your hair all done, nice clothes, shiny boots.”     She grins. “I stood out, huh?”     “You did.” He smirks at the memory, but he’s not just reminiscing over the first time they met.     “Are you telling me that I look ragged and dirty now too? Or that I smell bad?” She side-eyes him, noticing the slight horror on his face when he realizes how his words are coming across.     “No! N-no, that’s not at all what I’m… Y-you smell great,” he stutters, and Y/N can’t contain a giggle.      Dean scoffs and shakes his head; she got him there. Slowly the heat fades from his cheeks. “What I’m tryin’ to say is… I mean, look at you now,” Dean says, letting his eyes roam over her for a second. “You’re achieving your goals, proving the judgemental ones wrong. And I know it ain’t easy. It’s hard work. I’ve seen plenty of people cave in their first week. But not you. You became a part of the ranch… a part of this family.”

    The corners of her mouth lift when the last word sets in. Family. She is a part of this family. Of course, she isn’t from here and she will always call Freeport home, and yet Y/N has never felt like she truly belonged somewhere. Not until now.     “Were you one of the judgemental ones?” she asks him.     “I would be lyin’ to you if I said I wasn’t,” he admits, shame evident when he lowers his head. “I’ve never been more glad to be wrong, though.”     Her smile grows, much like her heart. She looks down at her feet, dragging marks with her heels in the sand. Why is she so nervous to sit here next to him, when at the same time she has never felt more comfortable?

    “Dean?” She turns to him a little bit more, her knee brushing against his. The touch is so light it shouldn’t leave her skin so sensitive, but it does. “That song you sang,” she continues, daring to restore eye contact. “Was that dedicated to someone?”     The wrangler’s heartbeat fastens and he’s doing his best not to heave his chest noticeably. He knows she’s not asking if he sang her a pretty song. No, she’s asking if he meant it. If every word that rolled from his tongue was the truth. If every raw edge in his voice was shaped by the rush of emotions that plows through him whenever he thinks of her. If every time he closed his eyes as he got lost in the music, it was her who he pictured.     “It was,” he admits.     “Does she know?” she counters, her eyes playfully taunting him.     He grins, dipping his chin slightly, but his expression changes the moment she moves her hand to his face and lets her delicate fingers run through his hair, her thumb softly rubbing his temple. Under hypnosis he stares into her soul, his eyes bouncing over her features.

      He’s not sure if he can speak, now that he’s completely under her spell, but he can try.     “I sure as hell hope she does,” he says, his voice so soft that it is no more than a whisper. “But you tell me.”

    If there was any doubt left about the attraction being mutual, it is gone now. Dean just laid it out in front of her, and as a pair of hopeful greens wait for her to respond to his words, Y/N doesn’t waste another second. She closes the few inches between them, shuts her eyes and meets the cowboy halfway. She kisses him first, the action igniting a similar sensation as diving off a cliff into unknown water: thrilling, scary, but addictively exciting at the same time. Thankfully Dean instantly responds, welding his lips against hers and taking away her insecurity. Y/N half registers him cupping her face, careful not to break the moment, but the rush of blood to the head soon has her so dizzy that she has trouble focusing.

    He lingers in the kiss, drawing out the moment for as long as he can. Then they part, pausing for a second as both wranglers open their eyes. Stunned, they stare at each other. Her hand has slid down to his chest, and he knows she can feel it rising and falling under her touch, his heart beating against her palm like a drum. Trying to get a hold of himself, he takes a breath, a small smile forming on his parted lips as he swipes a frizzy strand of hair from her face. He always thought she was beautiful, but in this light, looking at him like she does now… My God, beauty doesn’t even begin to define her.     Now he moves in, less hesitant, drowning in another kiss before he can help himself. His lips graze over hers eagerly, deepening the connection when she allows him to. Giving the cowboy permission, even chasing him in the touch, sets him free completely. Finally, he is able to push past the self-consciousness. Finally, he can dismiss the voice within that tells him that she deserves so much better. The woman he’s in love with wants to be with him and nothing has ever felt so liberating. He lets her know, by tracing the soft skin of her cheek with his thumb. By resting his forehead against hers for a brief moment when he needs to come up for air. By putting every bit of want and adoration into their first kiss.     Every one of Y/N's senses is set in overdrive. As she breathes him in, she smells the aroma of aftershave from this morning’s trim, mixed with the scent of leather, horses and dust. She tastes the salt on his slightly chapped lips and El Corona on his tongue. She hears his respiration, the sound of him pulling in oxygen whenever his mouth parts from her for a short second, blend with the noise of her own breaths. But it’s how he touches her that blows her mind. He cradles her head, curled fingertips pressing in her skin as if he’s afraid he will lose what he just gained. Moved, she cards her fingers through his short hair and pulls him even closer, letting him know that she isn’t going anywhere. And all this time, her palm covers his heart, the steady rhythm that beats under her touch intensifying the intimacy. Wanting to stay here with her as long as possible, he lets his free hand slip over hers.     After an entire month of fighting this feeling, contemplating whether this is a good idea or not, they broke through the restraints. For now, the self-doubt is gone, the fear of commitment with it. Neither of them worries about the consequences of their actions, nor about the fact that Y/N will leave in five months. At this very moment, all that matters is that they allowed each other in. Here at Willow Spring in the Superstition Mountains, Arizona. The center of the universe.

