#Tuning fork science

[rajansmoorthy]

Sonic Resonance: Unlocking the Speed of Sound with Air Column Magic!

Experiment using Resonance Air column Using the principle of resonance, the resonance air column equipment measures the sound velocity in room temperature air. Resonance happens at particular air column lengths when a tuning fork with a known frequency is struck and held above the air column. The velocity of sound in air can be computed by measuring these lengths. Speed of sound: Resonance air…

[ninisdollie]

champagne war - nishimura riki ˚⊹♡

❤︎⊹.

“In which reader can’t stand being a single more minute in a fancy party, so she leaves with Nishimura Riki, and although she doesn’t really like him, there’s tension between the two of them that will end up breaking.”

‎ ‎ ⁺ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ❤︎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ⊹　₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ͏͏✧ content: +18MDNI

fem! reader x ni-ki, rich kids! au, kind of enemies to lovers, think about like chuck bass x blair waldorf kind of thing, drinking, mentions of drug use, smut, power play, lots of teasing (like lots), dirty talk, fingering, oral (f. rec), unprotected sex, creampie.

hate comments will be deleted and blocked, likes and reblogs are appreciated !!

The champagne flute had gone warm in your hand, but you brought it to your lips anyway, only to have something to do. The bubbles fizzed faintly against your tongue, sharp and sweet like the words you kept locked behind glossed lips. You stood a step behind your parents, quiet and statuesque, letting their conversation wash over you like white noise. Real estate, stocks, someone’s daughter getting into Yale.

God. It was exhausting.

The room was exactly what you expected, opulent and nauseating. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city like it was a painting, but even the skyline looked bored. Velvet curtains draped in dramatic folds. Crystal chandeliers dripping like icicles. Everyone was dressed like they were auditioning for the role of “wealthy elite,” down to the men’s cufflinks and the women’s clutches that cost more than your car.

You didn’t hate parties, just the kind you were raised in.

The kind with string quartets and crystal chandeliers, where the champagne was expensive and the smiles even more so. Where every glance was a transaction, and every compliment had an expiration date. You’d grown up in these ballrooms, wrapped in satin and expectation, taught to smile just wide enough to be polite, but never too much to look desperate.

You knew how to walk like your mother. How to speak like your father’s advisors. You had the art of charm down to a science, and if anyone thought you were cold underneath the sugar, they never said it out loud.

You were soft-spoken. Elegant. Polished like marble, cool to the touch, impossible to chip. You knew which fork to use, how to read a room in under five seconds, and when to laugh even if the joke wasn’t funny. But just because you were composed didn’t mean you were nice.

Not always.

You had a reputation. Not the kind people said to your face, but the kind they whispered after you turned around. She’s… dangerous. That was the word someone once used. Not because you did anything wrong, but because you didn’t need anyone to like you.

And still, somehow, they always wanted to.

But no amount of etiquette classes had prepared you for just how boring it all was.

You let your eyes wander lazily around the ballroom. Everyone looked the same. Different brands, same price tag. You caught the eye of one of the girls from your prep school, she gave you a tight smile and a wave, the kind that said I hate you, but we’re in public, so I’ll pretend not to. You returned it with a tilt of your head and a slow blink, the way your mother taught you to dismiss people without ever breaking a sweat.

The string quartet in the corner was playing some hollow, classical rendition of a pop song, stripping it of any soul it once had. You tuned it out and took another sip of your drink, wishing it were something stronger. Something that could actually take the edge off the evening.

Your heels were beginning to pinch, but you wouldn’t sit. Sitting made you look tired. Tired made you look weak. And appearances, in a room like this, were everything.

One of your father’s associates turned to you suddenly, a portly man with thinning hair and a Rolex that screamed midlife crisis.

“And how’s school going, sweetheart?” he asked, in the tone of someone who didn’t really care. “Still planning to go into international law?”

You gave him a demure smile, the kind that made men underestimate you.

“That’s the plan,” you said smoothly. “Unless I marry rich first and skip the whole ‘working’ thing entirely.”

He laughed like you’d made the most charming joke in the world, and your parents chuckled along. You sipped your drink again, wondering how hard you’d have to slam your glass on the marble floor to make the night interesting.

A passing waiter offered a tray of hors d’oeuvres. You declined with a soft “thank you,” though you hadn’t eaten all night. Hunger, like emotion, was a luxury you rarely indulged in at events like this.

Somewhere across the room, another group burst into laughter, loud, fake, the kind that echoed for attention. A girl squealed over a Cartier bracelet. Someone was bragging about their upcoming summer in the Amalfi Coast. Someone else was trying to one-up them with Aspen.

You hated all of them.

And yet you smiled.

Because that’s what you were supposed to do.

Perfect girls didn’t frown. Perfect girls didn’t complain. Perfect girls endured.

But if you had to hear one more story about someone’s trust fund or private jet, you were going to scream.

So you did what you always did when you felt trapped in a place like this: you planned your escape.

You glanced toward the massive glass doors that led to the balcony, to the cool night beyond the golden glow. The idea of slipping away—unseen, untouched—was suddenly intoxicating.

You didn’t know where you’d go. Maybe you’d order an Uber. Maybe you’d walk just for the sake of walking. You didn’t care. As long as it wasn’t here.

You were just about to vanish, maybe for good this time, maybe just long enough to get air, when a woman in pearls clutched your arm with the strength of desperation disguised as curiosity.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she slurred slightly, her smile brittle with Botox and too many gin martinis. “Tell me again, what was the name of that summer program you did in Geneva? Was it language immersion or finance? My niece is dying to do something impressive for her college apps—”

“Excuse me, i really need to go to the bathroom” you said softly, with a practiced smile that barely reached your eyes.

You slipped away before she could protest. Polite, elegant, untouchable. It was an art form, one your mother had drilled into you since you were twelve.

You turned, and then collided with someone at full force. The sharp splash of champagne was immediate, cold and sticky as it splattered across the front of your silk dress. You flinched, took one slow step back, and then looked up—

Of course.

Nishimura Riki.

He looked like trouble dressed in Saint Laurent, tie askew, top button undone, one hand in his pocket and the other loosely holding a half-empty glass. Dark hair perfectly slicked back, golden Rolex on his wrist and diamond rings on his fingers. He blinked at you, a little unsteady, a smirk blooming lazily across his face.

“Oh, fuck,” he said between a chuckle, eyes trailing down your dress. “Shit. That’s… my bad.”

He didn’t sound sorry at all.

You arched a brow.

“Seriously?”

His grin widened, he tilted his head, chuckling again, his gaze now fixated on your face.

“Oh, but it’s the golden girl.”

You stared at him. Not surprised at all by his teasing tone, you knew it too well.

“Nishimura Riki. Of course you had to make an entrance.”

He chuckled.

“I was here first, actually. You just have a habit of running into people you pretend not to see.”

You exhaled through your nose, slow and sharp, and looked down at the damage. Champagne shimmered down the front of your dress like a crime scene in gold.

He tilted his head again, eyes tracking every drop.

Pervert.

“Don’t stare,” you snapped.

He didn’t look away.

“Can’t help it. You always dress like you want attention, but God forbid anyone actually gives it to you.”

Your lips curled.

“Better than dressing like you got thrown out of a boarding school.”

That much was true. Everyone knew the stories.

Riki was the son of a well known, disgustingly rich CEO, the kind of CEO with his own private jet fleet and a Forbes feature, the type of man who turned everything he touched into gold except his own kid. Riki had grown up in penthouses and luxury hotels, always photographed but never watched closely enough. He had a driver, a trust fund, and a habit of flipping off expectations with a champagne bottle in one hand and a permanent smirk on his face.

He was rich enough to do whatever he wanted. And reckless enough to actually do it.

He was infamous. A playboy, trouble dressed in elegant clothes and Prada perfume. He was so handsome, that was impossible to deny, tall long body that owned every place he walked into. But you never fell for it, never allowed yourself to.

And yet, he was still here. Still invited to every charity gala, every benefit, every masked ball thrown by people who talked shit about him behind $400 facials. Because no one dared cross the Nishimura name.

His father didn’t attend these parties anymore. Too busy flying to Dubai or brokering oil deals in Monaco. Everyone knew it. Everyone whispered that Riki had no leash, no filter, no shame. He was a storm dressed in designer. Uncontrollable. Dangerous.

And, apparently, drunk. As always.

“Just when i thought my night couldn’t get worse” you muttered, dabbing at your dress with a napkin from a nearby waiter’s tray.

He shrugged, tipping his glass toward his lips.

“Just when i thought mine couldn’t get better.”

“Insufferable.”

“Only when I’m around people who take themselves too seriously.”

You didn’t answer right away. You were too focused on your soaked bodice, the sticky cling of silk against your skin, the way his gaze hadn’t once wavered.

You glared up at him. This was typical Nishimura, you knew his games too well. Everyone did.

Riki not only enjoyed spending his time on casinos, surrounded by strippers, drowning on champagne and sniffing cocaine until his nose was sore red, but he also found — for some reason — extraordinary joy in annoying you. Ever since you’d known him.

“You’re enjoying this.”

“I mean… yeah,” he said, unapologetically. “When else am I going to get to ruin the golden girl’s night and get away with it?”

You narrowed your eyes.

“You think you’re so untouchable.”

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to make your spine prickle

“I am untouchable.”

God, you hated how calm he sounded. How amused. Like nothing anyone said ever got under his skin.

But you knew better. You’d heard the rumors, same as everyone. His father tried to keep him under control once, enrolled him in military school overseas. It lasted less than two months. He crashed his own car into the gates and got sent home. You’d seen the footage. He came back laughing.

And now here he was. Dripping champagne on the marble floors and looking at you like he wanted to see what you’d do if he kept pushing.

You should’ve walked away.

Instead, you stepped closer.

“I could have you thrown out,” you said sweetly.

He grinned like you’d complimented him.

“I’d let you.”

You snorted, flipping your long hair over your shoulder, posture perfect, as always. You smiled softly at an old couple, some people who worked with your parents before.

“You’re drunk.” You spoke between your teeth, still smiling.

He tilted his head.

“And you’re bored”.

You didn’t reply.

Because he was right.

And you hated that he was always right about you.

You hadn’t smiled all night. Not really. You hadn’t laughed, or breathed, or done anything that made you feel like a real person. Just another mannequin in heels, saying thank you and how are you and yes, Geneva was beautiful.

“I’m not going to sneak out with you,” you said finally.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

You raised a brow.

“Yet.”

The silence that fell between you now was heavier, tighter. Like something was wrapping itself around the space, pulling it closer.

The music from the string quartet swelled behind you, some delicate Mozart piece meant to impress people who only pretended to know what they were listening to. You could hear your mother’s laugh somewhere behind the champagne tower, sharp, polished, reserved for people who mattered.

Nishimura Riki didn’t move.

He just stood there, lazy and tall and smug as hell, looking at you like you were a puzzle he was dying to ruin.

“You’re staring again,” you said.

“You’re fun to watch,” he replied, unabashed.

You scoffed.

“That’s a lie.”

“No, it’s not,” he said, swirling the last of his drink. “You’re like a museum piece. Pretty, untouchable. Except I know for a fact you’re not as sweet as everyone thinks you are.”

Your lips curled.

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“Sure I do,” he said, stepping just a little closer. “You hate parties but you still show up in that perfect dress, say all the right things, nod at all the right people. You drink champagne like it’s water. You roll your eyes at small talk but smile anyway. You’re bored as hell, but you won’t leave. Because if you leave, they win.”

Your fingers twitched around your empty glass.

He tilted his head.

“And if someone calls you out? You bite.”

You said nothing.

He smiled like he’d won something.

“You like playing pretend.”

“And you like pretending you’re a rebel,” you said, cool and even. “But you still show up, too. No one really told you to come, did they?”

He blinked once. It was subtle. Barely there. But you saw it.

Bullseye.

“I go where I want,” he said, voice low.

“Right,” you murmured. “And it just happens to be wherever your father’s enemies are throwing a party.”

He laughed under his breath.

“You really have been paying attention.”

“I pay attention to threats,” you said sweetly. “Not boys who think causing a scene is a personality.”

That got him. You saw something flicker behind his eyes, something brief and brittle.

Then it was gone.

“Well,” he said, swirling the last of his drink before tipping it back, “I’d rather cause a scene than be the scene.”

You blinked.

“What does that even mean?”

He leaned in, just enough for his breath to brush your cheek.

“It means people don’t come here to drink champagne. They come to stare. At you. At me. At the freakshow. At the perfect daughters and the disappointing sons. We’re the entertainment, babe.”

You swallowed.

He grinned again, sharp this time, like he could taste how close he’d gotten to getting under your skin.

“Don’t call me babe.”

“Fine,” he said. “Golden girl.”

You hated that more. So you spoke.

“You know what your problem is?” you asked.

“I’m sure you’re dying to tell me.” He looked unbothered, almost lazy, like enjoying himself too much.

“You think you’re a tragedy,” you said. “But you’re just a cliché.”

His eyes glittered, but that same smirk stayed on his lips, his gaze trailed down your body, slow, intentional.

“And you think you’re better than all of us. But you’re still here.”

You opened your mouth.

Then paused.

Because that hit a little too close.

Another sip. Another breath. The air between you was charged now, sharp and quiet, filled with all the things neither of you were saying. His gaze dropped to your dress again, then back to your mouth, and you felt your spine straighten instinctively.

“You’re still wet,” Riki said, eyes full of mischief, words filled with double sense that shouldn’t have caused something in you.

You rolled your eyes.

“Charming.”

“You should probably get out of it,” he added, grinning. “Before the stain sets.”

You looked at him, eyes dark and sharp behind the black eyeshadow decorating them.

“Don’t push me, Nishimura.”

He leaned in one last time, voice barely above a whisper.

“Or what?”

And just like that, your phone buzzed in your clutch. A message from your mother.

Where are you? Come say hello to the Yamamotos.

You sighed.

He was already watching you like he knew.

“Ten bucks says you ignore it,” he said.

“I’m not like you,” you muttered.

“Right,” he said. “You’re better.”

You should’ve left. You meant to. But instead, you looked at him and said:

“Are you driving?”

He blinked. Just once. Like he hadn’t expected that.

“Why?”

“Because i can’t stand being here.”

Then he smirked, he put his hand on his pocket and twirled the keys between his fingers. You rolled your eyes, heels clicking as you started walking towards the exit.

The moment you stepped outside, the air kissed your skin. Cooler than inside, but thick with summer, humid, electric, like something was about to happen. His car sat at the edge of the marble drive, low and gleaming under the soft spill of golden lights from the mansion.

Convertible. Black. Obnoxious.

It looked fast even while standing still.

He slid into the driver’s seat like he owned the whole damn world, one hand on the wheel, the other tossing his blazer into the backseat. You hesitated before slipping into the leather passenger seat beside him. Cold against the backs of your thighs. Your dress shifted with every movement, fabric tight against your skin.

“Seatbelt,” he said lazily, not looking at you.

You clicked it into place.

Then he stepped on the gas.

The tires screeched against the gravel, and the wind slammed into you like a wave. Your heart jumped into your throat. You gripped the door instinctively as the city blurred around you, golden lights streaking like melting stars in your periphery.

Riki drove like he was running from something.

Like he knew the rules but never learned how to care.

One hand on the wheel, one arm lazily thrown over the back of your seat, fingers ghosting too close to your shoulder. His rings flashed as he shifted gears. The wind tore through your hair, tangled it, dragged it across your collarbones. The air felt alive in your lungs, cool, sharp, laced with smoke and perfume and night.

“You always drive like this?” you asked over the roar of the engine.

“Like what?” he shouted back, not taking his eyes off the road.

“Like you’re trying to flip us.”

He glanced sideways, grin tugging at his lips.

“Wouldn’t be the worst way to go.”

“You’re insane.”

He just laughed, and something about the way the sound curled in his throat made your stomach tighten.

The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t empty either. There was something there, simmering between you, thick and unspoken. The way the tension pulled tight with every passing second. The way your legs angled toward the door, but your eyes stayed on his hands.

You hated how good he looked like this, wild and untouchable.

“You’re not drunk, anymore, are you?” you asked, eyeing him.

He smirked.

“Buzzed. Why, scared?”

“Terrified.”

He let out a sharp breath of amusement, the kind that could’ve been a laugh if he’d let it go.

“You’re not really the type to get scared easily.”

You shrugged, fixing your hair, fingers sliding across your collarbone as if that’d tame the wind.

“Maybe you don’t know my type.”

“Oh, I do,” he said, low and certain. “Daddy’s little princess. Polished to perfection. Killer glare. Gold-plated heart—if there’s one at all. Everyone knows you made a girl three years younger than you cry because she wore the same purse.”

You turned your head, slowly, sweet and dangerous smile on your face. Not ashamed, never.

“I’m sorry,” you said coolly. “Are you giving a monologue or just projecting?”

He whistled low.

“There she is.”

“There who is?”

“The version of you that’s actually interesting.”

You scoffed, biting down a smirk.

“You’re full of shit.”

“And you like it.”

You hated that he was right.

The tension between you was a string pulled taut, vibrating, dangerously close to snapping. His knee bumped yours slightly with each turn, just enough to notice. Your legs were crossed tightly. You could feel the way your dress had started to ride up, how the wind licked at your thighs, your chest, making your skin feel bare even under luxury fabric.

“I bet you like causing problems,” you said, voice lower now. “Just to see if someone finally puts you in your place.”

He didn’t answer right away.

He gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. Then he cut into a sharp turn, fast enough to make you jolt and reach for the edge of your seat again. His fingers brushed yours as he steadied you, casual but not innocent.

“That’s funny,” he said, glancing at you. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

Your breath caught.

Something changed in the air, thicker, hotter. You realized how close you were. How intimate fast cars made things feel. Wind roared around you, but all you could hear was his voice in your ear. The space between you felt dangerous. Too charged.

He looked at you then. Really looked. Hair a mess from the wind. Jaw clenched. Lips slightly parted like he was about to say something he wasn’t supposed to.

You didn’t back down.

“You like being hated, don’t you?” you asked softly. “It’s the only kind of attention you don’t have to work for.”

“I don’t have to work for any kind of attention.”

“Exactly.”

He smiled, but there was something dark beneath it.

“So what kind of attention are you looking for?”

You didn’t answer.

Not because you didn’t know.

But because the answer was him, right now, like this, reckless and fast and stupid. Something wild enough to shake you awake.

“Where are we going?” you asked instead.

He licked his lips.

“Somewhere quiet.”

You leaned back in your seat, let your eyes slip closed for just a second as the wind whipped past your skin, making your pulse race in your throat.

You could still feel his gaze on your bare thighs.

He didn’t have to touch you to set your skin on fire.

It smelled like leather and something faintly woody, expensive cologne clinging to the air, subtle but heavy. You stepped out slowly, heels clicking on the marble floor, the distant hum of the city bleeding through the panoramic windows like a heartbeat.

The penthouse was too clean. Too curated. Everything in shades of charcoal and deep navy, cold steel edges and spotless surfaces. The kind of place no one really lived in, just passed through, like a ghost. Sleek, polished, lonely.

It was huge, it screamed luxury, but it didn’t surprised you, you had been in places like this many times before.

“Welcome to the void,” Riki muttered as he tossed his keys onto a stone countertop, the sound sharp in the stillness. He took off his shoes, letting them slide with casual indifference before throwing them across the floor.

You followed him in slowly, your fingers brushing the silky fabric of your dress at your hips. The air inside was cool, raised goosebumps on your arms. His silhouette moved through the dimness like it belonged there, shadow and tension, hands slipping into his pockets as he disappeared into the kitchen.

“You live here alone?” you asked, voice quiet but clear, as you wandered further in.

“Technically,” he called back. “My dad pays for it, so I guess that makes me a tenant of the bank of neglect.”

You snorted softly.

He returned with two crystal glasses of something amber. The ice clinked gently, catching the light as he held one out.

“Drink?”

You took it wordlessly, fingers brushing his for a moment too long. The glass was cool against your palm. You brought it to your lips, and the whiskey hit your tongue like fire, sharp, smoky, leaving a slow heat in your throat.

