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thetriumphantpanda · 10 months

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Stolen | Marcus Pike (Day One)

Series Summary | A week on from the biggest museum theft in history, you find yourself shipped to D.C. to track down the most important British archaeological artefacts, stolen from right under your nose. You didn't plan on Special Agent Marcus Pike getting under your skin in the process. Special Agent Marcus Pike didn't plan on falling for you either.

Pairing | Marcus Pike x Archaeologist/Curator F!Reader

Word Count | 4.4k

Warnings | Marcus being the biggest and best gentleman ever, some flirting, food consumption, but nothing else I can think of.

Authors Note | OKAY. So, I watched The Mentalist and IMMEDIATELY knew I needed to give this sweet boy his happy ending, so here we are. This fic is super self-indulgent so I apologise in advance. I'm currently completing my master's degree to become an archaeologist so that's where this really comes from. This is a reader insert and whilst there will be very few physical descriptions in this fic, it is assume reader is British, although not explicitly stated, and she has the nickname 'Jones' - guess where that one came from? 👀 If you like this then please consider reblogging, commenting or popping into my ask! I'd love to hear from you all! And a massive thank you to my darling @morning-star-joy for being the best beta for this fic, ilysm.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The ticking of the clock is starting to annoy you. It’s silent in the room, three people, including you, sat around waiting for the appearance of the team of people who were hopefully about to make all your problems go away. They’re late, which is even more annoying, because every second lost to waiting for these people are seconds lost trying to locate what had been stolen from you.

You pull at the dry skin around your thumbnail, pulling it a little too far, drawing blood. You suck the side of your thumb into your mouth to stem the bleeding which helps, before you’re checking the watch on your wrist, annoyance bubbling beneath your skin. Fifteen minutes late and counting.

Your assistant is sitting next to you, writing God knows what in her notepad. Normally her eagerness to please and her exceptional organizational skills were welcome by you, but the scratching of her pen on the paper is just adding to your irritation. Sat next to your assistant Lizzie, is Peter, an aging Metropolitan Police officer who is no doubt completely out of his depth. He’s starting to bald, and age had not been kind to his face, which is wrinkled and makes him seem far older than he already is. When you’d first met a week ago, he’d introduced himself and told you he hoped this would be his career defining case to crack because he was less than a year away from retirement and his hefty pension.

What he had wished to be an easy case had turned into something much more complicated than anyone could have imagined, which is why the three of you were now sitting in a glorified glass cage in Washington D.C. Waiting for someone to hopefully help crack the case and crack it quickly. Although your boss wasn’t here, you could feel him breathing down your neck.

Another look at your watch and it’s now twenty minutes late.

“This is ridiculous.” You mumble, turning in your seat to look around at the office outside of the meeting room you were in.

Men in suits wandering around with folders in their hands, women sat at desks typing their way through reports. There’s what you assume to be an intern walking hastily through the bank of desks, dropping mugs of coffee down to people who don’t even acknowledge his presence. Then, you spot two men walking towards your meeting room with purpose. They’re deep in conversation with each other, one holds a similar manila file as the rest of the office, the other, older and more handsome is the one who pushes open the door.

“Sorry for making you wait,” God his accent is jarring, what you wouldn’t give to be back in London, surrounded by your own people, “We were just catching up on the files.”

Pete is the first to stand, he shakes the hand of the older man who introduces himself as Marcus Pike, head of the Arts Crime division here in DC. The younger man is Steven, his partner. There’s already a strange air of respect between the men, law enforcement officer to law enforcement officer, even if they do work on completely different sides of the ocean.

Lizzie introduces herself quietly until they fall to you, “Nice to meet you both,” You say stiffly, reaching out to shake their hands and tell them your name, “I’m the Curator of the department of Britain, Europe and Prehistory at the British Museum, I’m hoping you might be able to help us.”

Marcus motions for you all to take your seats, taking hold of the folders from Steven, “We’ve read the files but maybe you could take us through what happened?” He’s directing the question toward Pete, because of course he is, but Pete is deferring to you.

“About a week ago,” You begin, opening your own files, “There was a break-in at the British Museum as I’m sure you’re aware from your own files,” You shift some papers around to find the clutch of photographs, “Highly sophisticated from what Pete has been able to tell us – the thieves managed to cut out CCTV coverage and the alarms before they even entered the museum, which meant no-one knew anything was wrong until I came in the next morning to find half of my collection gone.”

“What exactly was taken?” Marcus asks, thumbing through his files to find the answer that obviously isn’t there – if this lot can’t put together a case file properly, how the hell are they going to help you?

“The most recognizable would be the Sutton Hoo helmet,” You slide a photo of it across the table to him, “Anglo-Saxon, incredibly important archaeological find, along with this gold belt buckle from the same collection,” Another photograph is slid across the table to him, “And this purse lid and the collection of coins found within it.” The final photograph is passed to him.

“You have any leads?” Marcus speaks, again mainly towards Pete, who again, defers to you.

“We managed to pick up this CCTV from the pub across the road, which shows the group of people loading the items into a van,” You slip the print outs across to him, “Pete and his team managed to track the van to a depot just outside of Heathrow airport, that was raided less than twenty-four hours after the heist, but it was empty,” you sigh, sliding more grainy CCTV printouts over the table, “Then we’ve picked them up getting a flight here to D.C. but after that, the trail has gone as far as we can follow, hence why we’re here.”

This time Marcus speaks directly to you, “Any idea on motive?”

You shake your head, “We can’t figure it out if I’m being honest,” You massage your temple, a familiar ache brewing behind your eyes, “We know a lot of our collection in the museum is contested, the Benin Bronzes and the Parthenon Marbles for example, countries have been calling for repatriation of their items for years, but this is all British, everything they took belongs in that museum, so apart from it being a massive fuck you to us, we don’t know.”

Marcus and his partner are silent as they study the photographs you’ve given them so you decide to keep talking, “All of these items are instantly recognizable too, the second they appear on any market, black or otherwise, we’re going to know about it, so it can’t be about selling it for money either.”

Marcus is nodding in understanding, “It’s not a lot to go on,” he shrugs, turning to Pete, “Do you have the flight number you tracked them on?” Pete nods, slipping a bit of paper across the desk to Marcus, “We’ll have a look at the CCTV on our end and see if we can pick up the trail here, in the meantime, Pete feel free to make yourself at home here, we can get you a desk set up so you can work alongside us,” He turns to you, “I’m assuming as Curator of such a large collection you have work to be doing whilst you’re here too,” His tone is dismissive which has rage pooling inside you, “We’ll call you if we have any news.”

“This case is my number one priority,” You interrupt, “I want to be as closely involved in this as Pete is.”

It’s Marcus’ partner who is speaking now, “With all due respect ma’am, this is a job for law enforcement, these heists can get dicey, and we wouldn’t want you putting yourself in any unnecessary danger when we’re more than capable of handling this ourselves.”

“Please,” You snort, “I was an archaeologist before this, I’ve worked in literal war zones, so don’t talk to me about unnecessary danger,” You stand, noticing that Marcus’ expression softens a little, “I want a daily meeting on the progress of the case starting tomorrow morning so I have something to report back to our board of directors, and I want to be present when you follow any leads out in the field, these items are incredibly fragile so I want to be the only one to handle them when we find them, understood?”

Marcus nods his head, giving into your demands, “We can meet every morning at ten for a progress report if that works?”

You nod and start gathering your belongings, noticing as Lizzie follows suit. Pete is also standing, smoothing out his uniform as he shakes the boys’ hands again, letting them know he’ll walk the two of you out before coming back up to get on with some work.

“I want to know everything Pete,” You say to him when you finally get outside, stress gets the better of you and you’re reaching into your jacket pocket for the packet of cigarettes and the lighter you’d bought at the airport when you’d landed, “I need to know whatever they’re planning – if they leave anything out of those morning briefings I want to know, are we clear?”

You think you might actually scare Pete judging by his expression, “Of course,” He’s stuffing his hands in his pockets as you light the cigarette and take a long drag, “I’ll keep my ears open for anything.”

You check your watch as you take another drag of the cigarette, “I’ve got to get back to the hotel for a check in with Hartwig, you’ve got my phone number,” You direct to Pete, “Anything happens, give me a call.”

He nods in understanding and is taking his leave as quickly as he can, leaving you with Lizzie to wait for a cab.

“I really do hate Americans sometimes,” You mumble, “The biggest theft from a museum, possibly ever, and no sense of haste in them at all.”

“At least he was cute.” She shrugs, and your eyes are going wide, “What? I’m just saying if we’re here for the foreseeable future, it’s nice to have something to look at whilst we’re here.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” You try and say sternly, but chuckle anyway, Lizzie had become a fast friend in the year she’d worked for you, “Is your jetlag killing you as much as mine?” She nods, “I don’t think there’s much left for either of us to do once I’ve caught up with the team back home, so just take it easy for the rest of the day, yeah?”

You ride in a cab together to the hotel, bidding each other goodbye with flimsy plans to meet for dinner if neither of you fell asleep before then. The room you’d been given was huge, king size bed, a bathroom that not only had a full walk-in shower but a bath as well, a desk that you’ve already made into a makeshift workstation, laptop currently plugged in and charging. There was a lovely view out of the window, but it was one you couldn’t fully enjoy, wondering where in this city, if anywhere, your precious artefacts were being kept.

There was a chime from your laptop, signaling someone had joined the video call, so you set yourself up and accept the invite. Within seconds there were three or four squares of your colleagues back in London, and Hartwig Fischer, the museum’s director, who skipped all pleasantries and headed straight into wanting an update.

“We just finished meeting with the Art Crimes division here,” You begin, “We’ve brought them up to speed on what was taken and where Pete and the Met had managed to get to with the investigation, we’re working with two agents who have said their first port of call is to see how far they can trace the gang from the airport here and then take it from there.”

“And I assume you’ve stressed the importance of this collection to them?” Hartwig is speaking now, “It’s imperative we get them found and back where they belong as soon as possible.”

“I did,” You nod, noticing the roll of the eye that your boss, Mark, gives at his question, “We’ll have progress meetings here in D.C. with the team every morning at ten, so I’ll schedule calls with all of you at around four each afternoon your time, but I’m afraid that’s all I have to update on.”

Everyone says a mumbled goodbye and you’re about to close your laptop when an email pings into your inbox from Mark. He’s been a good boss to you since you made the premature switch from archaeological field work to curatorship nearly three years ago, always had your back and had supported your ideas for displays and conservation. As a man who had spent his entire career working up the Museum’s staff structure, you were somewhat of an enigma – archaeologist turned curator, he’d affectionately taken to calling you Jones, after Indiana Jones, which, whilst it had annoyed you at the beginning, was now the best term of endearment you could come to expect from him.

Doing a great job already, Jones. I know you’d rather be here than the States but we’ll hold the fort. Go get em. All best, Mark.

You smile but choose not to reply. Instead, you toe off your shoes and shed your suit jacket before climbing onto the bed. You set an alarm on your phone for an hour from now, hoping that Lizzie would do the same so you could have company for dinner later, before falling into a fitful nap, full of images of your precious antiquities in various states of damage and decay.

When you wake from your nap it’s clear that you’ve slept through the alarm you set. It’s dark outside and you can see through the window that the city outside is lit up. You roll over and check your phone. Three texts from Lizzie who obviously hadn’t been as lucky as you to fall asleep.

Dinner? I didn’t manage to fall asleep.

Taking from your silence you did, I’ll wait.

Okay, I’m starving so I’m going out to hunt for food, speak later.

Then there are two missed calls from a number you don’t recognize. It’s an American number, so you’re dialing back before thinking, just in case you’ve missed an important development in the case. It takes three rings for someone to pick up.

“Agent Pike.”

“Oh, hello, I just woke up and had some missed calls, so I was just checking in.”

You can hear some shuffling on the other end of the phone and then the background noise dissipates, “Sorry, should have known jetlag would have been a killer for you,” You hum in agreement, “Listen, I didn’t upset you earlier, did I?”

What an odd question.

“Marcus, I don’t know you, how could you upset me?”

“I don’t know,” You think you can picture him shrugging on the other end of the line, “Felt like maybe I’d been a bit dismissive of you, if we’re going to work together then I wanted to make sure we’re all good?”

You really did have bigger problems to worry about that didn’t involve making sure Agent Pike thought you hated him, but he was right, if you were going to work together, you needed to be able to trust each other, “We’re all good, don’t worry, I’m just getting a lot of stress from my side.”

“I can imagine,” You hear him sigh a little at the other end of the phone, “Have you eaten?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Have you had dinner?” He asks again, “If you’ve been sleeping then I assume not, I can show you the best twenty-four-hour diner in town if you are hungry?”

You’re about to refuse, wanting instead to order room service and soak in the bath, but then your stomach makes the most unholy noise, and you think that a measly room service portion isn’t going to cut what your body obviously needs.

“Sure, okay,” You reply, “Where shall I meet you?”

“You’re in luck, because it’s just around the corner from your hotel, I’ll meet you in the lobby in an hour.”

“Wait, how do you know where I’m staying?”

“I’m a federal agent, it’s my job to know.”

You’re about to reply when you hear the familiar tone of being hung up on. You hang up yourself, throwing your phone to the bed as your drag yourself into the shower to freshen up. You’d come straight off the plane and to the offices and then back here to promptly fall asleep and you felt gross. You tied your hair up into a knot on the top of your head, deciding that right now, Marcus Pike was not worth washing your hair for, before standing under the hot stream of water for longer than anticipated.

You rush to get ready, throwing on the first thing you can pull from your suitcase, which happens to be a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt that you remember wearing to one of your first excavations. Its threadbare by now and you have to wear a t-shirt underneath it to be semi-decent to go in public, but it’s always been like a comfort blanket to you.

When you exit the elevator and head into the lobby, Marcus is already waiting for you. He’s in the same suit as he had been this morning, clearly coming straight from the office, but he’s left his FBI badge behind thankfully. He stands and greets you with another handshake.

“I hope you’re hungry,” He speaks as he leads you from the hotel, “I think this is my favourite place in all of D.C. to eat.”

The walk to the diner is quiet. Marcus is typing on his phone as you walk, lifting his head only to make sure he’s not going to immediately walk into someone or something. He mutters something about emails piling up and a mumbled apology, but it’s not long before he’s guiding you into a diner on the corner of a street and greeting the waitress on the door by name.

The waitress, who clearly knows Marcus well, is leading you to the very back on the diner and into the last booth they have available. You shimmy into one side and Marcus does the same opposite you. He doesn’t reach for the menu like you do though. If this is his favourite place to eat you can only assume that every person who works here knows exactly what he’s going to get.

Your point is proven when the waitress brings two mugs of coffee, filling his first. You put your hand over yours so she doesn’t pour any in, “Sorry, can I just get a glass of lemonade please?”

She smiles at you and nods, taking your mug away. You watch as Marcus adds creamer to his coffee and an unholy amount of sugar, he must notice your face of disgust because he’s smiling, “What?”

“I just don’t know how you can drink that stuff so late at night,” You shrug, looking down at the menu, “I can’t drink caffeine past three in the afternoon because I’ll be awake all night.”

“Occupational hazard I suppose,” He takes another sip, “Our team works odd hours a lot, art thieves don’t seem to rest much so this keeps me sharp.”

You nod in understanding before turning your attention back to the menu. It’s huge, far bigger than any menu you’d see in London, you’re spoilt for choice, “What do you usually get?” You ask.

“Chocolate chip pancakes,” He grins, “Side of bacon if I’m feeling it.”

You look at your watch, “At nine at night?”

“Don’t tell me breakfast for dinner isn’t a thing across the pond?”

“I mean, I’ve been known to eat a bowl of cereal late, I guess.”

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”

When the waitress comes back you decide to follow his lead, chocolate chip pancakes and a side of bacon – when in Rome and all of that.

“So, have there been any developments today?” You ask, sipping the lemonade through your straw.

“I’ve got Steven searching the CCTV from the airport, if we can pick them up there then we’ve got a good chance of following them to wherever they might be keeping your artefacts, but it’ll be at least tomorrow morning before we know anything.”

“Is this what you’ve always done?” You’re not great at making conversation with people you don’t know, but the thought of an awkward silence is too much for you to handle right now.

“Pretty much, I worked Art Crimes down in Austin for a while and then transferred to D.C. just over a year ago now,” He’s draining his coffee and motioning for the waitress to top him up, “How about you, you said you were an archaeologist before this, right?”

You nod, “Yeah, worked as a field archaeologist straight out of university, got to travel the world, which was pretty cool, and now I’m confined to the walls of a museum that a lot of people hate these days.”

“Why the change?”

There’s a pause for the waitress who drops two huge plates of pancakes in front of you, you have to admit they look pretty bloody good. Marcus covers his in syrup and passes you the jug, you add your own syrup and dig in.

“Fuck, that’s good.” You can’t help yourself from moaning as you chew on your food.

“I told you they would be good,” He smiles, digging into his own plate, “So, why the change?” He asks again.

You shrug your shoulders, “I had an accident, recovery meant no fieldwork, and I had to pay my rent somehow, so this seemed like the natural jump to make.”

“What kind of accident?”

You look him dead in the eyes, “Pass.”

He’s looking at you whilst eating and you think he might press you, but he relents, “So, London then, always wanted to go, is it as good as everyone says?”

“Probably best not to ask the person that lives there but it’s decent,” You start eating your own food again, “It’s a great city and it’s a lovely place to visit if you enjoy being busy but it can lose its magic when you live there too long.”

