#data source: AO3 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

souliebird · 4 months ago

Text

[[and then I met you || Ch. 33]]

Series: Daredevil || Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader || Rating: Explicit

Summary:

A one-night stand years ago gave you a daughter and you are now able to put a name to her father – Matthew Murdock. Everything is about to change again as you navigate trying to integrate your life with that of the handsome and charming blind lawyer’s while Matt realizes he needs to not only protect his new family from Hell's Kitchen, but from the world.

chapter masterlist

Words: 4.4k

ao3 link

|| Trigger Warning: Graphic Descriptions Body Horror & Death Regarding Unnamed Children ||

All your life you have heard that there is a beauty in chaos, and while you do agree with this, you also find there is a beauty in organization.

You like taking all the chaos and putting it into categories. You like sorting the details and finding the mysteries that need to be unraveled. You think it must be similar to how clever people feel when they solve a riddle or a puzzle, but you aren’t running in circles with philosophical thoughts - you are analyzing what is already available and coming to a conclusion.

It is still all chaos, because everything is always chaos, but it is organized into a way that makes sense.

And Matt’s stolen duffel bag, when first unzipped and inspected, was full of chaos.

You, Foggy, and Karen quickly got to work looking over the different papers and forming different stacks based upon agreed parameters.

It became clear Matt’s guess that he had found some sort of laboratory was correct. The papers all appeared to be results of different medical tests, though at first glance, the three of you could not decipher for what.

But deciphering wasn’t needed at that moment, so it didn’t matter, and once everything was spread neatly across the dining table, the next step of your beloved process began.

Foggy gave each pile a designation and then the three of you began labeling each paper in the top corner.

A1. A2. A3. A4.

B1. B2. B3. B4.

All your analyzing would be useless if you couldn’t source your data, and it was quickly clear your little group all shared the same brain cell when it came to this idea.

While you worked at the table, Matt and Jessica sat on the floor by the couches, marking up a map. You caught snippets of the conversation - this bit of evidence was heard in that alley, to get to a certain tunnel system you had to go through such and such warehouse. It was fascinating to know that Matt had memorized nearly every square inch of Hell’s Kitchen - even the parts you didn’t know existed - and it was equally amazing that Jessica knew just as much.

After hearing them talk, it left you wondering if Frank had the same knowledge, but you would leave that question for another time. He had been assigned to the two thumb drives that had been in the duffel bag. You had furiously taken mental notes as he had grumpily explained to Matt the little devices couldn’t just be plugged into a computer. They could have malware on them or trigger tracking or something equally devious and needed to be inserted into a clean laptop that couldn’t connect to the internet. That way, if the laptop tried to send a signal or became a brick, there would be nothing lost.

Since neither you nor Matt happened to have a spare laptop laying around, Frank went to go procure one.

That was about half an hour ago and now you are well into your third Foggy-assigned task - highlighting any identifying information in yellow. There’s nothing easy like names or addresses listed out, but you noticed a pattern for patient labels and have determined there are at least five.

As you jot down that Patient 031517DVA also appears on page D4 in your notebook, you find you are enjoying yourself. This isn’t exactly what you imagined when Matt talked about inviting everyone over to review what he had found, but you think it is nice. Knowing that Matt isn’t out there running around without any sort of plan soothes your nerves and seeing that he is putting in the time and thought into his next actions makes you trust he knows what he is doing.

No one wants a shady underground lab in their neighborhood, but you need to make sure they are actually shady first and not some weird fringe group researching an unknown breed of sewer rat.

The effort going into helping Matt with this task makes your fondness of Foggy, Karen, and Frank grow even more - and gives you a fondness for Jessica. Everyone is serious about their task, and extremely thorough, and you want them to see you in the same light. You know this is not a game and you refuse to let your part in the research be the weak link.

As you go to the next row of numbers to examine, you catch some movement in the corner of your eye. You turn your head and watch with a soft smile as your daughter emerges from Matt’s bedroom, clad in her mouse-onesie pajamas. Her sleep mask is pulled down around her neck and she looks upset, but she’s not crying, so you don’t jump to run to her. You let her make her own decisions as she sleepily looks between you and her father and you can’t help but to mentally crow a bit as she starts shuffling towards you, her little mouse-tail trailing behind her.

Everyone’s attention is on you as Minnie lifts up her arms to be picked up once she’s within a foot of you. You dutifully scoop her up and put her on your lap, fixing her hood and mouse-ears as you do.

“Is everything okay, sweetheart? Did something wake you up?”

She nods, then flops herself against your chest, mumbling out, “There’s monsters.”

You begin to gently rub her back, hoping to soothe her worries as you confirm, “there’s monsters?”

Again, her head bobs up and down before she nuzzles into your neck, trying to hide herself. Across the room, Matt is up and making his way towards you, but it is Foggy who speaks up next.

“Are they silly monsters or scary monsters?”

You smile at the question as Minnie ponders it - her little lips purse against your neck and you feel her breath against your skin as she silently repeats the words. She decides on ‘scary’ - replying in a timid voice as Matt takes his place behind you, sliding his hands onto your shoulders.

“Do you want me to help you tell them to go away?” you ask, having packed your bottle of Monster Repellent for just this cause. Little fists clutch tightly at your shirt as Mouse shakes her head and you give a soft hum in thought. “Do you want Daddy to go scare them off?”

You are sure Matt would run outside to chase away a stray cat or hungry raccoon if his princess wished for it, but she shakes her head against you, so you guess Matt will be staying inside.

“How about we make the monsters silly instead of scary?” is Karen’s suggestion, and like the others, it falls flat.

You consider offering to read some stories, but Matt startles you from your thoughts by sliding his hands down your arms to get to his daughter. He gently urges her to let go of you before transferring her to his arms and bundling her close. She absolutely clings to him, looking so tiny against his broad shoulders.

“I got this,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper before he turns and starts making his way back to the bedroom. As you watch him walk away, he buries his nose into her hood, and he begins to rock with each step. The itty bitty fist you can still see tightens around his t-shirt and your heart yearns to follow your family, but you know this is a Daddy-Daughter moment and you need to stay seated.

You were worried about Minnie getting scared over sleeping in a new place - there’s so many new and different noises but you trust Matt to help her interpet everything. He’s already done such an amazing job of it in day-to-day life and you know he’ll explain away all her monsters and let her know she is safe.

Considering the company she is starting to keep she is probably the safest little girl in New York. No monsters would dare to lurk in her shadows less they want to face the wrath of the Devil.

You know that this little group you are becoming a part of would join you in jumping in front of a bullet for your daughter and you are pretty sure even her newest best friend - Max the Dog - would not hesitate to bare his teeth if someone upset her.

She deserves nothing less and it makes your heart soar that she is so thoroughly adored.

Now that her research partner is on another important assignment, Jessica gets up off the floor and strolls over to the table, “anything interesting?”

“Maybe if we were scientists instead of lawyers,” Foggy replies warily, dropping his pink highlighter in favor of nursing his beer, “and knew what any of these numbers meant. We’re going to spend all night looking up these test numbers and hoping they are real. I mean, look at this,” he motions to the paper he is currently working on. “What the hell is D22S1045? And why is the result 15?”

Jessica takes one look at the paper before scrunching up her nose and blandly stating, “It’s a DNA marker. Haven’t you ever seen a paternity test?”

Foggy’s face goes slack for a moment before he is huffing, “Not since college when we had to study paternity suits, and they looked nothing like this! They were like dots we had to match, not numbers!” He uses his beer to point to you, “did yours look like this?”

Your cheeks heat up at the question and you duck your head, hating all the attention is on you with such a personal question. “No. No, mine didn’t…we just received a letter with the results. Not the data.”

“So, they are doing DNA and blood tests?” Karen asks, taking over the conversation and directing it back to Jessica. “And comparing them with each other. Could they be looking for relationships between them?”

“I’m not a fucking doctor,” is the reply she gets, but Jessica picks up the paper to examine it more closely either way. “But none of these match. The numbers have to be the same for a parental match, but that might not be what they are looking for. Just because it looks like a paternity test doesn’t mean it is one. DNA markers are used in a lot of shit.”

“It might not be human,” you add quietly. “Matt said the lab smelled of human blood, but we don’t know that these tests are on humans. There’s no dates on these, so they could be years old.”

Karen whips out her phone and is typing away before you are done talking, “What was that DNA marker, Fog?”

Foggy repeats the string of numbers and letters and you watch Karen’s eyes scan her screen.

“It’s human,” she states after a long, tense moment. The scowl Jessica gives is near legendary.

“Great, so we have a bunch of assholes in abandoned tunnels running tests on people.”

“That sounds both sanitary and humane,” Foggy grumbles before throwing back the rest of his beer.

“OSHA and FDA approved,” you add sarcastically and that earns you a smile from Karen. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear before she guides you all back on track.

“We still have no idea what they are looking for, though. This could be cancer research for all we know - we are still at square one.”

“One point five,” Foggy argues, “we confirmed it’s human.”

“We don’t know what the tests are looking for,” Karen repeats, ignoring him, “and I don’t think looking up the significance of each DNA marker is going to do us much good. Can you and Matt go back to the lab and look around?”

As the clear recipient of the question, Jessica huffs then turns away from the table and goes right to the bottle of Macallan Matt keeps on top of his fridge. She pops off the lid, taking a long drink of it before answering.

“That was the plan, but I’m betting it’s going to be sprayed with bleach after knowing Devil-boy was poking around. It’s not like we will get much, not that there was shit to get beforehand.”