Riki leaned against the island, taking a lazy sip, eyes fixed on you over the rim of his glass. His jaw was sharp in the city light. Hair mussed from the wind. Collarbone peeking from his shirt like he didn’t care who saw.

“You always this quiet?” he asked, voice a little lower now.

“Only when I’m somewhere I don’t trust.”

He smirked.

“What gave it away? The walls or the host?”

You looked around, letting your eyes drag over the space, the untouched bookshelves, the single ashtray on the coffee table, the sterile absence of anything personal.

“You don’t really live here,” you murmured.

He tilted his head, confused.

“You sleep here, you drink here, maybe you fuck here,” you said, turning back to face him. “But you don’t live here.”

He didn’t respond. Not right away.

Instead, he watched you. The way your dress hugged your body. The way your bare shoulders glinted under the dim lights. The way you said things like they weren’t meant to cut, but they always did.

“You know me so well,” he muttered, but it wasn’t sarcastic this time.

You didn’t answer. You moved toward the windows instead, drawn to the open sky and the glowing chaos of the city below. It sprawled beneath you like something alive, lights blinking, cars crawling, neon and glass and ambition.

You felt him follow, the soft shuffle of his socks against the marble. He stood behind you, close enough that his warmth brushed your back, his scent curling around you like smoke.

“You didn’t have to come up,” he said quietly.

You kept your gaze on the skyline.

“I know.”

“You could’ve gotten in a cab, gone home, played nice like everyone expects you to.”

You tilted your head just slightly.

“And miss out on you offering me mediocre whiskey and a monologue about your daddy issues?”

He chuckled under his breath, the sound rough.

“Ouch.”

You took another sip. It burned less this time.

The silence stretched again, heavy, but not empty. There was a pulse in it. A question neither of you wanted to ask. A tension you refused to name.

His voice dropped, smoky and slow.

“Why did you come?”

You didn’t answer right away. Your fingers toyed with the rim of the glass, catching condensation with a slow drag of your thumb.

You turned to face him, lifting your chin slightly. His face was too close. His breath ghosted across your lips.

“I’m not going to sleep with you, Nishimura Riki.” you said.

It wasn’t a threat. Just a fact you threw into the charged air between you, daring him to make something of it.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

“That’s what they always say,” he said with a quiet smile.

“I’m not ‘they.’”

“I know.”

Riki leaned in, not touching, just there, and it made your pulse flutter stupidly at the base of your throat.

“That’s why you’re still here.”

Your breath hitched, and you hated the way your body reacted to his voice, how low it was, how sure. Like he already knew what would happen and was just waiting for you to catch up.

You stepped back, just an inch. Enough to break the magnetic pull, to feel your skin cool where his presence had burned too hot.

“This place is cold,” you murmured, turning away.

“Then take off your coat,” he said with a grin.

You glanced back at him with narrowed eyes.

“I’m not wearing one.”

His smile widened.

“Exactly.”

You hated him. You hated him, and you wanted him, and you hated that more than anything.

You walked past him toward the couch, the whiskey warming your blood, your skin buzzing from his nearness. His eyes followed you like gravity.

“You have any music?” you asked, settling on the edge of the leather cushions. Cool against your thighs.

“Are you asking me to set the mood?” he asked, walking toward a console.

“I’m asking you to shut up and stop making this feel like an interview.”

He pressed a button. Low, ambient beats started to fill the space, something dark, slow, sexy. He turned back to face you, now bathed in the low golden glow of a floor lamp.

“I thought you weren’t going to sleep with me,” he said again, voice light but eyes dark.

You tilted your head, legs crossing slowly.

“I’m not.”

He just smiled.

“Sure,” he said softly. “Keep telling yourself that.”

You sank further into the couch, the leather cool under your thighs, the whiskey warmer now, softening your limbs, loosening your tongue. The music throbbed low in the background, some sultry beat that made the silence between you feel more intimate than it had any right to be.

Riki sat across from you in the armchair, legs sprawled, glass dangling lazily from his fingers. His shirt had slipped open a little at the collar, showing a sliver of skin that made your throat tighten for no good reason.

He was watching you again. That same amused, unreadable gaze that had followed you all night. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The air was thick enough already, stretching thin with unspoken things.

You took another sip. Let the burn roll across your tongue. Let your knees brush just slightly against the edge of his.

“Still judging me?” he asked finally, voice rough from the alcohol, half-lidded eyes locked on you like he was trying to read beneath your skin.

“I’m trying to figure out if this whole act is a performance or just bad personality.”

He grinned.

“Who says it can’t be both?”

You tilted your head, watching him over your glass.

“It’s just funny. You always pretend like you don’t care about anything. And yet, here you are—looking at me like I’m your last meal.”

His smirk didn’t falter, but something in his eyes, something darker, hungrier.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

The tension coiled tighter between you. Like a thread pulled taut between two magnets, neither willing to move first, but the pull was getting harder to ignore.

“I think you like me,” he said, lazily swirling the drink in his hand, his gaze dropping briefly to your mouth.

You huffed a laugh.

“You’re drunk.”

“Not drunk enough.”

“Maybe you should be,” you said, voice quiet now. “Maybe then you’d stop talking.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His knees brushed yours now, subtle, but deliberate. His voice dropped, molten low.

“You want me to stop talking, princess?”

Your breath caught. Just for a second. Just enough that he noticed.

He smiled like he’d won something.

You set your glass down a little too fast. The ice clinked sharply.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?” His fingers brushed the inside of your ankle, just a graze, casual and slow, like he didn’t even realize he’d done it. But he had. You knew he had. “You act like you’re above it all. Like this place, this world, isn’t yours too. But it is. You like the games. The power plays.”

You glared at him.

“You don’t know anything about me, i told you.”

“I know you didn’t leave,” he said, eyes on your legs now, then dragging slowly up to your throat, your jaw, your lips. “You could’ve, but you didn’t.”

His words settled deep in your stomach, hot and dangerous.

“Maybe I wanted to see how desperate you’d get,” you whispered, leaning in slightly, close enough that he could feel your breath.

His smile sharpened.

“I never get desperate.”

Your fingers twitched against the couch cushion, fighting the urge to reach for him, to push him back just to see if he’d stay there. You hated how his words slithered under your skin, how the heat between your thighs had nothing to do with the whiskey anymore.

“You always this cocky?” you asked, voice tight.

He leaned closer. The space between your mouths now was nonexistent. His lips hovered just out of reach, just enough to make your pulse throb against your neck.

“Only when it works,” he whispered.

You could feel it building, second by second. The tension wasn’t even coiled anymore, it was vibrating, taut, hot, hungry. Every breath you took felt like permission. Every brush of skin like a warning.

Your thighs pressed together.

You looked at him through heavy lashes, eyes glistening, voice low and teasing.

“You’re such a fucking cliché.”

“And yet you’re still sitting here,” he said, voice like velvet, like sin. “Looking at me like you want to be ruined.”

Your breath hitched again. You hated that he was right. Hated that he knew it. Hated how much you wanted to taste him just to shut him up.

But you stayed perfectly still. One inch away. Daring him to make the next move.

And he didn’t. He just looked at you.

You shifted your legs, crossing them slowly, and his eyes followed the motion like it physically affected him. His grip on his glass tightened, and his tongue flicked across his bottom lip, wetting it before he leaned back slightly in his seat.

He looked relaxed. But you weren’t stupid. There was a firebanked tension in his muscles, a tension that mirrored your own.

“You know,” he said lazily, letting his voice drag over you like velvet, “someone really needs to fuck the attitude out of you.”

Your entire body went still. The words hit like a slap, sharp, deliberate, too cleanly delivered to be a joke. He wasn’t smiling now. Just watching you, waiting to see if you’d break.

You didn’t.

Just tilted your head, exhaling slowly through your nose.

“You’re crossing the line.”

“Maybe,” he said, taking another sip of his drink. “But that’s kind of my thing, and you like it.”

“I don’t,” you replied coolly, but the heat climbing up your neck betrayed you. You could feel it blooming just beneath your skin, rage or want, you weren’t sure. Maybe both.

He leaned forward again, elbows on his knees, eyes darker now.

“No? Then why are your thighs clenched so tight?”

You narrowed your eyes, chest rising. A shiver went down your spine, settling between your legs materialising in wetness that you tried so hard to ignore.

“You think you’re the first boy who ever said that to me?”

“No,” he said. “But I bet I’d be the first to actually mean it.”

You stood then, not out of fear, but because you couldn’t take sitting still with that kind of pressure between you. The air was vibrating. Your skin felt too hot, too tight.

“You don’t know what I need,” you said sharply, turning your back to him.

“Wrong,” he said, voice low. “You need someone to ruin you slowly. Someone who doesn’t worship the ground you walk on. Someone who grabs you by the throat and tells you to shut up because for once, you talk too much.”

Your stomach dropped. Fire roared through your veins.

You turned slowly, jaw tight, hands curled into fists at your sides.

“You think you can handle me?”

“No,” he said without hesitation. “I think I can break you. And the fucked up thing is—I think you want to be broken. Just once.”

You took a deep breath, your heart hammering against your ribs like it wanted to escape. This wasn’t flirting. This was warfare. And you were losing ground by the second.

You walked toward him, slow, controlled, like every step was a challenge.

“You think you’re dangerous,” you said, now standing in front of him, voice soft but cutting. “But you’re just bored. Just like the rest of us. Daddy pays the bills, so you cause chaos, sniff coke until you black out, make scenes at fancy parties and fuck around to feel something.”

He smiled again, but it didn’t reach his eyes. You got him, he knew it. But the thing is he didn’t care, not when it came from you.

“You’re right,” he said. “I am bored. And you… you’re the most fun I’ve seen in a long time.”

You leaned down, placing your hands on the armrests of the chair, caging him in.

“Say one more thing like that to me, Riki, and I swear I’ll leave.”

He stared up at you, lips parted slightly, chest rising as you closed the space between you.

“You won’t.”

“Try me.”

He looked at your mouth again, too long. Too slow. Then back to your eyes.

“Tell me to stop.”

You hated that you didn’t. You hated how your body buzzed from every word he said, how your thighs ached from the tension, how badly you wanted to slam your mouth onto his just to end the game.

But you didn’t.

You stepped back.

And smiled.

“I said I’m not going to sleep with you. I mean it.”

He leaned back in the chair again, exhaling like he was amused.

“Then you better get out of that dress before it catches fire.”

You took another slow sip of your drink, letting the burn of the whiskey distract you from the ache settling low in your stomach. His words still echoed through you like a bruise someone kept pressing, slow, intentional, just to see how much you could take before flinching.

Riki was watching you from the couch, one arm thrown lazily across the backrest, like he owned the whole room. Like he owned you, too. That same smug tilt to his mouth like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

His tongue flicked across his bottom lip.

“I know you like control.”

You arched a brow.

“So let’s play something.” He reached over and gently took your glass from your hand, setting it aside. “A game.”

“A game,” you repeated, wary.

His grin sharpened.

“Two truths and a lie.”

You rolled your eyes.

“That’s hardly threatening.”

“Yeah, but here’s the catch,” he said, stepping in until your knees almost brushed. “Every time you guess wrong, you lose a piece of clothing. Same goes for me. But also, every time i guess right, you lose a piece of clothing, and viceversa.”

You blinked.

“You want to strip with words.”

“I want to see how long you last before you lose control,” he said, voice low now, the edge of a dare in every syllable. “And I want to know what’s under all that silk and pride you wear like armor.”

You held his gaze, ignoring the way your heart beat louder. It was dangerous, not a good idea. There was tension between you two, you knew that. But not only sexual, there was more, like a power play, like none of you wanted to surrender to whatever the hell was going on.

“Fine,” you said coolly, crossing your arms. “But don’t pout when you’re down to your socks.”

He laughed, stepping back just enough to give space.

“Ladies first.”

You looked at him, letting your lips part slowly, letting him wait. Then:

“One: I’ve broken a boy’s heart at a debutante ball. Two: I’ve snuck out to Paris because i was sad. Three: I’ve never thought about fucking you.”

His brows lifted. A long pause.

“That last one’s the lie,” he said, voice almost smug.

You tilted your head.

“Prove it.”

“Because you’ve definitely thought about it.” His voice dropped a note lower. “You’re thinking about it right now.”

You said nothing, just slowly unhooked the top button of your dress. It wasn’t a win for him. Not when you made it look like an invitation you had total control over.

He stared.

“Your move.”

Riki’s smirk returned, a bit crooked now.

“Alright. One: I got kicked out of boarding school twice. Two: I’ve had sex in a Ferrari. Three: I’ve never been scared of my father.”

Your silence stretched.

You studied his face, the twitch in his jaw, the faint tension in his shoulders at that last line.

“The lie,” you said, “is that you’re not afraid of him.”

His grin faltered for half a second.

“Touché.”

He unbuttoned his shirt, slow and dramatic. The fabric slid off his arms and dropped to the floor like he didn’t even feel it. But his eyes never left yours. Under the shirt, Defined, lean, all lines and tension, the kind of body that was sculpted from privilege and discipline but carried like he didn’t give a single damn.

Your eyes trailed over his chest, broad and toned, the hard cut of his shoulders leading to arms that looked like they’d been chiseled out of shadow and heat. His skin glowed faintly under the ambient city lights, golden and warm like he belonged in a Renaissance painting—or under you.

You breathed deeply.

“Next round,” you said, feeling the heat rise between you like steam.

“You going to behave,” he murmured, “or are we gonna see who begs first?”

You scoffed, stepping forward, your mouth just barely brushing his ear.

“You’re going to lose, Nishimura.”

His breath hitched.

The game had just started.

And he was already falling apart.

You circled him slowly, the way you might admire a painting, or a weapon.

“You’re looking a little flushed, Riki.”

He leaned against the edge of the couch, bare chest rising and falling in measured control. The city lights glowed behind him, a cold contrast to the heat curling through the room.

“You wish,” he said, licking the corner of his mouth. “Hit me.”

You gave him a slow smile, walking past him, letting your perfume linger like a trap.

“One: I got suspended for slapping a girl at cotillion. Two: I’ve never had an orgasm someone else gave me. Three: I used to dream about marrying a prince.”

His jaw flexed. He looked at you like he wanted to rip the answers out of your mouth.

“That second one,” he said, tilting his head. “The orgasm one. That’s the lie.”

You raised a brow.

He smirked.

“You look too smug for someone who’s never come.”

You took a single step forward, hands on your hips.

“Wrong.”

He blinked.

“That one’s true.”

Riki’s knuckles tightened against the couch edge.

“You’ve never—?” he started, disbelieving.

“No one’s ever made me forget myself.” You walked back toward him, voice like sin. “Not even close.”

Something feral flashed in his eyes.

“Fuck.”

He took his rolex watch off, letting it rest on the table in front of him, smirking, and you rolled your eyes. Tricky.

“Your turn,” you said sweetly, though the room was humming with voltage.

He dragged a hand through his dark hair, trying to keep himself together. But you could see it now, he was fraying.

“One: I’ve been kicked out of four elite schools. Two: I once made a girl cry just by smiling at her. Three: I don't think about you when i touch myself.”

You didn’t blink. You tried not to think about it too much, about the fact, about him stroking himself to the thought of you. Not only because it was flattering, but because it was him. Because you knew, about his little obsession with you.

“Lie,” you said, gaze fixed on him. “The last one.”

He exhaled slowly, head tipping back.

“Fuck.”

“Thought so.”

You watched as he tugged the belt of his tailored pants loose, slow, reluctant. The sound of the metal buckle clinking was obscene in the quiet. The fabric sagged on his hips, his confidence slipping just a bit with it.

“You want to keep going?” you asked, eyes hooded.

He looked at you like he could eat you alive.

“Try me.”

You took another slow sip of your drink. Your lips glistened.

“One: I once snuck into a royal embassy. Two: I've faked every orgasm i've ever had. Three: I don't want to kiss you right now.”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Last one’s the lie.”

You tilted your head.

“Wrong again.”

He stared.

“I don’t want to kiss you,” you repeated, voice velvet-wrapped venom. “I want to see how long you last when you’re not the one in control.”

His jaw clenched.

You stepped closer.

“Shirt’s already gone,” you murmured. “Watch. Belt. What next, Nishimura?”

Riki said nothing. He just reached down and shoved his pants lower, until he stood in just black boxers, his hard-on not exactly subtle. Thick, throbbing beneath the thin fabric. You tried to ignore the wetness pooling against the lace of your own underwear.

“You think this means I’m losing,” he said, voice rough.

“You’re sweating.”

“You’re bluffing.”

You reached out, traced one finger down the center of his chest, just a whisper of contact. He didn’t move. But his breathing caught.

Your mouth ghosted the shell of his ear.

“Let’s see if you still think that when you’re on your knees.”

His growl was low, primal, sharp enough to scrape against your spine.

“I’m going to wreck you,” he whispered.

You smiled, slow and delicious.

You let the silence stretch, thick and heavy between you, tasting like heat on the back of your tongue. Riki stood half-naked, eyes fixed on you like you were something sacred and profane all at once. His chest rose with slow, forced control, but you saw the flicker of desperation behind the composure. He was trying—trying—to hold onto the upper hand.

You were about to take it from him.

“I'll take this turn, just for fun” you said softly, walking away just enough to make him twitch, then turning to face him fully. “One: I’ve had a senator’s son beg me on his knees. Two: I once watched a boy cry when i left his bed without a word. Three: I'm not going to take off my dress right now, just to tempt you.”

His throat bobbed.

“That last one’s the lie,” he said hoarsely, almost too fast.

You didn’t answer with words.

Instead, you reached for the straps of your dress.

Riki didn’t move. He just stared.

You dragged one silk strap off your shoulder. Then the other. The dress slipped like water down your body, catching at your waist for one breathless second before pooling at your feet with a soft, luxurious sound.

You stepped out of it, graceful and slow, standing in nothing but your black lace lingerie, delicate, tailored, made for seduction even though you wore it like armor. It hugged your curves perfectly, the push up bra enchancing your breasts, shimmer from your perfume still on them, the kind of thing meant to be looked at, never touched.

And Riki was looking.

Like a man starved. Like he’d just been punched in the gut.

His mouth parted slightly. You saw his hand flex against the edge of the couch like he didn’t trust himself not to reach for you. The muscle in his jaw ticked, throat working like he couldn’t swallow fast enough.

“You okay there?” you asked sweetly, tilting your head. “You look a little… tense.”

He dragged his eyes up your body like it hurt him.

“What the fuck are you trying to do to me?”

You smiled, innocently.

“Just playing the game.”

He exhaled a curse under his breath. His eyes were darker now, clouded, no trace of smugness left, just hunger and something barely restrained.

“You think you’re in control,” he muttered, his voice rasping.

“I don’t think,” you said, stepping closer. “I know.”

You stood directly in front of him now, only inches between you. He didn’t touch. He couldn’t. Like if he did, it would all shatter.

“You wanna know what the lie was?” you whispered.

He nodded once, wordless.

“There’s never been a boy on his knees,” you said. “Not yet.”

He blinked, stunned.

Then a sound left him, deep, from the chest, something like a growl.

You smiled and turned your back on him, walking away slowly, letting him watch the way your hips moved in that barely-there lace, letting him sit in the ache you’d left in your absence.

You didn’t hear him move.

But you felt him.

A split-second flash of heat, a shift in the air, then your back hit the velvet cushions of his sofa, and the room tilted. Your breath caught sharply in your throat, lips parting in stunned silence as Riki caged you in with his body, his bare chest radiating heat that scorched every inch of skin it hovered over.

He didn’t touch. Not right away.

One palm pressed into the cushion beside your head, the other gripped the top of the sofa, holding himself above you like he was barely holding on. His eyes drank you in, flushed, breathless, all curves and lace and smirking defiance.

“You think you can just walk away after that?” he asked, voice rough with something unspoken—need, frustration, want. “Like I’m not gonna do something about it?”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence, glossy lips curling as your gaze dragged slowly, purposefully, down his torso. The carved lines of his stomach flexed under your stare. He was breathing harder than he should’ve been.

