#one of them ended up in the Air and Space Museum and for some reason there's a gundam there

[tardis-technician]

Doctor Who Ghost!AU

The absolutely mortifying ordeal of being known (<-- has never written fanfiction before). This is inspired by the talented @g1ngerbeer's wonderful doctor who ghost au, specifically the aquarium comic from this post. Donna and ghost ten going on little outings means the world to me. It’s not actually a full fic, just a drabble that sort of got away from me. Hope you enjoy!

In the past week, Donna had gone to a natural history museum, a science museum, and the zoo. She hadn’t been to any of them since she was a kid, and hadn’t had any desire to go to them since. However, the two of them had recently discovered that the Doctor could leave the house as long as he was tagging along with Donna. Ever since, he’d been begging her to take him to all sorts of places she’d never go on her own. She’d made a fuss about it, but the poor sod was dead (probably) and good company (when he wasn’t getting her into trouble.) It seemed like the least she could do.

She had to admit, it was slightly more interesting than the school trips she’d gone on as a kid. For reasons neither of them knew, the Doctor had a vast and random collection of knowledge, some of which Donna knew to be true, some of which sounded like it was probably true, and some of which was completely bonkers. 

“They don’t mention the witches.”

“What?” replied Donna. 

It was the first museum they’d gone to. The discovery that he had a strange amount of trivia in his brain, and then the information itself, had been interesting at first. However, they were getting close to hour three of walking around (or floating for him.) She’d been zoning out a bit, considering offering to get him something at the gift shop in an effort to get him closer to the exit. 

“Nothing in here,” said the Doctor, gesturing around the Shakespeare exhibit they’d found themselves in, “says anything about the witches.” 

“What do you mean witches?”

“Well they gave him some trouble, didn’t they?” he said, looking perplexed. 

What ensued was a ten minute debate in which the Doctor absolutely insisted that he remembered hearing somewhere or reading somewhere that Shakespeare had a spot of trouble with witches, but that it was all resolved in the end except for the fact he never did get a chance to finish that play. Donna, convinced he was messing with her, allowed the argument to reach a volume at which people started staring. She sometimes got weird looks while she surreptitiously tried to whisper responses to the Doctor, but she’d forgotten herself to the point it looked like she was gesturing angrily at thin air. 

In an effort to avoid getting kicked out, they decided to agree to disagree. Or the Doctor had decided that, and Donna had decided it was a lost cause. She was able to persuade him out of the museum by letting him pick out a snow globe. At that point, he had a working theory that he used to be some sort of historian. But then everywhere they ended up going he seemed to be an expert in some sort of field, barring some outrageous historical claims and his seeming inability to separate whatever sci-fi he’d watched on telly from actual facts. He’d given up the theory, but seemed pleased by the fact that whoever he was had been very clever, and even more pleased about being able to show off. 

A few days later they’d gone to a planetarium, and the Doctor started spouting off facts as soon as they walked in the door. Donna had mostly stopped reading information where they went, just listening to the Doctor ramble instead. He went on about the formation of the moon and the planets, relative ages of things and what compounds they were made of. They’d made their way to the theater, where you could sit back and they’d put on a projector to make it look like you were in space. Donna had actually been the one to suggest the idea for their latest outing. Her grandad loved stargazing, and he’d taken her to the planetarium all the time as a kid. It’d been a while, and it looked like the technology had gotten a bit of an upgrade since the 70s.

The Doctor had been grinning madly, still going on about supernovas, but when the projector turned on he stopped mid-sentence. Donna looked over to see him unnaturally still, gazing at the stars. 

He looked absolutely lost. 

She tried to whisper his name, get his attention, but it was like he was somewhere else. She suddenly wanted nothing more than to be able to reach out and hold his hand. When the lights finally came back on, he flinched like someone had hit him, but still didn’t break his gaze from the ceiling. She waited for the theater to clear out before trying to talk to him.

“Doctor?” she asked. “Are you ok?” 

“I don’t know, I-”

He still wasn’t looking at her, just staring up at where the stars had disappeared. Eventually, he turned to face her again. She couldn’t be sure with the soft glow coming off of him, but she thought there might’ve been tears in his eyes. 

“Donna,” he said quietly. “I think I lost something.”

[do0zy-artz]

Sweet Exchanges - 2k words

A storm is coming, and it brings a certain archeologist to Oli’s doorstep. Not that he's complaining.

A03 Link

The sun was unusually tame that day, Oli found. It wasn’t radiating as much heat as it normally did, particularly because it was starting to be covered by a handful of light gray clouds. Oli really, really hoped there wouldn’t be a storm. Storms weren’t particularly great when you lived on a beach, especially bad ones. So if the gods wanted to curse him today, he hoped it would be with a calm one. He was still cross about having to fix and remake all of his outdoor decorations after the last bad one.

He spent a few hours like that, working himself into a tizzy over a storm that might not even happen. And if you asked him, the storm came before the rain that day, and it came in the form of a very familiar man jumpscaring him and bloody laughing about it.

Pixlriffs himself had showed up, right when Oli had worried himself so much that he was now beginning to move anything that would fit inside his main tent. The archaeologist had appeared behind him out of nowhere, which was something the man had a talent for. The bard had jumped maybe a foot in the air, screaming about god knows what, when Pix leaned down and whispered “boo” in his ear while his mind was elsewhere.

“PIXL!” He shrieked, growing a little more indignant at the laughter flooding the air. “What was the bloody point of that!?” The blonde yelled further, throwing his arms up into the air.

It took that dastardly man a whole two minutes to respond; he was laughing so hard, damn him. “Sorry,” Pix wiped the beginning of tears from his eyes. “You’re just really easy to scare.”

“That doesn’t mean you get to do it!” Oli huffed, playing up his earlier indignation for the dramatics. He crossed his arms over his chest for extra flare, sleeves that were slightly too puffy being pressed down against the front of his bard’s shirt.

“Sorry again,” The brunette repeated, and Oli gave a rather drawn out shrug and eye roll as a response.

“Well,” He sighed, noticing how the corners of Pix’s lips quirked upwards slightly. “You just sound so genuine, so i guess it’s fine,” Oli smiled--almost smirked--as he got in the other’s personal space, having to strain upwards slightly. Whoever granted Pixl almost a whole half foot of height on him should be fired, but that was just a personal opinion.

“I’m glad my apology is accepted,” Pix returned his little smirk, clasping his hands together behind his back. Daro brown eyes filtered to the beach behind him, and the archaeologists gaze had a familiar look of muddled curiosity to it once more. “What were you doing over there, exactly?” He asked, taking a good few moments to scan over the scene behind them.

“Oh, you mean the thing you so rudely interrupted?” That earned a small, yet amused eye roll from Pix. “Just a little worried about a storm,” The bard began to explain, making a general hand gesture at the gray clouds forming above him. “I was trying to move some stuff inside, and I was almost done before a certain man showed up!”

“Want any help?” Pix asked, once again looking at the bard's stuff with a mild curiosity.

“Oh, you’re too kind Pixlriffs!” Oli exclaimed, throwing him part of the fences that had once kept his dragon egg over the fire. He didn’t really need to keep anything roasting anymore, but kept it around for aesthetic reasons mostly. Pix caught it easily, and apparently it wasn’t heavy enough for him because he picked up the other end before the bard could. Fine, he wants a strength test? Then he’ll get a strength test! Oli thought, adding his heaviest instrument to the load as well.

He instructed Pixl which chest they were to be stored in for the time being, before leaning back against his tent’s side to watch. The brunette lifted his things with ease though, gently putting them on the ground like they were exhibants at his museum. Oli had never really noticed how strong Pix was, but he supposed it made sense. The man was restoring a whole empire and had probably done his fair share of heavy lifting in the process.

Eyes traced over the archaeologist's muscles as he put the last item away, eventually moving downwards to his chest area. The front of the dark blue shirt was always unbuttoned, but just enough to reveal a small amount of its wearer’s chest. Oli had thought it was kinda slutty before, and very alluring. His eyes wandered to that spot more often that he’d like to admit, Pix usually making no comment if he noticed.

But today the archaeologist glanced back at him and smirked, an expression Oli did not like one bit. “See something you like?” Pixl asked, his voice becoming more deep and smooth than it usually was. He smirked at the flush that was spreading across pale cheeks at his words.

“Maybe..” The bard muttered, turning his back on the other to pop his head outside. More storm clouds had formed, ones that were darker than their predecessors. Oli frowned at this, glad he’d moved his stuff inside early.

“You were right,” A voice was suddenly right beside him, the sound of Pix’s quiet breaths in his ear. He hadn’t even heard him move. “A storm is coming.”

Oli glanced over his shoulder, failing to hide how startled he now was. Pix was bold today, wasn’t he? The brunette was standing behind him, chest pressed against the upper part of his back a little. If the archaeologist were to move his head slightly it would be resting on his shoulder, which Oli found when he turned his head to meet the man’s teasing gaze. Hands hesitated above his waist, as if Pix was unsure about resting them there.

“You’re quite close there, Mr. Riffs.” The blonde said quietly, almost bumping his nose with Pix’s. Hands finally went to rest on his sides, their soft touch burning. (Burning in the way that made Oli want more.) This was far too close to be anything platonic, but Oli didn’t mind. He was just leaning into the slutty bard persona, nothing more, nothing less. There certainly weren't any real feelings at stake here.

“And you’re not complaining about it,” Pixl watched as Oli moved his head away a little. He smirked as the tent’s entrance was zipped. It wasn’t closed fully, just enough to keep the coming rain out. Certainly wasn’t closed for privacy reasons either, though it would be embarrassing to be caught like this. For both of them, not just the bard, though Pixl dealt with his shame more quietly than the blonde did.

The next thing he knew Oli was pressing him into the floor, his bottom landing a little roughly against the tents flooring. The archaeologist was now being straddled near the back wall of Oli’s home, plush thighs pressing nicely against his own. The bard’s hands flailed uselessly for a moment, before pinning his wrists down against his side.

"Maybe I like being close to you, ever consider that?" Oli's voice is quieter than it had been a moment ago as he leaned forward. A few of his bangs began to fall, covering his half lidded eyes slightly. Pix knows he shouldn't do this, really knows that whatever is going through his head is a bad idea, but nevertheless he goes against his better judgment for the third time that day, suspecting he'll do the same again later. He gently brushes the hair out of Oli's face, and tucks it behind an ear. It would be a crime to have such pretty eyes hidden, after all.

Pix smiles softly at the reaction he gets, enjoying the faint redness that returns to Oli's cheeks. The bard really is quite a pretty man, if you take the time to admire him that is.

"You are such a tease," The blonde huffs, blush spreading to his neck as Pix tucks his hair away again. He unpins the brunette's wrists, going to wrap his arms around the other's neck instead. For now Pixl keeps his arms where they are, awkwardly against his side and hands fiddling on the floor beneath them.

"I know," Pix smiles again, leaning forward on nothing but an impulsive thought. And to his absolute delight, he is meet in the middle by warmer lips than his own.

Oli sighs into the kiss, smooth lips capturing his own slowly, a nice contrast to his own lips; which were surely a little chapped by now. He leaned into the action a little too quickly though, and was almost surprised at the softness of it all. Kissing Pix was nice, just a little unexpected is all.

Pix wasn’t a bad kisser, not in any form. This was just much more…gentle than previous kisses Oli had experienced. The bard had experienced a fair share of kisses, and all had ended up being more on the fiery side, so much so Oli didn’t think he’d ever been kissed calmly in his life. The archaeologist might have his flirtatious moments sometimes, but he’d never quite fit the criteria of passionate, so the more gentle approach didn’t come as a big surprise. Oli didn’t mind it though, he didn’t mind the softness at all, it was something he could be glad to get used to. He let Pixl gently cup the side of his face, cradling it as if it was the most precious thing in the world and thumbing his cheek. And oh, he could definitely get used to being held like this.

A half gloved hand came to rest on the bard’s waist, clutching it just as gently as the other hand was holding his face. Oli smiled softly against the others lips, letting a tongue quietly slip into his mouth and explore it for a little while. Hands tangled into soft brown hair, pulling Pix closer to their owner until the former’s back was bumping against a tent wall. As far as first kisses went, this was probably the best one Oli had ever had. And if they didn’t need to breathe he was sure he would’ve had it for a few minutes more.

They pulled apart slowly at first, neither quite registering the need for air. More kisses were exchanged, some led by Oli, some not. They were small ones, not as long as the first one they shared, but long enough to steal a few puffs of breath from both of them. Small pecks were pressed to faces in between, to Oli’s cheeks and freckles, to Pix’s nose and right under where his glasses rested. The bard was quite enjoying the other’s tongue in his mouth, and a very big part of him wanted to get used to that as well.

The kisses that were eventually pressed to his neck weren’t pressed hard enough to even bruise, and the motion didn’t have a hungry air to it either. They were loving, the kisses were. They were akin to the casual pecks someone placed upon their partner's skin during lazy mornings. Everything about it was warm and gentle and kind, just like Pixl himself.

The two stopped kissing eventually; the archaeologist laughing at the small, playful and ultimately meaningless pout Oli shot him. The bard stopped pouting when a few more kisses were pressed into his hair, a giggle running through the man behind him. It was a nice laugh, Pix’s laugh, he wanted to hear it more. He didn’t have to wait long for that though, as another escaped Pix when Oli shifted into his lap like a cat would, practically begging for cuddles.

“You comfortable?” Pix asked, not trying to hide the fondness in his voice. Oh, he was very gone for this man.

“Very,” Oli muttered sleepily, burying his slightly blushing face into the blue fabric of Pixl’s shirt. Pix laughed again, and it was then that the bard registered that it had begun to rain at some point after they entered the tent. It seems that storm had come after all, just thankfully not as bad as the Oli’d been fearing. Well then, it’s a good thing he’d made this place waterproof, wasn’t it?

Pix’s arms tightened around the smaller person in his arms, listening to Oli’s breathing even out, and to the rain. He buried his own head against the other, nuzzling at the bard’s shoulder affectionately. The archaeologist didn’t do things like this very often, so he was treasuring every second of this, unsure when he’d experience anything close to it again. He wanted more, he wanted it to happen soon. And sitting there like this, against his better judgment, Pix began to hope for it. It was becoming a yearning, the longer he dwelled on it, so he didn’t dwell.

Instead the archaeologist let his breathing even out, falling asleep with a bard who was far too cute for his own good clutched lovingly in his arms. He wasn’t sure if they’d speak of this come morning, or if it’d be another thing he’d have to preserve in his memory for the rest of time. But that was a problem for morning Pix.

And morning Pix got what he was yearning for. More sleepy cuddles, more sleepy kisses (these ones were more sloppy though, kisses where you missed half the other person's mouth,) and a a quiet conformation that there would be even more in the future. For however long this world would last, as Oli had somewhat ominous phrased it.

For however long this world shall last, you are love.

[summerhighlandfalls]

Okay dreamt up a banger fic that I will probably not get around to writing ever so here’s a little synopsis

It was Kakashi and Sakura centric, thinking more broadly as if it was a real fic the rest of team seven + probably Iruka cause I love Iruka would be involved but it would flip between Kakashi/sakura perspective

Basically it started out from Kakashi’s point of view, he’s walking around this museum when he encounters a young girl who’s lost. In the dream her mother was there and like,,,, gave her up? To kakashi? But it was super vague and I would probably make it way different if I were to write it.

Through some series of events blah blah blah it’s revealed Kakashi has some kind of power that lets him find thin points in the fabric of reality and manipulate them so he can be anywhere, any time he wants, as long as he has a) a good enough jumping off point (the dream made a point of emphasizing that the museum was a good jumping off point, there was a lot of power within the museum that would bolster Kakashi’s own) and b) enough power to sustain a ‘path’ from one place to another. He can’t teleport, but he can make these paths that are long tunnels from one place to the next that get you there much faster than traditional travel, kind of like how it works in a wrinkle in time (yes he can go to other planets with this. This is important). The catch is that these paths (by the way, they look like stairs sloping slightly upward in a large tunnel. The wallpaper looked like many pieces of origami paper pasted over each other, or maybe the tunnel itself was constructed by origami paper) are very fragile, and will immediately fall apart if anyone other than Kakashi notices them being constructed. I think there are workarounds for this if he’s traveling with a friend— Gai, for instance, I’m sure would have some clever way of pretending to not notice That kakashi is making a tunnel around them as they walk— but when he’s with a young girl (Sakura) it’s harder to conceal the truth.

So in the dream Sakura’s one true wish was, for some reason, to go to Norway. Obviously I would change this in the fic. It makes very little sense. What’s important is that they end up in some sort of wooded lodge that’s very isolated from the rest of the world. Imagine a fire watch tower but like, a whole house. Also beautiful Scandinavian architecture. Anyway they end up staying at the lodge for about a week, I think, before they decide that they need to go. At this point in the dream I was having this weird inception moment where in the dream it was just a really, really detailed fic i was reading. I genuinely remember feeling air on my face and wood paneling under my fingers and being like ‘wow. Detailed description. It’s like I’m really there’. Anyway.

They stick around for a week or so and then end up making another ‘Path’ to a new world. I can’t remember why they need to leave??? They just do. This is the interesting part of the dream though, and I don’t know how it would translate into an actual fic: like seconds after the path closes, a new one opens up a few feet away from where the old one closed. An adult Sakura stumbles out (+ we’ll say team seven in tow for the sake of the fic) and to the people at the lodge is like ‘my father (that’s Kakashi. In this) is stuck’

Adult Sakura begins to settle in at the lodge and it’s revealed that Kakashi is stuck somewhere in space on a planet where time moves verrrrryyy slowly. For Kakashi it’s maybe been 2 years, it’s been like 15 years for Sakura, and for the people in the lodge it’s been like two seconds. The dream ends here but the basic idea would be that the fic is about Sakura trying to get Kakashi back and Kakashi trying to figure out where he is and how much time has passed for Sakura

[laceyjane44]

GaaSaku 2023 FanFest Day12

Prompt: Enemies to Lovers

“Man, what a drag.” Shikamaru tossed his cigarette to the ground and snuffed it out with the toe of his boot. It smoked against the pavement and his hand impulsively went back to his pack for another. “We got the cops crawlin’ all over this place. What are we even here for?”

Beside him, Gaara leaned against the old stone walls of the Historical Arts Museum, a cup of coffee keeping his hands warm in the brisk autumn air. He pulled down his scarf a little to take a sip and winced; still too hot. “Just hurry up,” he muttered. “We gotta get back in there.”

At the end of the alley, another pair of police walked by, talking casually, and didn’t even glance their way. The cops were everywhere, but it was typical security for the largest tourist pull in the city and surrounding metropolitans, and they had no idea what their mundane Saturday rounds were precedent to and couldn’t see the warning signs in front of them.

That’s why their team had been called in.

Shikamaru and himself, along with three other agents, had been deployed to safeguard the museum under the guise of tourists; they were to blend in with the crowd, watch for signs of suspicion, and would be staking out the building overnight. Only their contractor was privy to who knew of their operation and they were to function as if completely undercover. With orders given, the reasons behind them were negligible, but the recent and very public scandal including the museum and some of their artifacts had given them an inclination as to why their services had been sought out; they were anticipating a heist and couldn’t trust their hired security detail to handle it.

Gaara readjusted the radio piece in his ear, subtle and just like a Bluetooth headphone, and Shikamaru did the same before they reentered the museum and dispersed into the roving crowds. Going separately, they had plenty of time to kill and lots of ground to cover before they had a good handle of the space. No one would try anything during the day, so they spent their time looking for easy points of entry, blind spots in the view of the security cameras, and always wary of anyone acting suspicious.

A few calls had gone over the headsets of the agents as they lapped the building throughout the day: potential activity in the west wing, renaissance section on the second floor, then again in the same wing on the floor below. A third call had come in about a tourist getting too close to one of the paintings and a security guard had them removed. Sloppy work for any muscle-for-hire they expected to be on the job, it made it difficult to say what was to be considered and what could be ignored. Gaara made his way back over to the western wing, he was growing anxious with all the activity happening so far away, he needed to see with his own eyes.

Passing the lobby from the east wing, he was keeping pace with the crowd, not wanting to draw attention to himself, though he was certain the guards had changed shifts since the last time he crossed through here. Ascending the stairs to the second floor, a call came in over the headset; suspicious activity in renaissance again, his agent was in pursuit. Feeling his heart rate increase, Gaara thought they may actually be onto something, and perhaps the night wasn’t going to end in boredom after all.

Rounding the balcony of the second floor, he looked around for the directory, he should at least appear like this wasn’t the third time he’d walked this path today, and as he scanned the area for the map stand, a flash of pink left his heart dropping to his stomach.

Suddenly his hands were on the railing of the balcony, leaning over to double take at the ground floor he’d just come from. Yes, a short bob of that unforgettable light pink hair had just dipped out of view beneath the balcony. His heart was thumping against his chest now, and his feet were moving before he could even press the wireless receiver in his pocket to put out a message. Stepping swiftly down the stairs, he craned his neck to try and see over all the people crowding the adjacent hallways he’d seen her walk down.

“I need eyes on east first floor,” he hissed, weaving around those passing him on the stairs before he finally reached the ground again. “Suspect moving northeast.”

He hadn’t heard the response in his ear, he was too busy searching every head he saw for that familiar color, and he thought he’d seen it once he cleared the steps. Giving chase, he made quick steps in that direction while never taking eyes of the woman walking through the lingering visitors.

“Watch it!” a young man shouted after he’d backed up into Gaara and gotten knocked over in his haste. “Jeeze, look where you’re goin!”

Ignoring the man, Gaara stepped around him and scanned the crowd for any sight of his target; nothing. He walked away from the man still cussing at him and asked over his walkie, “Did you see her?” he asked, urgency in his voice. When his operative responded with see who he was about ready to call for their demotion when they got back to headquarters. “Sakura, you idiot!”

The earbud crackled. “Negative,” the voice responded.

Gaara scowled and rubbed his face as he demanded, “You missed the pink hair?”

Shikamaru came over the walkie then, his command authoritative. “Settle down, everyone dyes there hair now, seen plenty here today already.”

He countered by insisting, “I saw her.”

“Just like in April when you swore she was in Amsterdam?” Gaara stuffed his hands in his jacket pocket and clenched his fists, refusing to yet again make his claim that, yes, he did see her in Amsterdam. “Go back to post.”

He turned from the west wing of the first floor, returning to the stairs and ascending slowly, eyes lingering in the direction he thought he’d seen her last. No trace, gone.

“Dammit,” he cursed under his breath.

At the top of the stairs, a broad open gallery housed some large and impressive masterworks and Gaara took up residence on a bench in front of one of them. There were other people his age appearing to be sketching the paintings, or drawing the crowd, and he intended to blend in with them as he watched the floor below for any signs of that woman; if she were to leave, she would have to do so through the front doors.

Gaara sighed and put his head in his hands for a moment, rubbing his temples and pressing circles into his eyes. Maybe he was seeing things, he was likely just chasing a ghost.

Amsterdam or not; it had been over two years since he’d touched her, since he’d felt how real she was, and he played the memory of their first meeting on repeat so that he wouldn’t forget her face. He had first encountered her on a solo run for an agriculture firm that was struggling with security to their research labs, she’d been caught red handed making off with chemical samples for an upcoming pesticide. Their ensuing scuffle over them ended with a fractured skull and busted wrist for him, a broken rib and stray bullet for her, and he was sure that she had died that night.

He had seen her again a year after that, she’d come crashing down on him and his squad when they were just about to close in on their target, and subsequently slipped away with their payday and an ample helping of his pride. Again, he’d been on mission in central Europe when he returned to his flat and found it ransacked of all their intel with a small lock of hair left on the bed for him as a calling card. He’d been locked in a tidal pull with her ever since; unrelenting, she seemed to always show up when she was least wanted and when he was least ready for her.

This time, Gaara promised himself, eyes still watching all those that passed through the doors below, this time would be different.

“Sabaku,” the voice in his ear called out, conveying the impatience of their team leader. “It’s been noted, return to rounds.”

He stood, taking one last look to the floor below; it was swimming with tourist and locals, resonating a cacophony of echoed murmurs and footsteps, but without sight of her, it just looked empty to him.

…

“Dammit,” Gaara seethed as he sprinted through the dark corridors of the museum, his hard footsteps against the stone floor echoing around him, drowning out the sounds of the scuffle from the western wing.

Only stepping out for a few minutes, he’d been on his way back from using the bathroom when he thought he heard something from the direction of the lobby. Quietly, as to not echo in the open spaces of the empty museum, he made way for the eastern wing, having only made it partway down the stairs to the ground floor when the distinct sound of breaking glass found him. Quickening his pace, he’d whispered a call for backup only to go unanswered but, with the commotion he heard above him now, he figured they had their own issues to deal with.

Through the lobby, down the corridor, into an adjacent hall, and he froze.

Within the dim security lights of the gallery space, all was left undisturbed save for one glass display box with a spotlight shown on a velvet necklace display stand that was missing its jewels, jewels that were currently clutched in the gloved hand of his ghost.

It was only a moment that her eyes lifted to meet his, widening in a look of surprise before she turned tail and ran from him.

He gave chase and ran through the displays, she was fast, and she wasn’t against tipping a display full of priceless jewels over in front of him to slow him down. Gaara wasn’t going to let that stop him; finally, for the first time, he’d gotten the drop on her and caught her by surprise, she wasn’t getting away again.

“Renaissance was just a rouse, huh?” he yelled out to her. “Your lackies are keeping my men busy for you, aren’t they?”

She didn’t even turn her face to him, and he’d chased her into the long corridor and had to close ground before she made it to a door. He pulled his small notepad from his pocket and took aim, hoping to God that his throw was on, and chucked the book ahead of him. It skidded along the ground and an unfortunate footstep landed atop of it, slipped her foot out from under her as she fumbled to the floor.