“So, we have no who, no why, and no where,” Foggy points out. “We are doing great.”

The joy you had gotten from trying to organize the chaos of paperwork evaporates and you sink down into your chair a little. Would continuing to highlight and document be useful or was this all for naught? The rational part of your brain told you to keep going, because it was better to have it done and not need it then to need it later and it still be a mess of paperwork.

“We’ve just started, Fog, of course we have nothing,” Karen says, rolling her eyes a bit as she does. “Did you expect them to write their plans in gel pens and leave them lying around?”

“I mean, that would be useful.”

You roll your lip between your teeth, thinking that Karen is right. You don’t have much, and you’ve only just started - of course things look pessimistic. While Karen and Foggy begin to banter back and forth about the use of gel pens in a professional setting and Jessica finishes off Matt’s whisky, you let your mind wander around the facts of the case.

Someone is out there running medical tests in a gross underground lab, probably trying to hide what they are doing. To do a lot of tests, they probably needed lab equipment, and a few years ago you would have said to follow that trail, but with all the advancements in technology, a machine to run DNA tests on probably only cost a few hundred dollars and was compact enough to move easily. Generators could keep people off the grid and there were enough tunnels under the city that years could be spent exploring them. Everything they would need could be ordered offline, and thus, was untraceable to you.

The only solid clues you had were what Matt had come home with, so you needed to keep digging there and hope that the thumb drives would contain something more useful.

So, you pick yourself back up, grab your highlighter, and get back to work.

Soon enough, Foggy and Karen pick their highlighters back up as well, and Jessica takes up a spot on the couch, putting her feet up and getting out her phone to tap at. The mood is much more somber, but you feel the same determination to find answers that is in you coming off of everyone else as well.

You don’t pay attention to the passage of time, but it is not long after you grab the final stack of papers to comb through that Matt slips out of the bedroom and closes the door behind him.

He starts towards the dining table only to stop by the couch, tilting his head towards Jessica, “That bottle was a gift from Foggy’s dad.”

“Boo-hoo, cry me a fucking river, Murdock.”

Despite the venom in Jessica’s voice, Matt chuckles and finishes making his way to you.

His hands once again find your shoulders and he begins rubbing them, digging his thumbs into just the right spot as he begins his Minnie-update.

“Someone with a really nice sound system is having a horror movie marathon. She was actually hearing monsters.”

“My poor baby,” you instantly coo, your heart breaking for your little one. “Did you tell her it was just a movie?”

Matt hums in affirmation, “That doesn’t help with the noise, though. We walked through turning things off and found something to work as white noise. It’s still hard for her to do it with new sounds, especially so tired, but she’s a quick learner.”

“How long did it take you to learn all that stuff,” Foggy asks, interest clear in his eyes. Karen puts her pen down as well so she can get the gossip.

“I don’t know, years? It didn’t come naturally to me like it does with her - I would train for hours to be able to pinpoint something, but she can do it pretty easily. I mean, she can’t tell me exact distance because she’s four and doesn’t know what that means, but she can point and say if it’s close or far.” You can feel Matt practically puff up with Pride over his baby girl. “She’s learning inorganic versus organic sounds now. She can tell if a loud banging is someone hitting something or if something just fell over. The other day she told me it was the wind making the window shake, because she couldn’t hear any other noises around the window.”

You smile at the story, having a feeling Matt is going to start going on about all the declarations Minnie had made during the storm and you don’t mind at all.

“So, she’s as good as you?” Karen teases and you know Matt is just beaming.

“Better. She can actually read a sign.”

Foggy barks with laughter while you and Karen have to cover your mouths to not giggle.

Once it subsides, you tilt your head back so you can look up at your daughter’s oh so loving father, bumping against his abdomen as you do, “is she down?”

He gives another positive hum, “In a nice deep sleep. Frank’s on his way back up and I wanted her out before he got here.”

You don’t know if that is from Matt wanting to rejoin the group to know what is on the thumb drives or if it is from him not wanting Minnie to get excited over Frank, but you are thankful she’s conked out either way. The thought of her hearing all your discussions about what lurks in the darkness of the city makes your stomach turn.

She doesn’t need more monsters to imagine.

You thank Matt while reaching up to rub one of his arms - letting yourself give him a small bit of affection. You ignore the look Karen is giving you in favor of making sure Matt is all caught up.

“I take it you heard everything?”

He sighs deeply through his nose, and you take that as a ‘yes’. He confirms with his words.

“Human testing with government trained agents isn’t what I was hoping we would find.”

“I was personally hoping for research on the mutant alligators in the sewers,” Foggy says as he gets up to go towards the kitchen, probably for another beer. “You know the ones they flush down the toilets.”

“That’s a myth, Fog.”

“Look, with everything else that goes on in the world - weird aliens and giant green men - let me believe in my sewer gators, Murdock. They make me happy.”

“With everything that Stark and Roxon dumped in the waters, I wouldn’t be surprised,” Karen muses, resting her chin in her hand, “I mean, Matt got superpowers from something getting in his eyes. If a rat ate something that was contaminated, it could have gotten super senses as well.”

You raise your brows up at the idea, a smile coming to your face, “a crime fighting rat?”

“A crime fighting rat that is a ninja,” Foggy chimes, a wide grin on his face and it sends you into giggles.

“How would a rat even learn martial arts?” Matt counters, “There’s not a rodent karate school he could spy on.”

“I don’t know Matt, how did you learn ka-ra-te,” Foggy emphasizes the word to make it sound more mystical. “He would learn from a secret ninja rat clan.”

“What the fuck are you guys talking about?” Jessica asks, looking over her shoulder at the dining table, disgust and confusion clear on her face.

You and Karen erupt into more laughter while Foggy just grins like he won the world cup as he returns to his seat. Matt gives your shoulders a firm squeeze before letting go and pulling away. He disappears into the narrow passage that is his hallway, and you hear the front door open. Heavy boots signal Frank’s reappearance, and when he and Matt come back around the corner, you offer a small smile.

The Punisher holds up a clunky looking laptop, straight from your middle school years, “Got it.”

“Does that thing even work?” Foggy asks, eyes narrowing in scrutiny. You trust Frank, but the question is valid - if you saw that in a Goodwill, you would doubt it would even turn on.

“Of course it works,” Frank scoffs as he delivers the device to Karen. She instantly opens it up to get it started. “Old body, new hardware. Got it built just for this type of shit.”

Foggy’s lips twitch and you wonder if he wants to say something but is holding his tongue. Jessica joins the table as Matt once again returns to standing behind you. His hands find your shoulders like they are drawn to them, and you wonder if he can’t help but want to touch you. It makes you feel special and wanted and your belly stirs with a certain type of warmth.

Everyone’s focus is on Karen as she works - the laptop boots up and she fiddles with the first thumb drive until it is ready to be inserted. It feels like you all are holding your breath as she finally plugs it in. You expect there to be a password, but apparently there is not, as she just clicks away.

“There’s two files,” she narrates. “One labeled 082616DUK and one labeled 121417BNY.”

You instantly recognize the first designation and push your notebook towards Karen, trying to not sound eager as you tell her, “The DUK one is in our files. Can we look at that first?”

Her face lights up at the prospect of a connection and selects the requested file, “There’s five pictures. Hold on, let me bring them u- Oh my God.”

The little color in her face drains as a horrified expression takes over and her hand shoots up to cover her mouth. You and Froggy scramble up out of your seats while Frank and Jessica crowd around Karen to look at the screen. Matt stays where he is, tilting his head just slightly.

When you see what is in the file, you wish you had stayed under Matt’s hands.

The neatly severed head of a boy stares back at you with blank milky eyes, sitting on an examine table. His hair has been shaved away and there is an incision line around his skull that makes it clear someone has probably removed his brain. His mouth is open in a silent scream, showing off that he still had his baby teeth and that someone has taken his tongue.

You want to throw up and you want to turn away, but you can’t. You can’t look away from this poor child who someone has so thoroughly defiled. Who had done this to this boy and why? You wanted to shake them and scream and demand to know what could possibly possess someone to do this to a baby? Because this was someone’s baby - someone’s little boy - and someone had taken him and ruined him.

You don’t know how she manages it, but Karen brings up the next image and it fills you with just as much disgust and anger.

It is that of a tiny hand with its fingers forcibly splayed, stuck with pins to keep it that way. The tips are bulbous and round, different to anything you’ve seen on a human before, and between each digit, there was a thin stretch of skin connecting them, much like the webbing of a duck’s foot. Like the head, the hand has been surgically removed from the rest of the body, and it isn’t hard to determine they go to the same person.

The next image is of the head again but turned to be facing the left and pre-removal of the tongue, as the appendage is pulled and stretched from the mouth with a pair of forceps. The muscle is an odd shade of purple and coated with some sort of liquidy-white residue, but that is not what is unique about it. The boy’s tongue doesn’t just peek out of his mouth - it extends across the table almost three feet, if the tape measurer under it is to be believed.

You need to turn away after that and to no surprise, Matt is instantly by your side, wrapping you up in his arms and guiding your head to his neck. “He’s just a baby,” you whisper in horror as you cling to him, not understanding how someone could be so cruel. Even if he had died naturally, there was no reason to treat him like that in death.

“Did they…” Froggy starts, his voice low and quivering and you don’t know if it's from rage or grief, “Did they make him a frog? Did they mix this kid with a fucking frog?”

“No,” Frank replies, not hiding how he is feeling at all. The fury is clear in his voice. “They did it because he was like that.”

