#and it’s basically how I act around them

[guilty-ff]

𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐞 𝐌𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐲:

𝐕𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐧!𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞 𝐱 𝐌𝐞𝐝𝐒𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Dante agrees to help a friend study anatomy, nothing serious, just muscle names and touch. But with every brush of her fingers, keeping it together gets harder.

Pairing: Dante x Fem!Reader

Genre: Friends-to-lovers, slow burn, virgin!Dante, Oneshot

Rating: Mature, MDNI

Warnings: Flustered Dante, abs touching, sexual tension, virgin!Dante panic, reader accidentally seductive

It started with a study session.

You had a practical coming up in your anatomy module, and none of your classmates were willing to sit still long enough to be used as a reference. At least not without trying to flirt, interrupt, or act like it was a date.

So, in a fit of frustration, you’d turned to Dante.

He owed you one anyway. After dragging you into some hell-infested warehouse last week and laughing when a demon nearly snapped your leg, he’d promised to “make it up to you however you want.”

Apparently, that meant letting you use him like a very warm, very sculpted anatomy model.

He hadn’t expected it to get this serious, though.

You arrived at his place with your textbooks, notes, a clipboard, and a quiet intensity that made it very clear: you weren’t here to mess around.

“No flirting,” you’d told him before even sitting down. “No smug comments. You’re basically a living skeleton today.”

He’d rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath but he behaved. Sat down. Took his shirt off. Let you study him like he was just another diagram.

That was the idea, anyway.

Now, kneeling beside him, you were already diving into shoulder anatomy with practiced ease, naming structures, examining muscle groups, sketching notations in your book like he was just a chart.

And Dante?

Dante was trying not to combust.

He really should’ve said no.

Not because he didn’t want her touching him- hell no, he wanted that more than he wanted to admit but because he hadn’t realized how hard it was gonna be to pretend it didn’t matter.

But he obeyed.

It was slow. Careful. Methodical.

Torturous.

Her touch was light, careful, dragging over the shape of his shoulders and upper back, pressing into his deltoids, tracing the curve of his biceps. She’d even had the nerve to ask him to flex.

He’d flexed.

“Long head of the triceps brachii connects here,” she murmured, her fingertip brushing the inside of his arm. “Crosses the shoulder joint and anchors along the infraglenoid tubercle of the scapula.”

Her voice was calm, clinical. Completely professional.

Meanwhile, Dante was ready to dig his own grave.

He bit the inside of his cheek, trying to keep his breathing steady, staring at the floor like it owed him something.

She was close. Too close. Her breath brushed over his skin every time she leaned in. He could smell her shampoo. Could feel her knees brushing his thighs as she shifted.

And she didn’t have a damn clue what it was doing to him.

“Relax,” she said gently, noticing the tension in his shoulders.

Dante forced out a laugh. “Yeah. Easy for you to say, doc. You’re not sittin��� half-naked while someone pokes around like they’re lookin’ for buried treasure.”

She giggled, actually giggled, and pokes his arm lightly.

“I appreciate you letting me do this, you know.”

He swallowed hard. “Yeah. Anytime.”

He meant it. Even if he was dying inside.

She moved lower, fingers drifting across his sides. “Okay. Let’s take a look at the abdominal region.”

His breath hitched.

She didn’t notice.

Not when she shifted again, this time kneeling directly in front of him, her thighs brushing his legs, face level with his stomach. Not when she leaned forward and pushed his arm aside to get a better angle. Not when her fingers found his lower ribs and followed them down.

Dante froze.

Her hands were warm. Gentle. Focused.

They slid over the ridges of his abs, tracing the line of the rectus muscles, fingertips dragging with maddening slowness toward his navel.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

He’s wrestled with demons all his life, but this time, the ones inside him were winning. His body betrayed him, hardening in his jeans so fast it hurt, blood rushing south like it had a death wish.

And she was right there.

So close her knuckles nearly brushed the top of his waistband. So close she could see everything he didn’t want her to see.

Well... no, that was a lie.

He did want her to see. Just… not like this.

She tilted her head, oblivious.

“The external obliques run from here...” she touched his side, just above his hipbone, “...up to the lower ribs. They assist in rotation and lateral flexion. Can you twist a little to your right?”

He did, barely, but the motion tightened every muscle in his stomach, and his erection twitched in his jeans, aching.

Dante cursed under his breath.

“Did that hurt?” she asked, immediately concerned.

“No,” he said too quickly. “No, I’m fine.”

But he wasn’t. Not even close.

His palms were sweating. His jaw was locked so tight it ached. And if she moved her hand even an inch lower...

“Hey, uh.” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “Maybe we… stop there?”

She blinked. “I haven’t gone over the lower attachments yet. I still need to trace the linea alba and-”

“Trust me,” he cut in, voice strained, “you don’t.”

There was a pause.

Then her eyes flicked down.

It only took a second, a second to realize what she was looking at.

Her gaze snapped back up to his face, wide-eyed, cheeks blooming scarlet.

Dante cursed softly and dropped his head into his hand. “Shit.”

“I-I didn’t mean-” she stammered, voice small. “I wasn’t trying to make you-”

“I know,” he said quickly. “I know you weren’t. It’s not your fault.”

She didn’t move. Neither did he.

The air between them felt thick. Quiet. Loaded.

“You’re…” She hesitated. “You’re really warm.”

He laughed, hoarse. “Yeah, well. That happens when you’re turned on.”

She inhaled sharply.

Dante groaned, pressing his palm over his face. “God. Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?” she whispered.

He looked at her.

She wasn’t laughing. She wasn’t pulling away. She was just...staring. Flushed and breathless and maybe just as rattled as he was.

“Because,” he said, more quietly now. “Because I’m your friend. And I didn’t wanna make this weird.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment. Then:

“…Have you ever…?”

He blinked. “Ever what?”

“Done this,” she said softly. “Been with someone.”

Dante swallowed, throat dry. “No.”

Her eyes searched his.

He shrugged, suddenly very interested in the floor. “Didn’t wanna fuck it up, I guess.”

“You wouldn’t,” she said immediately. “You wouldn’t.”

Something in her voice made him glance back up.

She looked nervous. Hesitant. But not scared.

Not running.

“Dante,” she said, voice barely above a whisper, “can I…?”

He didn’t answer with words.

He just leaned in: slow, scared, shaking and let his forehead rest against hers.

The kiss didn’t come yet.

But it could.

It was there, waiting.

And maybe, if she leaned in a little more…

Part 2

[trashno0dle]

indulged in the demons the other day and made up a npmd au in which max doesn't come back as his own vengeful spirit per se BUT -- he does find a way enact his revenge another way, by possessing none other than pete. because i love psychological horror, ghosts and possession. and more importantly, angst <3

close ups/more info below the cut !!

max doesn't come back as a ghost exactly yes -- but, pete goes back to the waylon house a couple of days after the incident (for reasons) where, unbeknownst to him, max's spirit has attached itself to him and basically ends up possessing him, gradually, with the stronger he gets - rather than killing richie and ruth outright, max decides he wants to have a little more fun with the nerds and so, taking possession of pete's body, mainly at night -- he murders other nerds first, still sending the "nerdy prudes must die" message to torment them. so they know that he's coming for them. meanwhile, pete doesn't know what's wrong with him, why he's so tired all the time, having nightmares so vivid, or why he has blanks in his memory. or, how he keeps acting so unlike himself. basically, the longer max possesses him for, the more he starts to influence pete's behaviour, even when he isn't in direct control. even while not in control of him, max’s presence was enough to alter pete’s own behaviour. so during times pete was in control of himself, he ended up unknowingly gaining some of max’s mannerisms and behaviours.

the others don't realize it until too late. that pete's been taken over. it's a slow enough process that they simply believe maybe he's a lot more like his asshole brother than they thought -- little do they know, the horrors <3

in the end, it's actually grace who discovers pete isn't himself (because. funny) mostly due to her noticing something is wrong with him as the weeks pass. eventually, she recognizes the odd feeling she gets around him as the feeling she got around max. this, and the fact that as time goes on, pete essentially becomes more and more like max as his hold on him grows. grace tells the others she believes pete is “possessed by a demon” and at first, steph is in hard denial. but then thinks more about pete’s erratic and out of character behaviour lately and realizes it's not as far fetched as she previously thought.

i may do more for this au im already having ideas but, thats all for now !!

close ups

[p-taryn-dactyl]

I saw you're open to requests and I had request! 

