#hes just naturally oriented that way and when he gets knocked out that gets jostled | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mandadoration · 5 years ago

Text

hound - ii.

summary: You find your bounty on a barren, rocky moon, hiding up in the mountains. You hope that it’ll be an easy retrieval, but of course, nothing goes as planned. You reveal something to Mando in return for his aid.

word count: 2,279

pairing: mandalorian x mandalorian!reader

warnings: canon-typical violence, swearing

chapters: i | ii

The nickname Dog sticks around, much to your chagrin. Still, it’s an easy way to distinguish between the both of you, and you know Mando thinks it’s funny how people are scared to refer to you as Dog and try their best to not have to address you directly as you ask around about your bounty.

You think so too.

You don’t talk after your little run in with Kevali, and Mando doesn’t push it. But something has changed between you, but you attribute it to how you finally showed that it was actually flesh under your beskar armor and not a humorless droid. It’s not like he had to wait that much longer to know you were human, though.

Because right now you’re bleeding through your clothes and dripping all over the floor of the Razor Crest.

You had finally tracked the asset down to a little rocky moon with a thin atmosphere in the Outer Rim. Silently, as you always do, you and Mando get ready to confront him. Mando double checks how much fuel he has in his vambrace for the fire, restocks his bullets, and slings his rifle over his shoulder. You restock your own ammunition and tuck the stolen vibroblade in a holster on your left thigh, tuck your blaster by your hip, and grab your electrostaff. Mando brings out the puck and shows you the bounty: a Gran by the name of Graug. It’s three eyes stare at you blankly as the little holographic bust rotates. He deactivates it and puts it back, disappearing behind his cape, and he takes out a tracking fob. It’s beeping strongly.

“Ready?” Mando asks. You give him a curt nod. “Of course you are.” You tilt your head to ask, What is that supposed to mean? He just gives you a shrug in return. “C’mon, let’s get, Dog.” You roll your eyes under your helmet and knock your shoulder against his as you descend the ramp. Mando gives a short chuckle under his breath, but stops teasing you. You can’t help but feel just a twinge of disappointment.

You push that aside. You were here to complete a bounty, not joke around. No matter how one-sided it was. Mando slowly rotates in a circle with the tracking fob. After a few moments, he pauses and starts walking. You follow dutifully behind him at his heels, keeping your gaze sharp for any signs of life. So far, it was just rocks. Literally. There’s no grass or water source, and it’s woefully barren of any signs of life. You want to ask if Mando is sure the asset is here of all places. It would be easy to know that someone was trying to run away if they were the only other living thing here. But the tracking fob’s beeping increases, so you keep your mouth shut.

Slowly, but surely, as you keep walking, the earth inclines until after nearly half an hour of walking, you’re met with a natural, but impressive mountain with carvings and caves that deface it. You would’ve appreciated it, really, but it’s more annoying than anything.

Because it extends far into the horizon. In both directions. Mando sighs and puts the fob away to gear up to scale the wall. He looks at you expectantly, but you sweep into a bow dramatically.

After you.

You can hear Mando roll his eyes from where you are.

He shoots his grappling line to the top, tugs twice to make sure it’s secure, and starts his scale. When he’s several feet above you, you shoot your own grappling line next to him, and follow.

It’s not an easy climb. It’s a steep rock face, and although there are many hand- and footholds, the thin air makes your head spin in combination with the effort. Mando calls to you. “You enjoying the view?” he grunts. You know he doesn’t expect a real answer- he’s just making sure you’re still behind him. You stomp against the rock to indicate that you’re still here. You consider prying a chunk of rock out to throw at him when he lets out a shout of surprise and starts to fall, his line being cut.

You shoot out a hand and just barely manage to grab his foot, grunting as the breath is knocked out of you. The momentum of his fall slammed you against the mountain. You curse inwardly. You had just polished your armor, and now it’s scuffed. You peer upwards to try and see who do it, when you see a blurry figure and a glint of a knife in one of the many caves. Panicking, you swing back and forth, using Mando to try and speed up your momentum. You kick against the mountain to avoid the swipe of a blade. As you land back, you wince as you hear Mando hit the rocks.

“What are you doing?!” Mando demands. But you’re too busy kicking off again to avoid the blade to properly answer. As you swing backwards, you spot a ledge just big enough for you to throw his body onto it. He shouts in surprise when he feels your grip release, and swears when he lands roughly. “Shit!” You continue to swing back and forth like a pendulum, forcing your way up as fast as you can. The bounty really can’t stab for anything, apparently, as you catch your fingers on the edge of the cave and haul yourself up. You grunt as the Gran stomps on your fingers. He shouts in a language you don’t know and raises his arm to stab you, but you grab his ankle like you did with Mando, but sharply pull to knock him flat on his back. You scramble up as fast as you can, detaching the grapple line. You can scavenge for your hook later if you want. Kicking the blade away, you put your boot on Graug and peer at him. One of his eyes are swollen shut and he looks severely malnourished. At least, you think he is. You haven’t seen enough of his species to know if he’s underweight. You dig in your pockets for your own bounty puck and show it to him, pulling out cuffs. You hope this one will know better and come willingly.

Instead, he spits a glob of greenish brown spit at you and scowls, but doesn’t try to struggle. You hear Mando hoist himself up into the cave. Putting your puck away, you remove your boot to pick up the asset.

“Better to comply,” is all Mando says to him. As he gets on his feet, you think that maybe this will be easier than you thought.