Well, you waited almost 60K for this moment. I hope it met the expectations!

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to reblog my work or buy me coffee (Link in bio at the top of the page)

Read part twelve here

[sailorstarr-chan4]

Inuvember Day 19 - MirSan

Can I catch up with all of Inuvember? Hell no. Can I at least do ships week? I can sure as hell try.

Also, I skipped InuKag cuz 1. I already write a shit ton for them, and 2. technically I did post an InuKag smut fic on Sunday, even though I didn’t tag it for Inuvember. ^^;

Posted also: archived in Bonds Across Time on ff.net and AO3 Words: 772 Rated: T, for suggestive themes Genre: Romance

Enjoy! 

~~~~~~~~~~

Miroku calmly sipped his tea, hiding his grin at Sango’s obvious irritation. She was chopping vegetables for dinner, each cut a sharp jab on the table, her leg twitching under her apron.  

“You seem rather frazzled, my dear,” he said cheerfully.  

“Do I? Oh, I wonder why,” Sango’s voice said, keeping her back pointedly to him, her tone dripping in sarcasm.  

“Oh, come now, dear, you’ve never objected to cooking my dinner before.”  

“It has nothing to do with dinner, and you know it!” Sango hissed, shooting a deadly glare over her shoulder before promptly tossing her head and resuming her work.  

Miroku grinned slyly. Good, good. His plan was going perfectly.  

He set down his tea and slapped a hand to his forehead in mock-distress. “Ay, me. Such is the life of a man. A woman’s heart is truly a mysterious thing. My love is upset with me, and I haven't the faintest idea how to go about fixing it!”  

Of course, that was a bald-faced lie. Miroku knew his wife better than the back of his hand. She was strong in every sense of the word, kind, compassionate, and clever. But she had one weakness: she was enormously jealous, even borderline possessive. And that trait, when activated, could easily be spun into something far more enjoyable.  

Yet after a whole year of marriage and finally experiencing the joys of making love with the woman of his heart, Miroku came to learn that building up Sango’s willingness to engage in such pleasurable activities was a game onto itself. Once her shyness was surmounted, she transformed into a vixen of unimaginable proportions and was quite possibly the greatest adventure he’d ever experienced, time and time again.  

But getting to that point was half the fun.  

And so, Miroku would flirt with ladies, even though he had no selfish joy in it any longer. He’d smile, give a witty retort to their own advances, and even dare to caress a hand or two. Once, he flirted shamelessly out of obligation to pass on his father’s curse, and because he was a free man, free to do what he likes. But Sango was different. Sango had his respect, his friendship, his undying love. He would never deliberately hurt her feelings.  

But, oh, how he loved to make her jealous!  

“Oh, indeed?” Sango’s furious voice growled out now, her hand gripping her knife dangerously tight. “I suppose for all of your delight with female company, you still don’t understand a woman’s heart?”

“I beg to differ! I understand far, far greater than you realize, my dearest wife,” Miroku purred, standing up and daring to wrap his arms about Sango’s waist. She stiffened and struggled to turn around to face him.

“Don’t you touch me! You lech-!”

Miroku shushed her and nibbled at her earlobe. Sango whimpered, loosening her grip on her cutting knife. A wave of tremors lessened the tension in her body. Miroku grinned and ran kisses down her neck, until she was moaning and shivering with anticipation. His hand for the umpteenth time (but never enough times) wandered down and caressed her ass.  

Sango inhaled sharply, leaning back against Miroku, who passionately kissed the back of her neck.  