“Looks like you already did,” you murmured.

His jaw clenched, his eyes burned. Then he snapped.

He kissed you, like punishment.

There was no soft entry. No gentle incline. Just a crash of mouths, messy and immediate, like he’d been waiting too long for this and couldn’t bear the space between you for even another breath. His lips crushed yours, thick, firm and hot and full of intent. Tongue pushing past your teeth, not asking but taking, fingers finally curling into your jaw like he was trying to memorize the shape of you with touch alone. He tasted like whisky, perfume, and problems.

You moaned into him, reflexive, guttural, and he smiled against your lips.

Cocky, dangerous.

“Not so smug now, are you?” he breathed, voice low and wicked.

But you weren’t done playing.

You gripped the back of his neck, slid your fingers into his dark hair, and yanked, just hard enough to make his breath hitch and his body stutter above yours. His mouth tore from yours with a curse, lips swollen, jaw sharp under your fingers. You pulled him back down and kissed him like fire—rough and open-mouthed, all tongue and heat and teeth. He groaned into you, low and unfiltered, and the sound went straight to your core.

When you pulled back, your lips hovered near his ear.

“Don’t confuse surrender with strategy.”

He went still. Then you felt him laugh, dark and low against your throat, and you shivered.

“You think you’re still winning?” he asked.

You didn’t answer, just looked him in the eye and dragged your nails slowly down his spine, pressing your thigh higher between his legs. You felt how hard he was. How close he was to losing it. And still, you gave him that same knowing smile.

“I know I am.”

He let out something between a hiss and a growl, and his hand finally moved, sliding down your ribs, slow and deliberate, hi touch leaving a trace of fire on your soft skin, until it gripped your thigh hard enough to bruise. He pulled your leg over his hip, his body pressing flush against yours now, no space, no denial.

The friction made you gasp, just for a second. His hardness pressing against your soaked underwear, sending a jolt of pleasure through your whole body, your skin jumping, your lashes fluttering.

His breath hitched at the sound.

“I swear,” he whispered, forehead pressing to yours, “you keep playing like this, I’m gonna ruin you.”

Your eyes locked, and everything burned, your lungs, your limbs, the air between you.

You smiled, same sweetness that made him want to lose all of his self control.

“Then do it.”

For a second, he didn’t move. He just stared at you like he couldn’t believe you’d said it. Like you’d just set the fuse on something he couldn’t put out now.

Then his lips found yours again, slower this time, deeper. Less rage, more intent. His hand trailed up your leg, thumb brushing the edge of your lace underwear like a silent promise. You arched under him, still refusing to break, still matching him push for push. Your skin was on fire, the need and lust taking over your whole body.

Every kiss, every grind of his hips, every soft moan he pulled from you was a move in the game.

Your hands wandered up the smooth expanse of his bare back, fingers dancing along his shoulder blades. He was carved perfection under your touch, warm skin stretched over hard muscle, the kind of body that had been sculpted for nights like this. You felt the tension in him, coiled, trembling restraint  just beneath the surface.

You pulled back, just enough to breathe, just enough to speak.

“You kiss like you’re trying to win,” you whispered, your voice a velvet drag.

He smirked, not moving, still hovering over you like a predator stalking his prey.

“Isn’t that the whole point?”

Your brow lifted, gaze dropping between your bodies, to the obvious proof of how not in control he really was.

“You sure about that?”

His smile faltered for half a second. Then his hand slid up your thigh, fingers skating under the edge of your lace. Not enough to touch, just to tease.

“You talk a lot for someone whose legs are already wrapped around me.”

You let out a breathless laugh, half a scoff.

“Confidence or delusion, Nishimura?”

His name on your tongue made his grip tighten. The sound of it wasn’t gentle. It was challenge and heat and poison wrapped in satin. He leaned in close, lips brushing your ear.

“Say it again.”

You turned your head slowly, letting your mouth graze his cheek as you whispered,

“Riki.”

A groan left him and he kissed you again.

In a flash, his hands gripped your waist and flipped you beneath him, the cold leather of the sofa brushing your back. He caged you in, his body a shadow over yours, hot breath against your lips. You gasped, but the sound turned into a moan when he rolled his hips down once, slow, hard, just enough friction to remind you of exactly what he was packing.

“No more games,” Riki muttered, voice barely a breath.

“I thought you liked them,” you managed, tone breathy, but your words laced with challenge.

“I like winning.” His fingers slid down your body, over your ribs, then curled around your panties and tugged. “And you’re mine now.”

He said it like a fact, not a question. Not a request.

You let out a shaky breath as he dragged your underwear down your legs, slow and deliberate, never breaking eye contact. The cold air hit your skin and you shivered, the damp fabric leaving you bare in front of him, wet, pulsing pussy in display, dripping your glistening arousal, but he was already sliding back up, spreading your legs open with his knees as he came to hover over you again.

“Look at you,” he murmured, eyes dropping down your body with reverence and hunger. “All that attitude and elegance, and now you’re dripping for me.”

“I’m not—”

But your protest died the second he dipped his head and kissed the inside of your thigh, then another, higher up, closer. His lips were soft, his mouth unbearably hot, and you felt yourself melting, unraveling, right there under him.

“You don’t have to act tough anymore,” he whispered against your skin, so close to where you needed him. “I already know what you want.”

His tongue licked a stripe up your inner thigh, deliberately skipping over the center. You gasped, hips twitching, but his hands pinned you down.

“And I’m gonna give it to you,” he promised darkly, "You said before no one has ever give you an orgasm before, now you'll find out."

He looked up from between your thighs, lips glistening, eyes lit with something wild and dangerous. The same look he wore when he drove fast, when he walked into a party like he owned the world, when he said your name like it was a sin and a prayer all at once.

“Ready to lose control, princess?”

You didn’t answer him.

You didn’t have to.

The look in your eyes said it all, dark, needy, defiant. Like you wanted to fight him just to see who would snap first. Like this wasn’t about sex at all, it was about power. About finally unleashing something that had been simmering beneath the surface for far too long.

And Riki? He was ready to burn.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, and what he saw there had him biting his lip like he needed the pain to anchor himself. Still on his knees, he dragged his hands up your thighs with reverence and possession, thumbs brushing the insides as he parted them wider, just enough. His touch left goosebumps in its wake, featherlight, and yet you felt scorched.

Then, his lips met the inside of your thigh again. Slow. Intoxicating.

He kissed there like he had all the time in the world, like he was building a shrine to the very idea of you. The way his mouth dragged, hot and wet, left a trail of heat so devastating it made your legs tremble. You could feel his breath ghosting just shy of where you wanted him, teasing your soaked pussy.

He was taking his time on purpose.

And it was killing you.

“Riki,” you warned, your voice breathy, wrecked already.

He looked up again, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“What? I’m just appreciating my prize.”

Then finally, his mouth.

You choked on a moan, your head falling back with a thud against the leather behind you as his tongue met you, hot and deliberate. He licked a long stripe through your folds with maddening precision, starting slow, then swirling his tongue around your clit with devastating ease. Your hips jolted at the sensation, but he was already there, hands anchoring you in place, strong and steady, holding you down like he’d been waiting to do this forever.

“Oh god—” you gasped, your fingers flying to his hair, threading through those dark, soft strands and tugging hard.

He moaned into you at the pull, deep and guttural, the sound reverberating against your skin. The vibration made your knees buckle, and if it weren’t for his grip, you might’ve collapsed completely.

“Not so mouthy now, huh?” he murmured against you, voice dripping with cocky amusement. “Look at you. You taste so sweet, your making a mess on my couch.”

You could barely think, barely breathe, but your pride flared like a second heartbeat.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you panted, jaw clenched, refusing to give him the full satisfaction.

“Oh, princess,” he growled, dragging his tongue in tight circles before sucking your clit into his mouth so hard you nearly cried out, “you’re the one writhing for me.”

And you were. Your thighs trembled in his grip, your stomach clenched. The heat between your legs had grown unbearable, liquid and pulsing, every nerve ending burning under his mouth and fingers.

And then, he added more.

One long finger slid inside you, slow and careful, curling just right as he worked you open. Then another, the stretch dizzying, delicious, your walls clenching around them, sucking him in with every thrust, with every wet sound of your own cunt. His tongue never stopped moving, switching between slow, torturous licks and messy, greedy flicks that made your spine arch off the wall.

You gripped his hair harder, gasping, your voice breaking.

“Shit—Riki—”

He hummed again, deep and pleased, like he’d already won. Like this had never been a game at all. His fingers pumped into you with an unrelenting rhythm now, knuckles deep, stroking just right while his mouth stayed locked on you. It was overwhelming, the speed, the precision, the fucking pressure building and building—

You were losing control. And he knew it.

He looked up once, his mouth still on you, and smirked against your heat.

Your breath hitched. Everything inside you tightened, coiled like a spring seconds before snapping. You weren’t just close, you were trembling on the edge, your body betraying every last defense you thought you had left.

And he knew it.

Riki kept his rhythm steady, cruelly steady. His fingers worked you open with precision, pumping, curling, stroking the exact spot that had your thighs clamping around his shoulders. His mouth, impossibly skilled, never strayed, tongue dragging over your clit with maddening consistency.

Each time you thought you’d fall over the edge, he’d ease just slightly, like he wanted to stretch it out, draw it from you slowly, painfully, until you were begging. Until you were nothing but need.

You squeezed your eyes shut, nails digging into his scalp, trying to pull him closer and push him away all at once.

“Riki—fuck—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled against you. “Look at me.”

Your eyes fluttered open, heavy with tears and lust, and you glanced down.

The sight alone almost did you in, him on his knees, dark hair messy from your hands, lips slick and glistening with you, pupils blown wide and locked on yours like you were the only thing in the goddamn world.

“You gonna come like this?” he asked, the corner of his mouth twitching up into a smirk. “Fall apart on my tongue?”

The arrogance in his tone should’ve pissed you off. Should’ve made you say something biting. But instead—

Instead it made your legs tremble harder.

His tongue flicked with a little more pressure now. His fingers curled with a little more purpose.

And that was it. The tension in your gut pulled so tight it snapped.

You came hard, loud scream leaving your swollen lips, hips stuttering against his mouth as your body convulsed. The wave hit you deep, dragging you under in a rush of white heat and sparks, every nerve singing with release. Your fingers fisted in his hair, your thighs quaked around his shoulders, and still—still—he didn’t stop.

He rode out your orgasm like he needed to feel every second of it. Lapping, sucking, stroking through the aftershocks until you were nothing but soft whimpers and twitching limbs, until your body sagged against the window, boneless.

When he finally pulled back, his mouth was swollen, slick with you, dripping your own fluids. His chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, but he looked satisfied.

No. He looked possessive.

He stood slowly, towering over you, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand but never taking his eyes off you. He tilted his head slightly, lips parted, expression dangerous.

“Still think this is just a game?” he asked, voice low, rough.

You met his gaze, dazed and disheveled and flushed. But despite everything, your orgasm, your shaking legs, you held your chin high.

And smiled.

“Isn’t it?” you breathed.

That look, dark, smug, defiant, hit him harder than any climax could. You saw the flicker of disbelief in his expression, the way his jaw clenched like he couldn’t believe you were still pushing him. Still trying to win.

In a blink, his hands were on you again.

Rough, possessive, done playing nice.

You barely had time to gasp before he spun you, pressing your chest against the backrest of the couch, your knees sinking into the cushions. His body was flush against yours, heat radiating off him like a furnace. One of his hands wrapped around your throat, the other palmed your hip, pulling you back until your ass pressed into the hard line of him, still beneath his boxers.

“You think you’re cute?” he growled in your ear, his voice dark silk stretched tight.

You smirked, even as your heart pounded.

“I know I am.”

His laugh was low, disbelieving, almost breathless with how much you drove him crazy.

“I should ruin you for that,” he muttered, dragging your hips back again, slow and deliberate, just to feel you rub against him. His grip tightened. “I will ruin you.”

He leaned in closer until his chest pressed into your back, his mouth brushing your ear.

“You think I don’t see what you’re doing?” he murmured. “That you can just bat your lashes and push my buttons and I won’t do something about it?”

Your answer was a soft whimper when he rolled his hips into you, hard and slow. Teasing. Not enough.

Never enough.

“You want me to lose control?” he went on, grinding against your soaked, pulsing, still sensitive pussy. “You want me to fuck it out of you, until all that attitude melts right off your tongue?”

You bit your lip.

You were soaked. From the orgasm, from his words, from what he was saying. From him.

Without warning, his hand slid between your thighs again, this time rougher, surer, cupping you, pressing his fingers through your folds like he was checking just how far gone you were. He squeezed just enough to make you jolt, moaning before you could stop it. He shoved three of his fingers inside you, curling them perfectly and you bit your lip, shutting your eyes as the wet sounds collided with his heavy breathing in your ear.

Your back arched even more as he found a rhythm, not rough, not rushed, just intentional, like he knew he could break you, and he was breaking you. His fingers curled perfectly against your soaked walls, his wrist twitching and then he touched your g-spot, that was enough for you to whimper again, rocking your hips against his hand, which made him chuckle low.

He didn't say another word, simply removed his fingers with a slick sound, bringing them to his mouth before sticking his tongue out and licking them clean. Riki's hands then grabbed your hips, strong, posessive, making your back arch even more, creating a perfect curve just for him.

"So pretty like this" He mumbled, kissing along your spine which made you breathe through your nose "Been wanting to have you like this for so long"

You didn't respond, because you knew.

Then he pulled down his boxers, his red, throbbing, thick cock finally out, resting hard against his abdomen. Riki hissed through his teeth, stroking himself a couple of times before rubbing his tip against your aching folds, and you moaned again.

Then, slowly, he pushed in.

The stretch was gradual, deliberate, like he wanted you to feel it, to take in every slow, aching second of it. Your mouth fell open, no sound at first, just a breathless gasp as your fingers clawed into his back. He was everywhere, heat and weight and pressure, grounding you, filling you, claiming every part of you inch by inch.

Your body arched into his, instinctively, like it knew this. Like it had been waiting.

Riki groaned low in your ear, the sound raw and strained, like he was barely holding on.

“Fuck,” he hissed, forehead pressed to yours, eyes shut tight. “You feel—”

He didn’t finish. Couldn’t.

You could feel it too, the way your bodies fit, the way his control trembled at the edges. The pace he set was slow, almost reverent, like he was trying to memorize the shape of your body from the inside. But it was more than just physical, it was the weight of everything that had led up to this moment: every insult, every glare, every look that lingered just a little too long.

His grip on your hips turned rougher now, fingers digging in like he wanted to leave something behind, a mark, a reminder, anything to prove he’d been there. The pace of his thrusts shifted, picking up speed, power, purpose. No more softness. No more control.

Just heat and need.

Your breath hitched sharply as he slammed into you again, the rhythm brutal in the best way, precise and punishing, every stroke deep enough to steal the words from your mouth, his cock buried deep inside of you, stretching you so good with every thrust.

“You should see yourself,” he groaned, voice ragged. “So pretty when you’re taking it. All that attitude gone now, huh?”

You whimpered, but that defiance still flickered in your eyes. So he leaned down, lips brushing your ear as he snapped his hips again.

“Say it,” he breathed. “Tell me who’s fucking you this good.”

You bit back a moan, turning your head just enough to meet his eyes, even as your body trembled around him.

“You talk too much.”

He grinned — wild, wicked.

“You won’t be so mouthy once I make you come again,” he growled, then shifted his angle, driving deeper, harder, hitting something inside you that made your back arch and your fingernails rake down his spine.

The sound you made this time was broken, involuntary.

“Yeah,” he hissed, voice thick with satisfaction. “Right there, huh? You like that?”

You couldn’t lie. Couldn’t pretend.

Because you did like it. You loved it , the way he was breaking you down and building you up all at once, the way he knew just how to push you to the edge.

He didn’t let up, just kept moving faster, rougher, chasing something in both of you. And when your moans turned to gasps, when your legs shook against the soaked leather of his couch and your knees started to falter, he dropped his head to your shoulder and growled.

“Don’t hold back. Let me hear you.”

You hated how fast the pressure coiled inside you again, hated how good he was. How right he felt.

Your bodies were slick with sweat, the air hot and heavy with breathless moans and skin against skin. Every thrust sent you deeper into the couch cushions, your thighs trembling from the aftershocks of the last orgasm and the promise of the next.

He was relentless.

And you were falling apart.

Your voice broke on a moan as he hit that spot again, your back arching, chest brushing against the couch with every movement. His mouth found your spine, then your neck, teeth grazing, tongue licking a trail of heat, and you could feel how hard it was for him to keep it together.

“You feel that?” he rasped against your skin. “How tight you get for me?”

You whimpered, nodding, gasping, unable to form words, because he was right. You could feel everything. Every stroke, every grind, the way he filled you so deep your head was spinning.

“You were made for this,” he groaned, driving in harder, deeper, chasing the way your body clenched around him. “For me.”

“Don’t get cocky,” you managed to whisper, voice shaking, breath hitching.

He let out a breathless laugh, but it was wrecked, frayed at the edges. His control was slipping fast. You could feel it, in the way his thrusts turned erratic, in the tension burning beneath his skin, in the wild look in his eyes when he pulled back just enough to see your face.

“You’re not gonna last,” you taunted, hips rolling to meet him. “You’re already close.”

His eyes darkened instantly.

And then, he snapped.

He grabbed your wrists, pulled out of you, flipped you over so your back was now against the leather and your legs wrapped around his shoulders, pinned your hands over your head into the cushions, and fucked into you so hard you cried out, your body jolting from the force.

“Say that again,” he growled, panting. “Say it, and I’ll show you just how long I can last.”

You stared up at him, dazed, ruined, lips parted in shock, and something in you loved this. Loved the fact that it wasn’t just lust between you. It was power. It was challenge. It was two people playing with fire and refusing to get burned first.

The rhythm of his hips was punishing now, deep, fast, precise. You were unraveling beneath him, every part of you hypersensitive, your body slick with heat and want. The friction, the pressure, the sound of your bodies colliding, it all built around you like a storm.

You couldn’t hold it together much longer.

Riki could feel it too.

He watched your face like he needed to memorize it, the way your brows knit together, the way your lips parted around breathless gasps, the way your legs trembled around his waist. You looked like a dream in ruin, all flushed skin and flushed pride, and he couldn’t get enough.

“Come on,” he whispered, low and rough against your ear. “Don’t fight it.”

You blinked up at him, trying to speak, but the words caught in your throat, choked by sensation. He rolled his hips again, grinding into the spot that made your eyes roll back, and his fingers never stopped working your clit, drawing tight, dizzying circles that pushed you closer with every stroke.

“Let go,” he murmured, breath hot against your skin. “Be good for me.”

The way he said it, soft, coaxing, like he already knew he’d won, made something inside you snap.

Your body seized beneath him, back arching as white-hot pleasure exploded through you. You clutched at him like you’d fall apart without the anchor of his body, your mouth falling open in a gasp that never quite turned into a scream, too overwhelmed to make sound.

He didn’t stop. He rode it out, held you down, let you feel every ripple, every aftershock, like he wanted to imprint the high of it into your bones.

And when your body finally went slack beneath him, shivering, lips parted, utterly spent, he leaned down, kissed the corner of your mouth.

You were still shaking when he cursed under his breath, low and hoarse, gripping your hips like he was holding on for dear life.

“Fuck,” he growled, buried deep inside you.

You felt the change in him, his pace faltering, his movements becoming rougher, more erratic. His breathing was ragged, shallow against your skin, chest pressing into yours with every desperate thrust.

His control was slipping. Finally.

You opened your eyes, just barely, and caught his expression, eyes half-lidded and burning, jaw clenched, every muscle in his body pulled tight like a bowstring. He looked like he was in pain. Like holding back was killing him.

He let out a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a growl, then buried his face in your neck as he thrust one final time, deep and hard. You felt him tense, whole body going rigid above you as he let go with a broken gasp of your name, spilling his warm, creamy seed inside of you, filling you, making you his.