What about Agatha and Reader being a couple for some time and Agatha is ready to say I love you so she is looking for the best moment but she is nervous because they are big words. In other words, Agatha is acting strange and that worries Reader.

Inspired by this phrase: No no, we aren’t breaking up!  You didn’t let me finish.  I’m gay for YOU. (And I’m queer for math!)

a/n: hi! thank you so much for this request, i think it's so fun! i definitely think Agatha would be the type of person to not be able to fully verbally articulate her feelings which would lead to beautifully angsty misunderstandings. i hope you enjoy this! i might've gone off track but i wrote this while listening to sad songs, something i probably shouldn't do :/ word count: 1.1k warning(s): misunderstandings; hurt-comfort; (light) angst with a happy ending; agatha doesn't know how to say 'i love you', r fears the worst; slight pov shifting my bad

give you love

You could feel Agatha’s eyes on you as you swayed around her kitchen, preparing dinner for the two of you to share while you watched a movie. Turning your head so you could catch her eyes, you felt a pang of disappointment as she quickly looked away, pretending to be really into the magazine in her hands, one that was upside down. Sighing, you went back to preparing dinner, allowing yourself to focus on the delicious smells coming from the vegetables sauteed in butter and garlic. She had been acting strange for a while now, her eyes holding a weight to them that scared you. She acted nervous while the two of you spoke, something that was a rarity now, visibly thinking over every word that left her lips. You had been through this before in previous relationships, they had slowly distanced themselves from you, watching you from the sidelines, wondering if they were making a mistake. You were almost certain Agatha was thinking about breaking up with you, something that cracked a large hole in your heart, but she didn’t know how. Taking a deep breath, you forced the thoughts from your mind, telling yourself you were overthinking again.

But Agatha hadn’t spoken to you at all today, save for the short answers she gave when you asked her how her day had been. The distance was getting too hard to ignore but you were determined to. 

You plated up the food, skillfully balancing the plates on your arms. Playfully, you moved almost like you were dancing until you were in front of your girlfriend, holding out her plate like it was an offering. 

“Your dinner, my lady.” 

You wore a playful smile that wasn’t reciprocated. Instead, Agatha looked up from her upside down magazine like she had been caught robbing a bank, giving you a small quirk of her lips before throwing the magazine to the side to grab the plate. You visibly deflated, something not lost on Agatha. Alarm flashed through her eyes, something you missed as you basically collapsed on the other end of the couch, legs tucked under you protectively as you stabbed at your plate. Agatha watched as you took a deep breath, your face scrunched together like you were holding back tears. She opened her mouth to speak, something she had been tragically failing at, but before she could, she watched you school your features, forcing a smile on your face as you looked up. 

“So what do you want to watch?” You asked, not able to meet Agatha’s eyes, not wanting to see the detachment you convinced yourself was there. Instead, you looked over her head, at the clock hanging on the wall behind her, the ticking almost mocking you, telling you this relationship was out of time. Agatha blinked, internally scolding herself for her actions. Why couldn’t she just say what she wanted? Was she scared of your potential rejection? Did she purposefully push you away because she didn’t feel lovable? The question jolted her into action, placing her plate of truly delicious smelling food on the coffee table in front of the couch. In her fear of being unlovable, she made you feel unloved. She could see it in the way you curled up on the couch, not wanting to take up space, not wanting to give Agatha another reason to ignore you. 

“Y/N,” she started gently, as if approaching a lion in a cage, “We need to talk.” 

Your eyes snapped to meet hers, tears welling up after weeks of being held back, shocking your girlfriend. You grasped your plate like a lifeline, body trembling slightly. Agatha leaned forward slightly, hand twitching with the want to hold you. Something she didn’t know would be received. 

“Shit,” you whispered, your words still clear to Agatha’s ears, her face now furrowed as her eyes examined you, “You really are breaking up with me.” 

Your words were like a gun at a horse race, causing Agatha to shoot forward, moving your plate to the table, and her knees practically straddling yours as her hands cupped your face. 

“No, no, baby I’m not, no I’m not.” Her voice was desperate as she spoke, her words trying to make the tears spilling down your cheeks go away. Confusion replaced some of the fear and sadness radiating in your eyes. Blinking, you shifted so you were on the end of the couch, your legs no longer touching Agatha’s, her hands still cradling your face as she refused to move. 

“Then what has the last few weeks been? You don’t talk to me and when you do, it’s like you’re calculating every word, like you don’t want to be there! Did I do something?” Your voice never rose but your words got shakier as you continued, your frustrations spilling out. Agatha’s hands got tighter on your face, not painfully but just enough for you to once again look into her eyes. She shook her head almost frantically, scoffing in anger towards herself. 

“Y/N, I have been so stupid. So, so, so stupid. I just-,” she sighed, shifting closer to you, your legs once again touching. You didn’t pull away, “I didn’t know how to say it. I’ve never been good at this sort of thing, verbally speaking. I’m much better at actions.” 

She winked at you but you just glared, determination, but also hope, sparking in your eyes. 

“Not the time for flirting, Harkness,” Agatha winced at the use of her last name, “You didn’t know how to say what?” 

You felt something blossom in your chest as Agatha pursed her lips and looked away, sighing. She closed her eyes and sighed before looking back at you, her thumbs caressing your cheeks. 

“I didn’t know how to tell you I love you.”

The air was sucked out of your lungs as you gapped at your girlfriend, whatever was blossoming in your chest bursting. Agatha’s own eyes widened and she bit her lip in fear as you remained silent. 

“See, this is-” She never got to finish her sentence as you launched yourself at Agatha, pushing her down against the couch as your lips captured hers. She returned the kiss as surprise flooded through her system, her arms now wrapped around you, hands holding onto your hips. You laughed tearfully in between kisses, giggling as Agatha kept chasing and capturing your lips. 

“Agatha Harkness, you are an idiot,” you said with no malice in your tone as you leaned away from the kiss. Agatha’s eyes lit up before she shifted, allowing you to comfortably lay on top of her, arms caging in her head. Leaning back down, you kissed her once again, this time slow and meaningful. By the time it was over, you were breathless. You pressed your forehead against Agatha’s, brushing your nose against hers before you sat backwards, now sitting lightly on Agatha’s hips. You placed your hand over where her heart was and she covered it with her own hand, grasping yours tightly. 

“I love you too, Agatha. So much.”

a/n: idk how i feel about the ending but please tell me you liked this, if you didn't keep that to yourself im fragile

[lostpiewrites]

HEYYY I LOVE UR ACC SHSUDJHSJSJXHCHCSIWKXCJC CAN U TELL IM SO ELATED TGAT I FOUND IT??!!!!! i have a req... So i have this scenario in mind where u and one of some bllk characters ( I have in mind Barou, Bachira, pre wc Kunigami bc hes such a sweetheart and i hope he gets better in the next chapters☹️☹️,maybe even gagamaru haha..., AND whoever u want to add IF U WANT) get in an argument (nothing heated, just a little him scolding u the other way around and it just keeps going) and in the heat of the moment he accidentally confesses (u both like each other) DJDJDDUJSJXJXD I RLLY LIKE THIS IDEA BUT I DONT RLLY KNOW HOW EACH WOJLD REACT?? LOVE U LOVE U TAKE CARE!!!! ヽ( 'ω' )ﾉ

a/n : YESYESYES I CAN TELLLLLL. AND THANK U FOR THE COMPLIMENTT ARRRGHHH ILY TOO. 🩵🩷And ofc i can write, here we gauuurrr~ art credits unknown , also none of the characters in the photo is in the context but i wanted to use it anyways because the photo is 🔥. Also for the context , i didn't make them openly say ily , but made them hint at it with closed words. Lastly , sorry for making you wait this much , i had no time to complete this earlier ; i had to erase gagamaru from the list because it would take me one more day. ��

Will you just shut up ?

Ft : Barou Shoei , Bachira Meguru , Kunigami Rensuke.

Barou Shoei

He sat beside your bed , an unimpressed mom look on his face. You caught cold and had fever so you skipped school. He skipped the school aswell but it's because your dummass could NEVER succeed to take care of yourself properly. He called you if you would come today and once he heard how raspy your voice sounded , that was it for him. He was in your house , all ready to take care of you.

You were under the thick blanket facing the ceiling, with a package of ice sitting on your forehead. He was there from the start of the day and he knew what to do to take care of a sick person. But being a picky eater who hates healthy food, you felt overwhelmed. You yelled at him for making you eat until you are about to vomit.