The bounty surprises you as he pulls out another blade from Maker knows where and jabs at the gap between your pauldron and breastplate before swiping at your leg. You snarl and backhand Graug, your knuckles snagging on his swollen eye and tearing his eyelid. He screams and stumbles back, and you wrench out the knife. You toss it aside, and Mando swoops in to force Graug’s hands behind his back and into the cuffs that you’ve dropped. He still struggles against Mando. “Don’t make me have to bring you in cold,” he says. You press a hand against your wound and hiss. Mando looks at you. He doesn’t say anything, but motions with his head that you should head down first. You walk over to the edge and peer down, only to gasp when Graug peels himself from Mando’s grip, running backwards, brandishing another knife, and tearing into your side and slamming into you to try and knock you off. He does, and you try and orient yourself in the midst of free-fall before you crack your head into the unforgiving earth below.

You manage to snag a ledge, nearly biting your tongue off when your shoulder tears and your side stretches. Mando calls your stupid nickname in alarm, quickly attaching a new hook to his grapple line to repell down to you. He holds you in his arms and descends as you try not to cry out in pain. When you get down, you’re ready to beat some sense into the Gran, but pause when your boots squelch.

Ah. That was brain matter. On the ground.

“I guess he didn’t make it,” he notes, nudging Graug’s body with the tip of his boot. You turn your head to face Mando.

You think?

Mando is carrying the remnants of Graug over his shoulder as you limp behind him. You probably should’ve said something when your wounds start to burn.

When you realize your blood isn’t clotting, you think about talking to him again to let him know.

You definitely say something by the time you get to the ship and you’re lightheaded from blood loss, and when you look back, you see your blood making a trail from the mountain. You won’t make it onto the ship. Hindsight is always 20/20.

“Mando,” you breath. He freezes and looks back just as you collapse on the ramp. He tosses Graug’s body haphazardly into the ship and grabs you to stop you from sliding down the ramp. Your vision is coming and going, feeling like you’re underwater as Mando hauls you up and into the ship, stepping over the bounty’s mangles body. He sets you on the floor with a grunt and digs around for medical supplies.

“Why didn’t you say anything sooner?” he snaps. You motion weakly in the direction of Graug. Or what was Graug, at least. Mando slips as more brain matter leaks out, and you let out a huff of laughter. “Now is not the time. Shit, why isn’t it stopping?” He presses cloth into your shoulder, and you groan in pain.

“Anti-coagulant,” you grit out, voice hoarse. Your vision whites out as he jostles you to try and find the other sources of blood.

“I have to take off your armor,” he says bluntly. Mando is trying not to let panic set into his tone. “I, shit, I’m sorry I have to-” You slap a hand against his chestplate to shut him up, leaving a bloody handprint over where his heart is. You nod and tilt your head to show the straps. Mando fumbles with your armor. He doesn’t want to hurt you more than you already are, and his hands are slick with your blood. Still, he makes quick work and strips you down to your shirt and pants, cutting away the surrounding fabric to reveal where Graug stabbed you, fresh blood pooling underneath your body. In any other circumstance, you would’ve felt naked and exposed, but as black spots dot your vision, you can’t bring yourself to care.

Mando digs around the medpack before swearing and dumping the contents out. “There’s no more bacta.” You point at the cauterizer. He halts. “It’ll scar.” You slam your fist against the floor and point more insistently at it. You’ve grown tired of him treating you so gently when you know you’ve gone through the same things as him. Hot anger flashes through you.

“Since when have you cared that it’ll scar?” you scream at him. Mando flinches back and hesitates at your outburst, but grabs the cauterizer and some numb spray. He works on your shoulder first. He sprays a minimal amount on your open wound before going in. You gnaw at the inside of your cheek to keep from screaming out in pain.

“You know that’s the most amount of words in a single sentence I’ve ever heard you say?” Mando asks. He wipes some blood off with a gauze pad and continues working as the smell of burning flesh wafts into your helmet. “I’m surprised you actually know Basic.” You loll your head to the side to stare at him. “All this time, I assumed you didn’t know how to talk at all,” he muses, moving down to your side. He repeats his motions. You huff at him, and you taste blood in your mouth as you bite your lip. His voice starts to fade in and out, but you force yourself to try and pick out what he’s saying so you don’t pass out. You appreciate his gesture.

“When we get out-- Bight is nice this time of year-- ver to get the brains off of-- of my mind, you know? Oh, and--”

You must’ve finally passed out at some point because Mando is nudging your helmet to try and shake you awake. When you look around, your wounds are bandaged and the blood and brain matter have been scrubbed away from the floor. The flickering lights indicate that you’re in hyperspace. Mando is kneeling next to you on your makeshift cot. “Are you okay?” You lick your dry lips and give him a nod. “Water?” You nod again, and he hands you his canteen before turning away to leave and go back to the cockpit so that you can take off your helmet to drink it. You speak to stop him.

“Wait.” Mando turns to you. You hesitate, then give him your name.

“Who?” he stupidly asks. It’s cute.

“My name,” you explain. Silence.

“Oh.” You wish that you didn’t have to follow the creed so that he can see you crack a smile.

“You don’t have to tell me yours.”

“What?”

“‘s so you can stop calling me ‘Dog’,” you supply, leaning back and cradling the canteen in your hands. Mando shakes his head affectionately and goes back up to the cockpit.

“Whatever you say, Dog!” he calls down.