The heat of it, the way he clung to you like he needed to feel every pulse of pleasure, it wrecked you all over again. He stayed there for a long moment, chest heaving against yours, your bodies tangled in sweat and silk and aftershocks.

The silence settled like mist over the room, warm and slow and heavy. Just the hum of the city outside the window, the quiet rustle of breath as your bodies slowly came back to earth. You laid tangled on the couch, bare limbs pressed against bare skin, his arm draped loosely around your waist, fingers absentmindedly tracing circles along your spine.

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

Then Riki broke the silence.

“So…” he murmured, voice still rough from everything, “do I get points for making the golden girl come apart on my couch?”

You huffed a laugh against his collarbone.

“Please. That ego of yours doesn’t need points.”

He grinned. You could feel it without even looking.

“I think I deserve a medal, honestly.”

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, hair falling over your face.

“For what? Finally keeping up?”

His eyes narrowed playfully.

“Keeping up?”

“You heard me,” you smirked. “Don’t act like you didn’t almost beg.”

He rolled his eyes, but his fingers dug into your hip in warning.

“Watch it.”

“Or what?” you teased, raising a brow. “You’ll punish me?”

His eyes darkened again, just for a second, but the spark in them was unmistakable.

“Careful,” he said softly. “You say things like that, and I won’t let you sleep tonight.”

The way he said it sent a slow burn through your already sensitive body. You bit your lip, turning your face away to hide your smile. But he caught it anyway.

He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek, his touch uncharacteristically gentle. And when you looked back at him, something softer had settled behind his gaze. Something quieter.

His grin returned, cocky and slow.

“What do you eat for breakfast? French toast? Smoked salmon? A fresh man's heart?”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t pull away, not yet. Because you weren’t quite ready to leave the warmth of his body. Or the way his voice sounded in the dark. Or how, despite everything, you felt like maybe—just maybe—he was your match.

I finished this at like 3:00 am so sorry if there are any mistakes!! <3 thank u sm for reading.

[chezzywezzy]

Yandere Jacob Black (1/10)

AN: Come for the Jacob, stay for the Edward who is equally as important to the plot.

WC: 4.1k

“I’m Edward,” the man beside her greeted with a polite smile.

R couldn't help but nurture her school-girl style crush. She’d always seen him from a distance and quietly admired, not his good-looking appearance exclusively, but the way he did not let the objectification and judgement of others bother him.  She sat next to him in the lab. Her fourth semester in and they had never interacted, much less spoken to one another; but that wasn’t surprising, as R was an environmental science and art double major while he was a music and chemistry major and somehow less present at school than anyone else on campus.

She broke out of her stupor as she felt his impatience for a reply start to grow.

“Ah - sorry. I was spaced out. I’m R,” she answered, curtly nodding and smiling. “I don’t mean to be weird - I’m sorry. It’s just that I never imagined we’d share a class.”

"Do you imagine me often?” 

He seemed to almost be teasing, almost flirtatious and amused. R’s cheeks lit on fire and she abashed her gaze. She was glad the professor for marine biology drew everyone’s attention by flicking off the light and beginning a power point. R did not make eye contact with him for the rest of class, but she could feel his occasionally flickering gaze.

At lunch, she met up with her friend group and pretended the encounter had not happened for a moment, even though she knew that Jessica - the Cullens’ number one fangirl - would be seething with curiosity. R always felt somewhat left out of her Forks College friend group, or just the college in general. Although she publicly put on an over-the-top hippy persona and style, she was not a naturally outgoing and ‘chill’ - person; that was mostly fabricated and only genuine with Angela, who shared her interests and wasn’t as satisfied by socialization fueled by gossip.

“Another year has started of wishing Edward would notice me,” Jess sighed. “At this rate, though, I’d take anything I could get.”

R hummed. “Well, maybe you could try talking to him.”

“Are you crazy? He’d probably just ignore me.”

“I’m sure he’s nicer than he puts off. It probably doesn’t help that everyone just sees him as a piece of meat,” R insisted.

Jessica raised a brow at the implication while Angela giggled, nudging R’s elbow as a warning.

R remembered how kind Jessica was in high school, but once college hit and she was rejected form everywhere but her own town despite being a valedictorian and having an incredible resume, she became more and more boy-crazy, shallow, and jaded. It was a shame. Nobody dared bring it up though, as she was the tether to the social group.

 The woman tuned out the rest of her friend group. She was happier at college and in her new home just outside of town, but it was the between hours that she dreaded, wether it be desperately hoping for tips while waitressing or - a recently established task - taking her recently moved little sister to and from her nine to five office job that she was temporarily stationed at while deciding what to do with her life.

Mom and stepdad hit the road and sent Bella up here, and just like she always had, taken her place. Her room, her father’s attention, and her additional financial help as a struggling college student when she was already that before. She was sure the list would only grow.

R tried not think about it. She became aware of the usual hush the entered the dining hall when the Cullens walked in. But instead of ignoring it like usual, she glanced up and made eye contact with Edward.

He smiled and waved at her. She smiled and waved back.

That small notion did not go unnoticed. Jessica and Mike stared the hardest at her as she twisted back around and tried to dive back into her meal unnoticed. She quirked a brow as they stared.

“What?”

“You know what,” Jess huffed.

“We sit next to each other in marine biology,” R defended. “It’s only natural to talk to who sits next to you.”

Jessica perked up and mumbled about adding a class to her workload. R was able to sneak away to sit outside for a moment and birdwatch with Angela. Her first day back for her junior yer had been more exciting than she thought, and it wasn’t from freshmen boys making a statement by being outright with the timid girls.

R felt as though her day had blurred past, as it wasn’t until she pulled up to Bella’s place of work at the post office and did not see her come out that she felt in her own skin again, but from irritation.

She reached for her phone before remembering yesterday when R and Bella went to the local diner to rekindle their familial bonds. R had asked for her cell number and Bella told her she would give it to her tomorrow on the drive there. But she had forgotten, and now R had call Charlie.

“Hey, dad,” R said,” do you know where Bella is? I’m here at the post office but she’s not here.”

“Oh - I picked her up,” Charlie muttered. “Bella didn’t text you? We’re eating eating dinner if you’d like to join.”

“I have work, dad. You know I always work evenings after school to keep my weekend free.”

“Ah - well, uh - just make sure to ask for her cell next time you see her. Be sure to pick her up tomorrow.”

R hung up. She felt dramatic as she sat alone in that car parking lot, wanting to bash her skull on the steering wheel. Angry tears threatened to escape. That dynamic - no matter how much objectively more impressive R was, Bella was always the favorite child. She remembered the divorce battle - a fight for custody over Bella while her mother just let Charlie have her without a fight. And now, even in adulthood, Bella was an unmotivated and socially outcasted person who had no idea what she wanted for her future. No friends, no boyfriend, no outstanding talents or skills. R had always been the smart and sociable and talented child. Most notably, she painted with oils and watercolor, taking inspiration from her home away from home, the tribe. She also knew a couple of instruments like the guitar and flute and had been athletic on top of that, doing cross-country in high school. She worked hard for the life she thought every parent would praise or at least acknowledge - the social and professional desirability.

There was just something about Bella that made her parents love her more. And Bella moving here, Charlie kicking her out of the house essentially to make room for the dead-end child to be pampered, felt like reseting all of her mental health progress she made in managing the inferiority complex.

Bella wasn’t even a problem child; the only problem was that she didn’t do anything. If she had been, R would have understood it more, but she was always left with confusion.

R shook herself out pf her head and rang up Jacob instead.

The phone rang suspiciously long before Jacob picked up. She heard clanging in the background. “Hey,” he exclaimed eagerly. “Where are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not here for dinner at your dad’s place. What, he didn’t tell you?”

“…I guessed I missed the memo. I wasn’t told anything.”

“Huh,”Jacob huffed. “Well, Billy is here too. I guess you still have work, though.”

Ever since she was a child, Jacob had always been there for her, attached at the hip. She felt seen and acknowledged. Jacob was so warm and kind, but he especially was to her. Although Angela was a close first, he was the first and the best friend that she’d ever had. He listened to her every thought, eagerly remarked about every painting, and was always a shoulder to cry on when she was stressed. She had bore her soul to him and he had done the same.

R sighed. “It’s alright. Want to come over after work?”

“Yeah! I hope I can rope dad into lending me the car afterwards,” he chuckled. “You know how tight he is about curfew these days. I bet he knows about, y’know.”

“I’d be more worried about them carrying on so long you’re stuck there all night!”

“I doubt it. Your sister already seems fed up with all the questions Billy is giving, and I’m pretty sure Charlie’s trying to pawn me off as a source of friendship.”

R felt a pang of jealousy but pushed it down. Jacob knew how she felt about her family. Although he is kind, he is loyal above all else, and he wouldn’t dare make genuine friends with the girl, even if Bella probably needed the motivation to some degree (if Bella even cared to make friends with him in the first place).

“Well, have at it. I have to get to work.”

“Okay. Love you, R.”

“Love you too, Jake.”

It almost felt like something staged, she pondered as she rolled up to work. As though Charlie had chosen to eat at home this one night to avoid including R in a family dinner, even if she had to be the server. She resented her parents and rekindling why didn’t help. 

The evening came to an end as R closed up and counted her tips. She had been given more than usual, as word got around in a small town about Bella making room in Charlie’s place and her moving out.

She headed home. Jacob was not there yet. But she had done work ahead of time in cloning a house key for him. Her home was small, quaint, and somewhat rundown, even if she decorated it the best she could. It was one story, one bedroom, and one bathroom. The kitchen and the living room were hardly separated and there were only a few closets. Granted, R didn’t have many things other than what she got for herself, which was mainly art supplies, so the place was not cluttered.

She turned on the TV to the nature channel and pulled out her medically assigned weed (for acute anxiety, depression and insomnia) and started puffing. She received a call in the midst of her calming high, slow to pick up, having to focus intently on it.

“Hey,” she muttered. She knew who called. “You able to hang tonight?”

“Sorry, no,” Jacob sighed irritably. “Dad said it would be rude to come hang out with you and not have Bella join since she doesn’t have friends here.”

“Damn. Want me to pick you up?”

“No, don’t waste the gas,” he insisted. “You saw the wreck of a motorcycle I picked up. Soon enough, I’ll have it refurbished enough that I can come to you.”

“Dream on, Jake. You’re talented with that stuff, but every part of it was rusted.”

“I’ll show you,” he snickered fondly. “Have a good night, though. I’ll see you tomorrow. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

~~~

The smell of dew crept in through the cracked car window. R didn’t always have a car - it was a recent gift from Charlie under the agreement that she’d be Bella’s chauffeur. R could not recall a single gift that did not mimic such an agreement - paying for college? It was reluctantly done from Bella’s college savings account they made for her before she seemed to reject college. Living with Charlie throughout it? She wouldn’t have kept her bedroom. It would have been shared with Bella if she hadn’t left. Any birthday gifts? They were hardly knowledgable about what she would want unless if she told them the day before.

Hell, even high school graduation had been about Bella.

Her sister hopped into the car without her noticing. R sent her a tense smile, trying not to show her frustration. R would have appreciated Bella as family if Bella hadn’t ignored her for most of her life. She was consistently reclusive to everyone, though, so she didn’t take their dwindling connection after the divorce to heart.

“How was your first day of work?” 

“It was good. You?”

“College is nice,” R answered. “You know, not that it’s fine to go through life without it, if you ever want a degree Forks is nice. Plus, uh, me and my friends would be there to support you.”

A polite smile met Bella’s lips as she nodded. “Thanks.”

The conversation lulled to an end before it had even began. R’s eyes were glued to the road as an aversion for the atmosphere. It wasn’t tense or uncomfortable, but it was awkward.

“You look nice,” Bella suddenly spoke up as they pulled into the post office parking lot. “I like the skirt.”

R sent her a smile. “Thanks, Bella. You do, too. Have fun. I’ll see you later.”

Bella left and R was off to school. Being with Bella was strange. It felt worse than driving with a total stranger - any hopes of a relationship blossomed with a new contact, while with Bella, who she’d known her whole life, had regressed the formula.

Her thoughts shifted from the environment she was entering. She thought about Edward, more specifically. Perhaps it was a hope of romance for herself, but Edward reminded her of Jacob if he was introverted and far more intimidating. 

Once upon a time in her teenage years she had harbored a crush on Jacob but never spoke of it, even long after the fleeting feelings faded. Perhaps the same had happened to him at some point, like two ships passing in the night. It was probably common between friends for that long. 

But Edward was new and enticing, and that wasn’t just from his lack of attainability. In a way, he felt relatable. Always observed but without anyone taking the time to understand him. That felt edgy to think, though.

R parked the car near the building. She was quick to gather her art supplies, looking forward to the day ahead of her. While the odd days held the more difficult stem and environmental classes, the even ones were the days she looked forward to - longer class periods, yes, but a blissful environment of painting brushes and skimming paper. Her favorite art professor - of which taught both the pottery and the realism class - believing in doing more than talking.

 As she entered the classroom, her heart skipped a beat. At the back of the classroom, already whirring on a wheel with a lump of clay in his hands, manually pushing the pump with his foot and molding it. She noticed the professor already noticed and watched from a distance. More students filed the classroom with R and she decided to sit down next to Edward again.

“Hello, I’m R,” she teased quietly.

Edward smiled and glanced upward. “Hello. I’m Edward.”

“What are you making?”

"I don’t particularly know yet,” he admitted. “I was fiddling around until class started, I suppose.”

“You seem talented. Have you done pottery before?”

“Here or there, although I’m not particularly skilled.”

“Me neither. My talents for art lay elsewhere. In all honesty, I’ve been putting this class off. I’m not very good with using my hands.”

“What are your talents?” he inquired, slowly letting the wheel stop and sitting up, turning his entire body posture toward her. He seemed  so attentive. For a moment, R felt understood, and her smile became far more genuine.

“I like to paint nature with oils, pastels, watercolor. I like anything that feels earthier by nature. Maybe it’s weird, but I despite pencils or pens. Hell, even for taking notes I use a fountain pen.”

“I noticed. You’re also in environmental science.”

“Yes. I don’t know if you always grew up here, but I did. The nature is beautiful. I’m also close friends with the local native tribe and I take inspiration from their environment. The art work and culture and lifestyle is far more beautiful than anything I could come up with myself.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. I hope to see some of your work sometime.”

The conversation ended there rather abruptly. R noticed a change in demeanor. Jacob almost seemed apprehensive all of a sudden. Not unfriendly toward her, no, but reluctant to converse. She suddenly felt self-conscious. Perhaps she had talked too much.

Class began. R felt enriched and focused on the professor as she showed them the wheel and how to manipulate the clay. The project for class was to simply mess around and attempt a bowl - the professor felt that art was intuitive, and while R typically agreed, this was no longer her wheel house, pun intended.

She huffed in frustration at her lump of clay, only somewhat stemming from its center to resemble a bowl. Other students, at least those who did not take the class for fun, were thriving and far ahead. And beside her, Edward was skillfully making many recognizable shapes of bowls, simply being pick yon which he preferred.

“I think it would look better as a deeper soup bowl,” R blurted nervously. “I mean - assuming ramen is as much of a staple of your diet as it is for mine.”

He chuckled, easily morphing the shape and stropping the wheel. “You’re right. I’m not sure what I was thinking.”

R felt a blush crawl up her cheeks and she turned her attention away. As she focused her energy on the wheel with frustration, Edward’s hands drifted into view.

“May I?”

“Of course,” she invited, about to pull her hands away. 

However, Edward placed his hands on top of hers firmly. He was so incredibly cold. It was the opposite of Jacob, who was always a burning furnace. It was oddly refreshing, especially in the humid late august weather.

“First,” he guided softly, maneuvering R’s fingers to glide inward to make a circle in the center,” you have to draw your fingers deeper and outward to create a starting shape, like this.”

R gulped, feeling heat rise despite his frown fingertips. They mashed together carefully, and she swore she almost felt a tremble. She gulped and watched as his fingers graciously formed a  thickly round bowl.

“From here, you almost pinch it to pull it upwards and give it a firmer shape.”

Moments later, he had made a similar bowl to his, although not without some imperfections due to R’s almost poisonous touch. R watched in awe and felt the occasional glance from curious classmates, but she was so absorbed with his graceful movements, each filled with careful intention. She smiled widely as Edward pulled his hands away.

“Now you have a bowl.”

“Thank you,” she exclaimed in awe. “I don’t think I believe ‘here or there’ anymore. I think I With the learned technique she swirled so then it was a squiggly line around the top, or like curvy coral. She was pleased with the shape, even haunting the wheel to carefully press two holes meant for chopsticks.

She grinned and motioned proudly with her hands. “I dare say I did a good job,” she joked.

Edward did not take it as one, smiling warmly. “Yes, you did.”

~~~

R felt as though she was glowing the rest of the day. It did not feel as much of a school girl crush anymore - she was right in liking Edward. He was kind and charming. Even with his frigid body temperature, he now exuded a friendly warmth to him. Even as friends, R would be satisfied. A friend like him would be lucky.

She left school that evening after a quick club activity at clay club (although she now unlocked a skill with the wheel, she was always keen to make small trinkets an poorly made sculptures). R felt like her normal self, focused on her personal life rather than the quiet drama of her family life. 

The post office doors opened as she pulled up to the entrance. Bella seemed as withdrawn as usual as she hopped in, almost defeated and tired. However, from her wonderful day, she hardly felt the atmosphere weigh her down.

“How was it today?” R chirped.

Bella seemed caught off guard but tried her best to match the energy. “It was good. I like doing repetitive tasks like mail sorting. There’s never nothing to do, at least.”

“Are you looking into getting a permit? I can teach you the ropes sometime. I hear that the delivery drivers make a little more and you could listen to music that way.”

She smiled at the invitation. “You could? You seem so busy, though.”

“Of course. Consider it helping me since I could be in the passenger seat once you have a permit.”

“Okay,” she agreed. “I’ll do that.”

“There’s not much to study. I actually used a website that just ran through all the questions. You can use that.”

“Okay.” Bella fell silent and R almost felt a sense of defeat. She had just barely touched the surface of her little sister. However, Bella did her best in continuing the conversation. “What classes do you have?”

“I’m taking a lot of fun ones this semester. Marine biology, pottery, realism, grass - yes, a class on grass -, and one about general environmental sustainability. That one’s a little boring since it’s all about windmills and solar panels and stuff.”

“Which is your favorite?”

R thought fondly of Edward, blushing. “I think pottery.”

“I thought you did painting and stuff, though.”

“Yes, but I’m happy about branching out. It’s fun and relaxing and there’s cute boy I like.”

Bella grinned. “What is he like?”

“His name is Edward,” R answered. “We have marine biology too, but can’t talk as much there. We sit next to each other for both, though. He’s introverted but very charming and kind. He’s kind of the school’s unattainable heartthrob, you could say. I’m not the only one that thinks he’s cute, but at least I’m one of the few he’s talking to at the moment.”

“That’s nice.”

“Do you have any interest in dating?”

“Not in boys at least,” she replied timidly. 

“So girls?”

Bella nodded sheepishly and turned to look out the window. “Please don’t mention that, though. I don’t think mom would be happy. She’s worried she won’t have any grandchildren.”

“I won’t.”

R felt a warmth spread through her. “I still haven’t gotten your number. You can put it in my phone now.”

Bella did so and conversation ended, but on a far lighter and warmer note. R swore this was the first real conversation they had had in over a decade. Although it barely scratched the surface of a closeness siblings ought to have, it felt like a start to something. R tried not to get her hopes up, though. Bella was known for being withdrawn and rather moody and this could be her in an extroverted mood. 

R rolled up to the house. “I’ll see you tomorrow. But hey, are you interested in going up to Port Angeles this weekend? My treat. We could go shopping or see a movie. There’s a lot of personable small businesses for clothes and books and the like.”

“Maybe.” She paused. “I think I would like that. Would dad be joining?”

“You can invite him if you’d like, but I was thinking us girls. You know he’s always on the clock.”