And then let go her.  

“Well, then, wife, when shall I expect dinner?” he said matter-of-factly, as if nothing had just happened, turning his back on his stunned wife, hiding his triumphant grin.  

And three, two, one...

Sango all but launched herself at her husband, slamming him against the wall, her mouth sloppily planted on his in no time. Miroku couldn’t help but laugh now as Sango eagerly pressed their bodies together, and held his hands firmly in place at his sides.  

“And what are you laughing at, monk?” she huffed, glaring up at him.  

“Nothing at all, my love, nothing at all,” Miroku said, clearing his throat, smiling fondly down at the stunning creature currently holding him against the wall. “Just thinking about lucky I am.”  

Sango flushed, then shook her head sharply. “You’re not getting out of trouble that easily, you know.”  

“Then, please, enlighten me. How am I to repent for my callous behavior?”  

“I can think of a few things,” Sango whispered, unraveling her kimono and pushing her hot and bothered body against his again before stepping back, letting the fabric drop to the floor, and saying demurely: “Meet me in the bedroom.”  

As Miroku watched her naked form walk seductively towards the door, almost certain she was swishing her hips on purpose, he instantly stripped off his own robes, and hurried after his wife.  

The game had only just begun.  

[ubigenebioscience]

Fungus Genome-editing Services including Knockout, Knock-in, etc.

Fungus, plural fungi, any of about 144,000 known species of organisms of the kingdom Fungi, which includes the yeasts, rusts, smuts, mildews, molds, and mushrooms. There are also many funguslike organisms, including slime molds and oomycetes (water molds), that do not belong to kingdom Fungi but are often called fungi. Many of these fungus-like organisms are included in the kingdom Chromista. Fungi are among the most widely distributed organisms on Earth and are of great environmental and medical importance. Many fungi are free-living in soil or water; others form parasitic or symbiotic relationships with plants or animals.

Fungal pathogens are the main factors responsible for the most severe diseases affecting plants, leading to a significant reduction in yield and crop quality and causing enormous economic losses worldwide. It is estimated that around 30% of the emerging diseases are caused by fungi (Giraud et al., 2010) thus requiring new strategies to improve their management. The arrival of the CRISPR-Cas9 (Clustered Regularly Interspaced Short Palindromic Repeats – CRISPR Associated protein 9) genome-editing technique (including gene knockout, knock-in, point-mutation, etc.) enabled researchers to modify genomic sequences in a more precise way. The use of CRISPR-Cas not only provides a time-saving path to perform genomic functional analyses but also could provide new fungal genotypes, that can be used as potential competitors of plant pathogens and/or in the priming of plant defense responses. It is possible to induce the activation of unknown clusters in beneficial fungi by using CRISPR-Cas9, allowing the discovery of new secondary metabolites that could interact with plants or phytopathogens. This could result in new interesting biocontrol strains to be released in the field avoiding the introduction of transgenes in the environment.

 Applying CRISPR/Cas9 in Yeasts: a Helpful Genetic Changes Tool

The advancement that is driving the rate of adoption of CRISPR–Cas9 for many organisms is its capability of targeting a specific site in a genome: by and large, trying to manipulate a piece of DNA using a homologous fragment of DNA is highly inefficient. One exception to this occurs in the yeast Saccharomyces cerevisiae, where gene editing can be achieved by transforming into cells fewer than 40 nucleotides of sequence divided on either side of a selectable marker. The high proportion of homologous targeting of exogenous DNA into the S. cerevisiae genome is one reason why yeast is such a powerful experimental tool. Indeed, relatively soon after its genome sequence was completed, every gene in the organism was deleted and those sets of mutants made available to researchers. Likewise, by using homologous integration all proteins were tagged with a green fluorescent protein to understand subcellular protein localizations and epitope-tagged to facilitate the global analysis of protein complexes. Thus, this gene-editing system is already considerably beyond just a tool for making genetic changes.