You don’t know that Mando wishes that you could see his grin as well.

#mandalorian reader #mandalorian x reader #fic: hound #the mandalorian #mandalorian #mandalorian x you #my writing #din djarin #din djarin x reader #mandalorian imagine

105 notes · View notes

forasecondtherewedwon · 5 years ago

Note

Hi for the smutty prompts can you do number 12 please. I love you're writing by the way 💕

Thank you, trio of anons!! I didn’t do a Halloween party as all my Halloween writing energy went into my 31 Days of Spideychelle. What these prompts did make me think of was Fight Club… so it’s a Fight Club AU!

Queens Club

Pairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones (Spideychelle)Rating: E/NSFW - warning: consensual violenceWord count: 3002

12. “Are you going to eye-fuck me all night or are you going to do something about it?”

43. “The things I want to do to you, baby.”

Warped is how it feels to live in a progressive city within a conservative country. MJ marches and rallies and volunteers her time with organizations whose goals she believes in. She looks around at these events and sees a youthful, diverse crowd hungry for equal pay, thirsty for renewable energy initiatives. She smiles, handing donated school supplies to underprivileged kids, donated canned goods to Queens’s homeless, donated fuck-yous from the disgustingly, ceaselessly rich to the people their hoarded wealth keeps poor. MJ wants to do more, so she does it, and things don’t change. Things. Don’t. Change.

She wants to pick a fight.

It’s comin’ on winter―an even bleaker time than the manic-depressive Christmas Joni Mitchell alluded to―and the impact of the latest article MJ’s submitted to an online zine that always takes her pieces feels like it’ll last about as long as the first ashy snowfall. Where’s the passion, she wanted them to ask. Maybe they could grab her by her shoulders and shake until her neck snaps while they’re at it. Disillusionment wasn’t supposed to come this soon for the kid who wore Jeanne d’Arc Ts in high school. The ‘Girl Most Likely’ of teen revolution.

The city’s greyer this year, she’d swear to it. Wishy-washy shadows and sidewalks for sleepwalkers. Getting from work to home? Nightmarish, but in, like, a boring way. The tiny, chilly apartment MJ shares with some woman who seems to keep opposite hours isn’t enough to revive her. At least the drama of scratching ‘DO NOT RESUSCITATE’ into her bedroom door is something to contemplate on the walk. Tomato soup for dinner, just to see the colour orange.

Not everyone she knows falls into the two categories of ‘sparky do-gooder’ and ‘veritable stranger’ like she’d thought. Someone is interesting. Someone has felt her clenched jaw and understood her cravings. MJ flips over the card she found shoved beneath the apartment’s front door, but the back is blank. She peruses the front again, eyes down while she lifts her dinner and gulps the last of the soup directly from the bowl. It sloshes over her upper lip, so she licks it off, feeling… Feeling. That’s enough.

The card says, ‘Fight Club.’ It provides a date and time, a familiar street address.

She’s neutral about slipping inside Midtown Tech after midnight. Whoever did the breaking in left the rear custodial door open―the one that exits into a closet-room of buckets and rolls of rough brown paper towel. There’s no sign, not that MJ had been expecting one. It isn’t parent teacher night or the heavily-postered orientation day she attended when she started college. The lights aren’t on in the hall and when she sniffs hard (adjusting to the dry air), the sound is somehow too close. She has to get out of her own body.

What she’d pictured after the anonymous invite was a gathering in someplace a little grittier than the gym. Newly refloored, by the looks of it. She could rave about the skewed divide of school funds that favours athletics, the physical over the mental, even in a specialized tech school, but she isn’t here to champion the arts.

The things MJ might need tonight could be anything; she’s filled a decrepit duffle with a water bottle, towel, and two-thirds-empty box of band-aids. It sags pathetically and she chucks it against the wall to join the dozen people―mostly men―clumped together near the fold-away bleachers.

“’Sup.” She nods to the closest person.

How long have they been doing this? Is she the only new recruit tonight? When did it begin? Why use the gym at Midtown Tech? Who found her and how? The only thing she doesn’t wonder is what the point is. He doesn’t answer any of the questions in MJ’s head and normally she doesn’t like that―curiouser and skepticaler by nature―but the conviction in his powerful-looking shoulders and grounded posture is something she’s never seen before. The phrase is bullshit, except the air does change when he moves through the circle they’ve become without her noticing. Suddenly, MJ cares about presenting herself like she’s supposed to be here.

There are rules, blah, blah, blah, and his name is Spider-Man.

The spectacle engages her adrenaline; she has to remind herself that neither of the men swinging furious amateur punches is going to come for her. It’s the first match of the night and watching is part of what Figh―is what this is about. The noise of a nose breaking is something MJ knows now. The smear of freshly-escaped blood across both men’s knuckles is surprisingly orange. Briefly, remembering her soup, she feels a nauseated surge in her stomach.

This “Spider-Man” dude is physical. He hasn’t fought yet, but he pushes the fighters, grabs their arms and shoves them together, slaps them on the back and shrieks praise in their ears. He yanks his shirt off and when the fighters collide with him, they leave streaks from superficial wounds on his chest. Never his back, because he’s always facing them. His eyes are passionate. It’s a lot, when they land on MJ.

Two more fights and he looks at her every time he turns his head. He still hasn’t fought, but he’s jostled the crowd and the fighters enough to put a shine on his skin. When he pushes his curly brown hair off his forehead, it clings for a moment before flopping back exactly where it was. She smells him when he brushes by in front of her.

