#I do not know why this is so stuck in my brain

[v00do-d0ll]

Do you ever wake up scared from a nightmare where something has happened to your parent(s), and you get an inexplicable need to make sure they are alive. Cuz I was thinking about that with Damien and Bruce.

Like Damien waking up with a gasp because he just dreamt that Bruce died in a brutal way right in front of him; and you know how in your dreams you can’t move as fast as you want to, that happeneds to him and he was stuck there forced to watch his father die in front of him.

And it takes him a moment to realize what happened but he eventually recognizes it was a dream. He knows the manor is safe and that no one could get in without anyone knowing. He knows that Bruce is fine…

But he has to go make sure, because what if that dream was his brain trying to tell him something. What if Bruce stopped breathing in the night and nobody knows. What if he’s had a stroke or a seizure… yea it’s better to just go check. A quick glance to make sure he’s okay.

So he goes to Bruce’s room determined to not get caught. Just in and out and he’ll go back to bed.

But Bruce has always been a light sleeper, and is always aware of his surroundings even in his sleep. He wakes up after hearing the floor creak ready to attack, grabbing the batarang that he keeps under his mattress ready to strike only to stop once he see’s Damien.

“Dami? What happened? Is something wrong?”

Damien just kinda stands there shocked at how quick Bruce went from Batman to Bruce so quickly.

“Nothing is wrong father, I’m sorry for disturbing you. I will go back to bed.”

Damien turns to leave only for Bruce to stop him. “Damien” Bruce calls out softly “Would you like to sleep in here with me tonight?” he says, with a fond look on his face.

Damien silently contemplates Bruce’s offer, not wanting to look weak in front of Bruce but wanting to stay.

Bruce can see the turmoil on his sons face, so he just scoots over on the bed and lifts the blanket. Not saying anything to rush Damien but letting him know he wants him there.

At his father’s actions, Damien silently crawls into Bruce’s bed. Bruce covers them both, letting Damien have his space.

Wanting to know what happened to make his son want comfort, but not wanting to push. But he can see that something is wrong.

“Dami” Bruce calls out. “Are you okay?”

“Of course father, why would you believe otherwise.” Damien says not looking at Bruce.

Bruce throws a look his way that Damien doesn’t see. “You don’t normally come in my room at night.”

Damien doesn’t say anything for a while but Bruce can see he’s hesitant about something. So he just gives him time, just watching the different emotions pass on Damien’s face.

After a while Damien finally says “I had a nightmare.” And Bruce…, Bruce is familiar with those, he’s had them since his parents died. He knows what they can do to a person because he’s the living proof.

“Do you want to tell me what happened in your dream?”

Damien takes a long pause, so long that Bruce thinks that he’s not going to respond, but he eventually whispers…

“I had a dream that you died… and I had to watch as you were brutally murdered in front of me, and I couldn’t do anything about it.”

There was a tense silence in the air after Damien spoke. Scared he just shouldn’t have spoken at all, but before he could make any type of move, Bruce turned and pulled Damien into his arms.

Damien stiffens at his father’s movements, not use to embracing like this with Bruce. “I’m sorry you had a nightmare, but I’m happy you came to me when you wanted to.” Bruce says as he rubs Damien’s back.

Damien goes slack in Bruce’s arm at his ministrations. In a small voice, spoken into Bruce’s chest Damien says. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I’m sorry I woke you up baba.”

“It’s okay Dami, you can always wake me up.” Bruce pauses for a moment before continuing. “I use to get those nightmares all the time when I was younger. I still get them from time to time.”

Damien looks up a little at Bruce’s words

“I would also crawl into Alfred’s bed when I had them. Most of the time they were about my parents, but a lot of them were about Alfred dying. So I would go check on him while he slept as well .”

Damien’s face looks shocked at what Bruce just told him. Not expecting Bruce to admit that he use to crawl into Alfred’s bed. But it makes him feel better knowing that Bruce understands his feelings.

Damien looks back down to hide in Bruce’s chest but also to discreetly listen to his heartbeat. Just to add that last bit of reassurance that Bruce was okay.

And that’s how they fall asleep, Damien feeling protected in his father’s embrace. Bruce stroking his son’s hair to lull him back to unconsciousness.

Both boys hearts soothed with Damien having learned something new about his father, and Bruce having physical proof that even though their relationship started out rocky, Damien cares deeply for Bruce.

[13tinysocks]

My Dead Girlfriend

The desert is starting to get to you. Omni Mark is forced to reconcile with who you are. [Invincible Variants x reader]

[Part one]  [Ao3] [6]

7 * Killah [7.2k]

"You look just like a sheep,

For someone with such sharp teeth,

After all this time,

Your cover's finally blown."

No Offense - Slutever

        You don't know when it happened, just that it did. 

        You didn't think he'd do it. You'd never tried something like this, you'd said the command half-heartedly, half expecting him to shoot you instead. Now his brains were on the Italian tile and Machine Head was laughing. "Man, am I glad I bailed you out! That was amazing! Hey, meathead, bring in the other one." 

        You were here again. Fresh out of prison, playing executioner while looking over the New York skyline. Blood dripping down your chin. You felt like you were going to puke, you had just killed that man. You hadn't imagined your first day out of prison like this.

        Machine Head leaned back in his chair, legs crossed, feet on his polished desk like he'd never left. 

        "Make this one do something different," he waves his hand in a circle, looking for something obscene, "you know what? Surprise me."

        The guards bring him in. Converse dragging behind him, black hair stuck to his sweaty brow. You know it can't be Mark, Mark wouldn't work with Machine Head. Wouldn't be indebted enough to die. Machine Head would use him, not throw him away. 

        You don't remember what the man's face really looked like. Just that Mark's face was always superimposed atop it. Pleading with you not to do it.  

        Machine Head says, "Get on with it already, I want three more before lunch."

         Your head jerked up.

        "No!" 

        You're not eighteen in New York. Not angry enough yet at Mark to want him to die. Instead, you're baking in GDA issue armor, soaked in sweat underneath, ass gone numb from sleeping while sitting. 

        "Good morning." Your neck aches as you force it up. Lensless stands over you, shins at your back. Smiling at you despite the fact that you shot his eye out. The wound had started to scab. Remnants of the actual eye either fell or were picked away. His eyelid sagged around nothing but a pale pink background.

        He looked terrible, but you don't feel bad. Instead, you wished you were dreaming again so you could kill him in Machine Head's office. 

        You rolled up, scanning the scene. Still trapped in the desert. The fire from last night had long since went to ash and most of the Marks seemed to be gone. Just you and Boner Boy.

        No skin off your back, but still you asked, "Where are they?"

        Lensless shrugged, "Probably looking for a way out. I called bids on babysitting duty."

        A shadow passed overhead. You watch the Viltrumite (man, you needed a better name than that) pass overhead, holding thin rolls of material.  He lands by a structure that hadn't been yesterday, half of a shoddy tent frame that was meant to keep you all out of the heat. 

        "Dude says he's helped build homes on other planets or something." Lensless says behind you. "Which is sooo lame. Why be a Viltrum enforcer if you're not always killing people- like me. 'S the best part'a the gig!"

        You chose not to acknowledge that. Started walking toward the new structure as the Viltrumite took off for more material. Lensless keeps pace, "He said to tell you to like, not mess with it until he finished the supports. Something about sand being annoying."

        You don't nod or acknowledge him, but you change course. Headed for a heap that looked like it could fit one. You just needed to be a little cooler. Just a little bit of shade so you could think beyond the heat cooking you inside the armor. 

        Lensless walks backwards in front of you. Smiling dopeily despite his lost eye. "Sooo, are you gonna use your powers on me again?"

        You swallow. Feeling no power ready to go. Whatever Angstrom was, it took everything to control him for those few seconds. You don't reply, propping a knee inside the hollowed out mess of rebar and wire. 

        "Are you ignoring me?"

        It takes some wriggling but you get inside with enough room to turn around and face him. Not out of respect for the conversation but because this kid scared the shit out of you. You were about two degrees cooler but it's not enough. The sun is still rising, a red boil over the dunes. Your throat is stuck closed, lips chapped. You can't take much more of this place and it's only been a day. You thought about taking the helmet off but he shoves himself into the opening to pout at you and you decide not to. 

        "Can you not hear me or something?" He waves a hand in front of your face. "Helllooooo."

        You want him to shut up, so you say, "I'm tired."

        "Then go back to sleep, I can keep watch but-" he holds up a finger, dopey grin returning to his face, "only after you use your powers on me!" Maybe if you didn't move he'd think you'd gone back to sleep and- "Your breathing isn't that fast when you're sleeping. I know you're still awake, you can't ignore me." He's smiling but the good-naturedness had seeped from his tone.

        "And if I do?" You try, voice forced even.

        His eye sparkles with the challenge. "Oh! I see how it is! I'm gonna have to make you use them on me! I prefer it this way actually." 

        He grabs you by the ankle and rips you out of your metal cave. Your armor screeches as sharp edges scratch its back; he would have shredded your flesh if you had taken the armor off. You landed in the warming sand, belly up with Lensless already atop you. Sitting on your hips, not acknowledging the fists you threw to his hard chest or the thrashing dance you were doing under him. You couldn't get up. His thighs were squeezing you in place like a vice and you were on the verge of hyperventilating.

        He leans forward, one hand landing beside your head, sinking into the sand and bringing him closer, the other reeling back. Dark hair falling over his face. "Okay, you better use 'em now, cuz if you don't-" the fist comes forward a quick inch but you flinch- which makes him laugh. "You'll have to stop the next one!"

        You can't. He doesn't know you can't. You had to give up the most vulnerable secret you had to survive. "I-"

        The fist comes down before you can finish. Caught in a snap by a white-sleeved arm. "What do you think you're doing?"

        "Isn't it obvious?" He seemed to really believe it, what else could he possibly be doing?  

        No smile is cracked at the attempted joke. Lensless is yanked off of you and thrown into the atmosphere. 

        He holds a hand out to you, gray loincloth or whatever it was flapping in the breeze and whoop there it is- your name is Gray now, baby.         You don't take it, standing and letting sand slink off the armor.

        "I don't need your help." You say, though you clearly did and he knew it.

        Lensless lands a few feet away, kicking up dust. "That was rude, dude." Gray only looks to you, does a shallow nod and takes off to work on the tent. Lensless watched him, frowning, "He'll definitely kill me if I try that again."

        "Good." You start looking for more shade, preferably not covered in metal.  

        "I kinda wanna try that again." Of course. 

        ***

        You don't know how, but you convinced Lensless to not attempt assaulting you for funsies. Said you'd fight him eventually, on your terms to give you the best shot. You had zero intention of actually doing that, but he loved the idea of you trying your hardest on him- he shelved trying to punch your lights out to force your hand. You stood with your back pressed flat to a sheet of concrete, standing in the minuscule shade while he puttered around. 

        The other Marks returned in a slow trickle. Angry and dejected. Tracksuit was first, swearing he searched the planet top to bottom only to find jackshit. He shoved himself in the same hole you did and rested- you think anyways, you couldn't see his face. Emperor was next, complaining so loud it made your migraine from yesterday return. He usually had slaves to do meandering tasks like that for him and he made it very known.

       Baldie appeared. Landing near you and Lensless, dropping off a heap of planks, "For tonight's fire." You don't thank or acknowledge him but he lingers. "I'm going to help build that thing," he jerked his head toward the tent frame. Gray had sat himself beside it, tying loose fiber and wire together to make fabric, "want to lend a hand?"

        "I'm good at destroying stuff, not making it." Lensless says.

        "I wasn't talking to you."

        The whole day you'd passed being still as possible so none of them would talk to you. Here one was, talking, offering up your help. 

        You wanted to refuse but thought better of it. Sure, you didn't have super strength, but pitching in what little you could would look good. Made you seem complacent, likable, less likely to be thrown under the bus.

        You pushed off the wall. "Sure."

        Lensless scrambles to his feet, "Me too!"

        Baldie fixes him with a look. "Don't even think about coming near the shelter until it's done."

        "But-"

        Baldie holds up a scar-thick hand, "You've done your job for the day. Rest." Lensless settles, unhappily. You follow Baldie, taking note of the higher emotional intellect than the rest, maybe he wouldn't try to kill you at the flip of a hat. 

        Sitting beside the frame were organized piles of material Gray had gathered. Wood, scraps of wire mesh, dirty fabric slips, thin pipes. The frame fluttered in the breeze but holds. The sand was too fine to stake down but Gray had removed his kilt, dug a hole, piled it with sand, and used it as a weight to keep the anchor point in place. He'd done the same using larger fabric scraps along the line of the structure.

        All there was left to do was painstakingly weave tiny materials together to make walls. At least it was better than getting murdered by Lensless.

        You got to work, which was slow going even with Gray and Baldie's guidance. Super speed didn't help in cases of arm knitting dried out trash together. Gray doesn't speak, sat there on a corrugated metal sheet as not to ruin his white suit. Baldie does, giving pointers on how to keep your fabric from falling apart for the millionth time. He'd learned it after observing Gray do it a few times. "Arm under arm, like this, then pull through."

        "Like this?" You do as he did, your trash fabric loose and full of holes.