He had his chance, and he called into his receiver; “First floor, east wing, I’m in pursuit!”

Closing the distance, he was about to make a grab for her when she spun her leg out swept his feet out from under him. Scrambling from the floor as he fell, she tried to gain space from him, but he snagged her ankle and wouldn’t let go. She yelped as she tried lunging away only to grabbed and, when she turned to face him, she was like a cornered animal.

Pulling himself up and grabbing her wrist as she tried to swing at him, he demanded, “Whose pocket are you in now?”

A twist of her hips and a knee connected with his left side, he flinched just enough for her gain back her wrist and lean forward to bring an elbow down against his traps on his shoulders. He grunted and seized up, though the blow had been favorable compared to the time she gave him a kidney shot with a crow bar. Sakura tried to scramble away from him, but he wasn’t relenting; not now, not after two years of bidding his time. 

“Come on,” she huffed, breathless. “You’re not that stupid.” She tried to knee him again and he grabbed the front of her gear, hauling her up a few inches from the floor, only to slam her back down and press the breath from her lungs. She gasped and glared up at him, her eyes alight with fire and fury, and he hadn’t noticed her swing until her gloved fist struck his jaw.

Knocked back and halfway delirious, Gaara floundered after her, narrowly avoiding a kick to the face as he grabbed for her ankle again and when he pulled her back to him, something slid away from her and out of reach. It sparkled in the dim light of the hall, and she began thrashing against him once it left her grasp. Encouraged by the sight of her priorities, Gaara used his strength and size to his full advantage.

Stradling her, he pinned her hips to the floor and swatted away the hands she tried to hit him with. His one hand went to his belt and flicked open the snap holding a pair of cuffs in place and he snagged her wrist with his other. Able to feel her knees hitting against his back and her legs slipping on the hard floor, Gaara secured one wrist in the cuff before he found himself squarely smacked in the face, but he didn’t let go. Any other agent and he wouldn’t given them a broken nose to help them rethink their actions, but with her – from the very start of their cat and mouse – it had been different.

Second wrist chained to the first now, and Gaara held her by the cuffs, keeping her arms raised up to him so she couldn’t wind up for another swing.

He huffed as he kneeled over her, finally able to say that he’d caught the woman that had been the bane of his profession for years. But this wasn’t what he had truly been after, and he needed to know, “Why?” he asked, face contorted in a mask of satisfaction and longing. She stilled beneath him and caught his gaze. “Why do you insist on living this life?”

She looked into his eyes a moment, as if trying to discern if his question were rhetorical or not. “Because,” she said quietly after her pause. “What I do matters.”

Gaara scoffed and yanked on her cuffs, she jostled beneath him but remained otherwise unperturbed. “Theft, espionage, sword for hire,” he listed with a voice of contempt. “This is what matters to you?”

She looked a little disappointed to hear him say that, maybe even a little hurt, but he steeled his emotions and swore she wouldn’t get the best of him this time. Her next words were soft and quiet, not like the ones he would expect spoken of his opponent pinned and handcuffed beneath him. “You left me for dead,” she said smoothly; no anger or betrayal, and he knew instantly when she was speaking of. “What happened after that?”

After her heist of the pesticides, when his gun went off in their tussle and he’d been forced to leave her to evacuate the site, a study surfaced about how high levels of chemicals banned in surrounding countries were found in the new formula; it cost the company millions.

“Don’t feed me any bullshit,” he warned.

“What about the target I stole from you?” she asked, his warning thrown to the wayside. Gaara scowled. “Wasn’t he just a whistle blower your government wanted quiet?” He couldn’t refute that one, it had come out soon after their failed mission that the man they’d been sent to capture was indeed a high-profile target for the powerful people that ended up put behind bars with his testimony.

“What about Amsterdam?” Gaara demanded. “I know��you were there.”

She smiled up at him, a soft expression, one that was so rare on a face like hers. “When do you think I took this job?”

Gaara looked up from her to where the glittering necklace still sat on the cold floor. “For that?” he questioned in disbelief. “For a necklace?”

“An heirloom,” she corrected him, her frustration with his lack of wit becoming evident. “You’re not deaf, you’ve heard the news?”

“For Christ’s sake!” he exclaimed. “Have them take the museum to court if it’s stolen!”

“It’s taken seven years to go to court!” she spat back at him. “I work much quicker.”

“Stop the misunderstood savior act,” he sneered. “I know you’re lying.” She had to be, no one was as good as she was with righteous intent.

Now, as she frowned and looked to the side, she truly did look pained. It was the first look of vulnerability he’d seen from her, the first glimpse into a person beneath the weapon that she was. “You don’t know anything about me.”

Defiant, Gaara tugged on her cuffs, still locked in the iron grip of his fist, and made a show of her bindings. “I know you’re not getting away this time,” he answered, his words every bit of a promise he could make them.

“Think so?” she asked, her eyes sliding back to him, and she was smirking now. Gaara hesitated, this was precisely why he remained suspicious of her. “I’m the only one that you can’t catch, Gaara,” she said, now looking him squarely in the eyes without a trace of uncertainty or deceit.

 “But I’ve caught you,” he countered, unable to understand her mind when she was finally right where he wanted her to be after all this time.

“I know,” she agreed. Again, her voice was smooth and calm, unafraid and unworried. “And you’re about to let me go.”

“What are you talking abo–”

From the cuffs in his hand, a watch around her wrist suddenly flashed red and began beeping in a high-pitched succession. Gaara flinched but didn’t release her from his grip. Then all at once, a spray of automatic gunfire echoed through the museum and a few distinct pops could be heard returning fire. Looking back to the woman beneath him, he found her with a quieted look of urgency on her face, the echoed pops sounding off around them.

“You should’ve just let me walk,” she said, her voice sounding as if she were a bit sorry for the way things turned out before she ordered, “Go, they’ll need you.”

He didn’t know what he was about to say, he wanted to demand more answers from her, he wanted to drag her off with him so she wouldn’t escape him again, but his uncertainty died on his tongue when his radio crackled in his ear, and he could hear his fellow agent shouting over gunfire and calling for his location.

“Shit,” he seethed, dropping her cuffed wrists, he stood from where he had her pinned, and he took off down the hall. Passing the necklace she’d dropped; he scooped it up in his hands and shut it safely in his pocket and unzipped the vest to access his gun holster.

Sprinting, his lungs burned as he dashed through the lobby and he swiftly ascended the stairs. Gun drawn, heart racing, adrenaline honing his senses with every concussive sound to echo within the museum’s open chambers, Gaara swiveled around the railing to the second floor and found cover against the frame of the doorway leading to the western wing. He took a breath, preparing himself for the moment he turned the corner, and then all at once the gunfire had stopped.

The last of the shots echoed through the museum for a few seconds, and when they finally subsided, Gaara had called out over his walkie and ran to the team. They had been shaken and confused, surrounded by the sound of gunfire yet no one had been hit. His agents hadn’t been able to tell where it was coming from, and only a small number of bullet holes could be found in the floors and on the surrounding walls. Then it had simply stopped.

Gritting his teeth, Gaara turned a heel and ran back down the hall and down the stairs, the call of Shikamaru and his fellow agents going unanswered. Once through the lobby he slowed his steps upon seeing the dim glow of the security lights illuminating his pair of handcuffs left lying on the stone floor; open, both sides. His breath all but left him, his blood ran cold. How much of this had she planned? How long had she been watching him throughout the day?

Running again, he came upon the room he’d discovered her in and stepped through the broken shards of glass left at the display podium. He pulled the bejeweled necklace from his pocket along with a small flashlight and shown the beam onto the piece. It flashed in his hands and he moved the light to the display tile affixed to the podium.

Clenching the necklace in his fist, he took a shaken breath. A replica, and a poor one at that. She hadn’t even meant to leave it, who would have been fooled? It was for him, to make him think he’d finally bested her, and he’d fallen for it.

Running a hand through his hair and stifling his frustration and his rage, he once more secured the necklace in his pocket. He would be seeing her again, he was certain of it.

Thanks for reading!

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaceyJane

FanFiction: https://www.fanfiction.net/u/2120361/WiccadBaltane0501

[par-slayyy]

Across the spiderverse miguel analysis (spoilers)

So Miguel is definitely projecting onto miles. He sees himself in Miles and it scares him shitless that Miles might succeed where he failed. Miguel is traumatized from losing his family a second time and blames himself that he copes by calling spiderman's tragic events canon. 'It was supposed to happen. There was nothing that couldve been done.' He clings to the idea of spiderman's fate/destiny that he cant handle it when someone steps out of bounds. If it isnt the fate for everyone, then why do some experience this suffering in the first place? If some dont have an 'uncle ben' die, then why did others? Miguel wants to preserve canon events because he fears that altering them for enough people will shatter the spiderverse. But I dont think Miguel realizes that it's not the canon events specifically create spiderman, but spiderman's theme of resilience and responsibility. Every spider person challenges the canon in their own ways from the original/first spiderman, but the constant for spider-people has been choosing between their spiderman duties and civilian life.

The struggle for balance has plagued them across the spiderverse. Sometimes they cant save everyone, but that doesnt stop them from trying. The thing is, not only does spiderman have a responsibility toNew York, but also themself. Being spiderman is supposed to give them the power to do both. Miles is trying to do what Miguel failed to. He wants to have a balance between being Miles, the civilian, and spiderman, the hero. He wants to save everyone, including his loved ones. If Miles succeeds, then what does that mean for Miguel? What was is all for? Why all the suffering he experienced and inflicted? He feels he's gone too far to back out, so he clings to 'canon events.' He insists that Miles is the anomaly despite being the spiderman with, so far presented, the most variation of what it means to be spiderman.

So far, Miguel's origins is filled with questions I havent stopped thinking about: what happened to his original family? Was the Miguel he replaced also a spiderman? How long ago was it? Before or after Into the Spiderverse? Compared to when Miles went to his alternate dimension where he still glitched, why didnt Miguel glitch out of existence in his own alt? Is this why he started assembling spider people? Did the glitch he caused spread to other universes and he's trying to fix his mistake?

On top of observations of him in the film like: He doesnt have a spider-sense. Miguel started telling his origin before gwen interrupted him. Gwen calls him a ninja vampire spiderman but good. The wings of the vulture behind him in the museum was purposeful staging to indicate Miguel to have wings. He almost bit the vulture before the helicopter spotted him. He injects something into his arm. When Miles sees him climb with his claws, he also asks if he's even spiderman. Peter comments that he's the only unfunny spiderman, but in the previous film, he was just as witty as any other spiderman. Also in the end credits, he was already working on stable inter-dimensional travel. He had returned from somewhere to learn about what happened to the collider and miles.

Miguel's origin and even status as a spiderman is up in the air. He's hiding information about himself. He might be more of an anomaly than Miles. Miguel might not believe himself to be worthy of being spiderman but keeps going and wont stop until he meets his end goal. Whatever it is, Miles is either in the way or a mirror to Miguel and it terrifies him.

It's also interesting how these films deal with grief. The prev dealt with kingpin unable to accept that he scared his family and they died in fear of him. Kingpin created the collider to take his family from a different universe. Miguel also lost his family, for unknown reasons, and thought he could step into one from another universe. Both caused a tear in time and space.

[inwintersolitude]

- February 1st 2024 -

Do people hang up flyers around your neighbourhood? Not often. I'll occasionally see a flyer for a lost dog/cat, but that's all.

What's an interesting museum or special exhibition you've been to? I'd say my two all-time favorites are the Udvar-Hazy Center at the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum, and the Museum of London.

Have you ever been on a glass bottom boat? Nope but I've always thought that would be really neat, especially in tropical places where the water is super clear.

Do you ever sneak your own food and drinks into the cinema? Nope.

Would you know how to change a flat tyre? I learned how to do it years ago shortly after I got my license, but thankfully I've never had to change one.

Does it get really hot (over 40C/104F) where you live? No, the hottest I can remember it getting here is 101F, I remember that was in 2012 and I was working outdoors at the airport that day and thinking how insane it was that it got that hot! But usual summer temperatures here are not that bad, around 75-80F. Anything above 85F is really hot for here.

What do you usually eat for breakfast? Toast with butter/jam, eggs, cereal, muesli.

Do you have any mugs with cute or funny designs on them? Ahaha yes. Back when I got an Apple Pencil I was playing around with it on the iPad and I made super goofy drawings of my two birds. Then for Christmas later that year, my husband gave me a mug that he had custom made with the drawings on it.

Have you ever taken a Greyhound bus? Nope.

Do you stick to the rules or are you more of a rule-breaker? I'm mostly a rule-follower. With some exceptions, in certain circumstances.

Are you an aunt/uncle? Would you like to be? Yep. I have two nephews, ages 2 and 5.

Is there any alcohol you cannot stand? Is there a reason why you hate it so much? I am not a fan of rum. It tastes like some sort of nasty deadly chemical that you really should NOT be drinking, like how I'd imagine paint thinner or lighter fluid would taste lol.

Do you have raccoons where you live? Yep.

When did you first get a smartphone? I remember it was around the time I started my 3rd year of college. So that would have been late 2010?

Would you say you're easy to get along with? Yeah I'd say so. I take a little while to warm up to new people, though. Like I'm not the type of person who can instantly make friends.

Who was the last person who slept over at your place? We haven't had any overnight guests in this house now that we live near family again, but at our previous house in Virginia, the last people to stay over were my in-laws.

Do you ever keep fresh flowers in the house? Only occasionally.

Have you ever made graffiti? Nope.

Do you like off-colour, offensive humour? Sometimes. It depends.

Are you expecting much to happen in the next hour or so? Not much. I'll probably get a call from my husband once he lands in like 20 minutes, but maybe not because both his flights today are delayed for maintenance so he might not have time to call til the end of his workday.

[certifiedkazuhaskitten]

In another form, another place, another time.

Zhongli x Original fem character

past life lovers, romance, modern setting

For some reason, Chunhua has a rather peculiar hobby of visiting the Liyue Archive Site Museum after work. There’s something about the statues there. Something that always pulls Chunhua back to the same spot, standing right in front of a statue of a long remembered god. A lofty statue made of pure gold that overshadows any other statues in the museum. The figure is sitting on top of an imposing throne, holding a cube of the purest gold Liyue mines can offer. With the likeness of Liyue’s Statue of the Seven, it’s simply breathtaking. Indeed, such a statue is sculpted resembling Morax himself, the previous God reigning over Liyue. 

Chunhua loves spending hours on end at the museum, observing every single detail of that statue. The loose attire drapes perfectly along the body. The surface of the statue is smooth and polished. The figure is very human-like, almost real. Every time she looks upon those golden eyes, it’s as if she had known him for a long time. But she does not. Chunhua is born in modern day Liyue, a timeline far from the long reign of Morax. The God of Contracts had long been dead since the last rite of descension. 

One of the reasons why Chunhua is so obsessed over this museum is because of her vision. The first time she stepped foot at the museum, she was blessed with a geo vision. It’s quite unheard of — visions are meant for those with big ambitions and outstanding resolve. She is by no means someone who dreams to reach the clouds, or someone who stubbornly resolves so dearly. Vision holders often described getting their visions by being thrown into a life or death situation. Yet she found hers dropping by just so coincidentally as she first graced this place. She’s certain if there is an answer for why she was blessed with a geo vision, it must be inside of the museum. 

Another reason is because Chunhua has been experiencing weird dreams ever since she got her vision. Dreams of life she never experienced before in her timeline. Like drinking tea out of ancient tea sets stored in one of the museum’s heavily guarded artifacts, and wearing jade accessories only the Qixing could hope to wear. A lot of artifacts stored in this museum somehow appeared in her dreams as if it’s normal things used in daily life. 

“ He, Miss.” Chunhua turned her back after she felt the security guard tap on her shoulder. 

“The museum’s closing. Time for ‘ya to go.” 

“Oh, right!” Chunhua quickly reached for her phone to check the time. 18:03. Such enclosed space couldn’t inform any of its visitors that the sun had long set. 

“C’me now, we sweepin’ this place.” The security guard ushered her to the exit.

“Okay, okay.” 

…

The air was heavy. A whiff of herbal incense lulled the two laying in the canopy silk bed. Nothing outside could disturb them. The outside world felt so far away from the comfort of their bed.

He rested his head on her lap. “Humans… sometimes I wonder why they are so fragile and short-lived.”

She chuckled with a smile, “They are called mortals, dear. It’s simply their fate to be so.”

“I know. Even I don’t have the power to change that fate. Not even for you”, he exhaled. 

 She brushed her hand against his brown golden hair. “The soul will continue to exist, even after they have gone to the resting place. The next time they descend to this world, they will be in a different form, a different place, a different time. None will truly fade.”

“I know.” 

Her strength is waning. “One day, I will once again be reborn into this world. In a different form, a different place, a different time. 

“...I know.” He lightly kissed her hand. 

“You can wait for me ‘till then.”

She closed her eyes. 

… 

It was a surrealistic dream. Chunhua woke up with a heavy heart. It’s just a dream. And yet, her heart felt like bursting by just remembering that dream. The entire morning, Chunhua felt like she was on the verge of crying. She couldn’t focus on doing any of her house chores. She kept dazing during her work. But one thing is certain. She must see that golden statue again. 

So she left work early, and rushed to the subway station. Going by her usual route after work to Liyue Archive Site Museum. She cannot delay going there any longer. Something is telling her to be there. Right now. 

The foot was weary, but her heart kept beating faster as she entered the museum once again. She can feel it. Something is waiting for her in front of the golden statue. 

“He Miss! No rushi–” Chunhua ignored the security guard’s warning and dashed to the hall of the golden statue. 

“Youngsters these days. What about the ol’ times when respect is everythin’?” 

Finally arriving in front of the golden statue, Chunhua eagerly waited for something to happen. Anything. She knew something would happen if she came here. The answer to her questions. The reason for her frequent visits to the museum. 

.

.

.

Nothing happened. 

Feeling defeated, she finally took a seat on the bench just a few feet away from the golden statue. How come? Is her heart really false? The entire time she visits this museum, is it all just mindless hyperfixations? She stared again into the golden statue’s eyes. 

She’s not one to crave something so brazenly. All her life, Chunhua is not one to hope for the impossible and keeps her foot grounded. But this time, just this time, she desires something. Anything. An inkling of a clue to the mystery thrumming her heart inside. 

“I noticed you are extremely keen on this particular statue. Indeed, it is the most distinguished one of the bunch.” A familiar voice of a gentleman talked to her. 

Chunhua turned her head to see a familiar figure sitting beside her. Familiar golden eyes met her eyes once more, and the pain in her heart alleviated.

The gentleman spoke once again, “Mind if I explain to you the historical context behind this golden statue?” 

It took her a couple seconds to regain her thoughts. “Who are you?” 

“I’m this museum’s curator.” She had never seen such brilliance in someone’s eyes before.

“ How come I've never seen you before? I frequented this museum quite a lot.”

“I work here from morning ‘till noon. Perhaps you’ve been visiting this museum in the afternoon?”

“I suppose so”, she answered. “What’s your name?” Her heart started beating faster.

“Zhongli. Delighted to see you, Miss Chunhua.” 

Backstory explanation: 

After Chunhua dies in her previous life as Morax’s lover, Morax spent another few years pondering what’s the point of keeping his title as a god when the one he protects the most with his godhood is gone. With careful consideration, Morax faked his own death in the rite of descension (canon in the original plot) and continued to live as human Zhongli. To avoid suspicion, Zhongli has been recycling different identities to make sure his immortality is not discovered. At the museum, the two finally reunited, in different forms, different place, different time <3 😜😜😜😜😍😍 idk how tf i came up with this 

[mikxmind]

what i would give to read this for the first time again...

"The air is thick and heavy with the scent of floral perfume and alcohol, the entire room shaking with the pulsating beat of the bass, reverberating off every single corner and shaking the liquor in your glass."

barely made it through the first 2 paragraphs without being able to gush about mack's incredible worldbuilding skills, this imagery is so detailed and realistic, and beautiful.

"Across the section, Charles sits stoic on a couch, taking up a seat and a half and frozen like some magnetic force. His eyes are stuck on you in a way that pulls goosebumps from your skin,"

when I first read this line it hitttt, but it hits even harder now knowing how you have explored the magnetic force in between them throughout the series. lines like these encapsulate the talent and intention in mack's writing.

"The reason he keeps you around is the same reason you stay around; your families’ relationship predates any animosity between the two of you."

"Competition has always been the foundation of your mutual annoyance, it’s not going to suddenly change after some eighteen years of consistency."

the way that mack seamlessly establishes their history is something to be studiedd. how can someone make exposition so enjoyable?

"When you close your eyes, you imagine the nonsense patterns he draws on your skin like it’s on canvas in a museum, hung front and center just for you."

"Nothing is clear, nothing except the sobering and unignorable pull. It lingers in the air above you, in the space between like a secret just begging to be unraveled. "

wow. wowowowow. just so expressive and delicate and gorgeous

"That’s all any of this is, one big game. A power struggle. You’re always fighting to win, and this is not different. If there’s a way to lose at a game where everyone is supposed to win, one of you is going to fucking find it and force it on the other. "

giggling, kicking my feet, blushing, screaming at the dynamic and tension that mack has built between these two.

"Come over. You couldn’t pay me. Door’s unlocked. Give me 20."

hehehehe

“So, what’s the deal? Can’t get yourself off, so you call me?” He teases."

HEHEHEHHEHE

if i analyze the smut i think my brain will just explode as my body overheats...

anyways mack is a genius.

(i fear that by the end of the rereading and analyzing i’ll want to write again cause mack is just that good)

—the seasons of love

or: the enemies to lovers situationship fic charles leclerc x female reader summ. winter, the first time. the start of the year, the start of it all. minors dni, nsfw warnings under the cut. 7k words part two part three part four part five

18+ because: brat taming, fingering, oral (f receiving), name calling, spit, unprotected sex, overstimulation, booty call!, masturbation (f receiving), voyeurism, mad sass, fucking porn without plot basically.

There’s nothing special about the club scene in Monte Carlo. If you’ve been to a club in any major city, anywhere in the world, you’ve been to a club in Monaco. It’s all neon lights and kaleidoscope colors and poorly lit dance floors and mid-tier DJs who think they’re the next coming of Jesus. 

Tonight is no exception. The air is thick and heavy with the scent of floral perfume and alcohol, the entire room shaking with the pulsating beat of the bass, reverberating off every single corner and shaking the liquor in your glass. Bodies move—yours included—half in sync with the music, half in step with their drunken stupor. Perched in the safety of Charles’s section, away from the swaying forms of laughter and shouting and screaming, your entire body thumps alone to the beat from the DJ booth a couple meters away. 

Across the section, Charles sits stoic on a couch, taking up a seat and a half and frozen like some magnetic force. His eyes are stuck on you in a way that pulls goosebumps from your skin, makes you irrational angry at him. You’re feeling particularly bratty today, egged on by the tequila and his visible annoyance. 

You’re on your way to interject into his pity party when your sister catches your arm, pulls you by your bicep to dance with her. Her palms are sweaty and cold and you hope that it’s the condensation from her cold glass that’s got her all clammy. The two of you have always been quite a sight after a few drinks. You get your tolerance from your mother, are both disastrous lightweights, feel the need to give any and everyone around you a show. 

The two of you twirl to the music with little effort, laughing like you’re seven and the hazard littered floor under your feet is the old brown carpet from the family room you grew up hosting dance parties in. It’s all hair and giggles and hands in the air like you just don’t care. Everytime your glance catches his, he’s staring back, nursing his drink and half participating in a conversation with your brother-in-law and Jo. 

“What’s his fucking problem?” you ask, leaning over to shout into your sister’s ear.

“He can’t dance,” she slurs. You snort. He can dance.

You whistle, loud and commanding and cat-call-ish even though he’s already watching you. “Charles! Get out here and dance, you fucking buzzkill!”

Your sister joins in on the fun, playfully swaying her hips to the music, tossing out an imaginary fishing line to her husband and reeling him over, calling along teasingly to Charles. “Yeah, show us what you’ve got, Il Predestinato!”

Charles rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest defiantly. “I don’t dance,” he calls back with a soft chuckle. He tries to play it cool, like always, but everyone in the room knows you’re pushing his buttons. You always are. The reason he keeps you around is the same reason you stay around; your families’ relationship predates any animosity between the two of you. That, and the friend group was founded before you loathed each other and it would be too much work to try and split it up now. You’d probably never see Joris again. 

You dance closer to him, putting on a dramatic show and a poor fight against the urge to continue challenging him. “Come on,” you tug on his arm, just out your bottom lip into a pretty little pout. “Live a little.”

He’s never been able to turn down one of your challenges, however thinly veiled they might be. It’s his own personal sore spot, the one that you poke and prod as often as you can. Competition has always been the foundation of your mutual annoyance, it’s not going to suddenly change after some eighteen years of consistency. Finally, he relents, lets you think you’re pulling him to his feet, dragging him to dance with you and your sister. 

His moves are stiff and awkward, almost hard to watch. You laugh, because he’s wound up so fucking tight in two weeks you’d have a diamond. “See!?” your sister laughs, the contagion of it spreading to even the brunt of the joke. “I told you!” she continues, slinking her arm around her husband’s neck sloppily. His arm grips her side to hold her steady. It makes you feel sick. 

A smirk tugs on his lips, and for a brief moment, there’s a hint of something more in his eyes. Not annoyance or frustration. Something seven, something innocent and childish. It’s fleeting, and you take a deep breath because the music feels quieter now. You down what’s left of  your cocktail to clear your head, to calm the sudden flutter of nerves. 

The more he drinks and the longer he’s forced to dance, the lighter and more magnetic he becomes. “You know, Charles, I never thought I’d see the day,” you tease. He’s been in a near constant state of pity-party for weeks now, ever since his dumb ass got dumped by another girl wildly out of his league. 