“What’s the other file?” Jessica demands and part of you doesn’t want to know. You bury yourself more into Matt and you listen to Karen click away at the track pad.

Matt’s arms tighten around you and you can’t imagine what he is thinking. No one has said out loud what the images show, and he has not asked - but he must know it isn’t good. He’s gone tense under you, like he’s ready to jump into action and rip someone apart with his hands.

And you want him to. You want Matt to find whoever did this and make them pay. You want him to punish those who hurt the child in the photos, the people who ran tests on him.

You want to help Matt find who did this and for him to make sure they can never hurt anyone ever again.

“She’s…she’s got a beak.” Karen says slowly after a few moments, and you can’t bear to look at another autopsy photo. You hide yourself more against Matt, not at all ashamed of your choice.

“She’s Enhanced,” is Jessica’s reply, almost blank with stifled emotion.

“She’s a kid. They are hunting Enhanced kids.”

“Why?” Foggy questions, sounding wet, like he’s starting to tear up. You don’t blame him in any way. “Why would they do that?”

Under you, the Devil finally speaks, his voice low and eerily calm, “it doesn’t matter why. We are going to find them, and we are going to stop them.”

---

:) :) :)

---

@two-unbeatable-beaters @kiwwia-wiwwia @1988-fiend @xblueriddlex @loves0phelia @ninacotte @lovelyygirl8 @littlenosoul @ednaaa-04 @astridstark13 @hashcakes

@lovingkryptonitehideout @moongirlgodness @soocore @bluestuesday @midnightwonderlan

@starry-night-20 @rebeccapineapple @writtenbyred @cherrypie5 @capswife @silvercharacterchaos @resting-confused-face

@Specialagentjackbauer @yarrystyleeza @ofmusesandsecrets @buckyssugarchick

@the-devils-angel @savvyreyes4587 @diasnohibng @blobygree18 @givemylovetoall

@midnightreids @cloudroomblog @yeonalie @thychuvaluswife

@petrovafire39 @ghostindeath @roxytheimmortal

@allllium @waywardcrow @thatkindofgurl @waywardxrhea

@anehkael @akilatwt @lostinthefantasies @reluctanthalfwayoptimism @ethereal-blaze

@nennia-2000 @seasonofthenerd @abucketofweird @mattmurdockstateofmind @imagineswritersblog @hazelhavoc @smile-child-13 @allst4rsfall @hashcakes @kezibear @mapleaye @sammanna @gamingfeline @moon-glades @nightwitherspring @phoenix666stuff @dare-devil

@ladyoflynx @hobiebrowns-wife @sarcasm-n-insomnia @lillycore

@dorothleah @mattmurdocksstarlight @mars-on-vinyl @mywellspringoflife @sleepdeprived-barelyalive @simmilarly @soupyspence @darkened-writer @akila-twt

@murc0ckmurc0ck @groovycass @sumo-b98 @just3rowsing @tongueofcat @zoom1374

@theclassicvinyldragon @aoi-targaryen @lunaticgurly @nikitawolfxo @shireentapestry @snakevyro @yondiii @echos-muses @honeybug-victoria @the-bisaster @ristare

@mrs-bellingham @eugene-emt-roe @cometenthusiast @stevenknightmarc @yes-im-your-mom @hunnybelha @actorinfluence @capbrie @prowlingforfood @jupitervenusearthmars

@mayp11-blog @danzer8705 @thinking-at-dusk @remuslupinwifee @akila-twt @nommingonfood @mattmurdocks6thscaleapartment @dil3mma @allllium

#soulie writes #fanfiction #and then i met you #matt murdock x reader #daredevil #matt murdock x you #R rated chapter be warned

226 notes · View notes

jungkoode · 2 months ago

Text

THE 25TH HOUR | O8

“𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐒”

"Your coffee is exactly the way you like it, though you do not remember having a preference over it, nor knowing Agent Min's. Just like you don't remember the coffee shop, or the barista. Or how, apparently, certain phrases trigger certain protocols."

next | index

— chapter details

word count: 5,4k

content: coffee details, sugar slander, yoongi hiding the softness (i see u mf), him leaving in the worst moment possible (oh no can you believe that), a barista thinking he's john wick and yoongi showing him he's indeed not (why am i laughing at this i'm so funny), idk fleeing, superpowers, golden tendrils/tentacles/traces and they're sensitive bc i'm a horny slut who loves drama, yoongi explaining his abilities and basically both of them being somewhat stranded.

— author’s note

OKAY OKAY OKAY—wow. phew.

Lemme just say I had to speed write this chapter like I was being chased by CHRONOS itself because I was NOT prepared for y’all to hit the chapter goals in like… two days. TWO. DAYS. Both on Wattpad and Tumblr. Kinda insane honestly but also like… slay Kiki Nation, we are so back.

This was a severe underestimation on my part and it 100% reflects in the goal numbers I set this round. Don’t look at me like that. This is entirely your doing.

NOW. As for this chapter: WOAH. I was so itchy to finally get into some action-packed scenes!!! I know it’s not a full-blown Marvel throwdown or anything but ughhhh I love the way it’s parried with uncovering new truths, a little sprinkling of Yoongi’s abilities, and just the faintest nod at Noma’s. We’re getting there, babies. We’re cooking with unstable temporal gas.

Sci-fi + superpowers = my drug. Inject it directly into my brainstem. This fic is honestly just me going full feral in my favorite genre and I love that you’re all just vibing with the chaos.

And hey—just a heads up—those golden traces / tendrils / tentacles / whatever-the-fuck you wanna call them? Yeah. They’re important. Not just plot-wise.

Oh no. We’re going smut-wards. You remember that little detail about them being sensitive? YEAH. Narrative seed. Planted. You’re welcome, you horny-ass goblins. I love your deranged asses because they are as feral as mine and I respect that.

Anyway. I’m gonna make that man suffer through overstimulation and there’s NOTHING you can do to stop me. Whoops. Who said that??

Godspeed and love. <3

— read on

ao3

wattpad

You’ve never registered an aversion to coffee.

Analysis confirms your preference: black, minimal dilution via milk, zero sweeteners. Sugar introduces an artificial variable, a taste profile your palate rejects as inefficient data.

The cup sits between your hands now, untouched. Heat radiates outwards, a minor thermal signature registering in your system. You stare into the dark liquid, a reflective surface showing nothing but distorted ceiling lights. Your mind searches for a focal point, a problem to solve, but the what remains elusive, fragmented.

Beside you, Agent Min occupies the adjacent stool. His presence is a known variable, yet the proximity registers as… different. Static cling without the static.

His coffee mirrors yours in its lack of sugar, but deviates in the absence of milk. Plain black. Stark. Your internal database flags this information, yet registers no 'new entry' timestamp. It’s data already logged, sourced from… where?

The query returns a null set.

Error. File not found.

“Good?”

The query comes from him. Low frequency, minimal inflection. You lift your gaze, meeting his across the short distance. Dark eyes, partially obscured by mint smudges of hair that have fallen across his forehead.

Analysis identifies a lack of direct eye contact, his focus aimed somewhere near your left temple.

A defensive posture? Or observational?

You tilt your head, a minor adjustment of 15 degrees. Querying his query.

The corner of his mouth flickers. A micro-expression, barely perceptible, suppressed almost instantly. He’s withholding an upward curve, a smile response.

Why?

“I mean you,” he clarifies, voice maintaining its low, even tone. “Not the coffee.”

You redirect your focus to the cup. The brown surface ripples slightly as you shift your weight. You deliberately defocus your vision, blurring the edges of the ceramic rim.

Unconscious action.

Flagged for later analysis.

“Yeah, just…” The sentence terminates prematurely. Insufficient data to complete the thought. Or perhaps, excess data causing system overload.

He mirrors your earlier gesture, head tilting towards you. An eyebrow arches. A non-verbal prompt for continuation. Standard interrogation technique.

“I knew Robin.” The words emerge, low volume, clinical detachment coating the raw data point.

He nods once. A slow, measured movement. No verbal response. He allows the silence to expand, granting you control over the data flow.

“And now he’s gone.” You complete the statement.

Flat delivery. Fact confirmed.

His gaze drops to his own cup. He lifts it, takes a sip. The motion is fluid, economical. He places the cup back down without a sound. Four seconds pass. Five.

“I got him erased.” The statement escapes as a whisper, approximately 17 decibels.

A conclusion reached through flawed logic, yet carrying an unexpected physical weight. Something constricts within your chest cavity, pressure.

His response is immediate. No processing delay.

“No.”

The word is rough, textured like sandpaper against concrete. A rasp that cuts through the low hum.

“CHRONOS got him erased.” He pauses, intake of breath audible. “That’s what they do.”

"I mentioned the temporal anomaly to him." You mutter, the unidentified strain expanding behind your sternum. "Probability suggests that's why they targeted him."

"They were already watching him," he says, voice calibrated to exactly 40 decibels. "Your conversation may have accelerated their timeline, but he was already flagged."

You process this new data point, running probability calculations against known variables.

"How can you be certain?"

His eyes meet yours—pupil dilation increasing by 7.3% in the 0.7 seconds of direct contact.

"Because I've been tracking their erasure patterns for longer than you've been alive."

The statement contains multiple logical inconsistencies.

Agent Min does not look significantly older than you.

Yet your temporal analysis centers don't flag it as a falsehood.

Your glance moves back to the cup.

"Robin kept succulents on his desk," you say, the information surfacing without clear relevance markers. "Three of them. Arranged by height. He watered them every Tuesday at 14:27."