 Control the Incidence of FHB by CRISPR/Cas9 Silenced Mutants in Fusarium

One possible scenario for the application of CRISPR-Cas9 silenced mutants could be Fusarium Head Blight (FHB), one of the most destructive diseases of grain cereal crops worldwide caused by different Fusarium spp., with F. graminearum and F. culmorum as the most common and aggressive agents. In FHB, while yield loss derives from the sterility of infected florets, grain quality reduction is mainly due to the accumulation of trichothecenes—coded by the fungal tri genes cluster—highly toxic for humans and animals. Previous studies reported that iRNA (interference RNA) Δtri6 mutants of F. culmorum showed reduced disease indices ranging from 40 to 80% on durum wheat (Scherm et al., 2011). Besides, classic knocked-out Δtri5 and Δtri6 mutants of F. graminearum were unable to spread the disease to the adjacent spikelets and grains on wheat and corn, respectively, and also induced plant defense responses (Ravensdale et al., 2014). Likewise, Δmap1 mutants of F. graminearum showed a two-fold reduction of mycotoxin production and were unable to produce perithecia as well as to penetrate in wheat tissues, while the ability to colonize the straw was not affected (Urban et al., 2003). Considering that competition for space and nutrients between virulent and non-virulent strains could reduce the disease, the field release of non-virulent CRISPR-mutant strains of F. graminearum and F. culmorum might help to control the incidence of FHB.

 Gene knockout Accelerate Functional Genomic Studies in P. chlamydosporia

Gene knockout techniques are useful molecular tools to study gene functions. However, cultures of P. chlamydosporia are resistant to high levels of a range of fungal inhibitors, which makes the gene knockout technique difficult in this fungus. Fortunately, we found that the wild P. chlamydosporia strain PC-170 could not grow on medium containing 150 μg ml−1 G418 sulfate, representing a new selectable marker for P. chlamydosporia. Researchers knocked out one chitinase gene, VFPPC_01099, and two protease genes (VFPPC_10088, VFPPC_06535). Afterward, they obtained approximately 100 suspected mutants after each transformation. After screening by PCR, the average rate of gene knockout was 13%: 11% (VFPPC_01099), 13% (VFPPC_10088), and 15% (VFPPC_06535). This efficient and convenient technique will accelerate functional genomic studies in P. chlamydosporia.

 Reference:

Muñoz Isabel Vicente, Sarrocco Sabrina, Malfatti Luca, Baroncelli Riccardo, Vannacci Giovanni. CRISPR-Cas for Fungal Genome Editing: A New Tool for the Management of Plant Diseases. Frontiers in Plant Science. Volume 10, 2019, 135. ISSN: 1664-462X.

Idnurm, A., Meyer, V. The CRISPR revolution in fungal biology and biotechnology, and beyond. Fungal Biol Biotechnol 5, 19 (2018).

Scherm B, Orrù M, Balmas V, Spanu F, Azara E, Delogu G, Hammond TM, Keller NP, Migheli Q. Altered trichothecene biosynthesis in TRI6-silenced transformants of Fusarium culmorum influences the severity of crown and foot rot on durum wheat seedlings. Mol Plant Pathol. 2011 Oct; 12(8):759-71.

Ravensdale M, Rocheleau H, Wang L, Nasmith C, Ouellet T, Subramaniam R. Components of priming-induced resistance to Fusarium head blight in wheat revealed by two distinct mutants of Fusarium graminearum. Mol Plant Pathol. 2014 Dec; 15(9):948-56.

Urban M, Mott E, Farley T, Hammond-Kosack K. The Fusarium graminearum MAP1 gene is essential for pathogenicity and development of perithecia. Mol Plant Pathol. 2003 Sep 1; 4(5):347-59.

Baoming Shen, Jiling Xiao, Liangying Dai, Yonghong Huang, Zhenchuan Mao, Runmao Lin, Yurong Yao, Bingyan Xie. Development of a high-efficiency gene knockout system for Pochonia chlamydosporia. Microbiological Research. Volume 170. January 2015. Page 18-26.

[gossipnetwork-blog]

How Women, Tech Took Over Porn: Inside the 2018 AVN Awards

New Post has been published on http://gossip.network/how-women-tech-took-over-porn-inside-the-2018-avn-awards/

How Women, Tech Took Over Porn: Inside the 2018 AVN Awards

From #MeToo to cam stars, this year’s Oscars of the obscene showcased the future of porn

Here’s a Black Mirror pitch: You pay several hundred dollars to attend the world’s biggest porn convention and awards ceremony. You travel to Las Vegas, where the air has transformed into mentholated nicotine vapor and no one will validate your parking. You do this in order to meet porn stars in the flesh, to see them onstage celebrating the Oscars of the obscene, because – even though, according to Scientific American, half of us are now creating our own sexual content on our personal devices – there’s something superhuman about sexual celebrities.