The fighters are not ‘gladiators’ because they fight for themselves, not for the approval of any authority. MJ can’t see how they can ignore the clear authority of the Club’s founder. She doesn’t bring it up.

Number four’s starting up and the guy beside her has an eye swelling shut when the shock of the evening finally numbs in her mind and she begins to get angry. All those tiny godfuckingdamn backpacks for kids who are statistically less likely to reach post-secondary because of their socioeconomic backgrounds. MJ could swear she’s handed out a thousand. And the politicians? And the rich? And the rich? Spider-Man slides by at her back, knocking into her and she whips her head around to stare while he stares right on back, moving away around the ring of Last Resorters.

Across from her―a trio beating the shit out of each other in between (it isn’t exactly the fish tank meet-cute of Romeo + Juliet)―Spider-Man stares, gaze so forceful it’s like he thinks he can yank her over there, make her step into danger like walking into traffic or off the edge of a cliff. He grins.

She shoulders through the others, circling. The action is deliberate and no one gets pissed, no one scoffs or swears or flips her off. The last person standing there between her and her objective MJ bodily propels into the fight. And she’s looking a little lower than level to lock eyes with Spider-Man. He crosses his arms, she grinds her teeth.

“Are you going to eye-fuck me all night,” MJ demands, “or are you going to do something about it?”

When he starts to laugh, voices roaring up around them after a wretched pop that could’ve been a shoulder, a finger, or a cheekbone (she’s still learning the chords for the music of injury), she slaps him hard across the face. He does react, head swinging sideways on her follow-through, but he smiles at her again.

“Never the flat of the hand,” Spider-Man instructs, leaning towards her. “But we’ll train you out of that. See, what you want… what you want is a nice closed fist.”

He makes one around her ponytail, arm shooting out before she has a chance to stop him―if she had any idea how to do that―and drags her by it, sideways into the combat space.

“MOVE YOUR ASSES,” he orders, kicking a guy in the knee who then has to limp to the observers. “You picked the match,” he says to her, winding MJ’s hair around his fist to heighten the tug on her scalp, “so fight me.”

Abruptly, he frees her hair and she hurls her shoulder into his chest.

“You fucking started it, bitch.”

MJ never says that word, not as an endearment for friends (like she has a lot of those) or to reclaim control of a term used to harass women. Holding it in her mouth has always made her sick. Guess she just figuratively barfed on Spider-Man.

He staggers, then pushes her back. MJ’s feet are completely wrong and she falls on her ass.

“Up,” he says, raising his fists in front of his chin, arms flexing.

Her sneaker squeaks―she hopes it leaves a scuff―and somebody’s damp palm is pressing between her shoulder blades to steady her to her feet.

He doesn’t direct her with his words anymore after that, although MJ falls again and again. Looks like she’ll be finding out tomorrow if you can bruise your ass. Instead, he’ll tap her shoulder to make her lower it, grip her elbow to tuck it closer to her ribs. She knows this muscular guy isn’t hitting her full-strength, but it doesn’t offend her. A trip to the hospital isn’t in her plans for the near-future and he probably doesn’t want to whittle down his group. If anything, it’s likely spreading. Hence her invitation.

Blood has run from her lip to her chin by the time they unspokenly end their fight, and her stomach hurts from the multiple times Spider-Man caught MJ straight-on before she figured out she should turn to the side to present a smaller target. For now, he stands next to her and performs fifth-rate doctoring: he wipes the blood away with his thumb.

Watching other fights, MJ hadn’t understood how two people who’d just been attacking each other could then stand together like pals, comparing bruises as they bloomed. But her anger has curled up to rest and Spider-Man’s presence, his strength, makes her press her arm into his. She looks him up and down and though he studies the current fight, she’s sure he’s aware of her gaze. His stance is good considering she kneed him in the nuts.

“Did you get it all out?” he asks without turning to look at her.

MJ rolls her shoulders.

“For now. You?”

Spider-Man snorts a laugh.

“The things that I want to do to you, baby.”

It sort of comes across like a threat of violence, considering all they have just done to each other, but she happens to drop her gaze and see the front of his jeans is looking as swollen as that other poor bastard’s eye. The jeans are slouching on his hips as it is. MJ can see herself taking them off. She can see herself punching his cheek instead of slapping it this time. She can see herself doing several things now that she’s discovered her self is a self that can challenge a man to a fistfight and do damage. It feels suddenly female, drippingly female, to have stared down this shirtless madman with the anarchic, archaic hobby and introduced his groin to her knee. The partial nudity, the sweating, the concentrated eye contact―obviously, the boner. What’s not erotic about this?

“Come and fucking get it then,” she tells him, striding through the circle and nudging a winded woman aside, headed for the girls’ locker room off the gym.

Spider-Man isn’t following her. MJ is leading him.

She bangs the swinging door open and it doesn’t have time to shut before he slips inside behind her. Turning her head quickly, she wonders about kissing and decides against it. She doesn’t want this man in her face―just in her cunt.

His jeans seem to have dropped even lower; she can see the taut white band of his underwear and a couple inches of cotton below the elastic.

“I’m asking,” Spider-Man says with an earnest yet heated gaze. “I don’t out there, but here… I’m asking.”

Only he doesn’t ask anything, not a hint of uptick. Just comes up behind her―with MJ still watching over her shoulder―and scans down the length of her back with his eyes, keeping a foot of air between them. He won’t touch her without permission, is what he’s saying.