He rolls his eyes, but his tone is as amused as it is drunk. “Don’t get too excited. It’s the liquor,” he retorts, a piss poor attempt at downplaying how much fun he’s having. He wouldn’t dare to give you the satisfaction. You lean in closer, brush your body against his, fueled by the noise and the alcohol. 

“The liquor doing the touching, too?” you ask. 

He’s always been a touchy drunk. Since before you and your friends were allowed to drink, he’s been hands-on. And maybe it’s because this is the first time he’s grabbing your hips, the first time his broad hand is flat over your stomach, but you’d never noticed him as this touchy with his girlfriends or his girls that appear when he’s around. Whatever it is, the more he drinks, the more comfortable he is with his hands on you, and the less you find the nerve to care. 

It doesn’t matter how many times he does it, though. Every touch burns your skin. It’s a sick little game you two play. Sick and twisted and so, so unlike the two of you. 

Watch yourself—he warns, hand on the small of your back. You play with fire. Well established and well documented, though; you never back down either. No, the thrill of annoying him is enough to dive head-first, to push his buttons until they stick. “Am I?” you ask, as innocently as the tequila can muster, taking hold of his wrist and moving it so his arm is wrapped around your midsection, fighting to settle in the space between your waistband and shirt hem. 

You respond to every one of his careful touches, ever lingering finger on your arm and your waist and your back. When you close your eyes, you imagine the nonsense patterns he draws on your skin like it’s on canvas in a museum, hung front and center just for you. Your inhibitions are slipping too, and you let yourself trail wandering fingertips over his body, too.

This isn’t the Charles you’re used to, the one you go head-to-head with every fifteen minutes. This is something entirely new, so far into uncharted territory you’re not even sure which way is north. There’s something particularly intriguing about the nerves bouncing around your gut. 

Everything fades away into the dark and crowded club. You don’t know if your sister and brother-in-law are still standing there, if any of your friends are. All you know if the electric charge of this, of every teasing remark and touch that draws you closer, forces you to test the waters of the newfound layer of tension. 

Everything is building, it feels like, to some grand crescendo of emotion and desire. Before there’s room to explore it, though, to dive deeper into the unspoken shift, the moment is interrupted by the return of the friends you didn’t notice leaving. 

The night drags on, the lines between annoyance and attraction blurring into some chaotic muddle of intoxication. Nothing is clear, nothing except the sobering and unignorable pull. It lingers in the air above you, in the space between like a secret just begging to be unraveled. 

You’ve got another drink now, because you can only think of one decision that would be worse than more tequila. In due time, you’re worried you’re a lost cause when it comes to that choice as well. His eyes stay on you, even from a distance, and you revel in the glory of his attention. Embolden by it all, you continue fucking with him. “Having fun yet, Charles?” you ask, knowing smile, voice dripping in subtle suggestion. 

He raises a brow, the corners of his lips quirking up. You don’t think you’ve ever spent much time looking at them, the soft shade of pink and the softer skin. “I suppose I can tolerate it,” he replies with teasing eyes. He’s irritated by your laugh, by your proximity, by your lips brushing against his ear when you whisper; you’re not the only one here trying to have fun. His jaw tightens but he doesn’t take your bait. Instead, he pulls you closer, sways in rhythm with you and replies, “I’m here to enjoy myself, not entertain you.”

He sends your brattiness running full-tilt. Forces you to carefully consider every movement, every ounce of playfulness that you allow to seep into your demeanor and the proactive sway of your hips. You grin at him every chance you get, sly and calculated, daring him to resist.  

You lean in close, brush against his ear and can blame it on practicality, on the bass and the music and the DJ if anyone were to question your actions. You rest a hand on his chest. “I know you love my attention.”

His breath hitches at your audacity, heart racing so quick you can feel it in your palm. He pulls you closer, dangerously close to your lips and says, “you talk too much. Maybe it’s time someone shuts you up.”

You scoff, low and teasing. “I’d like to see you try.”

[18 minutes later]

You step into the well-lit lobby less than a pace behind him. Your hands are interlocked, have been for every block of the darkened streets—since he grabbed yours and pulled you out of the club. “Admit it,” you giggle. “You love having me push your buttons.”

He remains stoic, jaw set as he pushes the button on the elevator. The tension is at a boiling point. You’re either about to kill each other, to be on the news for some grand double murder, or something so, so much worse is going to unfold. 

He leads you to the apartment without a word, but as soon as the door closes behind him, all is lost. Your head is bumping into the drywall before you even realize what’s happening, his lips harsh against yours, the pent up frustration and desire snapping like a dried twig. 

It’s fierce and passionate and while you never, not for a single moment in your life, imagined what he would taste like, you somehow knew it would be like this, cool and fresh and drunk. He licks into your mouth, messy and intense, teeth clacking and both of you fighting for some nonexistent upper hand. 

Fireworks are going off outside. They shake the windows with explosive gravitas as you’re blindly led by his backwards steps down the hallway. You realize that in an entire lifetime of knowing each other, this is the first time you’ve been in his place. It’s not what you expected, from what you can gather—all clutter and red cars and a boy who never had to drop his dream. “They’re going to look for us,” you say between sloppy, open mouthed kisses. 

He mumbles against your skin, strong hands on either side of your jaw. “Let them look.”

You walk through a doorway, into a bedroom clad with clutter and blue sheets. He would have blue sheets. There’s another firework, loud and booming, it makes you jump. You check your watch over his shoulder, pretend your hand doesn’t shake. “It’s almost midnight.”

“Okay.” Your knees bump into his and he sits on the edge of the bed.

You laugh, climb onto his lap, your arms strewn around his shoulders, broad and strong and you laugh again–this time into his mouth. What the fuck is going on. Seriously, what the fuck is this? “Happy New Year.”

He sighs, pulls his mouth from yours long enough to roll his eyes, to speak annoyedly into the hot air between your lips. “Yeah, whatever. Happy New Year.”

“Charles,” you mutter, hand on his chest. You think he’s going to regret this more than you will. People have always told you he’s the best kind of person. You’re not held in the same regard, and you know it. Some people are made to regret and others are made to be the regret. 

“Jesus Christ,” he laughs, but it’s curt and passive. Annoyed, as always, even when he palms at your ass, traces his hands along the bottom of your hiked up dress and pulls you down against him with a bruising grip. “Shut the fuck up.” You tug at the hem of his shirt, pull it off over his head in a swift movement. 

“You’re doing a piss-poor job at making me.”

He moves you like you’re a fucking doll, like it’s lightwork, tossing you down against the mattress and swapping your positions in a swift movement. The strength and agility of it makes your head spin. He’s not supposed to make your head spin, he’s supposed to make it ache. 

But no, no. You do ache for him. All of you aches for him, for his calloused hands and the roughness of his jeans against your thighs and the soft contrast of his lips against everything else. It’s embarrassing. You can’t believe he’s got you like this, hands pinned above your head while he buries his tongue in your mouth, grinds his hips against yours. The coarse denim is almost painful on your sensitive skin, but the growing bulge pulling the fabric tight is more intoxicating than any cocktail. 

“You’re such a fucking brat,” he says, bites a bruise against the skin just above your clavicle. “Spoiled little shit.”

He sinks to his knees, big blue or green or whatever fucking color his eyes are today watching you intently, boring into you with blown, hungry pupils.  His fingers trail along your underwear, pulling the thin, lacey fabric to the side, and then removes them all together. He gloats when he runs his thumb through your folds. “So fucking wet.”

“It’s not for you,” you goad. 

“Oh?” He nods slowly, spreading your slick with the steady digit, watching you carefully for reaction. “For who then?”

Your eyes flutter shut when the pad of his thumb presses against your clit, circles it slowly, teases you. He’s unfocused, his mind lapsing and giving you a much needed in, a clear shot to piss him off. “Your teammate.”

“Fuck off.” You first. 

“You’re right, Charles,” you speak slowly, careful to control your breathing, to hide every tell you might have. “Someone should shut me up. Do you know anyone?” Without warning, he thrusts two fingers inside you, curls them like someone had given him a diagram of your body. You gasp at the suddenness of it all. Yeah, he mutters, utterly delighted with himself. Yeah, I think I know someone.

You roll your eyes, push his head down, down, mouth onto your core. There, in the midst of licking a long stripe through your cunt, he fucking laughs, shakes his head with a subtlety you’d never perceive if it wasn’t for the tip of his nose bumping your clit when he does it. At least he can follow basic fucking instructions. 

His dick must hurt pretty damn bad, all hard and swollen in his pants, because he’s unbuttoning his jeans and freeing himself from the constraints of the fabric while lapping at you, the other hand still fucking into you with steady pace and hazy curl. You can’t see it, view obstructed by the mattress and limbs and hair, but you can tell by the way his shoulders move that he’s trying to get himself off at the same time he works on you. 

You’re not going to make his job that easy. You require all of his attention, pure and undivided and hopefully just as infuriated as you are. You reach down to the apex of your legs, pull his head up by his chin. “Just fuck me, already, you prick.”

He rises to his feet, shakes his head, “you’re a needy little thing,” he remarks. Needy? You haven’t fucking seen needy. 

He guides the head of his cock through your folds, spreading slick and spit and smacking himself against your cunt. 

Your lips purse into a sharp line. “Don’t tease me.”

“Why not?” He taunts, “you’ve been teasing for hours.”

“It’s different,” you grumble. 

“How?” You could strangle him, him and all his questions. What’s a person have to do to get fucked properly around here? You already sacrified your morals by pulling tight against the navy blue sheets.  A woman can only make so many sacrifices. 

You groan, heavy and exasperated. He’s such a pest. “It just–oh, fuck you–” without warning, he plunges into you, buries himself in your cunt until he bottoms out, skin on skin and the sore sting of him stretching you. Your fingers bruise into his arms, nails scraping over his shoulder blades with a gasp. He gives you no time to adjust to him, rutting into you with deep, measured thrusts. What was that, he prodes. Somehow, you find the poise to stabilize yourself, to reply smugly. “it just is.”

His objective isn’t your pleasure, no. That would be his prerogative, a side privilege, a requirement in his quest to get you to close your mouth and stop pestering for once. Making you come is just another box to check. 

You don’t fuck someone if you’re not going to finish, though. Sleeping with Charles might be a lapse in judgment, but being someone’s play toy, letting him reap without sowing, that’s a complete disregard of your dignity

Your fingers find your clit, circle it in just the right sequence, combining with the curve of his cock to push you closer, closer, closer to the edge of the fucking world. Your entire body burns, everywhere, all over, all at once you sweat. Tell me–he insists, voice short and breathy. Tell me when you’re going to come. “I thought you were trying to shut me up?”

“Just, fuck, just tell me.” He palms over your breasts, still covered by your bra and the fabric of your dress, however thin. “So many fucking clothes,” he grumbled, stalling inside you, hands slipping under your back, between you at the mattress to pull you off the bed. You hastily pull the dress over your head, toss it somewhere onto the clothing cluttered floor. Better? You ask. “Better,” he nods, bites your bottom lip roughly, licking against your teeth. One of the hands that explore the skin of your back make quick work of the clasp on your bra, dropping the straps from your shoulders and your back is against the sheets again, his hands groping at you, pinching your nipple between his middle and ring finger, working over it until you’re humming profanities and huffing into his mouth. 

Hate and desire is such a fine, blurry line. Anyone who tells you differently is a liar. 

“M’gonna,” you choke on your words. “I’m–shit–I’m coming.”

“Yeah,” He picks up his pace, maintains a steady, toe-curling rhythm. “Come for me,” his voice heavy and growled. “Come on my dick.”

You do. You come for him, hard and long, wrapping a leg around his hip in a failed attempt to still him, to just be full of him and nothing more. He’s stronger, though, and fucks you through the whole thing, faster, harder, big hands braced on your hips for leverage. You explore the idea that a person really could be fucked in half, forced right open. 

“Good try,” you sputter, shaky and broken words leaving your lips before you’ve found a gravity that isn’t him. You lean up to kiss him, wrap your hand around the back of his neck and pull him to meet you halfway. Your fingers tickle the short hair at the nape of his neck, raise goosebumps to his skin. “Maybe next time,” you hum into his open mouth. 

He spits a long string of saliva into your mouth when you move to close the gap. You laugh around it, down it in a single gulp and lick your lips, sticking out your tongue to showcase your empty mouth, big innocent doe-eyes watching his reaction, his eye roll and devilish smirk.

“Like I said–” you start, but he’s flipping you over, tossing you around like a ragdoll.  You giggle, high on the teasing and the taunting and then he’s fucking your face into the mattress. He’s got your hair gathered up into a ratty ponytail, uses it like a handle, forcing your back into an arch, your ass to perk up into the air. 

God, he’s so fucking deep, turning you into a mess of bruises and sweat stricken skin. Your hips bounce back against him, angle in any imaginable way in an attempt to feel him deeper, to feel him in your stomach and your chest and your head. To feel him everywhere that counts. 

“Putain, taking me so good, baby” he groans, lets the praise and the pet name slipping past his lips in a moment that goes unnoticed by neither of you. He smacks your ass with a firm hand, trying to mask his words after they’ve already been spoken. Your eyes roll back into your head and you come again, without warning. You decide before you get to think about it that it was the stinging imprint of his hand that pushed you tumbling over the edge. Whatever the real reason, you’re up two-nothing, or, depending how you look at it, he’s the one winning. 

That’s all any of this is, one big game. A power struggle. You’re always fighting to win, and this is not different. If there’s a way to lose at a game where everyone is supposed to win, one of you is going to fucking find it and force it on the other. 

You’re the one doing the flipping, now. The pushing and the shoving so he’s on his back. You straddle him and he gives you this look like he’s fully pussy-drunk, sick and euphoric and floating somewhere far from here. You’re so winning at this. “Jesus Christ,” you poke, “wipe your fucking drool.”

His entire face contorts when you sink down onto him. Everytime you think you’ve reached a limit, he finds a way to hit a spot impossibly deeper than the last. His hips lift up off the bed to meet you halfway, rutting into pleasure spots you didn’t even know you had, hand moving to your cunt, thumbing lazily at your clit, leaving you fuzzy and drunk in a mess of mumbled moans above him. 

When you come for the third time, messy and sweaty, nothing that leaves your lips is distinguishable, a mess of French and English and curses and nonsensical mewls. “Fuck you,” he moans, breath shaky when he pulls himself out of you. Your body clenches around air, aches for him to return. 

He does, after he moves you back into the position it all started in. “So close,” he tells you, sinking slowly into you, his sigh hot and alcoholic on your shoulder. His pace is slow, then fast, then slow again. He’s as rapid as his breath is irregular. You better pull out–you groan, every muscle in your body strung out and exhausted and you’re coming again. It’s blinding white behind your closed lids, ears ringing and muscles flexing involuntarily. He’s wrecked you, finally, left you a mumbling mess. 

He pulls out almost in sync with your orgasm, jerks himself no more than twice between your legs before he’s coating your stomach in hot stripes of cum, loud, guttural moans leaving his lips in a way that looks and sounds practically pained. “Christ,” he heaves, watches on as your fingers dance through his orgasm, spreading it over your skin and coating your fingers. You don’t break eye contact when you stick two of them into your mouth, swirl your tongue around them tauntingly, sucking them clean and pulling them from your mouth with a pop. You hold the clean hand up for him to see, palm facing him. When you turn it, you pull down all but your middle finger, flip him off cockily. 

He swats you hand away, “Never fucking again,” he tells you. 

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about me,” you scoff. “I never want to see the inside of this apartment again.”

“Why are you here, then?” He remarks, turning the corner into what you assume is the bathroom, tossing a towel to you from across the room. You clean yourself up before anything dries, before coming up with a quick rebuttal. 

You don’t come up with one, mind as tired as the rest of you. This game has been exhausting. “We’re never talking about this,” you say, pulling your dress over your head, stuffing your bra into your handbag because you aren’t sure you have the strength to clasp it closed. “Ever.”

“No shit,” he says, tosses your underwear in the general direction of you. 

You bend over to pick them up, step into them with the snap of the elastic. “Promise me.” You have no idea where your shoes are, but he’s already ushering you out of the room, herding you down the long hall with wide, swooping waves of his arms. 

“I promise.”

“Pinky,” you say, spot your shoes haphazardly stepped out of in the entryway. You don’t have any memory of them ever being on.

“Absolutely not.”

“Charles,” you lean against the wall to slip your heels on, hook up at him with a sober glare. He closes his eyes like you won’t be able to see them roll behind his lids, pinches the bridge of his nose and squints before dropping a heavy breath, holding out a pinky to you. You interlock it with yours. “Thank you.”

He pulls his hand from yours, turns the lock on his front door and swings it open, fingers wrapped around the edge, other hand gesturing out into the hallway. “Get the fuck out of my house.”

“With pleasure,” you say, stepping past him and into the well-lit hallway of sprawling marble floors. You stop in front of the elevator, press the button and wait for his inevitable comment. 

“The whole brat-schtick you’ve got going on isn’t as believable when your leg shakes underneath you,” he calls down the hall. You don’t turn your head to face him, just extend your arm in his direction and flip him off. You hear his chuckle as he latches the door shut behind you. 

Everything about today has been dreary–from the near constant mist that falls over the city, to the chilly temperatures, to the poor excuses for men that grace the screen of your dating app. This is not how Fridays in your twenties are meant to be spent, sulking in the dark of your bedroom after a miserable day at work. 

You’re supposed to be out, partying with friends and making drunken decisions that have you waking up in a stranger’s bed after a good night you hardly remember. 

God, you need to get fucked. It’s been months. Two months and ten days–not that you’re counting. Because you’re not. Counting. You aren’t. 

You’re just restless, basking in the loneliness of the night, unable to shake the weight of your thoughts, of two months and ten days ago. Of Charles and how infuriatingly good he’d made you feel. The complexities of your relationship, the shift in the very DNA of what you know, it makes your heart race–a messy muddle of annoyance and desire that yearns to be untangled. 

You give up on the dating apps, know that even if you do match with someone, there’s nothing that can be done to solve your problem tonight. You opt instead to scroll through social media aimlessly, searching for any distraction from the ache in your gut. Your hand unconsciously slips under the hem of your shirt, cups your breast while you scroll and scroll and scroll. It does little to quell your struggles. In fact, the game is over the moment you become conscious of your hand’s placement, the moment you start to massage your breast, to run your fingers over your nipple until it’s hard and perky. 

You switch to the other breast, fingers gently tracing over the skin, sending chills up your arms, pinpointing the ache in your core. Your hand slides down your stomach, dips below the waistband of your shorts, into your underwear. You’re so worked up–pent up, reaching a boiling point. 

Your middle finger glides through your folds, grazes over your clit, teases the slick at your entrance before dipping in, collecting enough to spread it around. Your clit is swollen, needy like the rest of you, and the pad of your fingers do little to relieve the pressure. Your fingers move clockwise, then counter. Vertical and horizontal and every combination of every direction and even though you can’t remember the last time you were this horny, this desperate to come, you can’t. 

You slip in a finger, and then another, try to find the right curl and the right spot–to no avail. Now, you’re thinking about his fingers, about how much bigger his hands are, how his nimble fingers pumped in and out of you with sheet-gripping, whimper-inducing pace. 

Your phone taunts you, his contact behind the locked screen just waiting to be messaged. 

You try to resist. You hate him. He hates you. God, he knows how to fuck you, though; veiny hands and thick cock leaving you a writhing mess. Fuck. Fuck, why can’t your fingers move the way his did?

You cave, reaching over to grab your phone and text him. Hey. What are you up to tonight? It’s a mistake, you know that it is. He’s so damn annoying, there’s nothing about him that doesn’t drive you up a wall. Frustration makes the heart go fonder, you suppose, or maybe the cunt ache harder. 

Within moments, your phone is buzzing against your palm with his reply. Chilling at home. You coming over?

You roll your eyes. No.

Ok.

You bite your bottom lip so hard you think you might accidentally draw blood. It’s phantom, almost, the way you can so perfectly imagine the sting of him stretching you out, the soreness of his bruising kisses, the swollen, wet head of his dick slapping against your clit. Come over.

You couldn’t pay me.

Door’s unlocked.

Give me 20.

You’re in the bedroom when he knocks. Three times, you wonder why he isn’t just walking in. You ignore the banging, let the universe decide for you if he’s meant to turn back and walk his happy ass out of your building. The universe decides he won’t be doing that, though, because he knocks again. Louder this time. 

You pull yourself out of bed, feet creaking on the hardwood floors as you move to pull the door open. “I told you it was unlocked,” you grumble. 

“Eh,” he shrugs, dumb fucking grin on his face. “Wasn’t up for your games.”

You internally debate just how bad you need him here, if it’s worth all the trouble that is him. It’s not, almost certainly it isn’t. You invite him in anyway. 

“So, what’s the deal? Can’t get yourself off, so you call me?” He teases. Your frustrated blush gives you away before a witty comeback can slap the smirk off his face. “Oh my god,” he chuckles. “I was fucking around, but really?”

There’s no point in trying to lie now, not when your face has already betrayed your trust and revealed the truth. “Calm down,” you groused. “The last thing this world needs if your head to get any fucking bigger.”

He continues laughing like this is the funniest thing that’s ever happened to him. You want to smack the smile off his face, dimples and all. “The last thing this world needs is for this–” he gestures between the two of you, “–to become a thing.”

You mock his movements, the dumb look on his face. “This is not a thing. It’s just two friends–”

“–We aren’t friends.”

You sigh through gritted teeth. “Two not friends helping each other out.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, chews on the inside of his cheek while his eyes trace your finger, head to toe and back to head again. “You do know how ridiculous you sound, right?”

You breathe out in resignation, heading down the hall towards your room. “Can we just get on with it?”

“No.”

You stop in your tracks, turn on your heels. What the fuck is he here for, then? “No?” You close the gap between the two of you, plant your hands firmly on either side of his jaw and kiss him, all tongue and spit and rough lips. You knock him off balance, falling out of step when he kisses you back with a matching intensity, hands hovering over your hips. He doesn’t rest them there, you can feel the warmth in the space between your skin and his, the force that pulls you together. 

When he does settle his hands, it’s not to deepen the kiss, to swallow any more frustration. It’s to put distance between your mouths. “I want you to–”

You nibble on his earlobe, cut him off with your hushed words. “I don’t give a fuck what you want, I want–”

“Show me how you touch yourself,” he commands, voice failing to waiver to your hushed level, an air of snugness to him.

“Charles,” your voice cracks with his name, a hint of your under the surface insecurity peeking through, putting themselves on display for him. Here! Here! Look at me! 

“Show me, or I’m leaving,” he says, and it’s all throaty and husky. 

(Eleven minutes later)

Legs spread for him, two fingers moving busily against your core, circling your clit, teasing your hole. 

He stares at you like he can see your fucking soul, watches from his spot across the room, leant against the old wooden dresser, arms folded and ankles crossed. You stare back–harder, maybe–like if you win the little contest your cheeks won’t burn so bright, you won’t feel so exposed, so vulnerable, so embarrassed. 

Those feelings fade, they do, with each flick of your wrist. With every glance of his hungry eyes to your fingers, to your cunt, tracing their way up and down your body, you feel calmer and calmer. And when he runs his hand over his mouth, along the stubble of his jaw and off his chin, you’re closer and closer. 

It pulls whimpers, soft and slow and sweet, from your lips. There’s a sick thrill to it, to him seeing her like this, all needy and open and sensitive. It’s empowering, almost. 

He breaks no more than twice, watches every brow quirk, lid flutter, and lip twitch with raw, intimate eyes. He’s less interested in what you do to yourself, the curve of your fingers or the noises they create, than he is in the way you react to the movements. 

“You’re not even fucking watching,” you say, the letter sounds falling to your breath, hitching as your fingers angle just right. 

“Watching what matters.”

“Oh? And, uh–” you huff. “What’s that?”

He laughs, dimples digging deep into his cheeks. You’ve always thought they made his smile so childish, like you can’t take anything seriously when it comes from someone with primary-school dimples and giddy eyes. You don’t struggle to take it seriously, now. “You’re thinking about me.”

Your eyes flutter shut, a soft sigh parting your lips. “Says who?”

He pushes himself off the dresser, saunters over with heavy feet, stopping at the foot of the bed. “What are you thinking about?” He humors. 

Your eyes roll. You’re thinking about a lot of things. Half a dozen, atleast. About your fingers, the way they move against your swollen cunt, sticky with creamy slick, and how his fingers are that much longer than yours. About how loud he walks, how his heavy feet stand at the end of your bed, crossed arms that pull his t-shirt tight across his chest. About the fact that you’re not sure you locked the door behind him because you were so distracted by the way his sweatpants hung from his waist. About how he doesn’t bother to adjust or hide the protruding bulge under the fabric right now. About the curve of his cock, about how pathetic and full it makes you, utterly unable to spend time thinking about anything but how well he stretches you out. About his hair, flat and straight and wholly unstyled, how your hands would mess it up so nicely, tug and twist until he has something smart to say. Beyond frustratingly, he’s right. As you quickly approach a high, breath quickened and movements desperate, all you’re thinking about is him. “Things.”

“Mmhmm,” he hums, ever the rake, unsatisfied with your response. 

You add a third finger, steady pace and a held stare. The muscles in your leg twitch. You’re so fucking close. “What are you thinking about?”

He sways, rocks his weight from his left foot to the right, runs his tongue over his teeth. “Things.”

A coy smile upturns the corner of your lips. “Mmhmm,” you mock. 

He moves around the bed, trails his fingers over your skin; from your ankle, along the bone of your shin, a bruise on your knee. They stall on your thigh, trace small, soft circles on the inside of your leg. “You really want to know?” 

He’s such a tease, keeps moving up, up, up, over your stomach and through the valley of your breast. “I–ah– I,” you stutter through your words, fingers working tirelessly to push you over the edge. Restless, further irritated by his delicate touch, his fingers up to your jaw now, slotting themselves there, you nod. “Yes.” 