Death of a Porn Star

When August Ames killed herself following controversy on Twitter, it revealed a schism between the gay and straight communities in the porn industry

But when you arrive at the convention, in place of your 1990s dream of impossibly proportioned stars in bedazzled Lycra posing for Polaroids, what you see is a 15,000-square-foot hall teeming with hundreds of beautiful, semi-clothed models of all shapes and styles, grinning into their laptops. You try to talk to a young woman in heart-shaped pasties and booty shorts, but she’ll only give you a few seconds of attention before she’s back to clicking her shiny gold nails across her keyboard.

Here’s the twist: This ain’t no dystopian nightmare. Attendees of the 35th Annual Adult Entertainment Expo and Adult Video News Awards were treated to precisely this display of tech-mediated intimacy. Plenty of big names were in attendance – stars who had led more traditional adult-film careers – but they were outnumbered by scores of up-and-coming models who primarily built their own businesses using cam shows, original clip stores and monetized social-media platforms. The mass availability of easily pirated streaming video may have decimated the porn economy, but it seems that women are the ones adapting, finding fresh ways to connect directly with consumers. As these models gain more economic influence, they are also raising the bar for consent conversations throughout the industry.

The last time I was at the AVNs was in 2012, when I was nominated for producing and directing a niche site called QueerPorn.TV. My Bay-Area scene was proud to think of ourselves as the forward-thinking weirdos, exemplifying the characteristics of the queer porn genre: body-positive and diverse, with a riot-grrrl aesthetic. We were nominated in the somewhat self-contradicting category Best Professional Amateur Site, and were miffed when we lost to Clips4Sale, a platform which had been around since 2003 for creators to upload and sell short original videos. Here we were, indie smut with a vision, and we lost to a tech host?

Now, it seems as clear as a Bellagio fountain that clips stores were the future of “professional amateurs.” While much of the male-dominated porn studio system is fighting against stolen content, independent female artists have been able to establish a sustainable business, producing their own content and marketing it to a small but loyal fan base.

One such artist is Bratty Nikki, a leggy, half-Mexican, half-Irish woman with a frosty reality-TV aesthetic: blonde extensions, impossible nails, skin-tight miniskirts and designer spiked heels. She sat on a gleaming white couch in an enormous booth on the expo floor, calling attention to her shirt, which read; “Never underestimate the power of a girl who knows what she wants.”

“Never underestimate the power of a girl who knows what she wants,” says Bratty Nikki. Roger Kisby for Rolling Stone

Nikki is the executive vice president of IWantEmpire.com, an umbrella company that includes IWantClips, IWantPhone, IWantFanClub and IWantCustomClips, with more in the works. Hers is one of many companies vying for dominance in a sort of clips market arms race. Nikki got her start seven years ago working as an online financial dominatrix, offering phone and cam sessions to clients in which she expressed a personality she tells me isn’t really a character. “I am a greedy brat,” she says. “I believe that I deserve the best out of life. My fans love that I’m confident enough to say, ‘This is what I want and you’re gonna give it to me.'”

She started IWantEmpire with her husband, entrepreneur Jay Phillips, because she felt other host sites were underestimating her as an artist. Like other platforms, they take a cut of the profits, but the artist sets their own price and decides what and how much they want to upload. Their brand expanded to offer a store for consumers to order custom clips, and a fan club where artists can monetize social media-like “lifestyle” content. As it turns out, kinky consumers are willing to pay for content created by people who understand precisely what they’re looking for.

Like many fetish clips, Nikki’s videos don’t include sex or even nudity, just specialty monologues in which she teases, chastises and degrades her devotees. In the larger-than life video projected over us in the booth, she wore skinny jeans and a tank top, standing in an apartment entryway holding shopping bags. “Yes, I’m leaving you,” she spits at the camera with an exaggerated eye roll. “I’ve already maxed out your credit cards. Taken a bunch of vacations with my girlfriends that you paid for. You’re going to be sitting home alone tonight crying into your pillow as you hate-jerk your little cock.”

The audacity of financial domination is a perfect fit for naturally bossy women. Haven, a Haitian-American dominatrix from Orlando, says that when she was go-go dancing and camming she didn’t take direction from clients very well. When she discovered that she could make fetish clips online, it was a way for her to make a career off her genuine demeanor. “I really don’t want to talk to you; I really just want your money,” she deadpans. “That’s me, wholeheartedly.” Now she films around 15 short clips every Sunday, improvising on topics like small-penis humiliation or jack-off instruction. She spends the rest of the week editing footage, scheduling uploads, writing marketing copy and promoting her brand on social media.