Yoongi's face produces some series of micro-adjustments in 17 distinct facial muscles that combine to form something your pattern recognition identifies as... compassion?

The classification feels incorrect, but alternatives rank lower in probability.

"You're processing grief," he observes, voice modulating to a softer cadence. "It's normal."

The diagnosis feels foreign. Incorrect. Your emotional processing centers operate at 98.7% efficiency. You would recognize grief.

Wouldn't you?

"I barely knew him," you counter. "We shared 17 lunch periods over 4.7 months. Total interaction time: 23.8 hours. Insufficient for meaningful emotional attachment."

Yoongi takes another sip of his coffee. The liquid level decreases by exactly 12 milliliters.

"Grief isn't always logical," he says after 2.3 seconds of silence. "Sometimes it's just... human."

The cadence in his last word triggers some unexpected response in you.

"I'm not experiencing grief," you insist. "I'm experiencing statistical anomalies in my cognitive processing."

His eyes meet yours again—0.9 seconds of contact that somehow feels heavier than its temporal parameters suggest.

"Call it whatever you need to. The result is the same."

Your fingers adjust on the cup again—pressure decreasing by 0.2 kilograms as your muscles unconsciously respond to his voice.

"What is the statistical probability that my conversation with Robin directly caused his erasure?"

Yoongi's expression darkens—brow lowering by 0.4 centimeters, jaw tensing with 31% more force.

"You're looking for a percentage to quantify your guilt," he observes, voice edged. "It doesn't work that way."

"Everything works that way," you argue. "Reality is quantifiable. Causality is measurable. Effect follows cause at precisely calculable intervals."

"Not in the 25th hour. Not with CHRONOS."

Silence spreads as his thumb traces the rim of his cup-three precise rotations counterclockwise. Then, he speaks again, needing to make a point.

"Consistency matters now more than ever. CHRONOS is auditing behavioral patterns with 62% increased scrutiny since last quarter."

You frown. "Source?"

"Erratic temporal enforcement." His finger taps the ceramic once—sharp, percussive. "Fourteen percent spike in memory wipes. Thirty-three percent decrease in Outlier survival rates post-detection."

The numbers land like ice chips down your spine. "Correlation doesn't imply causation."

His eyes narrow by 0.3 millimeters. "You think they're redecorating parks for aesthetic purposes?"

You ignore the rhetorical jab. "Recommended behavioral adjustments?"

"Normalcy. No deviations from established routines. No unscheduled interactions. No..."

His gaze flicks to your hands.

“...idle curiosity."

You follow his line of sight.

Your fingers have been tracing infinity symbols in condensation on the table.

A subconscious pattern emerging at 2.7-second intervals.

"Noted."

You wipe the moisture away with a napkin, friction coefficient registering 0.4 higher than standard paper stock.

"They're cross-referencing biometrics with temporal signatures now. Elevated heart rate during routine scans triggers immediate audits."

Your pulse spikes by 11.2 bpm at the implication. "You're suggesting emotional suppression."

"I'm suggesting survival. Your body can't afford inconvenient truths right now."

The phrase 'inconvenient truths' lodges in your cortex, sparking 37 simultaneous neural queries.

All return access-denied.

"Define 'normalcy' parameters."

"Wake at 06:00. Work until 18:30. Consume 427 calories at designated intervals. Report all temporal irregularities except the ones we cause."

"Compliance seems..." You search for the optimal term. "...counterintuitive to resistance efforts."

“You think rebellion looks like fireworks and manifesto drops?" Leather creaks as he leans closer, mint and ozone sharpening the air between you. "Real resistance happens in the microseconds they don't monitor."

Your retinas capture the exact moment his pupils dilate—3.2% expansion correlating with proximity increase.

"Such as?"

"The 25th hour. The only time they can't see us."

Your watch beeps softly—temporal variance: 0.89%.

He pulls back instantly, posture reset to neutral. "Stick to the numbers. The patterns. The lies they've programmed you to live."

The coffee turns bitter on your tongue, pH shifting by 0.2.

"And you?"

“I'll be the ghost in their machine."

Ghost.

The word settles in your chest, impossibly making it warmer.

Then, the lights flicker—a couple times—as CHRONOS agents pass outside the window. Their shadows stretch across the floor in elongated distortions, limbs warped by the glass's refractive index.

You count their footsteps.

He counts your breaths.

A soft exhale from his lips—a controlled release of 1.2 liters of air over 2.4 seconds.

Rising from the stool, he stretches his neck 37 degrees to the left, then 42 degrees right. The vertebrae produce three distinct clicks at frequencies between 73 and 81 hertz.

His cup sits empty. Yours remains 73% full.

That same suppressed curve at the corner of his mouth does a reappearance.

Your pattern recognition flags it as the third occurrence of this specific micro-expression in the past 18 minutes.

“I need to use the restroom.” His statement is direct, efficient. “Wait here.”

You nod once—a 15-degree downward tilt followed by an equivalent upward correction. Optimal response to a simple directive.

He moves 1.7 meters toward the back of the establishment before pivoting 170 degrees. His eyebrows lift by 0.4 centimeters, creating three distinct lines across his forehead.

“You’ll be okay?”

The question registers as anomalous. Its premise suggests a concern disproportionate to the circumstances. Your brow furrows, creating a 0.3-centimeter depression between your eyebrows.

He shakes his head, dismissing the moment, and disappears behind the door marked RESTROOM—white letters, slightly chipped, 7.2 degrees off center.

You pivot on the stool, body angled toward the counter.

The coffee sits there, cooling. You sip. It’s gone tepid. Your thumb traces the rim, mapping the circumference for the third time.

The bartender approaches. Male, mid-thirties, dark hair, clean apron. Smile at 65% intensity.

“Not a fan of the coffee?” he asks, voice pitched for casual friendliness. “You’ve been staring at it longer than drinking.”

You blink twice. Processing. “No, it’s fine.”

He leans in, elbows on the counter. “You sure? Most people ask for sugar. Or something sweet.”

You shake your head. “I don’t like sweeteners. They distort the baseline flavor profile.”

He laughs, easy. “That’s… specific.”

His gaze lingers, searching for something.

“You come here often? I don’t recognize you.”

You hesitate, brain skipping. “Not that I remember.”

The words fall out, unfiltered. He goes still. Smile vanishes. His hand drops below the counter—movement too smooth.

Cold metal presses to your temple. Soft click.

You catalog the sensation.

Barrel diameter: 9mm.

Temperature: room.

Pressure: firm, not shaking.

His voice drops, all pretense gone. “Don’t move. Don’t speak.”

You comply.

Data input: threat detected.

Output: unknown.

Your retinal sensors register gold first—erratic sparks at 11 o'clock, 43 centimeters from your focal point.

The barista's weapon hand undergoes rapid cellular decay: skin desiccating at 3.7 millimeters per second, muscle tissue liquefying with 92% efficiency. His scream measures 114 decibels—pain response authentic, but temporal signature reveals 0.8-second delay.

Agent Min's grip materializes around your wrist before the decay reaches radial artery. His fingers burn at 39.1°C, golden threads weaving through his leather gloves. The world blurs—not from speed, but temporal interference.

Your internal chronometer confirms: local time dilation of 47%.

"Move." The command vibrates at 87 Hz, bypassing auditory processing to embed directly in your motor cortex.

Your legs comply before conscious thought engages. Adrenaline spikes—17.3% above baseline. The cafe exits warp as you pass, doorframes appearing to bend at 12-degree angles—an optical illusion caused by the temporal distortion field surrounding you.

CHRONOS agents materialize in peripheral vision, their movements unnaturally segmented—3.1 frames per second versus standard 24. Their comms chatter fractures into your awareness:

"—emporal breach Sector 4-Alpha—"

"—arget exhibits Reality Shifter signatures—"

"—containment protocol Theta-7 authorized—"

Yoongi pivots 170 degrees, dragging you into an alley where air molecules vibrate at 0.7x normal frequency. His free hand glows faintly gold, pressed against the brick wall. Mortar ages backward then forward in precise spiral patterns—2.3 revolutions per second, creating a passageway exactly 0.9 meters wide.

"Don't breathe," he warns as you pass through particulate matter suspended in his temporal field.

Your lungs register 14% oxygen decrease.

Insufficient for hypoxia.

Sufficient for discomfort.

The alley deposits you onto a street where Agent Min(?) has slowed time by 23%. Pedestrians move at imperceptible rates, their coffee cups appearing frozen at 37-degree angles. His temporal manipulation leaves gold afterimages—3.2-second persistence in your peripheral vision.

Your Chrono-Sync Watch beeps erratically:

TEMPORAL VARIANCE: 4.89%

ANOMALY DETECTED

His grip tightens—42.7 kilograms of pressure now, necessary to anchor you against increasing temporal distortion. Without his stabilizing touch, you assume your untrained body would suffer severe temporal drag.

"Focus on my voice," he commands, words layered with harmonic frequencies that stabilize your inner ear fluid against the disorienting effects of his temporal field.

CHRONOS drones breach the time dilation field behind you, their propulsion systems screeching at 17 kHz—the exact resonant frequency that makes your temples protest.

They're designed to track and pursue through temporal distortions. You know this from your training, what they taught you. Or at least, what they wanted you to be taught.

But Yoongi never looks back; not even once.

Nature’s lumbar support leaves much to be desired.

The wall at your back is jagged, scraping through your shirt, stone biting into skin. Yoongi’s breath saws out next to you, sharp, furious. He rounds on you, eyes wild, voice pitched higher than baseline.