There’s a long silence whilst the two of you continue eating and you can’t stop the way your brain thinks back to Lizzie’s observation. You must admit that Marcus is pretty cute. No. You try and tell your brain, we are not doing this here. But it doesn’t relent, tracing the curve of his nose and how his eyes are the colour you like your coffee in the morning; how his plush bottom lip, shiny from the sticky syrup, is just begging to be kissed. No, absolutely not. Just because you’d spent the last however many years focusing on your career and trying not to die and as a result were the loneliest person you’d ever met; didn’t mean we need to start fantasizing about the very cute FBI agent sat across from us.

“You alright there?” Marcus’ voice cuts through your thoughts.

You shake your head to rid yourself of your thoughts, “Yeah, sorry, guess I’m still pretty tired from the flight.”

“Understandable,” You notice he’s finished his food, “You done there?”

Your own plate is half finished but there’s no way you can fit anymore into your stomach, so you nod, he motions for the waitress, who clears everything away and brings your leftover pancakes back in a to-go box for you, along with the bill.

Marcus is reaching for it, but you swat his hand, “What are you doing?” You ask.

“Paying for dinner?” He says defensively.

“Don’t be silly,” You murmur, rooting around in your bag for your wallet, “Company card,” You smile, flashing the card from your bag, “If they’ve got me out here chasing after thieves, the least they can do is pay for our food, right?”

“Remind me to always phone you for dinner then.” Marcus muses, a glint in his eye that has you swallowing deeply.

Paying is relatively painless once Marcus has explained how to properly tip the waitress, still something that confuses the hell out of you, even once he’d shown you how to do it. You’re standing and gathering your bag as he reaches for your to-go box, “Don’t worry, I won’t steal them, I’ll carry them whilst we walk.”

“My hands do work, you know?” You tease, and the way his Adams apple bobs as he swallows at the innuendo isn’t lost on you.

“Just trying to be a gentleman after we got off on the wrong foot earlier.”

“Are you a gentleman for all the women you barely know, or am I special?” You tease, as he holds the diner door open for you and starts on the short walk back to the hotel.

“You might joke but you’re not far wrong.” He’s chuckling but there’s an undercurrent of something else to his voice, maybe frustration, which tells you there is much more to Marcus Pike than might first meet the eye.

It’s another short walk until you’re back in the hotel lobby. Marcus hands you your box of pancakes before he stands awkwardly with you whilst you wait for the elevator to arrive at the ground floor.

“Well, thanks for showing me the best place to eat when I inevitably forget to do that during the day,” You smile, a genuine one this time, “Hopefully you’ve got some more places to recommend?”

“You have no idea how long that list is,” He’s got his hands stuffed into his pockets and he’s rocking back and forth on his heels, his nervous habit, you observe, “Maybe if you’re not busy with meetings tomorrow I can show you the best Italian place?”

Just like you were earlier, you go to open your mouth and decline when you stop. Sure, he’s supposed to be a professional colleague, and an Italian restaurant is a far cry from the diner on the corner, but what would you be doing otherwise? Room service and an overpriced glass of wine followed by no other option that sorting through all your emails. Just because you were here on important business didn’t mean that you couldn’t enjoy D.C. whilst you did it, and was it so bad if that came with the company of your lead agent who just so happened to make your knees a little weak?

“Do they have tiramisu and good white wine?” You asked as the elevator door opens, Marcus walks forward with you, putting his hand across the divide so it doesn’t shut prematurely.

“The best outside of Italy,” He claims, “Not that I’ve ever been, that��s just what the menu says.”

You laugh, “It’s a date then.”

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sailoryooons · 2 years

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Don't Read Dead Languages | knj (m)

☾ Pairing: professor!namjoon x tomb raider! female reader

☾ Summary: Namjoon is determined to visit the Living City of the Dead. Amtenemhat is the Egyptian ruins that the locals fear. Archaeologists have gone missing and strange things lurk in the night. But Namjoon’s work as a historian isn’t perfect if he doesn’t go to the source of the legend, and hiring a weaponized tomb raider seems his best bet at surviving.

☾ Word Count: 17,449

☾ Genre: enemies/ partners to lovers, supernatural, mythology

☾ Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

☾ Warnings:Joon and OC bicker a lot, large theories and a lot of mythology, historical accounts and objects I made up, mentions of diseases and plagues, explicit language, mentions of murder and death, depictions of blood and dead creatures/ people, weapons and brief action sequences, sexual tension and arguing, graphic depiction of mummies coming back to life and looking gross, sexually explicit content including: oral (f. and m. receiving - m. is brief) dirty talk, fingering, nipple play, unprotected sex, big dick Joon (obvi),

☾ Published: May 29, 2022

☾ A/N: I am so sorry this is so late! But HAPPY HALFWAY TO HALLOWEEN. This is the second and final installment of my halfway to Halloween duology. This is way longer than I expected because I went way too much into the world building and myth-building. This is only half-edited because i'm like two days and three hours late and honestly I should not have been so crazy about the deadline because my back is cramping and I'm tired. I completely make several myths and stories my own. This is not at all historically accurate, as I am not a historian and uses Egyptian myths and lore and made them work for me.

☾ A/N 2: There are elements of this story inspired by the 1999 film The Mummy directed by Steven Sommers and Indiana Jones directed by Steven Speilberg.

☾ Disclaimer: All members of BTS are faces and name claims for this story. This is entirely a work of fiction and by no means is meant to be a projection, judgment or representation of real-life people. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios.

Masterlist | Ask | Read the sister story: Bite Me, Jeon

Kim Namjoon stared at the head of his department, brows raised. Though he was surprised they had accepted his petition to travel to Egypt for his research, Namjoon was even more surprised that the school was willing to dole out money for Namjoon to hire help.

Though the school did incredibly well for itself with donations from alumni, they didn’t care much for the history and arts departments. Namjoon had remembered arguing for a new projector in his Ancient Civilizations class for four semesters straight before they gave him a hand-me-down from the STEM department.

So being told that they had no problem with him using the winter break to travel to a distant country and archaeological site was shocking. He had been prepared to argue his position much more.

“We have long had interest in the ruins at Amtenemhat. Yale has been sniffing around sending an expedition as of late, and well…”

“You’d like to get there first,” Namjoon finishes, leveling a stare at Dean Tarik. “When you say that you’re willing to provide a financial stipend for assistance, are we talking about taking other members of the department?”

“No. You’ve done extensive research on the famed City of the Dead. People go missing, people get hurt. We’d like to hire you an escort who is not only well-versed in historical artifacts, but one who is from the private sector and is available to play by their own rules.”

Namjoon frowns. The dean isn’t telling him something.

Though there is a lot of myth and rumor surrounding Amtenemhat, Namjoon didn’t expect to have to take… security. He believed that most of the people who were injured or vanished were unprepared for the dangerous of an ancient city. It was sure to be fill with pitfalls and dangerous walkways and unsupported ceilings. Namjoon imagines it is dangerous to explore if you weren’t careful.

Namjoon had been studying the city for almost three years. It was one of the world’s favorite ghost stories. The city near the ruins refused to house anyone who was going to visit the city. The citizens refused to even talk about it to the press.

After years of failed attempts at recovering anything from the city and after the presumed death of a prominent National Geographic reporter, the local government had outlawed most travel there. And if one did manage to get a permit to travel there, the local police and hospital wouldn’t help in a time of need.

Cursed, they call the city.

“What kind of rules do they need to play by?” Namjoon asks, frowning. “Surely the school can get a permit for a professional exploration- “

“The city no longer gives permits as of last year. There was an incident with a group of researchers from Oxford that made it officially illegal to travel there.”

“And you’re still willing to send me?”

“We’re invested in your research of the city and determining what worth the archeological site has. So, we need someone who is willing to help you for a lump sum who is private, discreet and doesn’t care about legal ramifications.”

Namjoon’s frown intensifies. Adjusting the glasses on the brim of his nose, Namjoon sighs. While he isn’t opposed to bending the rules for the sake of research, something about the offer seems slicked with oil.

He chews on his lip. “What kind of company offers a service like that?”

“It’s private acquisition company that focuses on recovering ancient artifacts and documents for sale and preservation.”

Namjoon scoffs. “A tomb raider?” He demands. “You’re talking about a company who is willing to illegally acquire ancient artifacts and sell them for private profits to the highest bidder or to individuals who hired them outright.”

“Tomb raider is a barbaric term.”

“This is a barbaric idea.”

Namjoon runs a hand through his silver hair. The office is stifling hot, and he feels like the sleeves of his button up are constricting him more than they did earlier. He shuffles in the seat, eyes drifting to the wall where photos of past professor's hand.

It is a wall of fame, in a way. There are famous historians on the walls of this office. Men and women who uncovered ancient histories or shed light on new stories all over the world. His school was a fine one- and though it didn’t fund the history department the way it did its STEM programs, they were happy to ride the coattails of those who were now gilded members of society.

It’s a lie for Namjoon to say he doesn’t want to be a part of that. Ever since he was a child reading stories of world mythologies, he wanted to delve into that. He idolized Indiana Jones, watching the movies over and over again. To be that kind of professor, running around the world and uncovering amazing things- getting the girl.

Namjoon hates to admit how much he loved the idea of it. Even if it wasn’t realistic.

But the idea of using a Tomb Raider is distasteful. Namjoon knew that they existed far more than the public did. Trained professionals who robbed ancient sites of worship and historical worth. They made millions of dollars off of selling cultural objects and historical items that belonged in museums. Somewhere they would be safe. Somewhere they would be preserved.

Knowing that the school wants to hire one is the second warning that Namjoon has that something is amiss. The first was how easily they approved his expedition.

Chewing the inside of his cheek, Namjoon leans forward. “Is this a requirement for my trip? We have to hire someone?”

“They’ve already been hired, to be quite honest with you.”

“What?”

“Your request for the trip came right after we negotiated with a local acquisition company. We figured- who better than to assure our assets are protected?” Dean Tarik adjusts his belt. He’s a portly man whose cheeks are red with the heat of the room and sweaty jewels. Namjoon doesn’t like him much, but it’s above his pay grade. “Here is the information on the contact you should meet with. She comes highly recommended.”

Sighing, Namjoon takes the slip of paper. “You’re sure this is the best course of action?”

“Of course we are,” the dean smiles. It reminds Namjoon of the Cheshire Cat. “We believe in your research, Professor Kim.”

A dark, velvet sky stretches overhead. Namjoon yawns as he checks the GPS, ensuring that he’s going the right direction. He’s unfamiliar with the northern suburb just outside the city. Evergreens stretch on either side of him as the world stretches up. He’s driving toward the hills. Every once in a while he catches the glowing lights between trees of houses far bigger than he’s ever lived in, hidden behind wrought iron gates and long, gravel driveways.

Anticipation grows as he turned down an unmarked road. It’s past his bedtime. Namjoon prefers to be in bed by 9 PM with a hot cup of tea and his latest book. His life is simple, filled with routine. He likes that about himself, that he can usually predict how his day is going to go. It’s an organization he didn’t have as a kid. A structure that he so badly craved.

His structure is being interrupted by the woman he’s to meet for the evening. Though he didn’t talk to her himself- she apparently has an assistant with a soft, nervous voice- the assistant made it clear the Miss L/N took evening appointments only, and that he may have the first available.

It was 11 PM.

Namjoon scoffs at the thought. 11 PM certainly isn’t evening – it’s well into the night and her home is nowhere near his small apartment tucked away in the arts district downtown.

The nameless road ends at a massive, wrought iron gate with a single guard house. He raises his brow as he slows the car, rolling down the window as a security guard dressed in all black steps out of the small building.

“Kim Namjoon,” he says. “I have an appointment at 11 PM with Miss L/N.”

“ID please,” the security guard asks, holding his hand out. Namjoon is surprised- he digs in his pocket and pulls out his license, handing it over. The man takes it and walks back to the guard house, touching a piece in his ear.”

Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, Namjoon turns to look beyond the gate. He can’t see the house- the road curves to the west, the line of trees blocking it out. What he does see are cameras on the wall and a guard walking the circumference of the wall.

“What kind of place is this?” Namjoon mutters to himself, turning when the guard returns with his ID.

“You’ve been granted permission to enter. Follow the drive and park behind the Mercedes.”

“Thanks.”

Gold lights in the ground line the driveway. Namjoon drives slowly, swinging his head from side to side as he looks down the rows and rows of trees. He follows the curve before it straightens out, dark eyes dragging upwards to see the home in question.

“Holy shit,” Namjoon breathes.

He isn’t driving up to a house. He is driving up to an estate. The home is four stories tall in the middle, the main wing a soft white. There are wings on either side of the main building, creating a u-shape. The driveway is circular, built around a massive fountain depicting the fight between the Titans and Olympians.

Lights buzz golden in the windows, giving the illusion of fireflies from a distance. Namjoon is hypnotized by the fountain, narrowing his eyes as he drives past it. The marble work is exquisite, parts of the fountain chipped and softened with time. Almost as if…

Namjoon almost crashes into the Mercedes, distracted by the fact that he’s almost positive even from a glance that the fountain is made from genuine marble in the style of Ancient Greece. He needs to touch it to make sure, but something in his gut tells Namjoon than the tomb raider whose house shadows his car has a genuine work of ancient history in her drive.

Sliding from the car, Namjoon glances at the row of vehicles parked in the drive. He doesn’t know much about cars, but his brows stretch upwards as he sees the G-class Merceds parked behind a vintage Aston Martin.

The wealth in the driveway alone is enough to upset Namjoon. He’s never been fond of the wealthy in general, but to see it in such heavy amounts before he’s even walked up the polished steps to the heavy wooden door. The knocker is peculiar- an eye within a triangle. It’s heavy in his hand when he uses it.

A man answers the door, bowing his head politely. “Mr. Kim, good evening, please come in.”

If the driveway was a precursor to the entry way, Namjoon was still unprepared. The grand foyer is exquisite, with high ceilings and a beautiful chandelier. But what commands his attention is-

“Is that a terracotta warrior?” Namjoon asks the man who answered the door. Namjoon doesn’t want to think the man is a butler- he’s dressed in black slacks and a button up and he looks like Alfred from Bat Man. “Like from Qin Shi Huang’s army?”

“The mistress has many artifacts in the estate. Please follow me, Mr. Kim. The mistress’ last appointment has run late.” Alfred look-alike leads Namjoon to an ornate sitting room. “Would you like tea, sir?”

“What kind do you have?”

The man smiles. “Whatever the kind Mr. Kim would prefer.”

“Give him the Da Hong Pao,” a female voice calls. Namjoon turns as he sits to you stick your head in the doorway. His breath catches at the brief smile. “The professor can appreciate ancient tea from the Ming Dynasty.”

“That sounds nice,”Namjoon manages, hating how his voice almost cracks.

You’re stunning- even though he can only see you from neck up for a moment. You flash him a smile and he’s struck. “I’ll be with you in a moment,” you tell him. “If there’s anything else you need while you wait, please let Alfred know.”

You disappear and Namjoon fight’s the urge to throw his fist in the air. So, the butler’s name is Alfred. How cliché and entirely hysterical.

As definitely Alfred busies himself elsewhere in the home, Namjoon takes a moment to look around. Rich, Persian rugs decorate the wooden floor. A wall is taken up by a bookshelf, though Namjoon bets it’s not the proper library. He can recognize a few first editions.

There are paints and scrolls on the walls. He recognizes Nihonga in the traditional Japanese style. He rubs his sweating palms on his pants, entirely torn between being impressed at the collection the beautiful woman displays and grossly disturbed at the millions of dollars' worth of artifacts and art.

Alfred appears and sets down the China cup on the table next to Namjoon. Namjoon bows his head as he accepts the tea. He brings the cup to eye level, inspecting it. He knows very little about ancient ceramics, but he’s sure that it’s made in some ancient style or material.

“It’s from IKEA,” you tell him, standing in the doorway. Namjoon flinches and the hot tea spills over the rum of the cup. You don’t move from the doorway as he scalds himself, hissing as he places the cup on the table. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“So, you have a cup from IKEA but genuine Nihonga, Ancient Greek statues as your fountain pieces, and first volume editions? That seems ridiculous.”

“Keen eye.” You smirk sideways as you nod your head. “Grab your tea. Let’s head to my office- the sitting room is for sitting. The office is for negotiating.”

You’re gone before he can grab his tea. He fumbles as he gets up, carful with the cup to scramble after you. Thankfully you’re in heels, the sound of your confident pace echoing in the ornate halls of your home.

Namjoon doesn’t know where to look. He walks past the stairway that curves upward through the fourth floor of the home, the sight dizzying with the glittering chandelier above head. He passes rugs that have colors so vivid they make his head spin and paintings that give him pause as he follows you.

He likes to think he has a good eye for art, and Namjoon swears he sees genuine Monets as he scurries after you, mindful of the tea.

Casting open two heavy, wooden doors, you enter your dim office. Namjoon steps through the door and feels as though he’s been transported to a museum. He says nothing as he sets down the cup of tea on its saucer, ignoring the fine wooden desk in favor of walking to the wall of swords to the left.

Firelight dances in the fireplace as you sit down, crossing one leg over the other to watch Namjoon. He’s fixated, craning his neck to look at the different broad swords, rapiers, katanas, scimitars… there’s so much on the wall and he doesn’t know where to look first.

Namjoon starts at eyelevel, tilting his head to the side and reading the inscription next to a beautiful long sword set with a gold handle, two lions roaring making up the cross guard. He recognizes the crest on the pommel, slowly turning to glance at you over his shoulder.

“Durandal?” he whispers, fingers hovering above the legendary sword of Roland. “This can’t be.”

“It is. Gifted to me by the previous Prime Minister of France for recovering the true scepter of Napoleon Bonaparte from an auction house in Moscow.”

“So, you are a tomb raider.”

“Hardly. I think acquisitions expert is more fitting.”