“It’s MJ, by the way,” she tells him, gripping his forearm and pulling it towards her to make his hand caress up her hip. “I’ll be coming to more of these things, so you might as well know.”

“Good.”

And they both go for the fastenings of their respective bottoms. She thinks she’ll beat him, only needing to yank the tie on her sweatpants, but Spider-Man’s a quick draw on the button and zipper of his jeans. It can’t be more than a second before they’re staggering to a wall of lockers, with her shoving her underwear down and him reaching into his and stroking his dick gratuitously before jerking down the front of his boxers.

MJ glances back at how he’s taken himself in hand and begins to rub her clit, drawing wetness forward from where their fight a few minutes ago got her going. Her hips jump. Her other hand backhands congealing blood off her lip, then goes to the locker door; she jerks her head to encourage him. She doesn’t quit circling and massaging herself as Spider-Man adjusts her hips for angle. There’s the prod of his dick as he feels out his destination―like somebody ringing a doorbell. But this guy isn’t shy. When he enters her, it’s not rough, but it’s all the way. One stroke. MJ inhales fast.

She settles into him over the first half-dozen thrusts (the paint on the pale blue metal of the locker is chipping, MJ notices through hazy eyes), sticking her ass out for a shallower angle that brings his cock closer to her g-spot. Her breaths are huffed when he finds it and his hands land suddenly and heavily on her waist, sliding down to knead her hips. She works herself faster, dragging her clit side to side under slippery fingertips. Spider-Man must be able to see her arm moving or, if not that, then definitely feel her clutching at him from the inside. He picks up the pace and she can feel how wet she is, how wet they are together.

MJ moans and shivers, frantically manipulating her clit. It’s like her noise gives him another permission―to make sounds of his own. These are gravelly grunts. Not wasteful: one on each of the thrusts he slams into her g-spot. Her arm buckles at the elbow, which is the beginning of the end.

She closes her eyes and rocks her hips backward fiercely, receiving him, receiving him, receiving him. Filling herself up. She will be unbearably full. She will be a nation unto herself. She will be… hitting a pharmacy on the way home to buy Plan B. That’s fine because everything is tingling. Her thighs are quaking and it’s possible that his hands on her hips are what’s keeping distance between her and the speckled floor. She can hear the shuffle of his jeans (around his ankles) against her sweatpants (around hers). MJ pictures her fingers rubbing at light speed. Her teeth clench until a gasp forces them and her eyes open and she’s pounding her hips down onto Spider-Man’s. These are deep, brutal movements, but she and he are fighters.

He climaxes while she still is, so she finds out she can either have orgasms that last for ages or can get off twice if someone’s drilling into her g-spot like he should be living in her nightstand and running on batteries she had to buy separately. Whatever he’s triggered, it’s fantastic and MJ grinds through it for as long as the sensation lasts.

It’s a mess and a loss when he pulls out. In the move that surprises her more than everything else she’s seen tonight put together, MJ feels him touch his forehead between her shoulder blades. Doesn’t stay for more than a few seconds, but she feels weirdly consecrated. When he backs up to hoist his clothes into place, she gives her face a smack. Shit―immediate regret and a wince as the pain in her lip pulses. She gets herself redressed and strides to one of the stalls at the far end of the locker room.

Does she buzz by him because she’s embarrassed? Nope. She stands tall, it’s just that she can only continue to do so for a limited time, until everything he just shot inside her is coating her inner thighs. No thanks.

She pees, grabbing her stomach because those muscles don’t like her tensing to urinate after Spider-Man’s punches. As she’s folding toilet paper in her hand (it’s nicer than the stuff she has at her apartment and she adds that to Midtown’s offenses, beneath the gym floor), she hears quiet speech. It’s him, talking to himself nearby. Memory aid? Post-sex pep talk? MJ is no man’s ego-stroker, but if this guy, who comes across as otherwise supremely confident, needs a little reassurance about his prowess, she can honestly praise him on the experience of tonight’s fuck.

Preparing to be complimentary but not effusive, MJ flushes and begins to swing the stall door open when she spots Spider-Man with his hands braced on one of the sinks, leaning his face close to the mirror. The red mark on his cheek could’ve been a bruise if she knew how to throw a harder punch. He’s continuing to speak softly and she stares at the bunched muscles of his back, his tight upper arms. Would she do it again (with a condom)? Yes.

“Peter, be patient,” he’s coaching himself, loud enough for her to hear now. “There’s a plan. The Club will scale so fucking beautifully once everything’s ready.”

“So your real name’s Peter,” MJ’s about to confirm, when the man, eyes still locked on his reflection, says five more words.

“Ok, Spider-Man. I trust you.”

Fuck.

more smut prompts

23 notes · View notes

scramblingminds · 7 years ago

Photo

Anon I hope you like angsty fluff, or is it fluffy angst. Either way, it is adorable lol maybe.

Cold Shoulder

Daryl didn’t get it, he didn't get Paul's attitude. The scout kept brushing him off or flat out ignoring him since Daryl came to Hilltop to help with their planting. They had never been too close but had always tolerated each other. Daryl was man enough to admit he did like the other man far more than he did at first. Paul had been nice from the start, even flirting a few times which just seemed to be his nature. Over the last months though, something had changed.