Fans mill about the floor of the AEE. Roger Kisby for Rolling Stone

“It takes a lot of work to make this look so easy,” she says.

I tagged along to an afternoon of clip shoots at a local film studio run by porn director/performers Madeline Marlowe and Will Havoc. Havoc was pulling a red and black leather harness over his tattooed chest, preparing to shoot sex scenes with two porn stars named Riley Nixon and Arabelle Raphael.

Riley, who was nominated for Best New Starlet at the AVNs, wiggled into a canary-yellow latex two-piece and platform heels. As she filled out her legal paperwork, she kept squatting and yanking on the rubbery crotch of her outfit. Even though she was following a conventional route to adult film fame, signing at the Penthouse booth and shooting for notorious gonzo studio Elegant Angel, she also sold Skype shows, custom clips and signed Polaroids on her personal website. She would post today’s footage on her own ManyVids and OnlyFans pages, where fans can pay a monthly membership for access to exclusive content.

One advantage to making her own content is that she has more leeway to maintain her preferred androgynous style and buzzed head ­– some mainstream studios still won’t cast models with short hair or tattoos. “I’ll wear a wig to play a character, but I don’t want to have to wear a wig to play the role of a woman,” she complains.

Arabelle has had to deal with her own hair troubles in the industry. She’s a French-Persian Jew, and long ago grew tired of being expected to straighten her hair and use skin-lightening makeup to work with certain directors.

“I was being cast in really racist roles,” she says, “and basically told I was not good enough.” She took time off to build her own membership site, a Clips4Sale store, and an OnlyFans following, discovering unprecedented financial and emotional success. “I had no idea I was a good performer and that people wanted more content of me,” she says. “I left my hair curly, got as many tattoos as I wanted, shot with who I wanted.”

Riley, Arabelle and Will showed one another the results of their standard STI tests on the secure Performer Availability Scheduling Services database. They negotiated sexual boundaries and preferences while doing their own costuming and makeup. With low production cost and the creative advantage of working with friends, they’re each an individual porn studio unto themselves.

Will Havoc, Riley Nixon and Arabelle Raphael film a scene after hours. Roger Kisby for Rolling Stone

Porn stars work hard and party hard, and sometimes they work while they’re playing. Late that night, I was invited to a private sex party with a hard-to-obtain address. A Lyft took me away from the light pollution of the strip to an edge of town tract housing development. Through the unfurnished living room, past an ominously neon-lit pool, was a warehouse filled with porn stars smoking blunts and offering one another bumps in their rhinestone-encrusted nails.

Hired stars ascended to a sort of wrestling platform in the center of the room, performing exaggerated lubed-up sex for onlookers to the rhythm of deafening drone metal. My friends, a polyamorous “family,” decided to find a quieter room in which to play. As I enjoyed a beer and watched sex-worker activist Siouxsie Q fuck her curly-haired boyfriend Michael Vegas, an AVN nominee for Best Supporting Actor – as her Barbie-blonde pro-domme girlfriend Bella Bathory was eaten out in a nearby chair – it occurred to me that we were doing exactly what porn fans assumed we must be doing. I felt like I had ringside seats to watch NBA superstars play a pick-up game.

As the four-day convention wore on, the all-night partying didn’t threaten to slow anyone down. The AEE still makes the classic circuit demands of conventional porn stars, each scheduled to appear for three- to five-hour shifts, where they were to sign and sell eight-by-10 glossies, allow hands around their waists and shoulders, smile, twerk, tell fans how their favorite position is still reverse cowgirl, princess wave, talk to men like they’re babies, talk to men like they’re dogs. But it was the cam models who had the boundless energy, who behaved like Vine stars or friends at a slumber party that just happens to be surveilled. They hovered over their screens, promising to spank one another in exchange for tips; the ding of virtual tokens being earned echoed the slots at the nearby casino.

The models had each brought their own laptops, colorfully branded with their stage names. Most of them had elaborate production rigs including flattering ring lights, bulky webcams and phallic microphones. Cam models perform all kinds of explicit shows when they broadcast from their homes; but, due to city-wide nudity laws, they couldn’t wear less than pasties and a thong at AEE. That meant no dildo shows or live sex. Yet their chirpy conversation still had value for the members watching from home, some of whom had actually financed the travel for their favorite model.