“Did you come by that sceptor by legal means?”

He hears the smile in your voice when you say, “Why don’t you take a break from the moral high ground and take a seat with me?”

Namjoon hates the glib way that you address him. He turns to glare at you through the tortoise shell rim of his glasses. With an annoyed air, he takes a seat. He’s usually able to rein in his irritations, but something about you pushes him over the edge already and the wealth around him… he can’t help but glare, despite the hospitality you’ve offered thus far.

As if to guilt him about it, you mention, “Have I offended you, professor? If my hosting skills have dampened your sprits in any way….”

He sighs and straightens. “No. I’ve had a long day, I apologize. I should be more polite in your home.”

“Perhaps you should,” you grin.

It’s self-satisfied. You knew he was annoyed with you, and you poked him anyway. He tries to tamper down his mounting frustration, opting to lift the cup and take a sip. The tea is bitter, but there’s something heady about the flavor, making Namjoon surprised.

“You said we needed to negotiate,” Namjoon mentions. “Negotiate what, exactly? I was under the impression you were already under contract.”

“Oh I am, but I want to know why I should bother to take you with me.”

Namjoon opens and closes his mouth. You lean back in your chair, watching him with a glint. Your lips are quirked to the side in a soft smirk, supple skin glowing in the firelight. Namjoon is glad his anger is mounting. Otherwise, he’d be entirely captivated by the way you watch him. You’re alluring in a way he can’t put his finger on.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I can go by myself,” you assure him. “The contract was drafted without you in mind. I’m sure they’re just sending you along to ensure I act as promised.”

“Do you even know what Amtenemhat is? Or how to read hieroglyphics and hieratic? Do you even speak Arabic?”

“I speak over ten languages,” you respond in perfectly accented Korean. Namjoon blinks in surprise at the switch to his native language. Worse, you sound like a local, the vowels falling perfectly into a Satoori familiar with him. “And I read more than that. So, tell me- why bring you?”

“Because I’ve been researching Amtenemhat for years. I’m one of the most well-versed Egyptologists in the world and I’ve contributed pieces and research to the Egyptian Museum in Cairo and I had an entire exhibit dedicated to my work on Nefertiti at the Metropolitan.”

You examine your nails. “I know plenty about Amtenemhat.”

“Sure,” Namjoon offers. “Please tell me in a brief summary when it was created.”

“The temple at Amtenemhat was created during the Old Kingdom as a place of worship and penance to the Goddess Sekhmet as an attempt to placate her. She was sent by the God Ra to punish the Old Kingdom as they began to deviate from- “

“I have a theory that it was built as far back as The Early Dynastic period and that it was not a place of worship for Sekhmet, but a place for her to live.”

You raise a brow at him. He sees that he has your interest, and he smirks a bit, dimples appearing. “I have a substantial amount of research that suggests the temple was created as her own foothold in this world and as a living place against Ra’s wishes.”

“Interesting theory.”

“It’s more than a theory. It’s a substantial hypothesis backed by three years' worth of research that there was a shift during the Early Dynastic period from Ra to Sekhmet before Ra’s worship picked up in the Old Kingdom again.”

“And what do you plan on finding there?”

“I believe the temple was built as the highest point of a city. I think there’s an entire city underground there that was dedicated in worship to Sekhmet. It would change everything we know about the mythology and worship in Ancient Egypt, and it may point to the collapse of the central government in the Old Kingdom.”

You smirk. Namjoon sips his tea as you contemplate his musings. He takes it as a chance to observe you. You’re dressed in loose trousers belted at the waist and a pillowing blazer. Your hair is pulled back, showing off the exquisite features of your face- specifically your eyes, which pin him to where he sits.

Namjoon doesn’t know what he expected when he drove up your drive, but he is both surprised at how attractive you are and unimpressed at the cliche. Smartly dressed. Witty. Flashy.

It’s all too perfect.

“Cute,” you muse. “And you have no qualms about how dangerous it is? Ceilings falling in on archaeologist, booby traps killing tourists, strange haunting making the city refuse service to those who enter its radius.”

“I think people love blaming the supernatural.”

“And you believe in the supernatural?”

“I believe there are things in history that cannot be explained. Every day someone sees something neither reason, history nor science can give a backing to.”

You hum. Leaning forward, you flip open a file on your desk, finger tracing whatever you’re reading before tapping the page. “You led a club on your campus in your final year of your graduate program that dedicated itself to the supernatural.”

He feels himself flush and scratch the back of his neck. He was very proud of History of the Supernatural club. It was a complete joke before he joined, a bunch of college kids dedicated to decoding the show Supernatural. Namjoon had made it more.

Now it at least had legitimate members who were interested in applying academics to the wonders of the world. Namjoon wasn’t sure if all supernatural beings were real. But he had seen substantial evidence for some, and his research paper on lycanthropy in Ancient Greece had won him his first award- even if it was because it had led him to uncovering an occult tomb with never-before-seen items from the Bronze Age.

You study him, long fingernail tapping the desk. “What if I told you that the supernatural were real? Maybe not in the way that media portrays them.”

“I’d ask you to provide substantial evidence. I can be persuaded with facts.”

“Even if they weren’t obtained by your standards?” Namjoon can’t help the grimace on his face, which makes you laugh. He knows you’re laughing at him, which makes him grind his teeth. “You don’t like me.”

“I think your methods are crude,” he agrees. “And you’re sitting in a home filled with things that belong in museums or places of preservations.”

“On the contrary, I am preserving them. Plus,” you add, standing. “Everything in my home was a gift for my preservation efforts.”

“I don’t buy that.”

“You couldn’t afford it anyway.”

The insult is so abrupt that Namjoon blinks in shock before realizing you’re standing at your office door, holding it open. “I’ll see you Thursday morning, Mr. Kim.”

Grey light filters through the edges of the dark curtains. You glance at your watch, realizing that its nearly time to head to the airport. The files on your desk are plentiful and bursting with information. You hate to admit that Namjoon’s historical work was well-thought and of value. The pieces he had on history and the supernatural were not as popular among his awarded-works and internationally recognized contributions.

But they were what piqued your interest the most.

On the corner of your desk was a black, leather folder with a cord tying it shut. Your eyes fell on it, staring at it. Inside was the contract that the school had given you. The contents were weighing heavier on you after meeting the self-righteous candor of Kim Namjoon.

You smile softly to yourself. He was smart, you’d give him that. But with that intelligence, there seems to be a naiveite about the world. It was going to get him in trouble or killed... so why are you taking him along with you?

Namjoon is cute. It would go against your honest nature to deny that- even to yourself. Dyed-silver hair, beautiful eyes that remind you of a terribly wise dragon, and dimples that you want to bite. Just a bit.

He is beautiful. You’re pretty sure he is unaware of that fact, with the way he carries himself with unsure steps, bumping into things because he seems to be unaware of how much space his broad shoulders take up. And his thighs in his dress pants...

Getting up from your desk, you grab your files and dump them into a carry on.

Grey skies promise rain overhead as you slide into the cool interior of the Mercedes. Alfred closes the door behind you and gets in, classical music playing softly as you peel away from the estate. Out of habit, you turn around and look back at the window to your office. It’s been years, but you still expect your father to be there, waving.

But he isn’t. So you turn around and swallow past the lump in your throat.

Rain mists the air as you step out onto the tarmac. A flight attendant waits for you at the foot of the private jet, bowing his head politely as you pull the Burberry trench closer to head up the narrow steps.

Namjoon is sitting stiffly in one of the reclining seats. He's poised at the edge, head craning around to look at the crème interior of the plane. There's a cup of steaming tea sitting in front of him- mint from the smell coming from near the hostess area at the cockpit- and he’s dressed in tan slacks, a white sweater, and his messenger bag at his feet.

“Good morning, professor.” You startle him. You grin as you sit in the seat adjacent to him, kicking one leg over the other. He rubs his hands on his knees, looking you up and down.

“You could have told me we were flying private. I purchased a ticket.”

“I hadn’t decided if I was going to let you on my plane or not.”

“So you own a private jet?” He ignores your jab. Good on him. “That seems cliché.”

“It’s the family jet.”

“So you have a rich family? It’s not just you?”

Instead of answering him, you pull folders out of your bag, tossing them onto the small table in front of him. The flight attendant appears with a vodka soda. You thank him and take a sip- it was perfectly made.

“Your thesis on Amtenemhat being the place where Sekhmet’s coin of power is good.” You cross your hands over your knees, linking your fingers as the workers prepare the cabin for takeoff. “When did you first get that idea?”

“You read my research?”

“For hours. I wanted to know if you were an idiot.”

“And what was the answer?”

You smirk. “Jury’s still out.” You gesture with your chin to the stack of papers. “Where did you get the idea?”

The plan taxies down the runway and you both pause as you’re cleared for takeoff. Namjoon clutches the armrest as the craft gains speed. You raise your brows as he squeezes his eyes shut behind his glasses, white knuckling the leather.

As the plane lifts, he winces, tucking his ear to his shoulder and rubbing slightly. You grab a piece of gum out of your pocket and stretch across the aisle, tapping him lightly. He cracks an eye open to see the peace offering. Tentatively, Namjoon accepts the gum, popping it in his mouth.

You wait for the ascent to level out and you’re at cruising speed. You turn so that your chair is facing Namjoon, kicking up the recliner to lean in comfort as you sip the vodka soda. Namjoon still looks uncomfortable, eyes dancing around the jet.

It is a bit much. But you grew up on this jet, flying around the world with your father. Even after he passed away, you couldn’t part with it. Plus, it comes in handy- you try to limit work’s resources as little as possible. It keeps them out of your business for the most part. Not to mention your father’s legacy among the Illuminati keeps some of the lurkers away.

Not forever though.

You try not to think about it. If you start thinking about all of the way you’re keeping secrets and back deal trades from the very organization that built most of the black market and governments around the world… an inky feeling slides down your spine.

“Tell me more,” you mention, tilting your head at Namjoon. “I want to know more. Your thesis appears to be a draft.”

“It was – it was rejected as my grad school assignment because it relied too heavily on mythology and magic. Where did you even find it?”

“Hacked into your email.”

“You what?”

You shrug, grinning. “Had to make sure you weren’t in this for the wrong reasons.”

“Like stealing artifacts and selling them on the black market.”

Your smile lessons. You try not to show how much the comment bothers you. Because even though this is just a random professor- someone who is a means to an end and who has little value to you- what he thinks of you holds weight.

On paper, Kim Namjoon is a good man. He’s highly rated among his students and his research is thought provoking. He also has dedicated a lot of his time outside of his classes and his own studies teaching classes for free to the under privileged.

Namjoon is the perfect picture person. He keeps house plants alive. He has a beautiful bookshelf- not with first volumes and special editions but with books creased with love and devotion.

He is the type of person you usually hate. At least, in your experience, people who appear nice on paper are not nice in real life. You get the feeling it may not be true for Namjoon, but you can never be sure.

“Yeah,” you agree because it’s easier to agree with him. “Like that.”

“Every other tomb dedicated to her has been overturned- no coin of power. And according to ancient documents, there is evidence of mass disease north of Cairo where the tomb is supposed to be.”

“And Sekhmet equals disease.”

“Among other things- she was a warrior too. We know. From the bloodshed at Alexandria that the violence of Egypt can be traced back to that area- and it made me wonder if that was her final resting place- she’d want to be buried with the coin.”

“What made you interested?”

“Honestly? I really liked The Mummy as a kid so when I came across the story, I fixated on it.

“I like that movie to. My methods are just more… O’Connell than Evie.”

“O’Connell didn’t sell items on the black market.”

Namjoon flinches at his own words. His eyes go wide behind his glasses and he bites his lip. But he doesn’t take the words back. You’ll give him that. He lets them hang in the air. His thoughts of you, painted neatly in his mind.

“You should combine the thesis with your current research.” You turn the seat away from him, settling in to take a nap. “I’d like to read it.”

It doesn’t matter how many times you’ve been to Egypt, it steals your breath away every time. The dessert palms dance in the breeze. The heat is omnipresent and the biting sand blowing through the edge of the city makes you wrap the scarf closer.

Egypt is not all desert and tombs, as Western media portrays. The city is booming with shining buildings and busy streets. Your quick to duck into the cool interior of the car, sliding in the driver’s seat while flicking through the GPS pulled up on your phone.

The trunk rattles as Namjoon loads the last of his bags into the SUV, walking around the car and slowing as the attendant bows to you just beyond the hood, leaving the rented car in your care. Namjoon opens the passenger door, hesitating as he stares at you over the rim of his sunglasses.

“You’re driving?”

“Been here before,” you muse. “It’s nothing like driving on the freeway in Athens, I can assure you.”

“Do you even know how to navigate?”

“I can follow a GPS and read Arabic-“ You glance up at him. “Problem, professor?”

Namjoon slides in and closes the door firmly. You don’t miss the way that he clicks his seat belt and pulls it as tightly to his chest as he can- which is a feat, given how large his chest is.

You blink, hating the way your thoughts wander. You have no idea how his students manage to absorb an ounce of information with him standing in front of the room. you have a sneaking suspicion it’s part of the reason his ratings are so high.

And well- he is intelligent.

“I thought you might hire a driver.”

“And risk the life of another person? No.”

He frowns as you shift gears, pulling into the lane to leave the airport. “Risk a life? What do you think this is? Indiana Jones?”

“Perhaps you’ve forgotten, Professor: I was hired to protect you and help you navigate the city. You think I’m a tomb raider? I can assure you that if we ran into real thieves, you’ll think quite differently.” He makes no comment, the silence stretching between you. “Plus,” you mumble. “I don’t know what’s in there, you know?”

“Mummies?”

You glare from the corner of your eye and you’re surprised when you get a smile, that dimple of his appearing. You twist your hands on the steering wheel, fighting a matching smile that threatens to break across your face. “Obviously. But I’ve seen a lot of shit.”

“Like what?”

“Classified.”

He scoffs. “Please.”

“What is it that you think my company is, Professor?”

“Please stop calling me that. I have a name.” You raise your brows as you exit the airport and turn onto the highway, joining the other cars in the traffic of trying to get away from the planes taking off and touching down. “Honestly? It just seemed like an insurance company for archaeology. I thought you’d be like… an adjustor.”

“That is… almost accurate.”

“Almost?”

“I protect assets. In this case- it would be your research and your findings.”

“Not going to take anything while we’re there?”

“I told you.” Your hands grip the wheel tighter. “Everything in that house was gifted to my family and I. You have an interesting narrative of me, professor. While I do resort to illegal means of obtaining items, I don’t traffic them. And before you protest- illegal is a relative term in my field.”

“And your field is…”

You pause. “The supernatural.”

For a while, it’s just the hum of the car as you switch gears. You briefly think of the time your father taught you stick shift. The memory makes your lip twitch as you switch lanes. You lost count of how many times you stalled out, but your father was always persistent, always patient.

He was always patient.

“I can’t tell if you’re making fun of the subject matter of most of my works.”

“I’m not.”

He turns toward you in the seat. Being under his inquisitive gaze makes you want to squirm, but you hold still. How a gentle professor from a private university makes you feel like you’re in the hot seat is beyond you. Men with much larger titles and much more power don’t make you feel on the spot nearly as much as the professor sitting next to you does.

“What do you mean your field is in the supernatural?”

“My division of Ilum focuses on acquisitions that have potential supernatural elements.” You glance to see that he’s just staring at you. His eyes are creased and his brows are pinched. He doesn’t believe you, so you push forward. “You led a supernatural club and you’re looking at me as though creatures don’t exist.”

“I already told you- show me proof and I’ll believe you.”

“Alright then,” you sigh. “Let’s go find you proof.”

Night sky stretches over a sea of sand. Namjoon’s head is pressed against the window as he dozes, lightly snoring. You’re fixed on the road as sand brushes delicate strokes across the pavement. There’s nothing of note on either side of you as you drive through small towns on the outskirts of the cities.

Above, thousands of stars glitter in the night. You wish that they looked that way back home. the light pollution of the city hides the stories of the gods for you, forcing you to find solace in the books and the maps in your library.

It’s been a quite car ride. Namjoon didn’t seem ready for the supernatural talk, so you let him lean his head on the window and fall in and out of sleep. Once he seemed to trust that you could navigate your way around, he fell asleep in earnest, body sagging into the door.

Tapping a nail on the steering wheel, you glance at Namjoon again. His features are soft and smooth. He looks younger without that stoic expression on his face. His breath fogs the window lightly, glasses slightly askew from the angle of his head.

It’s become entirely obvious that Namjoon wants to believe in his research, but has to see things with his own eyes. You have a suspicion that if he truly knew the dangers of unexplored tombs and ruins, he might not be so eager to research.

The cut on your thigh that burns whenever Min Yoongi walks into your house is enough proof that the world is a dangerous place for you. Lucky for you and Yoongi, you had aligned goals back then. Still do, on occasion, which is the only reason you helped a Greater Demon gain access to the Illuminati.

The Illuminati.

You hate calling the organization you work for by it’s true name. A virtual boogey man in American culture, the Illuminati has implications that you’re some sort of all-powerful society pulling strings and planning assassinations.

National Treasure didn’t exactly help.

The scope of the Illuminati is more than that. It is to illuminate themselves on the world that humans didn’t understand: the supernatural, magic, aliens, multi-dimensions. The branches and the reach of the Illuminati are far reaching and incredibly powerful. You are a tiny cog in a massive monster of a machine.

And you are breaking over a hundred of their rules and requirements every single time you manage to convince them a fake artifact was a real artifact, and gave the real one to the people it belonged to. To the native cultures that worshiped it not for its price and material, but for the peace and faith that it brought them.