He leans over you, your lips inches apart, open and hot breathed. “Too bad,” he whispers into the space between, closing the gap and kissing you with an insatiable kind of fervor. Your fingers still, your other hand reaching to grip the back of his neck, to pull him deeper into the kiss. It’s a kiss that’s half as good as the sex, the breaking of the unbearable tension that’s filled the room while he’s watched, the promise of what’s to come. A lustful implication. His hand leaves your jaw when you pull apart for air, moving over your stilled hand. “Let me?” He asks, and it doesn’t feel like much of a question, the way he’s already slipping his fingers under yours before you can even squeak out an answer. 

There’s something entirely different about his fingers, like the way that you can’t tickle yourself. You can’t predict his moves, every movement of every ridge of his fingerprints is something entirely surprising. “Yeah, fuck, you make, ah, make yourself…” You give up on the sentence, your body failing your mind in its ability to spit out a comeback. Yeah, you wish you could tell him. Yeah, make yourself fucking useful.  

He laughs, slides his long middle finger inside you, pumps it twice and slips in another. You gasp at his sudden movement. “You’re embarrassing yourself, baby.”

Your back arches off the sheets. “Don’t call me that,” you seethe. 

“But,” he curls his fingers against the spot you’ve been trying to reach all night. A moan tumbles from your mouth and he smirks. “It makes my job so easy.”

“Fuck you.”

“I was going to let you come first, but,” he chuckles. He’s so proud of himself it makes you ill. “If you insist.” 

His hand stills, threatens to pull out of you entirely, but you’re covering it with your own, holding him there when you look up, hips instinctively grinding against him. “I’ll kill you. I will.” 

You’re pushing him out of your apartment by the end of night, locking the door behind him. Your leg shakes when you slide down the door onto the floor. This is the last time, it has to be. Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence. Thrice. Thrice would be a pattern. You won’t let it become a pattern. 

You wake up at seven-thirty and your hair is still in knots, your body still aching from him. You find a new bruise every time you look in the mirror. You can’t shake the image of his messy hair, of the feeling of the brown locks between your fingers and the sound he’d make when you’d tug on them. 

It won’t be happening again.

[rerubenoving]

will collect kids' drawings from cafes now pls remind me if i forget eksoheksoh

feels like a very good pair of pieces to consider together - personally, adore them in equal measure, but through different mechanisms -- sort of.. mm. as an aside, i apologise, i lack severely in vocab, ref data, and framework when it comes to talking about art, so that will hinder ability to express self and conceive of some lines of thot. or force to abort them too soon. sawwy, ill get better ;( so, as to not hurt myself too much, i talk of pleasure i experience in lieu of 'beauty', i hope to keep language consistent with that. so, the first piece is immediately and intuitively visually satisfying, prompting free rumination; the second -- appeals more as a demonstration of authors thought, idiosyncratic approach to presenting explicit information. at the same time, though, both pieces are similarly abstract and humourous.

Fig. 1 [wonderful mouse, playful yet delicate, laconic. author masterfully intrigues with the open-ended environment and non-stereotypic simplification of form. playground for interpretation. expansive work! nuff said, except 'hehe)']

Fig. 2[twist on scientific illustration -- could be interpreted as both a critique of its mutt-like nature and affinity to mislead, and appreciation of its simplistic and natural representation of unabashedly uneven curiosity with which we regard the world, foundational desire to condense and structurise; imo, the attention-grabbing by subversion (to be discussed) throwback to visuals associated with earliest, almost universally joyous, experiences of learning is effective at enabling viewer to reconnect with that unburdened approach to knowledge -- but i think its more amusing to appreciate how it harnesses genre's inherent impersonal, sterile manner and air of credibility to both validate author's subjective yet honest perspective, and highlight, through contrast, joke and fantasy. now let us consider celestial objects separately, moving clockwise from the ringed planet: ~while the shape itself is immediately associated with saturn, we can infer that it represents the set of 'alien planets' generally -- both by examining remaining objects (to all adjective 'our' applies, imo authors focus is clear) and the labeled figure on the planet -- 'alien'. the figure itself is gargantuan, if we pretend for fun that proportion is unswayed by the weight of attention. as in the first piece, i admire step away from tired convention ᷆ (·.·) ᷇ ~moving on to the moon -- 'poopie'. lmao. decide for yourself if the fact that royal museums greenwich asserts there's '96 bags of human waste on the Moon' makes it funnier. ~clockwise from the top: 'i', 'family', [blank], 'home planet'. author is wearing a hat in the icon, i find it fascinating how a detail so tiny immediately tethers us to the time of creation -- as much as this is an abstract diagram, it reminds us that it is representing a moment, made as an examination of not just realities of the world, but ones space within it. either that or author thinks of themselves as someone who wears hats. 'family', with heart as an icon. admirable intuitive grasp on readability and constraints of medium, attunement to established proportions -- i assume 'family' consists of people, but, while we have precedent for depiction of humanoids, author restrains from spamming that would surely result in clutter, or hurt feelings. [blank] has too much to b said about it so i shall shut the fuck up. now, the 'home planet' label is what initially endeared me to the work. not the words, but the manner -- as in to poke fun at serious attempts at machine-like orderliness and symmetry, the label is mirrored, written right to left. at the same time, feels aesthetically reasonable, to follow radial symmetry. as i say, scientific illustration is inherently silly. its very easy to get stupid with rules. and the starting letter is similarly wrong-way-round, which more immediately hints at the gesture, but i will admit is likely result of author's ongoing journey toward literacy. only two words total here are written with no mistakes in spelling or letter shape: 'i' and 'poopie'. ~ ̗̀O ̖́ <- nobody. isnt that fucking awesome. five strokes to lack!]

[faytelumos]

Dogs in Dark Places

Rating: T for a body, injury, blood, and peril

Characters: Jason Todd, Damian Wayne, background OCs

Relationships: Jason Todd & Damian Wayne, some minor Jason Todd & OC

Some "tags": brothers, Jason is the magical Bat, Jason yelling when he gets emotionally vulnerable, Damian is emotionally constipated, a hint of detective work, I am an amateur mystery writer please have mercy

Summery: Red Hood is investigating a magical item that killed a close friend, and for some reason, Robin insists on tagging along.

word count: roughly 8k

Of all the places in Gotham where scum and crooks gathered, this was probably Jason's least favorite. The ballroom of a hotel with a stage, flat screen, podium, and rows of chairs set up on one end for the event of the night. The kind of place with rich people in ridiculously expensive dress prancing around and posturing in front of each other. The worst kind of people pursing lips and giving air kisses like everyone was chummy, like there wasn't a web of politics and spilled blood just under the event's façade. He'd hated these kinds of things when it was for Bruce. And now that it was for Red Hood, he still hated them.

Tonight, his name was Patrick. Red Hood's most show-ready henchman, even if he was a bit young. "Partick" had come alone to this event, supposedly with his boss' cash and a short list of items Hood was interested in. All a sham, of course. "Patrick" was only going to be staying for the first two or so items, then making off with the real reason he was here.

He wouldn't have come to this awful little event at all, if it weren't for what had happened to his friend.

Jason wasn't here to socialize, unlike the rest of the glorified sadists and slum lords in the room. Red Hood didn't need to play nice to get what he wanted. So while everyone else was networking and setting up dirty business, Jason maneuvered to the auction area five minutes early. He got his paddle, then took a seat in the middle-back, brushing the blond hair of his wig behind one ear. The bobby pins underneath were starting to itch a bit. It'd been too long since he'd last used a disguise.

Over the next ten minutes, the various invitees meandered to the auction area and took their seats. The space filled in until there wasn't a single chair left open. The lights dimmed, and the auctioneer stepped up to the podium to welcome everyone.

Red Hood had gotten an invitation to this little party of dirtbags simply because it was the polite thing to do. He hadn't even deigned to respond until last week. He'd managed to find the murder weapon amid the list of show items just in time to slip in his RSVP, but he still hadn't identified the seller. So stealing the damned thing and bugging the transactions was going to have to do for tonight.

Jason put some modest bids on the first two objects, not even paying attention to what they were. He let them both go easily, and then made a show of sitting up further in his seat once the third item had been brought out. It was some kind of ritual knife that was supposed to bring good fortune or something. Jason bid on it almost eagerly, glad when the thing didn't sell to him for too high a price. Once it was delivered to him, he'd probably hand it to Bruce or Diana to make sure it ended up back in whatever country it was stolen from, hopefully as a museum piece.

Having fulfilled Red Hood's apparent interest, Jason got up to claim his prize. He paid cash for his lot ticket with the man at the base of the stage, casually touching the payment device, uploading a simple bug. Once he was on his way, he smoothly traded the auction lot ticket for a fake in his jacket sleeve. When he got to the holding room, a woman in a smart suit stopped him.

"We don't release any merchandise until the auction's over," she said when he tried to hand her the ticket. He looked at her with a shocked sort of expression, drawing on the many nights he and Alfred had practiced acting in the second sitting room when he was younger.

"Oh, uh, my boss just wanted this in kind of a hurry," he stammered. She glanced him over, and he maintained the "young and nervous" façade.

"I'm sorry, but—"

"Please?" Jason asked sweetly, taking a timid half-step forward. "I'm new, and he kinda scares me. I'm just trying to do a good job — he said I could blow whatever cash I didn't need for the auction, so…."

He let the suggestion hang in the air. It would be a risk for her, especially if the screw-up got back to her. But she glanced up the hall and then back to him. He took the subtle cue and withdrew what was left of the huge cash clip in his pocket, and her eyes bugged right before she shoved his hand back out of sight.

"The ticket," she hissed. He handed her the fake and she glanced at it, then over her shoulder into the holding room. "Meet me behind the kitchen in three minutes," she whispered before shoving him away. He hurried off the first few steps, then casually walked through the halls.

It was cold outside. The autumn chill of Gotham struck fast, and his velvety suit jacket couldn't keep the tips of his nose and ears warm. He enjoyed the smell of the food coming from the kitchen, deciding to scrape together some chicken Alfredo when he got inside tonight. There was a soft sound in the ally, like a cat landing on stone, and Jason looked over through the darkness to see a figure unfolding from the black.

Well, unfolding a little. There wasn't a lot to him.

Jason pointedly turned away from Robin. If he was here with Batman, everything was about to get really complicated. But there was no shift to the air, no change in pressure, no muted thrum of Bruce's presence. Robin didn't step any closer, smartly staying in the shadows.

The woman from the holding room stepped out of the kitchen door and looked to Jason. She slipped most of the way out, leaving her foot in the way so the door didn't latch, and offered the palm-sized black box. Jason thanked her profusely, swapping it for the cash clip, and she slipped back inside and closed the door without a word.

Right away, Jason could feel the magic on this thing. Even through the stiff box, it was heavy, and it almost tingled against his skin, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. This was definitely what he was looking for. He stepped away from the kitchen door and into the shadow, stopping beside Robin.

"What are you doing here?" he hissed. Robin crossed his arms.

"I could ask you the same question." Jason rolled his eyes as hard as he could.

"Look, this isn't a good place to be right now," Jason snapped. "Whatever you're telling B, you can let him know that I didn't hurt anyone."

"I'm not here on Father's order," Robin replied simply. Jason didn't have time to figure this out.

"Whatever. I'm out of here." He started walking off, towards his motorcycle, and Robin shot his grappling gun into the sky behind him.

Twenty minutes later, Jason was stepping into his warded safe house, pulling off the wig, and Robin was stepping in behind him. Jason set the wig down on an unused lamp and pulled bobby pins from his hair in rapid succession. Damian didn't bother to peel off the mask, looking around with his arms crossed.

"Don't act impressed," Jason grumbled, stepping over to a book shelf.

"I'm not," Damian huffed. Jason sighed, only mildly annoyed.

"Why are you here?" Jason droned, setting the box down on one of the more sparse shelves. Damian walked slowly deeper into the living room, his boots silent on the short carpet.

"It's been an entire two months since you and Father have argued," Damian said. "I'm here to keep the peace."

"So you're trying not to lose a bet with Tim?" Jason replied, looking over his shoulder. Damian leveled him a remarkably flat look with the mask on. Jason shook his head and dug out a leather mat from a nearby drawer. "You've gotta stop putting yourself in my corner, Dames," Jason said, rolling out the mat on the next shelf down. "I'm just gonna keep disappointing you."

Jason pressed his palms against the cool leather for a moment, concentrating on letting some of his energy flow into the runes stamped into it. Once the leather warmed up, he carefully aligned it with the rest of the bookshelf, then set the box in the center. When he turned around, Damian was looking at him quizzically. Jason tensed his jaw.

"Don't touch that," he warned, pointing behind him at the box. As he walked away from the shelf, he could practically hear the kid's curiosity revving. "It killed someone recently." Damian scoffed quietly as Jason turned on the kitchen light. But after a moment, he followed Jason to the cabinets. "Don't you have an angry Bat to run home to?" Jason asked as he pulled out a large pot.

"Tt. I am allowed to run my own operations," Damian snapped.

"Aaah. So B's off-planet and you slipped your leash." He looked down to see Damian giving him another expertly executed look.

"If you must know, Spoiler and I finished our patrols early —"

"— Very early —"

"— and I didn't feel satisfied with the amount of work I've done tonight." Jason sighed, setting a skillet down on the stove.

"Look, I don't care what you're doing here, squirt —"

"— Don't call me that —"

"— I just don't want to be the one taking the heat for it." Jason put the pot in the sink and started filling it with water. "Do you have time in your busy schedule for supper, or do I get to rest in peace tonight?" Jason looked down to see Damian had uncrossed his arms, eyeing the pot as it filled.

"What are you making?" he asked.

"Something easy," Jason snapped. He turned fully to Damian while the pot continued to hum, water rising, and put one hand on his hip. He couldn't see Damian's eyes, but he could feel that shrewd glance going back and forth between him and the pot.

"I suppose I could use something to eat," he muttered. Jason shook his head and turned away before Damian could see him smirk.

"Did you bring homework?" Jason asked as he shut off the water.

"Tt. Yes, I brought my homework, not that I need your help."

"Take off the mask and sit down, squirt," Jason said, putting the pot on the stove. He turned on the heat and passed Damian to go to his closet. He returned with an old, charcoal gray Gotham Knights hoodie and handed it over as Damian settled at the kitchen table. Damian silently unclipped his cape and folded it, then withdrew the tube of papers and pens on his back. Finally, as Jason salted the pot of water, he pulled on the hoodie and sat down.

It was quiet in the kitchen, except for the sounds of Jason's chicken frying in butter and the chopping of garlic by hand. Once the pasta was in the pot and the sauce was cooking in the pan, Jason could hear Damian's pencil on the table. He looked over his shoulder, taking in the sight of his kid… successor. He didn't look exactly like a normal tween with the kevlar sticking out of the hoodie's collar, or the deep scowl on his face. But his big eyes, partially mussed hair, and the way he pursed his lips as he read his homework did a lot of heavy lifting to remind Jason that the boy was barely in middle school.

He was nearly as old as Jason had been when he died. Jason watched him work for another moment, then turned back to their supper.

He gave them almost equal portions, since Damian was hitting his major growth spurt, but kept all of the chicken for himself. Damian politely put away his homework before pulling his plate closer, and Jason said the blessing.

"That isn't kosher," Damian said, twirling some noodles onto his fork.

"This isn't the manor," Jason retorted before taking a huge bite.

---

The sun was setting the following evening, and it was finally time for Jason to step out and get some answers. The box had been sitting on the shelf and making his skin itch all day. He opened the door to leave and stopped abruptly, staring down at Damian in his way. He was wearing Jason's Gotham Knights hoodie again, but he had some simple slacks and a button-down on instead of the kevlar and tights.

"I don't remember giving you a memo on dress code," Jason said instead of asking what the hell he was doing here again. Damian frowned, and it looked uniquely troubled.

"The logical next step is research," Damian answered. "There aren't many magic users in Gotham, so I assumed you'd be visiting a library." Jason looked at his bare wrist.

"You're right on time, too," he said. "All the libraries closed over two hours ago." Damian rolled his eyes, then turned toward the building's elevator. Jason locked the door behind himself.

They went to an occultist shop that was tucked away in the dingy, unkempt streets. Damian kept his hands free from the oversized hoodie sleeves despite the evening chill, his nose and cheeks blotched pink. Jason shook his head. The kid should know how to bundle up by now; he wasn't exactly new to Gotham winters anymore.

The shop was quiet inside, as usual. Jason came here now and again when he needed to get rid of the way a safe house itched, or when the nightmares just didn't stop. The air had the familiar, sweet taste of incense, and the sounds of Gotham would be conspicuously absent once he stepped away from the front door. Gemstones, statues, dream catchers, pendulums, casting mats, stone orbs, charmed necklaces, and prayer books lined or hung from delicately arranged and crowded shelves. Unique to this store was its small reading nook, with a tea set and a selection of self-help, spirituality, and lore books to freely read from. The especially pale woman who minded the shop gave Jason a soft smile as the door closed on the chilly evening outside.

"Is chamomile alright?" she asked. Jason glanced down at Damian, who was now slipping his hands into the hoodie's pocket. Damian glanced up at him at the slight pause, then gave a subtle nod, looking forward again.

"That would be lovely."

The woman poured hot water into the waiting teapot, then left the two of them alone. Jason was already examining the lore section of the small library, and Damian browsed titles from the spirituality section.

Jason pulled a book of old druidic magic from the collection and sat down in the aged, under-stuffed arm chair closest to him. The paper of this book was pulpy and thin, and he took care of the aged spine, gently opening the book to the early pages to skim the table of contents. There wasn't exactly a section for "curses that kill people" so he had to read between the lines.

Ever had died in her home. No signs of forced entry, no windows open, no visitors. Hood hadn't seen her body, but he was supposed to be on the short list for the finalized coroner's report. The girls who'd found her said she looked bruised in long slashes. Like something too blunt to cut had raked over her. Something like that would be pretty identifiable, if he could just find the right section to read.

There were channeling rituals, prayers for helpful spirits, a description on seances, but nothing for how to summon a malevolent entity. The book actually seemed to be carefully neutral, only describing ways someone could invite positivity into their lives, but otherwise never making a distinction between the good and the ugly. The channeling chapter was largely about acting as a conduit and a long breakdown on an old Beltane ritual, but nothing on how to set a curse on somebody else. And Ever would have laughed herself blue before doing any of these things.

Ever had such a rich laugh…. And she seemed to always know how to cheer someone up after a rough night.

Jason scrubbed his face, inhaling sharply and closing the book. It wasn't helping. He got up in a huff and put the book away, searching for another, more helpful title to read. He felt Damian's eyes on his back and specifically ignored him.

There was another magic book, and it looked new. A Guide to Dark Arts and How to Defend Against Them. Bingo.

But as Jason read through it, it became apparent that this person wasn't drawing from the old arts. Not even close. He gritted his teeth, increasingly frustrated with the lack of answers.

Damian cleared his throat. Jason glanced up in time to see the kid pulling the teapot away, leaving Jason a hot cup. He sighed and set the book aside, then moved forward in his seat. He picked the hot porcelain up carefully, then wrapped his big hands around it, drawing in the heat. Damian sat down again, opening the book he'd chosen from the shelf. An old bestiary. Jason wasn't surprised.

"Finding anything?" Damian muttered conversationally. Jason looked down into the tea leaves at the bottom of his cup.

"Not yet," he grumbled.

"What are you looking for?" Damian went on. Jason looked up, raising an eyebrow.

"Wouldn't you like to know." Damian tutted, shook his head, and went back to his book. Jason sighed. Damian was being... weirdly friendly. He may as well return the favor. "I… the person who died recently. She was a friend." He watched the bottom of his cup. "I… the girls…." He frowned, wrapping his fingers tighter around the thin porcelain. "Nobody saw what happened. But she'd gotten a necklace recently. When they found her… it was gone." It wasn't much to go on. Jason was lucky the item had resurfaced at all.

"And now that necklace is on your bookshelf," Damian concluded, his tone soft. Jason nodded.

"I don't know what it does. It could be a curse or a spirit, but it's some kind of magic." He sighed through his nose, lifting the cup to his lips slowly.

"Perhaps you should contact someone with experience in that field," Damian suggested, back to his airy, slightly snooty tone. Jason eyed him over the lip of the teacup.

"I am someone with experience in that field."

If Jason hadn't spent so much time around Alfred, he might have missed the slight way Damian's eyes widened, the subtle but still abnormal inhale. Jason just looked back to his tea. It was better the Bats didn't know about that part of his life.

"Anyway," he amended, "I'm two for two on useless books. We might not be here much longer." Jason finally took a sip, enjoying the flavor and letting the heat soothe his bones.

---

The necklace was outwardly simple. A cord of leather, presumably new, holding up a ball of woven, dried vine, definitely old. It rattled softly when you shook it, something slipped inside when it was made, and tufts of downy fur made for a tiny, ornamental marking on the front.

Hood was still looking for the particular scum bag who had given it to Ever. He called himself "Ivory" in front of the girls. Jason still wasn't sure if the guy who'd killed Ever was the same guy selling the necklace at the auction.

Whatever was going on, it was nasty. As soon as Jason had read the coroner's report, eyes wide, mind reeling, he started gearing up to head to the M.E.'s office.

And then all but tripped over Robin.

Hood growled at Robin, perched atop his motorcycle, the voice modulator making him sound like a mechanical bear.

"You're like a stray cat," Hood said through gritted teeth.

"I'm coming along," Robin said, arms crossed.

"I don't care what you do," Jason growled, marching up to the bike, "just stay out of the way." Robin got off long enough for Hood to get on, and then he climbed back on and tied down his cape. Red Hood revved the engine twice to signal it was time to go, and Robin gripped his ribs and leaned against his back.

They made it to the medical examiner's office in record time, and Red Hood barely had the kickstand down before Robin was off the bike and they were both marching inside.

Hood slammed the door open, the helmet rapidly scanning for movement and heat signatures and finding two. Both doctors were staring at him with wide eyes, and he stomped his way up to the lead examiner, the sound of his combat boots on the tile echoing in the cold room. The assistant backed away and the lead cowered slightly, backing against a table. Hood stopped short, just barely within arm's reach, and leaned his head down.

"Show me."

The lead M.E. unlocked a drawer labeled "Sariah Kinle" and opened the door. She drew a sheet-covered body into the harsh, sterile lighting, the metal tray making an almost harsh noise as it moved. She grabbed the head of the white sheet, then glanced nervously at Robin.

Red Hood looked back, having briefly forgotten about his entourage. Robin was right next to him, jaw clenched, looking at the covered body.

"Get out of here," Hood ordered. Robin looked up at him and scowled.

"I've seen worse."

"Have you seen it naked?" Red Hood challenged. Ever's apparent wounds were across her chest and down her abdomen and legs. Hood wasn't about to miss any details for the sake of modesty. But Robin was a stubborn little brat, and he just scowled harder.

"I'll be fine."

"Whatever," Hood growled, turning to the lead doctor and making a sharp gesture for her to show the body. She hesitated briefly again before drawing the sheet down to Ever's knees.

Looking at bodies didn't get any easier over the years. Not even when they'd been cleaned up. And especially not when they were friends.

Ever's eyes were still open, her jaw slack, staring with a foggy, shocked gaze into nothing. The lines down and over her chest were freshly sewn, the skin puckered where the tight stitches would never heal.

Against her dark skin, the bruising wasn't immediately apparent. But the doctor brought over a strong light and angled it to point on her abdomen, and then it seemed obvious. Dark blotches slashed down across her, from her left shoulder to her right waist, another set down her right side, and another raking from her right hip down to her left thigh. Hood knew from the report that there was another set going down her back. Five lines each time, like a bear's claw, but the spacing wasn't quite right. Red Hood reached out, comparing the spacing and lengths of the marks to his hand. It seemed closer to a human shape than a bear, but either way, it didn't explain the rest of the coroner's report.

"I need to see inside," Hood ordered, taking back his hand. His skin was crawling where he'd nearly touched the marks.

"Um," the coroner stuttered, nervously lifting her hands, "I can't do that."

Red Hood looked directly at her, bearing down on her with the blank helmet, its only true features the sharp, glowing eyes. It didn't take more than a few seconds for her to buckle.

"I can't open a body after I've concluded the report without a warrant," she said. "Please, I could lose my license—"

"We have pictures," the assistant said. All three gazes turned on him, and he shrank back into the wall. Impatient, Red Hood turned to march towards him, and he scrambled to grab a tablet from a nearby table.

Hood stalked over, Robin in tow, as the assistant pulled up the photos. He then held the tablet as far out to Red Hood as possible. Hood snatched the tablet, causing the man to jump sharply, and he held the thing low enough for Robin to see.

Just as the report said, the places where Ever's skin and muscles had been pulled aside were slashed clean through. It was like she had been cut up from the inside, her organs and even bones carved with that pattern of five lines. Whatever had done this, it had been ridiculously sharp. There was no tearing anywhere, just the straight, clean edges.

Jason gripped the tablet tighter. Ever had been a good woman, and she took care of everyone. She'd opened up her home to people, she'd fought for her friends and family, and she was generous in a place so full of need. Jason gritted his teeth, biting down on the way his vision blurred.

Whoever had done this to her was dead.

He dropped the tablet onto a nearby table and stomped out of the room. Robin followed behind him, soundless except for the brief rustle of the cape, a vague presence behind him. Once they got outside, Hood mounted and started the bike, and waited for Robin to hop on and tie his cape again before leaving.

---

Hood was missing something.

He stood again in Ever's apartment, amidst the shifted furniture, the spilled drink, the scattered magazines, the toppled side table and lamp. It was the same as last time. No forced entry, no open windows, no guests. But there had clearly been a struggle.