Performers at the FreeCams booth. Roger Kisby for Rolling Stone

At the booth for the webcam company Chaturbate, both men and women were making cameos on one another’s screens. This seemed to be in defiance of the porn convention that objects of desire should be separated, lest a consumer’s taste be offended or boner deflated by something they weren’t expecting to see.

A male model named Leon with One-Direction hair and powder-blue briefs explained to me that one of his online fans had just told him he was enjoying watching all the broadcasts because, “It’s like seeing all of the characters from my favorite TV shows in a crossover episode!”

I approached a group of giggling young camgirls in pastel-colored wigs. They were teasing a group of bystanders, telling them to tune in to their group cam show later that night “to see some real action.”

I asked them if they were hoping that in future years they’d be as famous as the porn stars in the Wicked or Evil Angel booths? Did they want everyone to know their names?

One of the models shook her head vigorously, making her unicorn-horn headband wobble. “The more famous you get,” she pointed out, “the more people will pirate your content.”

Her friend, who was wearing a mesh leotard with skeleton hands covering her nipples, agreed: “We make more money when only our fans know who we are.”

MyFreeCams performer Lil Miss Angel at the 2018 AEE. Roger Kisby for Rolling Stone

With the national conversation surrounding #MeToo, it was no surprise that the sex workers at AEE were ready to address the topics of harassment and bodily autonomy. Members of the Adult Performer Advocacy Committee (APAC) handed out colorful “What Is Consent?” flyers, which illustrated how consent is “informed” and “freely given,” and that it “can be revoked at any time.”

For the second year in a row, every single convention attendee – fans and exhibitors alike – was required to sign a Code of Conduct form that outlined, for example, the difference between a consensual public picture and a violation such as an upskirt.

The Code of Conduct described a zero-tolerance policy towards “stalking, unwelcome physical contact” and “offensive verbal assaults,” emphasizing that guests were “welcome to use the restroom that match their gender presentation or identity.” This last stipulation was especially welcome from the trans community attending the awards, as two years ago several performers accused Hard Rock security guards of disrespecting a gender non-conforming attendee.

Some participants were aware of ways they could make their models more comfortable. Best director nominee Greg Lansky, a delightfully flashy French pornographer in a red Givenchy tracksuit, says that he literally elevates his studio so that fans can see women “on a pedestal.” His security teams knows which performers are ok hugging and touching their fans and which aren’t.

“I’m trying to make these girls feel good about what they do,” he says. “They all worked really hard to get here.”

With security at all corners of his booth, with its Instagrammable gold couch and open bar, Lansky believes fans get the message that women deserve respect.

“It’s hard for me to go anywhere [in the hotel],” says Jessica Drake, a Best Actress nominee, from the relative privacy of her pristine media suite. “Guys congregate in groups of 30 and just stand there. They circle you. I’ve become a master of taking a selfie and restraining them at the same time.”

Director and performer Joanna Angel, owner of the alt genre site Burning Angel, says she’s never had a bad experience with a fan at AEE. “The fans are traveling to be here,” she says. “They’re really looking forward to this. People wait in really long lines to come see you.” The only time she’s seen nonconsensual groping is from men at the bar after the convention, whom casino security quickly ejected. “I wouldn’t even call guys like that fans,” she says, just entitled jerks.

Ron Jeremy, who has been considered more of a walking novelty than active performer for many years, was banned from the convention and awards show following his claim that groping is a part of the job of his pubic appearances.

In a statement to Rolling Stone, AVN CEO Tony Rios commented, “Ron Jeremy admitted guilt to specific aspects of our code of conduct policy. We discussed this with Ron, and he was not allowed to attend the convention and awards show.”

However, performer/director James Deen, who was accused of on-set misconduct as well as intimate partner violence back in 2015, was nominated at and attended the awards.

Rios clarified, “We did not prohibit people from attending based on accusations.”

Siouxsie Q, who was recently elected secretary of APAC, is upset about what she sees as double standards, where the young, powerful Deen is still welcomed while aging Jeremy is put out to pasture.

“I think we see similar trends in Hollywood. These accounts of Harvey Weinstein’s predatory behavior aren’t coming out during the height of the Kill Bill franchise, but rather in the soggy aftermath of Paddington Bear 2,” she says. “As someone’s star dwindles, people are more willing to watch them fall.”

Deen’s attorney Michael Fattorosi characterized comparisons to Jeremy as “inaccurate and unfair.” In a statement, he said, “James was never investigated criminally, nor were there ever any lawsuits filed against him by any of the accusers. Nor did James ever admit to any misconduct on his part.”