Of course, Seokjin is a part of that success. No one in the world creates magical replicas the way Seokjin does. And while it is becoming increasingly painful to keep him in your payroll, you do it anyway. And you call yourself a tomb raider all the while, letting the façade protect your real work.

Tomb raider.

It was a title that you accepted because it’s safe. Because it mostly keeps the people writing your paycheck away from you. But not everyone trusts you. Many have suspected that your father had long since been using resources of the Illuminati to deceive them and protect ancient peoples, creatures and artifacts.

Your hands tighten on the wheel.

Now your father is dead. His good will didn’t get him far. You suspect it won’t get you far either.

You wonder if Namjoon knows that his survival in the event of a supernatural enemy is encounter wasn’t considered paramount by his school. You wonder if he has any idea that many of the patrons you work for graduated from his school. That his dean knows that you have killed people to defend yourself. Killed people to get what you needed.

Namjoon’s assessment of you is not exactly wrong, but his guesses on your motives are off.

You let him think the worst. It’s easier for him to do so, and it’s easier for you to do your job without having to convince him that you’re a good person.

Because you need him. Because the way his mind works is different from his, and you need his research. You know the languages, you know the stories. But Namjoon has three years worth of knowledge stored in his head.

Somewhere in that head of Namjoon’s is a theory or an idea. And you have no doubt in your mind that it will lead you directly to the tomb of Sehkmet and the coin Dean Tarik so badly needs.

Before the temple is a small town. The lights in the windows are all out as you step out of the car. The gas station has a sign that marks it as closed inside, but available for gas. Namjoon rouses when you shut the door, startled as you round the vehicle to pump gas.

Dust coats the SUV. It's quiet outside save for the wind and the swinging sign around the side of the building for a fruit stand that has long since shut up shop for the day. Namjoon gets out of the car and stretches, his sweat revealing a small sliver of tan, firm muscle.

You direct your gaze to the thumb pad as you jam in the digits to your credit card.

“Nice nap?”

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“Seemed like you needed it.” Your card clears and you remove the dust-caked handle, popping the nozzle into the car. The gas starts pumping slowly, a metal sounds thumping as it pulls the liquid from underneath. “Plus, we’re at the unexciting part.”

“Why is this temple so far from Cairo?” Namjoon muses, turning to the north. “Aren’t we close to Alexandria?”

“Sort of. And my guess? Sekhmet is a goddess who can cause mass destruction and chaos when she was in a rage. Wouldn’t you build a home for such far away from people?”

“I suppose.”

A cool wind makes you shiver. No one comes out of their homes as you look around. The moon is full, shining a grey light over the town. Everything looks like a painting, frozen in time. The hair stands up on the back of your neck as you glance over your shoulder and see a man at the edge of the light casted by the gas pumps.

You duck underneath the pump line and stand in front of Namjoon, never taking your eyes off of him as he stands, watching. Namjoon is confused at what you’re doing when you step in front of him. You feel him go rigid behind you as the man watches.

He’s beautiful- dark ebony hair that falls in tight coils. Walnut brown skin that nearly glows under the moonlight and sharp, grey eyes that watch the pair of you. He’s in all black garb, gold stitching at his sleeves. There is a gold collar around his neck, and two bracelets on either wrist.

Carefully, you palm a knife, watching him as your spine shivers.

“Why do you have a knife?” Namjoon demands. “What if he needs help- excuse me, sir?”

Namjoon pushes past you to go to the man. You grab him by the wrist, yanking him backwards and using his momentum to slam him against the SUV and step around him. Namjoon makes a strangled noise of pain and surprise, but you ignore him, eyes on the stranger.

His eyes glitter in the night as he watches you.

“You should not wake her,” the man says. His voice is deep, ancient. You recognize an outdated form of Arabic- so old that it’s not really Arabic at all. “Her disciples wait.”

“Who?” You ask as the man turns and walks deeper into the shadows of the night. You realize you’ve asked in standard Arabic and search for the ancient word, “Who?”

“Should you find nothing but death, you may summon me. I cannot physically enter the City of the Living Dead, but a Chosen may.” He glances at you over his shoulders and it root you in the spot.

You swear you hear the crying and chatter of jackals in the distance. You whip your head, looking for the source. A terrible feeling seizes you as the cacophony raises into a frenzy and the jackals are screaming.

Then they stop. The man bows his head and murmurs, “You may be accepted as Chosen. When you are ready, say the words: I am the humble vessel of Anubis. I am his sword, his jackal, his servant.”

You blink and the man vanishes. The hand on your knife grips it tighter, trying to stop the shaking that ripples up your arm. The gas pump beeps, making you flinch and whirl around as it tells you the car is full. Namjoon is leaning against the car, staring at where the man vanished before his eyes drag back to you, mouth open slightly.

Carefully, you return to him. He’s staring beyond you, dark eyes fixed. It’s only when you nudge him after returning the gas nozzle to the pump that he looks at you.

“Was he a ghost?” his words are soft.

“I don’t know,” you tell him honestly, looking back to the darkness pressing around the town.

“I think… I think we should talk about the supernatural now. Who do you think that was?”

“If I had to guess?” You open the driver’s side and slide back into the car. “I think it may have been Anubis.”

“Are you telling me that was a god that just appeared out of thin air?”

You start the car. “Did you hear jackals?”

“What? No. I didn’t hear anything, I couldn’t even hear what he was saying to you. What was he saying to you?”

Namjoon can’t fall back asleep. He doesn’t try. Instead, he quizzes you in the car about what it is you do. When you told him you’re focus in archaeology was in the supernatural, he thought you were making fun of him. He felt himself shut down, his irritation with you growing more.

But after seeing that man- who you believe to be Anubis- Namjoon realizes you’re not joking at all.

It feels as though he has stepped into a fever dream. Silver light paints the world as you decide not to stay in the town. No one comes out and there’s no sign of life. It feels eerie. You have tents for sleeping outside the site, so you drive on.

Namjoon notices that the lines near your mouth are tighter now. You grip the wheel harder and though you don’t mention the goddess again, your eyes dart into the rearview often.

He’s glad the moon is full, painting the world in light where the headlights do not reach. You turn off of the road and begin driving in the open sand, careful to follow the GPS. He notices signs in multiple languages that tell you to turn back. That you’re now trespassing. You drive past them easily, uncaring.

The site is not protected by military or police. No one wants to waste the resources after the past units have gone missing or have come running back with their minds cracked open like yolks.

It occurs to Namjoon after seeing the man- the god- vanish, that perhaps this is the worst idea he’s ever had. And yet, a huge part of him wants to see it through.

“So what supernatural creatures are real?” Namjoon ventures, needing to break the silence. “I’m willing to listen.”

“Vampires for starters,” you answer. You seem unfocused as you drive, the words coming out on auto-pilot. “Not many of them left. There is a sector of the Illuminati that kills the ones who won’t behave and tests on the ones they catch. Nasty business that I have no interest in and no part of. The vampires I’ve met are quite polite- except Kim Tae-“

“I’m sorry- did you just say the Illuminati?”

You pop your mouth shut. It’s obvious you hadn’t meant to tell him, but Namjoon suspects seeing Anubis has you focused on something else. You’ve been distracted since you got back in the car, but Namjoon isn’t sure why.

When you say nothing, he tries again, “You work for the Illuminati?”

“I would keep that bit to yourself. They’re fond of murdering people who know they exist.”

“Then perhaps they should get a better name than Illum Corporations United.”

Your mouth flickers in a smile, the first one he has seen in hours. It warms him, a bit. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Did you guys really plan the assassination of JFK? Is Elvis still alive? Did you invent-“

“I have no idea,” you cut him off, giving him a look. He can tell you’re not actually irritated. You do this thing where you smirk sideways when you’re trying to fight a smile. Despite himself, Namjoon thinks it’s cute. “Supernatural sector, remember?”

“So you take artifacts and knowledge and sell it on behalf of the Illuminati?”

“Technically.”

Namjoon tries to swallow past the distaste. He’s seen the tablet that you carry around with you. If he can swipe it or destroy it on the trip home, there’s no research for you to sell. And he certainly has no intention of letting you walk out with prized artifacts.

“Vampires, huh?”

“Demons as well, though not in the context of Western religions. Demons of all religious are a thing. There are… multiple dimensions and things we have no idea exist.”

“Like Marvel.”

You snort. “Yeah, like Marvel.”

“What’s the coolest creature you’ve ever seen?”

Namjoon can’t help the excitement in his voice. You don’t tease him for it, which is nice. He remembers being teased by pretty girls who thought he was a nerd growing up and despite your moral differences, it’s nice to talk to someone who likes the same things he does. Who can keep up with where his mind is going.

And you do.

You tell him about a clan of kitsunes who had been dealing with a void spirit corrupting their countryside down in Japan. You show him the knife they gifted you and though he can’t see anything particularly special about it, the blade is so black it seems to swallow light.

You tell him about helping a pack of werewolves in Romania hunt down a stolen moon stone that kept them from turning every full moon. Your face darkens when you mention the black market owned and operated by the Illuminati. He stops himself from asking the question: if you don’t like it, why do you contribute?

He isn’t sure you would answer.

It’s a nice car ride. He slowly forgets the terrifying image of the maybe goddess melting into the night. Your voice is soothing as you reflect on your adventures and he… well fuck, he believes you.

Early morning touches the distant horizon. Namjoon watches as the gold spills over the edge like a cup too full. It’s breathtaking watching the sands turn from grey to gold. And the ruins in front of him appear, as though obscured by the dark of the morning.

“Holy shit,” he breaths, leaning forward in his seat to look out of the dash.

Though they theorized there was an underground city, Namjoon doesn’t expected the massive temple with broken and collapsed columns. Two lions- not sphinxes, he notes- sit guard before the temple. Their faces have deteriorated with time, but he can still mostly see the detail.

When the car comes to a stop, he slides out, looking up at the two stone lines. His heart is pounding as he makes a beeline for them. There’s shrubbery at their feet and parts of the temple. There are a few palms sprouted near the temple, but there’s nothing else.

“Woah, slow down!” you call after him. “We need to set up. You can’t just charge in there after we’ve driven most of the night.”

“I’m well rested,” he protests. He is a little tired, but he’s more than awake now that it’s in front of him.

How many times had he imagined being here? He shields his eyes from the rising sun and smiles. The temple doors have long since fallen. A single column has collapsed in front of it, but it’s more than passable.

As he nears the two towering lions, the air changes. Namjoon drops his hand from his face and looks up. He can’t see a disturbance, but the air feels cooler near the lions. They stretch up up and up, several meters tall.

A soft buzz bothers him. He can’t pin point if it’s a sound or a feeling. Something brushes up against him, making him flinch and stumble back. You don’t notice, pulling bags out of the trunk of the car parked several meters away. Slowly, Namjoon backs aware from the lions, glancing between them.

Maybe he is more tired than he thought he was.

Turning back to the car, he helps you unpack and begin setting up canvas tents. He doesn’t tell you the strange feeling that he had at the lions, not wanting you to make fun of him for being more fatigued than he realizes.

The tent is massive and you move with efficiency, making him realize how many times you must have done something similar before. You move with a tactfulness than he can’t help but stand and watch.

You catch him stair, brushing the hair that escapes your braid out of your face. “What?”

“Nothing,” he mumbles, bending over to pick up his bag of tools and walk toward the open flap of the tent. “You’re really fast at this stuff.”

“Yeah, my dad and I used to have contests of who could build our tent the fastest. It was his way of making sure I helped instead of dicking around camp.”

“You explored a lot with your dad?” Namjoon enters the tent. It’s a little taller than him- but barely. He feels the static scraping the top of his head as he goes over to a plastic folding table you used for supplies, placing his pack on it. “That must have been cool.”

“It was,” you agree. You don’t elaborate as you drag a rolled duffle bag to the foot of your very uncomfortable looking cot. Gone is the luxury from the jet.

“Can I ask you something?”

“If I say no, would you ask anyway, Professor?”

He smirks a bit. “Probably.”

You sit on the cot to catch your breath. You’re flushed in your face and neck, and your hair catches you on the temples where you sweat. You still look painfully beautiful, even dressed in dark pants and a dark t-shirt. “You have all these resources- so why are we here alone?”

“I don’t like partners. I also don’t like people in my business.”

“Sorry.”

You wave him off. “I don’t mean you. People associated with the Illuminati are all academics who think they’re better than everyone and that they know the secrets of the world. I don’t get along with them. My family name is the only thing that keeps them off my back- mostly.”

“How did your father die, if you don’t mind me asking?”

You shrug. “Don’t know. Get some rest. We should do some light survey work this afternoon before the sun sets and then we can explore in earnest tomorrow. I’m going to set up some security points.”

Namjoon tries not to let it bother him that you change the subject every time he wants to ask you about yourself. Getting to know you… well it won’t make betraying you later any better, but it makes it easier to work with you.

“Security points?”

“Land mines,” you announce as you walk out the tent.

Namjoon throws himself on his cot and laughs. It only occurs to him right as he’s about to fall asleep that you may not have been kidding.

It’s night. The moon is in the sky and you’re standing in front of the two lions at the entrance to the tomb. It’s never been confirmed, but you know there is a tomb deep under the surface of the earth. The temple is empty and bleached, nothing but bone in the night.

A presence weighs on you. You turn your head to look behind you. Far in the distance on the dunes is a black figure. You see the robes flapping in the wind and you feel cold. You don’t know who it is out there, but the figure sends a buzzing sensation over your skin.

You turn back to the temple and stare at it. There is something like a voice on the wind, but you can’t quite understand.

You take a step closer. Something about the lions on either side of you feel like they hum with life. The wind dies down and the soft whispers of many voices brush up against you.

We know where your father is. We know we know we know. We know where your father is.

The voices are getting louder. You try to convince yourself to move, but you can’t, staring as the whispers crescendo.

We know where your father is we know where your father is we know where your father is we know where your father is we know where your father is we know where your father is

The temperature drops and a cloud goes over the moon. The world goes dark and still. You hold your breath, a terror like never before begins to stir inside of you. You can’t remember ever being this afraid as something appears in the doorway of the tomb, a figure whose shape is undetectable with two, glowing eyes.

The sound of jackals catches the wind, sailing over the dunes to where you stand, staring and shaking at the gates of the City of the Living Dead. The jackals rise in volume as a single hand- dead and crumbling- appears from the doorway. The jackals begin to drown out the sound of the hundreds of voice, high pitched and barking.

You’re frozen. Your heart is pounding as you stare and stare-

The sound of jackals reaches a frenzy and a deep voice hums, Should you find nothing but death, you may summon me.

You gasp as you launch forward, clawing at the sheets suffocating you. Your heart is panicking as you scream, throwing the sheets off you and falling to your knees off the cot. You can barely see in the dark, panting as you stumble to your feet.

Strong hands grab you. You scream, reaching for your knife under your pillow but the hands are firm.

“Hey! Y/n it’s just me! It’s Namjoon!”

His voice breaks through the panic and you blink a few times. Namjoon is standing in front of you in the dark shadow of the night. A single candle burns near the map he’s been trying to draw of what he thinks the layout of the temple is based on traditional architecture of Egyptian tombs.

Namjoon’s hair is disheveled. His glasses are gone, his warm brown eyes piercing right through you as you try to catch your breath. You can feel the panic subsiding as his hands hold you by the forearms. He’s in a t-shirt and sweat pants and you catch the smell coming from him- lemon essential oils.

Your head is spinning. You pull away from him, mumbling and apology and clumsily leaving the tent. You gulp down cool night air and hurry away from the tent, trying to put distance between you and the nightmare.

Sitting, you put your head between your knees, breathing in and out slowly. The dream still lingers, the sound of the voice and the jackals not far off. You wipe at your eyes as tears free fall.

It takes a few minutes, but Namjoon’s footsteps approach firmly. You say nothing as he sits next to you. For a while, you’re both quiet, save for the sniffling you’re trying to hide from him.

“Do you want me to ask you to talk about it? Or are you mercenary-types too tough to do those things?”

You laugh, despite the knife in your throat. “First, I was a tomb raider, now I’m am mercenary?”

“I upgraded your title when you joked about planting mines.”

“Who said I was joking?”

You look up at Namjoon and he’s smiling down at the sand, elbows resting on his knees. His dimples appear again, shadowed in the moonlight. “See,” he jibes, knocking your knee with his. “Mercenary.”

“I had a nightmare.”

“Really? I thought it was rather pleasant from the sound of it. Though perhaps you were lounging among luxurious Persian rugs and looking at all your fancy swords of death.”

“Professor, is that sarcasm I detect? So you can be funny.” He rolls his eyes and glances at you side-long. You give him a small smile. “Swords of death is a bit repetitive, Professor.”

“Wanted to emphasize it, you know- for the mercenary bit.”

You hum. You pick up a handful of sand, letting it run through your fingers. The wind is gentle, picking it up and carrying it until your palm is empty. “It was a nightmare about my dad,” you murmur. “I get them sometimes. My dad was um- he was murdered. He had this position before me. Made a lot of enemies.”

“I’m incredibly sorry to hear that.”

You shrug. “Like I said – there are a lot of people in this organization who think they know everything. He had as many supporters as he did enemies.”

“And you?”

“A lot of enemies, but I’ve learned from his mistakes.”

“Did you ever find out who did it?”

You nod and the mark on your leg burns at the thought, remembering the way Yoongi’s blade cut into your flesh, burning and burning. “Someone who wasn’t his enemy at all, but had no choice in the matter. I’ve come to terms with the man who wielded the blade, but not the one who ordered the kill.”

“Is he- alive?” you glance at him and see him struggle to get the words out. “Either of them?”

“Yeah, Yoongi sort of works with me. Kane – the man who ordered my father dead – no, he is not alive.”