        "...Close enough."

        You work in silence until you can't take it anymore. You see Gray stealing glances because he couldn't tell when you weren't looking with the visor. You can't see Baldies eyes but you feel them on you. "How long is this thing even going to hold? I mean, this sand, it's almost like water." You ask because you can not deal with real questions right now like if you're all going to die out here if no one finds any food or water. 

        Baldie tightly shrugs, "I just know he should know what he's doing. Don'cha- solider?"  The word, benign, comes out like a slur.

        Gray knots an end. His fabric almost blanket sized while yours and Baldies were like dishtowels. "The way the tent is held down, should allow it to move with the dunes." Gray's voice is affirmed. He's done this before. "For now, we only need one side complete to keep the sun off you during the day." Yet he didn't stop you both from working on the other walls.

        "Off me?" Surprise is obvious, because of his phrasing and the fact that this was the most you'd ever heard him talk. So different from the Mark you knew. Inflection so flatly robotic. 

        "I'm pretty sure I speak for all of us when I say we can hold our breath in lava." Baldie says, "If your body gets two degrees over average, you'll start dying." 

        You don't reply, true but unfair. 

        Others return. Scars who is just as bitchy as Emperor. Threatening literally anybody who looked at him. Which Lensless gladly did with his one eye. Omni arrived just in time to stop them from murdering each other. He'd have liked to help build, but was so caught up in keeping the peace, he couldn't. 

        As the sky dulled gray Mohawk made an entrance. "Well, that was just a big fat waste of fuckin' time." 

        "I'm sure the last of us will come bearing good news," Omni says. 

        You listen, picking up as many planks as you could carry to bring them to the half-tent. Shoddily woven fabric leaned over where the sun would be tomorrow morning. Gray had the foresight to lay metal sheets down where the fire would go so it wouldn't shift in the sand and potentially cause your new home to go up in a cloud of smoke.

        "Bearing good news?" Mohawk spits, picking up the rest of the wood and following you, "What are you forty?" 

        "We are all the same age I believe."

        Mohawk rolled his eyes. "Can you fuckin' believe this guy, babe?"

        You climb up the dune the tent sat atop. Sliding back a little with every step, refusing Mohawk or Omni's help because you hated how they talked about you.

       Mohawk puts his planks down beside yours. Gray moves forward to optimize their positioning for maximum heat. "Aww, come on babe, don't ice me out." 

        "Trouble in paradise?" Tracksuit snickers, leaning back on the unused pile of scrap. His jacket halfway zipped down like the temperature wasn't about to dip into the negatives. A wifebeater covered most his skin, leaving the tops of his collarbones exposed. 

        You sit close to Baldie and Gray because you couldn't be warm and stay away from all of them. You had to choose so you did, the most normal of the bunch. Wasn't saying much.

         Mohawk settles as close to you as he can get with Baldie's brick wall of a body blocking him, "You could say that." 

        There is maybe a minute of peace and quiet. 

        "Are we all thinkin' what I'm thinking?" Mohawk asks.

        "That you need to shut up?" Emperor says.

        "That we're down two and they're not coming back."

        The realization settles in. Phantom and Maskless never returned. You are not upset in the slightest. Less work for you.

        Tracksuit fidgets with his jacket zipper, "Think they're lost?" 

        "Could be." Omni breaks off a plank piece to throw in the fire. "They also may have found something."

        "If they found something, they shouldn't keep us waiting." Emperor says.

        "Maybe they want to keep it to themselves." Scars gives you a significant look. You were glad for the visor hiding your emotions. Forgetting he can hear your breath catch. They all can.

        You weigh the options of possible comebacks. What would get you killed, what would get you verbally dressed down. Nothing seemed good when you had no way to defend yourself.        

        Omni takes the choice away, changing the subject, "We should consolidate everything we have."

        "Wha'dya mean?" Tracksuit says.

        "We should treat individual belongings as collective belongings," Omni says, "one of us may have something that can help us along."

        Nobody goes for their pockets, wherever they'd be on their stupid supersuits. 

        "I'll go first." Omni's fingers disappear into an invisible pocket alongside his upper thigh. Pulling out a laminated square of shiny paper. He looks at it before letting it drop on the ground for all to see. "It's all I brought along." 

        You lean forward, mouth going dryer than it already was after a day in the desert. You're looking at a photo of you, not really you, but it's the same face, same hair, same body. Grinning in white, holding a bouquet. Your wedding day. Mark beside you, looking fine in his tailored suit. 

        You look from him in the photo to the man standing by the fire. His hair had started to streak through with gray. You hadn't noticed till now, shining almost red in the firelight, hadn't the time to pay attention to his hair. How long had it been since that picture was taken? How long had you been dead for him?

        Looking back at yourself, you found an unexpected hot tear slipping down your cheek. Thankfully hidden in the visor. You looked so happy and in love- with Mark Grayson of all people. You got the life you wanted, then died only to be replaced by a worse version of yourself. Jesus, wasn't this all so fucked up? 

        Your existentialism was cut short by something being tossed atop the photo. A carton of alien cigarettes, nine spilling out the top, wrapped in blue paper.

        "I'm jus' showin' cuz he did, but none of you touch the things, got it?" Tracksuit leaned forward, ready to lunge for the cigarettes if need be. "They're mine." His passive growl rivaled that of Scars when it came to your personage. "Oh and," another thing was thrown out, a small pack of-

       "Are those fucking baby wipes?" Mohawk cracked a laugh.         

        "I don't got gloves like you, dipshit. Sometimes blood gets all sticky and gross and I just don't like the feeling, alright?" Tracksuit tensed, "Like yeah, love to murder people n' all but have you seen some of the shit that's out in the universe? You never ripped a Quinobian in half with nothing to wash it off? Fuckin' nasty."

        Laughs pitter round, but nobody else adds to the pile. Distrust too taught.

        "Broke outta prison to get here," Baldie fills the quiet, "I got nothing."

        "I've goooooot-" One thing then another comes out of assorted hidden pockets on Lensless's suit. Collectables like finger bones and half-rotted ears. 

        "Dude, that's disgusting." Tracksuit comments, but he keeps on going.

        A swath of cloth maybe a meter long from something old, a delicate necklace originally silver but gone brown with blood, human teeth, pocket lint. 

        Lensless tiptoes to the growing pile, holding up the necklace. Jewel glinting in the light. He holds it out to you, "Was gonna give this to you when I first saw you again, but you started shouting and I got too excited and everything happened so fast. So, here. I chopped off a really pretty lady's head to get it for you."

        He's smiling puppy dog-ishly. Murder wasn't something you were morally opposed to, but Jesus. Was it really necessary for her to die over a necklace? Something twists in your gut. The face of Mark Grayson, seemingly innocent with something wicked beneath, genuinely interested in you and your affection. It made you want to scream and puke. 

        Omni caught your discomfort like a scent. "Give it to her when we make it out of this desert. For now, it could be useful to hold something together."

        Lensless looked at him suspiciously. "Hold what together? You're not plannin' on stealing a gift I got for her, are you?"

        "I'd never," you believed him on that. "Let's just keep going. Save sentimentality for a different time."

        Lensless frowned. Dejected you didn't immediately, and graciously with sloppy kisses, accept. He rolled back on his heels, dropping the necklace in the pile and finding his seat with a frown. 

        The electronic cuff clicked as Gray took it off his wrist, adding it gently to the pile. "It automatically maps surroundings." He says. Off the side of his hip came a disk that when he pressed at its center became an oxygen mask. 

        "Good." Omni says, "We'll be able to search out further. What else?"

        Out of a mini hip satchel came vials. Thin and shining and filled with unlabeled substances. The other Marks seemed unimpressed, but you had no clue what they were and leaned forward to look.

        "For extreme wound care," he says to you and only you. Leaving the rest of the details for you to figure out.

        "Tch. Look at you walkin' around with medicine like some-" Mohawk couldn't find a good insult, so he just said, "dickhead. Check it." Out his pocket came a box of mints and a spray pen of some kind. He threw them in the pile before looking up at you, "Gotta taste good and smell fresh for my girl."

        His sleazy grin. The flipping in your gut. You can't help saying, "Ew."

        He chuckles, casually tossing out a single wrapped condom. "Just putting it out there by the way."

        "Ew," you repeat.

        Then comes out a ring, a plain metal band with a sun embossed on its outside. He looks at you but can't bring himself to explain. It was catching up to him now, drunkenly slow, weird this all was. He throws it on the pile without comment.

        Next came a fancy-looking pen from Emperor. "I was expecting to be making political moves." He says when Mohawk makes fun of him. 

        Last and definitely least, Scars. He pulls out a black metal ring, clicks its side to open it fully, revealing cuffs. Thick and strong. "I had plans for you, my dear." His words are like spiders crawling on your skin. "I like the fight but you never understood when it was time to stop." The last words held a bitter weight. Like he trying to hide his anger at you for killing yourself, despite the fact that you were very much alive. 

        Eyes fall to you. They expect a response. A retort. You have nothing to say and have to fight the urge to curl into a tighter ball.

       "Still have that shit you chugged?" Mohawk prods and you realize they're not looking for you to fight with Scars. Though Scars desperately wants you to fight him. They want you to empty your pockets.

        Your fingers feel thick and uncoordinated in your pockets. First came your apartment keys, still with the room number card tied on. Then there was a phone charger, bitten down to the wire in multiple places by Caligula. The first bottle of codeine, then the second. Your phone, at nearly full battery, thank God. When it was set down the lockscreen flashed and you swore all the Marks leaned forward a fraction to get a look. Caligula looked back at them all, sun on his blue eyes, belly exposed to the air. 

        "Hey, it's that cat you killed!" Lensless grins at Mohawk who scowled.

        "I didn't kill it."

        "Sure you didn't."

        "He didn't." You say watching your phone screen go dim then black. "Michelle found him. He-" Your eyes were burning, fuck, why were you about to cry? "He's with Cecil now." Your throat was starting to close. Panic sinking in. What if he died? Oh God, you were such an asshole to your cat and you left him with Cecil fucking Stedman.

        "Oh, he's totally gonna do batshit experiments on your cat!" Lensless twitches with excitement, tongue darting out of his mouth, like he was trying to taste your sorrow in the air like spun sugar.

        "Stop that." Omni's voice is hard but when he speaks to you, it goes soft, "Anything else?"

        You bite your lip to make the feelings stop. Unbuckling the belt, you set it down gently. "Buch'a GDA shit. No idea how good it all is." Then finally, your wallet. You toss it with no regard, letting it bounce once, twice, then its contents spill out over the sand. Sliding different affects to different feet.

        Mohawk is first to grab something. "Whoa, babe, is this your license?" Mohawk flips the card over in his fingers. Chin knocking back like he'd been suckerpunched. "Whoa-ho-ho! Who's Cheryl Swanson?" 

        "Not important. We may be able to melt the plastic down and use as glue or something." You say, regretting your disregard of your wallet.

        Tracksuit grabs a card, because as annoying as the drama surrounding you was- it was still entertaining. Best TV this side of the desert. "Gerald Polastri. That yer boyfriend?" Man, did he love stirring the pot.

        Mohawk snatches the drivers license out of his hand. "No way! He's fuckin' ancient! You don't like guys that old do ya, babe?!"

        Ignore them. Ignore them and they'll shut up eventually.

        "Who the hell is Danny Olsen?" The license bends and breaks in Scars grip. 

        "I've got a," Lensless holds the card to the light. Squinting his one and only good eye. "Kennith Green." He flipped the card over and over between his fingers. Making it a blur. An advanced version of that old pencil flipping trick he did back in school before dad pulled him out.

        Emperor gave into the childish temptation, swiping a card. The person looked unimportant and unfuckable. The idea of you with them made him sick. "Got a lot of notches on your belt, hm?"

        Baldie withheld comment and didn't reach for a card. Your life, your body- it didn't affect him, even if the idea of you with someone else hurt him as much as that Klaxus plant venom injected into his blood.

        Omni's pulse did not rise, nor his fist clench. He was perfectly level and even. Plastic had no effect on his mindset whatsoever.

        Gray felt no sorrow or angst. He immediately knew what the cards were, because he'd done the same sort of collecting over the years. Back in his Viltrum suite were pieces of armor, mounted skulls, and broken blades displayed on his walls. It was against Viltrum customs- taboo but not illegal. He and his father both had a soft spot for trophies.

        You didn't know of the solidarity you and Gray held. You felt your cheeks heat as you tried to find the words. Forced to remember all of those people dying. You telling them to die, them doing it without a second thought. Shame wasn't something you had the room to feel after so many years in the field. Still, death could sometimes be... unpleasant. Sometimes the people you killed stuck with you. 

        Much as you didn't want to talk, you'd rather they not speculate about your sex life. The truth was better for once.

        "Cheryl was a mole." You say. "Gerald didn't pay what he owed. Danny tried to leave. Kennith..."

        He looks straight ahead. Eyes glazed. Cheeks shining with tears he no longer shed. You don't remember why he had to die. Just that he was first in line. Dragged into Machine Head's office sobbing. Asking you, "Please don't do it. Please, please. My wife is dying. Please, I just need more time. I can pay. Please."        