"What the fuck did you do?"

The question isn't a question—it’s an accusation wrapped in 87 decibels of controlled fury. You straighten 2.3 centimeters, ignoring how the rock tears at your jacket.

“I answered his query within established social parameters."

His laugh is all sharp edges. "Parameters? You told a CHRONOS informant you didn't remember him!"

"Statistical probability suggested—"

"Probability?" He steps into your space, mint and ozone overpowering the cave's damp musk. "They've activated civilian reporting protocols! That bartender was required to log every customer interaction!"

Your pulse spikes-+18bpm. "Unforeseen variable. You didn't brief me on—"

"I literally just said don't deviate from normalcy!" The wall cracks behind him, hairline fractures spreading at 3mm/second. "Normal people don't have memory gaps about coffee shops!"

You catalog the wall damage—microcrystalline structure failure inconsistent with human strength.

Fascinating.

New data point: Agent Min's capabilities exceed known parameters.

"My response was logically sound," you counter. "Approximately 72% of humans experience—"

"Logically suicidal." Gold sparks dance in his irises now. "They train those informants to flag exactly that phrase."

The revelation triggers 23 simultaneous neural queries.

"Why would 'not that I remember' trigger—"

"Because Outliers say it when their memories glitch!" He's closer now, 47cm instead of 72. "Basic fucking tradecraft, Noma."

You flinch at the nickname. "You expect me to intuit unpublished surveillance tactics?"

"I expect you to listen when I say CHRONOS is hunting us." The gold intensifies, threads weaving through his clenched fists. "That man wasn't armed until you turned him into a threat."

"Correlation fallacy." Your voice drops to 19dB. "You lack evidence that—"

The cave wall explodes.

Not literally—just Yoongi's fist connecting with stone 3.2cm from your head. Dust cascades downward as he withdraws his hand, skin unmarred.

"Evidence?" His breath ghosts across your lips, warmer than human biology allows. "You think decay patterns manifest spontaneously?"

Realization crystallizes.

The bartender's rotting hand. The gold threads. The temporal distortion.

Your eyes narrow. "You altered his cellular decay rate."

"To save your statistically suicidal ass."

"Without consent."

"Without options.”

The standoff lasts 4.7 seconds.

"You're an anomaly," he growls. "Stop acting like one."

"Variables require data." You match his glare. "Which you hoard like a fucking dragon."

His hands rake through mint hair, leaving it standing at precisely 47-degree angles.

"Because I have no other fucking choice!" The words explode from him, raw and jagged. "Every piece of information I give you is another potential trigger. Another way for CHRONOS to find you. To erase you. Again."

That word. ‘Again’. He keeps saying it, like it’s something he can’t lodge out of his throat.

Yet, for his incredible powers, he seems unable to prevent what he fears most.

What ‘again’ means to him.

Your eyes narrow, recalculating.

"So your ability..." You pause, watching his muscles tense. "Time manipulation?"

His eyes flick to yours, then away. A non-answer that answers everything.

"You aged his hand by 70 years, at minimum." Your voice steadies as you shift to analysis mode. "Accelerated cellular decay, targeted temporal field. Fascinating."

"83 actually." The correction is automatic. Petulant. He slides down the wall beside you, knees cracking at 73 and 81 hertz. "Time Anchor. That's the technical classification."

You catalog the term, cross-referencing against known temporal phenomena.

No matches found.

"I can't create or destroy time." His voice drops, rougher now. "I can only... redistribute it. Accelerate decay in one place, slow it in another."

Your fingers twitch with the urge to document, to measure. "Conservation of temporal energy."

"Something like that." He flexes his right hand, and you notice the faint gold shimmer beneath his skin—network of lines like circuitry, pulsing at 0.7-second intervals. "Every action has a cost."

"The gold." You gesture toward his hand. "Temporal bleed?"

His eyebrow lifts 0.3 centimeters. "For someone who claims to know nothing, you make impressive leaps."

"Pattern recognition is my primary function." You shift, angling your body 12 degrees toward his. "What's the cost?"

His laugh lacks humor, registering at 42% below standard mirth indicators.

"Depends on what I'm doing. Age someone's hand? Minor headache, maybe some joint pain. Stop time completely?" He taps his temple. "Migraines that would kill a normal person."

You process this, calculating energy transfer ratios.

"And the 25th hour?"

"That's different." His voice drops another 3 decibels. "That's not me. That's... a system error. Something CHRONOS never accounted for."

"That you exploit."

"That we exploit." He corrects, eyes meeting yours. "Some of us, anyway."

"How many like you exist?"

"Time Anchors?" He shrugs, the movement exact despite its casual appearance. "Only me, that I know of.”

The admission feels sad.

Terribly lonely.

"And me?"

The question emerges before your logic centers can evaluate its prudence; and his eyebrows twitch, eyes staring directly onto the ground.

"You're something else entirely."

"Define 'something else,'" you request, shifting your position against the wall to better observe him.

The movement causes a minor increase in discomfort—rock surface irregularities creating pressure points along your vertebrae.

But they do not register as important in the face of acquiring new information.

Agent Min finally exhales—which suggests internal debate about information disclosure parameters.

"I can show you," he says finally, voice dropping. "But you need to understand that what I'm about to do is extremely detectable. If there are any CHRONOS agents within 400 meters, they'll register it."

You calculate risk factors, weighing variables against known CHRONOS response protocols.

"Current location provides approximately 87% concealment from standard monitoring," you observe. "Probability of detection: 13.2%."

His mouth quirks—almost-smile that never fully materializes.

"Always with the numbers," he mutters, but it doesn't register as annoyance—rather something warmer.

He extends his right hand, palm up, and focuses his attention on it with an intensity that alters his breathing pattern by 0.4 seconds per cycle.

At first, nothing happens.

Then—

Gold.

Liquid light emerges from his fingertips, tendrils of energy that move with fluidity. They spiral outward in clockwise rotations, creating phenomenons that defy any standard classification parameters.

Your pupils dilate by approximately 28%, heart rate increasing by 17 beats per minute.

"Temporal energy," he explains, voice steady despite the obvious energy expenditure. "Direct manifestation of my ability."

The golden traces move like extensions of himself, responding to minute shifts in his focus. They emit no measurable heat signature yet appear fluid, almost liquid in their movement patterns.

"Fascinating," you breathe, leaning closer to observe better. "How do they work? What's their composition? Can they interact with physical matter or are they purely energetic manifestations?"

Your questions tumble out in rapid succession, each one triggering three more in your mind. The analytical part of you wants to measure, catalog, understand—but something else, something less quantifiable, simply wants to touch.

He watches you cautiously, measuring your reaction.

"They're extensions of temporal force," he explains. "I can manipulate objects through their timeline states—age them forward or backward, freeze them in their current temporal position."

The golden traces curl and twist above his palm, creating complex patterns that seem to follow mathematical principles.

"Can I—" You hesitate, unusual break in your typically decisive speech pattern. "Would contact damage them? Or me?"

"No damage," he says carefully. "But they're... sensitive."

The word choice seems odd, triggering your curiosity further.

"Sensitive how?" you press, eyes tracking the golden movements.

He sighs—perhaps denoting exhaustion.

"They're direct extensions of my temporal energy. I feel what they feel."

You process this information.

"Like nerve endings," you suggest.

"Yeah… Something like that."

Decision made, you extend your hand toward the nearest tendril, moving slowly to allow him time to withdraw if needed.

He doesn't.

Your fingertip makes contact with the golden energy.

The sensation is... unexpected.

The trace feels solid yet fluid simultaneously, warm without heat, substantial without mass. But what registers most prominently is Yoongi's immediate reaction—sharp intake of breath, pupils dilating by approximately 32%, micro-tremor in his left hand.

You pull back instantly, recalculating.

"Did that hurt?" you ask, cataloging his physiological responses.

"No." His voice drops by 2.7 hertz. "Not hurt."

No further clarification.

Your own pulse increases by another 8 beats per minute in response.

Oh.

You reach out again, this time with intent, and trace your finger along the golden tendril. It responds to your touch, curling around your fingertip like it's greeting you.

Yoongi's breathing pattern alters—inhalation extending by 0.7 seconds, exhalation shortening by 0.4.

"They recognize you," he says, voice rougher than before.

"That's impossible," you counter automatically. "We've never interacted like this before."

His eyes meet yours, holding for 2.3 seconds—longer than his usual 0.8-second maximum.

"They recognize you," he repeats, simply.

The golden trace wrapped around your finger pulses slightly, the rhythm matching your heartbeat with 97.3% synchronicity.

"What else can they do?" you ask, scientific curiosity temporarily overriding everything else.

He flexes his fingers slightly, and the traces extend further, creating a complex network of golden energy between you.

"They can interact with physical objects," he demonstrates, directing a tendril toward a small rock.

The stone ages rapidly, crumbling to dust in 3.2 seconds. Another rock reverts to its geological past—crystallizing into a perfect quartz formation.

"Temporal manipulation at a distance," you observe, mind going through all possible applications, limitations, variables.

"Yes."

You watch as the traces move with increasing confidence around you, never touching without your initiation, but clearly... aware of your presence.

"And these are unique to Time Anchors?" you ask, testing another hypothesis.

"Each type of Outlier has their own manifestation," he says carefully. "Mine happens to be temporal, and in tendrils of different sizes."

You detect deliberate vagueness, information being withheld.

"What's mine?"

The traces flicker briefly, responding to some change in his emotional state.