“And that Is what you’ve not come to terms with?” You nod. Namjoon has practically heard you confess murder. And yet he sighs and says, “I hope you find that peace, one day. You should get some rest if you can. We explore in full tomorrow.”

“At least take a knife,” You snap, holding out a knife that is… well it’s of the larger variety. Namjoon stares at it. He’s dressed in cargo pants, a forest green long-sleeve that hugs his chest far too well, and a backpack full of research items, books and snacks. “What happens if you get stuck on something or if you need to repel and can’t get off?”

“I don’t need a knife!”

“So our working theory is that the God of the Dead, Anubis, randomly showed his face last night and you don’t want to take a knife. Do I have that right?”

“What is a knife going to do against the God of the Dead? Tickle him, probably.”

You make a sound and stomp your foot. “It’s not just a knife,” you answer, mimicking his voice. “It’s a demon blade. It’ll send anything that shouldn’t be topside, downside.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

You grab his wrist against his will shoveling the sheathed blade into his hand. “Use that university brain of yours to figure it out.”

Storming out of the tent, you head for the two lions who had haunted you the night before. During your survey with Namjoon, the temple seemed pretty basic. You had only stuck your head in, but the main building was mostly intact, narrow stone walls leading in a maze to different chambers.

You don’t mean to be annoyed with Namjoon. After him comforting you the night before and admitting that he’s not as terribly annoying as you originally perceived, you think you could almost be friends with him.

Almost.

Refusing to take basic protection was not the first time he got on your nerves that morning. The first mistake was having an absolute fit when you rolled open the duffle bag to reveal weapons. He was so angry he was red in the face, deciding that you were in fact the terrible mercenary he thought you were.

It had been fifteen minutes of arguing before he gave up trying to convince you to leave the weapons behind.

The second irritation came when you disagreed on where to go first. Namjoon wanted to look for the burial chamber, where most of the hieroglyphics would list who was buried – if someone was – and be the largest source of information.

The burial chamber was the last place you wanted to be. You argued to look for paths leading further into the earth that would indicate a world underneath the Egypt above, or at the least- a throne room which would also have helpful information.

Then Namjoon claimed you wanted to look for treasure in the throne room- which you didn’t. But you did want to know where you could look for Sehkmet’s coin. The object that Dean Tarik wanted. That the Illuminate also wanted.

If their reports were correct, flipping the coin gave the person holding it her power.

Namjoon joins you, adjusting his back pack. There’s a scowl on his face as he walks past you. “I’ll take your stupid knife, if only to show you I won’t need it.”

“Better fucking hope not,” you mutter. “And on the topic of things we shouldn’t do: don’t read from anything in there.”

“What do you mean? The entire reason we’re here involves reading.”

“Out loud,” you clarify. “My father used to say it to me all the time: don’t read dead languages. Not here. Not out loud.”

“Whatever.”

You both approach the temple. The darkness of the door haunts you and you slow your steps as you approach. Namjoon slows behind you, both of you craning to look upward. The building is huge, a feat of ancient technology. Or aliens, the Illuminati believes.

Wordlessly, you climb up and over the fallen column. Dirt clouds at your feet when you land with a solid thud. Slowly standing, you hesitate just beyond the shadow of the temple. The whispers from the night before come back to you and though you don’t see anything, a sense of dread weighs on you as you look into the darkness.

The antechamber is square, crumbling ceilings with exposed sky and walls covered in dust and dirt. The floors are scuffed and smooth, like there’s been feet wearing them down. You catch a dark patch near one of the darker hallways and you grimace. It looks like blood.

Taking a breath, you step into the temple. A shiver curls through you as you stand in the dark room. Namjoon stands before you, looking up and around the inside of the temple. “Let’s look for any writing,” he suggests, head still tilted up. “I don’t trust that our configuration will work as a true map.”

“Deal.” You turn to the dark patch near the darker hallway. “I’ll go this way,” you mutter, removing a large glow stick and cracking it. Orange light grows as you shake it, pausing by the stain in the dirt. Definitely blood. “Call if you need me.”

The air isn’t as stale as you thought it would be as you slowly enter the hall. It’s long and narrow, with cobwebs and dust coating the sides. You hold the glow stick up near the walls as you walk, looking for any sign of instructions, stories or artwork.

Another hall branches to the left and down. The stairs are mostly intact, but you’re careful as you descend them anyway.

It’s dry as you descend. Turning over your shoulder, you see you’ve only made it a couple of yards. Down you go, holding the light so that you can see. Just when you think maybe the stairs won’t end, you meet rubble. The ceiling has caved in, blocking your path.

Signing, you go back up to the main level and continue your search. It’s almost half an hour later when Namjoon calls your name. You rush through the maze of halls and to the other side of the temple, palming a knife as you enter the hall. You can see the glow of his light as he holds it high on the wall, revealing a crumbled sconce.

“Look,” he says, gesturing to the wall under the sconce. He brushes his hand over the dust, clearing it to reveal a groove in the wall. “Burial chamber.”

You look at the dead end. Approaching slowly, you crouch and look at the bottom of the wall carefully. There’s dust and rocks. Gently, you nudge the rocks toward a seam in the wall. They fall between and disappear.

“The floor drops down,” you note, backing away from it. “Pull the sconce.”

Namjoon does. There’s a loud creaking and crash as the floor slants downwards, turning into a ramp. Dust and dirt explode upwards, making you cough and wave your hand to clear the air. Namjoon removes a cloth from his pocket and hands it to you. You both proceed slowly with the cloth pressed over your face.

Orange light leads the way as you go down down.

Dirt and gravel crack under your feet as you go. Namjoon takes he lead, keeping his light higher than you to look for any more symbols on the wall. The floor shifts beneath your right foot and you stumble, grabbing the wall. A grinding sound makes you both turn, watching as the ramp you came up retracts and closes, leaving you in the pitch black of the hall with two glow sticks.

You turn to look at Namjoon, who visibly gulps. “Surely there’s another way out or another lever.”

Turning around, you both look for exactly that. After almost another hour of looking, there’s nothing. Sweating and nervous, you both push forward. Ancient ruins are famous for their halls and doors, never having one way out or one way in. Especially in the event that earth quakes or floods plagued the ruins, multiple exits were necessary.

Time seems not to pass. You know from the analog watch on your wrist that the day is moving. The hall seems to go forever, sloping downward.

As you adjust your foot placement as the slope increases, something catches your eye. You barely get Namjoon’s name out before his foot breaks a thin because of rope. You dive for him, slamming into him and knocking you two further down the hall as spears with sharpened iron heads explode from the wall where Namjoon was just standing.

You both scramble backwards. “Are you okay?” Namjoon shouts, pulling you toward him. You’re mutely aware that he has you against his chest, heart pounding against your back and arms around your shoulders, holding you to him. “You just saved my life.”

“Yeah. Thanks for checking- are you trying to flirt?”

“Yeah right.”

You both struggle to your feet, wiping yourself off. “You should do it more often, girls are into that.”

“The girls I’ve gone after aren’t into men who had shelves dedicated to Egyptology.”

Your lips twitch. “I have a pretty cool collection.”

“Yeah, we’ll you’re not the girls I go after.”

“Wow.”

Namjoon looks at you as you shove past him. “That’s not what I meant-“

“I get it. Tomb Raider, Mercenary. Look let’s just make the priority finding a way out of here. My job might be to protect you, but I might also kill you if I’m stuck down here for all eternity.”

Namjoon says thing. You lead the way, walking down the hall with your light. You continue downwards for a while until a soft gust of air hits you in the face. You walk faster. The hallway ends abruptly and levels out into a massive room with high ceilings.

The breath leaves you. A round chamber with a raised dais stands in front of you. A stone table sits on it. Organ jars surround the base of the table, gauze and tools on top of it. Rows of closed, plain sarcophagi’s line the walls of the room. They’re undecorated and plain.

“Preparation chamber,” Namjoon murmurs. He charges into the room, looking around and laughing. You watch him, rooted in place. He’s running his hands through his hair as he runs up to the dais. “There are mummification tools here!”

It’s like watching a kid in a candy store and you can’t help but smile as he runs around the room, camera out and snapping pictures. You step into the room fully, wandering around. It looks like other burial preparation chambers you’ve been in, but untouched and untainted.

Namjoon is laughing to himself and smiling as he explores the room. You smile, letting him have his fun as he wanders up the dais. “There’s writing on here-“

“Don’t read it out loud.”

He laughs. “Got it.”

You join him on the dais, looking at the table. You tilt your head. “To the underworld.”

“I mean… this room does send them to the underworld.”

“But they didn’t call it that. Duat wasn’t really an underworld to them.”

Namjoon pauses before bending down, moving around all of the ceramic jars. You hate to think they’re filled with the organs of the dead. He finds one that’s fixed to the ground and pulls it. The floor beneath you shakes and the dais begins to descend, making you clutch the funeral rites table. Namjoon straightens, holding the table with you as the grinding sound of stone on stone rattles your teeth.

Skirting toward you, Namjoon holds up his light. The walls have tracks in them where the dais slides downward. The ground vibrates, rattling up through your bones. “Under the world.”

“Smart boy.”

Namjoon blushes but says nothing as you go down down down.

Your ears pop at some point as you descend into a dark, low ceiling room.

Dark hallways line the circular room. In the middle is a gilded sarcophagus with the face of a lion and crossed paws. You step into the room tentatively. The hallways are black as pitch, more like tunnels into the earth than anything.

“That’s…”

Namjoon trails off as the two of you approach. There are jewels and golden objects that surround the sarcophagus. It’s beautiful, but your lights are the only thing in the room. carefully, the two of you work together to crack and toss the orange lights on the ground.

Sweat beads down your neck. When you finish lighting the room. Namjoon’s shirt sticks to him, sweat dripping down his tan neck when. You offer him a water from your pack and he takes it with a nod. You eye him as you chug water.

How did he think women didn’t find him attractive? He was either crazy or naïve.

Or both.

“I can’t believe we’re here,” he murmurs. “That’s Sekhmet- or an ancient pharoh.”

You smirk. “Wouldn’t have found our way without you noticing those symbols.”

He blushes. Or maybe he’s flushed from the excitement and heat.

You finish your water and begin exploring the room. Namjoon takes picture of the wall and tomb as you get to work translating the writing and symbols on the wall. The clock is ticking to find the coin- you suspect it might be buried with Sekhmet, but you can’t just open her sarcophagus while Namjoon is around.

So you work in silence.

A wall at the far south of the room has an entire section dedicated to a story. You hold your light upwards and slowly begin piecing the story together. There’s not a lot of hieroglyphics, but there’s pictures.

Sekhmet comes down from the heavens and bows to Ra. She creates plague and carnage in Cairo and Memphis, purging the lands of those who spite him. She carries her sword across the lands, slicing as she goes.

People begin to pray to Sekhmet. They ask her for her mercy and pledge themselves to her. The kneel before the goddess and ask for forgiveness. She judges them and declares them her disciples, worthy of carrying her justice and word of Ra.

Your heart begins picking up spread as the images grow darker and more grotesque.

Sekhmet’s followers drink the blood of the evil. They grow stronger and spread throughout Egypt, taking her justice and carnage with them. They only move at night, becoming her warriors of the moon.

Bloodshed. There is so much bloodshed and all the while, her followers bathe themselves in blood.

Anubis rises to oppose Sekhmet. She has upset the balance of the world and Anubis and his Jackals created chase Sekhmet to her temple. She binds her remaining followers to her, and does not allow Anubis and his jackals to enter.

They live eternal.

You recognize the work for eternal written over and over again.

Eternal. Undead. Eternal. Children of the moon.

A sense of terror begins to seep in. You look toward a tunnel and see how dark it is. Slowly, you walk toward it. Holding your light up, you look into the hall. Rows and rows of open sarcophagi line the walls. The people in them are tan and unharmed by time, hands crossed over their chests.

Your breath quickens as you step in the hall. Namjoon is talking to you but you can’t hear him well over the roaring in your ears.

Eternal. Drinking the blood of the evil.

“Namjoon,” you call faintly, voice shaking. You unholster the gun from your hip. You have no bullets that will help this- you don’t even know what breed this is. “Remember what I said about vampires?”

Namjoon’s voice carries over the room. You back out of the tunnel and turn to him to see him looking at an inscription at the foot of Sekhmet. His voice is questioning as he finishes sounding out a sentence.

“Namjoon!” you screech. Namjoon stops reading.

There is a loud thump that echoes from in front of Namjoon. He backs away from the sarcophagus, dropping his tools as the boom sounds again. Whispers echo from down the hall and you hear shuffling as you enter the room, going right for Namjoon.

You grab him by the shoulders and shove him behind you as the lid begins to move. “What did I tell you?”

“I forgot.”

“You forgot?” you demand as the lid shakes again. It rattles until it’s knocked off entirely.

Namjoon grabs your waist as you take a wide stance, aiming your gun. You don’t have bullets that can kill vampires- if that’s what Sekhmet is. You don’t even know what breed or variation was in the hall.

A mummified hand grabs the edge of the sarcophagus and you don’t even think. You fire the weapon. Namjoon flinches wildly behind you as you shoot the hand off the mummy. It screeches and you hear shuffling as it sits up.

“It’s your time to shine, Brenden Fraser!”

You fire the gun again and the bullets rip through the struggling mummy, but they do nothing. “I have a plan,” you assure him. “Magical objects are the way out, I think. Not guns.”

You reach for your knife.

“Is this your plan?” Namjoon screeches at you as you pull a knife from your tactical vest, spinning it dangerously and taking a defensive stance. “You’re going to knife the mummy?”

“This is Plan A, yes. The knife in question was a very expensive one and holds the cursed spirit of a Nogitsune,” you explain easily. The mummy looks at Namjoon with glowing eyes and you don’t know how you know, but it wants the professor. It begins to struggle out of its tomb. “When the knife pierces its intended target, it releases a void spirit that destroys the host immediately. Feel free to be awed- I am way cooler than Brendan Fraser.”

Palming the knife, you step in front of Namjoon, staring as the creature nearly falls out of the sarcophagus. It recovers quickly, righting itself and turning it’s burning, white eyes on the man behind you. You bare your teeth, despite being absolutely terrified at the thing- the mummy- in front of you.

You’re just doing your job. That’s what you tell yourself when Namjoon clutches your waist behind you, steading you as you watch the creature figure out its mobility level. You try not to become distracted with Namjoon’s panicked breathing behind you, or the fact that you can smell the light lemon scent of his essential oils on his skin.

You shake the thoughts from your head, gripping the dagger tighter.

Its flesh is dried and stuck to the bones, parts of it eaten away by time and gods know what else. The mummy steps forward, the crackling sound and stink of dried, aged skin making you want to vomit. They don’t tell you how disgusting the smell in the movies, and you’re fighting back a retch as you firmly hold you ground.

“Holy fuck,” Namjoon swears. It’s the first time he’s done so much as cuss, and you smile, despite the fact that there is a mummy gaining traction in its crooked walking toward you. “Why is it staring at me?”

“What did I tell you about reading dead languages?” you snap. Placing your finger in the circle at the pommel of the knife, you spin it expertly and launch it at the creature, hitting it directly between the eyes. “Take that, fucker!”

The mummy blinks, stopping its movement. Slowly, it reaches for the knife, arm movement disjointed and unfamiliar. Wrapping old, broken fingers around the handle, it yanks the knife out before breathing on it. The knife disintegrates.

Oh god. You are not cooler than Branden Fraser.

“Plan C,” you squeak, watching as it destroys a very powerful, very expensive cursed object like nothing. You grip Namjoon’s wrist and yank him toward the closest tunnel to your left- one you have yet to explore. “Run like hell!”

“What was Plan B?” Namjoon hollers, taking off at your side.

“Leaving your ass to be eaten by the fucking mummy!”

Namjoon veers towards the hall where hissing is echoing out of- the same one you saw the frozen faces. You yank him and stumble the other direction, pumping your arms by your side as you scream, “Not that hall! It’s full of vampires!”

“What?” he demands. The mummy is moving slowly, but you hear a snarl. You look over your shoulder to see a woman dressed in traditional robes crouched, silver eyes gleaming. Namjoon looks over his shoulder and screams. “FUCK! DIDN’T YOU SAY YOU KNOW HOW TO KILL THEM?”

You enter a dark hall, thankful there’s no creatures. You run as the snarls increase. You can hear them pursuing now as you run. “I have no idea what kind these are! Not all of them require wooden stakes!”

“What the fuck do we do?”

“Hide!”

Fear sets in as you turn a corner, shoving Namjoon into a room before you. A massive shelf with items is on the wall next to the door. You throw it into the door way, crashing into the first creature that breaches the door. Namjoon arms himself with the knife you gave him- thankfully- and backs up toward a wall dedicated to the story of Ra.

There’s nowhere to go as the creatures slither into the room.

“Shit,” you whisper, backing up. You grab at a flare and rip the tag, igniting it and tossing it at one of them. The fire hits it and it begins to scream, thrashing and setting another one on fire as they collapse into one another.

“Do you have any more of those?”

“Nope,” you squeak. The vampires are more careful as they filter into the room. There’s eight of them. The mummy enters the room, stumbling. “She’s fucking ugly.”

“My children are hungry,” she whispers. “Won’t you let them drink? Let us drink from the one who brought me to life, for his life force is mine to bathe in. There is only death for you. Only death in this place.”

You pause. Only death in this place.

You turn to look at Namjoon. “Get ready to fight.”

“Those things?”

The vampires chitter among themselves as you step forward and slice your hand open. They grow excited, teeth gnashing as you say, “I am the humble vessel of Anubis. I am his sword, his jackal, his servant.”

The world goes black in an instant.