        Machine Head waved his hand. "What is with people and the dying wife thing? Like, I get it, you're sad! Boo hoo. I don't fucking care and I checked your accounts, you've been squirreling my money away to run off with that dying wife of yours. Nice plan, jackass. (Y/n), if you'd get on to doing your job?"

        "Wait, what's the deal with the Kennith guy?" Lensless rocks back and forth. Excited by all the death and his imaginings of you murdering people. "Did you fuck him then kill him?"

        "No. I just killed him, nothing special about it." He was your first. The kind you remember.

        You nod toward Emperor, seeing the back of the license. "Jenna sold in our territory." To Baldie, "Roshanna killed one of us." To Gray, "Seth was a fucking freak." To Omni, who wasn't holding a card but looking disgustedly at the one that fell by his boots, "Alex, I dunno, I was sent to kill him so I did." Your eyes go over them one after another. Their anger fading, replacing with something else. "Satisfied?"

        You realize. Most of them didn't know you were a killer. A gang member. 

        Your hand goes to the visor, it'd press to your eyes if not for the covering. "Shit."

        Through the days of carnage, thinking you were dead a second time, you killing your ex in self-defense, then the fight with Angstrom- he hadn't fully grasped the situation. He hadn't looked back and thought about why Angstrom bit off half his tongue. In the heat of the moment, he brushed it off, thinking it some swipe of luck to be taken advantage of and forgotten.

        He hadn't seen something physically come out of you. So he hadn't thought powers. He wouldn't let himself. Because you couldn't have powers. You couldn't be a murderer. You couldn't. 

        He looked down and saw the photo of you on your wedding day. The same woman that took hours picking out a cake flavor, holding a fork to his lips with a smile. The same woman that begged him to relax, be with her more. The same woman that forced him to act on the worst day of his life. After all, you'd said, "I'd rather die than be with someone like you," when you'd found out the truth. 

      �� He wanted an identical re-do. But the license at his feet...

        "I was wondering why you were listening to that skinny robot guy." Mohawk interrupted his thoughts. Brought him back to the present. "So you're like an assassin or something? That's hot."

        You bristle but try to respond evenly, "I do what I have to." 

        The words are like an arrow to his heart. You are a killer and you sound like you don't even care. 

        "Do'ya like it?" Lensless is practically kicking his feet. A few more gory details and he'd be rocking a hard on. 

        "Dude, of course she does, she kept trophies in her wallet!" Mohawk flipped the card in his hand. "Got any pictures?"

        "Digital evidence gets people caught. If I were caught, I'd be more in debt than I already was."

        "Debt?"

        You'd said too much. Change the subject, now. You point to the codeine, not wanting to share but knowing you can't stop anyone from taking it. "If we don't find water soon, we can ration that out. It's not water but-"

        "Not water?" Tracksuit snorts, "That's straight up lean, dude. Do you seriously drink that shit no candy, no soda just fuckin' raw? Gross, man."

        Omni knew little of drug trade. Didn't bother with crimes he deemed petty, but now he wished he had. He wanted to bother very much. "That's a lot of... substance. Where did you get it?"

        "Wouldn't you like to know?" You say.

        "Yes, I would." 

        Lensless zips forward, trading a license for a bottle. "Since when's your name been Toby Rogers?" 

        "You stole it." Omni realizes aloud. Truth starting to sink in. Ache squeezing his heart. Were you dependent on the substance? Were you high right now? No, no he'd be able to tell if he listened to your heart and breathing hard enough. You were stone-cold sober. He hoped.

        "Yeah, so she could power the fuck up and murder Seventeen." Mohawk looks at you with pride as a ripple goes through the group. Those who weren't there were processing. "Ridiculously hot, by the way, babe."

        "Stop calling me babe."

        "Rather, I call you Dregs?" He waggled his brows like the name could mean something dirty, "What's that mean by the way? Like, how'd you get it?"

        "Don't call me that." You snap, hard, too hard because the shitheads of the group smelled blood in the water. A poker to prod at your pride with. An insult they didn't understand and didn't care about as long as it agitated you.

        Mohawk went to pry some more but Scars spoke over him, "You killed Seventeen?"

        Omni was just going to ask. That and the million other questions floated around his head; You did drugs? You killed? Why? How?

        "Made him snap 'is own neck." Lensless mimed the motion, ending up half lying down with his tongue lolling out his mouth, "Never seen anythin' like it!"

        Scars didn't quite believe it. To him, you were a coward who couldn't face the people after becoming his fuck pet. "How?"

        You were under no obligation to spill your guts to these assholes. However, making Scars believe you could and would kill him just might make him and the others back the fuck off. Even a little. 

        "Swimcap too."

        "Swimcap? Oh, number Twelve!" Lensless snapped, straightening. They didn't have nicknames for each other like you did but numbers. Suppose it's more efficient. 

        "I think you're forgetting I killed Twelve." Scars gestured to his chest. Yellow stripe gone brown with the dried blood from the same man. 

        "Why did he attack you?" You shoot back. He has no response, because he doesn't know. 

        Lensless tilted his head, "But we would've heard you talking?" 

        Anger sparks in Omni's chest. How did Seven, that childish and half-eyeless version of him, know more than he did about you?

        "Not telling." You say.

        Emperor snorts, "I saw you make that guy shoot himself. You just pointed Twelve to Sixteen, didn't you?" And there goes that hidden trick of the trade.

        Scars, Sixteen apparently, grins. Scar stretching, exposing more of his gums and teeth. "You really tried to kill me?"

        "That was the idea." 

        "Then what?" Emperor speaks over Scars before he can say something prison-worthy. "Were you just gonna lure us out one by one to kill us? As if that'd work. You're stupider than I imagined."

        Mohawk kicked at his heel, "Hey."

        Emperor kicked back, "Hey, yourself."

        While they went back and forth Scars zeroed in. "So Dregs, you do work the GDA in this timeline." Memories swirl round his head, going to his dick. "Interesting."

        "I had no idea who Cecil Stedman or what the GDA was until yesterday." 

        "Then why were you working with him, hm?" He's eerily still, watching you, and you find yourself preparing for a blow. 

        "Because my apartment was gone, boss was dead, and these guys," you look from Mohawk to Lensless to Emperor, "fucking murdered all my plan B's." 

        Scar's fingers twitch. You could sense he was going to be an asshole. Thankfully, Baldie cuts in, "Why were you-" he holds up the license, "doing this?"

        "Was your dimension's version of me not killing people and facilitating drug trade?" You spit out like the idea is ridiculous. As if the idea didn't make you insanely, bitterly jealous. 

        "No?" 

        You catch the twinge of hurt in his voice and hone in. Needing to unleash this anger on somebody you guessed wouldn't kill you over it. "What? Am I not what you were expecting? Did (Y/n) not pass off oxy to her prison guards for an extra pudding cup?" You'd never admit it but you sort of missed the jailhouse pudding. Nothing like it. 

        He perks at the mention of incarceration. "You went to prison?"

        Your laugh is a single, mean note. "Went to prison? Mark put me there, asshole."

        At the use of his name, their name, from your mouth used on this lesser version of themselves, their eyes collectively narrow. Lips collectively thin. Baldie's hands are out like he's pleading with you, "I didn't-"

        You laugh at the response, high and involuntary, "Of course, because that what your guy's fucking logic is, right? Cuz clearly you're the same guy who ruined my fucking life, I don't see a difference." Besides the obvious baldness and alien prison jumper. 

        Baldie frowned, folding in on himself at the insult. "I came to save you. Not to force you into anything. I just wanted to keep you safe."

        "From what? From yourself? Didn't you kill me in your own world?" 

        "This isn't a good time, you're upset-"

        "I'm upset because Mark isn't fucking dead and I'm here with you people!" Your hands are trembling fists. Usual coolheadedness evaporated off your sweat sticky skin. You've said too much, again. Stupid. God damn it, so stupid. But you were just so thirsty, so hungry. So cold even by the fire. So done with all of their prodding, followed by the soft gestures. 

        "What'd he do to you?" Omni asks what they're all thinking.

        "I don't care what he did to you. I'll fuckin' kill 'im." Mohawk snarls.

        It's stupid and funny. Mark saying he'll kill Mark. Too much to process. 

        "What'd he do? You all destroyed my planet and got me stuck on this empty desert planet!" You try to calm down, taking a shuddering breath to keep the contempt for any and all versions of Mark out of your voice. "What he did to me was mutual, I fucked him over and he got payback. That's all."

        It's a lie. Gray can sense it immediately. He's unsure if the others can.

        "Bullshit." Tracksuit points at you like you're some TV show character. To him you are. "Calling it now, you're so in love with him!"

        "I only love Caligula."

        "Is that the cat?" Baldie smiles a little, intrigued. You'd loved animals. Had so many rescues that you hid from your landlord.

        His innocent smile softens you the slightest amount. Curbing your anger. "Look, I'm not your dead girlfriend or wife or whatever, please stop treating me like I am." You say, quieter, more subdued, forcing your cool. All eyes on you. A mix of surprise, interest, and deep sorrow. 

        The fire snaps with finality. This conversation is over. You can finally rest. Reel at all you've revealed. Recoup yourself. Think of what it'd feel like when your powers come back and you could kill them all.

        "Well," Lensless breaks the quiet tension like it isn't there, "I don't care if you're not the original (Y/n), cuz you're still my (Y/n)."

        Your head lifts from where you'd hung it. "I told you to stop."        

        His brow lifts with a smile. "Why don't you make me? I know you can."

        Omni, Scars, Tracksuit, and Baldie seem to grow closer. Interested in seeing your acts of spoken violence firsthand.

        You make a point of looking at Gray, your earlier savior from Lensless. Who'd been watching the whole exchange silently. Making mental notes. 

        "No." You say.

        "Is it because you can't?" His words are a dare. "You used 'em pretty liberally before. Why not now?" He's got you figured out, little fucker was smarter than he acted. And he just exposed your weakness to the rest of them.

        "Because it's not productive right now." You dodge and weave through his jabs. Hoping you didn't look scared and defensive but knowing you do.

        Under his lenses, Tracksuit rolls his eyes. "Jesus, just use 'em so he shuts up."

        "I still don't believe you made Twelve attack me. Show us." Scars goads.

        "I think you should kill the guy," Mohawk says, gesturing to Scars with a grin.

        Emperor had rolled to lay on his side. "Everybody shut up. I want to sleep." Nobody listened. He lay, one eye and ear open for all the drama.

        Omni doesn't join in the jabs but he watches intensely. Needing to know if what he heard was real. 

        "Stop." You don't expect Baldie to say it, but he does. "(Y/n)'s right. This is stupid, we know what she can do, stop goading each other. Is there any other contraband?"

        Many of them had more they weren't showing. Little keepsakes of you they refused to give up.

        Nobody came forward. He went on, "Listen, one of us should take the oxygen mask and head out now. Sooner we find help, the sooner we don't have to deal with each other anymore."

        Attention slides off you and a debate begins on who to go. You are deeply grateful. Almost feeling a little bad for snapping at Baldie. Almost.

        Cases are made. Speed and stamina are boasted with winks shot your way. In the end, Omni is the one who takes the mask. He didn't verbally spar for it. Just took it and set it on his mouth. He could hold his breath in space for two weeks, they all could. But that was without getting hit or over exhaustion. He had no idea what he would be getting into. If there were hidden threats. Best to stay on the safe side.

        The others jab at him but don't jump at the bit. Nobody wanted space duty, to be away from (Y/n) that long. He needed time to process. To think. About his darling wife turned cold killer, drug trafficker, and souped-up criminal. Just looking at you in that bloody GDA armor hurt his soul.

        He started, hovering feet off the ground, "If any of you touch my wife while I'm gone, I'll-"

       "Hey."

        He looked down at you. Felt your burning gaze through the mask. "I'm not your wife."

        Your shared vows about love reaching across spacetime said otherwise. 

       "Seriously, I'm not." You almost sound humored, "And if I ever met a version of me stupid enough to marry you? I'd murder that numb cunt bitch with my bare hands." You're being inflammatory on purpose. You're hungry and dehydrated. He knows it, but still bristles at the insult. He was hoping to leave on a good note.

        "Language," he says it with a frown before shooting off into the icy depths of space, blasting powdered sand at all of you.

        Two thousand miles away, Phantom emerges from the sand. Pulling Maskless out, heaving and coughing up the stuff. "Please don't tell me the tunnel collapsed again." They flew feet above. Watching the silky sand sink down, filling the chasm for the fifth time. "Fuck's sake."

[stalkingthenet333]

Simon Ghost Riley.

The big man he is..

Is in desperate need of a switchy little bird who can turn his brain off every so often.

And not just in a sexual way-

Just making him take a shower as soon as he comes home, helping him wash his hair, doing his skin care (although let’s be real he doesn’t do that but he lets you-), lather him up with lotion after you dry him off. Picking the beaaauttifffulll gray sweats for the night.

And when he complains you didn’t get him boxers, or a shirt you say..”What’s the point of all that, Si? You won’t need em.”

Giving his tense shoulders a nice massage, feeling him up in the process cause duh ;)

He’s just a tall, rugged man who needs some soft love..and to be honest he adores when you take the time to do so.