"Barou , i have already told you that i can NOT physically handle one more bowl of soup. Do you really think i eat as much as you do ? Stop it would you!?"

"It's your fault you are like this to begin with. I am here skipping school because of you to take care of you and you are complaining ? Do you really think i don't know how much you eat ? Don't you act like you don't eat 3 fcking hamburger menus outside. I have been paying for your food remember ? Ofc ik how much you can eat."

It made you feel both guilty and embarrassed. Guilty that you are making him skip school and embarrassed that he is bringing how much you can eat when it's fast food. But you weren't gonna make him notice that embarrassment. So you kept your "angry" role at him and tried making him guilty.

"I am sick to death here and you are yelling at me ? And you are supposedly taking care of me. What about my emotions ?"

"Oh shut up. It's not like i like seeing you like this anyways. I am scolding you because you are being stupid and i hate how much i fucking miss that laughs-at-everything girl best i have and her idiotic babbles she annoys me with okay ? Now open your mouth."

You didn't open it , but opened your eyes instead. What did he just say ? That he liked your yapping and missed it when you were sick ? It basically was a confession coming from him. You blinked a few times , your blush being more visible at each. But then you smirked , ready to tease him.

"Don't you fcking dare say it. Seems like you are already healed if you can think of your usual stupid , annoying , random shenanigans. Now open your mouth and don't make me say it again."

You opened your mouth for him to feed you the soup. He was ordering you around now but you somehow liked it. You felt giddy and was glad that the blanket was thick enough to cover you kicking and wiggling your feet. Who would say to you that falling in love with your boy bestie would end up like this ? No one. But it felt good to know that the feeling you have held inside for so long for the sake of your friendship are reciprocated. And it helped your healing process by a lot.

Bachira Meguru

You two stood at the entrance to the principal's office. He found himself here again because of his endless pranks around the school. But this time he dragged you too , even tho it was unintentional and all the thing you did was to warn him to stop.

He looked down at his feet ashamedly. If he was alone , he wouldn't care less but now that you are sitting there with him , he felt guilty. And your piercings and accusing glares didn't really help the situation either. You two were punished with detention , nothing too grand at least in his opinion.

After the classes ended , you settled down onto the desk and boredly looked out of window. You were now about to go through a 1.5 hours of detention , and worse you had nothing to study and you didn't even bring a reading book because you would go to shopping after school. So you would just sit down and watch the scenery.

"I have so much better things to do but here i am sitting in a detention because of you , Bachibee. The least you could do was to just fcking sit down properly for JUST ONE period."

"How the hell am i supposed to know that they would punish you with me too ? It's your fault for trying to stop me anyways. Not only you ruined the fun and got me caught , you are now blaming me for what happened. You could have just let me do whatever and you wouldn't be suffering here rn. Karma."

You bit your inner cheek in frustration. You wanted to stop him because whatever he tried was dangerous to do. He was under the influence of his bad friends and would harm himself in the end. But this moron wouldn't understand it. So you kept quiet , not trying to explain yourself further.

"Listen. Don't bother what i said previously. I knew it was dangerous and i understand why you stopped me. But i am sorry that you got dragged with me. Take this ?"

He offered a few snacks as a peace treaty. He didn't know what else to say anymore. He was usually alone here at the detention and didn't really talk to anybody during. But then he blurted out sth that made you wanna go hide your blush. He himself also looked like he also didn't mean to say it and it just slipped out while he was thinking out loud , causing him to blush with you.

"Yk things are more enjoyable with you around , even sth as stupid as a detention. I would like to spend time with you more , probably not here but yeah..."

You chuckled at his offer. Did you just got asked out by your bestie ? Yes. Did you accept it ? Also yes. And that detention turned out to be sth you liked in the end and not despised.

Kunigami Rensuke

You tried. You tried your best to focus on your studies. Not that you did have sth in your mind but the topics were so hard that you kept getting bored and out of focus. You had your bestie , Kunigami , beside you and poor boy has been struggling with your lack of enthusiasm for the past few hours.

You had an exam tomorrow and you knew you had to study. But it was physics and you would rather die than to keep studying.

"Rennn-kuunnn. How about we stop for a little bit ? My head hurts i can't focus ?"

He sighed and bit down on his lips to not curse your entire existence and family line. Was he successful ? Nope.

"Listen y/n. I have been trying to explain things to you instead of studying myself and we couldn't even finish the first topic. THE FUCKING FIRST ONE. We had given a break just about 30 mins ago. Can't you at least put some effort in learning ?"

His words stung , because it was the truth. You weren't purposedly trying to make him busy with you but you didn't wanna accept your fault too.

"You were the one who suggested to help me with my studies. And you are the ond complaining now ? If you didn't have time , why did you offer it in the first place ?"

He sighed again , the type that made you regret everything you have said and wanna go hide in shame.

"y/n , my stupid bestie. I don't wanna see you fail and get upset like always okay ? You look terrible when you ugly cry after a failed exam. Besides , I always have time for you. But it looks like i am putting in more effort than you are. That's what makes me mad."

Nothing he said mattered afterwards. "I have time for you always." That's what will be stuck in your mind for the rest of the studying session now. He didn't probably put in effort for his sentence but he did confess , unintentionally. You looked at him with a small shy but lovestruck expression. Afterall , even tho the exam is tomorrow the studying can wait right ?

[calebslittlecrow]

How To Assume

(stop being an overly anxious potato over manifesting)

Sometimes I see shifters asking “Oh, what should I do? Nothing is working :(“ and they get hit with the good ol “just assume” stamp and send on their way. And then, barely 10 steps later, they turn around and whisper “... the fuck do I even assume?”. Before I chew your ear off: assuming isn’t hard. Well, not really, but people tend to make it hard. We as humans just love acting like we need to turn ourselves into a pretzel every time we want something “big”. We actually assume every day - when we decide we suck, when we tell ourselves we’ll never shift anyway, when we confidently declare we are stuck in our 3D and shifting is just too good to be true and all those people in the reddit community saying it’s just astral projecting or deep lucid dreaming are right (what is even going on over there atm?). Guess what your 3D is doing with those assumptions? It grabs them, says “bet!” and starts running like it’s a race. Congrats ^-^ But hey, the good news: if you can assume all of that shit, you can also assume that you have shifted. Yeay! In the spirit of keeping it simple, I turned the way I see assuming into a neat little list. Enjoy, or not: 1. Just Decide That’s it. Thanks for coming to my TED talk, exit is to the right. Okay, it sounds suspiciously simple and I know some brains will twitch a bit right now with “That can’t be it”. But it is. You sit down, breathe and say “I have shifted”. No begging, no pleading, no howling at the moon. You just decide, and that is where a lot of people crumble already by pleading for it to happen instead of deciding it has happened. You don’t need an approval stamp, you are the CEO of your own reality, not the intern grabbing coffee. Act like it. Deciding isn’t hoping or praying, it’s simply knowing. No matter if shit catches up immediately, tomorrow or next week. Doesn’t matter, let go of the need for it to happen right now. 2. Stop checking You said you shifted and now you are still checking your reality every 2 seconds like a teenager waiting for a message from their crush. Stop it. You’re rereading your script, watching shifting TikTok like the answer to all your problems will jump at you, poking your subconscious like “are we there yet?”. That’s not assuming, that is panic dressed up as productivity (or something like that). You are basically saying “I don’t actually believe this is done and decided”. Cut it out. Just go live your life. Play some games, touch grass with two hands and one face (beware of bees), breathe some fresh air. Your desire won’t implode because you stopped choking it out and stopped micromanaging everything. Obsessing doesn’t equal manifesting. Just let it cook. 3. You commit or you quit Assuming means you have to kinda commit to it. You’re not almost there, or halfway shifted. You are there. You have shifted, no more ifs and whens and buts and any other kind of spiraling. Take five minutes out of your day, relax into that knowing (or deciding). Feel your DR bed, hear your DR friends be loud as fuck for no reason, smell the DR air. Let your imagination drown out this reality like unwanted background noise. Similar to the fake arguments you rehearsed in the shower. You never needed help with those, did ya? 4. Yell at your doubts Maybe do this one internally, unless you are really feeling bold today. Every time your doubts creep in and whisper “What if it is not real?”, you turn around, embrace your inner main character energy and yell back “Shut the fuck up Brenda (sorry to all the Brendas out there), get back into the backseat. You’re not driving, I am.” Your doubts don’t get a say in what you want. They are not invited. You think your DR self is out there wondering if they are real or not? No, they are living the life you are telling yourself is unreachable.