“Yeah, okay.”

They bid each other farewell. R reflected on the nature of their relationship in the past; she had always been the one to reach out until Bella’s responses via email or phone calls would just fade away. Putting so much effort into something one-sided always felt exhausting so she had given up. This felt like a new leaf, but she wasn’t sure it would last.

She thought about high school graduation. Her mother and stepdad didn’t make the trip because Bella had a fever, which had felt like a cop-out. They didn’t visit afterwards or send gifts. Her mom only called briefly to congratulate her. And once the tables were turned and Bella graduated, Charlie and her flew out. There was a party thrown and gifts given. R was angry then, spiteful, but did remember that Bella had a phase of making an effort afterwards.

Although unspoken, it seemed even Bella was aware of the favoritism at the time.

[twlgholts]

always kind of was, j. black

chapter nine, things you don’t say

— jacob black x f. reader

a/n: holy long chapter its like double the length of other ones oops! but we almost done so stay tuned…

prev. series masterlist! next.

Death is imminent. Most don’t get the luxury of reaching the end of their life naturally–peacefully. Most don’t die knowing their life was well-lived, well-loved.

You, however, were going to take that luxury away from Jacob Black.

Thirty-five hours, forty-two minutes, eight seconds. That’s how long it had been since you last saw him, since that night. You hadn’t texted, but neither had he.

To be fair, he knew you needed more space than he did. Jacob always seemed to know that about you–how when your emotions boiled over, you needed quiet. Stillness. Time alone to cool off so you could speak your mind without every word carrying too much heat, especially ones you didn’t mean.

And he was right.

Which only pissed you off more.

Because if he understood you that well–understood what you needed, how you worked, how you shut down–then why did he keep you under the dark, like you hadn’t spent your entire lives knowing each other inside-out?

He knew you wouldn’t reach out first. You weren’t the kind of person who broke the silence until you were ready, and he knew that. You knew that he knew that. Which made it all worse because even if he knew you needed space, even if he understood it down to a science, a part of you still wished he’d done the opposite anyway. You wanted him to prove you wrong, to show up at your doorstep soaked and breathless and say, screw space, I care too much to stay away.

But he didn’t.

And maybe there was no right move he could’ve made. Maybe there was no winning. Maybe this whole situation was designed to screw you both up.

When Jacob felt things, he felt them with everything in him. He was stubborn. He loved hard and fast, but he always, always, put others before himself. That’s why it felt natural for him to throw his life into danger without blinking–because protecting Forks from real monsters gave him purpose. It distracted him from thinking too hard about stuff that really scared him.

Like feelings.

Like you.

Everything had happened too fast. The shifting, the imprinting, the supernatural chaos. One second he was just a kid worrying about homework, dreaming about a girl who moved away. The next, he had fur, paws, responsibilities, and a cosmic bond telling him the person who kept him grounded was now the axis his entire universe spun around.

You didn’t do anything wrong and it wasn’t something you said. You just existed, and somehow your existence alone became the thing Jacob needed to survive.

When you left, he told himself the crush would die quietly. And it did–kind of. It fizzled out, but not really. Never really. He buried it, shoved it down with both hands, and then you came back and suddenly it was like he didn’t need air, or food, or sleep. Just you.

You being near him rewired everything. The progress he’d made–the person he was trying to become–froze. Halted like his growth hit a red light and never got the green again.

He never wanted to hurt you. Not ever. He wanted to do the opposite, to protect you and preserve your peace by keeping you from the heavy, tangled mess of what he was now. The last thing he wanted was to trap you in something you never asked for.

And the worst part? He knew you’d understand because you always did. You’d listen and nod and hold space for him the way no one else could.

That made it scarier.

Because if you understood, then it’d be real. It would mean accepting what he was, what you were to him, and what that might do to you.

Not seeing you sucked. But knowing you were hurting because of him? That made his skin crawl, his chest ache. He could feel it–literally–because of the damn imprint, the cosmic tie that tethered his every heartbeat to yours.

And lately, with patrols getting more intense, with rogue vampires creeping through the tree line again, Jacob’s already limited time had shrunk even more. Which meant pushing you further out. Which meant more guilt. More regret. More thoughts circling like vultures.

And everyone noticed.

“You look like crap,” Embry told him one afternoon, smirking around a half-eaten granola bar as Jacob slouched deeper into the worn couch in Emily’s living room.

Jacob didn’t bother answering. His arms were crossed, hair a mess, dark circles etched under his eyes like bruises.

Quil threw down a reverse card during their lazy Uno game and raised an eyebrow. “Seriously, man. You’re gonna implode. Or imprint-sulk yourself into an aneurysm.”

“I’m fine,” Jacob muttered.

“Liar,” Embry replied immediately, not even looking up from his cards.

“You’re not sleeping. You’re screwing up on patrols. You let a tree root punk you last night. A root, Jake.” Quil gestured toward the bandage around Jacob’s thumb. “That’s embarrassing for all of us.”

Jacob sighed through his nose. “Yeah. I know.”

There was a pause.

Then Quil leaned back and said, “Look. I’m saying this because I love you, bro. But you’re being a total idiot. A certified, capital ‘I’ idiot. You know it. We know it. Probably even the trees know it at this point.”

“Great pep talk,” Jacob replied, sarcastic.

“I’m not done,” Quil said. “You don’t even have to tell her the wolf stuff yet. Honestly, I wouldn’t. She’s already trying to figure out why you’re acting like this moody-loner-slash protector hybrid. You’re already giving off major Angel-from-Buffy vibes. Don’t make it worse by dumping a werewolf-shaped bomb on her.”

Embry snorted. “For real. If you disappear dramatically one more time, she’s gonna start journaling about you in cursive.”

Jacob cracked a reluctant smile but didn’t say anything. Then, without looking up, he tossed his last card onto the pile. “Uno out.”

Quil blinked. “Wait–seriously?”

Jacob just leaned back against the couch, looking up at the ceiling, eyes dull. “Doesn’t mean I’m winning at life.”

Embry let out a low whistle. “Damn. That was darker than expected.”

“Talk to her,” Quil said again, more serious now. “You don’t have to say everything, just something. Something real, honest, because not saying anything? That’s what’s killing you.”

Jacob was sad, but so were you. 

Not just sad. Confused. Conflicted. Hurt. Stuck somewhere between rage and ache and it all sat heavy in your chest like a weight you couldn’t breathe under.

You were drinking a glass of orange juice and staring at the fridge like it had answers. Maybe if you looked hard enough, the swirling storm inside your brain might settle.

“You’re looking at the fridge like red laser beams are gonna shoot out of your eyes and evaporate it,” your dad said, stepping into the kitchen with that familiar dry tone, breaking the silence like a crack of thunder. He clocked your slumped posture and pinched brows instantly.

You let out a small, humorless laugh. “Yeah. Practicing for my victim.”

He walked over and rubbed your shoulders, then kissed the side of your head in that comforting, fatherly way he always did. “Black? Don’t do that to my boy.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m just so annoyed. Like why is he acting like a freak and being so secretive? I’m not asking for the government’s confidential top-secrets. I just want him to be honest.”

“I was just like him,” your dad says, smiling as he opened the cabinet and pulled out a mug. “Young. Rebellious. Mysterious. It didn’t help when I fell in love.”

You raised a brow and perched up a little, staring at him like he’d said something criminal. “With Mom? You? Mysterious?”

He smiles with pride written all over his face.

“Mom said you used to call her five times a day and show up to her work ‘accidentally’ like, three times a week.”

He nodded solemnly. “That was me being mysterious.”

You laughed, for real this time.

“I once tried to impress her by dancing backwards down the hallway in rollerblades while holding a boombox in high school. Hit a locker, flipped over, broke my wrist, passed out, hospitalized. She was sitting next to me when I woke up. That’s when I knew she was the one.”

You blinked. “You never told me that version.”

“Because I looked like an idiot,” he replied, sipping his coffee. “But an idiot in love.”

“So what’s that got to do with Jacob acting like an emotionally repressed cryptid?”

He chuckled, deep and loud from his belly. “Everything. You kids think love is clean. It’s not. Sometimes it’s stupid and messy and makes you act like a weirdo who stares at a fridge. But if you don’t deal with it head-on, it eats you alive.”

You stared into your juice, feeling heat crawl up the back of your neck.

“Just… don’t wait too long,” he advises, heading for the hallway. “I’d like a warm thank you in your wedding speech, not a cold one on your deathbed. Go talk to him before your temper rips him apart.”

Your dad disappears down the hallway, leaving behind the faint scent of coffee. You take another sip of your orange juice and just sit there, watching the condensation slide down the glass, listening to the silence settle in the house like fog. Your thoughts churn quietly beneath the surface–heavy, sharp, loud, impossible to name. You look down at your hands and they’re still, but everything inside you is not.

You don’t know how much time passes. Maybe a few minutes. Maybe an hour. But eventually, after thirty-seven hours, twelve minutes, and fifty-six seconds of silence and distance, you throw on (his) hoodie, grab your keys, and drive.

The road is muscle memory. You’ve taken this route so many times, it’s etched into your bones. You pass the place where Jacob taught you how to skate, where he pushed you too fast down a hill and nearly gave you a concussion. Where he laughed so hard he fell over with you.

Eventually, you’re on the reservation, the ocean wind shifting in through the cracked window, and the ache in your chest building like pressure before a storm.

You park in front of a small, red wooden house that always looked too much like a barn. A little weathered by time, but standing.

You barely knock before the door opens.

Jacob looks tired, his hair messy like he had just woken up, his chest rising and falling concerningly fast. He looks at you like he wasn’t expecting you but was hoping you’d come anyway. But you don’t give him a chance to speak.

You step forward and just let it all out.

“Do you know how much it hurt not knowing what the hell was going on with you? I felt like I was screaming into a void and you just stood there watching. Do you know what it feels like to have someone look at you like you’re everything one second and then like you’re a stranger the next? Like they’re holding behind some thick wall and you’re not allowed through, no matter how hard you pound on it?”

You don’t even notice your hands are shaking until you grab at the sleeves of the hoodie.

“I came here thinking things would be different–or maybe just the same in the ways that mattered. But you’re not talking to me, Jacob. Not really. You show up, you bail, you look at me like I’m the answer to a question you won’t even ask. And I’m trying. God, I’m trying to be patient and soft and understanding, but I’m not a mind reader. I don’t want to be. I want you to trust me enough to say something. Anything.”

He’s still. Watching you. Breathing heavy.

You keep going, voice cracking just slightly now.

“Because this isn’t fair. I know you’re going through something, I see it. But it feels like you’re grieving something I don’t even know about, like there’s this shadow over you and you won’t let me near it. You shut me out and I feel like I’m just waiting for the version of you I used to know to come back. But maybe that version is gone. And if he is, at least say that. Is that too much to ask for? Too selfish?”

There’s a moment of silence. He doesn’t move.

Then he steps aside and lets you in.

You follow him into the warmth of the house, your heartbeat still thudding, your throat dry. He runs a hand through his hair and lets out a long breath before finally looking at you again.

“I can’t tell you,” he says, voice low but steady. “And before you get mad again–just listen. I want to be honest with you, more than anything, but there’s this part of me I didn’t ask for. Something that’s not entirely mine to explain. And I don’t even understand it yet.”

He swallows, his eyes are shining too, but he blinks quickly.

“It’s been eating me alive since before you came back. Every time I look at you, there’s this war inside me wanting to protect you and wanting to keep you as far from me as possible, and I don’t know how to handle that. I don’t even fully know what I am right now, let alone how to share that with someone else.”

He finally steps closer. “And I know you’re hurt. I hate myself for hurting you, but I’m hurting too, and I don’t have the words or the tools to fix this yet. I just need more time. I promise I’ll tell you–everything. But right now, if I did, I’d only be handing you a burden that I’m still trying to carry myself and I can’t do that to you.”

You breathe in slowly, heart thudding against you ribs.

“Nothing about you is a burden to me, Jacob,” you whisper. “I love and care about every inch of your soul. You know that, right?”

“I do,” he says quietly, “And that’s what terrifies me. Why do you seem to love and understand me more than I do myself? Just let me figure this out first. Let me become the person who deserves that kind of love. Then I’ll tell you. I swear.”

You stare at him for a long moment. Then you nod once, slow.

“Okay, I trust you. Don’t go breaking it, Jake.”

“I won’t,” he replies almost immediately. “I swear I won’t.”

“You’re not kicking me out now, are you?” you ask, voice soft.

“No,” he says, voice low, like the word had been waiting in his chest this whole time. “Stay. Please. Stay.”

There’s something raw in the way he says it–not desperate, exactly. Just sincere, like he’s finally admitting that he needs something.

You stop, half-turned toward the door, and look at him.

“Okay,” you say softly.

You drop your keys on the table, toe off your shoes, and glance around the room like it’s unfamiliar, even though you’ve been here a hundred times before. Everything feels a little warped, like the air’s heavier now, slower. Jacob stays quiet, eyes following you with that same unreadable look. Part guilt. Part relief. Mostly something deeper–something wounded and tender.

You shift your weight, then glance down at your phone. “Crap. I forgot my charger.”

His voice is steadier now, a little warmer. “Top drawer on my desk. Might still be that old one you left.”

You nod, grateful for something simple, and head toward his room.

His room smells like him–that mix of pine and clean laundry and something warm you can’t quite name. Possibly familiarity. You flick on the light and go to the desk.

You open the drawer and pause.

The overhead light flickers softly, catching on the edge of something crinkled and colorful nestled between loose batteries and old screws.

Starburst wrappers.

Dozens of them.

Some smoothed flat, others crumpled into little cubes like they’d been stuffed into a pocket in a hurry. Pink, orange, red–every color, every flavor. You pick one up, your fingers still recognizing the texture, the weight of it. A soft breath escapes you before you can help it.

Jacob’s voice floats in from the hallway. “You find it?”

You don’t answer right away. You’re still staring into the drawer, holding a piece of your shared history between your fingers.

He steps into his room. “Hey, you okay?”

You hold up the wrapper without turning around. “You kept these?”

A pause. You can feel him stop in the doorway behind you.

Then, quieter: “What do you mean?”

You look back at him, your expression a mixture of incredulous and something tender. You shift back slightly so he can see inside the drawer. His eyes land on it–on the sea of familiar colors–and something in his face changes. Softens.

He walks forward slowly. “I forgot I still had those.”

You raise a brow. “Did you, though?”

Jacob scratches the back of his neck again, half a smile playing at his lips. “Okay. Maybe I knew. But only because I never wanted to throw them out.”

You turn toward him, arms folded loosely, a pink wrapper still in your hand. “Why?”

He looks down at the drawer, then back up at you with a sort of quiet vulnerability. “Because they were yours. Ours. I don’t know. I guess… I held onto them because they reminded me of a time when things made sense. When getting a kiss from you only cost a few pieces of candy.”

You scoff lightly. “You were constantly broke.”

“I know.” He smiles. “But you still patched me up anyway. Even when I didn’t deserve it.”

You shake your head, stepping closer. “You’re such a sentimental idiot.”

“I’m aware.”

He meets your eyes, and something heavier settles between you. A beat of silence. A shared knowing. You search his face for something—an answer, maybe. Or a reason why you’re still here, why your heart still aches when it comes to him.

“I missed this,” you say, your voice quieter now. “Us. Before everything got complicated. But I’m glad we talked.”

Jacob nods, almost solemn. “Me too.”

You inhale slowly, chest tight with the things you haven’t said. Then he reaches out and pulls you in gently, his arms wrapping around your waist like they were made to. You fold into him without resistance. The hug is soft at first, then stronger. He tucks his chin over your shoulder, and you stay that way–for a long, quiet moment. No words. Just breath, warmth, and the ache of being known too well.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His hands are still resting on your arms. “Let me make everything up to you.”

You tilt your head, suspicious. “How?”

“Tomorrow,” he says, but certain. “Be free at six.”

You blink. “You’re giving me a time but not a plan? Again?”

His smile tugs to the side, sheepish. “I swear I won’t drag you hiking this time. Not without warning or verbal consent, at least.”

“Hmm,” you pretend to mull it over. “But I’m expecting, like, a five-course apology.”

He raises a brow. “You’re getting a pack of Starbursts and my sparkling company. Anyone else would be fighting for that.”

You snort, despite yourself. “Modest, aren’t we?”

“I’ve been told it’s one of my more annoying qualities.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile’s already taken over. “Guess I’ll allow it.”

He leans in a little, playful but tentative. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod, softer now. “I’ll be there.”

He grins. “I’ll take what I can get.”

There’s a beat. Just the quiet hum of the room and the distance between you shrinking a little more.

You tilt your head. “We’re okay?”

Jacob meets your gaze, steady and warm. “We’re okay if you’re okay.”

You nod, voice just above a whisper. “Then we’re okay.”

And you don’t need to say anything else. Because right now, in his hoodie, in his room, in this moment—you are.

[too-much-tma-stuff]

Day to Day

Previous | Masterpost | Next

“So what sort of ghosts are you looking for?” Sam asked, they were sitting at their usual table at lunch. Damian was outside with Jon somewhere, they hadn’t really stuck together much past their first year at school, when they both found their own places.

“I don’t really know exactly. Old ones? Not ones from western culture, those are all so well known and passe,” Danny said with a dismissive gesture. “Ones from the Middle East or East Asia, ones closer to home.”

“Trying to get back in touch with your culture?” Tucker asked with his moth full of whatever stew he’d selected from the lunch menu.

“Gross,” Sam drawled. “No one wants to see what’s in your mouth.”

“Nah not really,” Danny cut in before they could start arguing again. “Just looking for some decent scary stories that aren’t so overdone. Maybe I’m trying to write a scary story of my own and want something interesting.”

“Oh if you are writing a scary story you have to let me read it!” Sam said enthusiastically, sitting forward on the bench and leaning towards Danny who leaned back a bit in turn.

“I will if I like how it turns out! But first you’ll help me research, won’t you?” Danny asked.

“Course I will! Do you want to come back to my place after school tonight?” Sam asked tilting her head. “You know my parents are always thrilled.”

“I’d love too but I have plans with my family. How about tomorrow?” Danny asked. There was a big bust that night, they’d need Danny in the chair and on the coms to help coordinate and get whatever information they needed.

“Sure tomorrow works,” Sam agreed.

“Wait no it doesn’t!” Tucker interjected furiously. “Danny, you promised to come to anime club with me tomorrow!”

“Oh shoot I forgot,” Danny admitted, smacking his own forehead. “Can I rain check that Tuck? I promise next week.”

“No! You remember how long it took me to talk you into coming along?! You’re not getting out of it again,” Tucker said, pointing his fork at Danny accusatorily.

“Hey we can do it Friday, maybe then you can even stay the night,” Sam said with a shrug.

“Ooor you could come with us to the anime club and I could come back to your house after,” Danny suggested, giving Sam his best puppy-dog eyes.

“Absolutely not, have fun with your nerd club boys,” She said, twiddling her fingers at him with a smirk.

Danny groaned and dropped his head to the table as Tucker started arguing furiously that it was not a nerd club. Maybe Danny could talk Damian into coming along, he did like manga and it could be fun to judge together if anything was really bad. But that might hurt Tucker’s feelings and that was the last thing Danny wanted to do really. Still… more time with his brother. Well he’d just ask and not push to much if Damian said no, which he probably would, depending on how desperate he was for time with Danny. They hadn’t spent a lot of quality time recently.

Danny tuned out of Sam and Tucker’s argument, he knew this was fun for them and they’d only get annoyed if he got between them. Their voices became a pleasantly familiar background noise as he finished his lunch. At least going to a fancy school like this the food was pretty good.

He glanced up in time to catch Damian’s eye as he came back in with Jon and nodded to him, right on time for the bell to ring so they could go to their next class together. Danny said goodbye to Sam and Tucker and got up, returning his tray going to fall into step with Damian. They had arranged it so they had most of their classes together, accept gym which Danny took with Sam and Tucker, and Damian was banned from for unnecessary violence. Next semester Danny would have science while Damian had advanced history.