He feels as if he’s a burden to you during these hours, when you take care of him. Loving and caring for him like he deserves. Years of trauma does that.

You kiss his scars and burns lightly as you smooth your hands over his tight, sore muscles

Breathing affirmation after affirmation into his skin as if he’d absorb it. Which he does, in his own way.

He loves you. Can’t get enough of you.

But he would never admit he LOVES when you take control.

You don’t force it out of him, no, you would never do that.

He’s your love, your Simon.

You respect him, as much as you love him, if not more.

Allowing the hours to tick by as he slowly relinquishes the control he so desperately clings onto, the power dropping oh so elegantly into your hands.

You don’t do anything he doesn’t like. You don’t force him to do anything to you he doesn’t want to. Why wouldn’t he trust you?

The two of you just…exist. As one. Together.

When it does turn sexual…well

He whimpers LOL

Big old man just loves to whine and beg softly,

“Please, luvie…need ya..”

And who are you to deny this beast of a man who just loves you so much?

“Shh, baby…I got you…how does that feel, hm? Good? Use your words pup..”

Yes, he does like pet names, and being your pup/dog/pet/love/baby? Give it to hiiiim!

Pulling him back gently so he’s nestled in front of you, his back firm against your chest, your hand wrapped around his aching cock. Thumb wiping away his precum. Soft, sweet sounds falling from his swollen lips. His eyes hazy with lust and pleasure,

“Baby…fuck..”

He’s just a big teddy bear once you get him cracked open, ya know? He loves you, and you love him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I wrote this at work so it’s bad and not edited lol 😆 this was stuck in my brain idk

[jungkoode]

THE 25TH HOUR | O7

“𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐒”

"The most annoying thing about Agent Min isn’t how easily he dodges your questions—it’s how effortlessly he outmatches your wit."

next | index

— chapter details

word count: 7,4k

content: field trips, noma being curious as usual, yoongi being half amused half exasperated, yoongi being a smart lil shit and evading her questions, her growing frustrated, forced proximity, eery memorials and visceral reactions.

— author’s note

Hiii peeps!!!

It’s been a long time coming huh??? FINALLY chapter 7 reached the goals yesterday!!! *cue the confetti that i absolutely do not have the energy to throw*

I’ve been writing this chapter for what feels like an eternity (literally aged 10 years minimum) but I just finished the last scene today and edited and proofread it just now soooo I hope everything’s okay??? If you see a typo… no you didn’t (ಥ﹏ಥ).

Not gonna lie to you, I had to reread chapter 6 because I straight up forgot whether I had tasked Yoongi and Noma to the Monitoring Hub or if that was someone else ahahaha—spoiler alert: it was Tae and Jungkook who got stuck with that chore, not Yoongi and Y/N. Slay for us!

Then I reread some of my notes and remembered some plotlines I had emotionally suppressed and well… the last scene about the park basically wrote itself. Yeah. It’s eery. Prepare yourselves.

There’s SO much to unpack from this fic and SO little we have even scratched the surface of. I know The 25th Hour is my most head-wrecking fanfic so PLEASE, feel free to vomit ALL of your theories at me hahaha. I’m here for the chaos.

As always—remember my fics are sloooooow paced and sloooooow burn because my brain doesn’t know how to operate differently. Don’t expect fast plot movement, I’m intentionally taking my time to build the world and lay tiny breadcrumbs for you to gather. Pick them up. Put them in your emotional basket. Analyze them to your heart’s content.

Enjoy, goblins! <3

— read on

ao3

wattpad

The streets feel fundamentally wrong.  

It's not something you can quantify, not yet. The temperature is stable, the air quality within acceptable parameters, and the ambient noise levels hover at a predictable 67 decibels. 

But still, something feels… off.  

Sector 4 has always been bustling, it is a fact you do not question. 

Coffee shops line the sidewalks—windows are fogged with steam and promises of overpriced caffeine. Restaurants have flickering neon signs in rhythmic patterns that seem to draw people in inevitably. Storefronts display fashion statements that you’ve never found appealing but still manage to catch your eye every time you pass them.  

You do like fashion—at least, theoretically. 

You’ve never bought anything from these stores, though. 

Agent Min walks ahead of you now, stride measured as always. You recalibrate your position almost immediately, adjusting your pace to walk beside him instead of behind. 

Not behind him. Never behind him.  

You don’t know why it matters so much, but it does. To you, at least. Or maybe to whatever part of you keeps acting out without conscious thought lately.  

Your eyes betray you again, flickering to his gloved hand for the fifth time in the last fifteen minutes. Covered, as always. Black leather stretched taut over fingers that move very precisely—cataloging, calculating, anticipating.  

You’re still stuck on his earlier words: “Protection from me.”

What did he mean by that? Is his touch scalding? Dangerous? 

You haven’t seen him touch anyone else without those gloves—not once since arriving at the facility. It’s plausible enough to form a hypothesis around it, but not enough to test it without risking another nosebleed—or worse.  

Still… you want to test it anyway.  

And then there’s the matter of your own gloves—thin fabric ones that feel more like a restriction than protection. 

Nobody else wears them except Yoongi. Just him and you. You and him.  

Why? Why? Why? Why?  

The question loops through your mind like a broken record, each repetition louder than the last until it feels like static buzzing beneath your skin. 

You want to ask him outright, even though you know it will get you nowhere.  

But still… you want to ask.

“Why gloves?”  

The words slip out before your analytical mind can filter them properly—an impulsive breach of protocol that surprises even you.  

Yoongi sighs—a sound weighted with irritation but tempered by something softer beneath—and doesn’t respond immediately. His gaze flickers around the street instead, cataloging details invisible to your untrained eye.

“Stop staring at my hand,” he says finally, voice low enough that only you can hear over the ambient noise of Sector 4’s busiest avenue.

“I wasn’t staring at your hand,” you counter, the denial emerging with suspicious automaticity.

And technically, it’s not a lie. 

Your focus was on the glove itself—the material composition, the precision fit, the way it moves with his fingers as if designed specifically for his unique biomechanics.

“My gloves cover my hands,” he points out, logic impeccable as always. “You looking at my glove is functionally equivalent to looking at my hand.”

Your analytical mind acknowledges the validity of his reasoning—the correlation between glove and hand approaches 99.7% in this context.

“Stop trying to be clever,” he adds, the corner of his mouth twitching upward by approximately 0.3 millimeters—a microexpression your body recognizes as amusement despite your mind having no reference point for it.

“I’m not trying to be clever,” you respond, your tone matching his. “Fabric is not skin. I was technically not observing your hand but rather the material covering it.”

His eyes narrow by exactly 1.2 millimeters. “You’re doing it right now.”

“Doing what?”

“Attempting to establish semantic superiority through technical correctness.”

“I am not.”

“You are. Stop it.”

Your lips press together, suppressing what feels suspiciously like a smile. Your gaze shifts to his profile, noting the controlled tension in his jaw, the rhythm of his breathing.

“Why?” The question emerges softer than intended.

He turns, eyes meeting yours with unsettling directness. 

The contact lasts 2.7 seconds—42% longer than standard conversational eye contact.

“Because,” his eyes flicker gold for precisely 0.3 seconds, “being intellectual antagonists with each other is essentially our foreplay.”

Your Chrono-Sync Watch beeps softly: Temporal variance: 1.37%.

“That would imply sexual attraction.”

“Yes, it would.”

“Are you sexually attracted to me?”

He doesn’t respond. 

You weren’t expecting him to.

Doesn’t make it less annoying.

But curiosity nags at you as your eyes flicker down to his gloves. And before you can process your next question, you’re already voicing it out.

"Can I hold your hand?"

Agent Min halts mid-step, his shoulders stiffening by precisely 0.6 centimeters. The sigh that follows is audible, weighted with the kind of exasperation that suggests this isn't the first time he's had to deal with you derailing his focus. 

"Not this again," he mutters, his voice carrying the same energy as someone who just realized they forgot to defrost the chicken for dinner.

You blink up at him, unbothered by the irritation radiating off of him in waves. 

“What? I’m serious."

He turns his head slowly, mint-green hair catching the sunlight in a way that seems almost too vibrant for someone with such a perpetually dark aura. His eyes narrow slightly—not in anger, but in that uniquely way of his that suggests he's already regretting engaging with you.

"You want to hold my hand," he repeats flatly, as if saying it out loud might somehow make it sound less ridiculous.

"Yes." You nod once, decisively. "Without the gloves."

His jaw tightens by 3 degrees, and for a moment, you think he might ignore you entirely. But then he exhales sharply through his nose—an audible punctuation mark to his mounting frustration—and tilts his head just enough to meet your gaze.

"Why?" he asks, voice low and measured, like he's trying to reason with a particularly stubborn child.

You pause, considering the question. 

Why do you want to hold his hand? 

It’s not like you’ve ever been particularly interested in physical contact before. In fact, you generally find it inefficient and unnecessary—an outdated social construct with no practical application in most scenarios.

But this feels... different. Important. Like there’s some unquantifiable variable at play that your analytical mind can’t quite grasp.

"I don’t know," you admit finally, your tone carrying the same blunt honesty that has gotten you into trouble more times than you can count. "I just do."

Yoongi closes his eyes briefly—1.2 seconds exactly—before pinching the bridge of his nose through the fabric of his glove. 

“You can’t just go around asking people if you can hold their hands."

"Why not?" Your brow furrows as you process his response. "Is it against protocol?"

"It’s not about protocol," he says, dropping his hand back to his side with a resigned sigh. "It’s about basic social norms."

"Social norms are arbitrary constructs," you argue, crossing your arms over your chest. "If I want to hold your hand and you don’t explicitly object, then what’s the issue?"

"The issue," he says slowly, as if explaining quantum mechanics to a toddler, "is that most people don’t ask questions like that because they understand how it might make someone else feel."

You tilt your head slightly, analyzing his expression for any sign of genuine discomfort. His face remains impassive—calm but guarded, like he’s carefully controlling every microexpression to avoid giving anything away.

"I don’t see how it would make you feel anything," you say finally, your tone more curious than defensive. "It’s just skin-to-skin contact. Statistically insignificant unless there’s some kind of chemical reaction involved."

Yoongi stares at you for a long moment—4.7 seconds exactly—before shaking his head slightly and muttering something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like why me?

"You’re impossible," he says finally, turning away from you and resuming his perfectly measured stride down the street.

You fall into step beside him without hesitation, adjusting your pace to match his once again. 

“You didn’t answer my question," you point out after exactly 3 seconds of silence.

"I thought I did," he replies dryly.

"No," you counter, your tone taking on that annoyingly persistent edge that you realize seems to get under his skin. "You explained why most people wouldn’t ask to hold someone’s hand. You didn’t explain why I shouldn’t ask."

He exhales sharply again—louder this time—and glances at you out of the corner of his eye. His gaze flickers briefly to your gloved hands before returning to the path ahead.

"Because it’s not normal," he says finally.

"Neither is wearing gloves all the time," you shoot back without missing a beat.

His lips twitch upward for 0.2 seconds before flattening again—a microexpression so fleeting that most people wouldn’t have noticed it. 

But you do.

"Fair," he mutters under his breath.

You take this as a victory and press on. "So? Can I?"

"No." 

"But why?" Your voice edges into what could almost be described as a whine—not because you’re upset, but because you genuinely don’t understand why he’s being so difficult about something so seemingly insignificant.

Yoongi stops abruptly again—his second unplanned halt in less than five minutes—and turns to face you fully this time. His eyes lock onto yours with an intensity that makes your pulse spike by 8 beats per minute.

"Because," he says slowly, enunciating each syllable like it physically pains him to explain this to you, "if I let you hold my hand without gloves, it won’t stop there."

You blink, processing his words. 

"What do you mean it won't stop there?" 

Your head tilts exactly 4.3 degrees to the right—a physical manifestation of your curiosity. Yoongi's jaw tightens, the muscle visibly tensing beneath his skin. 

"Just drop it."

"Is it just the hands?" you press, undeterred by his obvious discomfort. "Or would any skin contact cause this... whatever it is you're concerned about?"

"Any skin contact," he answers flatly.

You process this new variable. "So if I touch any part of your skin, the reaction would be the same?"

"Yes." 

His response is clipped, precise—clearly hoping brevity will discourage further inquiry.

It doesn't.

"Is that why we're both covered head to toe? To prevent skin contact?" 

The question emerges as you glance down at your own tactical gear, noting how thoroughly it encases your body.

"Yes."

"But not our faces," you point out, studying the exposed skin of his cheeks, his jaw, his forehead. "Our faces remain uncovered."

He exhales, the sound carrying precisely 23% more frustration than his previous sigh. 

"Covering our faces would make us suspicious to CHRONOS agents. We need to blend in."

Your analysis immediately detects the logical inconsistency. 

“Your resistance movement seems quite popular among CHRONOS employees. I've counted at least 27 defectors in your facility."

"Mhm."

"How come agents don't recognize you then?" The question presents itself naturally as you catalog variables. "Wouldn't they have put a face to your name by now? Especially given your apparent leadership position?"

"Part of my ability."

Your temporal readings spike by 0.12% at the mention of his ability. You've been collecting fragments of information since arriving, piecing together a picture of what each team member can do. But Yoongi's ability remains the most significant unknown variable.