5. Feeling ready is overrated, just do it Stop waiting to feel ready and questioning if your script is perfect or not. Your brain will rarely send you the green light you think you need to go ahead. You will feel silly, you will feel delusional. And you might feel like a clown. Embrace it, be the clown. Insist on what you decided until your 3D gets nervous and bends over in existential fear. You don’t wait to feel certain, you decide you are certain. And then go and act like it’s done.

TL;DR (how dare you, but fine T-T) Assuming you have shifted is like assuming the sun will rise tomorrow. You don’t argue with your friend about it. You don’t beg the sun to rise again. You just know and walk with the confidence that it’s happened, and with shifting you do so because you said so. That’s it. Stop overthinking. Assume and now go, I need to do some drawing stuff.

[lizmidfordsblog]

Record really is such an integral part of Kim Rok Soo's identity that he considers himself a non-person, useless and discardable without it. Case in point:

" This was the fall when the pretty useless Kim Rok Soo was the most useless in his life." —Chapter 555 "Pretty Useless Bastard (1)"

It gives him purpose in a world without laws, gives him value. Though our first explicit mention of Record is like chapter 300ish in the novel (during the Mercenary King's Records Arc I believe), we still see snippets of how deeply it influences him and his actions throughout the novel.

The eidetic memory he has of The Birth of A Hero, down to the most useless (self-admitted) like the backstories of the ancient powers and literal descriptions of geography (that 50 paces from the castle walls bit) etc. is one thing. But Kim Rok Soo acts on it willfully, plans for those interventions. It's a testament to his time as a Team Leader, he plans so that he never has to lose ever again.

So initially, I was a little confused why Cale brings up Record so late into the novel. I questioned whether it was out of necessity or simply because he forgot about it. Considering the weight Lee Soo Hyuk and Choi Jung Soo's deaths had on him, I don't think the latter is true. But the former ain't either, because I can think of multiple instances where it could have been useful.

Then I realized, it's because he simply does not need it to survive. In this world, Kim Rok Soo does not need his Abilities to define his self-worth. I'm sure this thought process is subconscious, since he's an awkward and dense little bean (towards his own feelings), but think about it—in his new life, he actively cultivates those around him, while actively defining himself as trash without value. Of course, his family would disagree, but this is still how Cale sees himself.

And strangely, he seems fine with it.

He seems fine with not using Record all the time, planning in a frenzy and accounting for all measures. I think this may be partially because of his trust in his family, but also because it's a testament to him becoming Cale instead of Kim Rok Soo. The past is the past, he continues to live on and becomes Cale in another world, where he doesn't need to be useful to be loved and cherished.

This kind of reflects in his mentality. He picks up On and Hong, justifying his actions by saying that he'll put them to use. Same goes for Choi Han. While it's initially a bit different for Raon, later Cale cackles that he'd use Raon too.

But since this is Cale, this is never just a single-layered statement, it's nuanced. It's a testament to how he sees and prescribes value, potential and affection to each and everyone one of them. Even when Lock is unable to go berserk at a very crucial moment, Cale still prescribes value to him, not as a tool—but as a person. As a child.

Because no one afforded Kim Rok Soo the same grace. Because the world became so fucked up that even if they wanted to, they just couldn't. Survival of the fittest, basically.

Lock doubts his value, but Cale reinforces it. Thinking back on his relationship with Record as the "value" Kim Rok Soo brought to the table (alongside that danged Instant), I think that's very beautiful. The funny thing here is, Cale recognizes how this mentality can be damaging but he only applies it to those around him, never himself.

That earlier quote is literally more than halfway through Part One. Cale is thirty-six, the dad of at least fourteen children, the commander of a kingdom in one world and an important team leader in another— and he still considers himself pretty useless and weak.

I can't pin down the quote right now, but I recall him also saying that "with this ability, even the pretty useless Kim Rok Soo was able to become a little useful." My guy is so emotionally strung he minimizes himself and his value constantly, even when he's a literal team leader.

[dimalry]

Humour me for a moment, please 🙏

A lot of people like talking about what if there was another Archeron sister? Just like, four instead of three, not like a secret sister. And since I really like your story telling, what do you think she would be like? Where would she fall in the birth order? What would her powers be? Etc. Obviously being that in depth is optional, but I, again, really like your story telling abilities and wanted to see what you would think!

Beware, some drawings look wonky and please excuse the poor dialog. I just drew it all over the weekend.

Meet Edith Archeron:

Let’s start with her past: Edith was born from a scandalous affair between Mr. Archeron and a wealthy lady. To protect her family’s reputation, her mother gave Edith up to the Archerons. It all happened shortly before Mrs. Archeron fell gravely ill and they lost their fortune. So unlike her sisters, she only ever knew poverty.

There was no one to properly raise Edith, even with her family around. Feyre was always out hunting, Nesta and Elain busy with chores, and their father sat uselessly in his chair. Edith grew up without guidance, no education, no manners, and little love. Nesta, angry at their father, would at times take it out on her, Elain was too focused on keeping herself alive, and Feyre believed that keeping them all alive was enough— Once, when Edith asked to join Feyre hunting, her clumsy movements scared off the prey and it frustrated Feyre a lot, she told her to not bother and go back. That’s when she got lost in the woods and got bitten by a magical little plant that infected her body. Without immediate treatment, she’s cursed with a slow, incurable disease. She’s in the early stages in which she can‘t use her bitten leg properly. She didn’t tell her sisters about it, thinking that it’s no big deal. She might not live past her early 20s.

I love to think of Edith as this weird, awkward, nonchalant kid. She‘d spent her time either helping with some chores, sleeping through the day or doing whatever she could outside (not far from the cottage) to entertain herself. She made some animal friends as well, hehe.

She also has no chill when it comes to saying what’s on her mind. Like when the Bat Boys meet the Archeron family for the first time— while Nesta and Elain are trying to stay calm despite their fear of Faeries, Edith just watches that one big bat spit some chewed-up food bits right into her dish. You can imagine how she called him out on it.

On to your question about her powers: She has none. She’s human and stays that way.-> After Tamlin provided them with enough wealth, Edith developed a habit of going out in the middle of the night to dip her feet into the lake. This act saved her from being kidnapped by Hybern‘s beasts when they came and forcefully took Nesta and Elain. It was quite a scare to run back in and find her sisters gone and their rooms destroyed.

While we see each of her sisters healing, finding their purpose in life and accepting their reality in the recent years, Edith starts to wonder about her future. She pretends it doesn’t bother her, but she questions her worth. She has no passions, any goals or a purpose in life and so It’s hard for her to watch her sisters happy while she’s left behind with nothing, merely passing through the days and waiting for the disease to take over. That is until she stumbles upon Bryaxis while trying to find a book with interesting enough pictures and doesn’t require reading.

The friendly, near invisible demon seems to know everything about her. It convinces her to strike a bargain: To live and be like her sisters in exchange for a favor it will call upon. (See the sketch above far right)— Don’t blame her, remember that she wasn’t taught basic survival skills and to be cautious.

It tells her exactly what to do, how to become immortal and powerful. The catch? She has to steal it from Rhysand. It was difficult but she pulled it off. ( Don’t ask how cause Idk. Maybe by using Faebane or something)

Edith now enjoys her new life. For the first time she has something that brings her genuine joy and she becomes quite obsessed with it. She even feels no pain in her left leg anymore! Her sisters though aren’t particularly happy about it and that bothers her a lot. She doesn’t understand what she‘s dealing with, nor that her sisters’ concerns come from love, not hatred. With that, Bryaxis takes advantage of her hurt and confusion and becomes her only „friend“. It speaks to her in mind, whispering manipulations, convincing her that everyone is against her. The more her emotions spiral, the stronger grasp Bryaxis has on her.

(Don’t mind the sketch below far right with the broken wrings, it has no relation to the story. I just thought it looked cool)

There’s a long history between Bryaxis and the royal family of the Night court. Long story short, It was hunted down and forced into servitude by a former High lord. In an act of vengeance, Bryaxis used people as vessels to spread chaos and destruction within this court. Therefor the High lord at that time caged it in the heart of the House of Wind, no one ever allowed to enter the the pit of the library and awaken this monster. (You can keep the scene of Bryaxis scaring the living sh*t out of Cassian when the bat boys were on their rebellious phase. It revealed its true form to him)

Rhysand is completely stripped of his magic and his immortality. You can Imagine how the power-hungry king feels about this. (Not to mention how disastrous it would be if people, within and outside the Night Court, hear a whisper of Rhys‘s current state). Rhys could learn how to view the lower class as more than weaklings.