"That's something you'll have to discover yourself," he says finally.

You frown, dissatisfied with the non-answer.

"More cryptic responses. Inefficient communication strategy."

His mouth quirks again.

"Some things can't be told, Noma. They have to be experienced."

You reach out again, this time allowing your entire hand to pass through the network of golden energy. The traces respond immediately, wrapping around your fingers, sliding between them.

Yoongi's breath catches, the sound barely audible at 17 decibels.

"These are... remarkably sensitive," you observe.

"Yes." The word emerges strained, tightly controlled.

A hypothesis forms. You test it by deliberately trailing your fingers through the traces with a bit more pressure.

His reaction is immediate—pupils dilating to 7.1 millimeters, pulse visible at his throat increasing to approximately 92 beats per minute, a muscle in his jaw tensing with 47% more force.

"Interesting," you murmur, filing away this reaction for future analysis.

"We should stop," he says, voice rougher than before. "Extended manifestation increases detection risk."

Logical. Rational.

Yet you find yourself strangely reluctant to end the experiment.

"One more question," you negotiate, still not withdrawing your hand from the golden network. "Why do they move in clockwise patterns specifically?"

His eyes meet yours again, unreadable.

"Because that's how time moves," he says simply. "Forward. Clockwise."

You correlate with your observations.

"And if something moved counterclockwise?" you ask, the question emerging from some intuitive part of your mind rather than your analytical centers.

The traces flicker again, responding to something in his emotional state.

"That would be something else entirely," he says, echoing his earlier statement.

Before you can press further, he withdraws, the golden traces retracting into his skin. The absence leaves the air feeling strangely empty, lacking some vital element you hadn't noticed until it was gone.

Your fingertips tingle with residual sensation—a ghastly feeling you don’t know how to categorize but for some reason find yourself missing.

"We need to move," he says, voice returning to its normal cadence. "We've stayed in one place too long."

He is right.

You don’t know why you still want to touch those golden traces.

You rise instead, calculating the most efficient exit route while your mind continues processing this new data point: Agent Min’s golden traces recognize you, despite having no logical reason to do so.

Another anomaly to add to your growing collection.

He presses his right wrist with two fingers, applying precisely 2.1 kilograms of pressure to the outer edge of his Chrono-Sync Watch. The device responds with a soft sound—around 17 decibels, so barely perceptible even in the cave's acoustic environment.

A holographic display materializes 4.7 centimeters above the watch face, projecting a three-dimensional map of Sector 4 with pulsing red markers scattered across its surface.

You lean forward, immediately registering the discrepancy: standard Chrono-Sync Watch models lack holographic projection capabilities.

"What is that?"

Yoongi doesn't look up, his focus entirely on the floating map as he rotates it 37 degrees with a precise finger movement.

"Modified," he says simply, the explanation as efficient as always. "I told you."

You study the hologram, cataloging design parameters and technical specifications with automatic precision.

"Quantum-projection module integration into a Chrono-Sync interface would require bypassing at least seven encryption protocols," you observe, mind already mapping the engineering challenges. "The power requirements alone would necessitate a modified lithium cell with 347% increased capacity. Not to mention the spatial compression algorithms needed to maintain holographic integrity without..."

Your analysis trails off as your eyes meet his over the floating display. The corner of his mouth twitches once more.

"You helped create this," he says quietly, fingers still moving through the projection.

The statement registers, but fails to connect with any accessible memory database.

"I did not." Your contradiction emerges automatically, precisely calibrated to express certainty.

He doesn't argue. Doesn't press. Simply continues manipulating the map with those agile, gloved fingers, eyes occasionally flicking to your face as if contemplating your reaction.

Silence expands between you for exactly 4.3 seconds before your curiosity overrides caution.

"Where are we going?" you ask, redirecting the conversation away from memory discrepancies that trigger uncomfortable neural responses.

"I'm mapping our closest access point," he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

His index finger traces a route through the holographic streets, calculating distances with the same analytical precision you recognize in yourself.

"We need to reach one of the travel spots within the next 37 minutes. Our temporal signature trail is too fresh after that... incident."

"Travel spots?"

You catalog the unfamiliar terminology, cross-referencing against known CHRONOS lexicon.

No matches found.

Yoongi's fingers pause at exactly 23 degrees northeast of your current position. His throat works—a slight contraction suggesting hesitation.

"I..."

His voice hovers over the simple noun. He swallows once, recalibrating.

"Travel spots are access points," he continues, voice modulated in a way that suggests internal editing. "Strategic locations throughout the city that allow direct transport to the 7th Hour headquarters."

"Teleportation technology? That's theoretically impossible given current quantum limitations."

"Not teleportation. Temporal-spatial warping." His finger taps a pulsing blue marker on the map. "These portals use existing weak points in CHRONOS's reality grid."

Theoretical models. Probability factors. Energy requirements.

"The energy necessary to maintain stable reality tunnels would exceed—"

"That's why they're not tunnels," he interrupts, eyes still fixed on the map. "They're more like... doors. Open only when needed, closed immediately after use."

You lean closer, studying the blue markers. Their distribution follows no discernible pattern—a deliberate randomization algorithm to prevent predictive tracking.

"Why can't CHRONOS detect them?" you ask, probing for weaknesses.

"They can detect the activation," he answers, voice tightening slightly. "But not follow through. The portals are specially calibrated to recognize Outlier temporal signatures. Anyone else attempting to pass through would trigger an immediate collapse."

You frown, recalculating. "But my temporal signature is registered in the CHRONOS database. Wouldn't that trigger their defense systems?"

His eyes flick to yours briefly—0.7 seconds of direct contact.

"Your official signature is a fabrication. The real one..." He pauses, choosing his words with unusual care. "The real one is already authorized in our system."

Another anomaly to catalog.

Another fragment that doesn't fit your accessible memory database.

"So we access one of these points, and it transports us directly to your headquarters?" you confirm, redirecting toward practical logistics.

"Yes." He closes the holographic display with an easy gesture. "But we need to be careful. After what happened at the coffee shop, they'll be scanning for temporal disturbances with heightened sensitivity."

You tilt your head, considering.

"And why haven't you contacted your team? Surely they could provide assistance or extraction."

His eyes flicker to you. Presses his lips together. Then, answers.

"Communications are compromised in this sector," he explains. "Any encrypted transmission would register on CHRONOS monitoring systems. They'd triangulate our position within 3.7 seconds."

"Your golden traces," you observe, connecting variables. "The temporal display at the coffee shop would have triggered every sensor within 1.5 kilometers."

"Precisely why we need to move quickly." He cracks his neck again, just like he did back in the coffee shop. "Our window is closing. That display was necessary but costly from a strategic perspective."

Your mind reconstructs the coffee shop incident—the bartender's decay, the golden traces, the immediate pursuit.

"You risked substantial exposure to extract me," you state, the realization forming fully. "Statistically, that decision carried a 78.3% probability of compromising your entire operation."

He doesn’t explain. Doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t try to correct you. Just lets silence stretch for three seconds.

"Some variables outweigh probability," he says finally.

"I still don't understand why you can't simply use your temporal abilities to transport us directly. If you can manipulate time—"

"I manipulate time, not space," he sighs. "I can slow it, accelerate it, even stop it briefly. But I can't move through it. That's..."

He hesitates again, that same weighted pause.

"That's a different ability entirely."

You catalog this limitation, updating your mental model of his capabilities.

"And these portals combine both temporal and spatial manipulation," you deduce, connecting data points.

"Yes." The confirmation is clipped, efficient. "They were designed specifically to compensate for the limitations of individual Outlier abilities."

"Designed by who?"

His eyes meet yours again—1.4 seconds this time, 75% longer than his usual pattern.

"By us," he says simply.

The pronoun registers with unexpected weight.

Us. Collective. Collaborative.

You and him.

Your Chrono-Sync Watch beeps softly: Temporal variance: 1.07%.

"We need to move," he says, already turning toward the cave entrance. "The nearest travel spot is 1.7 kilometers northeast. If we maintain optimal pace while avoiding main thoroughfares, we should arrive within the acceptable window."

You follow, legs automatically adjusting to match his stride, body responding to cues your conscious mind hasn't processed.

Another anomaly. Another piece of the puzzle.

You catalog it alongside all the others, building your database of inconsistencies, contradictions, and inexplicable familiarities.

Someday, you'll find the pattern that connects them all.

But for now, you follow the ghost with golden traces, moving through a city that feels increasingly like a simulation with every step.

goal: 250 notes

next | index

— taglist

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

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

255 notes · View notes

selfshipyellowpages · 7 months ago

Text

Let's Get This Party Started!

Hello all, I've been chatting with a few friends in the selfship community and I was heavily inspired by @selfshippersfromthissource, as well as @selfshippingpolls. and @have-an-fo-who. I'd like to make a carrd that functions as a database for selfshippers to find other selfshippers in the same fandoms!

If you'd like to be part of the list, then please interact with this post: I'm going to include all fandoms that have at least two selfshippers that have them as a source, OR if anyone asks about them in my inbox and they're on someone's list.

I'm still working on my initial carrd design, but I'll release it once I have at least twenty selfshippers catalogued, and then I'll be keeping it up to date from there! I know we've got a big community and it's going to be a lot of work, but I love spreadsheets so I've got high hopes-- I love to collect data and I've done a ton of AO3 analysis in the past, and now I'd like to turn that attention to connecting people with each other!