As they got into more electives they’d probably be separated more as they didn’t have that many interests in common. That would be fine though, they were their own people after all. And besides it was possible that by the end of high school, by the time Danny finished his experiments, they might not even be in each other’s lives anymore. He hoped that wouldn’t be the way things went but it was an outcome he had weighed and considered. Or at least he thought he had, he was still so young perhaps he’d look back in a decade and regret it, but hadn’t they all started young? And he couldn’t know how he’d look back on it now.

Then again he thought he was smart enough to figure out time travel if it really came down too it. So if no one was coming back to stop him then it was probably fine.

Danny and Damian sat next to each other as they always did, Danny slouching in his seat. Something Damian had long sense given up on judging him for given that any time he brought it up Danny only slouched worse out of spite.

Bruce came to pick them and Tim up from school so that he could brief them on the advancements in the case that had taken place while they were at school. They went over the plan and the small ways that it needed to be tweaked in light of those developments on the way home. Alfred wouldn’t allow talk of work at the dinner table and they would need to get to their ‘battle stations’ immediately after the meal so everything had to be settled now.

Tim and Damian were visibly excited for the big bust and Danny was happy for them! But he was less excited. After all he was just bracing himself for a long night and cramps in his fingers and a sore ass as he stayed glued to the bat computer till past midnight. He paid as close attention to the plan as anyone else though, ready to play his part perfectly. He needed to know the plan to properly direct them, he was NOT going to be the reason any of his family got hurt.

Babs joined in the conversation through the speaker in the car as well, thankfully. Since she and Danny would be working together it was most important that they be on the same page. Danny followed Babs leave mostly but the less she had to be in control of everything the better, especially when they were working with many of their family members at the same time. No matter how skilled Babs was she couldn’t be in two places at once.

When they arrived at home Cass was already there, and Harper, Kate, and Steph were there waiting for them as well, along with Barbra. Dick wasn’t going to be joining them tonight because he had his own work to do in Bludhaven which was fine, they had more then enough people for this. As soon as they were in the door Alfred shooed them all into the dining room cutting off any talk about work. It was early for dinner but that was the point, it gave them time to talk about life while he brought them tea and some snacks, and he finished preparing dinner.

Steph asked Kate about her new girlfriend, Bruce asked Tim about how he was getting on with the report he was writing for his new pet research project, both Damian and Danny were asked about school. It was really nice to get to bond with their family like this, to forget how fucked up they all were for a little bit. Because they were fucked up. Had anyone at this table besides Bruce not killed anyone? He, Damian and Cass definitely had, he thought Harper had, he wouldn’t put it past Kate. They were keeping secrets from each other and the world too, but just now, for a couple hours they could pretend to be normal.

They were all talking and laughing in no time and Danny noticed that whenever he had a chance Alfred would just linger in the doorway watching them with a slight smile on his face. So much fond warmth for the family who loved him just as much. Danny didn’t understand why Alfred insisted on keeping this distance between them when he was already such a key member of their family, but that was his choice, he seemed to like it this way. Lingering on the edges.

Dinner was light that night to make sure they didn’t over exert themselves on an full stomach, not that the bats leaving the roost wouldn’t end up eating some heinous takeout at some point. It was practically tradition at this point, even though it stemmed from practicality about what was open and fast at 3 am it had become a familiar pleasure. Not getting to join in on that was just about the only thing that Danny disliked about staying home to coordinate on nights like these. Still Alfred made up for it with regular deliveries of hot tea and homemade snacks.

With dinner finished and cleared away he followed  the family down to the Batcave. As the capes suited up he and Babs booted up their stations and made sure their headsets were sitting comfortably. They both pulled up their half of the cameras, divide and conquer right? Better then ending u accidentally watching the same ones and missing something. He also pulled up his own little cheat sheet, his memorization skills were not as strong as Damian’s so he needed a helping hand in the form of some notes for more complicated plans. Of course written in his own code so that if someone somehow managed to hack him they’d be useless.

With everything ready and confirmation that 'Oracle' and 'Mystic' were online he watched as his family left the cave and immediately switched to watching the cameras to track their motions through the city. He liked watching, they were so graceful and sure of themselves, it was really beautiful. And the rare times when they fucked up and slammed into something made excellent blackmail! Tonight they were peek performance, the city of Gotham embraced them as they flew through her streets and it made Danny smile.

-------

Hours later Danny sat back from his keyboard, noticing for the first time just how tense his shoulders and back were. He stretched and groaned blinking his eyes rapidly, things had gone wrong about half way through the mission and it had taken all his focus to keep everyone alert to incoming threats and on the right track. He saw the cup of tea Alfred had left on the desk for him for the first time, it was cold by then, but he drank it anyway because he was thirsty.

He got up and stretched, from the other side of the room he heard a groan which echoed his own, glancing over to see Barb stretching as well. He sighed, rolled his neck and wandered over to her. “Well that could have gone better,” he commented. Everyone was on their way home now, though they’d probably stop for food and be late.

“Could have gone a lot worse too,” She told him, turning her chair away from the desk to face him. “They’re all okay.”

“Ya, ya they are,” Danny sighed, his shoulders slumping with relief. “God I’m starving.”

As if on queue Alfred wheels a trey full of sandwiches, a plate of cookies, and a fresh pot of spiced tea. “I thought that now that the danger has passed you might want something to eat,” Alfred said in his usual polite way. Danny had wondered before if Alfred might be a meta, it seemed like he always knew everything that was going on with the family even when it didn’t seem like there was any way he could know. It scared Danny sometimes, but he figured it was just like how people always said moms had eyes in the back of their heads.

“You’re a life saver Alfie!” Danny cheered bounding over to grab a sandwich. Alfred gave him a small fond smile and poured him a cup of tea as Danny wolfed down his first sandwich, mumbling thanks through a full mouth as he was handed a cup of tea.

“Don’t speak with your mouth full,” Alfred said without any real feeling as he poured a cup of tea for Barb as well and passed it to her.

“But I didn’t want to wait to thank you,” Danny groaned, swallowing to quickly before carefully blowing on his tea as he grabbed another sandwich.

“Then you should have thanked me before you began to eat,” Alfred said with subtle amusement. Danny couldn’t argue with that so he just groaned dramatically and took a big bite of the new sandwich.

“But I was hungry!” He complained with his mouth full again, receiving a disapproving eyebrow raise which made Danny smirk. He would listen and respect his grandfather-figure when it mattered but he also liked to tease and play. His family knew that by at this point, that Danny dodged rules as much as he could get away with with a charming smile. Tonight Alfred simply sniffed and ignored Danny’s antics in favour of going to prepare the med kits to care for any minor wounds the family got tonight.

Once Danny had eaten he realized he was exhausted! No doubt the capes were still full of adrenaline and would need to stretch and unwind before they headed to bed but Danny barely managed to wait until they were all home and congratulate them before bowing out to go to bed. Leaving them to celebrate however they chose, and try to throw out their fast-food wrappers without Alfred noticing.

He fell asleep quickly, but his sleep was no where near as restful as his fatigue had promised. He dreamed of an intimidating figure in dark armour commanding an army of skeletons, and as people fled in fear he stood frozen to the ground and useless. He woke with his breathing ragged and sweat on his brow just as the sun was rising and got up rather than try and fight against the feeling of unease to go back to sleep.

He took a long shower to wash away the feelings and then went to see if Alfred was already up, and if he was what Danny could do to help. He was relieved when he found Alfred in the well-lit kitchen, his shoulders releasing tension he didn’t know they were holding as he stepped into warm, welcoming presence that made him feel safe. He had wondered sometimes when Alfred found time to sleep given that he was up when the other bats got back from patrols and yet always seemed to be up whenever Danny’s nightmares forced him out of bed. He tried not to worry for Alfred though, just because he didn’t think the older man would appreciate it.

“Ah, a capable helper,” Alfred said with a fond smile when he spotted Danny, stirring a little of the delight Danny had felt when he first found out most of the family was banned from using more then the microwave.

“Indeed, what can I do to help Alfred?” Danny asked happily, going to grab the apron Alfred had gotten him for his and Damian’s last birthday. Alfred didn’t hesitate to put Danny to work helping with the muffins and danishes he was making and by the time Danny’s hands were covered with flour he had forgotten all about his nightmare.

--------

He was tired at that school and ended up avoiding his friends at lunch in favour of having a nap in the library, but he should have known better then to think he could avoid anime club. Of course Tucker cornered him and Danny only complained jokingly as he was dragged off to watch cartoons with Tucker and his other nerd friends (as if Danny wasn’t a nerd himself). It was fun though, once Danny got over his impatience that this club was holding him back from choosing his new ‘villain name’. In the end Danny had to admit that he had a good time, and say that he might come back some time, when he felt like it this time! And maybe drag Damian which Tucker was thrilled about, any excuse to pester Danny’s more standoffish and elusive twin. Danny only slightly regretted not finding time to ask Damian this time.

Damian had already gone home by the time Danny got out of the club. For their first year Damian would have waited but now they were used to living in Gotham they were far more independent, more like they had been before leaving the LoA. Before Jason showed up in town Danny would have said that he was sad about that, and he missed the closeness but now he was just relieved that the space would give him places to hide his activity. Damian was too loyal to father to be allowed in on Danny’s plans no matter how much he hated keeping things from his twin.

That night was a quiet one in Gotham and Danny took the opportunity of the smaller, leisurely family dinner to ask father about going for a sleepover with Sam. He dodged the sharp look and the questions about being safe with a girl, understanding implications and all that. He joked about taking after Brucie and working on his playboy reputation which got Tim and Cass teasing their father instead and took attention off Danny. In the end it was easy to convince Bruce he had already agreed and it was no problem at all!

School the next day dragged as he waited for the sleepover and finally Danny and Sam were leaving the school together as Tucker groused at them about being left out. They were laughing at him as they piled into the back of the car, Sam’s family’s driver greeting them politely before rolling up the screen between front and back seats so they could talk in peace. It was a short drive but Danny appreciated the privacy anyway so he didn’t have to put on the face he showed strangers.

“Sam there you are, what are you wear- Oh! Danny!” Sam’s mother said, the sharp tone she started with melted the moment she saw Danny and she seemed shocked. Danny repressed a laugh as he realized that Sam hadn’t bothered to tell them he was coming since there was no way they’d turn away Bruce Wayne’s son anyway. No doubt surprising them with someone they desperately wanted to impress was pay back for something and Danny would find out what later.

“Good afternoon Mrs. Manson, I hope you don’t mind me coming over tonight. Sam and I have a little interest-based research project we wanted to work on together.” Danny said putting on his charming smile.

“No, no of course not,” Mrs. Manson assured, clearly flustered. “Please call me Pamela Danny, you’re my daughter’s best friend there’s no need for formalities. We’ll prepare something special for dinner, I hope it’ll be up to your standards.”

“Thank you Pamela, I’m sure whatever you make will be lovely,” Danny assured before Sam started shoving him towards the stairs to her bedroom before her mother could start monopolizing Danny’s time asking about Bruce.

“Thank mom, that’s great, we’re going to go start researching now, see you later,” Sam said without hardly pausing as Danny laughed and bid Sam’s mother goodbye before letting himself be herded upstairs.

Sam slammed the door shut behind them and breathed a sigh of relief making Danny snort as he went to flop in one of her beanbag chairs, dumping his bag next to him. “So, what did they do to warrant the surprise?” He asked with dry amusement as Sam shed her bag and jacket and went to sit cross legged on the bed.

“Are you sure you want to know? It’s particularly gross,” She asked wrinkling her nose.

“Well now I have to know,” Danny prodded with some trepidation.

“Well, they just gave me the talk recently. As if I didn’t already know what sex is and where babies come from,” she said rolling her eyes. “I’ve had unfiltered access to the internet since I was 8! Anyway, as they were impressing on me the importance of not ending up pregnant and stuff they managed to slip in that if I somehow had to be a teen mom I should make sure You were the father.”

Danny was sure the face of disgust she pulled was mirrored in his own horror. “They really tried to suggest you should baby-trap me?” He squeaked indignantly, not a very dignified tone by any means but he was trying very hard not to shout.

“Essentially ya,” Sam sighed, rubbing her face with her hands. “I hope you don’t mind I told them we were dating just so they’d finally shut up about it. But if they pick this as their new crusade cause I’m going to tell them they freaked you out to much so we broke up,” She said vindictively and Danny exhaled slowly.

“No I don’t mind, but Jesus Sam,” He said softly, getting up from the beanbag chair to go sit next to her instead. “That’s not okay.”

“No I know, but I’ve also known for ages they care about money and status more then anything else. I don’t put much stock in what they think or say anymore,” she said with carelessness Danny knew she didn’t actually feel.

“Why don’t I ask Bruce if you can come over for a sleepover next weekend? Maybe you can join in on family movie night?” He suggested rather than calling her on it. Getting her away from her parents and into a more supportive environment for a bit was more important, actions over words, always.

“That sounds great Danny,” She said, neither of them commenting on how her eyes had gotten a little misty. “Now!” She said deflecting from the emotional conversation right on queue as she leaned down to grab her laptop from her bag. “Why don’t we get started on that research you wanted to do?”

[aventurineswife]

Dr. Elke Laurent had dedicated her life to studying the universe’s mysteries, but nothing could prepare her for the silence that spoke back.

Alone in the observatory on the outskirts of the Andean plateau, Elke gazed into the data stream—signals from the Vela Pulsar, an object she had long admired for its rhythmic brilliance. Yet tonight, the pulses faltered. The oscillations blurred, forming patterns no known physics could explain: recursive fractals interwoven with impossible geometries.

She leaned closer, heart racing. A creeping pressure grew behind her eyes, as if something watched.

Her screen flickered. The air hummed. The shadows deepened, stretching toward her like fingers of a cosmic abyss. A voice—not spoken, but felt—whispered inside her mind:

"Do you see now?"

Elke recoiled, knocking over her mug. The black liquid spiraled upward, floating like ink in zero gravity before vanishing—consumed by an unseen force. She felt the urge to look outside.

Through the observatory dome, a shape writhed in the sky: an outline of a being, vast and undulating, composed of shifting constellations that rearranged themselves in real time. Its form was impossible, a cascade of eyes that blinked in non-Euclidean cadence, watching her across all wavelengths of perception.

A deep, resonant knock echoed inside her skull. Elke fell to her knees, clutching her head.

Meanwhile, across the galaxy...

Herta, the self-proclaimed genius of the Genius Society, sat in her lab, legs swinging, bored. She flipped through the latest research reports until a peculiar dataset caught her eye—an anomalous pattern in the Vela Pulsar’s emissions.

"What's this mess?" she muttered, enlarging the waveform. Her eyes gleamed with sudden interest.

A pause.

Her mind raced. Non-linear signatures across multiple dimensions… quantum fluctuations beyond baseline variance…

"Wait." Herta's face lit up.

"Hey, you!" she called to the nearest staff bot, who scrambled over. "Start a new project file. We’re naming this anomaly The Laurent Echo. I think someone just stumbled into something fun... or dangerous."

She grinned, her curiosity piqued. The Herta Space Station would definitely need to investigate further.

------

This is just part one of a small series i'm doing, trying to tap into Herta's more mischievous personality while staying true to her interest in anything that'll keep her entertained. Obviously taking liberties with how Herta is aware that Earth exists, since we don't really know if anyone (aside from Welt) knows it exists.

Elke is going to be a wreck during most of this, as it should be honestly.

I'm trying to mix more scientific aspects with occultish themes. It's an interesting clash that i'm hoping I can capture, what with my interest in cosmic horror and the fact i'm going for (in my third year, seven more to go🫩) a Ph.D in astrophysics I think I'll manage but we'll see! I'm excited for this!

This is incredible, genuinely. You've managed to thread that needle between grounded science and the creeping unease of cosmic horror so well—Elke's descent into this unknowable phenomenon feels earned, atmospheric, and chilling in a quiet, cerebral way. That line—“Do you see now?”—hits like a tuning fork to the spine. It's exactly the kind of dread that doesn't need screaming monsters to linger.

And bringing Herta into the mix? Inspired. Her playful detachment is such a sharp contrast to Elke’s unraveling, and it works beautifully—almost like she's an impish Greek chorus watching the threads of sanity snap with amusement. The “Laurent Echo” naming moment genuinely made me smile. It's so her.

Also, the way you describe the anomaly—recursive fractals, non-Euclidean geometries, the liquid spiraling upward—feels like you're speaking the language of someone who understands both the poetry and the brutal math of space. That shows, and it grounds the more surreal parts.

And if you're only in year three of your PhD and already writing like this? Honestly, you're in for something amazing.

It's got serious potential to explore not just cosmic horror and science, but humanity’s fragility in the face of the vast and uncaring universe—with a side of mischief from Herta to keep it sharp.

[starythewriter]

A shift dinner date w Vinnie hacker imagine

I stepped into this amazing restaurant it reminded me a lot of the Cheesecake Factory except everything was plain black, and had dark tainted glass with lights everywhere it was so beyond beautiful.

I walked in feeling the air conditioning hit my face it wasn't too strong nor too weak just perfect. I saw Vinnie, I drove to the restaurant to meet Vinnie... I turned up some music and put on my lipstick then I got a call from Vinnie "I got a gift for you be ready"

"really? oh my gosh I can't wait"

"yes of course! that's all... but also be sitting at table 8"

"alright perfect thank you"

I stepped into this amazing restaurant it reminded me a lot of the Cheesecake Factory except everything was plain black, and had dark tainted glass with lights everywhere it was so beyond beautiful.

I walked in feeling the air conditioning hit my face it wasn't too strong nor too weak just perfect. I saw Vinnie, he looked so good wearing a light blue shirt tucked neatly into his jeans and he even wore some glasses that seemed to accentuate his already handsome features even more.

He looked up as I approached him I said "Hey" smiling shyly at the older man who smiled back at me, then looking over towards the bar I see a group of guys laughing... I tune out and say "let's order what do you want?" he looks around like he doesn't know which one I mean he says "can we get the same food we always eat?" which reminds me that I'm pretty much always there for him so I say "Yeah sure" then order our food while he orders mine he pays, and I say thanks before we head to our usual booth.

We talk about work a lot... he works at the school where I teach English and he teaches science... he is an artist too... he wants to make things when he grows up and wants to open a gallery somewhere where people can buy art. We talk about how we feel and what we are going through right now and what we think about the future... I noticed he was wearing a strong perfume I loved the smell... I smiled at him. He smiles back but suddenly starts blushing... well, I guess the conversation was going too long."Oh yeah uh sorry... I don't know why I started talking about my feelings... I have really bad insomnia... I try not to let my mind run away with me but sometimes..." he sighs "anyway, how are you doing babe?"

I smile sweetly at him "I'm good" he puts down his fork and leans across the table towards me "you are very sexy tonight..." he says softly... 'hmm he does look very handsome... ' I muse. I lean toward him slowly until I could kiss him. but out of no where the waiter seemed to intervene delivering the check.

I wasn't sure if it was on purpose or not but regardless it definitely broke a moment of passion... and made a couple of strangers turn their attention towards us.

We both start getting angry as he stands up. I am a little surprised because usually he doesn't lose control like that unless he's mad at me or something... but he calmed down after "well... here" I say giving him a small kiss.

"thank you"

"here wanna go to a local fun center?" I suggest trying to break the awkwardness

"yeah ok."

We headed off together... we sat down at an arcade and played some games and talked about random stuff. He kept glancing my way and I was starting to blush. I couldn't figure out why... maybe I was embarrassed at myself for being so forward... then randomly we were playing a racing game and I knocked his car off the screen I celebrated we both laughed having a great time . Then I asked where he lived. He told me his place was a few blocks away. We got out and headed off together. When we finally stopped walking he held my hand and looked into my eyes "we should go somewhere else sometime... " he said gently kissing me... I closed my eyes and kissed him back. As he pulled away he said "your so sexy"

"thank you" I said kissing his ear. I pulled back... how about a second date?

"really?"