And finally, when Edith completely loses control does Bryaxis step in and demand that she fulfill her end of the bargain: giving up her very soul to fuse with Bryaxis. Combined, they (more like Bryaxis) destroy everything in their path within the city of Starlight. Though Bryxis cannot venture beyond Velaris, it is more than satisfied with its newfound strength to destroy what’s precious to Rhys.

Feyre, of course, won’t stand for this. Since she cannot defeat Bryaxis without losing Edith in the process, she strikes a compelling bargain. Rhys isn’t at all happy about it.

As punishment, Edith is permanently banned from the Night Court. With Thesan's approval, she‘s sent to reside in the Dawn Court, where she undergoes surgeries and a mental recovery process. Elain decides to temporarily accompany her, working with scholars and scientists to assist in her treatment. Some of the researchers are excited to document her case, particularly the rare disease she contracted. With Elain's help, they manage to create a cure for it.

This is my design of her grown. During her recovery, Edith decided that perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to receive an education. In the years that followed, she discovered her aspirations and passions and learns to be content with herself as a human

Don’t forget that Bryaxis is still out there, though no one heard a whisper of it since that incident. What if they meet again? And this time Edith‘s not interested in conserving with it while Bryaxis is kind of obsessed with her. I‘ve also added some love interests for it (see the rough sketches). I personally prefer no love interests, but if people like they can decide between the 2 or have both.

I‘m not quite sure what profession she‘d take. I’m thinking of her in the engineering field, working to progress the human lands maybe? Or she stays in the Dawn Court and work as an historian. Idk.

That was fun. When I first read your ask I actually just wanted to tell you that I‘m not a fan of the 4th sister theory and move on, but I decided to think on it. I wanted to draw it all too, but it didn’t come out right 😬

It’s not going to be a part of my remake though. Just a fun little story that could be applied to the original if people don’t have a problem with Bryxias & Feyre’s first meet up being changed. But thanks to you I have a new oc now! 🤗

[ragnarockz]

WE NEED THE NEW MAYA BREEDING FIC IT IS URGENT AFTER RECENT EVENTS (❤️please)

Tip Jar 💰

💛🔒 Maya Playlist tooooooooo

Maya x Readed COMING RIIIIIGHT UPPPP just as I'm coming too...what?! Who SAID that?! 🫠🫠🥵🥵😵‍💫😵‍💫

UHHHH HUHHHHHH ASK AND YALL SHALL RECEIVE! Open your mouth and take it, baby!

You had basically thrown yourself at Maya the second she dragged you into her bedroom with her hand tight around your neck. It was an intensity within her and yourself you had never seen before; basically throwing yourself for her to use in however you saw fit.

You managed to scramble and wiggle your way out of her grasp and felt her sharp manicured nails scratch the soft of your neck. You stared at her, dead in the eyes as you stripped down to nothing in such a hurry one would think your clothes were on fire and setting you ablaze as well.

Her bed was right there behind you and you knew where it was in proximity to where you currently stood in her bedroom; knew the ins and outs of it now with the amount of times she had dragged you in here to fuck your brains out. That's exactly what you wanted from her now and nothing more. Mind-numbing, toe-curling sex that shouldn't even be called sex; you wanted her to fuck you senseless.

You turned your back to her as you started to walk towards her bed. Hitting the edge with your legs, you flopped forward and lay there until your body and instincts took over, and you very quickly and provocatively lifted your hips and spread your legs in an act of submission You pressed your hips down as you tried to grind into her bed, feeling the already painful throb of your clit and the dull clench of your insides wishing you already had Maya Mason's cock buried deep within you.

You heard her laugh then; cold and mean, and your stomach dropped, and you swore you were already dripping onto her sheets.

"You get more and more fucking desperate, don't you? God, it's embarrassing! Your ass and cunt so high up in the air, one would think you're in fucking heat!"

Her words were like a gut-punch, like a burning cold that turned boiling. You were wet without a doubt; could feel it against the front of your thighs; could smell it.

"...maybe you shouldn't...waste the opportunity, Maya..."

You managed to mumble out from under your breath, your face turned to its right side so she could head your words. You only heard her take a step or two closer to you and the bed before her words cut through the silence like an axe.

"Begging me already? God, you really are fucking pathetic, kid. I know I tell you this every fucking day at work but fuck...maybe you need to be a little bit more clear about what you have your pussy on display for..."

Her words drill into you and you hope that same sensation happens actually inside of you with the aide of her silicone toy you've come to desperately love. You bit your lip and swallow back a moan before mumbling out as loudly as you can.

"I...I want you to come inside of me...I...want you to knock me up..."

"Mmm...a little better but not qui-"

"I want you, Maya Mason, to use me like your own personal..."

What was the word she had used that one time with you? Buried so deep she was missing pumping back into you and her cock kept hitting the back of your thighs; causing them to bruise over the course of days?

"...cumdumpster..."

The air seemed to crackle in the room as the energy shifted dramatically. You felt her hands first, out of nowhere, as she grabbed your ass cheeks and pushed you harder down onto the bed. Intensity sparked as you heard the 100% silk sash of her robe rustle and fall so she could expose herself and the toy she had waiting and ready snug around her waist, sitting proudly in her harness. The sudden jolt between your legs made you moan as she slotted her right knee upwards and just barely rubbed at your clit and cunt with it. You were ready to fold right then and there.

"When I first hired you, I didn't realize how much of a desperate slut you were going to turn out to be for me..."

Your only response to that was a whiny, high moan.

"Not even asking for me to fuck you but to breed you! Jesus fucking christ, you are the most pathetic fucking thing, aren't you? You just want me to..."

You feel her knee pull back as she lips your hips up and back; drawing you closer to the head of her cock.

"...come inside of you and knock you up."

One single push forward by Maya's hips filled you up until you felt the tip of her cock push all the way up and hit it's resistance inside of you; tears springing in the corner of your eyes as you choke back a sob.

Unrelentless. Cold. Calculating.

And just as sexually aroused and depraved as you.

You didn't have time to think or even react as she pummeled herself into you; nails sinking into the side of your hips as she kept you face down and ass up to her liking. You lost count of how many times she filled you; how many times you felt her pump into your embarrassingly soaked pussy. It was only when her left hand released from your hip to grab your hair and lift your head up from her bed.

"You need to use your words, you little slut...doesn't sound like you want this as badly as you did before..."

Your eyes had rolled back into your head, and your mouth had felt like it was stuffed with cotton; tar coating your tongue that stopped you from speaking. You swallowed hard and almost choked; sputtering as you tried to clear your throat.

"M...Maya...please..."

"What the fuck is that?!"

"Maya....please...pleaseknockmeupohmygod...fuck please! Please!"

Her hand grips tighter around your hair as she pulls you back even more; feeling the sharp curve of your lower back. She can barely fuck you this way; the angle too sharp and your body too coiled. But does Maya Mason care as she continues her tight little thrusts into you? The way her right hand now leaves your hip to go to her own? Tears blurring your vision as you want nothing more than to feel her fill you up with her cum.

Her thumb expertly grazes the top of the plunger; nail scratching the plastic thoughtfully. She waits for you to catch your breath and buck your hips back, fucking yourself now on her cock inside of you. That's all the motivation she needs now as she bends over onto you; breasts to back as she pushes down onto the plunger.

You feel her fill you and you know she can feel it; can feel the way her cock twitches inside of you. You moan loudly into the air; your face not covered as she holds you still by your hair. You know she wants to hear you, see your face. You know she wants to see you drop your jaw and ride out your pleasure; completely overtaken with being bred by her.

"Ohfuck...ohMaya....please...pleasefuckingfillme..."

And you know you don't have to ask because you can feel it inside of you, mixing with your own wet release. You can feel it overflowing; dripping down your folds and inner thigh. You know for a fact then that she overfilled the ejaculating toy so that this would exactly happen.

She lets go of your hair and your body flops forward once again. You feel your body is overly sticky with sweat and your muscles limp. You never want her to stop; can't have her stop fucking and cumming inside of you.

And she knows it. Maya Mason knows it. Because she keeps going; persistent in the way you know that's overkill. If she was going to fuck you and put a baby inside of you, she had done it tenfold.