"What's your ability?" You ask directly, knowing the probability of receiving a straightforward answer approaches zero.

Indeed, his lips quirk upward—0.3 millimeters, right side only. 

"Guess."

You narrow your eyes, cataloging the available data:

- His ability relates to temporal manipulation

- It affects perception

- It involves skin contact

- It has restoration properties, as demonstrated with your glove

"Time manipulation," you venture, knowing it's insufficient but hoping to prompt elaboration.

"Not specific enough." 

"Temporal reconstruction?" You recalibrate, adding the restoration variable.

He makes that sound again—the one that's almost amusement but contains too much restraint. 

“Closer."

Your analytical mind sorts through theoretical temporal abilities, discarding those incompatible with observed phenomena. 

“Chronological restoration with perceptual manipulation components."

His eyebrow raises by exactly 0.4 centimeters. "Sometimes I forget how unnecessarily technical you can be."

"Is that accurate?" you press.

"Parts of it." 

His attention shifts to the street ahead, where the monitoring hub should be visible. But it isn't. Not where your memory insists it should be.

You follow his gaze, temporal cognition struggling to reconcile the discrepancy. 

"The hub is missing."

"No," he corrects, "it's been moved. Remember?"

The correction creates a curious double-vision effect in your cognitive processing—you simultaneously remember the hub at its original location AND at its new position three blocks east.

Your nose starts bleeding.

Agent Min doesn't even look—simply extends the black handkerchief towards your nose. 

"Stop trying to hold both memories at once," he instructs, voice dropping to 42 decibels. "Accept the new one as current reality while maintaining awareness that it's been altered."

"That's contradictory," you argue, pressing the handkerchief to your nose.

"Not to your brain, it isn't." His eyes never leave the street ahead, yet you sense his focus remains partially on you. "Your temporal signature allows you to perceive both timelines simultaneously. The cognitive dissonance is what causes the bleeding."

"How do you know so much about my temporal signature?" The question emerges with sudden intensity.

His jaw tightens. "Focus on the mission."

"Answer the question."

"No."

Your frustration spikes by approximately 37%. 

“You know significantly more about my physiological responses than should be possible given our limited interaction history."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Classified."

You resist the urge to roll your eyes—a social gesture you've never found particularly productive. 

“That's not an answer."

"It's all you're getting right now." His tone shifts, carrying a finality that suggests further inquiry would be pointless.

Your gaze returns to the street, where two distinct sets of memories continue to overlap in your perception. The monitoring hub that should be directly ahead isn't there. Instead, an upscale coffee shop occupies the space, patrons moving in and out with the synchronized efficiency of people who have no idea reality has been restructured around them.

"They don't notice," you murmur, observing the civilians. "They genuinely believe that coffee shop has always been there."

"Yes." Agent Min's confirmation is unnecessary but appreciated. "For them, reality is singular and consistent. No contradictions."

"And for us?"

His eyes meet yours briefly. "For Outliers, reality is... negotiable."

“Outliers. That’s me now, too.”

"Yes. People whose temporal signatures resist CHRONOS manipulation," he elaborates, voice dropping lower. "People who remember when reality changes. People who can see through the illusion."

"Like right now," you note, focusing on the coffee shop while maintaining awareness of the monitoring hub that should occupy its space. "I can hold both versions simultaneously."

"Exactly." For once, he doesn't sound annoyed by your analysis. "That's what makes you valuable. And dangerous."

Your Chrono-Sync Watch beeps softly: Temporal variance: 1.42%.

Agent Min's eyes flick to your wrist. "We need to stabilize you before continuing. Your variance is climbing."

"I'm fine," you counter, though the persistent throbbing behind your eyes suggests otherwise.

"You're not." His contradiction carries no room for debate. "Find somewhere quiet. Now."

You scan the area, identifying a narrow alley between buildings approximately 34 meters ahead. 

“There."

He follows your gaze and nods once, already adjusting his trajectory. His stride lengthens by precisely 0.07 meters—not enough for casual observation to detect, but you note the change immediately.

The alley provides 68% reduction in ambient noise and 74% decrease in visual stimuli—optimal conditions for temporal stabilization according to the limited data you've gathered.

Agent Min positions himself at precisely 47 centimeters from you—close enough for what you now understand is temporal alignment, but far enough to maintain whatever invisible boundary he's established.

"Your variance is too high," he states, glancing at your watch. "We need to reduce it before continuing."

"How?" The question is direct, clinical—exactly how you intend it.

His expression shifts, eyes darkening by approximately 12%. "Proximity and synchronized breathing. It's slow but effective."

Your analytical mind immediately identifies the logical gap. 

"If proximity helps stabilize my temporal signature, then closer proximity should logically be more efficient. Physical contact would provide maximum efficiency."

His jaw tightens so suddenly you can almost hear the teeth grinding. 

"No."

"Why not? It's the most logical solution."

"Because I said so." 

The childish response seems deliberately designed to irritate you.

It works.

"That's not a scientifically valid reason," you counter, crossing your arms. "Is there another method besides proximity and breathing?"

"No." 

His response comes too quickly—0.37 seconds faster than his average response time. You narrow your eyes, analytical mind immediately flagging the statistical anomaly. 

"You're lying."

"I'm not lying," he counters, voice dropping to that dangerous octave that somehow makes your skin prickle despite the climate-controlled tactical gear. "I'm just not telling you the whole truth."

"That's the same thing."

"It's really not." His lips quirk upward in that infuriating half-smile. "One involves active deception. The other involves strategic omission."

"Strategic omission," you repeat, the term rolling off your tongue with obvious distaste. "Is that what we're calling it now?"

"We've always called it that. You just don't remember."

Your Chrono-Sync Watch beeps again: Temporal variance: 1.57%.

"Your variance is still climbing," he notes, voice shifting to something that might almost be concern if you didn't know better. "Focus on your breathing. Match mine."

You want to argue further, to push until he breaks and gives you the answers your analytical mind craves. But the pressure behind your eyes is intensifying, and your temporal readings are becoming increasingly unstable.

"Fine," you concede, though the word carries more edge than intended. "Breathing."

He inhales slowly—4 seconds in, 6 seconds out—establishing a rhythm that your body automatically begins to follow. 

The synchronization feels practiced, like muscle memory you shouldn't possess.

"Why do I know this pattern?" 

"Because your body remembers even when your mind doesn't."

"You keep saying that. It is not scientifically possible."

"Then why is it working?”

Your temporal variance begins to decrease—1.52%, 1.47%, 1.39%—the numbers falling in precise correlation with your synchronized breathing.

"Fascinating," you murmur, analytical mind already calculating the energy transfer mechanisms that might explain this phenomenon. "The temporal resonance between our signatures creates a stabilizing effect that—"

"Stop analyzing it," he interrupts, the command carrying a sharp edge. "The more you try to understand it, the worse your variance gets."

"That's counterintuitive."

"Welcome to temporal physics." His tone carries a dry humor that catches you off guard. "Where everything you think you know is wrong, and trying to figure out why makes your nose bleed."

Despite yourself, your lips twitch upward. 

Illogical. 

“That's an inefficient system."

"It's by design." His eyes never leave yours as he continues the breathing pattern. "CHRONOS doesn't want people understanding how reality actually works."

"And you do?"

A softening around the eyes that lasts precisely 0.7 seconds swallows his pupils before disappearing. 

"I want you to understand. Just not all at once."

The admission carries more weight than it should, creating a curious pressure in your chest that defies analytical categorization.

Your variance continues to decrease—1.31%, 1.24%, 1.18%—each number bringing you closer to stability.

"There's something you're not telling me," you state, the certainty absolute despite having no empirical evidence to support it.

His lips quirk upward—0.4 millimeters, right side only. 

"There are approximately 7,429 things I'm not telling you, A-735. You'll have to be more specific."

"About stabilization methods." Your eyes narrow, focusing on the micro-expressions that betray him. "There's another way, isn't there? Something more efficient than this."

His breathing pattern falters for exactly 0.3 seconds—a statistical anomaly that confirms your hypothesis.

"Yes," he admits finally, the word emerging with obvious reluctance.

"What is it?"

His jaw tightens, eyes darkening to that dangerous shade that makes your pulse accelerate by 7.2 beats per minute.

"Nothing you need to know right now."

"I disagree."

"Shocking."

The sarcasm in his tone is so thick you could practically measure its density. Strangely, it registers a progress in your head. 

"Is it dangerous?" 

“Not in the way you're thinking."

"Then why won't you tell me?"

He holds your gaze for exactly 3.7 seconds—42% longer than standard conversational eye contact. 

“Because once you know, you'll want to try it. And once you try it..." He pauses, something raw and unguarded flashing in his eyes. "Let's just say it complicates things."

"How?"

"Classified."

You exhale sharply through your nose, frustration spiking by approximately 43%. 

"You can't just classify everything you don't want to explain."

"Actually," he counters, that infuriating half-smile returning, "I can. It's one of the perks of being in charge."

"You're impossible."

"So I've been told." His eyes flicker to your watch. "1.03%. Almost stable."

Your variance continues to decrease—0.97%, 0.92%, 0.88%—each number bringing you closer to the standard range.

"We should continue the mission," you state once your readings stabilize at 0.84%.

He nods once, already turning toward the street. But before he can take a step, you catch his wrist—your gloved fingers wrapping around the tactical material covering his arm.

He freezes, entire body tensing like you've applied an electric shock.

"This isn't over," you state, voice low and precise. "I will figure it out."

His eyes meet yours, something dark and dangerous flickering in their depths. 

"I know you will. You always do."

The statement carries too much weight, too much history that you can't access. But before you can question it, he gently extracts his wrist from your grip and steps back onto the street.

You follow, sorting through the fragments of information, piecing together the puzzle that is Agent Min.

He's hiding something. Something important. Something about you, about him, about whatever connection exists between you that defies logical explanation.

And you're definitely going to figure out what it is.

You’ve been walking for exactly twenty-three minutes.

And Agent Min has looked at you ten times in the past five.

Each glance is quick—measured flickers of attention, like he’s trying to calculate something without setting off an alarm.

You count them anyway. You always count things when you don’t know what they mean.

The silence stretches between you, and it’s thick; clinging really. You expected him to appreciate it—your restraint, your control, your refusal to ask questions he won’t answer.

But instead, he’s growing restless.

Another glance. Quick. Sharp.

You stop walking.

He takes two more steps before realizing you aren’t following, turning around with a tilt of his head that would seem casual if it weren’t so obviously deliberate.

You cross your arms. Narrow your eyes. Catalog the slight shift in his posture.

“What.”

It comes out flat. Demanding.

He exhales—short, controlled, dismissive.

“Nothing.”

You frown, recalculating. “Then stop looking at me.”

He raises an eyebrow by approximately 0.5 centimeters. Very deliberate. Very measured.

“Not looking at you.”

You tilt your head, mirroring his earlier gesture.

“Incorrect. You’ve looked at me ten times in the last five minutes. Nine, if you want to exclude peripheral glances.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, which statistically increases the likelihood that he’s internally debating whether arguing is worth it.

You decide to press anyway. “Why?”

His mouth tightens, a minuscule shift of muscle you might have missed before. Not now. Now you notice everything.

“You’re distracting,” he says finally. Short. Clipped. Like ripping off a bandage.

You blink, recalibrating.

“How?”

He sighs, heavier this time—more oxygen expended, betraying more irritation than he probably intends.

“You’re…” He searches for the word like it’s a personal affront to have to find it. “…loud.”

“I’m not speaking.”

“Exactly.”

You process that.

“So my silence is distracting.”

“Yes.”

“Because you’re used to me questioning you.”

“Partly.”

Your eyes narrow. His left hand flexes at his side, the faint creak of leather betraying tension he’s probably holding in check.

“Then elaborate,” you say. Curious. Intrigued despite yourself.

“No.”

You resist the urge to sigh back at him—your own version of his exasperation. 

“Is it proximity?” you try again.  “I can increase distance if needed.”

The corner of his mouth twitches—barely—but enough to register.

“It’s not proximity,” he mutters, almost to himself.

“Then what is it?”

His eyes flicker back to you, sharp and cutting.

“You’re unpredictable,” he says. “That’s the problem.”

You tilt your head again, absorbing that.

“Unpredictability usually denotes a flaw in pattern recognition,” you say thoughtfully. “And you pride yourself on anticipating variables.”

His expression tightens, the faintest edge of irritation sparking.

Good. You’re getting somewhere.

“You’re not a variable,” he says finally, voice low. “You’re an anomaly.”

Your heart stutters—not from sentiment, but from the weight of the word.

Anomaly. Noma.

The nickname he’s never explained.

You hold his gaze, cataloging the dilation of his pupils, the slight tremor in his exhale.

0.4 seconds too long before he looks away.

Enough to register. Enough to matter.

You tilt your head a fraction to the left. Testing. Probing. 

“Your behavior denotes a penchant for sadism,” you observe. Neutral enough to pretend the words don’t sting a little when they land between you.

Yoongi exhales—slow, the faintest curl of amusement threading through the air. 

“Because I’m sadistic, clearly,” he mutters, voice rougher than necessary. 