Paul had rolled his eyes at Daryl the day before when the archer asked if he needed help with his seeding. Daryl hadn't meant offense, he was just done with his section and was offering some assistant. The scout had scoffed, "No, thanks."

Daryl left very confused. Paul had been so different after he found Daryl at Sanctuary and had even let him stay in his trailer with him. Now he could barely get a soft expression from the man. Apparently, Daryl wasn't the only one to notice because that morning Maggie snagged Daryl on his way through Barrington House.

"I need you to go on a hunt, we need more meat to cure," She requested and Daryl nodded before she continued, "Take Jesus with you."

Daryl wanted to take back his nod, "I can handle it."

"You've seen our storage sheds for meat, one person can't carry back that much stock," Maggie patted his arm, "Besides, I think you and him need to talk."

Daryl knew he couldn't deny her but he still grumbled, "I didn't do nothin' to him."

She shook her head, smiling as she moved to her office and Daryl headed out of the house. He swung by the armory and grabbed one of the hunting rifles with a handful of extra bullets. He hesitated at Paul's door, telling himself to stop being a bitch before knocking.

The door swung open after a moment, Paul looking at the gun in Daryl's hand and sighed, "What do you want?"

"We're going hunting," Daryl almost sneered as Paul snorted, "Maggie's orders, prick."

Paul shifted on his feet, biting his lip before throwing his hands up, "Fine."

He left the door open as he moved back inside to pull on his coat and snapped his knife belt in place. Daryl tossed him the rifle as he came out the door, Paul glaring as he caught the weapon and Daryl smirked. Daryl pulled his crossbow off his back and they headed for the gate.

They were about a mile out and Daryl hadn't found the trail of anything worth pursuing yet. Paul was silent at his side, bright eyes moving around looking for signs too. It was almost nice, almost how it was before Paul's big attitude change. It had been like a switch got flipped. It happened after the Savior's got out and attacked the communities.

After that night hiding in the sewers they had headed for Hilltop. Daryl's eyes had landed on Paul first, something they had started doing that he couldn't stop. Daryl had moved to talk to him, to check on him and Paul had snapped at him. Saying he wanted to be left alone and Daryl had never heard his voice so harsh before. Daryl did leave him be and figured Paul would come back around, but so far he hadn't.

Daryl was getting use to Paul's short responses and the way he would leave the area that Daryl was in. Daryl didn't like it but he didn't have a right to make Paul stay around him. They weren't even friends after all.

Daryl glanced over as Paul swung the guns strap over his shoulder and dug in his pocket. He twisted his hair up with his other hand as he pulled out a hair tie. The bun was sloppy and loose at his nape but it suited him. Paul glanced over and their eyes met, "How long are you going to have us wondering around out here?"

Daryl grimaced, there went that almost peace between with, "Until we find some game."

"We have passed like two dozen squirrels, I thought you liked those." Paul smirked.

"Ya wanna fill a shed with squirrel meat?" Daryl snipped back and Paul sniffed at his tone.

Paul looked like he might have something else to say but Daryl pressed his hand to his mouth. Paul squeaked at the touch as he looked at the disturbance in the underbrush. Daryl pulled his hand up to press his finger to his lips in a shushing motion before point at the trail.

Paul huffed as he followed the redneck. Both of them moved soundlessly, as the tracks got cleaner and fresher. Daryl stopped, Paul effortlessly following his lead as the buck came into view. It was still a good distance away so Daryl tapped Paul's shoulder and pointed. Paul nodded bringing his rifle up to his shoulder and looking down the scope.

Daryl didn't even look at the deer. Watching Paul even his breathing out, tongue moving over his lower lip before he pulled the trigger. Paul grinned lowering the gun, turning his head to find Daryl smiling at him. They just stared at each other for a moment, the space between them warm like it used to be. Daryl watched how Paul's eyes shifted from green and blue in the canopy light, so bright and happy. Until the sound of a snarl had them both jumping.

"Shit!" Daryl turned to find the walker tearing at the deer's side. Broken nails ripping flesh up and jagged teeth sink in.

"Great job." Paul pulled a knife free and with the snap of his wrist it was buried in the walker's skull.

Daryl gave him a disbelieving look as Paul moved to retrieve his blade, "How the fuck was that my fault?"

Paul wiped his knife on his pants leg before sheathing it. He bit his lip, nudging the now useless deer with his boot, "We might've seen the walker before it got a taste if you..."

Daryl crossed his arms, making a noise that could only mean for Paul to continue. Paul kicked the deer, "If you hadn't been making googly eyes back there."

Daryl choked on his breath, about to yell, what he was going to say he didn't know but it wasn't going to be nice. He didn't get the chance to because the snarls this time were louder. Daryl and Paul turned to find walkers stumbling around tree and out of bushes, it was a whole herd of them.

"Run!" Daryl ordered and Paul didn't argue.

They turned and took off in the opposite direction. Darting through trees as the groans stayed on their tails. Paul stumbled to a stop, Daryl nearly knocking him over he was so close to his back. Daryl saw what made him stop, a gully cut into the ground. It was deep, the water at the bottom flowing quickly from the recent rains.

Daryl looked behind him, the herd was spread wide, if they took off one way or another they this had a big risk of being grabbed. Daryl saw a few yards down a large tree on the edge of the drop off and shoved Paul toward it. The scout sprinted over to it, the closest limb was still a good five feet over their head but it could easily hold some weight.

Daryl skidded to a stop behind him, crouching down and locking his fingers in front of him, "I'll hoist ya up then ya give me a hand."