But she wasn't close to being done, not when she pulled herself out of you to turn you over onto your back so you could face her now. You hadn't realized how easy it was for her to turn you over; how easily it was for her to drag you to the end of the bed so you dangled over it once more.

You stare up at her with half-lidded eyes and feel your mind start to drift. You're completely drenched; numbed and blissed out but you know she's nowhere near done. You know it because she pushes back into you and laughs; laughs as she fucks you.

[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

— taglist

@cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @ktownshizzle @yoongiiuu93 @billy-jeans23 @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap @hobis-sprite0218 @mikrokookiex @minniejim @curse-of-art @cristy-101 @mellyyyyyyx

© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[noctiva]

How would Toby react to his partner who’s starting to go through Slender Sickness? Would he panic and consider abandoning them so it stops? Is he scared they’ll end up like him?

Something like this would definitely be very, very difficult for him to deal with. Honestly, it would be like worst case scenario for him if he’s dating someone who isn’t a fellow proxy.

His main goal in life would be to protect you from the life he lives, and he would be pretty good at that for a while. The other proxies probably wouldn’t even know that you exist to be honest, because he’s too afraid of what might happen if they do learn he’s got someone he loves. Would they accept it? Use you as collateral if he isn’t acting right? Threaten you because it’s risky to have their way of life exposed to an outside source? He’s extremely protective of you in that right, constantly afraid that something is going to happen to you because of who he is and what he does.

So, if you experience slender sickness because of him? Oh god. At first, he probably won’t want to believe what’s happening. He’ll equate the headaches and nosebleeds to something else. Maybe you were just getting sick. Normal sick. But then it would get worse, and he would see all of the telltale signs that he could remember experiencing himself like it was just yesterday.

He would definitely panic and consider leaving you. Because he knows that it’s his fault, there’s no other way you could’ve gotten in slender’s sights if it weren’t for him. And he loved you, god how he loved you, but he felt almost selfish keeping you around just because of his own desires. Watching you deteriorate felt like a punch in the gut over and over again. You were paler, you could barely look at him, jumpy and shaky and you were barely eating. Spending most of your days hauled up in bed, curled under the covers like you were just trying to hide from it all. Waking up in the middle of the night abruptly, with an absolutely heart wrenching scream ripping from your lungs.

He just wanted to make it all go away for you. Couldn’t bear to see you like this for another day. Knowing that it was his fault all the while.

How it would all go down depends on you to be honest, on whether or not you want him to stay. If you don’t, and you do want to go back to normal life - he’ll leave. Tearfully, regretfully, but he will. He will keep an eye on you though for basically as long as you live, because Toby’s like a penguin in the way he mates for life lmao. He’ll never overstep his bounds though. Never let you know that he’s still around, protecting you from the shadows - replaying moments he had with you as he watches you go about your life, his fingers tingling because he can so vividly remember the softness of your skin.

If you want him to stay, it will be… difficult. Obviously, the slender sickness won’t subside (PERSONALLY I headcanon it as like almost contagious. Slender’s like a fungus in the way he can immediately sense when an outside force is fucking with one of his proxies) but luckily for you, Toby knows exactly what you’re going through - because he’s been there before. He’ll try to reassure you, try to remind you that what you keep seeing isn’t real, that they’re all just mind games to weaken you and make you vulnerable - but words can only hold so much weight when you can barely eat because you keep hallucinating that your food has turned into worms. Lots of long nights of you just crying into his chest, whimpering that you just want it all to go away. Which of course, Toby would remind you that it wont so long as he’s with you. He’d apologize over, and over, and over again. Telling you how desperately he wished he could be normal. How much he longed to give you the life you deserved. How you didn’t deserve an ounce of what you were being put through.

He would definitely be afraid that you’d turn out just like him. I mentioned in a post earlier today that Toby as of like, right now, is pretty regretful towards the path he went down, so he’d hate for you to do the same. He’d hate for you to hold the same weight on your shoulders that he does. That fear would twist and turn inwards though, turning into hatred towards himself for putting you through this. For taking this sweet, pure life, and exposing it to the horror of the fringe he lived within.

But we all know how it goes.

He’ll be there when you make your first kill. He’ll talk you down when you’re shaking and hyperventilating after the fact. He’ll murmur to you that it’s not your fault, that you shouldn’t be blamed, that it was what you had to do in order to survive. That he had to do the exact same thing.

And he’ll be there for you throughout it all. Through every gory, gruesome moment.

But he will always mourn the person you used to be.

The person you were before he tainted you beyond all repair.

[the-lunar-wyrm]

Hello I come with many thoughts

Solas's plan with the Veil and what went wrong

Demons coming through the tears wasn't exactly unexpected, but it was going to be a situation that was remedied when the veil came down fully

Solas put transferring Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain into a stronger prison because he was unsure how the original would hold up given age of it, and hence he needed to sort that out before taking the veil down entirely

We never get to see how he rallied spirits to help protect the people because they couldn't do what they needed due to the veil not actually coming down in the end due to Rook and Co interrupting the ritual during the prison transfer

The Veil and how it works

So in Inquisition, there's those elven artifacts you can activate that strengthen the Veil right? Solas explicitly states in banter that triggers upon activating them that they're wards

As someone who very much studies and practices magic, wards essentially act as barriers. You know what else acts as a barrier?

The fuckin Veil

The Veil is basically one GIANT ward

You can always supplement a ward with more wards. Hence the artifacts are kinda like bandaids or mending stitches

The Veil being a ward explains why it's weakening on its own, because you have to refresh wards and maintain them

They also weaken more when they sustain damage, which explains why it wears down far quicker around battlefields

And much like any other spell, wards take energy to put up (depending on the ward, it's exhausting and I so understand why Solas needed a fuckin coma after a ward that the size of the Veil would be)

With that in mind, how the veil being removed would affect things:

It'd be akin to taking down a wall or opening a door

Yes, there would be chaos at first. But given time, it would all balance back out

Because the Veil would no longer be in place to be rough on a spirit to come through, demon count would likely go down somewhat. Not completely mind you, but still

This would actually lead to far more accurate study of spirits, given one would no longer be risking themselves to travel beyond it just for a small while of study

This could specifically open a branch of study that would lead to helping demons become spirits again, or at the very least help them recover from being demons

There's many possibilities having to do with researching now readily available echos of time and history

Many possibilities generally speaking

[returnofeternity]

can you please write about tmasc nat and tfem r having their first time and it's all so sweet and giggly? Thank you!!!

you and nat both smile cheesily at each other as you lie him down, and you lick your lips nervously, staring into his blue-green eyes and getting lost in them.

your face is so red. you can practically feel it burning up. "are you...is this okay?" you ask, your thumb swiping over his naked shoulder to comfort your nerves.

he nods and stifles a giggle that makes you frown. "it's okay. you can touch more than just my shoulder, don't be so scared."

you lean down and nip his cheek, trailing tiny kisses down to his neck as you grumble. "don't act like you're not just as nervous." you lean back up to look at him, his face flushed from your kisses. your face gets serious, and you feel the sudden urge to spill the three words you've been meaning to tell him for weeks now. "i...should i...?"

looking down with a shy smile, you nod to your hard cock, which aches to feel nat's insides. he whispers a small "yes," and you kiss him for a long while, both of you getting lost in the feeling of each other. each time you mean to pull away, you can't. it's like you're being pulled back to his lips, both by his hands and because of the trance you're in.

nat moans when he feels your cock twitch on his stomach, and he's suddenly aware of the warm, wet mess you've made. he moves his hands from your back to his stomach where you're subtly grinding your cock against, and he grabs it. he grins into your lips as you whine, and he leans his head back against the pillow to watch how your face scrunches as he slowly strokes.

"pretty cock." he mumbles to himself, but you catch it and blush. to mess with him, you flick his t-dick and take in his whimper with a grin.

"you have a nice one yourself."

you grab his hand by the wrist and bring it to your mouth, locking eyes with him as you clean your pre-cum from it, eyes fluttering shut as you taste yourself.

after, you kiss him a few more times before moving him around, getting him in place and comfortable before lining up your cock with his hole.

"ready?" you ask, gently stroking yourself and bumping your tip with his enlarged clit.

he bites his lip and lets out a shaky "yes, 'm ready." his hands move to grip the bedsheets in anticipation.