Calculated imperfection.

You narrow your eyes. Catalog the rhythm of his steps, how they slow imperceptibly as you fall into pace again, how the ambient noise seems to dull when he speaks.

“You are being purposefully obtuse,” you accuse, sharper this time. “Being wistfully cryptic does not align with leadership traits. I would assume the leader of the 7th Hour would not engage in childish tactics.”

A beat.

He hums low in his throat—a noise of neither agreement nor denial. More like he’s tasting your words, deciding whether to bother answering at all.

“Me?” he says finally, deadpan. “Childish? Never.”

The dryness of it slashes across your skin like a blade dipped in velvet.

You scowl, which only earns you another flicker of that infuriating almost-smirk.

“I expected more,” you say, voice clipped. Measured. “That is on me for applying inappropriate expectations.”

“You’ll learn.” His tone drops, lazy and lethal. “Eventually.”

The way he says it—you’ll learn—prickles under your skin. 

Because it doesn’t sound like a threat.

It sounds like a promise.

Your body catalogues the microadjustments again: the flex of leather at his hands, the sharp lines of his jaw as he grinds out the words with so little effort it’s almost mocking.

You resist the irrational urge to step closer.

Proximity is inefficient. Emotional responses disrupt cognitive processing.

You recite it mentally like a catechism.

Still.

The question rises, unbidden.

The same way it seems to always do with him.

“What is the mission objective?”

Blunt. Necessary. Something to tether yourself back to reason.

He doesn’t break stride. Doesn’t even flinch.

“You’re a smart girl,” he says instead, so casually it almost doesn’t register as condescension. Almost. “You’ll figure it out.”

You exhale sharply through your nose. Inefficient communication strategies. You’re tempted to cite the statistical decrease in operational success rates when leadership fails to fully brief its agents, but he’s baiting you. Purposefully.

And you, predictably, are already chasing.

“Statistically,” you begin, voice taut with precision, “the likelihood of successful insertion without a clear objective—”

“Statistically,” he cuts in, unbothered, “there shouldn’t even be a 25th hour.”

The implication lands harder than it should.

You tighten your jaw, recalibrating, watching how he watches you.

Like he’s daring you to keep up.

“You are evading,” you say. “Obfuscating under the guise of intellectual superiority.”

“Am I?” he says, feigning disinterest. His shoulders shrug—barely, beautifully. “Or maybe you just don’t like not being the smartest person in the room.”

You blink once. Slow. Methodical.

Your pulse betrays you anyway, kicking up by approximately 6 bpm.

“You overestimate your own cleverness,” you say evenly, even though some traitorous part of you wants him to keep doing it. 

Keep outsmarting you. Keep sparring until the tension snaps under its own weight.

“You underestimate my patience,” he counters.

Another tiny smirk. Quicker this time. Sharper.

Your chest feels too tight around your ribs.

Inefficient physiological response.

You step away—not because you want distance, but because your processing centers are beginning to overload. You need new data. A new angle.

You pivot sharply toward the park ahead.

Three steps away before you hear his chuckle—so quiet you almost mistake it for a glitch in ambient noise.

You don’t turn back.

Instead, you focus on the new structure—the park that wasn’t there before.

It waits ahead, pristine and out of place. Grass too green. Air too clean. Symmetry too perfect.

Manufactured. Synthetic.

You slow your pace, narrowing your eyes, cataloging inconsistencies: tree spacing (1.3 meters apart, unnaturally even), the curvature of the path (identical to simulation model 8C), the temperature drop (2 degrees lower than the surrounding sector).

You feel Yoongi’s presence a few steps behind you. Not following. Not chasing.

Waiting.

Just like he always does.

Just like he always has.

And somehow, despite everything you know—despite every logic protocol firing in your mind—you want him to follow anyway.

You inhale sharply. Taste static on your tongue.

Focus.

Not on him.

On the mission.

On the park.

Focus on anything except the way Min Yoongi—a ghost, an anomaly—manages to outsmart you without even trying.

So that’s what you do—you focus forward, eyes locking onto the new structure rising ahead of you—all marble paths and manicured trees and gentle, glistening statues under the waning light.

A park that didn’t exist last week.

A plaza that hums wrong against your skin.

Your steps slow as you approach, instinct warning you even before your mind can fully process it.

You analyze the angles of the paths. The symmetry of the displays. The too-perfect gloss of the stone.

The air feels wrong here—too still, like it's been filtered of something vital.

But curiosity nags at you. It always does, when things defy explanations.

You step forward into the park, assessing its dimensions with a precision that seems excessive even to you. The perimeter measures exactly 247.8 meters around. The pathways curve at identical 30-degree angles. The statues are placed at equidistant intervals of precisely 12.4 meters.

Perfect. Too perfect.

Your temporal readings spike by 0.17% as you observe families strolling casually through what your analytical mind categorizes as a statistical impossibility. A man pushes a stroller past a bronze figure frozen mid-gesture. A couple takes selfies beneath the outstretched arm of another.

"The Garden of Stability," reads a polished plaque at the entrance. "Honoring those who sacrificed to maintain our timeline."

You've never seen this place before. You're certain of it. 

Yet your Chrono-Sync Watch registers no anomalies beyond the acceptable variance threshold.

Curious.

You move deeper into the garden, cataloging details: like the fact that the statues are eerily lifelike—capturing expressions with a fidelity that exceeds current manufacturing capabilities by approximately 27%. 

Furthermore, each statue has a small plaque fixed to its base. 

You approach the nearest one, a figure of a woman with her hand extended, fingers splayed as if reaching for something just beyond grasp.

"In memory of Eska Thior—sacrificed herself to stabilize Sector 7 during the temporal disturbance of 2156."

Your eyes narrow as you analyze the woman's expression. 

The sculptor has captured what should be determination, but there's something else—something in the eyes that registers as wrong. 

Your visual processing identifies it as fear, not resolve.

You move to the next statue. A man looking skyward, one foot slightly raised as if caught mid-step.

"In memory of Vayon Zesian—sacrificed himself to protect civilian timelines during the Sector 4 anomaly."

The black man's face is frozen in what the plaque suggests is awe or reverence. But your pattern recognition flags inconsistencies: the tension in his jaw is 38% higher than would be expected in a reverent expression. His fingers are curved at angles suggesting resistance, not surrender.

Your head throbs—a dull, persistent ache that intensifies as you catalog each discrepancy. Yet you continue, your analytical mind demanding more data despite the physical discomfort.

A sharp tug at your wrist interrupts your analysis. You turn, ready to object to the invasion of your personal space, when you register Agent Min's face exactly 31.7 centimeters from yours. His eyes contain a warning that makes no logical sense given the context.

"Shh," he says, the sound barely audible at 22 decibels. "Act normal."

You blink, processing both the command and the unusual tension in his posture. His hand remains on your wrist, gloved fingers gripping with precisely 42% more pressure than necessary for attention-getting purposes.

"This wasn't here yesterday," you whisper, your voice automatically matching his volume. "It's new."

"Yes, it is," he confirms, his eyes never meeting yours. Instead, they scan the perimeter. "And I'd advise against looking at the statues."

The request is illogical. You're already looking at them. You've already cataloged five discrepancies and three statistical anomalies in their design.

"Why?" you ask, the question forming before you can process the tension radiating from his body.

You turn away from him precisely as he tightens his grip—too late to stop your movement. Your eyes land on a statue directly ahead, positioned 15.3 meters from your current location. 

A man in a CHRONOS uniform, arms outstretched as if embracing the air around him.

Robin.

Your cognitive processes stutter, creating a 0.7-second delay between visual input and meaning assignment. 

Robin. Cubicle 47-B. Coffee preference: black with one sugar. Temporal compliance rating: 98.7%. Lunch companion: yesterday, 12:37 PM to 1:14 PM.

"That's Robin," you state, your voice dropping to 19 decibels. "I had lunch with him yesterday."

Your stomach contracts unexpectedly, digestive acids rising by approximately 37%. Your neural pathways struggle to reconcile the contradiction: Robin alive yesterday. Robin memorialized today.

Robin moving, breathing, complaining about the cafeteria's tempeh option yesterday.

Robin frozen in bronze today.

No fabrication facility could produce a statue this detailed in less than 24 hours. 

The metallurgical processes alone would require at minimum 72 hours for casting and cooling, with an additional 48 for detailing and patina development.

Unless...

Your analytical mind reaches the conclusion precisely as your stomach lurches again—a visceral response you didn't anticipate and cannot control.

They're not statues.

"We need to leave," Agent Min says, voice pitched extremely low. 

His fingers adjust on your wrist, shifting downward by 2.3 centimeters until they rest against the pulse point where your glove meets your sleeve.

Your heart rate increases by 13.7 beats per minute.

Not from his touch. From the realization.

"They're not statues," you confirm aloud, your voice clinical despite the acid burning the back of your throat. "They're people. Frozen in some form of temporal stasis."

Agent Min's jaw tightens, the muscle visibly tensing beneath his skin. 

“Not here," he warns, his voice barely audible. "Camera at your two o'clock, range 17 meters. Audio capture capabilities."

You process this new variable, immediately adjusting your behavior patterns. Your posture shifts by 4.3 degrees—more casual, less alert. Your expression recalibrates to something 76% more neutral.

"The craftsmanship is remarkable," you say at standard conversational volume, the words feeling like ash on your tongue. "Such attention to detail."

Agent Min's eyes flash with something that might be approval if it weren't overshadowed by urgency. 

“We should continue our walk," he says evenly. "There's more to see in Sector 4."

His fingers remain at your pulse point for exactly 2.7 seconds longer than necessary before releasing. The warmth lingers—a ghost sensation you struggle to categorize.

You follow his lead, moving away from Robin's frozen form with measured steps despite the increasing pressure in your chest. Your breathing adjusts automatically—in for 4 seconds, out for 6—matching the pattern Agent Min established earlier.

Families continue to mill around you, oblivious to the horror disguised as art. A child points at Robin's statue, tugging at her mother's sleeve.

"He looks so happy, mommy! Like he's giving everyone a big hug!"

Your vision blurs by approximately 12%—an inexplicable visual phenomenon you'll need to analyze later.

Agent Min positions himself precisely 47 centimeters to your left—close enough for temporal alignment, far enough to maintain whatever invisible boundary he's established. 

But something has changed. 

His posture carries 27% more tension than before, and his eyes scan the area with a renowned frequency.

"Don't look back," he instructs as you approach the park's exit. "And whatever you do, don't react when I tell you this."

You maintain your neutral expression, eyes fixed forward as instructed.

"There are seventeen of them in this garden," he says, voice low and controlled. "All from your monitoring facility. All disappeared within the last 72 hours."

Your Chrono-Sync Watch beeps softly: Temporal variance: 1.12%.

A warning. Your emotional response is affecting your temporal stability.

You inhale slowly, forcing your analytical mind to take precedence over the uncomfortable pressure building behind your sternum.

"Probability of coincidence: less than 0.003%," you calculate aloud, keeping your voice steady despite the data.

"It's not a coincidence," he confirms, voice dropping even lower. "It's a message."

"For who?"

His eyes meet yours briefly—0.8 seconds of direct contact that somehow feels heavier than it should.

"For us," he says simply. "For you."

Your temporal variance increases to 1.17%.

"They're hunting for Outliers," he continues, eyes scanning the path ahead. "This garden is both a warning and a trap. They're watching for reactions—for people who recognize what they're really seeing."

“That's why you grabbed my wrist. You anticipated my reaction."

A ghost of that infuriating half-smile crosses his face. "You're predictable in some ways, Noma."

The nickname dulls the ache sitting low in your stomach for reasons you cannot comprehend.

"Robin greeted me yesterday," you realize aloud, the pieces clicking into place. "At lunch. He looked at me strangely when I mentioned the temporal fluctuation in Sector 3."

Agent Min's expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes darkens. 

“How long was the conversation?"

"17 minutes, 42 seconds."

"And did you discuss anything related to temporal anomalies after that?"

You review the memory, analyzing each exchange with renewed scrutiny. 

"Negative. The conversation shifted to cafeteria food quality."

He exhales—a controlled release of breath that betrays nothing of his thoughts. 

“That might have been enough."

Your stomach lurches.

Robin is frozen in bronze because of you. Because he noticed something. Because he might have reported it.

The data is insufficient for a definitive conclusion, but the probability exceeds 72.4%.

Your temporal variance increases to 1.23%.

"Steady," Agent Min murmurs, his voice carrying a cadence that seems designed to stabilize your readings. "Focus on your breathing. In for 4, out for 6."

You comply automatically, your body responding to the instruction before your mind can process why. 

"Is this what happens to all Outliers?" you ask once your variance stabilizes at 1.09%. "They become... monuments?"

"No," he says finally. "Most are simply erased and reprogrammed. This is... new."

"A tactical adjustment," you surmise. "Enhanced psychological warfare."

"Yes." 

"Why now?"

His jaw tightens, eyes darkening to that dangerous shade that makes your pulse accelerate by 7.2 beats per minute. 

"Because they're getting desperate."

"Why would CHRONOS be desperate? They control reality itself."

His eyes meet yours, something unreadable flashing in their depths. 