And unlike other industries where powerful men continue to be reckoned, those in porn face powerful taboos. “It’s challenging for adult performers to speak out regarding any abuse that occurs; it is because it perpetuates stigma and allows for society to tell us we asked for it,” says Tasha Reign, an APAC chairperson.

Siouxsie Q agrees that stigma plays a huge role in consent controversies within the sex industry. “As long as sex workers have as much difficulty as they do when reporting and prosecuting sexual assault,” she says, “there will continue to be a culture of silence, victim scrutiny, and inconsistencies in how the industry responds.”

Janice Griffith was nominated for the Best Actress award at the AVNs. Roger Kisby for Rolling Stone

“What do you think of this dress? It’s very ‘Times Up,’ but is it whorey enough?”

Janice Griffith, a Best Actress nominee, is in her hotel room preparing for the awards. It’s true that her black cocktail dress is not as provocative as some of her colleagues’ revealing red-carpet looks. The teal undertone in her ombre hair is fading. She’s Indo-Caribbean, Angelina Jolie-skinny, and speaks with a husky authority. She barks at her date not to interrupt her, impulsively dumping out a jar of candy because there’s nowhere else for him to pour her a fresh vodka cocktail.

None of Janice’s friends in attendance know how to roll a joint. I’m happy to oblige, so she gratefully hands me a packet of rolling papers the size of a hot dog and a sack of sativa the size of my laptop.

“Our biggest issue is that we treat an industry of freelancers as if we’re an industry of employees,” Janice says. Despite the efforts of the Adult Performer Advocacy Committee and Free Speech Coalition, in her view, porn is currently too under-regulated for meaningful accountability.

“When men make women uncomfortable, we brush it off,” she says, “because we know people will write us off as being over-reactive or emotional.”

I visited many porn star rooms and saw both their self care safeguards and true psychological states – Sephora explosions and Cosco-sized boxes of Tangerine Emergen-cee, elaborate dabbing rigs and electric kettles. Janice had brought Complete Works of Kierkegaard.

Harli Lotts, co-host of the AVNs, dons a suicide awareness and prevention ribbon on the red carpet. Roger Kisby for Rolling Stone

As the red carpet wound its way through the Hard Rock, gamblers and bar patrons scrambled for a glimpse of the stars. While many pornographers opted for prom-worthy gowns and suits, their outfits nodded to their profession with bare midriffs, waist-high slits and undulating décolletage. Some wore little more than fringed bikinis. Lance Hart, founder of the PervOUT network, stood out in a stripper-style policeman’s shirt and fishnet stockings; he was handcuffed to his date Charlotte Sartre, who revealed on Twitter that she was not wearing anything underneath her slinky black dress. Abella Danger, last year’s Best New Starlet, shimmered in a transparent bodysuit adorned with strategically placed green and pink crystals.

The AVN awards show was predictably raunchy but surprisingly sincere. Co-hosted by comedian Aries Spears, Australian performer/director Angela White and camgirl Harli Lotts, the event’s biggest draw was hip-hop star Lil Wayne, who performed two high-energy sets with a drummer and DJ. The teleprompter dialog meshed well with the talents of porn star presenters, who were well-practiced in the art of the arched eyebrow and exaggerated wink.

White set a record by winning fourteen awards, the most AVN wins in one night. Clutching her Female Performer of the Year trophy to her remarkable cleavage, she emotionally thanked her co-stars for “allowing me to be vulnerable.”

Tommy Pistol, the Best Actor winner for a film called Ingenue, praised the industry for being a “fucked up family.”

Yet Spears, a MADtv alum, did not seem to pick up on the changing attitudes in the room. “Your personal space should not be invaded,” he declared, before utterly failing to read the room. “However, you bitches look delicious tonight. If I should come up to you and beg you for a blowjob, can you blame me? I am a hot blooded heterosexual male in a room full of professional cocksuckers.”

Eventually, the celebration came to an end. The false eyelashes were peeled off, the hangovers medicated with Ibuprofen and brunch. Pornographers’ minds return to their business, and to the social challenges they continue to face.

“We demand so much from porn stars,” says Bree Mills, a lesbian writer and director. “Performers who have made successful careers could be mentors. Give them infrastructure. Get them an appointment with an accountant, get them health care. They get the stigma stamp on them harder than anybody. We have to take care of them.”

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