#selfship #selfship community #selfship art #self ship #selfshipping

336 notes · View notes

foggieststars · 4 months ago

Note

I think you guys are thinking too much about it. AI or no AI a fic is a fic. It doesn't matter. You think you writing about real people is ethical? Writing them fucking and with controversial pairings? AI is all over the place like get used to it. If someone is using AI to fix their errors, or to just improve some writing why tf do you care? Y'all are just entitled. Not everyone's great at English. Just stfu and LET people write what they want. God.

hi, this is such an ignorant ask i'm incredibly surprised you felt confident enough to hit send! but i'll engage with you in good faith regardless.

yes, there are debates about the ethics of writing RPF, but i think comparing them to the ethical debates about the use of AI is frankly quite laughable. not only does AI have an incredibly detrimental impact on the environment, the impacts are likely to be unequal and hit already resource-strained environments the hardest. (i am providing sources for you here, something i'm assuming you're unfamiliar with since you are so in favour of relying on AI to generate 'original' thought). moreover, many AI models rely on data scraping in order to train these models. it is very often the case that creators of works on the internet - for example, ao3 - do not give consent for their works to be used to train these models. it raises ethical questions about ownership of content, and of intellectual property beyond fanfiction. comparing these ethical dilemmas to the ethics of rpf is not an argument that convinces me, nor i'm sure does it convince many others.

"AI is all over the place like get used to it" - frankly, i'm not surprised you're so supportive of AI, if this is the best argument in its favour you can muster. you know what else is all over the place?? modern slavery! modern slavery's extremely commonplace across the world, anti-slavery international estimate that about 50 million people globally are living in modern slavery. following the line of your argument, since modern slavery is so commonplace, this must make it okay, and we should get used to it. the idea that just because something is everywhere makes it acceptable is a logical fallacy. do you see how an overreliance on AI reduces your ability to critically think, and to form arguments for yourself?

please explain to me how i'm entitled for thinking that relying on AI to produce something of generally, extremely poor quality, is poor behaviour on your part, or the part of other people who do it. you don't have to write fanfiction in english, and if you do struggle with english, there are MANY talented betas in this fandom who i'm sure would be willing to lend a hand and fix SPAG. you are NOT going to improve your english by getting AI to fix it for you.

as @wisteriagoesvroom helpfully pointed out "art is an act of emotion and celebration and joy and defiance. it is an unshakeable, unstoppable feeling that idea that must and should be expressed" - this is not something you can achieve via the use of AI. you might think it's not that deep, but for many people who dedicate hours of their time to writing fanfiction, it feels very much like a slap in the face. and what's more, it produces negligible benefits for the person who is engaging in creating AI fanfiction.

i agree with you that people should write whatever they want, but the operative word in that statement is write. i do not, and will not ever consider inputting prompts into chatgpt a sincere form of artistic creation. thanks!

#ask #do not send me ignorant bad-faith asks because i will spend half an hour writing an essay

216 notes · View notes

trainsinanime · 2 months ago

Text

The darkly ironic thing is that if you are worried about the recent news that someone scraped Ao3 for AI research, then you're probably vastly underestimating the scale of the problem. It's way worse than you think.

For the record, a couple of days ago, someone posted a "dataset for AI research" on reddit, which was simply all publicly accessible works on Ao3, downloaded and zipped. This is good, in a way, because that ZIP file is blatantly illegal, and the OTW managed to get it taken down (though it's since been reuploaded elsewhere).

However, the big AI companies, like OpenAI, xAI, Meta and so on, as well as many you've never heard of, all probably had no interest in this ZIP file to begin with. That was only ever of interest to small-scale researchers. These companies probably already have all that data, received by scraping it themselves.

A lot of internet traffic at the moment is just AI companies sucking up whatever they can get. Wikipedia reports that about a third of all visitors are probably AI bots (and they use enormous amounts of bandwidth). A number of sites hosting software source code estimate that more than 90% of all traffic to their sites may be AI bots. It's all a bit fuzzy since most AI crawlers don't identify themselves as such, and pretend to be normal users.

The OTW hasn't released any similar data as far as I am aware, but my guess would be that Ao3 is being continuously crawled by all sorts of AI companies at every moment of the day. If you have a fanfic on Ao3, and it isn't locked to logged-in users only, then it's already going to be part of several AI training data sets. Only unlike this reddit guy, we'll never know for sure, because these AI training data sets won't be released to the public. Only the resulting AI models, or the chat bots that use these models, and whether that's illegal is… I dunno. Nobody knows. The US Supreme Court will probably answer that in 5-10 years time. Fun.

The solution I've seen from a lot of people is to lock their fics. That will, at best, only work for new fics and updates, it's not going to remove anything that e.g. OpenAI already knows.

And, of course, it assumes that these bots can't be logged in. Are they? I have no way of knowing. But if I didn't have a soul and ran an AI company, I might consider ordering a few interns to make a couple dozen to hundreds of Ao3 accounts. It costs nothing but time due to the queue system, and gets me another couple of million words probably.

In other words: I cannot guarantee that locked works are safe. Maybe, maybe not.

Also, I don't think there's a sure way to know whether any given work is included in the dataset or not. I suppose if ChatGPT can give you an accurate summary when you ask, then it's very likely to be in, but that's by no means a guarantee either way.

What to do? Honestly, I don't know. We can hope for AI companies to go bankrupt and fail, and I'm sure a lot of them will over the next five years, but probably not all of them. The answer will likely have to be political and on an international stage, which is not an easy terrain to find solutions for, well, anything.

Ultimately it's a personal decision. For myself, I think the joy I get from writing and having others read what I've written outweighs the risks, so my stories remain unlocked (and my blog posts as well, this very text will make its way into various data sets before too long, count on it). I can totally understand if others make other choices, though. It's all a mess.

Sorry to start, middle and end this on a downer, but I think it's important to be realistic here. We can't demand useful solutions for this from our politicians if we don't understand the problems.

119 notes · View notes

nebrasska-alasska · 2 months ago

Note

AND YOU. BETA ORBITER MALE. I COULD DO WITHOUT YOU.

But heyyy pookie :33

I've been wondering, since AO3 was scraped, has it made you consider privating any of your fics?

Reportedly the data that WAS scraped was deleted from AO3 threatening legal action (and we know they have lawyers for DAYS with the money that's donated MONTHLY) but I got it from TikTok so I'm not sure how credible that source is.

BUT YOU MAKE ME FEEL SMARTER AND STRONGER SO I WILL KEEP YOU AROUND ANYWAYS

Hey pooks! I don't think I will ever be privating my fics just because I don't know if making them private will actually prevent them from getting scraped in the future, and also because the whole thing is so exhausting and I don't care enough to play into it. Like I care, but not enough to go through and lock things. My main goal with my stories and accounts is to have fun writing stories, and then have fun sharing them with people! Wouldn't be very conducive towards my goal to restrict who can read them.

But yeah don't get me wrong, death to scrapers, want them dead by sundown, HAHA we'll have to see what the future brings us!

56 notes · View notes

the-butch3r · 10 months ago

Note

could write on the male reader fucked Sebastian Solace after he made a deal when the male reader was short on data/documents on getting a medkit or flashlight

Free Fishsticks?!

Pairing: Sebastian Solace x Male Reader Word Count: 2.4k Content: Porn ahead (MDNI), coerced sex kinda, intersex Sebastian, top reader, Sebastian is down bad as FUCK, i don't really know how this anatomy works or just sex in general but im trying my best (born to jork it forced to research) Summary: Stupidly attempting a run without picking up any data, you get desperate for a medkit. Sebastian offers a deal.

AO3 ver.

Your legs completely ached from the mimic door you just walked into, and your heart probably needed a bandaid for that attack you just had. It wasn’t your fault, you told yourself - the room was dark, courtesy of Froger, and you didn’t have a light source, so you quickly walked into the first door you saw. Painter appeared on the door node and called you a moron, which honestly you were for doing this run, but you flipped him off anyway as soon as you could stand. Yeah, fuck that guy. Both of them. Good People tried to claw at your leg as you fell on your back, and it hurt like a bitch. You were also attacked by a squiddle for using a lantern you picked up earlier, and that ran out (because you wouldn’t admit it, but you weren’t using that sparingly), so you had no light source and were on the literal verge of death. That lantern was actually the only object you picked up this entire run, as you were trying to do some sort of speedrun without searching for data. You had a couple handfuls, maybe 75 research points, but not much. This wasn’t exactly going well, obviously. You were able to dodge Angler a few times, a wall dweller, and Froger just now, but the blacksite was an unforgiving place, and you had sorely fucked up. Your first priority was a medkit. Luckily, the next room you stumbled into was marked ‘52’, which meant that soon you’d run into Sebastian. But you wouldn’t even be able to afford a medkit from him – they were more than double the amount of research you had collected, from what you could remember, and you doubt he liked you – or anyone, for that matter – enough to give you a free medkit. Limping your way into the next few rooms with no hassle, checking behind you cautiously, you walked into door 55. A vent pried itself open in front of you, Sebastian’s voice inviting you in. You took a deep breath, dropping down to your sore knees to crawl into the vent. You’d just get in, grab the keycard, and go. Simple. Darkness was initially the one to be the first you see, but as Sebastian’s light bulb flickered on, your eyes met his. A smile crept up on his face, which you always assumed was inauthentic. “Ah, had a feeling it’d be you. My favourite customer~” Sebastian greeted, his hands clasped together as he gazed down at you with his triad of unsettlingly bright blue eyes, keeping that toothy smile on his face. It almost looked genuine. You ducked your head away and immediately went for the keycard, hobbling on your better leg and then ducking straight into the vents. Sebastian’s voice stopped you midway. “You aren’t even gonna buy anything? Seriously?” His voice lilted, confusion being the undertone to his words. “I’ve got a medkit right here. Buy it.” You hung your head ashamedly, sighing to yourself. “I… don’t have enough data,” You responded, embarrassed. “Really? You didn’t collect any research?” His voice echoed back flatly. “That’s stupid.” Yeah, it sure was. You pulled yourself back inside the shop, sitting against the wall with your head in your hands, rubbing your temples. “Yeah, I know.” You snapped back passive aggressively. “Fuck, I’d do anything for a medkit right now…”You muttered to yourself. You definitely wouldn’t be doing a run like this again. The room went silent for a moment. Honestly, you were just taking a breather, but it seems another metaphorical light bulb grew on his head. “Well. Let me cut you a deal then,” He started, the smile on his face growing even bigger. Your head perked up. A deal, huh? “Like what?” “A medkit… On the house.” The way he said it sounded enticing, but it’s not like you would decline something like that anyway.