Robin stepped silently around in the room, a buzzing pressure on the edge of Hood's senses. He ignored the kid, stepping again up to the stain in the carpet where Ever had taken her last breaths. The hairs on his arms seemed to hum and shake so close to the imprint of death.

What was he missing? What was he missing? The necklace had killed Ever, but how? There was a one-person struggle that ended with her on the floor, claw marks raked through the inside of her. Had she felt it happening and gotten up, thrashed about, tried to run? The girls said she was found on her back. The imprint on the carpet would have meant she was facing the door until she fell. Her back to the window.

He gritted his teeth. This wasn't supposed to be hard. But he didn't even know what he was looking for. He glanced up at Robin.

"Hey," he grunted. Robin didn't look at him, didn't even respond. His face was pale behind the mask, and he was staring fixedly at the door. Hood glanced to the door, again shut and locked. He couldn't feel anything there. So what was Robin staring at? "Robin!"

Robin flinched and looked to Hood. He was breathing harder, his hands shaking. Red Hood's heart was suddenly pounding.

"Did you touch the necklace?" he demanded. Robin hesitated, then scowled weakly.

"Of course I didn't, I'm not a mor—"

"Then what are you staring at?"

Again, Robin hesitated before answering.

"Nothing."

Red Hood clenched his jaw and stood from his crouch. Robin set his jaw, too, turning to face Hood evenly.

"Robin…" Hood warned. Robin glanced again to the door, then looked to Hood, staring him down as he crossed his arms.

"Perhaps this case is too much for you," Robin suggested.

Red Hood blinked behind the helmet. He could practically hear Talia's voice ringing in his ears.

"Perhaps this exercise is too much for you."

Red Hood was suddenly seventeen again, small and in pain and trapped, humiliation and fear burning away at his throat until all he could do was scream. Faced with another task, another test, another trial that was frustratingly out of reach of his abilities. The walls seemed to close in, the room darkening, with the shadow of a disappointed Bat, and his back burned like a thousand needles, Ever's ghost seeming to stand right behind him, impatient and angry that he we still failing.

He wasn't good enough.

He wasn't good enough.

"Fuck you!" Jason roared. Robin flinched, giving Jason just enough time for him drag up the lake of anger he kept stoked in his chest. He clenched his fists, taking a step forward, the familiar howling of rage chasing away every chill and ache from his body. "I never even asked you to be here, you little shit!" Robin unfolded his arms, holding his hands at his sides, nearer his blade. "You think I care what you think?" Jason demanded, taking another step forward. "You think I can't do this on my own?"

"I never said—"

"Shut up!" Jason bellowed, Robin's calming-the-victim voice scratching against the walls of his skull. Robin stood still, a scowl on his face, the only sound in the room Jason's hot breaths in the helmet. He shouldn't have let Damian this close. He shouldn't have let anyone this close. This was his case, Ever was his people, and no Prince of Gotham or Heir of the Demon could ever understand him and his. Jason pointed at the door, chest heaving, and growled. "Get out."

Robin stared at him. The look on his face was calculating, shrewd, and cold. He was standing his ground, in the middle of Ever's home, like he belonged there, like he had a place here—

"I… apologize," Damian said.

Jason stared, everything snapping into cold focus like he'd been slapped in the face. Damian bowed his head just a little, and the motion set Jason's head rolling. He let out a sharp huff, blinking, realizing suddenly that his lashes were wet beneath the helmet. What was going on? Why was Damian acting so weird? Jason looked to the door, where Damian had been so fixated, but he still felt nothing. He looked back to Robin, to Damian, to the little middle schooler with his dad's last name.

"Did you touch the necklace?" Jason asked again. Damian looked up, scowling deeply.

"No."

Jason put a hand to the face of his helmet. His heart was still pounding, but the shock of Damian apologizing had sent back the waves of anger for now. Jason put the emotion back into its box where it belonged.

"Let's get out of here," he rasped.

---

Red Hood stopped the bike in front of the warded safe house, putting his feet on the ground. Robin shifted against his back, but didn't get off. The engine continued to rumble, shaking Jason's sore throat, so he cut it off and set the kickstand. He glanced over towards the safe house. Robin was breathing hard behind him, and Jason felt him look back behind them again.

Red Hood glanced into the side-view mirror, then looked back behind them, too. But there was nothing in the street. Robin was watching ghosts, and it was starting to get under Hood's skin. Especially since he knew what he had to do to find out what had happened to Ever.

"Go home, Robin," Red Hood said.

"No," Robin said instantly, sharply. Red Hood sighed loudly, annoyed and impatient.

"Go away," he snapped, switching tactics. "I don't need you."

"You want me to leave so you can get yourself killed?" Robin barked. Red Hood turned his head to look at Robin over his shoulder. "You're not putting it on. I forbid it."

That little box of rage in Red Hood's chest opened up all at once, and he struggled instead to grab onto the confusion rushing through him. Hood lifted his leg high, dismounting over the handlebars so he could turn and face Robin without kicking him to the ground. He crossed his arms, glaring at the kid with the full weight of his emotionless helmet, stepping just close enough to loom.

"What's going on, little birdy?" Hood rumbled. Robin clenched his jaw. "Do you know something?" Hood pressed. "Why have you been following me for three days? How do you know where I'll be and when? What have you been staring at?"

Robin looked away, breathing faster. Red Hood adjusted his footing, stepping closer, leaning his head down. He was very aware of the weight of the gun in his thigh holster, eyes scanning for any indication that this was someone other than Damian. At the beginning of the night, Jason had no doubts this was his kid brother, but now….

"You will not put on that talisman," Damian ordered, looking up into the eyes of the helmet. Jason huffed, letting the bitter amusement into his tone.

"Who owes whom in this situation, Little Demon?" Jason asked, low and wry. A little bit of color drained from Damian's face at the mention of the old favor still unpaid between them. "How about you just tell me what you know."

Damian looked away, the muscles of his jaw flexing. Then he looked again up to Jason. He hesitated, swallowed, and spoke.

"There's... a black dog." Hood waited for the explanation, waited for the reason this had anything to do with anything. Robin swallowed, and it sounded… like he was holding back tears.

Jason softened a little, making it visible enough to see. Damian cleared his throat.

"It's been following you," Damian continued. He looked up again into the helmet's eyes. "You are going to die when you put that necklace on, Todd."

Jason cocked his head, pressing his brows together. "What—" He grunted and flicked off the voice modifier on the helmet, then just grabbed it with both hands, triggering the release and yanking it off of his head. "What are you talking about, baby bird?"

"I've seen it!" Damian snapped, suddenly irate, clenching his fists and baring his teeth. "Every night, Todd, I've seen it!"

"Seen what!"

"You!" Damian roared, his voice cracking sharply. He got off of the bike to stand, fists at his side, glowering up at Jason. "I've seen you! Dying!"

Jason gritted his teeth, his heart pounding. Damian had never had visions before, at least, not that Jason was aware of. So what gives? Was this some kind of toxin? And if so, why wasn't Jason affected?

"Slow down," Jason said, head spinning. Damian growled in his throat, impatient and still pissed for some reason, and then he sprinted into the safe house.

Damian was fast for his age, but Jason was bigger. Damian, the little snake, managed to get to the second story fire escape before Jason caught up and snatched him by the cape. Damian pulled the quick release right as Jason yanked, and Jason swore through gritted teeth as he cast the fabric aside and finished climbing up onto the railing. Damian was already through the window, and Jason scrambled up and over and inside, heart roaring as he pictured all the ways the necklace was going to kill this idiot kid as soon as he touched it—

Jason got inside to see Damian ripping open the black box, and faster than the speed of thought, Jason pulled a knife and threw it, lancing the box and pinning it to the back of the bookshelf. Damian looked to Jason in outrage, but he didn't care right now. Maybe it was ridiculous of him to think that in the half a second it took for Jason to catch up, he was going to find Damian's little body crumpled and clawed and bloody on the floor. Maybe.

"Don't. Ever," Jason began, sounding too relieved even to himself to be pissed, but Damian just turned and grabbed the knife. "No—!"

Jason lunged and shoved Damian away in time to get the entire bookshelf down on his own shoulders, volumes and trinkets spilling as he was forced to the ground. He heard Damian scream, but he couldn't look up with the shelf on his back. He grunted, trying to rise, and something small and round cracked under his hand.

Jason froze, and he heard the soft gasp of fear Damian made over the ringing in his ears.

"Dames?" he managed, carefully moving his hand away from the crushed necklace.

"Did you hear that?" Damian whispered, making Jason flinch.

"Hear what?" Jason was suddenly getting claustrophobic, and he grunted and heaved, getting up from under the shelf that had no business being so heavy. "What, hear, what, Damian!"

He finally got up, chest tight, nauseous, and he saw Damian standing stock still, staring at a wall. He followed Damian's gaze, then froze, too.

It was slow, its motions more like a seeping than a stalking. The creature, the monster, seemed to be coming out of the wall, its long, mangy, snaggle-toothed face grinning, its tongue lolled forward out of its mouth. It placed a hand slowly on the ground — a hand, knobby-fingered, with long, disgusting claws spaced just far enough apart to not be human.

This was the monster.

This was the thing that had killed Ever.

Jason yanked out his gun and put one right between its horrible eyes. The very light around it seemed to blink and shimmer, and then it was solid again, now still as stone, its bloodshot eyes focused on Jason.

The thing was massive, six foot something at the hump of its shoulders, and when it opened it maw and leaned back to lunge, Jason got a flash of grave dirt and rain in his mind's eye.

Jason kicked Damian out of the way just in time to get slammed into that bookshelf again, and twisting, bone-deep agony tore through his throat. He held his breath on instinct at the feeling of fluid in the back of his mouth, already stabbing the thing with another knife. All he got was air, but when the thing turned and bit into his leg, the pain was definitely real.

It chucked him across the room like a doll, and he landed hard with his ribs on the arm of the couch. The cough it kicked out of him sprayed out hot and sticky, staining his chin and cheek red. He sucked in a wet breath and bit down hard on another cough as the monster stalked up towards him, raising another claw to strike.

Damian bellowed a fierce war-cry and sank his sword into the thing's back exactly as it reached Jason. The blade sank deep and stuck in, and the monster screeched and twisted, nearly throwing Damian. Jason forced himself up onto his feet, lungs already starting to burn, knives in each hand.

He swiped at it at the same time that Damian planted his feet on its back, and the thing went intangible again. Damian fell to the floor with a hiss of surprise, the sword stabbing into the carpet, and Jason planted his feet and spat blood into the monster's untouchable, hideous face. It looked down to face him, and when it opened its disgusting maw, he waited until the very moment he felt pain in his shoulder before slashing at it with both blades.

"Stop!" Damian bellowed. Jason ignored him, following the creature that was finally screaming and backing up. It met his gaze again and swiped, and he waited to spring until the flesh within his arm tore. It yanked its not-hand back, ripping the knife from Jason's grasp, and he pulled another, following it still towards the bookshelf.

Damian moved all at once, scrambling for the disaster of books and trinkets, and Jason's stomach dropped when the kid grabbed ahold of the crushed remains of the necklace. The monster turned around like a crack of lightning, focusing on him, and Jason's body moved without asking.

He bowled into Damian through the ephemeral nightmare in his apartment, squeezing the kid into the corner of the wall so there was no part of him showing. Damian cried out in outrage in his ear, and even without looking, Jason knew the thing was raising its horrible claw again. He held Damian tighter, bracing.

He couldn't protect Ever. But he'd be damned if he was going to let this thing kill his little brother, too.

It ripped down into his back, and then the crack of gunfire just about tore him apart.

Jason hadn't even closed his eyes, staring at the wall, and the floor trembled under his boots as the heavy body fell behind him. Damian was panting, arm held up, and Jason realized the holster on his thigh was empty.

Damian was fine. Damian was okay. It hadn't even scratched him.

Jason closed his eyes, pulled Damian harder into his chest, and finally let out the cough he'd been holding onto.

Immediately his throat was full of blood, and every time he coughed and tried to breathe, it turned to sludge in his lungs. He stumbled to rise and fell backwards, and it only got worse, Damian's voice loud and incessant over him. Jason clawed at his throat, at the completely unbroken skin there, slickened and made tacky with the blood pouring from his mouth. The edges of his vision were getting dark and his chest was burning and he couldn't breathe, he couldn't get air, he just needed air!

Damian screamed at someone, holding something up to his mouth. Jason could feel it again, that familiar sense of all-encompassing dread. He could feel the shadow of his death looming in the room. His body calmed, still breathless, and he was finally able to hear what Damian was saying.

"—here right now!" he shrieked, his voice cracking. "He's already going hypoxic, he's lost at least a liter of blood—" Damian turned sharply to Jason, his face pale and panicked behind the mask, "—breathe, Todd — Todd?!" He slapped lightly at Jason's face, making his head swim even more than it already was. Jason shook his head carefully, reaching up and pinching Damian's chin to get him to focus and what Jason had to say.

"Cremate me," he mouthed, and then he shook Damian lightly and said it again, blood streaming out of his mouth. "Cremate me this time."

"Shut up!" Damian howled, slapping his hand away and then shoving his fingers into Jason's pulse point. Everything was turning gray and fuzzy, and Jason was vaguely aware of Damian counting chest compressions as he finally slipped away.

---

Jason coughed, reaching for anything to hold onto, gasping and gurgling and scrambling. He fell — forwards? sideways? — and hit something cold and solid. There was yelling, someone was grabbing him, then it was bright, bright light in his eyes —

He thrashed, trying to get away from the light, looking for anything, anything that was safe, that would protect him from the arms around his shoulders, the knife jamming into his throat—!

He tried to roar, tried to buck and thrash, and it got the hands and the weight off of him just long enough for him to get to his hands and knees. But then his arms were pinned and drawn back — he couldn't breathe! — and someone was shoving something into his throat.

He coughed, and it worked! He fell to his knees, coughing and wheezing, and blessed air came into his lungs and pushed out the sludge and the water. He crawled forward, hacking, away from whoever had been attacking him, coughing and breathing, breathing, finally breathing.

He slowed and hunched over, tears in his eyes, his chest wet and his skin tacky. He could barely smell anything he was realizing, but the taste of so much blood in the air made him glad for it. He finally blinked his vision clear and looked up to see costumes in display cases and a tyrannosaurus looming overhead. Confused, he looked behind himself, eyes following a trail of blood. The splotches and splatters lead back to Bruce, Alfred, and Damian.

Bruce was staring at him, wide-eyed, pale as a ghost, still as a statue. There was blood all over his hands and on his face and even run through his hair. Alfred had stained medical gloves on, his hands shaking, his face drawn and ashy. He looked horrible, and there was a fine spray of red across his face and neck. Damian had taken off the Robin mask at some point, leaving behind clean skin outlined by yet more red, streams of tears smudging the crimson down his cheeks, his sticky hands clenched into fists.

Jason squeezed his eyes shut, looking away from them as if dispelling a nightmare. He tried to clear his throat, to cough out the thick wetness just under his voice box, but the air didn't go up that far. He tried to speak, tried to mutter and look down, and something alien and wrong moved against the very bottom of his throat. He reached up haltingly and found the short tube jutting out of his neck.

He flinched, remembering again the monster, the necklace, the fight. He'd died. He knew in his gut he'd died. And yet….

He'd always wondered if it was permanent. His body's rejection from the grave.

Part of him had been hoping it wasn't.

---

Red Hood stayed far away from the light of the street, deep in the alley and well out of view of the Johns. He whistled twice and then waited patiently for one of the girls to notice him. Heads turned right away, and there was a slight commotion between the four at the curb before Pistol hurried up to greet him. She was wearing her gray coat and red miniskirt tonight, her gaze sharp and anxious as she approached.

"Hey," he rasped, nodding, and she wrapped her arms around him in a fur-lined hug. He held her close, and his aching head felt just a little better. Ever was gone, but her girls were still safe. And he was going to keep it that way. "I'm looking for Ivory. The John," he said. Pistol stepped back, looking to meet his eyes through the smooth helmet.

"Haven't seen him yet tonight," she said, her tone a little clipped. "He might not show." Hood nodded, then looked down to dig into a jacket pocket.

"If he does," he said, pulling out a few small devices, "slip one of these onto him. Click it twice to activate it, first." Pistol nodded, holding out both hands, and he put a gloved hand under hers and gently poured the five trackers into her palms.

"Don't worry," Pistol said, low and angry, "we'll find him." Hood nodded curtly, putting a hand on her shoulder and giving her a reassuring squeeze. She dumped the trackers into one hand, then gave him a one-armed hug. He embraced her tightly, gently holding her head against his shoulder, then let her go, and she gave the helmet a quick peck on the cheek before hurrying back to the curb to distribute the trackers and his instructions.

Hood watched over the girls, clenching and unclenching his jaw. Damian had managed to kill that beast, but the monster that had given Ever that necklace was still on the loose. For now. Hood turned around, ready to grapple up to the rooftops, and stopped when he saw Robin in the shadows at his feet. Hood put a hand on his hip, scowling down at the kid.

"Don't you have patrol somewhere?" he asked. Robin crossed his arms, and even in the dark behind a mask, Hood could see the unimpressed eyebrow raised high.

"Batman is capable of operating in my absence," he quipped. Hood scoffed. Robin didn't look away, and Hood got the uncomfortable feeling he was looking at the stitches in Hood's throat. He reached up and buttoned the collar of his leather jacket. It was uncomfortable, especially with his sore throat, but being gawked at was worse.

"You still having bad dreams, little bird?" Hood asked lowly. Robin just scoffed, finally turning his head to look away. But his shoulders were tighter.

Jason sighed and reached out, grabbing Damian by the shoulder and yanking him in close. Jason pressed Damian against his hip in a distant, sideways hug, and Damian kept his arms crossed, even as he subtly leaned his weight into Jason.

"I'm not gonna die," Jason muttered, and the statement left a bitter taste in his mouth. Damian just tutted.

"Good," he grunted. "I don't want to have to patrol this area, too." Jason rolled his eyes hard and shoved Damian away with an exasperated and amused huff.

"That reminds me," Hood said, grabbing his grappling gun with one hand and activating his voice modifier with the other. Robin looked up, and Hood met his eyes through the helmet. "Stay out of my territory, squirt."

Hood zipped away just in time for Robin to hiss like an indignant cat, and he laughed under the helmet, landing sorely. He rolled his burning shoulder, mindful of the painful points in his back, and stepped slightly over the edge of the roof to look down again. Robin scowls mildly up at him from the alleyway. He looked better than he has in days, and Hood nodded to himself, content that he'd be okay, before leaving for the next item on his docket tonight.

[thesporkidentity]

Actually, no, it’s been so long since I went off that medication and stopped getting the Fully Plotted Cinematic Dreaming Experience that I forgot how much these ones haunt me if I don’t write the outline down.

So the setting is kinda sorta space western: a mixture of high and low tech, things are believably dirty as opposed to the squeaky clean Apple store future aesthetic. We’re planetside for the job, but our crew is based on a smuggling spaceship. 

Anyway, we start with our conman Grayson (tall, young, slim) casing a museum for [macguffin] when he meet-cutes a very warm and kind museum security guard, John (average height, average looks, heavy-set, middle-aged and tired with it), who just so happens to be one of the night guards pulling extra day-shift duty to cover someone who got sick. He also gives off the lonely air of a perfect mark, he’s exactly the kind of solid dependable middle-aged DILF vibes that mid-to-late-20s burnout gays go insane for, and Grayce has never been good at impulse control. So obviously he goes for the honeypot. With his real name, you horny fucking moron. (cue the entire team throwing popcorn at him)

Everything is going great, they’re getting the information they need about schedules and security measures, they’ve made a plan to get in and out with the macguffin, except uh-oh turns out that Grayce is a fucking moron squared and went and fell for the mark for real. So now they have to re-work everything to make sure John doesn’t get fucked over, either for looking like he’s in on it or looking like a dupe. Except even bigger uh-oh, on the eve of the heist they find out the feds are onto them and have been pressuring John, threatening his job, until he agreed to spy on Grayce in turn. Grayce has been keeping up his cover when they’re together and hasn’t given anything away so it’s still a go, but now they have to re-work the plan again with one man down because now John and Grayce need to have a provable alibi so they’re both in the clear. Basically, wow officers look at what happens when you get so focused on spying on the innocent, things get stolen by the actual bad guys, couldn’t possibly be our fault 😇.

Thus follows an extremely fraught sex scene, cut with the team doing the actual infiltration, with John trying not to break Grayce’s trust too severely while unsure whether to believe Grayce or the feds, trying to get him to slip up for the feds listening in, and Grayce trying to make up for his own ongoing betrayal by giving John everything during sex, because that’s all anyone has ever wanted from him before so that’s all he knows how to give, and accidentally tells John he loves him. The team steals the macguffin, and Grayce and John are exceptionally well alibi’d as way too busy fucking each other to have anything to do with the robbery.

Except actually the team gets away, but the feds still arrest Grayce to pressure him for info, threatening to make him take the fall because they have information that they know he was involved. Grayce sees John come into the bullpen/office/holding area while he’s waiting for processing and goes to call out for him, thinking he must be here to confirm his alibi, but one of the other feds calls to him and Grayce realizes that John isn’t actually John, but an undercover special agent, and it’s been a fucking reverse honeypot the whole time. He approached Grayce at the museum and not the other way around. Oh! Betrayal! Meanwhile, on the team’s end, they discover that the job they were hired to do has also been a trap the whole time, and that their contact had actually been dealing on three sides - with them, with the feds, and with another group of thieves/smugglers that just fucking hates them for some reason and who had used this to set them up.

So now on one side Grayce and “John” are dealing with the emotional fallout of the ouroboros of betrayal that was their relationship, while on the other side the team is scrambling to cover themselves and free Grayce. In the end, they’re able to pull a Leverage on the team trying to frame them, walking away with a bunch of money while leaving behind the macguffin and some more incriminating evidence to make them take the fall instead and prove that, oh woe, we are simply a poor, maligned group of law-abiding small space transporters who have been cruelly framed. After all, surely Grayce wouldn’t have used his real fucking name (you stupid piece of shit, but at least it worked in our favor this time) if he’d been casing the place and pumping “John” for information. They’re all declared innocent, the flags on their files are cleared in the system, and Grayce is freed, even though Special Agent knows that they know that he knows etc. The team flies away.

A few months later, Special Agent comes out of his Futuristic Government Office to find Grayce waiting for him. Grayce starts a little play-act of their first meeting all over again. They introduce themselves, both with their real names, both with full knowledge of who and what the other is this time, that Special Agent is a fed and that Grayce is still unrepentantly Doing Crime. Grayce asks if he can take him to dinner. Special Agent smiles and says yes.

---

you know i think i actually kinda missed the freaky vivid dreams. and while i did enjoy the constant horror vibes of the medication-induced dreams, i gotta say, romcom future heist was so much more fun to have beamed fully formed directly into my head

woke up from a dream with a con/heist AND it was in space AND it got weirdly horny with cock cages, and i'll be honest i think i've peaked i don't think i'm ever gonna be able to top that one

[unholyhelbig]

Crescent 1/? | Natasha Romanoff x MoonKnight!Reader

Summary: When Natasha Romanoff takes a job as head of security for Dina Jackson she has an ulterior motive- to find the tomb of Egyptian artifacts that the art world is racing for. Dina's disgraced niece is charming, awkward, and under the influence of Khonsu, the God of the Moon.

Warnings: Subtle Violence, Family disputes, scary bird diety, and probably horrible grammar.

[A/N: I'm working super super hard on this one, and would appreciate some feedback 😭 I also don't have a posting schedule and know that I have a million other fics going right now- but I couldn't help myself!]

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There was always a stillness to the air in the museum that was hard to find anywhere else, a soft scent of something old that lingered within the light that streamed through the windows. It was four floors of knowledge and wonder, and paintings that were slathered with vibrant colors yet to fade. Dinosaur bones that were reconstructed by hand, guarded with velvet ropes and motion sensors, mummies that crossed their decaying arms over their chests, dead crystal eyes sweeping the room.

You found solace here among other things, that kept you coming back day after day. Your hands were blackened by charcoal, the neckline of your t-shirt suffering a similar fate. That was a nervous habit that you kept, toying with the fabric as you struggled to capture the light shading on Lady Madja’s coffin.

There was a small spot that you often made your own, your back against the marble wall of the room, one leg folded to your chest while the other was outstretching in front of you. For reasons that you personally did not understand, not many people found interest in the same Egyptian exhibit that had been at your local museum since you were a child.

“Didn’t you draw that yesterday?”

“No,” you grumbled, making a dark slash against the far end of the coffin. “I drew the outer coffin of Tamutnefret. You work here, shouldn’t’ you know the difference?”

You glanced up at Tommy. He had his thumbs in his belt loops, limp next to his heavy flashlight. The security guard wasn’t armed with anything except for a discontent with his job and a walkie talkie that could trigger a silent alarm. No one had tried to burglarize Hell’s Kitchen’s least frequented place yet, but they kept him around just in case.

He scoffed “They pay me to make sure this stuff doesn’t’ vanish, not to know everything about it. You should apply for a position here, tour guide or something. At least you’d earn some money from sitting here all day.”

“I like being here. I don’t need to get paid.”

He blinked at you, brushing his silver-blonde hair of his eyes as if he had never actually heard that phase before. You closed your sketch book, folding the flimsy notebook and shoving it into your back pocket before standing. The place was pretty slow today, not a field trip in sight.

Truth was; A little extra money wouldn’t hurt. Of course, you had your art, your studio that had been operating in lower Manhattan for the better part of a year now. It was doing well, well enough for you to fund the three-dollar admission fee to hold yourself up here. It was what some would call procrastination, but you deemed it a way to get out of the building.

 “What is it about Egypt anyway? Plenty of other things to see here. Like space. I wouldn’t judge you for watching the light show every day but this” He gestured vaguely to the room “nothing is interesting about a bunch of decaying old bodies and sand. A shit ton of sand.”