“That's what I'd like to know," he mutters, voice dropping to that dangerous octave that makes your skin prickle.

The discrepancy registers immediately. Agent Min doesn't ask questions—he provides answers, often cryptic and insufficient, but answers nonetheless. This response pattern deviates by approximately 87% from established behavioral norms.

Before you can analyze further, your body betrays you.

It starts as a contraction in your esophagus—sudden, violent, measuring approximately 74% stronger than standard swallowing reflex. Your salivary glands activate at 243% above baseline, flooding your mouth with excess moisture. Your stomach muscles clench in rhythmic waves, each contraction more intense than the last.

The analytical part of your mind calculates: gastric acid rising at 7.2 centimeters per second, diaphragm contracting at 3.7 times normal pressure, throat constricting at 82% capacity.

The rest of you simply feels.

Robin's face. Frozen in bronze that isn't bronze.

Your Chrono-Sync Watch beeps a warning: Temporal variance: 2.43%.

A dangerous spike.

Your body heaves, doubling you over with a force that defies voluntary control. The acid burns at exactly 4.7 on the pH scale, searing the back of your throat as you fight to contain it. Your vision narrows to a field of approximately 47 degrees, peripheral awareness fading as your sensory systems redirect all processing power to the immediate crisis.

You register Agent Min's hand on your back—exactly T4 vertebra, pressure precisely calibrated at 2.3 kilograms, generating heat at 38.2°C despite the glove barrier.

"CHRONOS agents," he says, voice suddenly sharp with urgency. "Two o'clock, range 43 meters. Moving this way."

Your body doesn't care about CHRONOS agents. Your body only knows that Robin is frozen in timeless agony while families take selfies beneath his outstretched arms.

Another contraction—87% stronger than the previous one. Your analytical mind attempts to categorize the physiological response but finds no suitable parameters. 

This isn't logical. This isn't efficient. This isn't you.

Agent Min's hand moves from your spine to your wrist in one fluid motion. His fingers lock around the pulse point where your glove meets your sleeve, grip tensing to exactly 3.6 kilograms of pressure.

"Move. Now."

Your body moves before your mind processes the instruction, legs automatically adjusting to match his sudden directional shift. You register environmental changes with fragmented precision: ambient temperature decreasing by 1.7°C, crowd density increasing by 23%, noise levels rising to 72 decibels.

Agent Min guides you, his body angled at exactly 37 degrees relative to yours—shielding you from direct line of sight with the approaching agents while maintaining casual appearance.

"Temporal signature spiking," he mutters, grip tightening by another 0.4 kilograms. "They'll detect it if we don't stabilize you."

Your watch confirms his assessment: Temporal variance: 3.17%.

Critical threshold approaching.

The nausea intensifies, each wave synchronized perfectly with the beeping of your watch. Their correlation approaches 97.3%—statistically significant by any measure.

"Coffee shop," Agent Min decides, adjusting your trajectory by 28 degrees. "Northeast corner. Dampening field in the walls."

Your cognitive processes struggle to keep pace with the sensory overload. The street blurs around you—not from speed but from some perceptual distortion your analytical mind cannot quantify.

You glimpse your reflection in a storefront window as you pass—your face pale by approximately 37% compared to baseline, pupils dilated to 7.2 millimeters, micro-expressions cycling at 3.4 times normal rate.

You barely recognize yourself.

Another contraction seizes your stomach, more violent than before. Agent Min's arm shifts, sliding around your waist with a familiarity that feels habitual despite being entirely new. 

"Almost there," he says, voice dropping to that calibrated cadence that seems designed to stabilize your readings. "In for 4, out for 6. Match me."

Your body complies automatically, respiratory system syncing to his pattern without conscious direction. 

CHRONOS agents appear in your peripheral vision—three of them, moving with the unnatural precision that marks them as Timekeepers. Their trajectory will intersect with yours in approximately 12.3 seconds at current velocity.

"They're tracking your signature," Agent Min confirms, pace increasing by 0.3 meters per second. "Coffee shop.”

The coffee shop materializes ahead—a nondescript building with that averageness that makes it practically invisible to casual observation. Its design incorporates exactly zero distinguishing architectural features, rendering it 87% forgettable to the human brain.

Perfect camouflage.

Agent Min guides you through the door body positioned at precisely the optimal angle to shield yours from external observation. The bell chimes at exactly 56 hertz—a frequency your analytical mind flags as mathematically significant though you cannot immediately determine why.

The door closes behind you with a soft click that somehow sounds final.

Agent Min's arm remains around your waist—a point of contact your body accepts with suspicious automaticity.

Your Chrono-Sync Watch beeps one last time before falling silent: Temporal variance: 1.78%.

Decreasing. Stabilizing.

The nausea recedes by approximately 42%, leaving behind a hollow sensation you cannot properly categorize.

Agent Min's eyes meet yours, and he looks… concerned?

"Breathe," he instructs.

You comply, your body responding to his command without conscious direction.

In for 4.

Out for 6.

In for 4.

Out for 6.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

goal: 100 notes.

next | index

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© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[jeepers-creeperz]

Picture You

George Weasley x Fem! Reader

MDNI 18+ Hogwarts University AU, Early 20s

Warnings: Slight plot but mainly porn, PinV, Unprotected Penetration, fingering, oral (female receiving), semi-public sex (gryffindor common room), choking

Loosely based off of Picture You by Chappell Roan

word count: 2.6k

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ .

The loud buzz of the usually busy Gryffindor common room had finally come to a soothing hush. There you were, sat across from your best friend in the entire world, George Weasley.

The room had emptied and had left you and your fire hair colored friend to your own devices. A comfortable stillness in the air as the fire crackled and room glowed a soft orange. “What say you, Y/L/N? You ready to turn in?” Asked George, a slight mischievous glint in his eye. You thought to yourself before narrowing your eyes at him

“Why Weasley? Got something special in mind?”

He shrugged before patting the seat next to him on the couch. You let out a low groan before obliging. You took the spot next to him and nudged his shoulder with your own.

“Not planning to play a trick on me are you?” You asked, mostly joking.

“No, no. Just-“ his thoughts trailed off.

“Just?” You raised your brow.

“Do I need a reason to wanting you to sit next to me?” He mocked your raised brow before smiling at you.

Your breath caught in your throat at the sight of his warm smile. The smile you adored more than anything in the world. But you were determined to keep that your little secret. You laughed and shoved his face away as he shared your sentiment in the laughter.

“Come on. You love me. Just admit it.”

Your only response being a swift eye roll and flicking him off. “In your dreams, Weasley.” This response seemed to peak his interest.

“In my dreams, yeah? What makes you so sure you roam about in my dreams?” He poked fun as you shook your head.

“Unless of course I show up in yours and you’re just dying to know if you show up in mine.” He continued, which only made you roll your eyes again. He laughed and poked your side.

“Oy!” You called out giggling.

“Go on then. Tell me about these dreams.” George encouraged, smirking down at you.

You could feel your cheeks heating up into a light pink, trying to your hardest to mask it by turning away from him.

“I hit a soft spot?” He teased.

“Oh come off it, Georgie. As if you would show up in any of my dreams as anything other than the pesky git that you are.”

He licked his lips before leaning in towards your ear. “Least I’m showing up.” He whispered.

You felt chill run down your spine and you closed your eyes, taking in every bit of his warm scent that felt like it was completely enveloping every bit of your senses as it washed over you. You opened your eyes and tilted your head in his direction a bit before he leaned back into his previous position. You stuck your tongue in your cheek and crossed your arms as you looked up at him.

Truthfully, he showed up in every single one of your dreams. He was in each and every fantasy, every single day dream. Every inch of him was exposed in the deepest parts of your brain. He was your best friend, but he was also your every desire. If you weren’t sane, there would be lipstick stains on your mirror in the place where he should be. You wanted him. No, in fact. You needed him. Craved every morsel of his being.

“What about you, huh?” You tapped his leg. He shrugged his shoulders before placing his arm behind you, resting it on top of the couch.

“Maybe once or twice.”

“Oh yeah?”

“mmm.” he nodded.

“What about?” you egged on, your heart pounding in your chest.

“Little bit of this, little bit of that.” he trailed off.

You furrowed your brows in confusion. “Elaborate please, sir.” There’s no way his dreams were even in the same realm as yours. You knew where you stood with him and that was deeply in the friend zone.

“Go on, tell me, Weasley. Am I in a mini skirt doing research in the library? Or maybe I’m mixing potions in nothing but my robes. Go ‘head tell me your all perversions.” You joked, wiggling your eyebrows.

He didn’t laugh. He only stared at you with a glint in his eyes that you didn’t recognize. You couldn’t do anything but stare back up at his gaze like a deer caught in white bright headlights.

“Something like that.” He said barely above a whisper.

Your eyes widened. Now you really looked helpless.

“W-what?”

He took a deep breath through his nose and faced away at the fire before turning back to you, running a hand through his hair.

“Did I stutter?”

You felt a familiar heat between your thighs and bit the inside of your cheek, furrowing your brows whilst looking down at your feet. Did he just confess to having dirty dreams about you? No, definitely not. You were misconstruing it. Your his best friend and he didn’t think about you that way.

You were taken out of your inner monologue by George whispering your name. You looked up at him slowly, your mind completely failing you from retorting one of your witty comebacks. Instead, you decided that maybe you should be as bold in your actions as he was in his confession.

You brought your legs up to your chest before shifting your weight and kneeling onto the couch, then moving to straddle George’s lap, arms wrapped around his shoulders. George clenched his jaw and swallowed hard, his eyes slowly trailing from your lips to your eyes. Both of your breathing was rapid as you entered new territory. He placed his hands on your thighs before moving them up to rest on your lower back.

Next thing you knew, you were leaning in. Your body completely taking over, ignoring every scream from your brain to stop. To not ruin your most precious friendship. But you couldn’t stop. Not Now. Not with him between your legs and the fire light hitting his features, accentuating every bit of his beautiful face. You were intoxicated. George was leaning in as well. He rubbed your noses together, savoring every second of what could be your final moments of dear friendship.

He connected your lips together in a hunger that felt like he had been waiting for years to do. You knit your brows together and moved your hands, now tugging at his red locks, earning you a hum from George against your lips. You did it again.

He couldn’t help himself, he caressed from your lower back to your ass, now fully groping you. You let out a breathy moan into his mouth and he took full advantage. He slid his tongue into your mouth, your tongues now dancing together in a heated tango. You quickly moved your hands to undo his tie, discarding it somewhere to the side of the couch. Afterwards, You them to his shirt and fiddling with the buttons to get them open. He chuckled.

“Eager are we?” He asked, not removing his mouth from yours.

“Oh, shut up.” You whispered as you deepened the kiss, as if it was even possible.

You finally got his buttons undone, removing the garment from his shoulders. George decided he had had enough of letting you take charge of the moment, however. He lifted you up and laid your back against the couch, now absolutely towering over you. You were incredibly smitten of him from this view. He made himself comfortable in between your legs again, returning to the kiss.

What you didn’t know, was that he wanted you from the moment he met you. You were like a constant gnawing at his brain that he didn’t want to get rid of. He pictured you naked every night. Got off to it to help him sleep hoping that you’d return just as that in his dreams, always too afraid to say it out loud.

George settled his hips down, his now hard cock grazing perfectly against where you needed him most, earning him another moan from you. “Saints, Georgie- Need you. Please.”

He smiled against your lips before pulling away.

“Not so fast, pretty. I didn’t spend years picturing this just for it to end so swiftly, now, did I?”

Your head was reeling. You were so completely shocked to be in this predicament with George that you didn’t even fully register the words that just left his mouth. “please.” You begged again, but he only tutted at you and shook his head.

You gripped the couch as you felt a finger run up and down your clothed pussy, slightly bucking your hips to get even the slightest bit more pressure. George’s only response to this was to hold you down with his free hand and continue with his tease.

“So wet for me.” He hummed.

“All you.” You breathed out.

He pulled your skirt down tantalizingly slow, making you groan in frustration. You should’ve known he would’ve been a tease.

Unable to take all the sluggish undressing, you took it upon yourself to start removing your top, hastily undoing the buttons.

George only watched and smirked. You sat up slightly and went to remove your bra, but he stopped you.

“Let me.” He said in a hushed tone.

You looked at him before moving your hands away from the clasps behind your back. However, it was your turn to add a little friction. You moved your hand to his hardened cock and started rubbing him over his trousers. He took a sharp breath in and dropped his head a bit to watch your hand.

“Ahhh and just when you thought you were the only one who could have fun.” you teased before licking his lips.

He had no response, how could he though when he was in pure bliss. He took a sharp breath before moving your hand away, now pulling you closer and swiftly undoing your bra.

“Lay back, Love.” he hummed.

You easily complied. laying back down on the red plush couch that was slowly growing to become your favorite spot in the world.

Taken away by your enthralling thoughts, you didn’t even notice George move his head down to your clothed cunt, licking a blissful stripe up them with his warm tongue.

Your legs instantly went up to your chest, your hands now clinging to his red hair. “Fucking hell, Georgie!” you moaned.

“Shhhhh. Don’t wanna wake anyone up, Love.”