"are you sure?" you ask again, wanting to make sure he's absolutely sure. once he nods and reassures you that, yes, he is ready, you grip your cock and slowly rub your tip around his entrance, eyes locked in on his face for any sign of discomfort.

nat's mouth opens in a silent moan as you sink in, his eyes fluttering shut the more he feels you inside of him. "oh, god, fuck." he lets out, trapping his left leg around your waist. "feels...s'good."

"yeah?" you pant, finding it hard to keep your own cool as nat clenches around you. once you're inside far enough, you set both hands by his head and lean down to give him kisses the more you sink in, letting him get adjusted.

his right leg follows his left and wraps around your waist to push you all the way in, and you let out a pathetic groan as you basically collapse on top of him.

"god, i love you." you babble, whimpering into his neck as you move your hips.

nat's hands claw at your back and he feels his entire body burst into flames at your confession. he tries to open his mouth to say "i love you, too" but the way you snap your hips into his has his brain all mushy.

[mhfkah]

Ur thoughts on how vivi write the sins?

I cringed alot when i ever see how asmoudes the sin of lust is written

And dont get me started on the"asmoudes can kick mammon ass bc unlike mammon asmoudes has something to fight for"is just ewwww

she chose favorites thats all im gonna say.

Great question— I have a LOOOT of thoughts on this topic. Warning for the incoming wall-of-text.

Mammon is the only good representation of his sin; I adore his character for it. The rest are incredibly lackluster and frustrating to watch. She attempts subverting your expectation with every single introduced sin thus far, showcasing that the embodiment of each of the seven deadly sins are actually the opposite!

Therein lies the issue; if everyone is ‘subversive’, no one is. It is no longer a clever slight pulled on the audience— it just becomes frustrating to watch. You cannot, by the rules of your own universe, claim that these are the literal incarnations of the seven DEADLY sins, and have them act nothing like their sin in question. Beelzebub and Asmodeus are the most glaring of the sins, of which I believe constitutes an entire overhaul of their respective characters.

Let's start with Beelzebub— she is representative of the deadly sin of Gluttony. Let’s take a look at her debut episode, the addition that’s meant to establish the basic premise of her character. In ‘Queen Bee’, we see that she hosts parties for the denizens of hell (primarily hellhounds— why is that?) to indulge in. She supplies partygoers with an endless amount of confections and libations, encouraging them to continue in their mindless indulgence. Her peppy attitude and extroverted nature can easily influence over-consumption; befitting of her title.

So far, this sounds like a good representation of Gluttony. So, what exactly is my problem?

The problem begins first with her design; It is a shoddy representation of what it is she is meant to be. I emphasize that these are The Seven Deadly Sins. They are meant to portray each sin to its most grievous degree. It's what is to become of you, should you fall too far into each.

Does this scream gluttony incarnate? Someone gluttonous to the deadliest degree?

When I look at this image, all I see is a design made before considering the concept itself. It reads more as a design Viv got attached to and wanted to put into the show regardless of circumstance. It raises many questions, such as her leaning more towards the appearance of a fennec fox than a bee. Why is that? I mentioned an abundance of hellhound earlier, so maybe they're native to her ring? If that's the case, why isn't she based off of something a bit more... prehistoric? If hellhounds are made in her image, then why not go for something like a direwolf?

I'm getting ahead of myself— hellhounds being gluttony-borne is mere fan speculation. Them being native to the Gluttony Ring doesn't make sense anyhow. Her stomach bolstering her metabolism (another factoid provided through supplementary material) is a good idea, but it isn't made clear by her design, nor does the narrative support it. She could use her metabolism to trick those around her into overindulgence, insisting to partygoers that she is gluttony, and that overconsumption hasn't wracked her body, so they should all over-indulge too! Something, anything? I'm begging for anything.

Speaking of the narrative— let's get into her personality. She is earnestly kind and dissuades denizens of gluttony from... overconsumption to the point of self-destruction. It is clear that her kind demeaner is genuine, but why? Why does the deadly embodiment of gluttony not like seeing her partygoers indulge to the point of self-destruction? She cannot be referred to as such if her actions are quite literally contradictory to her title. Her character, alongside her headache-inducing design, makes her frustrating to watch on-screen. She is not gluttony incarnate; she's just your run-of-the-mill party girl.

Let's move on to Asmodeus. He is representative of the deadly sin of Lust. Unlike Beelzebub's introductory episode, I think 'Ozzie's' does a great job at establishing this this man is lust incarnate. His musical number shames Moxie for daring to sing about sentimentality in his presence, and revels int he fact Stolas shattered his family to indulge in his lustful fantasies. However, his song in season 1's finale are where my praises end. While his number does a great job showcasing that he is a very lust-oriented man, I cannot say the same for his design.

I'm at a bit of a loss for words here. What exactly about this design is lustful? The fact that there's... approximately three hearts present in the entirety of it? Is he supposed to look like the 'flames of passion?' The angel and demon on his shoulder rationalizing his lustful feelings? But that's just an assumption; what exactly here evokes lust? Frankly, I think it'd have been a much better decision to merge the characters of Asmodeus and Valentino together. Keep the name and personality but use Valentino's design + introduce more abrasive elements from him.

Valentino's design is a far better representation of lust. The constant heart motif, the intimidation factor, the outfit itself: all better representations of lust. This is a man that looks insidious, libidinous... and we know from his portrayal that he is. His whole life is his sex-based empire, and nothing comes between that. His lust drives him to disregard the consent of others and does whatever he must to satiate it. That sounds like a much better portrayal of the sin of lust, yes?

Design aside, what other problem do I have with him if I've already stated I think his introduction was great? It's the fact that his portrayal in following episodes runs contrary to everything we know about both his sin and character. I'm not going to go in-depth here about his relationship with Fizz as I believe that warrants a whole post on its own. What I will say is that showing him in a sickeningly sweet relationship where sex is not the focus negates the 'embodiment of lust' statement from his last appearance. He cannot be lust incarnate if the most important thing in his life is treating his romantic partner with utmost respect and disregarding sexual urges towards said partner to maintain his version of healthy. This is the opposite of lust. With added context from the episodes in season two, this is just a normal person attempting to engage in a normal relationship. It just doesn't work.

I think Satan as Wrath is... not so good, either. The embodiment of sin, feeling it necessary to... get an anger management coach! That's so subversive and clever, Viv! Are you getting tired of me saying subversive yet? I'm getting tired of her trying to subvert me. Overall, I think (from what's been shown to us thus far), the sins are a confusing and contradictory mess. Their designs aren't stellar, and they aren't fitting of the 'deadly sin' title. Nothing they do is emblematic of someone so thoroughly ensnared in a sin it's become fatal, and that is the problem.

[spiderh0rse]

my "these people crabbing SUCK at time loops" au. complete crack but by god i'm going to work this all out in a logical enough way.

SASASAAP goes as normal. Siffrin wishes for help, gets Loop'd, all well and good. Then we go into any "party member looping" au. I will start with Odile here but it could be basically any order. Odile learns about Wish Craft very slowly, but she DOES work it out. Then, a good few hundred loops in, without consulting Loop, ALSO makes a wish. Gets Loop'd as well (different appearance but that doesnt matter too much.)

This continues. Mira has a terrible time in the loops BUT she has two guides. That's just great. And to the surprise of both guides, despite having done this exact thing, she ends up working out stuff with wishes, gets chucked under the Favor Tree with all the other understudies, and the gang collectively decide to go and tell whoever walks up next to Not Make Any Wishes For The Love Of The Universe/Gems/Change.

Isa does his best. He does hold off on the single unexplored avenue for ages. Lasts the longest of anyone else! Learns all there is to learn ASIDE FROM WISH CRAFT. And no one really wants to give him a straight answer on the Don't Make Wishes thing. So he works out how to learn about it. (Mira and Odile mostly questioned the King and Euphrasie, Isa gets good at nudging Siffrin into talking about things.) So there the four of the failed time loopers are, just sitting under the VERY CROWDED Favor Tree.

They stop keeping any secrets when they work out that Bonnie's at it now. This doesn't help much. Bonnie just has Weird Backup Party off at the tree doing basically nothing helpful, and so whatever they say NOT to do. Really does not mean much. They don't ACT like the people they say they are anymore, so how is Bonnie supposed to believe them? Bonnie lasts the least amount of time out of all of them before ending up under the tree with the rest, beating Mira's record by a solid few dozen loops.

No one knows who is going to show up next. Odile thinks they'll wrap around and Siffrin will start looping, Isa and Mira place their bet on random people in the town looping next, Loop thinks no one will and it'll be left to them, and Bonnie is not in the mood to be guessing about these things.