“Egyptian deities are cool as fuck, Tommy.” You deadpanned “They represent not only power, but things in the everyday world like the sun, and the moon. 1500 of them, dude. Every single abstract concept you can come up with in your brain is represented by a deity.”

“Wow,” He drew out the word, his crystal eyes widening, cupping the back of his neck. “I never knew how much of a big fucking nerd you were. What plague did you plagiarize that from?”

You fought the urge to roll your eyes at him. Instead, you settled for a muted growl before glancing at your watch. It was hard to keep track of the day when you really focused on your sketches. Dinner, you were going to be late to dinner if you didn’t’ get on the subway now.

With a mock salute, you made your way out of the museum, giving a half-hearted goodbye to the receptionist and exiting onto the large stone steps. The spring air replaced the stale scent of the Egyptian exhibit. A quiet rain fell from the sky- the lights of passing taxis and buses reflected from the damp world.

You can’t be late for this dinner.

“Can you alter time and get me there faster?” You mumbled, shoving your hands into your pockets as you made your way down the steps. “Yeah, didn't think so. If you don’t have any constructive solutions, I could do without the mocking.”

You need to learn better time management.

Getting scolded by an ancient Bird God wasn’t on your list of things to do today. You had made a mistake by gassing him up too much back there. Khonsu lurked in most reflections, including the wet sidewalk. He rarely interfered, but the scheduled dinners made him nervous, an anxiety that you could feel up the center of your spine.

You wouldn’t be late.

Manifestation was a good part of how you got where you were today, and despite the strong stench of sweat and smoke in the overly crowded car of the subway, you knew that you wouldn’t’ miss your dinner with your aunt. So, help you, if you did. So, help Khonsu more.

Nervously, you glanced at your watch and shoved your way through some disgruntled New Yorkers that mumbled profanities under their breath. They’d get over it, you knew they would. Your family, however, had a harder time forgiving you. It was only three blocks, three blocks that you would have to sprint in order to get to.

I don’t know why you sit through these things. We don’t need them. I can get us everything we want.

“Shut up,” You mumbled, panting under your breath. His voice was all-encompassing, and a little bit bored. The only reason you continued to attend these family get togethers was because it annoyed him. Bothered him that you still cared. You mothers roast chicken sealed the deal too.

By the time you made it to the all too fancy lobby of the apartment building, you had a stitch in your side and a coat of sweat against your skin that instantly made you regret being a little late in exchange for general hygiene.

“Y/N, you’re cutting it close.” Bennet gave you a tight smile, reaching out his white gloved hand and opened the gold-plated door. You shot him a tender look and nodded before gulping in a breath of air.

There was thankfully a bathroom in the back corner of the lobby. It was fancier than your own apartment, with lavender smelling soaps and towels that were warmed to perfection.  Mumbling profanities under your breath, you stripped your backpack, and your coat before grabbing a towel, and loading it with soap.

You worked hard to scrub the sweat and charcoal from your collarbone and then you moved to under your arms, scrubbing hard until the only thing you could smell was a floral sweetness.

It was then that you noticed you weren’t alone in the bathroom. The granite stall door behind you opened, and you froze in your movements. This woman- this woman was stunning enough for words to get caught in the web of your throat.

Her auburn hair was styled into waves, rolling over her shoulders, a black blouse hugging her curves. The bright bulbs above the sinks reflected brutally in her forest green stare. It seemed to pierce you, regard you as she made no effort to disguise the way it lingered. Your stomach felt hot.

“Am I interrupting something?” She asked, taking a few steps towards the furthest sink. She flicked on the water and pumped a few globs of soap into her palm. You awkwardly, lowered your arm, throwing the wad of towels into a basket.

“Ah, no” you cleared your throat “public… restroom”

Okay, you could do this, talking to a pretty woman wasn’t anything new. You did it on a daily basis when you ran into one of the actual tour guides at the museum. Of course, you spouted off about Egyptian lore and barely took a breath between words- but it was considered talking.

This time, though, you swallowed hard and grabbed your jacket, your bag, and fumbled your way out of the bathroom before she even had a chance to dry her hands. Another deep breath, another mortifying moment before you’d have to worm your way through an uncomfortable family dinner.

Just as the doors to the elevator closed, the stranger from the bathroom slipped into the small space. You nudged yourself into the corner, offering the beautiful woman up a timid smile. “Going up?”

Of course, she’s going up. Where else would she be going?

Fucking bird brain loved to watch you squirm. You wished this was one of the moments where the God of the Moon found a different use for his time instead of following his avatar around. There had to be something else to preoccupy him other than your horrible rapt sheet of talking to women.

“Penthouse, please.”

You hit the button and it lit up a stale blue. Khonsu watched you from the plated mirrors that encircled the elevator. If he could have a shit-eating grin, he would. Instead, he just regarded you from his unnatural height. You had practice ignoring him.

“Small world, me too.”

“Really?” She lifted an eyebrow.

“Yeah, I mean” You shoved your hands into your jean pockets “after awhile it doesn’t benefit you to dress up for this kind of thing. Not that you look bad. You look very nice I just…should stop talking now.”

“Huh,” She smiled at you then, a soft gesture that nearly eased all the tension in the elevator. Nearly. Khonsu had flickered out entirely. You couldn’t feel his looming presence anymore. The higher the floor the lighter you felt. He wouldn’t accompany you here, he had his own agenda.

When you glanced up, the woman’s eyes were on you again, trying to figure out how someone like you had gotten invited to the meal of the cities most famed art curator. You still held your jacket, your bag in white-knuckled hands. But still, you offered up your own smile in return.

The elevator lurched to a stop. A separate keypad lit up and you reached for your keyring before buzzing both of you in. The entryway was large and sterile, a mix of cherry red wood, stainless steel and elegance. The penthouse had two floors that overlooked the city, it’s flashing lights, it’s large windows. 

You could smell the Italian that wafted from the kitchen. It was usually served family style, in large basins filled with marinara and pasta. Your stomach clenched at the thought of food, having half-heartedly eaten a bagel from a bodega this morning.

At least you weren’t the only one that had strolled in late. When your mother rounded the edge of the stairs, she had a disapproving look on her face that was soon schooled into something that was semi acceptable for company that wasn’t family.

“Darling, you’re running late.” She moved close and placed a kiss against your cheek “I see you’ve met Miss Rushman, our new chief of security, or so we hope.”

“My apologies, I hit a particularly bad patch of traffic. I hope Aunt Dina isn’t too displeased.”

She waved you off “Nonsense. A nice bottle of wine and all will be forgiven. Let me take both of your coats.”

A nice bottle of wine was enough to reduce you to ramen noodles for the rest of the month, but you would never admit that to your family. That would be a fate worse than death. You took your mother up on her offer, passing her your coat in succession to the woman next to you.

Your family, namely your aunt and her husband, supplied the museums with all of their greatest exhibits, including the Egyptian one that you spent so much time in, sketching the same things over and over again until you got the shading right, got the shapes and the colors and the way the light shifted around the items throughout the year.

When you were young, you’d accompany her around the world, clutching your tiny passport and taking in the wonders of the trade conventions she would go to, the dig sites and castles that had been reclaimed by nature.

She could barely stand to make eye contact with you now, and part of you didn’t’ blame her for that. Being invited to their family dinners had been your mother’s idea, she prodded and poked at her sister until the woman agreed. Though, showing up late never boded well.

You blew out a small breath and made your way to the kitchen, trying to shake off the nerves that buzzed through you. A beautiful woman wasn’t going to knock you off your game. You had a dignity to uphold, though half the people here had seen you stumble through dance lessons as a kid.

There was a platter of different meats and cheeses set out on the kitchen island, a few bottles of chilled red wine. You reached for the wine wrack and pulled down two glasses, free of smudges. “You can’t get through one of these without a little bit of a buzz, Miss Rushman.”

“Natalie, please.” She stood across the island from you, watching carefully as you popped the cork and filled both glasses generously with alcohol.  

“I’m Y/N,”

She took the drink that you had offered, taking a few generous gulps. You smiled into your own glass, the sour scent. It hit the back of your throat and the edges of your jaw but quickly cooled your nerves. You’d have to get some food into you fast, a spare cracker or fancy cheese that you couldn’t pronounce.

“Don’t take this the wrong way. I certainly wouldn’t want to offend the family that has offered me such a generous position,”

“I don’t look like I belong here.” You finished her thought process with a swallow of wine.

She chuckled, a sweet sound. “No, you don’t.”

“I get that a lot, don’t worry. As far as they’re concerned, I’m not supposed to be here.” You frowned and shoved a cracker into your mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “Head of security, huh?”

“Not yet, I think this is supposed to convince me.” she sighed, leaning against the counter. You directed your attention to the flashing time on the oven behind her. Her blouse dipped low, eyes scanning you. More than anything, you fought the urge to look respectfully. “Best behavior and all”

When your aunt walked into the kitchen, you couldn’t quell the way your pulse picked up against the inside of your wrist. Instead, you straightened up and adjusted your collar as if you weren’t still wearing a t-shirt, slightly damp with the idea of lavender.

Natalie righted herself as well, pulling her shoulders back and taking in your aunt much like she had regarded you earlier, this time her stare was less honeyed and more tactical. The woman carried a certain elegance to her; Deep golden eyes, and long blonde hair that was died a lighter beige at the roots.

“Miss Rushman, I’m so pleased you could make it.” She took the woman’s hand in her perfectly manicured one. “I see you’ve met my niece. Don’t let her change your mind about accepting the position.”

You rolled your eyes and finished off your glass of wine. It was better not to argue with her, seeing as you had already stirred the pot with your tardiness. This was fine, everything was fine. You just had to breathe through it.

“Actually, she’s been perfectly charming.” Natalie said, shooting you a smile “We had a great conversation on the way up. She convinced me to take the position.”

The drink you had just downed threatened to make a second appearance as you choked on air, swallowing hard to stifle your shock. If standing there nervously sweating was enough to push a woman like this into accepting a position at the company, you weren’t aware of it.

“Y/N did?” Your Uncle Chip placed his hand on the small of Dina’s back. He was nursing a scotch that he would gingerly sip until the fire died down as well as the conversation. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad to have you on the team, Miss Rushman, but our Y/N? She tends to be-“

“Right here,” You spoke up.

He chuckled “Socially awkward. Passionate about certain things.”

Fuck. You really did need to count your blessings. If Khonsu wasn’t here, that was enough for you for the time being. You seemed to trade hands from the God to the family that would rather shun you.

“Passion is good,” Natalie said, “Do I smell spaghetti?”

Aunt Dina clapped her hands together and let out an excited noise before leading the way to the dining room. Chip grasped at the tray of food that you handed over to him. You palmed your glass and a small wicker basket of rolls to busy yourself.

“Thank you, Miss Rushman.” You whispered to her as you made your way to the dining room, swearing that she fought back a shiver. She gave you a pointed look “Natalie.”

You couldn’t help but feel a heat bloom against your abdomen, despite being wedged between your Aunt Dina and your own mother. You’d rather be back the museum, or home, or doing anything but this. But Natalie seemed to ease that in the slightest, as she met your eyes across the table.

Taglist: @pianogirl2121 @strangegardentaco @iwishforausername @tforjatp @lenam07 @143bc @littlebluestone @ohmy-godyes

[nottodayjjk]

dirty little secret ~ knj

❆ summary: one fateful night in december, you come to acquire santa's naughty or nice list by accident. together with your neighbour and best friend namjoon you uncover the dirty secrets of your neighbours plunging everything into chaos. bringing mischief about is all fun games, until your own little secret appears on the naughty and nice list.

❆ pairing: namjoon x female reader (minor appearance of other idols)

❆ word count: 10,4k

❆ genre: humor, romance, fluff, smut

❆ fic warnings: oral sex (f. receiving), language

❆ rating: 18+

❆ notes from the author: this fic is part of a hoeliday well spent from the christmas in july collab hosted by @kookdiaries​, @kithtaehyung​ and @xiaokoo​ and is loosely based on the hallmark channel-movie ‘naughty or nice’ (2012). i had a lot of fun writing this! big thank you again to @kookdiaries for creating this incredible banner and for @minigum for being the most wonderful beta reader <3

❆ tag list: @shameless-army​​ @writtenwhalien​​ @shrimpmsg​​ @moonchild1​

In the dark of the night, snow was falling softly and covered the street in peaceful quietness. Christmas decorations and flickering candles adorned the lit windows and lights were beautifully draped around snow-covered bushes. Sparkling reindeers pulled Santa’s carriage and inflated snowmen waved happily at cars driving by. Christmas time had just begun.

A few lamps illuminated the street with their yellow dimmed light as a dark, giant shadow slipped past. Quiet footsteps could be heard in the stillness of the cold winter night, wading through ankle-deep snow in heavy black boots. They were on their way to the sturdy apartment building on the left side of the desolate street, determined to fulfil their quest. They took another look around before they slipped through the glass door, the red fabric of their clothes gleamed under the flickering light of the broken lamp of the entrance lobby. Then, the night was quiet again.

You had been out with your best friend and next-door neighbour Namjoon whom you knew a few years by now. From the first day you had set foot in the small apartment building, he had been a helping hand, mainly through helping you carry a myriad of small boxes and things all the way up to the 6th floor where the both of you lived. The elevator had, of course, been out of order on that day. But he hadn’t complained at all! And because he had gone way out of his way even though he had only met you that same day, you had invited him to a take-away pizza and a bottle of cheap wine from the supermarket right around the corner. You had not expected your first night in your new home to be like this, to be so much fun. He had stayed until the morning, the two of you talking about anything and everything until the birds had chirped good morning outside. And the bond between the two of you had only grown from there on out.

You had visited a local Christmas market together, drinking a whole lot of eggnog and relishing in the joyful spirit of Christmas. You had never been someone to celebrate Christmas before you had met Namjoon. In your first year, he had basically dragged you to the market and filled you up with all kinds of different Christmassy drinks and snacks, bought you several gingerbread hearts, and even got you to ride one of the many attractions with him. The next day had been awful, the hot chocolate with rum had come out the same way that it had gone in. Still, it had been the most joyous Christmas time you had ever had.

Ever since then, he always did something new with you every Christmas. Buying a tree, seeing a Santa Claus show in the city centre, or writing letters with long wish lists to Santa. But it had never come down to actually spending Christmas eve and morning together, to your disappointment. He usually drove to his parents, a three-hour ride from where you lived, leaving you on your own to sulk in loneliness until he came back for New Year’s Eve.

Well, this year he had bugged you until you had agreed to go décor shopping for your apartment with him. It had made him sad to see your living space so empty during a cheery time like this. He got you all the basic things: fairy lights, cute little snowmen that had the friendliest smiles, a whole lot of candlesticks with red candles that smelled like gingerbread and cinnamon, hell, even glitter balls and bows for the small tree he also had gotten you.

After putting all the decorations up and “to celebrate your joyful shopping spree”, as Namjoon had called it, he had once again persuaded you to go to the Christmas market, letting no feeble excuses count. He had been in too good of a mood anyway for you to turn him down. You found it cute when he was all excited and giddy like this.

He had ordered eggnog after eggnog. His infectious enthusiasm had only gone up, not down a tad as you had hoped. But after the third eggnog, you hadn’t minded anymore anyway. Namjoon had entertained you all through the evening, making you laugh and enjoy yourself after a long week of studying and learning. Even though it had just snowed the other day, the eggnog had held you warm through and through, your cheeks feeling hot. Maybe it had also been a little bit because of Namjoon and how he had scooted closer and closer to you throughout the evening, ‘to keep each other warm’ as he had stated.

You had stayed until the booth had closed and the owner had hushed you to finally head home. Given both of your inebriated states, getting home had taken twice as long as it did when you’d left from home to go out.

As you had reached the door, waving a last goodbye to Namjoon who had stumbled clumsily into his own apartment, it had taken you a few minutes until you finally had gotten the key into the hole. You hadn’t even bothered to brush your teeth, only changing into comfy pyjamas – which had been quite the task – and slipping into bed. Dreamland hadn’t waited long to come, and you had fallen sound asleep.

So, to no one’s surprise, you didn’t hear when soft but heavy footsteps approached your apartment in the middle of the night. Didn’t spot the broad shadow that could be seen through the small gap under your door where the light fell in. Didn’t notice when a thick package wrapped with packing paper was pushed through the letter slot of your apartment door.

The package fell to the ground with a gentle thud. The towering figure hummed a merry tune before taking off again. You only turned around in your sleep, mumbling, “No more eggnog, Namjoon”, before it was quiet once more.

The rest of the night went uneventfully, and the package laid peacefully on your door mat until morning came.

A pounding headache. That was what had woken you up. The eggnog hadn’t been a good idea from the start, and you had told Namjoon several times. But even though he had listened to you, he had ignored your reasonable request. He hadn’t really given you a choice to begin with. And you hadn’t wanted to complain. At least he had paid and that was all that had been needed to convince you.

While Namjoon was already producing his own music, you were still a university student majoring in Art. You got by fine with the money your parents sent you and what you earned from your part-time job at the library, but you were still glad for every penny you could keep and save for after university. You dreamed of opening your own business and, heck, you needed a lot of money for that.

When Namjoon had heard of your ideas, he had been in immediately, supporting you in every way possible. Even if it meant paying for your drinks or your museum visits on the weekend. As long as he got to spend time with you, it was worth all his money.

You desperately grabbled for the nightstand. Luckily, you had prepared pain meds and water in advance, even a small piece of toast. Your nights out with Namjoon usually ended like this, so you are accustomed to it.

Sitting up a little, you popped the pills into your mouth first before chucking the water into your throat as if your life depended on it. Once you’d dealt with that, you reached towards the toast, munching on it until it was no more.

You felt better immediately as the medicine worked its way through your system and the toast soaked up the remaining alcohol in your stomach. Slowly the turns in your stomach lessened and until there was one thing overtaking your needs. It was time for coffee.

Slowly, you got up, swaying a little back onto the bed but overall, it was not as bad as you’d had expected. Sure, the eggnog had made your stomach a little weak, but you felt certain it could handle the coffee. Otherwise, you couldn’t make it through the day. Coffee was vital right now.

On the way out of your bedroom, you snatched your long silk gown, putting it on. You headed straight to the coffee machine, pushing the little blinking button so it started grinding the black beans. The soft smell of freshly ground coffee filled the air as you grabbed a big mug from the sink. You sighed and leaned one hip on the counter.

As you waited for the coffee you looked around and your gaze fell onto an exceptionally cheery snowman on your coffee table. You had never been keen on Christmas decorations. They were too bright, too colourful, and too cheesy.

Well, jokes on you. All the things the two of you had bought, the fairy lights, red candles, a few reindeers and snowmen, and some green fir branches, were now spread around your apartment, the small tree chilling next to your TV in the corner. It was hard to say ‘No’ to Namjoon’s puppy eyes. He usually got his way with you.

It had also been his idea to not only put the lights on the curtain rods but to wind them around them, too. 

He had held you safely by your waist as you had stood on the ladder to reach up there. His long, slender hands had felt so warm through your clothes that your heart had stuttered for a second and you had gotten the job done rather quickly to get away from this weird feeling that had erupted in your chest. Because you couldn’t admit it to yourself. You couldn’t admit that Namjoon had become more than a best friend to you over the last few years.

But you had to confess; the lights were very very pretty. You even thought about keeping them up there after Christmas. They brought a soft glow around the room that made it feel unbelievably cosy and romantic.

As you absentmindedly grabbed for your finished cup of coffee you couldn’t help but remember the way Namjoon’s skin had glowed in these lights. How mesmerizing he had looked. How hard you had had to keep yourself from putting a hand up to one of his cheeks and caressing his soft skin.

You lost yourself in the memory for a second before you noticed something very peculiar from the corner of your eye. Something very square and brown. It was a package. On your doormat. ‘What in god’s name,’ you thought to yourself as you eyed it in curious suspicion. The post usually never came that early. Especially not on a Saturday. And why had no one rang the bell? It was odd, to say the least.

You left your coffee on the counter, steam still rising in puffy clouds from the cup. Cautiously, you made your way over to the mysterious package that read your full address, but no sender. It was quite big, now that you had gotten closer, and it had you wondering how it had fit through the narrow letter slot. Maybe Namjoon was pulling a prank on you?

Before you picked up the package, you opened the door and checked the hallway, frantically looking left and right. But no one was there, not even Namjoon to cheekily grin at you.

Closing the door behind you, you took the brown package and laid it down on the counter next to your coffee. You eyed it once more while taking a long sip from the beverage. Should you open it? What if there was something… bad or deadly inside? You had heard of such packages before on the news. People sent them to get revenge on ex-partners or enemies. Well, you had no such things… and Namjoon seemed to be out of the picture as well.

After some more staring, curiosity finally got the best of you, and you carefully ripped open the brown packing paper. It revealed a heavy book that was edged in red velvety fabric that had golden ornaments engraved. Imprinted on it was the lettering “Naughty or Nice”. Wait- what?!

Snorting laughter erupted from your chest. This had to be a prank, right? ‘Namjoon’s good,’ you thought to yourself. ‘Keeps hiding until I actually look at the book. Not a very good prank, but alright…’

As you were about to open it, you could hear a key jingling in front of your door and some mumbled curses. ‘Speaking of the devil.’ Namjoon strode through the door in his pyjama and a long gown, his hair looking dishevelled and eyes still half-closed. He had your spare keys which gave him the possibility to let himself in whenever and you didn’t mind. At this point, it had become commonplace.

You watched with an amused grin as he immediately scuffed over to the coffee machine, grabbing another cup from the sink, and turning it on once more. He inhaled the smell just like you did before he turned around to face you.

“Morning, Y/N,” he hummed, and a lop-sided grin adorned his lips. Hell, how did this sleepy look fit him so well? “How is your stomach?”

You crossed your arms and leant back on the counter. “Better than I thought. You?”

“Same, same. I just really craved your coffee. This machine is a literal angel!” He turned back around to grab his coffee and take a big gulp before letting out a satisfied sigh.

“Very funny, by the way.” You pointed at the book behind you, still laying unopened on your counter. “You never have Christmas-pranked me before so that’s a first. But it isn’t one of your best ideas, if I can be honest with you.”

There was a moment of silence. You had expected him to laugh at you or make a clever remark about how he had gotten you to open it. But… nothing. He just blankly stared at you. “What?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. Making this book look like Santa’s Naughty or Nice list? Very funny, Namjoon, very funny!” You chuckled a little at him pretending not to know what you were talking about.

He spied over your shoulder, reading the lettering. And shook his head. “Y/N. I… didn’t prank you. This–“ He pointed to the book. “–is nothing I came up with. Though I must say, I think it’s a pretty good idea!” He snickered a little and took another sip of his coffee.

“But–“ You turned around to the book. “–who sent it to me then? I don’t know who else would try and prank me…” Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, taking another look at the packing paper. Still nothing but your address.

“Have you opened it yet?”

“No, I was just about to when you came through the door.” You put a hand on the binding. The velvet fabric felt soft under your fingertips and the golden lettering glittered in the glim of the fairy lights. It looked so… real.

Carefully, you opened it, coming face to face with a blank page. Maybe the others? You browsed to the next page. And the next. And the next. But they were all blank, not even a tiny little bit of ink to be seen. ‘Weird…’

Skimming through the rest of the book, you looked for anything peculiar. Nothing. “It’s empty,” you told Namjoon, while going back to the first page and leaving it open.

You heard shuffling on the floor and suddenly Namjoon leaned over your shoulder to look at the book. He stretched out his hand to skim through it as well. He was so close. You could feel the heat radiating off his body and his breath on your neck as he let out a confused huff.

When he stepped back from you after inspecting the book, you wished him back closer behind you. ‘Stop that,’ you scolded yourself in your head. ‘He is your best friend!’

“Well, it actually looks like someone pulled a prank on you,” Namjoon stated while making himself another cup of coffee. He usually runs on three. On a good day. That you knew his coffee consumption so well said a lot about how regularly he came over in the morning to use your coffee machine.

“Apparently…”

Loud bass suddenly disrupted the morning, booming through the wall to your left. ‘No, not again!’ It was your other neighbour… Jungkook. He kept it down on most days. But he always pulled this on a Saturday morning, and you were sure he was doing it on purpose just to annoy you. You had banged on the wall a few times before. On some days he even turned the music down after your knocking complaint. But today, it was on a whole other level. As if he knew you had been out late and had a mild hangover.

“Ugh, I’ll swear I’ll punch him some day,” you mumbled while pinching your eyebrows in frustration.

Namjoon knew you weren’t kidding. Jungkook had been getting on your nerves ever since he had moved in next door. Before him, there lived a nice and quiet lady who occasionally baked chocolate cookies for the two of you and had always put something nice in front of your door during Christmas time. Now, there was Jungkook. Student, party animal, and the type to listen to music so loud you couldn’t hear your own thoughts.

“I wouldn’t mind,” Namjoon said. “But I also don’t want to have to visit you in prison during Christmas time.” He chuckled lightly, running a hand through his hair before chucking down his coffee.

Suddenly, you heard a rustling noise of paper coming from the counter. The book! It was turning its pages on its own. “Holy-“

You stepped in front of the counter, Namjoon following closely, eyes as wide as the moon. “How is that possible?” he whispered while peering over your shoulder again.

A golden light bloomed from the Naughty or Nice book and the two of you just stared at in great awe as sparkles danced around the room. “I’m usually not one to believe in magic,” Namjoon muttered under his breath. “But this is a whole new thing…”

The turning stopped and the pages gently dropped down. Beautiful, curved letters emerged, writing your neighbour’s name. They shone golden in the light. “What is happening?” you hissed while intently watching the book. Namjoon just shrugged his shoulders, speechless.