There was that nickname again that sounded so beautiful rolling off of his tongue. A nickname that sent shockwaves down your entire spine. Sure he’s always called you that, but never in this position.

He moved your panties to the side and got right to work, now sucking and lapping up every bit of wetness you had dripping from your cunt.

Your back arched and you tugged his hair, needing him closer if it was even possible.

He continued and looked up at you through his eyelashes, a glint in his eyes, looking as if he were worshipping you.

You kept your eyes locked on his, now grinding your hips against his tongue, chasing your very close high as he continued to eat you out delightfully.

“God, please. Don’t stop!” You chanted in a whisper.

However, much to your and George’s dismay, he stopped. He licked his mouth clean, now moving up to reattach his lips to yours.

Tasting yourself from his mouth could’ve easily sent you straight up to heaven, and you would’ve happily stayed there if it meant this is indeed what heaven was.

He was in no way done though. He, with much ease, ripped your panties clean off you, making you gasp against his mouth before pulling back to look at him like he was a mad man.

“It can be fixed.” was all he said, chasing your lips to return to his own.

He started rubbing circles on your clit making you moan against his lips and he couldn’t stop himself from smiling.

“Feel good, pretty girl?”

You didn’t have words, only nodding your head. He then dipped two long fingers into your pussy and started pumping them slowly.

You threw your head back, your face contorted with pleasure and George simply couldn’t get enough.

“And how about that, hm?”

The cheeky fucker couldn’t help himself. Every dream, every scenario that ran through your head, and seemingly his, was finally coming to fruition.

He picked up his pace, the sounds from your pussy and your hushed moans filling the entire room. You gripped his arm, which was lavishly toned from quidditch, and squeezed.

“Georgie- please. I need to feel you. All of you.”

“Be specific.” he demanded

You groaned and rolled your eyes before staring him dead in his. “I need you to fuck me.”

He smirked and nodded his head.

“Your wish is my command.”

He stood up and removed the rest of his garments. Now completely bare in front of you. You couldn’t help but gape at his exquisite physique and his gorgeous cock right before your eyes.

He moved back between your legs, finding his own personal heaven there, as your wrapped your arms around his neck.

He slid himself in painfully slow. Groaning at how perfectly warm and tight you were.

“Fuck” he drawled out in a whisper.

Your back arches and your face contorted from both pain and pleasure. He was larger than your previous conquests and you weren’t prepared for the adjusting that it took.

He finally bottomed out and gave you both time to take a couple of breaths before starting to thrust his hips in a perfect rhythm that had your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

“Holy shit!” you hissed as your fingers dug into the sides of his arms.

He took this adjustment in your arms as the golden opportunity to wrap his hand around your neck, squeezing the sides as he relented into your pussy.

It took everything in you not to scream. You dug your nails into his arm and brought your other hand up to cover your mouth, now fully unable to control anything that may come out.

George chuckled and quickened his pace, loving how entirely fucked out you looked.

He then clenched his jaw, trying to stifle any noises that dared to escape him as well.

As his thrusts began to get sloppy, indicating that he was close, you felt your high returning to you as well.

“Fuck, Georgie, I’m gonna cum.” you moaned and he squeezed the sides of your neck a little tighter.

“Me too, Love.”

He was fully moaning out now as well, his mouth fully betraying him.

Then he hit that perfect spot and the tension inside of you snapped, completely releasing your orgasm and clenching around him.

“Fucking hell!” he hissed as his own orgasm shot through him, shooting strings of cum into your cunt, his cock twitching as your cunt clenched, both dancing beautifully together inside you.

He removed his hand from your throat and relaxed his entire body against you, placing his entire body weight on you. He didn’t pull out right away and you officially declared this your favorite feeling in the entire world.

It was a bit of time before he finally pulled out of you and you whined at the empty feeling, which earned a soft laugh from him.

“Greedy are we?” he teased.

You flipped him off, which, of course, only made him laugh harder.

“Hold tight, pretty.” he said as he rummaged around the pile of clothing for his wand before pointing it toward the slight slightly ajar bathroom door.

“Accio towel.”

As a towel whisked through the air and into his arms, you couldn’t help but to admire the man in front of you.

“Here you are, Love.” he said as he began to clean you up. You were definitely in love.

As he finished cleaning, he picked up your scattered clothes but stopped himself before handing them to you. He eyed the bathroom and looked back to you.

“How about a shower and round 2?”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁

A/N: Thank you for reading! This was my first time writing smut or really any fan fic so let me know any feedback or even if you liked it :) there will be more to come to please bare with me on this new journey into writing as everything does get better with time. Thank you!

[seastarblue]

vulnerability yay <3

Again, featuring Li Hua bc she’s the current main resident of my brain 😌 and Aleksi too I suppose (it’s in his POV)(I think)

man… me when… reassurance… sigh.

“Alek?”

He shuffled around for a bit until he faced the woman lying next to him. “Yes, Li?”

Li Hua opened her mouth, then closed it.

“What’s the matter, Lily?”

“You won’t… leave me, will you?”

Aleksi scrunched his eyebrows. “…No, Li, why would I?”

Li Hua shook her head and put her back to him. “Never mind.”

Aleksi blinked. “What’s the matter?” he repeated, gently tapping her shoulder.

“I shouldn’t have said anything, just-“ she inhaled sharply “-just go back to sleep, Alek.”

He propped himself up on an elbow and pushed a little more. “No, I’m wide awake now.”

Li Hua groaned lightly, then flipped back to face him. “Sometimes the late night thoughts get… intense, you know? Just another case of thinking too much.”

“I see…” he said. After a pause, he continued. “You can… always tell me things. If you would like to. I’ve been told I’m a good listener, after all.”

She had told him that, actually. After he held her, her sobs soaking that crimson cloak of his right through. After she had calmed down, sobs turning to little hiccups, and then to drained silence.

“That someone must have been a silly person,” she said.

“Not quite. She’s the smartest woman I know, actually.”

He could almost hear her blush as she continued. “Well, she’s not acting very smart now, is she? Whining like some petulant child over nothing…” It seemed she wouldn’t speak more.

He decided waiting was the best option. Sometimes patience was just as good as listening and advising were.

The silence between them grew. One minute passed, then another, and another, and when Li Hua spoke again Aleksi had lost count.

“You… you won’t leave me, would you?” she asked again, voice small.

“No, Li Hua, I will not leave you.” Not unless someone dragged me away, he would have added, but he figured there was a time and place for that. “Tell me more,” he said instead.

“I… I’m worried that you’ll see how much I… how much I care, or something, and then you’ll leave because no one wants some broken, clingy, shell of a person by their side, do they?”

He heard the tears in her voice and moved to wipe one of them away. “Li Hua…”

“Like I said,” she mumbled, “it’s a silly stupid question.”

“Not to me, it isn’t.” he said with finality. “Listen to me, darling; I will stay by your side, I swear it. I’ll keep swearing it for as long as it takes. I will not abandon you.”

He cupped her face in his hands. “You’re stuck with me for a long, long while, Li Hua.” He planted a kiss on her forehead. “And I am honored for it to be like that.”

Li Hua sighed, seemingly content now. “Okay.” And after a few more moments, she added, “Thank you, Aleksi.”

“You are very welcome, dear.”

———

soooooo I ran outta steam at the end but we ball anyways I’m gonna implode

the first somewhat romantic thingy I’ve ever written 😭🙏 add that to the fact I’m aromantic and. well. my bad on the cringe gang but they’re (Alek and Li) so cool to me I swear OMG—

writing taglist!

@bunnymermaidwrites @aalinaaaaaa @vesanal @cepheusgalaxy

@fifis-corner @urnumber1star @thebookishkiwi @sunflowerrosy-backup @theink-stainedfolk

@threedaysgross @mundanemoongirl @satohqbanana @bamber344 @imonthemoonitsmadeofcheese

@viridis-icithus @cc-writes-stuff @anothersummerofsleep @sharkblizzardblogs

@verdant-mainframe @kittrrrr @ruvastuon @agirlandherquill @annothersummerofsleep

@nczaversnick @zerotothex @oliolioxenfreewrites @bardic-tales @rumeysawrites

@pizzamanstan @seafloor509 @an-indecisive-nerd @cacophonyofwords @corinneglass

hope yall enjoyed <3

[pascalscoffin]

Gail’s statement about Joel and Ellie walking side by side from the beginning made me think of a theory that’s been rattling around in my brain from the beginning (including the game lol)

I never understood where people were getting the whole “Joel made her violent” thing when he did everything he could to make sure she didn’t have to in the first season

We see Ellie’s interest in violence/her anger issues in like the first two episodes of the show. When she’s stuck with the fireflies and Marlene she’d spent the whole time she was there cursing at them and all but telling them to go fuck themselves

And then we have the way she side stepped so she could watch Joel beat that FEDRA soldier when they were trying to escape the quarantine zone

And then of course we have the whole mall episode where she gets bit (believe me she had a very VALID reaction but compared to Riley it was… 0 to 100 real fast) that was sadness/distress morphed into pure rage

All happened before she really knew Joel (she only knew him in the FEDRA scene for like… maybe 10 or 12 hours idk).

Genuinely I think Ellie’s immunity is part of the reason she is so angry all the time, why her rage encompasses everything else she feels.

Ellie’s immunity comes from the fact that she’s already technically infected with Cordyceps, her cord was cut just in time for her to not be fully infected but still show up as fully infected on the devices FEDRA carries. Logically thinking, having the Cordyceps gene in her dna (dormant or not) could hype up her rage, since she was born with the fungus already inside her, it doesn’t turn her completely, but I do firmly believe that it had at some point altered her brain chemistry and just made her more prone to getting angry.

I’m gonna reference 28 Weeks Later rq because they have immunity (spoilers? I guess if you haven’t seen it yet)

I don’t think the rage virus and Cordyceps are THAT far apart in similarities, other than Cordyceps being fungal and the infection being bloodborn.

When the kids find their mom, she’s happy to see them, but because she’s a carrier for the rage virus (immune like Ellie) her joy is slightly overcome by the rage virus and she starts squeezing her son too tightly (a bit of a parallel to Ellie’s reaction in the mall)

Now Cordyceps… seem very angry lol and despite Joel saying “fungus isn’t that smart” we know that some of them are in fact that smart and seem to still have a very tiny bit of their humanity left (just enough to remember how to hunt and stalk people). Out of all zombie movies and shows and other media that’s come out, the only ones you can really compare Cordyceps to is the rage virus (and the hyped up rabies from the Quarantine movies) in the sense that they’re not mindlessly wandering around bumping into eachother and instead seemed to be fueled mostly by anger and the need to spread.

(As for Quarantine comparisons- the Quarantine virus has the ability to fix whatever’s wrong with your physicality (like Cordyceps did to Nana) there’s a character with Parkinson’s (late stages he’s already completely immobile and unable to speak) in the second movie, when he’s bitten by an infected rat he leaps out of the wheelchair he’s been confined to (just like Nana) and attacks two or three CDC workers in a matter of seconds.)

The Quarantine virus is a little closer simply because it’s rabies, thus centered in the brain (like Cordyceps) unlike the rage virus, which is a strain of the Ebola Virus, making it bloodborn and just makes you really fucking angry rather than starved like most of the other zombie viruses within media do.

My point is, these viruses are working mostly on rage and the need to create more like themselves (rather than just wanting to eat) which puts them closely in comparison to the Cordyceps virus (with a few differences) and they’re centered in the brain (Cordyceps & Quarantine rabies virus). They’re all viruses that in some way alter your brain chemistry.

So, theoretically, Ellie’s habit of jumping to rage before anything else can just be a symptom of her being born with Cordyceps lying dormant inside of her.

[hyperionwitch-art]

Did you think I was done posting art today?? Let's officially ring in 2024 with the Terrible Kids! This time in Ald Ruhn, enjoying some delicious sauced meat on flatbread.

Tev/Dren Masterpost

[tea-cat-arts]

Shen Yuan getting transported into pidw isn't "the system punishing him for being a lazy internet hater," but instead representative of "step 1 of the creative process: getting so mad at something you decide to go write your own fucking book" in this essay I will

[catwouthats]

“How can this many people simply vote for Trump in the first place?”

✨Gaslighting✨

And

✨Teaching themselves apathy because they have been pushed to the brink and are only focused on their own survival and think that this guy will give it because he

gaslight themmmm✨

[humblemooncat]

I swear, sometimes I'm glad I watch prog videos before going in to do it myself, because I get so nervous going in to a new fight, only to be reminded a LOT of prog is going immediately from

"Okay, I know this"

to

And it makes me feel more prepared for some reason.

[iamthepulta]

There is a woodpecker hammering at the side of the house and it's a bold take for 10:30 am, bird.

[lightbulb-warning]

so has anyone figured out WHY there is the Need To Share our Artworks™ or is it just the vibes and our Soul apparently

[bittersweetresilience]

it feels cosmically unfair that i think about writing all the time want to write all the time and sit down to write all the time and i come up with two sentences at best. there should be some reward system i think

[pollen]

i've been diving a lot deeper into adhd symptoms and comorbidities and misdiagnoses and whenever i tell my boyfriend something i learned that sounds like me he responds with something like

[skunkes]

having struggles with hobbies and enjoyment and creativity again