"yeah of course Vinnie" I smiled at him

He smiled and took my hand leading me to his car. I felt like I could fly I was so excited. It didn't matter that he wasn't in love with me, he thought I was hot. He liked me. He wanted to hang out with me. And honestly I did like hanging out with him. "here I know you love to read so here's a book with 500 quotes"

"thank you Vinnie that's so thoughtful"

He blushed a bit saying "it's nothing... I'm happy to help"

I felt his gaze of lust...

"let me drive you to my house. I'll invite you for a sleepover"

"hmmm I don't know"

"please?"

"alright fine, but only because you seem so desperate to spend time with me"

His eyes lit up and he grinned at me. "oh god I am so whipped! come on!" he yelled as he started the car

the end!

[dailycharacteroption]

Planar Harmonizer (Occultist Archetype)

(art by granfaloon on DeviantArt)

The vast cosmology of most rpg settings, with the various afterlifes and other planes that serve as the foundation for many mystical aspects is full of strange resonances and energies, which is why the plane shift spell uses focuses in the form of tuning forks to attune to these resonant energies and allow for such transport.

It should come as no surprise, then, that occultists, who also deal in a form of resonance of their own, sometimes choose to focus on these tuning forks to get the most out of them.

They might be scholars of the planes, or travellers that learn the art out of practicality. Either way, their skill set delves into the full depths of what conjuration is capable of as a result, though to the exclusion of other types of magic.

If you’re interested in a character that can travel to any plane they wish and be better equipped to handle them than most, this archetype might be for you, so let’s take a look!

These mystics only have access to the conjuration school, using tuning forks as their implements. However, they get several benefits for this, gaining access to conjuration spells that occultists do not have access to, the magic for plane shifting, and even improving the potency of their spells and focus powers to make them harder to resist.

Naturally, their knowledge of planar science is unparalleled, making them something of an authority on such things.

Travelling to other planes is dangerous, so these occultists learn to bring a bit of their home plane’s essence with them. At the base level this keeps their mind sharp on planes where an opposing morality would press on their minds. However, with a bit of energy, they can improve this to protect themselves from the physical hazards of the plane. At first this only lasts a few minutes, enough time to reach a safe area or retreat to a less hostile plane, but later it improves to be actually useful for exploration.

These mystics also learn to draw magic circles much sooner, though if they use them to call a small outsider, they gain limited informational benefits until they grow in mastery to the same point that other occultists would learn to do so.

If you’re interested in playing up the conjuration side of the occultist, summoning little minions to give answers and trap outsiders in circles to hinder or bargain with them, and so on, this archetype may be for you. Spell selection is key here, because if you want to be the party’s gateway to the planes you’re definitely going to need the mass version of planar adaptation. Luckily the conjuration school is rivaled only by transmutation in terms of versatility, with attack spells, battlefield and utility support from summons, utility in general by just creating what you need, and so on.

If any of you are familiar with Planescape, you can imagine the sort of character that might take this archetype. Either they’re old hat at using portals to travel around the vastness of the cosmos but want the power to be free of such limitations, or perhaps they are newcomers to the cosmos eager to explore the great beyond for themselves, though obviously they might find areas of disappointment or surprise deviating from their texts, which can be fun too.

Eager to explore the cosmos, Vilbra the scholar has packed all their things, including their collection of tuning forks as they ready to join the party on a planar expedition. However, they do not realize that they have a stowaway, a wayward soul possessing one of their trinkets which has attracted the attention of a shoki psychopomp who isn’t particularly concerned with explaining themselves.

Eager to test her theory that aquatic elves first became amphibious through a connection to the Plane of Water, Tsilene has been studying the resonance of planar energies for some time, not just to prove the connection, but also to travel their herself and study any elf civilizations to be found within.

In need of a planar guide to multiple locations, the party sets out for the Nexus Point in search of someone up to the task. Their most promising candidate, however, is a dubious character who seems more in it for themselves than anything else.

[mintytealfox]

Random Da Capo gang headcanons (including Fredrick.)?

heheheheheheheheheheheheeheheheheheehhhhheehehh😈 here are some 🤣

I think Frederick will think all of them are mediocre and boring as heeeeeeeck until he finds out more about them and realizes they are all crazy and actually geniuses in their own rights LOL Melly and her brilliant mind with insects and being able to control/command them. Norton with his very little schooling but was able to, with practically self taught math and science, create the perfect explosion 'accident'. not to mention his inner monologuing sounds so dang Shakespearian and poetic the heck "so too shall the son" dramatic speech much? heh~ Alice with how observant she is and how she can set up a room to catch if a person has been there or not, then the dulled fear response and ability to handle the drugs and such Orpheus is a brilliant writer and master mind but he doesn't get mental praise or admiration from Frederick cause Orpheus a punk -wheeeezee- -------- when Norton and memory Orpheus have to interact is likely goes: kid Orphy: "owww I hurt my finger!" Norton: "damn, looks like we have to cut it off" kid Orphy: D: --------- Frederick hearing Norton humming and being like 'I have never heard such a tune" Norton: "I imagine not, since its a mining song. I doubt you've been anywhere near a mining town..."

and then hearing from Melly that there are specific tunes from where she grew up. and This prompting Frederick to go on his own travel across the world and be a collector of music ( me trying my all to get Frederick to leave his past behind and become something great outside his family aahhhh) ---------- I can see the four: Norton, Alice, Melly, and Frederick all with a horse and a wagon they stole as they travel the long country roads. Melly and Frederick sitting in the back of the wagon with the barrels, with Alice and Norton seated up front and Norton driving. Frederick accidently being the 'donkey' of the 'Shrek crew' with his dinging of his tuning fork. Everyone sitting in silence cause its a long af trip with the 'DING......ding..........ding........ding.....DiNggGGgg...." at the bad one, everyone winces at it and it sending an extra ringing sound to Norton's ears cause of his experience with loud explosions. Norton: "can you not do that.....FOR 5 MINUTESSSSSS" Frederick: "............." Alice and Melly: 😬😬😬😬 Frederick: ".........D I N G" Norton: "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAERRRHHHHHHHHH"

[dandelionjack]

on thursday i met with my older brother that i hadn’t seen in ages, so we decided to go to london and do something fun together. we thought it would be cool to visit the science museum for an exhibition devoted to the psychology of music. unintentionally, i dressed in, among other items of clothing, my dramatic long beige coat, pink converse and a blue scarf. when we arrived, the attendant warned us that the museum was closing early, but if we were fast and persuasive we might make it through as the last visitors of the day. so i fucking sprint up the stairs, begin talking at 90 miles an hour to the baffled woman at the ticket desk, saying theguyattheentrancetolduswecouldspendhalfanhouratthemuseumeventhoughitstechnicallyclosedsoyouhavetoletusinpleasewespentagesgettingherespecificallyandwe’rereallypassionateaboutmusic(truth) and she was so taken aback by my bizarre insistence and audacity that she let us through

brother said bet you enjoyed all that. clocked! aoab (assigned osgood at brother). to quote mx. grimes with their bene gesserit outfit, there’s nothing wrong with a little bit of larpery — it got us in to the exhibition! we had a great time.

now, i am perfectly aware that this smells like a 2012 fake tumblr story of the superlock kind, so enclosed below is some photographic evidence!

various unique musical instruments made out of bizarre household items + flame organ

tuning forks and other pitch/volume measuring implements (once again, my special interests seem to stalk me. the trailer dropped one day later. it featured a tuning fork and LOTS of ‘music psychology’)

theremin!

what a surprise

^maybe some of them become songs :)

brilliant visit. pure autism sustenance. i’ve transcended cringe i’ve become post-cringe it brings me joy and mental peace. <3

[elkieselkiewrites]

Hi! First, let me just *hands crown* because your magic system is so phenomenal I am in awe. The fallen star system is SO cool and I’ve never heard of a system like it and I’m just…so appreciative for the work you’ve put in. Second, I do have some questions, mostly about the kind of “science” side. You mentioned in your silly and serious overviews that people have made contraptions and devices and "aberrations hitherto unknown to man" by experimenting with this magic. Could you give some examples of this? Mostly asking because I’ve been brainstorming devices for my own magic system and I am ready to take notes.

Ohhhh you're so sweet, thank you so much! I actually do love my magic system here the most out of all of my work, so I'm more than happy to answer questions about it! I will, however, apologise for how long this got...

Answer - Part The First: Contraptions & Devices!

So, as mentioned in my explanations, the Resonance is literally vibrations with some hand wave-y radiation magic added to them. So much like with the way science in our world learnt to detect, harness, and replicate waves on the electromagnetic spectrum, the peoples of Postmaster WIP created devices that could do the same for the Resonance.

Not to get too science-y with it (because it all falls apart if you do), but the Resonance is an oscillating wave that is sort of inspired by astronomical radio waves and gamma radiation, but with the vibes of acoustic waves because I like sound :)

Anyway, contraptions and devices! In the 1800s, we in the real world discovered infra-red and ultraviolet through prisms, refraction, light-sensitive chemicals and thermometers, while later radio waves and microwaves were detected using electromagnetic fields, and so on. In Postmaster WIP the Resonance was already known about due to Resonant peoples, but the study of Resonance involved finding out the properties of Resonance, which materials best conducted Resonance, and therefore what frequencies that would equate to. So people would try to conduct Resonance with tuning fork-style contraptions made of different materials, attaching those to a needle with some paper on a cylinder like a barograph or a seismic activity graph, noting the waves on the page etc. etc. all that good stuff.

Many contraptions already existed due to Resonant peoples like the Delvish using Resonance much like how we'd use electricity; vehicles (horseless carriages), appliances (self-heating kilns and ovens), automatons (theatre puppets), etc. So non-Resonant versions were the obvious solution for many researchers/inventors, but these are notoriously unreliable and come with some real safety hazards and a hefty price tag, so simply aren't worth it most of the time.

The next logical step was to try and replicate the Resonance so that anyone could have the power of Resonance in their hands without having to be able to channel it themselves. This is where it all goes kind of pear shaped. Which leads us neatly to...

Answer, Part the Second: Aberrations Hitherto Unknown to Man

I mentioned in my previous posts that Resonant people kind of vibrate at the right frequencies, their bones and tissues can handle those oscillations because they're used to them. However, if people who are not sensitive to Resonance try to channel the Resonance they get injuries, anywhere from hand-arm vibration syndrome to acute radiation syndrome. People get nerve damage, muscle damage, bone density damage, fractures, nausea, vomiting, internal bleeding, fevers, headaches, seizures, and eventually die.

Picture it this way: imagine someone who could naturally stand out in a lightning storm, encourage the lightning to come down from the clouds, and direct that lightning into a lightbulb without overpowering the lightbulb. That's what a Resonant person can do. Now imagine a normal person in that same storm with a lightning rod... lightning is attracted to the rod like it was to the previous person, but instead of being able to meter the electricity and move it through their body, this second person gets fried and the bulb explodes. Some bodies are not built to be struck by lightning, and lightning itself might be electricity, but a lightning strike can't charge your PC.

Extended metaphor aside, this means that any experimentation comes with risk. Resonance also, unlike the lightning, has mutative properties, and can change things fundamentally. So when experimenting with creating and harnessing and channelling Resonance, there are always some pretty gnarly results, from monstrous homunculi to magical prions...

One outcome of such experimentations that is actually plot-relevant I detailed a bit more here.

Essentially the study and desire to harness Resonance is a mix of curiosity, hubris, and greed, and that is never a recipe for success anywhere.

[the-most-humble-blog]

<div style="white-space:pre-wrap"> <meta threat-level="cervical emergency"> <script>ARCHIVE_TAG="PSYCHOSEXUAL_HOLDUP::STICK_UP_KID" EFFECT: forced submission, orgasmic robbery, lover-as-outlaw narrative imprint </script>

🚨 BLACKSITE SCROLLTRAP — “The Stick Up Kid”

===

I was robbed. Robbed, I tell ya.

Straight out the shower, steam still trailing my back like a war banner — and there she was. A masked assailant. Voice low. Raspy. Trying too hard to sound masculine. Failing. But adorable.

She barked:

"Give up the f*cking goods. Now."

I froze. Which happens sometimes. Not out of fear, no — but because blood rushes to the cock faster than logic rushes to the brain. It’s science. Look it up.

She called herself…

“The Stick Up Kid.”

And what she wanted— was what every man guards with his life: The Bag. (You know the one. The one God hung low so we could suffer.)

—

She reached down. Grabbed my nutsack like she owned stock in it. Growled:

"Don’t play with me. I’ve been gone two days. I know EXACTLY how full these are."

That’s when I knew I was in trouble. The kind of trouble you don’t escape — you submit to.

I started stroking. Not to get away… but because she demanded it.

“Empty the f*cking clip,” she snarled, as she shoved me onto the bed like I was both her hostage and her weapon.

My cock? Now a gun in her mouth. My balls? The trigger she pulled with her throat.

There was no negotiation. No escape clause. Just a chokehold of pleasure wrapped in robbery. She took everything. Every contraction. Every spasm. Every last drop of me—

Gone.

Swallowed. Filed away into the belly of desire by a woman who had already stolen my heart years ago.

—

And then?

She left me. In the alley between our bed pillows. Curled like a post-heist corpse. Toes twitching. Spine vibrating like a tuning fork. Mouth agape. Soul deleted.

She walked off— not with the bag, but to go make the chicken meal I’d been begging for all week.

She said:

“I’m The Stick Up Kid. And I always get what I came for.”

—

I was robbed. Of fluids. Of dignity. Of my ability to stand up right away.

And of my heart. Long before tonight.

I’m gonna chase her down. That robber. That outlaw. That goddess in a hoodie.

Right after this nap. This deep, man-defeated nap.

Because love’ll do that to a man.

Reblog if you've ever been robbed by the one you love.

---

🧠 Read more respect-coded doctrine and emotional architecture at: 👉 https://www.patreon.com/TheMostHumble 🛡️ Masculine polarity. Scrolltrap psychology. Unforgiven words. 🚪 Warning: This post may cause spontaneous arousal, romantic criminal fantasies, and kitchen thirst.

&lt;/div&gt; <!-- END TRANSMISSION [LOADED. UNHOLSTERED. ROBBED IN BROAD MOANLIGHT.] -->

[definitelyanearthperson]

Random things I love about The Marvels:

(Spoilers obviously)

- that one SABER worker thought they had escaped the flerken kittens and got swallowed almost immediately

- Carol’s bed on her spaceship( it looks cozy and lonely at the same time

- Goose acting like a cat in general

- The entire Khan family

- RIP that one couch in the Khan house(it got eaten by Goose

- Everything Kamala wears( props to the costume department

- That Jelly fish hat Carol wears on the musical planet(I don’t remember the name

- Every single Fury and Muneeba (Kamala’s mom) interaction

- Kamala dancing along with the crowd on musical planet

- Monica’s hair clipper on her new suit

- Monica’s co-workers(wish we got to know them more they seem nice

- That one joke about(mostly Monica) keep touching glowing mysterious things

- “Oh captain my captain”

- Kamala and Carol doing finger guns at each other

- Tessa Thompson in a SUIT

- Carol and King Valkyrie hugging

- Every single group hug

- Along the lines of “ I’m not sure we are going up, are there direction in space?” By Yusuf( Kamala’s dad)

- The collective look of Huh? By Kamala and Carol whenever Monica started talking about science

- Carol x Maria shippers we won we got one flashback of them

- A recap of all the characters(when they use the skull memory thingy

- Honestly they should do it more coz I doubt most people are watching every single Marvel TV show/movies( not me tho

- The Ms Marvel art style in the beginning( loved it since the show came out

- Kamala recruiting Kate in style( not sure if it’s more Nick Fury or Yelena Belova tho

- When the soliders on the musical planet fight you can see sound wave coming out of their sword/tuning fork?

- “Higher further faster”

- Dar-been’s spaceship(it looks cool to me

- they have a barrier instead of a door on Dar-Benn and Carol’s spaceship

- Monica calling Kamala baby(or honey?or sweetie? I don’t remember exactly I just found this adorable

- The fire extinguishers on SABER(something tells me this place keeps getting caught on fire or something

- That one slow mo shot of all three of them when they are fighting Dar-Benn

- An actual reason for hand to hand combat( yes I’m talking about Loki

- “…Entanglement”( it’s a funny word with a weird sound and I like it

- Carol running off to herd those kittens( the way her face lit up aww

- Goose chilling on Carol’s shoulder when she flies( can you tell I love cats

[utsav25]

Sound Healing Therapy

Sound Healing Therapy is a therapeutic practice that uses specific sound frequencies, vibrations, and tones to promote physical, emotional, and spiritual healing. By harnessing the power of sound, this therapy aims to restore balance in the body and mind, reduce stress, alleviate pain, and improve overall well-being. Sound healing can involve various tools such as singing bowls, tuning forks, gongs, and even the human voice, each designed to target specific areas of the body’s energy system for deep relaxation and rejuvenation.

Sound Healing Therapy: A Pathway to Physical and Emotional Wellness

In recent years, Sound Healing Therapy has emerged as a powerful tool for achieving overall wellness, combining ancient wisdom with modern science. This therapeutic practice uses specific sound frequencies and vibrations to promote healing, restore balance, and support emotional well-being. The impact of sound on the body, mind, and spirit has long been recognized, and today, sound therapy techniques are used to address a variety of health concerns, from stress relief to pain management.

In this blog, we’ll explore the concept of sound healing therapy, its benefits, and how different sound frequencies and vibrational techniques can contribute to your well-being.

What is Sound Healing Therapy?

Sound Healing Therapy involves using sound frequencies, vibrations, and tones to support the body's natural healing processes. The practice relies on the concept that everything in the universe, including the human body, is made up of energy that vibrates at certain frequencies. When these vibrations are out of sync—due to illness, emotional distress, or environmental factors—sound healing therapy can help restore harmony.

The therapy is typically performed using instruments like singing bowls, gongs, tuning forks, chimes, and the human voice. Each of these tools produces specific frequencies that can promote physical, emotional, and spiritual healing. Through these vibrations, sound healing aims to stimulate energy flow, release blockages, and encourage deep relaxation.

The Benefits of Sound Therapy

Sound healing therapy offers a range of benefits that can positively impact various aspects of your health. Here are some of the key benefits:

1. Stress Reduction and Relaxation

One of the most well-known benefits of sound therapy is its ability to reduce stress and induce relaxation. The therapeutic sounds and vibrations help activate the parasympathetic nervous system, which promotes relaxation and lowers cortisol (the stress hormone). This leads to a calmer mind, reduced anxiety, and an overall sense of peace.

2. Emotional Healing

Sound healing therapy is also a powerful tool for emotional well-being. It can help release negative emotions such as fear, guilt, and anger, making space for positive emotions like love, joy, and gratitude. Many people use sound therapy to heal emotional trauma, alleviate depression, and address anxiety.

3. Pain Management

Another significant benefit of sound therapy is its ability to manage pain. Vibrational healing therapy works by sending sound vibrations into the body, which helps release muscle tension and improve blood flow. This can result in the relief of chronic pain, headaches, and even symptoms of conditions like arthritis.

4. Improved Sleep

Sound healing therapy can help improve sleep by calming the mind and releasing physical tension. The soothing sounds can promote deeper, more restorative sleep and help reset the body’s natural circadian rhythms.

5. Enhanced Focus and Clarity

Sound therapy can enhance mental clarity and focus. By stimulating the brain with specific frequencies, it can improve concentration, cognitive function, and memory. This makes sound therapy a valuable tool for those looking to boost productivity or deepen their meditation practice.

The Role of Sound Frequency Therapy

Sound Frequency Therapy is at the core of sound healing. It involves using specific frequencies to stimulate healing within the body and mind. Each frequency has its own unique effect, and when combined with other sound therapy techniques, it can target specific areas of the body or emotional states.

Here are some common frequencies used in sound frequency therapy:

432 Hz: Known as the “universal frequency,” it is believed to promote feelings of peace and well-being. It is said to resonate with the natural frequency of the Earth and the human body, making it ideal for relaxation and healing.

528 Hz: Often referred to as the “love frequency,” this sound is associated with DNA repair and healing at a cellular level. It is commonly used to promote emotional healing, creativity, and harmony.