Namjoon watches in horror as you slice your hand open. A scream gets suck in his throat as you speak in guttural, dead Arabic. He doesn’t recognize the words but he knows it’s the language of the first Egyptians. He doesn’t know where you learned the words, but he almost drops the knife as the vampires take a few steps back.

Sekhmet – the mummy – screams at you. Namjoon hears the barking of dogs. They howl and cackle, the noise building until he’s covering his ears. You begin to glow for a moment before two gold cuffs flash into existence on your wrists, an Egyptian glaive appearing in each hand. The blades are sharp and a little over a foot long, handles golden.

There’s a glow about you – Namjoon has no idea what is happening, but he gasps when you turn to look at him. He decided a while ago that he liked your eyes- they were kind and playful- but now they are burning silver like the main from the night before.

Like Anubis.

“Y/N?”

“I am the servant of Anubis,” you announce, turning to face the vampires. “I am Chosen. And I will finish what he started.”

It’s nearly impossible to catch which vampire launches themselves at you first. One does, and Namjoon screams but you move faster than he can follow. Your glaive slices through the vampires head, instantly turning it to ash.

Chaos explodes into the room. The vampires go after you as you spin, slicing with your swords. Sekhmet turns, burning eyes on Namjoon as she stumbles forward, pointing a hand toward him. He skirts the room as another vampire gets turned to dust.

It’s hard to keep his eyes on you and Sekhmet at the same time. You’re moving with a force he’s never seen, wielding the dual blades with a fury of- a god. The shadow behind you on the wall is tall and dark, with pointed ears.

The shadow of Anubis.

Namjoon turns his eyes to Sekhmet. She approaches him, arm outstretched. Namjoon slices at her, cutting off her hand. She looks at the severed limb and back at him. It’s disgusting. He starts to feel proud- and the hand begins growing back.

The mummy charges him faster than she moved before. Namjoon ducks under her reach, spinning around. She charges him over and over and he plays a game of evading. He bumps into a vampire and is startled as it claws at him, taking it down.

Pushing against its gnashing face, Namjoon screams. The vampire is strong and its teeth are getting closer and- the point of a blade appears through its chest, turning it to ash. Namjoon scrambles backwards.

“The coin is on her neck!” you yell at him.

Namjoon realizes the glow sticks are glinting in the gold coin around her dead throat.

Pushing himself to his feet, Namjoon dives at the mummy. It catches her off guard as he slams into her, clawing at her neck. She bites at him, teeth fanged and dangerous. She almost sinks her teeth in him as he wraps his hand around the coin and rips, rolling off of her.

Electricity shoots up his arm. Namjoon can barely breath as power trembles up his arms. He’s panting as he struggles, feeling as though his bones are turning to iron. Something swells inside of him and for a moment, Namjoon can only hear ringing in his ears.

You appear next to his side, spinning a sword. He doesn’t know where the other one is, and you’re bleeding. “You have the power of Sekhmet,” you pant, eyes only for the mummy who gets to her feet. You look at him with the power of a god in your eyes. “End her.”

Namjoon thinks of the phrase on the foot of her tomb. Be risen again. Be vengeance. Be rage. Be power. Come forth come forth come forth, and be sealed with my life.

It was a spell to wake her- and Namjoon has a suspicion that his blood would root her into life for good.

So he changes it.

Gripping the coin so hard his hand begins to bleed, Namjoon holds it up. “Be bound again. Be vengeance. Be rage. Be power. Go forth go forth go forth, and be sealed in my life.”

“In?” You screech. “IN YOUR LIFE?”

Namjoon doesn’t listen. The mummy screams, head tilted toward the ceiling. Light pours out of her as she begins to shake. The light pulls from her chest, spinning up like a shimmering mist. It slams into Namjoon’s chest, knocking him backward.

The last thing he remembers is his head smacking against the floor.

You wipe your eyes and sniff as you finish wrapping your arms. Namjoon is still on the cot. He has been for a while, even though his head healed over. The cuffs are still on your wrists, thrumming with power. You can feel Anubis with you- his voice is not in your head, but something like a thought brushes up against you every once in a while.

Dragging Namjoon out of the temple was easy. Suddenly, it felt like you knew the way. He no longer weighed anything as you carried him, both of you bleeding and still shaking with adrenaline. You’re sure that Anubis led the way, the sound of his jackals guiding you.

Something moves outside the tent. Grabbing a glaive, you step outside.

Anubis is standing facing the temple. Up close, he is magnificent. He smells of sandalwood and cedar, and like incense and smoke. He doesn’t look at you as you keep the sword in your hand, taking a step forward.

“The man carries Sekhmet in him.”

“Will he live?” Anubis pauses before he nods once. “He is like you.”

“And what am I?”

“A servant.”

“To do what?”

“Keep the balance of the dead.”

“What will happen to him?”

Anubis hums. “Sekhmet is not inherently evil. But she lived in rage for too long- it is the fault of Ra. The man seems to have a good heart- I bet he would pass the Scales. He is not a fighter?” You shake your head. “Good. Perhaps a calm mind will give the goddess the peace she needs.”

“Does he- have to serve her will?”

“Not if he does not wish. He bound her to him.” Anubis’ eyes are silver as he looks at you. “You are bound to me.”

“What now?”

Anubis shrugs. “You answer when I call.” He turns to where your hand is going for your belt. “The knife of that demon do not work on me, child.” You drop your hand, chastised though he smiles. “Your father would be proud.”

“My father?”

He nods. “There are many after lives in the universe. He is at peace in his. And he is very proud of you.” Anubis nods his head. “I will call on you.”

“Please don’t.”

“Be well,” he murmurs in ancient Arabic.

“Be well,” you reply.

Back in the tent, Namjoon is sitting up. You dart over to him, grabbing his face and tilting it so that you can see his eyes. There’s no glow like there was in the temple, no other person or god. He blinks as though he’s having a hard time see.

“You fucking idiot,” you laugh, sniffing. “You almost got us killed.”

He laughs. The sound is dry. You grab a water and hand it to him, scooting closer on the bed. He finishes the water in a few gulps. You catch him up to speed briefly on your situation. He listens to you, nodding softly.

“I dreamt of her.”

You frown. “What did she say?”

“She… thanked me. She says it is nice inside me.” He smiles and you join him. “She says she is at peace, but that she will serve me when needed.”

“Good.”

Awkward silence passes between you. “You didn’t take anything from the temple?”

You shake your head. “Never want to go in there again.”

Namjoon chews his lip. “You don’t steal anything at all, do you?” Slowly you shake your head. “Tell me the truth- what are you doing for the Illuminati? Why did you want that coin- don’t look surprised, of course you wanted the coin.”

“I wanted it to replicate it and give the fake to the Illuminati. It’s… mostly what I do. I help pass them off as real so that no one can have the real objects. I have a contact in Cairo I trust very strongly that would have taken care of it.”

“You… return things to their rightful place.”

You laugh. “Yeah.”

“Why let me believe otherwise?”

“Because I never intended on letting you take it. So it was easier for you to think that of me when I betrayed you. You already had the idea that I was-“

“I was wrong.” Namjoon reaches for your hand, turning it over in his. He sees dried blood and he doesn’t know if it’s his or yours. “I like the idea of you being terrible because you surprised- you were charming in your weird way and smart and… nice.”

“Still think so now that I’m a giant scary Anubis host?”

His smile is genuine. His caresses your palm with his fingers and it’s sending tingles up your arm. You sway lightly, liking the way that it feels. “I like you even more, I think.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You saved my life.”

“You saved mine back.”

“Shut up,” Namjoon mumbles, gripping your hand in his and pulling you toward him. “Take the compliment like the arrogant, brilliant person I know you are.”

Namjoon crashes his lips into yours and you’ve never been happier. You pull him toward you, forgetting your new strength. He topples over you but you don’t care. You smell the lemon on him as he molds his mouth to yours, tongue swiping the seam of your lips.

You grant him entrance and he hums into the kiss as your hands trail up his chest and around his shoulders, wrapping in the collar of his shirt. Everything is consumed by the kiss, his mouth hot and perfect and him.

You moan against him and he echoes it, pulling away from your lips to pepper your face with kisses. “Finally you shut up,” he mumbles as he presses kisses on your jaw. He leans down to your ear, nipping. “Can I shut you up even more?”

“Probably,” you mumble, chest heaving.

He chuckles. “Let’s see.”

Namjoon moves his mouth to your neck. He begins mouthing at the column of your neck, biting softly into the flesh. He pulls your skin between his teeth, sucking on the surface. Continuing his way down, he pulls at your shirt “Off.”

You lift up so that he peels your shirt off, tossing as he works on your pants, fingers dancing. You pull at his shirt and he rips it off, revealing a toned chest and thick arms. “Oh my god, you’ve been hiding your body under there? Fuck, professor.”

Namjoon groans. “You’re gorgeous,” he mumbles as he strips you of your bra and underwear. Cold air hits your chest and you shiver. Namjoon’s heated gaze takes in the newly exposed flesh, a deep sound in his throat as his lips find your skin. “A pain in the ass, but fucking beautiful.

You crest into him, back coming off the cot as his teeth find a nipple, pulling it playfully before his tongue wrapped around it, pulling it into his hot mouth. You can’t stop the loud whine that leaves your mouth, surprising yourself with the volume. Namjoon’s hooded eyes flick up to yours, pausing his movements before swirling his tongue around the bud again, eliciting the same response.

Namjoon’s laugh was guttural. “Fuck baby, if you sound like that when my tongue is here… I wonder.”

You don’t have time to consider the implications of his words. He licks a bold trail down the valley of your breasts to your navel, stopping to nip at the soft flesh of your stomach. He continues his descent, dropping to his knees between your thighs.

You’re shivering, thighs shutting slightly. He pries them open with his hands, pressing your thighs open firmly. You lifted herself on you elbows, looking down at Namjoon as he slowly kisses your thighs. You moan in tandem. You can feel yourself dripping for him, needing him to do something.

“Look how fucking soaked you are,” he mumbles. “That for me baby?”

“You’re very confident now, Professor.”

He grins. “Near death experiences have reminded me to take what I want.”

“So do it.”

Namjoon doesn’t hesitate. He leans forward in a swift motion, flattening his tongue and licking you from core to clit. Namjoon hums, delighted as he continues to lick your folds up and down lazily. He slithers his tongue to your clit, circling it before he attaches his mouth and sucks gently.

“Oh fuck Namjoon.”

“Mm, say my name more,” Namjoon murmurs as he shuffles so that he’s holding you against his mouth. “I want to hear you. You taste so fucking, Y/N.”

You whimper, dropping your hand to the bed where you fist the sheets. Namjoon’s mouth is overwhelming, wanton sounds leaving your lips as you cuss and hiss his name.

A gasp stutters from your lips as Namjoon pushed a finger into your heat, the sensation sending you into white hot pleasure. Namjoon moans where his mouth works you, slowly sliding his finger in rhythm with his tongue.

“Fuck,” he pants. "Gripping me like a vice. You’re fucking greedy. You’re so fucking hot, baby. Gonna cum on my finger and tongue?”

You nod. You have no idea where the demon between your legs has come from, but he’s making you hurdle toward an orgasm with blinding ferocity.

“I’m gonna- fuck, Joon right there!”

“Cum for my baby,” he grows before fastening his mouth to you.

Your orgasm hits you and you cum with a scream, seizing into him. Namjoon holds you down, licking you softly through it, eyes watching you hungrily the entire time you shake under him.

Namjoon detaches when you start to whimper from over stimulation, hovering over you, mouth slick with your cum. You don’t care, grabbing at him and smashing his mouth to yours. He tases like you and you him, biting his bottom lip.

“Look at you,” he whispers as he looks down at you. “All fucked out from just my tongue and fingers.” Your body is pliant underneath his hands, melting into the cot. “Gonna cum again on my cock?”

“Yes,” you gasp, pressing your chest against his. “Make me cum again, please.”

Namjoon is a work of art. You drop your eyes to his cock and nearly moan again. How does he not carry himself around like he has a huge cock? Because he does, dick proud, thick length looking delicious as you reach out to wrap your hands around his velvety shaft.

Namjoon’s eyes flutter shut for a moment as your small hands work him, wrist moving expertly. Your mouth waters at the signs of precum on the head of his dick, luring you to lean forward and kitten lick the tip, the salty flavor heaven on your tongue. Namjoon bucks in surprise, a deep moan falling from his lips as you look up at him with innocent eyes.

“Fuck,” he mutters. He pulls your hands away from him and grabs you, throwing you further up on the cot. He looks like a predator, blown eyes looking at you like a man starving. He kisses you firmly. “I’ll let you suck my cock another time. I really want to be deep in you.”

The absolute filth that leaves his mouth turns you on.

Goosebumps skitter up your arms as you wrap your arms around Namjoon’s neck. He rubs the head of his dick against your slick, coating himself before he pushes in, stealing your breath away. He slides in slow and smooth stretching you to your maximum as he bottoms out. His breath fans your neck, face buried against you skin.

Namjoon pauses for a moment, his back rising and falling under your fingertips as he held himself there, fully sheathed inside you. “You feel fucking divine,” he whispers. “So fucking sweet and tight for me.”

“You feel so good,” you moan loudly as he begins to move his hips, pulling all the way out before slamming back in. “Namjoon.”

“Say it again,” he demands on a particularly hard thrust. He repeats the motion, hitting so deep that you gasp. “Say my name again.”

“Fuck it feels so good, Namjoon.”

Namjoon sets a steady, firm pace, fucking you into the cot hard- you’re worried it’ll break. You can feel his length drag deliciously along your walls. He doesn’t go gentle, pain laced on the edge of your bliss as your mouths met, tongues tangling as he bears down on you, hips shoving you into the cot. Your hips lift to meet his efforts, thighs straining with effort, weak from your previous orgasms.

You’re passed the point of coherency. A string of nonsense falls from your lips. The pleasure crashes into you out of nowhere and you twitch forward, tightening your grip on Namjoon as you cum loudly, orgasm taking full control. You almost cry into his chest as he fucks you through your high.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, panting in your ear. Your hands press against his hot skin, sliding against the sweat. Namjoon catches your lips briefly as your orgasm subsides. “Such a sweet girl for me.”

Namjoon curses loudly, the force of your orgasm sending him over the edge. His thrusts became disorganized whimpering against your neck, pressing kisses against your salty skin between jerky twitches of pleasure.

Namjoon is shaking. Holding himself above you is taking visible effort. You turn your face, pressing kisses on his forearms gently, hands ghosting over his sweaty skin. He was warm all over, muscles jumping under your feather light touch. With a sigh, he rolls over and falls next to you, grabbing you by the waist and pulling you to him.

“Honesty time?” he pants. You nod your head, turning to look at him. You brush his silver strands back fondly, smiling a bit. “I’ve wanted to do that since the moment I saw you in your sitting room.”

“Honesty time?”

He nods, pressing a kiss to your brow. “I’ve wanted to do that since I looked you up when you set the meeting.”

“Of course you did. I had to make sure you weren’t crazy, professor.”

“Says the mercenary.”

You smile. It’s not mean, this time. It’s not an accusation. His voice is teasing and deep and soft. The wind outside cools you. “Come work for me. Your dean is involved in the Illuminati and quite frankly, I don’t think he cares about your safety.”

He tucks his chin on your shoulder. You can feel his breath on your face. “I kind of figured something was going on there.”

“You’re too smart for them. Come work for me. Seriously – I help people. I do have to play a part, but it’s just that. A part.”

“You sure I won’t drive you crazy?”

You kiss him. “I think you discovered a way to shut me up.”

Namjoon hums, pressing the softest kiss to your lips. You smile into it, letting him lead the kiss. “Fine. My job as a professor was short lived, but there’s work to do.”

“Exactly. Oh, and one rule,” you add. “Don’t read dead languages.”

Namjoon’s laugh is as bright as the sun outside and you smile, watching him tilt his face up, face golden and beautiful. “Advice of the century.”

"Wait," Namjoon asks as he unpacks the last box in his office. "Would you have actually left me for the mummy that day?"

You smirk as you walk by him, kissing your boyfriend briefly. "No, but your reaction was priceless."

#kim namjoon smut #namjoon smut #knj #namjoon fluff #namjoon fanfic #kim namjoon fanfic #bts smut #bts fanfic #haliiimede writes #rm bts #namjoon #kim namjoon #namjoon bts #minors dni #minors do not interact

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madsmilfelsen · 4 months

Note

would love to know your all time/general fav book recs if you have the time!

Hi! Some are repeats but that’s out of love

Mongrels by Stephen Graham Jones

Never Whistle at Night: an Indigenous anthology of dark fiction

Latitudes by Natasha Rao

How to Carry Water by Lucille Clifton

Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings by Joy Harjo

Striptastic: a celebration of dope-ass cunts who like money by Jacqueline Frances (comic anthology)

The Vandal by Hamish Linklater (listen LISTEN, I cry every damn time)

Dogsong and The Haymeadow by Gary Paulsen

To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee

The Color Purple by Alice Walker

The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern

We Have Always Lived in a Castle by Shirley Jackson

The Wolf Road by Beth Lewis

The Bone Season by Samantha Shannon (first gifted to me by my dad and inspired me to be a writer)

Barkskins by Annie Proulx

Without Remorse by Tom Clancy

Confessions by Saint Augustine

A Swim in a Pond in the Rain by George Saunders

South to America: a journey below the Mason-Dixon Line to understand a soul of a nation by Imani Perry

The Civilization of Charlemagne by Jacques Boussard

No Turning Back: a Hopi woman’s struggle to live in two worlds by Polingaysi Qoyawayma

Enemy at the Gates by William Craig

An Underground Education by Richard Zacks (decidedly not something I should have read cover to cover at the tender age of 9)

Stony the Road: Reconstruction, White Supremacy, and the rise of Jim Crow by Henry Louis Gates, Jr.