You raised your eyebrow, willing to see this through. “In exchange for?” He bit his lip. “Sleeping with me.” “What?” You blurted out, sounding a little more repulsed than you’d like to have. Your eyes widened and you immediately looked up at him in the eyes. His smug ass smile unwavering, he locked eye contact with you, raising a non existent eyebrow. “I don’t think I stuttered.” He stated, giving you a look that made your face heat up and butterflies swarm inside your stomach.

“Listen, you can’t imagine how pent up I’ve been, alone down here for the past decade. A man has his needs, you know, and you might be one to sate them.” Before you knew it, he was leaning down to your level, smirking expectantly. “Well? It’s just like any other transaction. I doubt you haven’t thought about it before~” He teased, bringing a claw to your face, swooping it behind your ear and down your cheek. You know what? He was right. You agreed embarrassingly fast. You definitely had a thing for the fish guy, and you were gonna stop denying it now. “O-Okay. Yeah. I mean, yes, to the deal, I mean. Sure.” You cursed at yourself internally for stuttering, probably making yourself sound stupid. He chuckled at your eagerness, making you avert your eyes bashfully.

“Good.” He retreated backwards, clearing his throat as you stood up carefully. You both stared at each other for a moment, as if unsure where to go from here, but you were broken from your trance when Sebastian started to unbuckle the clips around his tail and remove the SCRAMBLER from his back. He looked back at you when he noticed you were still staring.

“...Well? Are you gonna just stand there?” He deadpanned, before you gestured to your leg. “I still need a medkit.”

“Oh.” He looked back at your leg, as if he almost forgot you were bleeding out in his shop. He unclipped one from his tail and handed it to you, you giving him a delicate thanks in return. Grateful for the safety of the SCRAMBLER, you shimmied off your diving suit and gear until you were fully naked. You opened up the medkit, relieved that you were finally able to take care of your wounds.

By the time you were done bandaging yourself, Sebastian was stripped of his equipment, awkwardly looking around for a position he could settle himself into. After a few moments of watching him flop around for a bit, he found himself comfortable leaning back against the wall with his tail looping around to support him, a mess of thick curls on the floor.

You stood in front of him, analyzing his alien body. It was littered with scars all over, most from what you assumed were the experiments, a small amount being from the blacksite lockdown, probably. He had gills both on the sides of his torso and his neck, his body a mixture of beautiful shades and patterns of blue. The longer you stared, the more entranced you became. He was honestly so beautiful, more divine than any human you’d ever seen.

“Come here,” He coaxed with a smile, patting his ‘lap’ with his third arm. You obeyed, climbing onto him and straddling his lap with the rest of his tail able to support you. Looking at his genitals, you were a bit shocked by what you saw, but not in a bad way at all. 3 holes – the top one being the most prominent, an opening with something pink and glistening wet just slightly peeking out, the middle one seeming to just be a slit, and the bottom one as what you presumed was his asshole. Interesting anatomy. You did read about his document and him being mixed with specifically female anglerfish DNA, so that must’ve been in the mix with this.

Wordlessly, Sebastian chased a hand down to his crotch, slipping two digits into his top hole and wiggling something out. You watched in bewilderment as he fingered out 2 tentacle-like cocks from his hole.

“There,” He huffed, his cheeks dusted an odd shade of dark blue. “Now we can have some fun.”

He smiled smugly in response to viewing your wide-eyed shock, finding it utterly adorable. “Go on. Indulge, my pet.” He urged, reaching for one of his dicks and stroking it gently, watching for your next move. He shuddered as he touched himself, as if he’d been waiting for this kind of release for a long time, sensitive to the touch. You couldn’t imagine how long it’s been since he’d done anything sexual, let alone with a partner. You figured that might be why he invited (forced) you to spend this with him. Probably.

You swallowed nervously. Spitting on your hand, you decided to make do with what you had, which wasn’t much. Stroking yourself until you could deem yourself slicked up, ready to position yourself against… his slit, you think?

“So, do I, uhm.. Just… In here?-” You sheepishly asked, Sebastian groaning in response, narrowing his eyes. “Just put it in there already.” He growled, motioning his hand wrapped around his cock faster. You raised one of your hands in fake surrender, assuming he might just be really pent up.

Slowly, you slid yourself into his sopping hole, greeted by tepid, tight wetness. Sebastian held in a soft groan as you eased yourself in, staring down at your bodies hungrily. You never thought fish pussy would feel this good, but it did. And you never thought you’d say something like that to yourself, and never will again.

As soon as you bottomed out, you waited a moment to see if he was comfortable with you moving yet or not. Seeing as he didn’t protest, you patiently waited for him to relax. You gingerly stretched your arm out to rest on his chest for more support, feeling the surprisingly soft skin under your palms. It didn’t feel human at all, and that’s secretly what you liked about it. Sebastian noticed your hand, and didn’t say anything about it, quietly leaning his head back as he pleasured himself.

“Move.” He spoke after a short minute, making you obey. Slowly grinding yourself into him, you released quiet sounds of pleasure, resting your other hand on his hip for a better angle. Sebastian tried his best to keep himself as silent as possible, strained groans and soft pants being the only noises coming out of his mouth. You could tell he was holding back. And you didn’t particularly like it.

Attempting to tease a sound out of him, you reached for his untouched dick, closing a hand around it. Man, it was big. Maybe about half the length of your arm. Stroking it gently, experimenting with it, it felt slimy under your fingers, as what you assumed was pre coated itself on your fingers. It was slightly thicker than human pre, for sure. Sebastian’s reaction was slightly delayed, opening his eyes and seeing your hand wrapped around his cock. He shivered from the realization, his light bulb subtly dimming and brightening. Was he doing that the whole time? It was kinda cute.

You decided to speed it up, giving up on sitting awkwardly and instead planting your feet on the ground beside and between his looping tail for more leverage. From here you could properly slap your hips against his hole, despite how uncomfortable it might’ve been, but you were fine with it for now. Plowing yourself into him, you glanced up at Sebastian, focusing on his face for a minute. His cheeks were flush with blue, his lips pulled back in a tight grimace as he tried his best to keep in sound. His eyes were half-lidded, gazing down at where your crotches met.

Listening to the way he wheezed out a few pathetic grunts, you were sick of it and wanted more. You tugged on his dick harder, just in time with your thrusts, dragging them out before ramming back in. It worked. Sebastian threw his head back and moaned, and fuck, you loved it.

“Ngh- Fuck!” He yelled out, his arm reaching to grab onto a table next to you. You smirked to yourself triumphantly.

“Gonna stop being so quiet now?” You coaxed, returning to a slow pace. “Shut up.” He growled back, narrowing his eyes at you. You let go of his dick in response, hearing him softly whine at the absence of your hand.

“Seriously, start making some noise or I’m not gonna fuck you as good as I want to.” You gazed up at him, making eye contact as you watched him consider his words for a few seconds. He finally sighed, leaning back and trying to relax. “Fine.”

As you continued on, you noticed he was still getting comfortable with the prospect of making noise like this, but he was a bit louder for you this time. You eased back into a faster pace, slamming your hips against his hole as he moaned out for you.

“Fuck, that’s good… Keep going~” He breathed out, taking you by surprise, but sexually motivating you entirely. You worked faster for him, listening as he whimpered for you, slightly bucking up his body to meet your hips. Soon enough, he seemed to reach his climax, his bulb flickering for a few seconds as his mind went blank, mouth opening to release an inaudible scream. You pumped your hips harder as you raced to your own release, biting your lip as drool dribbled out from between your lips.

You were faced with the conscience of pulling out for just a second before strong hands grabbed your hips, preventing you from doing so anyway. Hot, white semen flooded into his hole, muffled noises coming from your mouth. You both laid there together, panting heavily as you recovered.

“Fuck… That was-” You huffed out, interrupted by Sebastian manoeuvring you onto your back with ease, putting you on the cold, hard floor. Your eyes widened, taken by surprise when he climbed on top of you, cum still pooling from his hole.

“I never said we were done.” He grumbled, a grin on his face as he mounted you, welcoming your cock back inside. You hissed, still coming down from your refractory period. “Wait, w-what the fu-” Interrupted again by the sensation of him grinding his body into you, a pleasant moan escaping him.

Well, you’d definitely be doing a run like this again.

#sebastian solace x reader #sebastian solace x male reader #yeah i give up on tumblr tagging #sebussy is GOOD #intersex sebastian because i said so #reposted on ao3 #top male reader #smut #male reader

218 notes · View notes