"Got it." Used Daryl's shoulders for balanced as he stepped up. Daryl grunted as he stood up straight, lifting Paul until the smaller man's hands got hold of the branch. Daryl gave on last shove and Paul threw his leg over, turning with a gasp, "Daryl."

Daryl grinned up at him before turning around, bow swinging off his back into his hands. Paul reached his hand down franticly, "C'mon Daryl."

The first walker was only a few feet away. Daryl let a bolt fly, then another until he was out. There was over a few dozen of them stumbling in on him. Daryl sunk his knife into one's skull as a bullet took out one to his left. Daryl glanced up to see Paul sitting on the branch, face set hard as he aimed and fired. Daryl took a step back, twisting around with a walker following. It lost its foot and tumbled down the gully.

"You're a damn idiot." Paul complained as his gun clicked, empty.

Daryl couldn't argue as he stabbed one walker and another grabbed his arm. A third slammed into the mass of struggle bodies and Daryl stumbled back under the weight, dropping his bow in favor of being able to use both of his hands. He was barely keeping teeth a bay, his leather jacket luckily blocking any nails from scoring over his skin.

Daryl's stomach dropped as his boot sunk, "Oh fuck."

"Daryl?" Paul looked down at him wide eyed as another undead body joined the clump.

The world dropped from under Daryl. It was a tangle of rock and dirt as he fell backward. Rotting limbs flailing in his face and knocking against him as they tumbled down the gully. Daryl cried out when he reached the bottom, water filling his mouth as he struggled to get his feet under him. The rocks were slick and water deeper than it appeared.

"Damn it." Daryl wheezed as one of the walkers oriented itself and floundered toward him. Daryl's boots slipped and the current caught him.

"Daryl!" Paul's voice sounded frantic as Daryl looked up. His eyes barely locking on Paul's horrified face before he got swept downstream with a walker scrambling at his jacket. More bodies jostling against him in the flow.

Daryl somehow didn't drop his knife in the ordeal and even between trying to grab hold of anything managed to take care of the walker. His shoulder protested as he got hold of larger rock, shaking water out of his eyes as he pulled himself onto it since it was rougher than the ones on the creek bed. He coughed, rubbing at the water stinging his eyes and found his hand coming back red.

His fingers found the source quickly, not a bite but he must have hit it on something jagged at some point. Daryl blinked, getting his bearings and thankfully he didn't seem to have gone far downstream. He could see that the gully had shortened some, he could climb the sides easily enough.

Daryl was careful as he crossed to the dry land, more walkers gurgling by from time to time. His body ached as he dragged himself up the incline, trying not to remember the last hill he had to climb like this. Daryl groaned as he reached the top, arms shaking from exertion as he told a few deep breaths.

"DARYL?!" Daryl's head snapped up at Paul's voice.

The ninja came running, gun and Daryl's bow dropping from his hands. His knees hit the ground with a skid as he reached the drenched archer. Daryl didn't get to say anything as arms went around his neck and pulled him close.

"Are you alright? Did you get bit? Oh my god, I thought my heart was going to stop." Paul rambled against Daryl's neck before he sat back. Eyes moving over every inch he could see, fingers finding the gash on Daryl's temple and sighing when he found it wasn't fatal.

"I'm okay." Daryl managed to get out, shocked by the concern and affection on Paul's face as he moved his hands over Daryl's battered body.

"Thank god." Paul whispered looking at the gash again.

"I thought ya hated me." Daryl blurting, feeling like a total idiot as Paul paused in his petting, it had been nice.

Paul blushed, Daryl's eyebrows going up at the sight. The ninja cleared his throat, licking his bottom lip as he moved to rest his hands on Daryl's still dripping wet chest, "I don't hate you, I like you. A lot."

"Bullshit." Daryl's jaw dropped. Paul had been a complete ass to him for months now, Daryl didn't know much but he knew that wasn't how you treated someone you liked.

"I'm serious," Paul ducked his head, "And I'm stupid."

Daryl blinked a few times and dared to bring his hands to rest on Paul's side, the guy was warm and Daryl might start shivering soon. Paul smiled at the touch, not slapping him away like he might have that morning. Daryl chewed on his lip, "I need some details here."

"I knew I liked you back on the road that day, I'm a sucker for a bad boy," Paul looked bashful, "Then everything happened with Negan, with Glenn and Abe and Sasha and Eric and my stupid brain got scared."

Daryl swallowed at the mention of his friends and Paul pressed on, "I thought, if I was mean to you then you would stop coming around and I could get over you. Then I wouldn't be so hurt if something happened to you."

"I didn't stop though." Daryl mumbled. He had still come to Hilltop, still tried to get Paul to open up to him like he used to.

Paul nodded, "No, you didn't. Then when you fell, Daryl, I think my heart literally stopped. It didn't matter what I tried, my feelings were still there and the thought of losing you..."

Daryl nodded, that had been why he made sure Paul got in the tree. He didn't want anything to happen to him, Daryl didn't know exactly what he felt for the scout but it was enough for him to be sure he wanted him alive.

Paul lifted to his feet, helping Daryl to his own with a wince. Paul ran his fingers through Daryl's soaked hair, "I was more scared of losing you and never having given it a chance, you know?"

Daryl nodded shaking from the chilly water and Paul's soft eyes. Daryl found the nerve to mumble, "It's worth a shot, at least."

Paul smiled, tipping up on his toes to breathe, "Yeah, it is."