An Indigenous People’s History of the United States by Roxanne Dunbar

Bloodstoppers and Bloodwalkers: folk tales of Canadians, lumberjacks, and Indians by Richard M. Dorson

Archaeology of the Night: life after dark in the ancient world (anthology)

Igaruacirpet: our way of making designs edited by Amy F. Steffian

What the Elders have Taught Us: Alaskan Native Ways (anthology)

#wandering my house trying to remember titles as my curls cool #book recommendations #answered

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gremlins-hotel · 1 year

Text

✈︎ grem/gremlin

✈︎ 21+

✈︎ they/he

✈︎ archaeology major! minor is us history.

✈︎ commission status: open

✈︎ my shit: a-flying-fortress | archaeologyfjones (ask blog) | twitter

my old shit: close-air-support (old main) | grem-archive (hetalia) | archaeojones (original ask blog)

✈︎ tag guide:

misc: callsign gremlin checking in | gremlin shitpost | gremlin tankposting | gremlin’s things with wings | mooom! gremlin’s archaeologyposting again!

from the desk: alpha romeo tango | papa echo november

headcanon tags: mechanics of nations // eldritch abominations | alfred f. jones // daring to fly | mathieu williams // bear with me | mathieu & alfred // brothers earth and sky | arthur kirkland // salt wind and green garden | arthur & alfred // a king and his crown | arthur & mathieu // anchor spares none | ace family // new worlds divided | romano de cesare // luctor et emergo | ivan braginsky // Не остаться в этой траве | ludwig beilschmidt // meine Stärken und meine Schwächen

ship tags: romerica // spaghetti western | rusame // stardust on our boots | gerame // mach speed meta

#tags for navigation:#callsign gremlin checking in #gremlin shitpost #gremlin tankposting #gremlin’s things with wings #mooom! gremlin’s archaeologyposting again!#alpha romeo tango #papa echo november #mechanics of nations // eldritch abominations #alfred f. jones // daring to fly #mathieu williams // bear with me #mathieu & alfred // brothers earth and sky #arthur kirkland // salt wind and green garden #arthur & alfred // a king and his crown #arthur & mathieu // anchor spares none #ace family // new worlds divided #romano de cesare // luctor et emergo #ivan braginsky // Не остаться в этой траве #ludwig beilschmidt // meine Stärken und meine Schwächen #çatalhöyük // the first to rise; the first to fall #romerica // spaghetti western #rusame // stardust on our boots #gerame // mach speed meta #sunfall // the wayward soldier #beartalia // hibernation or bust #harpytalia // world on the wing #unbound // a western saga #lemon sharks // friendly seas #ersatz // dark side of the moon

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gremlins--motel · 1 year

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side blog for the spicier side of fandom life (mostly hetalia). if you are not 18+, dni!

and yes, my header is the name of another b-17. this is me you're talking to.

✈︎ grem/gremlin

✈︎ 21+

✈︎ they/he

✈︎ my shit: a-flying-fortress | gremlins-hotel (hetalia) | archaeology f jones (ask blog) | twitter | spicy twitter

my old shit: gremlinshotel (old main) | gremlins-hotel (hetalia) | archaeologyfjones v1 (original)

✈︎ tag guide:

misc: //room service (txt) | //sugar spice and everything nice (art)

fandom: //hetalia | //cod mw2 | //top gun

ships: //rusame | //ghostkönig | //ghostsoapkönig | //icemav

#tags for navigation:#//room service #//sugar spice and everything nice #//hetalia #//cod mw2 #//top gun #//alfred f. jones #//ivan braginksy #//könig #//ghost #//soap #//maverick #//iceman #//rusame #//ghostkönig #//ghostsoapkönig #//icemav

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exastriis · 7 months

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biography : alfred f. jones

COUNTRY INFORMATION

Official Name: United States of America

Capital: Washington D. C.

Largest City: New York City, New York

Official Language/s: English (de facto)

Government: Federal presidential constitutional republic

Demonym: American

Continent: North America

Area: 3,796,742 sq mi / 9,833,520 km2

Population: 333,287,557 (2022 estimate)

GDP: $26.855 trillion ($80,035 per capita) (2023)

Currency: US Dollar

Internet TLD: .us

Leader: President

HUMAN INFORMATION

Human Name: Alfred F. Jones

Meanings:

Alfred – "Elf counsel", Old English origin. Derived from "Alfred the Great", the first King of England. F. – Initially a very Puritan "Fly-Fornication". But he gives a different meaning every time when asked. From "Franklin", to "Francis", to "Fitzarthur"– and even joke-y ones like "Fuck-Off" and "Freedom". However, "Frederick" was the first one he ever picked himself, right after the American Revolution. Jones – "son of Jonathan", Welsh origin. Derived from John Paul Jones.

Nickname[s]: Al, Freddie

Age Appearance: mid-20s

Sex: AMAB

Gender: Cis Male

Orientation: Pansexual

Birthday: July 4th

ABOUT

Personality:

Positive Traits: Gregarious, optimistic, cheerful, outgoing, sociable, generous, determined, passionate, open-minded, eager to learn, protective, resourceful, adaptable Negative Traits: Domineering, obsessive, impulsive (or at least seems to be), "doing/talking without thinking", traditional in the oddest sense of the word/in a way that only makes sense to him, stubborn, dishonest

MBTI: ESFP (Se Fi Te Ni)

Enneagram: 8w7

Tritype: 829 (2w3, 9w1)

Instinctual Variant: sp/sx

Socionics: ENTj / LIE

Attitudinal Psyche: EFLV

Temperament: Choleric-Sanguine

Jungian Archetype: The Hero

Hobbies: The real question is "what hobbies does Alfred NOT have?"– Watching and making movies, assembling models of planes and tanks and what have you, archaeology, sports (baseball, football, basketball, etc.), dancing, cooking, carpentry, husbandry, "quick-draw", coding, playing instruments (guitar, harmonica, trumpet, percussion)

Languages Spoken: English, French, Latin, Spanish, Dutch, Filipino, German, Russian, Chinese (Mandarin), Various indigenous

Education: Various undergraduate degrees in the sciences and a few graduate degrees

Extras:

voice claim : talking / singing

Physical Description:

Alfred is young, tall and handsome— a Rockwell-esque, Hollywood-glam poster child for the most powerful Nation in history. He stands at around six foot and four inches, or roughly 193 centimeters. He has sandy blond hair cropped short, wide blue eyes ringed gold around the pupils, freckled tan skin, a powerful, muscular build, and a signature megawatt smile. Usually dressed casually, he’s most often seen in blues, reds, oranges or browns, or with some type of jacket on.

Back to navigation.

#info [ alfred f.j. ]

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archaeojones-archive · 1 year

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Hi! A very specific question that’s been bothering me since I was a child, actually. Is this true that you can differentiate between old bones and stone by using so called “lick test”? If yes, have you ever licked any bones?? Rocks, perhaps?

"Sorry for the delay bros! Digging season has ended, backfill and lab season have started. And man, I tell ya, I try n' make myself scarce when midterm elections happen. But we're back for now!"

"So, I usually like goin' in chronological order here, but I can't just ignore questions about the infamous 'lick test'! The lick test ain't our first resort in the field - we often use our eyes first or test the hardness of the material by tapping it on something like the screening wheelbarrow. The sound the material makes can be indicative of the material you have in your hands."

"But if your vision and your ears fail you, we use our sense of taste - and archaeologists aren't the only ones. I know paleontologists and geologists will use this method, too. In archaeology, we use the lick test to differentiate between bone, pottery, and stone. Mostly between bone and stone, though. But because the bone is porous, it'll stick to yer tongue if it's fairly dry because of the air trapped in the pores! Rocks will not. It's simple as that! And we try not to bite anything because it can damage the artifact! But if you really want to crunch rocks and bones, I s'pose I can't really stop ya."

"I have certainly licked plenty o' rocks and bones in the past, and I definitely will in the future. That's just the cycle of life. We try not to much anymore, especially with the whole pandemic that's been goin' on since 2020, but it's a trusted trick. Old habits die hard!"

"...And as for the weirdest thing I've had to lick? Well, I ain't really sure. Usually, we only lick things out of confusion. But I put all sorts of stuff in my mouth! Hungry guy's gotta eat after all! Or sometimes a fellow archaeologist isn't lookin' where they're aiming a shovel full of dirt. A mouthful of dirt is an experience for sure."

#ask archaeology boy #archaeology f jones #hetalia #hetalia ask blog #aph america #hws america #alfred f jones

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archaeologyfjones · 1 year

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Ok gamer super important question here. Favorite dinosaur? I like plesiosaurs.

"I'm just a humble archaeologist out here tryin' to educate the people. And these jokers keep asking me about dinosaurs! Scout, Tom, Dixie...can you believe all that? We gotta start teachin' these kids that archaeology is concerned with humans and the marks they've left on the world. Dinosaurs are paleontology! We may be cousins, but we are not the same.

"But, since two of 'em have asked, I shall answer! My favorite dinosaur is Nasutoceratops titusi, a Centrosaurine member of the Ceratopsian clade out of Utah. Think relative of the triceratops, but distantly. Take one look at that beauty and tell me it don't look like a tank! I would ride one. I bet I could."

#ask archaeology boy #archaeologyfjones #got a bone to pick #hetalia #hetalia ask blog #aph america #hws america #alfred f jones

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grem-archive · 1 year

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Ok ok, kind of related to archeology, really its more geology though so idk, but anyway

What do you think is America's favorite kind of rock?? What type of rock do you think he likes??

To bring it back to archaeology, since I am the champion of Alfred F. “Indiana” Jones, he’d be telling you his favorite soil texture. And his favorite page in the Munsell color chart book, because this fool has the money to own one. “I live on the 10 YR page and I love me a sandy clay-to-sandy loam consistency! 🤓” And then he whips out the trowel he always carries and takes a tiny piece of the nearest dirt so he can test it in his hand. Sand crumbles, silt smears, and clay balls, etc.

But to answer your real question, his favorite “rock” would be the Vishnu Schists/Vishnu Complex which are part of the Granite Gorge Metamorphic Suite. And for those out of the know, the Vishnu, Rama, and Brahma schists are part of the Grand Canyon Supergroup! Metamorphic rocks that are Early Proterozoic in age and make up the basement of the Grand Canyon. (Oh god look, it’s me. I’m the nerd now.) If you’ve never heard of the schists, Grand Canyon Supergroup, or the Zoroaster Plutonic Complex, it’s very fun.

#callsign gremlin checking in #moooom! gremlin is archaeologyposting to her fandom blog!#alfred f jones // daring to fly

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dhr-ao3 · 8 months

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Hermione Granger and the Legend of the Blood Moon

Hermione Granger and the Legend of the Blood Moon https://ift.tt/Q5bhHkp by SarahMaginnis Wizarding World renowned Healer, Researcher, and Professor Hermione Granger and her research assistant, Edana Remus “Teddy” Lupin, are on a mission to find the Tree of Life, which holds the power to heal all illnesses and cure all curses – a discovery that will change the future of medicine for both muggles and wizards. All the while, they must fight against dangerous booby traps, deadly environments, and a competing team of American wizards, led by the enigmatic and charming potions master and pharmaceutical CEO Dr. Abner Ravenwood and funded by Draco Malfoy, who are determined to find the tree first. Features hyper-competent, fiery Hermione, and arrogant, dangerous Draco. Slow burn. Words: 3377, Chapters: 1/36, Language: English Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Categories: F/M Characters: Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, Teddy Lupin, Original Characters, Bellatrix Black Lestrange, Victoire Weasley, Fenrir Greyback Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy Additional Tags: Justice for Remus and Tonks, graphic depictions of competent women, Competence Kink, Action/Adventure, Action, Action & Romance, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Eventual Smut, Forced Collaboration, Occlumency (Harry Potter), Archaeology, Lara Croft Levels of Adventure, Inspired by Indiana Jones, The Mummy is a guiding light via AO3 works tagged 'Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy' https://ift.tt/SqQCkhj September 02, 2023 at 10:30PM

#IFTTT #Dramione #Draco x Hermione

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thetriumphantpanda · 10 months

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Stolen | Marcus Pike (Day Two)

Series Summary | A week on from the biggest museum theft in history, you find yourself shipped to D.C. to track down the most important British archaeological artefacts, stolen from right under your nose. You didn’t plan on Special Agent Marcus Pike getting under your skin in the process. Special Agent Marcus Pike didn’t plan on falling for you either.

Chapter Summary | You fall into a quick routine whilst the hunt for your artefacts is ongoing. Marcus makes good on his promise of the best Italian food outside of Italy as a way for you both to forget your daily stress for a moment.

Pairing | Marcus Pike x Archaeologist/Curator F!Reader

Word Count | 4.9k

Warnings | Marcus and reader shamelessly flirting with each other, mentions of food and alcohol consumption but nothing much else right now.

Authors Note | Day two with Marcus and this is... not my best. I think because the pacing on this fic is so different to anything I've done previously, I'm not confident that I'm not completely rushing things but here we are! I hope you enjoy it and if you do, please consider dropping me a comment, reblogging or heading into my ask box to share the love! If you're interested in being added to the taglist for this or for any of my other work, please check this post on how to do that! And as usual, a HUGE thank you to @morning-star-joyfor beta-ing this huge chapter and generally just HYPING ME UP. ILY.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

You groan at the incessant chiming of your alarm. There is no way that it is already time to be awake. You roll over and through blurry eyes manage to turn the alarm off, rolling onto your back to let your eyes adjust to the soft morning light drifting in through the curtains.

Rubbing the last of the sleep from your eyes, you pick up your phone, opening it to find your email app overflowing with unread emails from London. They were already five hours into their workday, and each and every email you opened was basically screaming at you for an update on the case. An update you had expressly told everyone wouldn’t come until later in their afternoon. You sigh as you push yourself up in bed, dialing Mark’s number before you can think about what you’re doing.

“Jones, good to hear from you,” You can hear the familiar background noise of the office behind him, “How’re things over there?”

You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose, “Fine, I guess, would be even better if you could get everyone off my ass looking for updates though.”

“I’m sorry Jones,” He sighs down the phone, “I really am trying, but I’m sure you can understand that everyone here is on edge right now.”

You sigh again, “I know, it’s not your fault, hopefully I’ll have something to update you with when I call you later on,” You shift on the bed and push yourself up, padding over to the window to draw the curtains, “How’s Geralt?”

“Geralt’s fine,” Mark chuckles, referring to your dog that he had agreed to look after whilst you’re away, “He’s got a taste for roast chicken now, Miranda cooked him one especially as a treat.”

“If you spoil him too much, you’re paying for the roast chicken I’m going to have to feed him when I come back, you understand.”

“Loud and clear Jones,” You can hear someone trying to talk to him on the other end of the phone, “Listen, I’ve got to bounce, but I’ll speak to you later, alright?”

“Alright, have a good day.”

“You too Jones,” He finishes, “Go get ‘em.”

You’re in and out of the shower in record time that morning, cleaning the rest of the jetlag from your skin, swiping on some mascara and painting on your foundation and concealer to cover the pretty large circles around your eyes from sleep deprivation. You’re shrugging on your blazer when there’s a knock at your door.

“Morning, boss,” It’s Lizzie, “Car should be downstairs in ten.”

“I’m ready,” You mumble, letting her hold the door open whilst you grab your laptop bag and your handbag, checking you’ve got everything before closing the door, “Sorry about last night, I slept for longer than I thought I would.”

“That’s alright,” She smiles, pressing the button for the elevator, “I managed to entertain myself.”

There’s a smirk on her face that has you smiling too, “What did you get up to?” You tease, nudging her with your elbow.

“I just went for dinner,” She unlocks her phone and opens up Tinder, “American men love British women,” She winks, “I met Tod, who took me to the fanciest steakhouse in D.C., paid for my dinner and then blocked me when I told him I wasn’t interested in sleeping with him,” She’s scrolling through her messages to make a point, most of them unread, “Who do you think I should go for tonight?” She’s stepping into the elevator, you’re close on her heels, “David looks nice,” She opens his profile and scrolls through his photos so you can see, before she’s going back to his message, “He seems to think I’ll like a seafood restaurant around the corner from here.”

You’re both laughing by the time the elevator reaches the lobby, Lizzie pressing send on a message to David, letting him know when and where to meet her, “What about you?” She asks, “Don’t tell me you managed to sleep all the way through to this morning?”

You shake your head as your heels clip through the lobby, “There’s a great diner just around the corner,” You shrug, “Marcus showed me.”

Lizzie looks up at you with telling eyes and a smirk on her lips, “Did he now?”

“Shut up,” You chide, “It was kind of weird to be honest, phones me to ask if he’d upset me and then takes me for pancakes at nine in the evening.”

“I can’t blame him,” Lizzie shrugs, “You did look like you were about to slap him yesterday.”

“That’s because he chooses to ask the old white man the questions automatically, instead of me.”

“Come on Jones,” She’s speaking as she rounds the car that was sent for you, slipping into the backseat next to you, “That’s because Pete works for the police, it’s his job to know the answer to those questions, you can’t blame the poor man for that.”

“Well, don’t go getting any ideas,” You warn her as the car starts slipping through the city, “It was a one-time thing, just so I had somewhere to go on my own.” You know it’s a lie. You can already taste the pasta and the wine he’d promised you this evening, but Lizzie didn’t need to know that.

“I knew you agreed with me,” She speaks after a few minutes of silence, just as the car is pulling in to drop you off, she senses your confusion, “When I said he was cute!”