Euphrasie time. Wakes up at the top of the House, a day before the saviors climb it. Has a SOLID freak-out about the loops, being stuck in time forever, all that, then gets to trying to solo the King. Doesn't work. Takes probably ~40 loops of that before she finally tries to descend the House and get help. Tree Gang off to the side have had absolutely no clue what was going on until suddenly Oh That's The Head Housemaiden. In Dormont. and they find a way to pull her to the side and explain the situation as best they can.

Euphrasie has a very good run of things. Keeps climbing the House with the saviors and killing the King, Mirabelle (non-tree gang) is doing great with someone else to take the lead, she gets the Change God meeting and after a brief Hey My God Is A BITCH crisis of faith, which she just shuffles to the side to deal with Later, roughly resolves to try and kickstart time again via (oh no) carefully-worded wish. doesn't word it carefully enough. whoops.

from the House, the Tree Gang hears Infinite Explosions. Mira and Euphrasie take a bit to work out who that is, and yeah, Claude is doing her best up there. She's doing the exact same Throw Yourself At The King thing Euphrasie was. but WORSE. eventually the loops lengthen as Claude descends the House to level up and try to find more stuff to attack the King with. The Tree Gang never gets the chance to talk to her. the SAVIORS do, but there's not many ways the Tree Gang can talk to them all from a distance. Claude has a middle of the road loop count, works out wishcraft, pops up beneath the tree.

And then? No one new. The seven of them lounge under the tree for a full two days, the King's Curse freezes everything, then they're back, and no one is acting differently. It takes a bit for them to realize that this is it, but once they do, they steal all the orbs from the Saviors while they're all asleep, and climb the House together. this is GREAT for them. they have all (minus Claude, at this point in time) been SO bored. collectively, they're doing awesome. they're all weird Things that aren't going to be terribly in-place anywhere, but they've gotten kind of isolationist anyways, so. They just collectively guess they'll leave Dormont after this, if they ever get out.

Euphrasie and Claude are the only ones who really feel attached to the specific location, anymore. Euphrasie had a job and a life here, but she's functionally a backup, compared to the other Head Housemaiden, frozen at the top of the House, and after the talk with the Change God, she thinks she needs a bit to think over the faith she threw herself so deeply into. Claude wants to see everything restored, the people and places she cares about, but she's gotten sick of the place without any sort of respite.

They kill the King first try, everyone wakes up, it's early morning on the second day of the loop, the Head Housemaiden wakes up, absolutely nothing breaks, and they just sorta. Leave before anyone notices them. Euphrasie shows them all her route down the side of the House. Odile can't make herself climb down, so Isa carries her. They hit the ground and skedaddle off to who knows where. Bonnie still wants to see their sister, and the Tree Gang probably ends up in Bambouche for a while. Petronille suddenly has two younger siblings. Sibling duplication glitch.

[chimerasmoon]

Hazbin Hotel AU where pre-cannon Vaggie -in an effort to repay Charlie for all help when she first fell (and because Vaggie has a crush on her)- "storms" (no one there to stop her) the royal palace to yell at Lucifer for how he treats Charlie.

Basically I want the three of them to get their shit together early. Father/daughter drama (mostly) fixed. Girlfriend drama fixed. Two fallen angels vibing.

Then for the Hotel Charlie makes it clear she doesn't want Lucifer to a big factor in it. Like she wants him there, but doesn't want Sinners there for him.

Enter Imp!Luci!!

Because Charlie wants him to help their people more Lucifer doesn't get to stay at the Hotel (yet) he does visit as much as possible, normally with gifts for his girls. And Angel after they become besties.

And then Alastor happens.

Alastor who was allowed to fix up the Hotel when Charlie told Lucifer no. Alastor who was forcing others to work at the Hotel when Charlie told Lucifer no. Alastor who was acting like he was Charlie's biggest supporter when Lucifer and Vaggie were right there!

Alastor who keep mocking Lucifer like he wasn't the fucking King of Hell and, yeah ok, he was disguised as an Imp so the Sinner wasn't mocking him as Lucifer but still! Mocking him!! And his ducks!!

Giving pancakes in the shape of dead ducks with duck sausage, throwing the rubber ducks he left around the Hotel out the window or in the trash (or that one time his shadow ATE one!!), gave him that dumb "Duck You" mug (ok that one was funny), created a pond outside of the Hotel filled with hellducks... oh Father they were SO CUTE!!!! Yes they were vicious little meat eating monsters, but they were so fluffy!!

Sooner or later someone's gonna question Imp!Luci's relationship with Lucifer is, like why he's so close to Charlie and why he knows so much about Hell's royalty, and Luci points out two other Imps that are close to royalty.

Angel: Yeah, but they're fucking.

Luci:.... *portals out because he no longer has a good answer and is awkward*

All the Sinner: *in shock* They're fucking?! *Alastor staticing in the corner.*

C&V: *face palming in shame*

The misunderstanding continues with Angel and Niffty making jokes, Charlie & Vaggie (and Husk) suffering, and Alastor... Alastor is shit all over King!Lucifer and getting pissed when Imp!Luci defense his "absent lover".

Boy is he in for a shock when Adam finally shows up.

[yandereforme]

Yandere Batfam x Neglected Reader x Yandere Ouran Academy

TW: Neglect

You weren’t wanted by either of your parents. That had been the cold hard truth that you had known since you were nine years old.

Your mother was a member of a wealthy family. While she wasn’t the heiress, that title belonging to her older sister, she still had a lot of money at her disposal, and took long trips to different places.

That was how she met Bruce, and she had a one night stand with him.

She didn’t realize she was pregnant until it was too late for a termination, and her parents threatened to cut her off if she gave up their grandchild. So she reluctantly kept you.

You were mostly raised by a revolving door of nursemaids and babysitters until you were five, and your mother deemed you old enough to be alone. You saw your mother about three times a year, during which she would play a doting mother in public before verbally tearing you down in private.

You were five when you understood you were a burden to her. You were eight when you stopped desperately searching for her love.

You were nine when she died in an accident, and your biological father had to take you. (Your grandparents were too old to take care of you, and your aunt was rarely seen outside of a board room, and was unwilling to take you.)

You had a few days of hope for a family, since Bruce Wayne was known for being an amazing father to his children.

That belief was shattered after you moved in and you were basically shunned by everyone. Bruce was cold and rushed around you. Tim was cold and distant. Dick acted nice, but he barely gave you a minute of notice. Even Alfred was constantly brushing you off, though he had a decent excuse.

The final hope was shattered when, three weeks after you moved in, your birthday passed unacknowledged and unnoticed. The only sign of it was the text from your grandparents and the package you received from them two days later, filled with nice dresses for you.

You grew up quietly, keeping to yourself. You had weekly calls with your grandparents, but didn’t mention the family.

The breaking point was when you were 13, and Damian arrived. You thought now, finally, you would have someone like you. That belief lasted six hours, until you were almost stabbed by the menace.

It was one of the first times the family spoke to you, and it was to tell you not to overreact. You barely held back the rebuke and bitter laughter.

The worst part about Damian’s arrival? The fact they loved him. Even though he kept acting out and threatening people and generally being a prick, Bruce made time for him and brought him to meals. Dick showered him in affection. Even Alfred was softer with him. It wasn’t fair. You were a perfect kid and they didn’t care about you, but in comes a kid with the same story as you but with a worse attitude, and he is loved unconditionally?!?

It wasn’t fair.

After the fifth time Damian almost killed you without reprimand, you contacted your grandparents and asked about returning to the country. They eagerly told you about a high school in Japan that wasn’t far from one of their houses, filled with people of your status and known for giving its graduates a great advantage in later years.

Two days later, you approached Bruce with the papers to okay your move for the school year and signing custody over to your grandparents temporarily while you were in Japan. You had a whole speech prepared in your mind defending the choice, but he signed without even bothering to ask any questions. (You didn’t cry, even as you felt a lump in your throat. Despite everything, you thought he would at least care enough to ask questions.)

You boarded a plane a month later, reading your new textbooks as you flew. You took the sparkling champagne (non alcoholic) from the flight attendant and raised your glass in the direction of Japan, your new future.

“To Ouran Academy and my future there.” You murmur softly before downing some of your drink.

Edit: I hope you all like this! I’ve been working on it for a while, and hopefully this isn’t too bad. My finals are next week, so wish me luck!