Daryl tried to keep his teeth from chattering as Paul's lips met his. All warm and soft, his beard scratching at Daryl's whiskered chin. Daryl leaned in, Paul smiling against his mouth before he leaned back. Daryl teeth did chatter then and Paul laughed. Daryl blushed but he melted inside, it had been so long since he had heard that sound.

"Let's get you home, patch you up and in a hot bath, huh?" Paul grabbed their weapons before coming back to Daryl's side, wrapping his arm around the redneck's back.

Daryl looped his arm around Paul's strong warm shoulders, "Ya trying to make me fall in love?"

Paul grinned at the joking and Daryl returned it, "That might just be the plan."

Daryl wouldn't admit it for weeks to come but it was a very good plan.

#desus #darus #twd #daryl x jesus #daryl dixon #paul rovia #fluff #angst #prompt fill #its been a day #but this helped

59 notes · View notes

narcisbolgor-blog · 7 years ago

Text

Would You Put the Genetically Modified Arctic Apple in Your Pie?

On the last Monday of September, 32 field workers stepped onto a 15-acre experimental plot in an undisclosed part of Washington and made apple harvest history. The fruits they plucked from each tree were only a few months old. But they were two decades and millions of dollars in the making. And when they landed, pre-sliced and bagged on grocery store shelves earlier this month, they became the first genetically modified apple to go on sale in the United States.

The Arctic Apple, as it’s known, is strategically missing an enzyme so it doesn’t go brown when you take a bite and leave it sitting out on the counter. It’s one of the first foods engineered to appeal directly to the senses, rather than a farmer’s bottom line. And in a bid to attract consumers, it’s unapologetic about its alterations.

The apple has courted plenty of controversy to get where it is today—in about a hundred small supermarkets clustered around Oklahoma City. But now that it’s here, the question is, will consumers bite? Dozens of biotech companies with similar products in the pipeline, from small startups to agrochemical colossuses like Monsanto and Dupont are watching, eager to find out if the Arctic Apple will be a bellwether for the next generation of GMOs, or just another science project skewered on the altar of public opinion.

Neal Carter bought his first apple orchard in 1995, up in the gently sloping valley of Summerland, British Columbia. When he started, the future president of Okanagan Specialty Fruits didn’t have grand plans for upending the industry. But in his first few seasons he was struck by just how many apples (and how much money) he had to throw away on account of browning from the routine bumps and jostles of transit and packaging. Most years it was around 40 percent of his crop.

Neal Carter, President of Okanagan Specialty Fruits, grows his Arctic Apples on a couple hundred acres in Washington state.

Okanagan Specialty Fruits Inc.

When you cut an apple, or handle it roughly, its cells rupture, and compounds that had been neatly compartmentalized come in contact with each other. When that happens, an enzyme called polyphenol oxidase, or PPO, triggers a chemical reaction that produces brown-colored melanin within just a few minutes. Carter thought there had to be a way to breed or engineer around that. So when he came across Australian researchers already doing it in potatoes, he wasted no time in licensing their technology, a technique known as gene silencing. Rather than knocking out a gene, the idea is to hijack the RNA instructions it sends out to make a protein.

The problem, Carter found out later, was that apples were a lot more complicated, genetically speaking, than the potato. In taters, the browning enzyme was coded into a family of four sub-genes that were chemically very similar. All you had to do was silence the dominant one, and it would cross-react with the other three, taking them all down in one go. Apples, on the other hand, had four families of PPO genes, none of which reacted with the others. So Carter’s team had to design a system to target all of them at once—no simple task in the early aughts.

To do it, the Okanagan scientists inserted a four-sequence apple gene (one for each member of the apple PPO family) whose base pairs run in reverse orientation to the native copies. To make sure it got expressed, they also attached some promoter regions taken from a cauliflower virus. The transgene’s RNA binds to the natural PPO-coding RNA, and the double-stranded sequence is read as a mistake and destroyed by the cell’s surveillance system. The result is a 90 percent reduction in the PPO enzyme. And without it, the apples don’t go brown.

It took Okanagan years to perfect the technique, which was subject to regulatory scrutiny on account of the viral DNA needed to make it work. Today, with the arrival of gene editing technologies like Crispr/Cas9, turning genes on and off or adding new ones has become much more straightforward. Del Monte is already growing pink pineapples, Monsanto and Pioneer are working on antioxidant-boosted tomatoes and sweeter melons, J.R. Simplot has a potato that doesn’t produce cancer-causing chemicals when it’s fried. Smaller startups are busy engineering all kinds of other designer fruits and veggies. And it’s not obvious how exactly this new wave of gene-edited foods will be regulated.

Gene editing gets around most of the existing laws that give the Food and Drug Administration and the Department of Agriculture authority over biotech food crops. In January, the Obama administration proposed a rule change that would look more closely at gene-edited crops before automatically approving them. But earlier this month the USDA withdrew that proposed rule, citing science and biotech industry concerns that it would unnecessarily hinder research and development.

Carter, whose fruits were cleared by the USDA and the FDA in 2015, says his Arctic Apples are evidence the existing process works. But there were times when he wasn’t sure they were going to make it. “It took us close to 10 years, where we had the apples, we had the data, we kept submitting answers to questions, and then wouldn’t hear anything back,” says Carter. “It’s a bit of a black hole, and that whole time you’re not sure if you’re going to even be able to pay your electricity bills and keep your lights on.”