You groan as you both reach for your things and start walking into the building, “I do not think he’s cute.”

“The blush on your face would suggest otherwise,” She teases, shoving her own bag into the airport style security scanner to be checked, “You never go for dinner for anyone, not even at home, you definitely think he’s cute.”

“We’re shelving this conversation right now.” You demand, following her actions of setting your things down and heading through the scanners.

Once the security detail is satisfied neither of you are terrorist’s about to blow the place to the ground, they let you through and its only moments until you’re back in the office from yesterday. There’s a similar buzz about the place, people tapping away on computers and walking around with files. You can already see Marcus and his partner sitting in the meeting room with Pete, talking and laughing with each other, which makes your blood boil. You hope they aren’t talking about the case.

You march over, Lizzie having to run to keep up with you, knocking twice on the glass before you enter. Their conversation goes silent, only adding to your suspicions that they were in fact discussing the case without you.

“Good morning,” Marcus stands to greet you, “Sleep okay?”

“I slept fine, thank you,” You reply is curt as you sit down, “I trust you’ve got an update for us?”

He’s still standing, and his partner is looking up at him with a jovial look that you’ve seen in men before, and it infuriates you even more. Steven is looking at Marcus as if to say, ‘who does this girl think she is?’, flouncing into our office and demanding answers from us. You couldn’t give a fuck, you think, looking back at him, I didn’t make my career worrying about what silly men like you think.

Marcus takes a deep breath and sits back down, opening up the folder on the table, “So, the good news is, Steven managed to track the gang from the airport,” He pushes some grainy CCTV stills across to you which you take, “We’ve tracked them from here to a warehouse on the edge of the city, but the issue is, in all of the footage, there’s no sign of them carrying anything, no bags, no boxes, nothing.��

You throw your head back and groan in frustration, “That would have been too easy, wouldn’t it?”

Pete chuckles to the side of you, you shoot him a glare. It wasn’t meant to be funny; you fume silently.

“Doesn’t mean your artefacts aren’t there,” Marcus reassures, “We see it often that they’ll ship these things separately so they can’t be caught with them, so we’re planning a raid on the warehouse to see if that is the case.”

“Today?” You ask, optimism in your voice.

“It’s a big operation, you’ll understand,” Steven speaks now, “It’ll take us some time to pull the right resources in so we’re aiming for tomorrow afternoon.”

“Are you joking?” You scoff, “I’m sorry, but this is the biggest museum theft in history, of one of the most important British archaeological finds and you’re going to wait until tomorrow afternoon?” You turn to Pete now, hoping for some back up, “If this were the Met they’ve have raided it this morning, right Pete?”

He looks like a deer caught in headlights, his stutters a little, “Well, I mean, we’d need some time to put things together.” Traitor.

You take a deep breath in and push it out through your mouth to calm yourself, “Is there any way we can raid tomorrow morning?” You ask.

This time it’s Marcus who speaks, “We know how important this is, not just to you, but for us as well, so let me see if I can pull some strings and get things moving a little quicker.”

You nod in understanding, wondering whether he is in fact doing this for the greater good, or just to stay in your good books, “I appreciate that Marcus, thank you.”

He nods, “No problem, let me head out and make some calls,” He turns to Steven, “Can you get the briefing document ready, just in case we can get things moved around.”

Steven nods in understanding but you don’t miss the glare he shoots your way as he stands up to leave. What is his problem? Pete also stands to leave, mumbling something about updating headquarters back in London.

“Is it okay if I stay here to dial into my call with everyone back home?” You ask Marcus, who is shuffling papers back into his file.

“Sure thing,” He smiles, the warm smile you remember from last night, “Take your time,” He says, shutting the file and turning to Lizzie, “How about I show you where the coffee machine is, I’m sure you both need one.”

You’re waving her out of the room as your other hand is pulling your laptop out of its bag, she knows how you take your coffee, you just pray that the creamer they use here instead of milk doesn’t make you sick.

As soon as you dial into the call, you’re wishing you hadn’t. Wishing you could curl up into a ball and forgo all responsibilities. It’s times like this that you really missed fieldwork, sure digging up ancient skeletons could be emotionally taxing, but at least they never talked back to you or demanded why their stolen artefacts were still in fact stolen before they’d even greeted you a hello.

“Good morning to you too,” You smile sweetly into the camera as soon as Hartwig has demanded his update, “I’ve got some good news, the team here have managed to pick up the gang exiting a flight here in D.C. and then making their way to a warehouse on the other side of the city.”

“And is there any update on anything being found?”

“They’re pulling a team together as we speak with the hopes of raiding it in the morning.”

Hartwig looks bereft in his little square box on your screen, “Is there no way you can push for any earlier?”

“I already did, they were going to wait until tomorrow afternoon, but Agent Pike is putting in some calls as we speak to get things moving more quickly,” You look up from your screen and you can see the aforementioned Agent Pike stood with Lizzie, who has two mugs of coffee in her hand, they look deep in conversation, when his eyes flit to yours you immediately look back down at your screen, “I’ll be heading out with the team tomorrow, hopefully as early as possible so I’ll call you as soon as I’ve got any news.”

As soon as the pleasantries are over you slam the laptop shut and bury your face in your hands. God, you just wanted to be at home, on your sofa, with your dog and a cup of tea and all of this nonsense behind you. There’s a soft tap on the glass and you expect to see Lizzie, but it’s Marcus, two mugs of coffee in hand.

“Lizzie asked me to bring you this,” He sets the mug down next to you, “She had some calls to make so she’ll meet you downstairs when you’re ready to head back.”

You smile up at him, gripping the mug. You don’t look before you take a drink and yep, the creamer is far too much that it has you pulling a face, but you take another big drink, hoping the caffeine makes today a bit more bearable, “I needed that, thank you.”

He’s perched himself on the table next to you, a safe distance away that it doesn’t seem inappropriate but close enough that if you wanted to, and you really did, you could put your hand on his thigh. Not this again, you chide your brain. It’s actually him that closes the gap though, reaching one of his hands to rest on yours which is on the table.

“We’ll get to the bottom of this, I promise.” He says softly, clearly able to understand that this might just put you into an early grave with the stress you constantly feel through your body.

You unconsciously turn your palm up on the table before you know what you’re doing and suddenly, you’re actually holding his hand. He doesn’t seem to mind, just squeezes your hand with his before letting it go.

“Now, I know that a good bowl of pasta and a glass of wine will help,” He’s smiling, “I’ll pick you up at seven?”

You nod with a smile that matches his own, “See you at seven, Agent Pike.”

The rest of your day goes by in a blur. You spend most of it back at the hotel, replying to the myriad of emails you have to get through, all of which seem to be some kind of version of ‘I understand the magnitude of the situation, but myself and the team here in D.C. are doing our best.’. You take a nap in the early afternoon, supposing it’s one of the perks of everyone back home having logged off and gone home, and then soaked in a bubble bath, which did nothing to relieve the stress and tension from your shoulder blades.

It's not until six that you realise you have absolutely nothing to wear to dinner this evening. Your suitcase either consisted of the suits you wore during the day to give you the confidence to tell off jumped up FBI agents how to do their job, or the comfy clothes you’d favoured when working in the field. Nothing you pulled out screamed ‘dinner at a nice Italian restaurant with the handsome man who should really remain a professional colleague but that you definitely wouldn’t mind kissing.’

You shake your head again at the intrusive thought. When was your brain going to catch up with the fact that even if you did kiss him, you were only here for a few weeks at best. You had to remind yourself of the last time you went too quickly with someone. It never ended well.

Settling on your most casual pair of trousers and a knitted jumper, you sighed. This would have to do. You stuff the company card and your phone into your pocket and head down to the lobby. You’re thirty minutes early but there’s still an incessant vibrating coming from your pocket, indicating you’re still receiving a tirade of emails that will need to be dealt with. When you exit the elevator, you’re not expecting to find Marcus already sat waiting for you, typing on his phone in a way that makes you think he’s probably got the same amount of stress on his shoulders that you do.

“You’re early,” Your voice makes him jump and you stifle a giggle at the way his phone nearly slips from his hand, “Tell me you’ve not been here for too long?”

He looks at his watch, “Maybe a half hour?”

“You turned up an hour early for dinner?”

“You turned up half an hour early for dinner,” He counters, “I was just catching up with emails.”

You take your phone out of your back pocket and flash the screen at him, Outlook notifications stacking up by the minute, “Looks like we’re both in the same boat then.”

He moves closer to you, showing you his phone as he switches it off, “Go on, do the same.” He urges.

“Marcus, I can’t…” You trail off.

“Of course you can,” He shrugs, “Unless you were planning to ignore me for the entirety of dinner?”

He has a point, even you would never dream of spending your evening ignoring this man in favour of your emails. You curse the smile appearing on your face but follow his lead, showing him the screen as you turn your own phone off and put it back into your pocket.

“Good girl,” He praises, you think it must have been an unconscious choice of words because you’re both blushing as soon as it’s left his mouth, but you don’t complain, “Now come on,” He grabs hold of your hand and starts dragging you outside, “It’s time for the best tiramisu outside of Italy.”

Marcus manages to hail a cab outside with ease and only let’s go of your hand when he leaves your side to circle the car and take the other seat, but not before opening the door for you to climb in. He makes polite conversation with the driver as he zips through the streets to drop you off at the restaurant. You smile as you look out of the window, he’s ticking one of the green flags you’ve always looked for in men back home, being polite to anyone doing you a service. God, this was bad news.

The restaurant is a small, hole-in-the-wall, type establishment which has you excited. In your experience these were always some of the best places back home. Much like the waitress from the previous night, the waiter here greets Marcus with a firm handshake and a ‘welcome back’, you wonder if this man ever cooks his own food.

You’re sat at a table for two in the back corner, candlelight splaying across the table. There’s soft music playing in the background and starched napkins. Far too nice for a dinner with a colleague you think to yourself, but let it lie for now. He orders a bottle of white wine and when it arrives you must admit that this man knows his wine.

“Fuck, I needed this,” You whine, taking a second sip, much bigger than the first, “Thank you, by the way, for getting everything moved up for us.”

“It’s the least I can do,” He shrugs, something which you realise is one of his quirks that you enjoy, “I know how much stress you’re getting, so anything I can do to make things easier, I’ll do.”

The waiter comes back to take your order. Marcus insists on sharing bruschetta to start with, you opt for a carbonara because it’s the only tried and true way you know to test an Italian restaurant’s caliber, Marcus goes for a risotto which you’ve already decided you’ll be stealing a forkful of.

“So, considering this is two for two where the waiters have greeted you by name, do you know how to cook?” You tease over your glass of wine.

He chuckles, “I do, but when I’m on my own it makes more sense to come out to eat, or order in.”

“So, there’s no Mrs Marcus Pike then?” You watch closely as his face drops a little and you realise that you’ve probably fucked up, “I’m sorry, that was too personal, don’t feel like you have to answer that.”

He takes a sip of his own wine and leans back in his chair, his way of creating space between the two of you, “There was, once, but we were young and stupid so it didn’t work out,” He takes a deep inhale now, “And then a failed engagement, she was actually meant to move here with me but decided there was someone else who was better for her.”

You want to reach across the table and squeeze his hand, whilst his voice doesn’t give away his obvious disappointment in his failed relationships, his face certainly does. Gone is the usual smile, replaced with a frown and a furrowed brow.

“I’m sorry Marcus,” You lean yourself back on your own chair, “I didn’t mean to pry.”

He looks up at you and his features finally soften a little, “It’s fine, Jones,” He insists, “It’s part of who I am, the fact that I fall in love without really thinking about it, nothing to be ashamed of, just something to be careful of.”

“Who told you that was my nickname?” You ask, trying to steer the conversation away from the misery it was sitting in currently.

“Lizzie,” He takes a break to answer when the waiter puts down your appetizer, “That’s what she called you earlier when we were talking, you want me to call you something else, because I can if it makes you uncomfortable?”

You shake your head, “No, it’s fine,” You reassure, “Didn’t know if that was another of your federal agent things, knowing my deepest secrets.”

“If I knew that then I’d be able to answer why you’re here instead of out in the field,” He’s taking a bite of his food and then speaking before he’s finished, something that would normally drive you wild but is endearing here, “Makes sense though, Indiana Jones, world famous archaeologist.”

“He’s actually a terrible archaeologist,” You speak once you’ve taken a bite of your food, “World famous, yes, but I’ve never seen that man write an archaeological report.”

Marcus actually throws his head back in laughter, which has you giggling too, when had things ever been this effortless with anyone? You think back to all the forced first dates back in London, where one finance man after another had bored you to death. It had never felt like this.

“Point taken,” He says when he’s recovered, “So, what about you, no man missing you back in London?”

“There is only one man in my life right now and that’s Geralt.”

“I’m guessing Geralt isn’t your boyfriend?”

“No,” You laugh, popping the last bite of your bruschetta into your mouth, “He’s my dog, I’d show you a picture, but you made me turn my phone off.”

“Remind me to ask you tomorrow then,” He smiles over his glass of wine, “But no actual man, good to know.”

“I guess jetting all over the world to find pieces of history wasn’t really conducive to anything long term,” You mirror his own shrug from earlier, “And the men in London are just shocking, so I’ve found it easier to be on my own.”

“Never had the urge to settle down?” He asks as the waiter places your pasta in front of you.

“Of course, especially when all of my friends are doing the same,” You swirl the spaghetti around your fork, “You and I have the same issue of falling too easily, tends to scare a lot of people off right?”

You don’t miss how Marcus’ eyes are trained on you as you purse your lips perfectly in order to suck the end of the spaghetti through your lips, or how his eyes flit to your bottom lip when your tongue peeks out to lick the last of the sauce from it. There’s a sudden realization that you might actually have this man wrapped around your finger if you wanted it.

“Hello?” You move your head down into his line of sight, “Earth to Marcus.”

You watch as he does something like you do when you find your mind drifting, shaking his head and apologizing, “What did you say again?”

“I said, falling too quickly is something we have in common and that it tends to scare people off.”

“Right,” He scoops some of his food into his mouth finally, “That was my mistake last time, asking her to uproot her life to come and marry me after a few months.”

“Her loss,” is all you respond with, “Lucky me though, I get to sit and have dinner with you by candlelight.”

“Who say’s I wouldn’t have brought you here if I did have someone?”

“Because this is totally a date,” You smirk, he raises an eyebrow, “Candle on the table, folded napkins, talking about our failed love lives, you brought me here on a date Marcus Pike.”

“If the shoe fits,” He smiles, “You want this to be a date?”

“Undecided.” You tease as the waiter clears your plates; Marcus asks him to bring you a slice of tiramisu to share before he leaves.

There’s an air of tension as you sit and sip the last of your wine. The tone has definitely changed, and you don’t even really know why you’re doing it. You know nothing can really happen between the two of you. You know that in a few weeks you’re going to have to pack up your suitcase and go back to the mundane life of London. You know if you start something here, you’re probably going to fall in too deep and break your own heart, as well as his, when you leave. But when Marcus Pike is looking over the rim of his wine glass like he wants to devour you, you can’t really help yourself.

The tiramisu is placed in the middle of the table but there’s only one spoon. He picks the spoon up and drags it through the corner of the dessert before putting it to his mouth. You watch as he drags the spoon back through his lips, stopping to run his tongue over the bit of cream he missed the first time. Then, he’s dragging the spoon back through it and leaning over the table slightly to bring it to your lips.

You look at him through hooded lids, opening your mouth and sticking your tongue out to catch the bottom of the spoon, before closing your lips around it as he pulls the spoon back out from your mouth. He clears his throat and shifts in his seat and this repeats until the whole dessert is finished.

There’s a sense of haste when he asks for the bill and you throw down your company card to pay, much like you’d done the night before. Even when Marcus is gripping onto your wrist and dragging you outside, you wonder if your minds are thinking the same thing. For you, all you can think about when you’re back in a cab and going back to the hotel is that you want to kiss that delightfully plump bottom lip of his and run your fingers through his hair.

He practically throws some dollar bills at the driver, mumbling to him to keep the change as he’s following you into the hotel, standing silently next to you whilst you press the button for the elevator. All you can think is that you wish he would make a move, touch you, whisper something in your ear, anything. When he steps inside the elevator with you, you’re finally thinking he might.

“You’re getting in the elevator with me?” You ask, eyebrow raised as he steps in behind you.

“Just making sure you get back safe.”

“Marcus, my room is a two second walk from the lift.”

“And I would be a terrible federal agent if I didn’t make sure you were safe for those two seconds.”

The doors close behind you and you let out a silent prayer that you’re the only two in there. You rest your back on the wall as Marcus steps a little closer, “I’ve gotta give it to you, agent, that was the best date I’ve been on in a while.”

He takes another step towards you, closing the gap so that his body is almost pressed to yours, “You just needed to fly across the pond to find the right man.”

You tilt your head to the side a little, pushing yourself off the wall to close the final inches of air between the two of you. You can feel his arm wrap around the small of your back to steady you. You’re tilting your head up to meet his. You can see his glazed eyes staring down at you before they flutter shut, much like your own do in the next second. You can feel his breath fanning across your cheeks, his hand at your back pressing more firmly, bringing you even closer into his warmth. You’re almost certain that there is the faintest touch of his bottom lip to yours, but then there’s a ding of the elevator bell and the doors are opening. You hear Marcus groan in frustration, the moment entirely lost as he pulls his face from yours.

“Guess I’ll have to wait to kiss you when you find my artefacts tomorrow,” You breathe, taking a step around him to exit the elevator, “Goodnight, Agent Pike.” You finish, just as the elevator doors start to close and he disappears.

If only you could have heard the sigh of his reply as he leant his head against the wall of the elevator, “Goodnight, Jones.”

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