 Jeon Jungkook: always leaves his trash in front of Mrs. Kim’s apartment door

Underneath was a moving picture, showing Jungkook looking around frantically before putting his trash bag on Mrs. Kim’s doormat and a more detailed description of what was going on. You gasped out in disbelief. “Mrs. Kim is always so nice! How dare he!?”

Namjoon let out an angry huff. “You’ve got a good point but-“ His forehead crinkled in confusion and scepticism. “How does it do that?”

You shrugged, turning the page to see if it had a built-in display. But… there was nothing. It was just a normal page like any other. You turned back to the picture of Jungkook where he had gotten caught in the act. By whom? You didn’t know, could only guess… But no, this was not possible. Santa didn’t exist. But… an idea came to your head.

“Hmm, let’s put this to a test,” you said as the pounding bass continued to boom through the wall. You left the book open, the image of Jungkook engraved in your head, as you turned on your heels and made your way over to the door.

“You actually gonna go over there?” Namjoon trailed behind you, not sure if this was the right thing to do. You definitely had a reason to be angry at Jungkook. But what if this was all just a scam? Well, it felt far too real for that, but Namjoon wasn’t yet ready to call his beliefs into question. This was insane.

You nodded and opened the door. “He has been getting on my nerves for a few weeks now. It’s time to put this to a stop.” You gave him one last determined book before stepping out into the hallway.

Namjoon shook his head in amusement at your vendetta and stopped at your doorstep, leaning against the frame watching you. This was your fight. He wouldn’t get between the frontlines. He knew your anger all too well.

You rapped viciously on the door; quite sure Jungkook wouldn’t hear any of it. And of course, the door didn’t open and the music blared on. So, you resorted to a more effective method. You pressed the button of the bell and held it down. ‘I will have you answer your door even if it takes the whole freaking day.’

It took a few seconds, but you heard the music fading and someone swearing behind the door. It worked. A malicious smirk adorned your lips. You weren’t even nervous, more excited to try the spicy information you had acquired about him. The keys jingled in the keyhole and an annoyed face appeared in the ajar door. “What is it?”

You crossed your arms and put on your most intimidating look. The secret from the book gave you a hell of a confident boost. “Jungkook,” you started, “I’ve told you many many times to quiet it down.”

He rolled his eyes and huffed. “I know. I’m sorry but-“

You cut him off immediately. “No buts. You’re either gonna tone it down from now on or…”

“Or what? You’re trying to threaten me?” He laughed and threw his head back. “That’s new. Well, you’ve got nothing on me, Y/N.”

You squinted your eyes at him, and a smile grew on your face. “You sure?”

Jungkook leaned against the door frame while looking bored. The arrogant look on his face gave you the rest of the encouragement you needed. “Well,” you swirled one of your hair strands around your finger, “I know you’re putting your trash bags on Mrs. Kim’s doormat, so you don’t have to take it out yourself…”

It took a moment for Jungkook to realise what you just said. But when he finally did, his jaw almost dropped down to his knees. “How-“

“The poor woman. I think she deserves to know…” You turned around, feeling the power pulsating in your hands. It was electrifying! You slowly strode over to your apartment.

“Y/N!” Jungkook called out after you, desperation apparent in his voice. “I-“ He dropped his head in defeat, all pride and arrogance had left his body. “If you don’t tell her, I promise I’m gonna tone it down from now on,” he caved in.

“You better,” you just answered and walked away, leaving a speechless Jungkook by his door.

Namjoon snickered as you entered your apartment again, finding the whole situation very amusing. “Have you seen his face? He was so stunned!” Both of you burst out into a fit of laughter, needing a few seconds to calm yourselves down again.

You went back to the still open book. “So it tells the truth…” you stated while tracing the letters with your fingers when they suddenly started to disappear. “Oh! They’re vanishing!”

“Probably because you called him out on that,” Namjoon assumed, looking at the now empty page and then at you. “You know what that means… right?”

You turned it over in your head for a few seconds before you answered Namjoon’s gaze with a mischievous smile. “Let’s discover some secrets this Christmas!”

And so, the two of you went on to discover the hidden secrets and misdeeds of all of your neighbours. The book was never wrong. Not when it told you that Mrs. Kim had a secret fling with Mr. Sung from floor 5 and they were acting like giddy teenagers, that Mrs. Lee let her dog pee on Mrs. Park’s door mat once in a while because they couldn’t stand each other, that Soonyoung from second floor liked to bathe in pure milk occasionally, that Yeji from first floor stole Mr. Chew’s newspaper now and then because he was rude to basically everyone in the building, that Taehyung from fourth floor had sang Christmas carols in the middle of the night for Yeji because he had been out to drink, and many many more.

Some of them you used for your amusement, but most of them were kept between the both of you. You felt closer to Namjoon than ever before. Sharing and keeping secrets about your neighbours bound you together. And Christmas time was a blast, for the both of you! You went out once in a while to the Christmas market again but usually you kept your noses in the Naughty or Nice book, awaiting the next secret to appear. So, Christmas time went by in a happy blur.

After coming home from another one of your merry adventures, you began to realise that this might all be over soon. Actually, Christmas evening was tomorrow already and Namjoon would probably be off to his parents. You didn’t want to stop discovering all these secrets with Namjoon. You had spent a lot of time together; it had been so much fun. And you liked being around him, you knew that. You weren’t ready to admit it, but you had fallen in love with him even more by now. Even after all these years, his way of living and his wisdom still amazed you to no end.

Your thoughts were suddenly disrupted by Namjoon as the both of you reached your apartment door. “Y/N?”

“Yes,” you answered, shaking yourself out of your thoughts. Namjoon stood in front of you, nervously wrenching his hands. You had never seen him skittish before. Had something happened?

He took a deep breath before he began to speak. “I was… wondering if you wanted to spent Christmas together?” Namjoon nervously scratched his head. “I-“ he stumbled over his own words for a moment. “I don’t want you to be alone for Christmas. And my parents won’t be at home anyway. So, I was wondering- I mean-“ He rambled on and gestured wildly between the both of you.

To stop him, you gently put your hand on his arm. “Yes,” you answered simply and smiled at him happily, not able to contain your excitement at his request. Your heart was beating in your chest. Spending Christmas with Namjoon was a dream come true.

“I... would love to.” You rubbed your arm awkwardly while not being able to meet his eyes. You were sure he would be able to read your confused feelings for him right there.

He let out a small huff of relief. “Good, good… We can go grocery shopping together tomorrow if you want. So we can pick something to eat that we both like.”

“That sounds like a great idea. Meet in the morning as usual?” you asked, fidgeting with your jacket sleeve.

Namjoon nodded. “I will cook of course. You will be my guest! Also, your cooking skills might be a little insufficient for Christmas…” Mischievousness gleamed in his eyes and you just shook your head, laughing a little.

“I think my cooking skills are fine as they are. It’s not my fault you don’t like the food that I cook!” you exclaimed and hit his shoulder playfully. “Also, your food might taste better than mine. But you’re definitely more chaotic than I am!”

“Okay, okay,” he put his hands up in defeat. “You’ve got a point. I’m still cooking though.” He took off his beanie to run a hand through his hair. He stretched his arms out, motioning for you to give him a goodbye-hug.

Your skin tingled as you obliged. His hands rested on your back as he tugged you close. “Good night, Y/N,” he whispered into your ear, eliciting a shiver running down your back. Gosh, his voice and his soft lips were hovering right next to your ear. It created images in your head you shouldn’t be thinking about in the proximity of your best friend, but you couldn’t help yourself.

You swallowed a big lump in your throat. “Good night to you too,” you whispered back with a hoarse voice, heart still fluttering. He could hear the rapid beating for sure.

Both of you stayed in the hug longer than necessary, thinking about what would become of your adventures once Christmas was over. You were sure the book would disappear, that its owner would come to get it.

You sighed before stepping away from Namjoon, giving him a small smile before pulling out your keys. He went over to his door, a jingling noise reaching your ears. You looked over your shoulder before entering your apartment.

“Sweet dreams, Y/N,” Namjoon called over in a hushed voice before he disappeared behind his own door. Little did you and he know what effect these last few words would have on you…

Wanton sounds escaped your mouth as your hands grasped fiercely for your sheets. Waves of pleasure rolled through your body as you felt a desperate mouth latching onto your clit, tongue poking out to gratify your little bundle of nerves. Your eyes rolled back into your head. It felt… overwhelming.

You couldn’t hold in a lewd moan as the tongue worked magic on you. “Please–“ You couldn’t form a whole sentence without being interrupted by your own moans.

You felt a hand softly caressing your thigh. “Y/N,” a familiar voice reached your ear, making you perk up. Was this… real? You lifted yourself on your elbows to see if you were right with your guess.

Looking up from between your legs was a tousled Namjoon, cheeks red and lips glistening in the light of your fairy lights. He looked like an angel with his skin glowing golden and his hair illuminated.

It felt like a dream come true…

It wasn’t the morning light waking you up nor the loud traffic noise from the street in front of your apartment building. No. What woke you up was the growing wetness between your legs. Your heart beat loudly in your chest, a light film of sweat covered your forehead. Well, that had been… hot.

You had had dreams of Namjoon before. Funny ones, sad ones, even ones where the two of you had been dating. But with things like this, you had only been daydreaming about thus far. It had you all riled up, a little embarrassed, but first and foremost horny.

His head between your legs and his tongue on your clit had felt so real. Oh, what you’d give to actually get to feel that. But you were sure that it would remain something that stayed in your daydreams, when you had to release some friction behind your bedroom doors.

You sighed, pushing the thick blanket to the side. You had to take care of the mess between your legs and there was only one place that always helped: the shower. You had to get this dream out of your head before Namjoon would come over. Otherwise you wouldn’t be able to look into his eyes without thinking of the sinful scene that repeated itself again and again in your head.

‘Let’s get this over with,’ you pushed yourself to get out of bed and into the shower. As if you didn’t enjoy this…

As you sat down by the book again with a big cup of fresh coffee, you were actually wondering if you’d ever appear on the list. Or Namjoon. And which secret of yours it would be. So far, it hadn’t spilled any of yours. But it would be merely a matter of time until the pages would reveal what you had kept from one another. Even though there were barely any secrets between the two of you. Only this… this was kind of a major one.

Absent-mindedly, you browsed through the book again. What secret would reveal itself today? Maybe about this dude all up on floor 7 that was always wearing a beanie and sunglasses or that girl from over the street that was walking her dog up and down the street.

Someone was entering the apartment. Namjoon rounded the corner and came into your view. He was also still in his morning clothes, his feet hidden beneath two slippers. Your gazes met shortly, a quick nod exchanged and gentle smiles, before he made a turn.

“And?” He strolled over to the coffee machine, slippers scratching on the floor. “Anything new?” He nodded towards the book sprawled out in front of you.

“I haven’t really checked yet, give me a second.” You concentrated back on the book, pages sliding through your fingers as you looked for a new secret until you found it. You didn’t really pay any attention at first. But then you read your name in big, curved letters. A quiet gasp slipped past your lips.

Checking to see if Namjoon was still making coffee, you hoped he was not aware of your little slip up. He happily worked away, putting coffee beans into the machine, whistling ‘Jingle Bells Rock’ to the puckering sound of the milk frother.

Then, you turned your attention back to the book. When you read Has naughty dreams of their best friend in small letters, your heart sped up and your breathing got ragged. Underneath it was, like it had always been the case before, a more detailed description of what had happened. And a picture of you writhing and moaning beneath the sheets. No, why today?!

The words in front of you blurred as you tried to fathom the consequences if Namjoon came to read this. Your friendship would be over. He would never speak to you again. Hell, what would he think of you?!

You couldn’t let that happen. He was the only thing in your life that kept you sane. That could not all be thrown away. You quickly closed the book, thinking of something to distract Namjoon.

Unfortunately, the loud thump startled Namjoon. He turned around as he heard the sudden noise. He eyed you for a second and then noticed the closed book under your hands. He put down the coffee spoon he was holding. “Uhm… Are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Your eyes are like… this wide.” He put a fair distance between his thumb and his pointer finger.

Quickly shaking your head, you scrambled for words. “It’s nothing. I-I thought I…” Yeah, what did you think? It was hard to lie when Namjoon looked at you like that. Your brain couldn’t come up with anything. Instead, you just gulped heavily.

Namjoon’s coffee was now forgotten, its owner too curious about what you had read and seen. He had, of course, noticed your nervous behaviour, growing suspicious of what you were trying to do. His slippers scraped along the floor again as he casually made his way over to you. With his gaze never leaving your face, he followed your every move.

Clambering for the book, you secured it in your arms before Namjoon could reach for it. He couldn’t find out. Not about the dream. Not about the feelings you held for him. But especially not about the dream. The sinful scenes replayed themselves in your head again and you felt your cheeks heating up once more. “There is nothing in there,” you exclaimed, trying to sound as convincing as possible. But there was a crack in your voice. And you could see it in his eyes. He knew.

Scrambling to sit up right on the couch, you shook your head ‘No’, keeping the book tight in your clutches. Over your dead body would it fall into his hands.

“If there is nothing to see, why are you keeping it from me?” He tried to reason with you, stretching out a hand towards the book that you kept clutched in front of your chest, your arms wrapped around it like it was the most precious treasure you had ever possessed.

Namjoon was not one to accept a ‘No’, you knew that. You could spot the determined look in his eyes already. There was nothing that would keep him from finding out. And that had you scared like hell.

You could only stare at him, not having an answer for his very true and logical question. He would always catch you with his well thought-out reasoning. It made you want to tear your hair out every time. Right now, though, you were paralysed by fear.

“Well, you leave me no choice,” he approached you slowly, trying to read you, trying to calculate which escape route you would take. Because whatever stood in that book, had you all jittery and he had to know why. Though he knew that you would never show him voluntarily.

Panic, your brain screamed. And your body scrambled up from the couch, trying to get away from Namjoon. You still clutched the book in front of your chest with both hands.

“No, no, no!” he lunged forward, reaching for you. “You’re not getting away!” He got your left foot before you could escape safely from the couch. Your body fell back onto the cushions, knocking the breath out of your lungs. But you didn’t let go of the book, no matter the pain it would cost.

In his haste to prevent your escape, he knocked down a few wooden reindeers and snowmen from the coffee table. Luckily, there was no glass there. You had told him right in the store that you would not be buying any glass decorations if he would be around. With his clumsiness, he would knock them down within mere seconds. Hell, he had almost dropped something right then and there in the shop. But you both had other things to worry about right now than your Christmas decorations.

“Namjoon,” you shout out anxiously. “Let go of me!” But his grip on you didn’t ease up.

“Not before you show me the freaking book, Y/N!” And he kept his word, his hands desperately trying to seize the book from your tight grip. But you wouldn’t give up so easily. You once more tried to get away from him, grasping for the armrest and pulling like your life depended on it. But he was just too strong, with one hand grabbling for the book and the other holding down your legs.

While fighting him off, you didn’t notice how he’d crawled up your body, getting in nearer reach of the book. And suddenly he was way too close to your face, hovering above you in such an intimate way he never had before.

There had been moments of course. Where he had caged you in a little at your door, when he had leaned in too close, when he had pulled you into his warm embrace… But that had been something different.

Now he laid on top of you, covering your body with his. His chest heaved against yours as he tried to catch his breath from fighting with you. His grey-dyed hair fell in streaks into his eyes and once more his skin glowed in the warm fuzzy light of the fairy lights that framed his head. For a second, the both of you just... stopped.

He looked deeply into your eyes; his pupils overshadowed with an emotion you couldn’t grasp. Your heart beat even faster and your brain felt like it would explode any minute. Your senses were heightened, and you could feel his skin burning on yours. It was… ravishing. Your body couldn’t get enough of it already.

Suddenly, he snapped the book out of your hand, forcing an evil laughter out of his mouth and the moment was gone. He had shamelessly used your messed up state to his advantage and now the book was in his hands.

He scrambled back up from his position on top of you, quickly getting away from you and taking the book with him so you wouldn’t come up with the idea of snatching it back from him. Well, you had resigned already anyway. There was no way you could stop the inevitable from happening now. You said your last goodbye to your friendship. He took one last look at your dishevelled and defeated state before he plopped down on the armchair.

Thump, thump, thump. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears like the drums of that one Christmas song that they always played on the radio, and your stomach took a heavy leap. No, you couldn’t watch this. It was just too much to handle. You grabbed for the plush Santa Namjoon had gotten you as a joke last year, and hid your face in the red fabric of his cloak. You peeked out anxiously, watching Namjoon.

Pages rustled as Namjoon slowly opened the book. His heart beat just as fast as yours as he searched for the right page. Not because he was anxious, but because of his excitement as to what he would get to read on that page. And then he finally found it.

He was not surprised that it was about you. He had actually predicted that. Why else would you react that way if this didn’t reveal something about you? But the content had him gasping out in astonishment.

To actually believe it, he had to read it more than once. It beat all of his wildest dreams. Not only had you caught feelings for him, but he had of course caught feelings for you as well. And quite some time ago too. He had wanted to confess more than once but he hadn’t had the guts. He was very afraid of losing you as well so this came as a very pleasant surprise to him.

Unable to help it, he read the passage once more and let his gaze on the image of you linger a little longer, feeling arousal crawl up his body. He had caught you staring at him here and there, when going for a swim in the summer or when he read a book, when you didn’t think he would notice. He had never given much thought to it though. He would have never guessed that you had thought about him, dreamed about him.

He needed a few to gather himself, to brace himself for what was to come. He couldn’t let this slide just like that now that he knew that you felt the same for him. Now that he knew what you were craving. And he wanted to give you exactly that. All night if you wanted to. He wanted to give you the pleasure that you deserved, see you writhing underneath his fingers, calling out his name so that everyone could hear what he did to you.

A mischievous grin passed over his face. He would take care of that wish of yours, as a Christmas gift. That he promised to himself and gathered all of his confidence for. His heartbeat was going through the roof but he didn’t want you to know, and tried to keep a calm face.

You peeked out once more as he closed the book. You tried to read his face, but there was nothing to work with. Had your friendship been ruined already? Would he just leave and never say a word to you ever again? You expected the worst, already feeling tears prick in your eyes.

Namjoon slowly got up from the armchair and now you were sure he would leave the apartment. You felt embarrassment, shame, and regret overwhelm you. But there was something in you that fought back. Your eyes grew big, you couldn’t just let him go like this. “Namjoon, I-“

But he cut you off mid-sentence. “Y/N, Y/N, Y/N.” He shook his head, putting the book down on the table and shoved it over towards you. Your gaze fell back to the image of you, a moaning mess in the bed. You couldn’t handle looking at it and instead gazed up at Namjoon and being met with an expression that you hadn’t expected at all.

He looked like a boy who had gotten the biggest present for Christmas, but there was also something a lot less innocent in his eyes. Holding your gaze, he came back over to the couch and crouched in front of you.

“You’ve been –“ He swallowed visibly, nervousness getting the best of him for a second, before he proceeded with confidence “–a very naughty girl, Y/N, haven’t you?” He cocked an eyebrow while putting both of his hands next to your legs that rested on the edge of the couch.

A shiver ran down your spine at his words. Never had you imagined that Namjoon would speak like this to you. You could not say much, your throat going dry, and just slowly nodded your head.

“Hmm, thought so,” he answered while letting his gaze wander over your form. “Well, what do we do about that? Naughty girls need to be punished, right?” His eyes drifted back to your face, satisfied he took notice of the effect he had on you. How your legs unconsciously rubbed together at his every movement.

With the heat rising from you, he felt drawn to you.

“But I think you’ve been pretty nice this year. I think we leave the punishment for another day and instead–“ He nodded towards the book, referring to the description of your dream under the picture. “– keep working on this.” He turned back towards you. “What do you think, Y/N?”

His words were music in your ears. This was more than you could wish for. You pinched yourself for a second, making sure it wasn’t another dream of yours, that you hadn’t just fallen asleep again in your bed. But it was as real as it could get. Arousal is already pooling in your panties, Namjoon’s deep voice resounding in your head.

By now, he was drawing small, soft circles on the skin of your thigh, patiently waiting for your answer. He wouldn’t do anything about it as long as you hadn’t given your consent. There was still a little voice inside of him that wasn’t sure if you really felt the same. He had no time to think too much about it though.

You cleared your throat, the effect he had on you clear as day. “I’d… love that.” You shyly answered, carefully putting a hand on Namjoon’s cheek. He leaned into your touch immediately, closing his eyes for a second to enjoy the feeling of the gentle action.

He pushed himself up a little, his face hovering in front of yours. You held your breath, excited for what was to come. He was even closer than before. You could feel puffs of his hot breath gently caressing your lips. His eyes kept yours caged, his pupils blown looking like black holes that swallowed you to take you to another dimension.

With his hand moving up to the side of your neck, it gingerly brushed against the skin and he left it at the nape of your neck. His face inched closer, barely any space left between your lips now. Your thumb grazed over his cheek, the skin underneath warm and tender. You could stay like this forever.

“May… may I kiss you?” Namjoon asked, gaze drifting between your shining eyes and your tempting lips. You took his breath away, making him weak in the knees. Why hadn’t he confessed to you sooner? He could have had it all already. You had both missed out on so much. But there was still so much time to make up for it all.

It took all of your willpower to not kiss him right then and there, but to answer his question first. You looked deep into his eyes, “Yes, I beg you to.”

And that was all that was needed for Namjoon to desperately press his lips against yours without hesitating for even a second. Both of you closed your eyes, relishing in the moment of the first kiss shared between the two of you. It was not at all how you had expected it to feel but so much more. Your heart took a leap at his soft lips that moved so lovingly against yours while his thumb stroked your neck, goosebumps rising on your skin.

Namjoon had to take a break to catch his breath, soft laughter escaping his lips. His hand remained at the back of your neck and so did yours on his cheek. But this break didn’t last long because both of you were already hungry for more. Your other hand went into his hair while your mouth landed back on his.

Tugging a little at the strands, he couldn’t help but let out a quiet moan, his lips opening to the kiss. His tongue darted out, tapping against your lower lip and begging for entrance. You let him stew a little until both of your tongues met in a heated battle.

Slowly, Namjoon could feel himself getting hard. Your sweet lips got the best of him and he couldn’t do anything against it when his mind imagined them wrapped around his cock. He could feel it twitch in his pyjama pants, begging for attention. But Namjoon wanted for you to cum first. The outlook of getting to taste you with his tongue between your folds was too promising.

In fact, he didn’t want to wait any longer. As much as he enjoyed making out with you, he wanted to dig into the real fun. He broke the kiss, pressing his forehead softly against yours. This time you had to catch your breath.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Y/N?” Namjoon whispered softly, asking for your permission to go on.

You pecked his lips adoringly. “I mean I’ve been dreaming about it.” Both of you chuckled lightly, caressing each other’s skin. “I couldn’t wish for more this Christmas.” You had to stifle a laugh. This was the most interesting Christmas you had ever had. And you loved it.

Namjoon made his way over to your ear with featherlight kisses to nibble on your earlobe before he hushed into your ear, making you shiver at the nickname he used for you, “I want you to tell me if you feel uncomfortable, baby girl.”

“I will,” you breathed back, enjoying the shivers that ran down your spine as Namjoon’s breath tickled your skin. You buzzed with excitement, awaiting his treatment.

“Okay, baby girl,” he moved down from your ear to your neck, nipping at the skin and grazing his teeth over your shoulder a little. “I can’t wait to taste you.”

While your breathing got heavier at these few words already, he gently pushed your thighs apart with his hands, his upper body moving in the space in between to have better access to your neck. His hands wandered over your inner thighs, setting your skin on fire and your blood boiling.

Another quiet moan escaped your mouth. It all felt just too heavenly. And it made Namjoon proud to know he was making you feel good. You deserved it and he was ready to give it to you for the rest of your life if it meant he would hear your sweet little moans.

As he nibbled lightly on your neck, his hands crawled up your shirt, pushing it up over your chest. His mouth unlatched to attach itself again to one of your nipples immediately, drawing sloppy circles around it. While one of his hands held up the shirt, the other sweetly caressed your other breast, brushing against the sensitive bud and making it stand up, aroused.

Throwing your head back, you pushed your upper body into Namjoon’s face. The treatment he blessed you with was paradisiac. If it was up to you, he could do that for the rest of eternity. Still, there was one place where you needed him a lot more…

“Joonie.” His nickname left your lips in a faint, breathless hush. He let out a breathy moan against your nipple. God, now his mind would forever replay this moment and your needy plea whenever someone would call him by this nickname. You were his rise and his fall.

He pecked your nipple one last time before looking up from in between your breasts with hooded eyes. “Yes, baby girl?”

“I need you,” you breathed out, hands still playing with his soft hair.

He cocked his head, one of his eyebrows rising. “Need me how?”

You let out a quiet, frustrated sigh. He knew exactly how, teasing you in a vulnerable moment. With your cheeks heating up, you looked away for a second. This was still very unchartered territory to you.

Feeling one of his hands back on your cheek, he tilted your head to look at him. Eyes full of genuity, he softly told you, “You don’t need to be ashamed when you’re with me. You can freely tell me what you want because I want to make you feel good.” He took your hand and pressed a lingering kiss to your temple, softly muttering against your skin, “I want you to feel safe with me.”

It was easy to tell he was being serious and honest. How did you deserve this man? You mouthed a quiet ‘thank you’ to him, feeling more at ease now. And it gave you the confidence to state your desire.

“Joonie… I need your mouth on me and your tongue in me, please,” you begged as you didn’t break off the eye contact. His eyes lit up at your words and he nodded eagerly, pressing one more kiss on your knuckles before he let your hand go.

“If you need something to hold onto, my hair is as good as anything else,” Namjoon told you, winking at you saucily before levelling his head with your clothed core. You held in a breath as he put a featherlight kiss to your inner thigh before nipping on the smooth skin.

His hands wandered over your lower legs towards your waist where they played with the hem of your pyjama shorts, ghosting over your skin. He could smell your wetness and it drove him crazy. He was just as riled up as you were.