396 Hz: This frequency is associated with releasing fear and guilt, helping to clear emotional blockages and promote inner peace.

639 Hz: This frequency is often used to improve communication, relationships, and emotional healing, particularly in the context of forgiveness and connection.

Vibrational Healing Therapy: How Sound Affects the Body

Vibrational Healing Therapy is a subcategory of sound healing that focuses on how sound vibrations influence the body’s energy systems. The body is made of energy, and when energy becomes stagnant or blocked, it can lead to physical or emotional discomfort. Vibrational healing therapy aims to release these blockages and restore balance by using sound vibrations that penetrate deep into the body’s energy fields.

In vibrational healing therapy, tools such as crystal singing bowls, tuning forks, and gong baths are used to produce powerful vibrations that interact with the body’s cells. These vibrations stimulate energy flow, promote healing, and help release emotional or physical tension.

Healing with Sound Therapy: Techniques and Tools

There are various techniques and tools used in sound healing therapy to facilitate healing and well-being. Here are some of the most popular sound therapy techniques:

1. Sound Baths

A sound bath is an immersive experience where participants lie down and listen to a variety of sound instruments such as singing bowls, gongs, and chimes. The sounds and vibrations create a deep sense of relaxation, helping to clear the mind and release stress. Sound baths are an excellent way to experience the therapeutic effects of sound healing in a group setting.

2. Binaural Beats

Binaural beats involve playing two different sound frequencies in each ear. The brain perceives a third frequency that is the difference between the two. This technique can help with relaxation, focus, and sleep by synchronizing brainwave activity with specific frequencies. Binaural beats are often used in meditation and mindfulness practices.

3. Tuning Fork Therapy

Tuning fork therapy involves using metal tuning forks that are struck to create specific frequencies. These forks are then applied to certain points on the body, such as acupressure points or chakras, to stimulate energy flow and restore balance. This technique is ideal for those seeking to relieve pain or address energetic imbalances.

4. Crystal Singing Bowls

Crystal singing bowls are made from quartz and are used to produce harmonic sounds that resonate with the body’s energy centers. These bowls are often played during meditation or sound baths to promote emotional healing, balance, and relaxation.

5. Vocal Toning and Chanting

Vocal toning and chanting are powerful sound therapy techniques that use the human voice to create healing vibrations. By chanting specific mantras or vocalizing certain sounds, individuals can release emotional tension and promote healing in the body. This technique is commonly used in spiritual practices and meditation.

Conclusion

Sound Healing Therapy is a transformative practice that has been used for centuries to promote physical, mental, and emotional healing. By harnessing the power of sound frequencies and vibrations, sound therapy offers a non-invasive, holistic approach to wellness. Whether through sound baths, vibrational healing therapy, or sound frequency techniques, this therapeutic modality provides a pathway to healing and balance for those seeking to improve their well-being.

As research continues to explore the science behind sound healing, its benefits are becoming increasingly recognized. If you're looking to reduce stress, alleviate pain, or enhance emotional and spiritual health, sound healing therapy might be the perfect tool to help you on your journey.

[dankdungeonsrpg]

Magicians in The Raven (1963)

Have you ever listened to the Sword Breaker podcast? You should, but more on that later.

Recently…

Spencer of the Keep Off The Borderlands podcast hosted a Movie Monday call in episode.

The idea behind these episodes is that once a month the podcast host picks a movie and all the listeners watch it. Then they call in to the show to share their thoughts. Since this is primarily a gaming podcast there’s an optional topic of how elements of the movie can inform our gaming.

Spencer is, I believe, the third person to take up the mantle of Movie Monday. With the previous host being Jason of Nerd’s RPG Variety Cast.

This month’s movie was Roger Corman’s The Raven from 1963.

I adore this film. It’s fun and full of petty wizards…also has nothing to do with the Poe poem, but that’s okay.

The Renaissance Wizard

One of the things that strikes me about the film is that it’s set in 1506, which is in the renaissance rather than the middle ages as I would have expected for the subject matter.

This allows the movie to do two very interesting things:

We get all the trappings of the middle ages fantasy, like castles and magic

Magic gets to be viewed as a science, or more specifically, a leisurely academic pursuit

To further drive the point home that wizards are rich academics, each magic-user in the film has a doctorate.

Boris Karloff plays a dastardly sorcerer opposite Vincent Price’s kindly magician. They’re both excellent in the film and their motivations are perfectly mundane.

Price just wants to “practice his magic quietly at home”. Whereas Karloff, the head of a brotherhood of magicians, is envious of Price’s magical powers. He doesn’t want anyone to be a threat to his position in the brotherhood and seeks to coerce Price’s knowledge.

There’s no global conquest or ancient prophecy. The Brotherhood of Magicians and Sorcerers seems to be little more than a social club. Peter Lorre’s character (also a treat in the film) even mentions how wizards meet each other at conventions. It all conjures up images of an academic society or elks lodge.

So Karloff’s character is willing to do horrible things so he can…stay president of a social club? So he can get speaking invitations to conferences and have his academic papers peer reviewed. Probably good money in being the keynote speaker at the college of alchemy’s commencement.

This is peak petty wizard comedy to me. Very reminiscent of Jack Vance’s Dying Earth, specifically Rhialto the Marvellous.

Never Let Writing Go To Waste

Now I love silly wizard stuff, particularly organizations. The absurdist bureaucracy really tickles me.

This brings us back to Sword Breaker. In this all-killer no-filler podcast Logan generates lists around a single topic per episode. It’s all incredibly usable stuff. Wonder if he’s ever published it somewhere…

Anyway, for the gaming aspect of my Movie Monday call, I decided to create a table of magical societies in keeping with the mood of the film. Here they are, for your amusement:

d6 magical societies

1 - The Hermetic Order of Psychonautics

A loose knit collective of high level magic-users seeking to transcend the physical world. Meetings take place in total silence on underground lakes which are used like a giant sensory deprivation tank. Magicians then project their spirits and “sail” on metaphysical yachts in the astral sea, where they discuss enlightenment and free-form jazz. Members often dress in bright colors and carry tuning forks.

2 - The Grand Priory of Illuminates

Chaos magicians who seek to undo their alignment’s negative public perception. Specializing in happy accidents, this group uses subtle magic to alter the course of events in positive but unexpected ways. To become part of the organization, applicants must successfully add to an ever more complex Rube Goldberg machine.

3 - The Society of Reformed Diabolists

Demon worshippers, dread necromancers, and blood magicians trying to turn over a new leaf banded together to form this support group. Members meet regularly to share their experiences with foul sorcery and celebrate monthly or yearly mine stones of being evil-magic free. They also speak at local magic colleges about the dangers of dark rituals.

4 - The Brotherhood of Neptune

These far-seeing astrologers wear blue robes, are excellent swimmers, and perform divination through use of tide pools. They revere the number 8 and as such must spend 8 days a year in meditation, meet every 8 months in groups of no more or less than 8, and establish headquarters 8 blocks from any coastal city center.

5 - The Ancient Order of Pseudepigraphas (soo-di-pig-ra-fa’s)

If you’ve ever wondered how magical knowledge stays so hidden and confusing, it’s probably because of this secret society. Its members spend their time placing errors into magical texts, thwarting efforts to translate or catalog arcane information, and misattributing manuscripts. The extreme secrecy of this sect prevents meetings but they still communicate through scribbles in returned library books.

6 - The Unseen Eye

The least secret secret order you’ll ever see. These occultists are typically high society ladder climbers who seek to manipulate global events from the shadows. However, their attempts at subterfuge are undone by their need to be recognized. Meeting fliers are often posted everywhere and initiates are sent home with all manner of branded merchandise, including wristbands, tea cozies, and hats.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Did you get this message?, by Esther Pearl Watson © The artist. Courtesy Vielmetter Los Angeles

* * * * *

New Books

by Dan Piepenbring

So you’ve seen a UFO—great! May I suggest keeping a lid on it? The past decade, with its hearings and headlines, has brought close encounter a new plausibility, but talking about aliens will still sully your reputation. No one is credible enough to deliver such earth-shattering news. This summer, David Grusch, a former U.S. intelligence official, told Congress and the media that the Pentagon had recovered materials of “exotic origin,” including “non-human biologics.” The Intercept promptly reported that Grusch was a suicidal alcoholic.

Carl Jung described UFO accounts as “visionary rumors” with the power of myth, which might explain why we vilify those who tell them: they resonate too strongly with our fears and desires. But today’s stories, with their cockpit footage and military hearsay, lack something of the flair of their Cold War predecessors. My favorite comes from Joe Simonton, a plumber in Eagle River, Wisconsin. In 1961, he claimed that a flying saucer resembling two “washbowls” facing each other had descended on his property piloted by several short men, “nice looking” and “swarthy, like Italians.” Their leader, his eyes “so penetrating” that Simonton had to look away, gestured for water. Simonton brought him some. Another spaceman was cooking something on “a square grill-like concern”: pancakes. “If that was their food, God help ’em, because I took a bite of one of ’em and it tasted like a piece of cardboard. And if that’s what they lived on, no wonder they’re small.” The spacemen gave him a stack, shut their hatch, and flew off in haste. “There I stood in the driveway,” Simonton said, “with a handful of greasy pancakes and my mouth open, wondering what the heck I’d saw.”

His was a vision of extraterrestrial life as commonplace as a roadside diner. I’m enchanted by the loping vernacular, the homespun loneliness, the griddle as an instrument of cosmic goodwill. “These men were friendly to me and I was friendly to them,” he said. He was strenuously honest—a county judge noted that he neither drank nor read science fiction—but reporters ridiculed him, strangers descended on his house, his business suffered, his chickens died, and he soon wished he’d kept the encounter to himself.

A few months later, a couple from New Hampshire reported having seen a cigar-shaped band of lights looming over Franconia Notch. Their announcement thrust them briefly into the gears of the military-industrial complex, which wrote them off as unreliable witnesses—a dismissal that altered the course of their lives. In The Abduction of Betty and Barney Hill: Alien Encounters, Civil Rights, and the New Age in America (Yale University Press, $30), Matthew Bowman, a professor of religion and history, argues that no UFO sighting happens in a vacuum. The Hills’ interpretation changed with the times. As optimistic New Deal liberals, they understood it to be a markedly different event than they would at the end of the decade, by which point they’d embraced New Age conspiracy and claimed to possess an arcane knowledge. Their evolving story allowed for “the rewriting of disempowerment into a strange new power,” Bowman writes. It reflected a burgeoning resentment of “the expert establishment” which is sustained in present strains of populism—and thereby suggests that the current wave of UFO interest is at root an expression of the vexed relationship between the state and its citizens.

The Hills’ account began simply. Driving home after midnight from a trip to Montreal, they spotted ominous lights flying toward them and pulled over to look at the object through binoculars. Spooked by its enormous size and oblong shape, they fled, hearing buzzing sounds “like someone had dropped a tuning fork.” “Do you believe in flying saucers now?” Betty asked Barney. “Of course not,” he said. At home, feeling “unclean,” they took long baths.

The Hills were government employees. She worked for the state welfare office, he for the post office. As devout Unitarians, they valued scientific expertise and open conversation. They were also, crucially, an interracial couple—Betty, white; Barney, black—active in the civil-rights movement. They saw themselves as people to be taken seriously. The sighting rattled them enough that Betty reported it to the Air Force. A man spoke to the couple over the phone, noting in his report that Barney “feels somewhat foolish—he just cannot believe that such a thing could or did happen.” Betty found the officer brusque. “The Air Force,” Bowman writes, wanted to use “the language and authority of science to defuse reports of unidentified flying objects before they turned into rumors that could stoke civic worry and unrest.”

Betty didn’t want to be defused. The event felt blindingly real. Barney was “driven to anxiety at his inability to understand what had happened to him.” The more they told their story, the more their memories perplexed them. Barney recalled having seen men on the ship scurrying in black uniforms with the “cold precision of German officers.” Betty thought the aliens handsome; Barney emphatically did not. He couldn’t remember how his shoes had gotten scuffed or why his wife’s dress was torn and stained with sweat. They kept returning to Franconia Notch for clues, “looking for the elusive moment their lives had changed.”

They found solace in UFO research groups, such as the National Investigations Committee on Aerial Phenomena (NICAP), a non-profit that prided itself on its rational, technocratic approach. “We are mature people associated with a major electronics and engineering corporation,” two NICAP members wrote, leveraging their jobs at IBM. “Our discussion would be entirely objective.” The Hills also underwent hypnosis with a psychiatrist, believing, mistakenly, that the process would “clear away the rubble of anxiety and forgetfulness and restore them to complete control.” But what they dredged up made them look even crazier and, to their chagrin, their doctor refused to endorse it.

If you have notions of a prototypical alien abduction—sloe-eyed, gray-skinned, narrow-chinned creatures conducting anal probes with malevolent dispassion—they derive from the Hills’ hypnosis sessions, wherein the couple came to believe that they’d been brought aboard the craft for medical testing. Betty found the experience fascinating, except for the part where the aliens shoved a long needle into her navel for a pregnancy test. Barney felt like a rabbit in a trap. Bowman writes that he remembered “a small tube about the size of a cigar inserted into his rectum and the eerie sensation of a single finger pressing against the base of his spine.”

As these details emerged, the Hills found themselves the object of a national obsession. Books, articles, and TV shows exposed them to new levels of scrutiny and derision. (Last year, Penguin reissued The Interrupted Journey, John Fuller’s 1966 bestseller about the couple.) Even sympathetic observers assumed that the “abduction” amounted to mangled angst about either their interracial marriage or their childlessness. People egged their car. Someone painted a swastika on their sidewalk. But Betty in particular still treasured the visitation. She had communed with an advanced civilization whose technologies the government wished to suppress. Some years later, she noted approvingly that the needle the aliens had inserted in her abdomen was “now in everyday usage in big city hospitals.”

After Barney died suddenly of a cerebral hemorrhage in 1969, Betty started seeing UFOs with increasing frequency, sometimes accompanied by black helicopters. She learned “to distrust anyone who offers to analyze anything I find” and avowed that she’d lived a past life as “an English girl, herding geese.” Bowman is acutely sensitive to the pressures the couple must have felt as their concept of reality crumbled, revealing something “esoteric and divisive, something that splintered American communities rather than unified them.” Conspiracy theories were their only solace. When Betty saw a spacecraft after Barney’s death, she assumed it must be looking for him and started shouting at the sky through her tears: “Barney died. He is no longer alive. . . . We bury our dead.” She pointed toward the cemetery and told them they’d find him “by the flowers on his grave.” The ship “rocked back and forth,” she remembered, “crossed the highway, and headed the direction I had pointed.”

For Bowman, “the Hills’ project was one of adaptation”: fitting the square peg of their story into the round hole of the society that had ostracized them. Without the Cold War’s existential threat, would they have believed that they saw a UFO? What if the state had treated them as more than a nuisance, or if the experts conceded that their experience was beyond explanation? Garrett M. Graff’s UFO: The Inside Story of the US Government’s Search for Alien Life Here—and Out There (Simon and Schuster, $32.50), focuses on the top brass and the talking heads who made the couple feel irrelevant. Graff chronicles the nation’s failure to develop a consistent, top-down response to weird stuff in the skies—a program that served both citizens and the national security apparatus.

The state could shrug off the occasional space pancake or anal probe, but it couldn’t ignore its own pilots, who in the Forties had begun to report credible extraterrestrial threats. The Air Force launched Project Sign, its first UFO-tracking initiative, in 1948. Its analysts were overwhelmed with sightings that seemed to defy the usual explanations—ball lightning, weather balloons, meteor showers—prompting the memorably titled “Estimate of the Situation,” a top-secret assessment so incendiary that every copy of it was burned. “The situation was the UFO’s; the estimate was that they were interplanetary!” one of the researchers later wrote. In 1949, Project Sign issued a more measured statement, concluding that most of the 273 incidents were probably meaningless. As for the chance of advanced technical developments from another nation or world, “no facts are available to personnel at this Command that will permit an objective assessment of this possibility.”

A Navy video still of a UAP, November 2004. Courtesy the Department of Defense

After Sign came Projects Grudge and Blue Book, which leaned just as heavily on bureaucratese to mask their uncertainty. (An official history of the Air Technical Intelligence Center, which oversaw the Air Force’s UFO research, bragged that they had introduced “100,000 new technical terms to the English language.”) Pilots, meanwhile, grew leery of reporting their encounters to a hierarchy that filed them away as oddities. The Air Force promoted the term “unidentified flying object” to give the sightings a scientific sheen, encouraging airmen to tell their stories.

The rebrand didn’t help—a chilling effect had taken hold. J. Allen Hynek, an astronomer who’d worked with the Air Force since the Forties, said that many scientists were less skeptical of UFOs than they would admit in public. He grew frustrated with the official line, which he felt was designed to quell the nation’s suspicions rather than figure out what was really going on. In 1953 he’d joined the Robertson Panel, a secret committee convened by the CIA “to reduce public concern” about UFOs. “Their basic attitude was very clearly an attitude of ‘Daddy knows best, don’t come to me with these silly stories,’ ” Hynek said. In 1959, an ATIC report stated that Project Blue Book was “extremely dangerous to prestige.” The program was terminated in 1969, just before the start of a decade whose scandals would completely undermine the public’s faith in its institutions.

The government’s prickly paternalism—and its annoying habit of rechristening flying objects every few decades, most recently as UAPs—generated countless conspiracy theories, which Graff soberly investigates, down to the last crop circle and cattle mutilation. Most are bunk, but he acknowledges “an active, ongoing cover-up over decades” and believes that “even today, the U.S. government is surely hiding information from us.” (The “even today” seems needlessly charitable.) Hynek was one of the few who saw the advantage of greater transparency. “You can cover up knowledge and you can cover up ignorance,” he said. “I think there was much more of the latter than of the former.”

Suppose aliens do show their faces. What will we call them? How will we introduce them to heads of state at black-tie banquets? One of my issues with Star Trek: The Next Generation is its assertion that intergalactic amity can exist only in an atmosphere of stifling formality. The Enterprise crew are military factotums like those in Graff’s book—their sometimes rigid adherence to protocol means they can barely be trusted to talk to other humans, let alone to extraterrestrials. No one in Starfleet could pull off Joe Simonton’s quick, wordless, water-for-pancakes transaction.

Untitled, by Alexandra Duprez © The artist. Courtesy MEPAINTSME

Or so I thought before I read Robert Hickey’s Honor and Respect: The Official Guide to Names, Titles, and Forms of Address (University of Chicago Press, $80), which argues convincingly for the merits of decorum. This is a stately brick of a reference text, “a record of how officials are directly addressed in English at the beginning of the millennium.” It describes how tenuous and brittle communication is on our planet, and also how ornately beautiful. Though it’s intended primarily for diplomats, anyone who relishes language will enjoy it for its exacting specificity. At last, definitive advice on how to address the wife of a younger son of a marquess; the royal heir apparent of a Malaysian state; the territorial commander of the Salvation Army; the acting president of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. “The Master of the Horse is an honorary post in the United Kingdom ceremonially responsible for the royal carriages and horses,” I learned. “Astronaut is not used as an honorific,” and “deceased persons are not typically listed on an invitation’s host line.” Should I deliver my calling card in person, I know to leave a note in pencil; if I send a courier, I must use ink.

In a foreword, Pamela Eyring (of the Protocol School of Washington, naturally) wonders if “the demise of protocol is approaching” in an increasingly informal world. But Eyring insists that every detail matters. The place cards, the honorifics, the way that the State Department addresses a chargé d’affaires ad interim. “Why? Because everything speaks.” Indeed, everything does. Revisiting Simonton’s UFO story, I noticed a detail I’d missed. The spaceman, receiving his jug of water, “gave me a salute with the back of his hand—a gesture of thanks, I presume,” Simonton said. Not knowing what else to do, he returned the salute. It was this exchange that got him the pancakes.

From the Archive :: [HARPERS]

Timeless stories from our 173-year archive handpicked to speak to the news of the day.