He looked up from between your legs, giving you a very similar view as your dream had. You still couldn’t believe that this was all actually happening.

“Baby girl? Could you do me a favor?” His hands slipped back under your shirt for a second, drawing soft circles on your lower back.

You nodded eagerly, willing to do anything as long as he’d continue his exploration down your pants.

“Could you lift your hips for me a little?” He nodded towards your hips. “We need to get these out of the way.”

You obeyed his request, leaning back while lifting up your hips from the couch. All you wanted was his mouth on you.

Namjoon sucked in a breath, preparing himself for the view he was about to get. He had dreamed of that moment many, many times. In the shower when the thoughts of you got over his head, in bed when he had had another vivid dream of you in his arms.

He gently pulled down both your pyjama shorts and your panties, dragging them slowly over your legs to fully enjoy this moment. The clothing items in question hit one of the snowmen in the face as Namjoon carelessly threw them over his shoulder.

You felt the cold air hit your sensitive skin, dragging in a breath as it came in contact with the rough material of the couch. You needed release desperately right now, even little things like these throwing you off. You sank back into the couch a little.

Heartbeat strumming in his ears, Namjoon’s gaze wandered between your legs, laying eyes on your glistening folds for the first time. It was a sight to behold, at least for him. “Fuck, Y/N,” he muttered under his breath, dragging one hand through his hair while lowering back down between your legs.

“Let me make you feel good,” he whispered while pushing his arms under your legs and pulling them up on his shoulders so he could get better access. You relaxed your upper body on the backrest while shifting your hips up to the edge of the couch so that not only you were comfortable, but it would also be easier for Namjoon.

He gave you one last smile before pressing his head between your legs, his hair pleasantly tickling the inner skin of your thighs. You could feel hot puffs of breath hitting your sensitive folds, making you shiver around him. He hummed lightly, pleased at your reaction.

With his hands gently holding down your thighs, he pressed soft kisses around your pussy, nipping at the skin here and there and biting down softly. He closed his eyes, savoring the last moment before he would get to taste you.

With one hand holding you up, you entangled the other back into his hair, threading through the strands. Your soft gasps filled the air, encouraging Namjoon on.

Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore, dropping a sloppy kiss onto your pussy. Tongue darting out between his lips, he took a long lick along your glistening folds. You tasted so good, he was glad that you would be the first meal of his day besides the coffee.

A strangled moan reached his hair and he opened his eyes to watch you throw your head back in pleasure. You looked like a goddess in the dim light of the morning and the fairy lights, the sinful image burned into his mind forever.

One of his hands reached around your leg to spread your folds for him, your clit coming into view. He latched his mouth onto it, sucking it in like a starved man.

Waves of pleasure rolled over you, feet pressing down on Namjoon’s back. If he kept this up, you would be falling apart in mere minutes. Your hands tugged on his hair, urging him to continue his treatment of your pussy. “Don’t stop,” you breathed out.

He replaced his lips with his thumb, caressing your bundle of nerves while his mouth moved further down. His tongue hungrily lapped at your walls, desperate to catch every taste it could get.

Your hips moved on your own as they pressed themselves against his face willingly, desperate for a release. You could feel your orgasm slowly approaching as Namjoon worked his magic on you.

As his tongue found your entrance, he slowly pushed it inside, before swirling it around a little. You gasped for air as you could feel it massaging your walls, back arching up from the couch. After letting you adjust to the feeling of his tongue inside you, he started darting it in and out at a rapid pace, thumb still fumbling your clit.

His nickname fell from your lips like a waterfall, wonderful music to his ears. You begged him not to stop, promises of you being close spurred him on, going down on you even faster. He could feel his rock-hard cock straining against his pyjama pants, begging to be released. But it was not yet the time.

He needed you to cum all over his tongue first and, hell, he would make sure of that. Feeling your walls contracting around his tongue, he put a little more pressure on your clit, circling and rubbing it gently with his fingers, trying to take you over the edge. You were almost there, he could feel it.

“Joonie, fuck, I am-” The sentence got lost between a heavy mess of moans and whimpers as you finally came with one last stroke around Namjoon’s tongue. You closed your eyes, orgasm blazing through your body in pleasurable waves.

Namjoon lapped up everything he could get, guiding you through your orgasm. As the moans and the whimpers lessened, his mouth, albeit grudgingly, detached from your folds, pressing one last kiss to your inner thigh before he looked up about you through his lashes.

As you looked down, you were met with a very vivid image of your last night’s dream as Namjoon’s skin glowed from your juices that were smeared all around his mouth. His hair had fallen into his eyes, not able to hide the playful glint in his eyes. His cheeks were a flushed red, chest heaving for air.

“That was… amazing,” you whispered as you cupped his cheek, thumb caressing the hot skin. You leaned over him, stealing a kiss and tasting yourself on his tongue. “Thank you.”

Namjoon chuckled lightly, taking pride in making you feel so good. He nuzzled his face in your neck, breathing in your delicate scent. “I think we both actually have someone else to thank.” Both of your gazes fell onto the book that still laid open on the coffee table.

You grinned from ear to ear at his words. “Well, thank you, Santa, I guess then? For helping us idiots?” Both of you couldn’t hold in your laughter at the situation. What a naughty Christmas it had been for sure!

Quietness settled over the two of you for a minute as you enjoyed each other’s company. As Namjoon slowly got up from his kneeling position, you noticed his hard manhood through his pants. Licking your lips, you felt yourself getting wet again. Your hunger for Namjoon had only just awakened.

“How about… a shower?” you proposed, cocking a head at Namjoon. “I think it’s time I’ll take care of you.” Pushing yourself up from the couch, you let your hands roam freely over his upper body.

Namjoon snaked a hand around your waist, pulling you against him. “As if I could say no to that.” You could feel his cock through the soft fabric of his pants pressing against your thigh. Namjoon leaned down, his lips against your ear.

“Merry Christmas, Y/N,” he whispered as he softly started kissing you again under the shining lights of the fairy lights and a mistletoe magically grew down from the ceiling. Santa has his way in fulfilling wishes…

© nottodayjjk 2021 - all rights reserved.

[nablah]

Happy Threshold Day

learned some biology today

[ID: A series of tweets by Vagina Museum (@vagina_museum), posted January 28, 2022:

On 29th January 1996, "Threshold", the Star Trek: Voyager episode where Captain Janeway and Tom Paris turned into giant space newts and had babies first aired. In advance of #ThresholdDay we aim to answer a burning question: did Paris and Janeway fuck? If so, how did they fuck?

The first thing you need to know about amphibians is that they don't have genitals per se. As amphibians, Janeway and Paris had cloacas: a multipurpose hole for pee, poo and reproduction.

In attempting to answer the question as to whether Janeway and Paris fucked, and how they did it, we're going to mostly focus on salamanders, because the weird space amphibians they become are often described as "salamanders" and they look kinda like salamanders.

Salamanders are interesting because different species employ different strategies for fertilisation. Some use external fertilisation: Janeway plops her eggs out, Paris fertilises them. Some practice internal fertilisation, which we'll get onto later.

If Janeway and Paris engaged in external fertilisation, they would have undertaken a manoeuvre called amplexus. Tom Paris would have come up behind Captain Janeway and embraced her with his forelimbs. They would position their cloacas close together.

When Janeway released her eggs, Paris would have released sperm over them. Amplexus can last for hours. Essentially, Janeway and Paris went tantric.

However, most salamanders don't do this. Fertilisation would happen inside Janeway's body before she laid her eggs. This isn't achieved by penetration. It's much weirder.

If the fertilisation was internal, Tom Paris would have deposited a parcel of sperm called a spermatophore, and then Captain Janeway would pick the package up with the lips of her cloaca to take it into herself.

That sounds reasonably contact free, right? So why are Janeway and Paris so embarrassed about what happened at the end of the episode? Welp, there's a lot of courtship rituals which would have happened before Janeway picked up Paris's cum parcel with her pee-poo hole lips.

Salamanders court: it's in Tom Paris's interests to make sure Janeway chooses to pick up his package of sperm. Salamander courtship typically involves seduction and dancing.

Tom Paris would have wafted pheromones at Janeway, and then the two of them would have engaged in some dance moves, first with Paris turning round to deposit his sperm package, then Janeway turning to pick it up.

In some salamanders, the pheromone exchange is as simple as Tom Paris fanning his tail at Captain Janeway so she can get a whiff and get in the mood for collecting his sperm package. Sometimes it's a bit kinkier.

If they took a lead from Desmognathus, Paris would drag his teeth down Janeway's neck and back while releasing pheromones, getting his horny chemicals straight into her bloodstream.

If they took a lead from Plethodon shermani, Paris would slap Janeway's snout.

Ultimately, there would have been seduction, close contact dancing, tail straddling and possibly a bit of kink. So that's presumably why Janeway, Paris and pretty much the entire Voyager crew are absolutely mortified.

At the end of the episode, human again, Paris apologises for the salamander sex but Janeway points out that in many species, the female initiates the intercourse. This is the last it is ever spoke of again, but is it true?

In general, the way salamander sex is talked about, the male is doing everything he can to persuade the female to pick up his spermatophore. He's the active one and the female is passive. A 2020 literature review suggests this is not the case: the female is an active participant.

Ultimately, Janeway was probably quite right in admitting her responsibility in having salamander sex with her pilot, and that she *chose* to pick up his little parcel of jizz and have his space abomination babies.

Thank you for reading. We're sorry. /end]

[amplexadversary]

A heist based on the principles of good sportsmanship???

where's the tweet thats like high value art heists should be legal and should be like a national pass time between countries like capture the flag. thats my platform

[quantumboogaloo]

The Existence of Planet X

This is a paper I wrote 4 years ago; I was just recently rereading it and thought it was worth sharing. Again, it was written 4 years ago so it may have some outdated information. Also, my apologies, but for some reason the diagrams I used have been lost to time, and I don't have the energy to track them down again.

Space has held the fascination of humanity for centuries. Even in the ancient times, people devoted their lives to the study of the stars. In the mid-twentieth century, the Space Race between the U.S. and the Soviet Union developed into one of the most important driving factors of modern technology and history, but with the end of the Apollo missions, interest in space quickly fizzled out. With the creation of the Space Shuttle Program, that interest peaked once more, but it again died with the end of the program. However, one decision, made over a decade ago, still maintains people’s attention. This decision still meets harsh criticism and hostile hatred: Pluto. Many protest the demotion of Pluto from planet to dwarf planet. Outrage and contempt greet the scientific evidence stating Pluto could not retain the title of planet. “Why can’t Pluto have the title?” the protesters ask, “Pluto has a spherical shape, it has multiple moons, it orbits the Sun, and it has a diameter significantly greater than the Earth’s Moon. Surely that would make it a planet, right?” Not necessarily, as the qualifications for a planet have many more complications, as explained in the BBC article by Paul Rincon, “Why is Pluto No Longer a Planet?”:

On 24 August, the last day of the assembly, members [of the International Astronomical Union] voted to adopt a new resolution outlining criteria for naming a planet: (1) A planet is a celestial body that: a. is in orbit around the sun b. has sufficient mass for its self-gravity to overcome rigid body forces to that it assumes a hydrostatic equilibrium (nearly round) shape, and c. has cleared the neighborhood around its orbit.

Pluto met the first two of these criteria, but the last one proved pivotal. ‘Clearing the neighbourhood’ means that the planet has either ‘vacuumed up’ or ejected other large objects in its vicinity of space. In other words, it has achieved gravitational dominance.

Pluto does not have a high enough mass to gravitationally clear its orbit, so it could not maintain planetary status. Other objects dwell in its orbit, and Pluto simply does not have the mass required to gain gravitational control over these other objects. 

Researchers found Pluto as the first of many Kuiper Belt Objects (KBOs). The Kuiper Belt consists of many dwarf planets, comets, and other icy bodies reaching beyond the orbit of Neptune and to the inner edge of the Oort Cloud (In fact, if Pluto had retained its planetary status, over one hundred dwarf planets would belong to the planetary family). However, with the discovery of the Kuiper Belt came many questions. Astronomers observed that many objects in the Kuiper Belt had inexplicable, unaccounted for orbits. The inner Solar System, which includes the four rocky planets, the Asteroid Belt, and the four gas giants, exists on a relatively flat plane, with little deviation. According to “Pluto’s Unusual Orbit,” published by the Smithsonian Air & Space Museum, “[Pluto’s] orbital path doesn't lie in the same plane as the eight planets, but is inclined at an angle of 17°. Its orbit is also more oval-shaped, or elliptical, than those of the planets… At times Pluto's orbit brings it closer to the Sun than Neptune.” Sometimes Pluto moves far outside of Neptune’s orbit, and sometimes it travels deep within. Astronomers have noted similar trends for many other objects in the Kuiper Belt, and some have even more dramatic abnormalities. Astronomers and astrophysicists could find no observable reason for this trend for many years, until 2015, when Caltech researchers Konstantin Batygin and Michael E. Brown proposed the theory of Planet X (also known as Planet Nine).

The peculiar orbits of the Kuiper Belt Objects fascinated Batygin and Brown, and the researchers noticed that multiple of the strange orbits lined up very similarly. Batygin and Brown found six total orbits, each nearly identical to the others, with the same orientation and plane. The researchers found this pattern incredibly unlikely to have happened randomly. In “Evidence for a Distant Giant Planet in the Solar System,” Batygin and Brown write, “the orbits of distant Kuiper Belt objects (KBOs) cluster not only in argument of perihelion, but also in physical space. We demonstrate that… such a clustering has only a probability of 0.007% to be due to chance, thus requiring a dynamical origin.” The perihelia (the point in the orbit where the object comes closest to the sun) and the direction the orbits point exist almost parallely, which does not occur under standard circumstances. Batygin and Brown’s 0.007% bears resemblance to the likelihood of a lightning strike. The two men also found that random Kuiper Belt Objects just wouldn’t explain the orbits with the data they had. A theory using small Kuiper Belt objects “would require the Kuiper Belt to have about 100 times the mass it has today,” according to Kimm Fesenmaier of Caltech. To Batygin and Brown, this information left only one option: a planet.

Taken from the Caltech article “More Support for Planet Nine,” this diagram shows many of the orbital trends that led to the theory of Planet X.

But what kind of planet? There exist an infinite number of possible orbits, and just as many possibilities in terms of mass, resulting in unfathomable numbers of potential planets. Batygin and Brown took the only option they had: test out as many combinations as possible. Fortunately, the researchers ruled out several potential orbits from the start. For one, Batygin and Brown had to find an orbit with sections feasibly hidden from the Earth, in order to explain why astronomers cannot currently see Planet X. The researchers also knew their orbit had to either lasso or herd the objects into place. Eventually, Batygin and Brown found what they had searched so long for. In their paper, Batygin and Brown write:

We find that the observed orbital alignment can be maintained by a distant eccentric planet with mass 10 m ⊕whose orbit lies in approximately the same plane as those of the distant KBOs, but whose perihelion is 180° away from the perihelia of the minor bodies. In addition to accounting for the observed orbital alignment, the existence of such a planet naturally explains the presence of high-perihelion Sedna-like objects, as well as the known collection of high semimajor axis objects with inclinations between 60° and 150° whose origin was previously unclear (1).

If Batygin and Brown gave the planet a mass of about ten times that of the Earth, and placed it directly opposite the Kuiper Belt Objects, the simulations showed the observed orbits occuring; it also explained other strange orbits in the Kuiper Belt, too: orbits Batygin and Brown hadn’t even thought about. Fesenmaier writes:

“A good theory should not only explain things that you set out to explain. It should hopefully explain things that you didn't set out to explain and make predictions that are testable… When the simulation aligned the distant Kuiper Belt objects and created objects like Sedna, we thought this is kind of awesome—you kill two birds with one stone,” says Batygin. “But with the existence of the planet also explaining these perpendicular orbits, not only do you kill two birds, you also take down a bird that you didn't realize was sitting in a nearby tree.”

This diagram from Fesenmaier’s article“Caltech Researchers Find Evidence of a Real Ninth Planet” shows the orbits of the KBO’s that would be herded by Planet X (pink), the orbit of Planet X (orange), and the perpendicular orbits of the objects that Batygin and Brown recognized (blue).

To Batygin and Brown, the objects with the perpendicular orbits all but confirmed the existence of Planet X. The researchers had not even stopped for a moment to think about the perpendicular orbits, but the planet they devised explained them perfectly. Batygin and Brown need only to find the planet to prove their theory, a feat that, while it may seem easy, has proven very difficult. Planet X has not found its way into a telescope’s view, and until it has, it must remain undiscovered. Batygin and Brown’s object would orbit very far away from the Earth, up to twenty times further than Neptune. As an object in space travels away from the Earth, its visibility decreases exponentially. In the Quanta Magazine article, “Why Can’t We Find Planet Nine?” Charlie Wood writes, “Planets twice as far away look 16 times dimmer — the intensity of the sunlight weakens by a factor of four going out, and then four times again coming back.” Planet X, even at its closest, would appear as no more than a small, faint blur. Even if an image taken contained Planet X, the planet could still remain hidden by the glare of a star, caught behind another object, or lost in the haze of the Earth’s atmosphere. As dim as Planet X might seem, it should can feasibly appear with current telescopic technology. “Any object that far away from the Sun will be very faint and hard to detect, but astronomers calculate that it should be possible to see it using existing telescopes,” write Lonnie Shekhtman and Jay Thompson in the NASA article, “Hypothetical Planet X: In Depth.” Technological advancements to better current telescopes would, of course, increase the likelihood of a sooner discovery, but astronomers can find Planet X without their use.

Many astronomers, however, see the discovery of a new planet as infeasible. Stargazers have not found a new planet in over one hundred years, and they have only found two new planets since ancient times. Antranik A. Sefilian and Jihad R. Touma set out to explain the strange Kuiper Belt orbits without Planet X. The University of Cambridge article “Mystery Orbits in Outermost Reach of Solar System Not Caused by Planet Nine Researchers Say” states:

 “[I]f the hypothesised ninth planet exists, it has so far avoided detection,” said co-author Antranik Sefilian, a PhD student in Cambridge’s Department of Applied Mathematics and Theoretical Physics. “We wanted to see whether there could be another, less dramatic and perhaps more natural, cause for the unusual orbits we see in some TNOs. We thought, rather than allowing for a ninth planet, and then worry about its formation and unusual orbit, why not simply account for the gravity of small objects constituting a disc beyond the orbit of Neptune and see what it does for us?”

Sefilian and Touma tried simulations containing multiple small objects, and found Batygin and Brown had overlooked one major factor: the Kuiper Belt would not have have nearly as much mass as they predicted to maintain the orbits without the hypothetical planet. In fact, the Kuiper Belt would not have to contain much more than the objects already catalogued by astronomers to explain the exact same abnormalities as Planet X. Sefilian and Touma’s paper, titled, “Shepherding in a Self-gravitating Disk of Trans-Neptunian Objects,” explains the mathematics behind how Sefilian and Touma discovered this possibility and how it would work, but they could neither prove their theory correct, nor discredit that of Batygin and Brown. In the paper, Sefilian and Touma write, “Ultimately, though, we do not have secure and direct observational evidence for our proposed disk, in much the same way we do not have full proof arguments against Planet Nine.” No definitive evidence exists to confirm Sefilian and Touma’s or Batygin and Brown’s theories, any more than it exists to deny them.

Batygin and Brown, on the other hand, did not stop with the original publication of their research; they recently wrote two papers to demonstrate further evidence of the existence of a ninth planet in the Solar System. The article, “More Support for Planet Nine,” states:

The second paper is titled "The Planet Nine Hypothesis…” Based on the new models, Batygin and Brown—together with Fred Adams and Juliette Becker (BS '14) of the University of Michigan—concluded that Planet Nine has a mass of about five times that of the earth and has an orbital semimajor axis in the neighborhood of 400 astronomical units (AU).

At 400 AU, Astronomers would find Planet X would much easier than previously predicted. Parts of the original orbit stretched further than 1,000 AU, which many astronomers have called the “brick wall” of observation. Astronomers would be able to spot Planet X 16 times more easily, and it would appear bigger, brighter, and harder to hide than many researchers thought it would be. Additionally, Planet X would take on a role not yet filled in the Solar System, though very common in other star systems. Fesenmaier writes,”First, most of the planets around other sunlike stars have no single orbital range… Second, the most common planets around other stars range between 1 and 10 Earth-masses.” All eight of the known planets orbit relatively close to the Sun, and they all have either very large or very small masses. The Solar System’s very large and very small, close orbiting types of planets do not occur very often at all, and a planet such as Planet X would occur much more commonly. A ninth planet might seem extreme, but it would actually make the Solar System much less abnormal.

Several issues often come to the light at the hands of those unhappy about the prospect of a ninth planet. One such concern questions whether the ninth planet would actually qualify as a planet because of its irregular orbit. However, orbital shape has nothing to do with planetary status; gravitational dominance has the sole power over status. Planet X has achieved complete gravitational control - it affects Kuiper Belt objects even at great distance -- so Brown calls it “the most planet-y of the planets in the whole solar system.” Another concern many people have brought up says this theoretical planet should have the name Planet Ten, not Planet Nine, because they believe Pluto should still take the title of planet. Following this line of reasoning, Planet X would actually have the name Planet 200+, or, at the very least, Planet Fourteen. An estimated 200 dwarf planets dwell in the Kuiper Belt, and the Solar System has five official dwarf planets. However, dwarf planets cannot hold planetary status, so the proper name remains Planet Nine or Planet X. Finally, the question of observational bias suggests perhaps the unusual orbits do not occur at all, and they only appear unusual because of the location of the Earth. Observational bias means that a system is much more difficult to view and understand when inside looking out rather than outside looking in. Batygin and Brown, in their new paper, “Orbital Clustering in the Distant Solar System,” write,”To date, the only two suggestions for the cause of these apparent clusterings have been either the effects of observational bias or the existence of… Planet Nine (1).” When going on vacation, one must plan a route to drive. Without a map, it would take much effort, and only result in a mediocre plan, but with a GPS or something similar, the task becomes infinitesimally easier. In, “Planet Nine is Not Real but There’s Something Else Strange on the Edge of Our Solar System, Scientists Say,” Andrew Griffin writes, “[F]rom inside the system, it's almost impossible to see the whole thing at once.” Batygin and Brown found the chances of observational bias as the sole factor very low, at about .002%. Surely, at least some force acts upon Kuiper Belt objects.

The answer to what that force might result from has long eluded scientists. Until astronomers find indisputable evidence that proves or disproves a theory, Planet X will remain a theory. The theory cannot develop into anything more until researchers photograph Planet X, and Sefilian and Touma’s theory faces a similar issue. Many years will pass before a space probe advanced enough to transmit usable data back to Earth from the far reaches of the Kuiper Belt will exist. After launching a probe, an additional five or more years will pass before traveling close enough to the theoretical planet to record any data about it. Even when a probe reaches Planet X’s distant orbit, it may not run into the object, and finish with nothing to show for the extensive research and technological development needed to launch the spacecraft. Minutes or decades may pass before the Planet X theory is proven or disproven, but it will happen eventually.

Works Cited

Batygin, Konstantin, and Michael E Brown. “Evidence For a Distant Giant Planet In the Solar System .” The Astronomical Journal, vol. 151, no. 22, 20 Jan. 2016, pp. 1–12. 12, doi:10.3847/0004-6256/151/2/22.

Batygin, Konstantin, and Michael E Brown. “Orbital Clustering in the Distant Solar System.” The Astronomical Journal, vol. 157, no. 2, 22 Jan. 2019, p. 1., doi:10.3847/1538-3881.

Caltech. “More Support for Planet Nine.” Phys.org, California Institute of Technology, 27 Feb. 2019, phys.org/news/2019-02-planet.html.

Fesenmaier, Kimm. “Caltech Researchers Find Evidence of a Real Ninth Planet.” Caltech, California Institute of Technology, 20 Jan. 2016, www.caltech.edu/about/news/caltech-researchers-find-evidence-real-ninth-planet-49523.

Griffin, Andrew. “Planet Nine Is Not Real, but There's Something Else Strange on the Edge of Our Solar System, Scientists Say.” The Independent, The Independent, 21 Jan. 2019, 17:09, www.independent.co.uk/life-style/gadgets-and-tech/news/planet-nine-9-real-solar-system-kuiper-belt-explained-truth-a8739231.html.

“Mystery Orbits in Outermost Reaches of Space Not Caused by 'Planet Nine,' Say Researchers.” University of Cambridge, University of Cambridge, 21 Jan. 2019, www.cam.ac.uk/research/news/mystery-orbits-in-outermost-reaches-of-solar-system-not-caused-by-planet-nine-say-researchers.

“Pluto's Unusual Orbit.” Smithsonian Air & Space Museum, Smithsonian Air & Space Museum, airandspace.si.edu/exhibitions/exploring-the-planets/online/solar-system/pluto/orbit.cfm.

Rincon, Paul. “Why Is Pluto No Longer a Planet?” BBC, British Broadcasting Company, 15 July 2015, www.bbc.com/news/science-environment-33462184.

Shekhtman, Lonnie, and Jay Thompson. “Hypothetical Planet X.” NASA, National Aeronautics and Space Administration, 16 Jan. 2019, https://solarsystem.nasa.gov/planets/hypothetical-planet-x/in-depth/

Sefilian, Antranik A, and Jihad R Touma. “Shepherding in a Self-Gravitating Disk of Trans-Neptunian Objects.” The Astronomical Journal, vol. 157, no. 59, ser. 16, 21 Jan. 2019, pp. 1–16. 16, doi:10.3847/1538-3881.

Wood, Charlie. “Why Can't We Find Planet Nine?” Quanta Magazine, Quanta Magazine, 3 July 2018, www.quantamagazine.org/why-cant-we-find-planet-nine-20180703/.