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jungkoode · 3 days ago

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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

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pricetagged · 5 months ago

Text

The usual from me, I'm afraid. I'm back at my nonsense, typing up wife-hunter John while I take a break from tidying my apartment (: Here's part iii! (there will be more reader/john in part iv )

Masterlist l Previous

Content: More stalking, manipulation, voyeurism & marital sabotage. John's a bad man and I want him viscerally <3

----------------------

It tears at him, rends flesh from bone with sharp little teeth. Corrugated. Rusty. It poisons his bloodstream, boils blood to madness and burns to feverish pitch.

It's a trap of his own design, and he just had to poke at it. He set it up, jaw wrenched wide and trigger taut and, god, he had to touch it. Had to feel the bruising pleasure bloom then give to something sharper. Sweeter.

In his more reflective moments he wonders if setting up the cameras was a good idea. He's a possessive old bastard and he's torn; not because of any hand-wringing morals, no. No, but rather that he's left himself licking along the knife's edge, close enough for it to cut if he presses hard. He can touch it. It's in his grasp, but he's not fully confident that he's the only one wielding it.

There are too many variables still.

And it's left him here, testing the pressure of the razor-sharp rim and wanting to dig deeper. (He fisted at himself harder than usual that night, flesh aching and engorged and throbbing as the cold metal of your wedding ring bit at the veins and ridges of his length).

The screen is his most hated ally. Pixels and light; the blue sheen. The static blur that raises the hair on his arms as he caresses your image. It's the sweetest torture, watching you boxed in by the four corners of a machine. Gazing on only the impression of you, shadowy and reflective, pacing the monitor. It's peiskos, but wrong. He has you in his home, but can only see and touch you in artificial impotence. It drives him wild, makes his throat ache and his head hot watching you, but not knowing how you taste.

That's not him, he thinks, having something that he can't fully possess. Even the bottle of 1926 Macallan locked in his cellaret has been cracked open, rolled around the palate and savoured before returned to the shelf. Locked safe behind glass, yes, but within reach.

He has to see you again. The trap is tightening, and isn't it funny that it's caught him too?

(His hand moved faster, pleasure simmering as he watched your wide eyes turn glossy and your voice grow thick. 'I don't know where it went! It must have fallen off in the garden, I swear!' Even being unable to taste it, to lick at your tears and feel you tremble-

-it had him tensing his thighs, body clenching in anger and heat as he listened to your apologies. As he listened to your pathetic, half-hearted moans. The way you gave in so sweetly, so eager to please and make good. Your husband's disgusting, breathy grunting. Weak. Unsatisfying-

-But it had his palm tightening around the tacky, swollen flesh at his tip. Slit leaking as the rage boiled his blood and sent it south in a paroxysm of rapture).

He sees Buck before he sees you. It's a necessary evil. No, that's not quite right. It's inevitable; it's reasonable. He needs to lay the bait, shuffle the leaves over it and let nature take its course.

It's a classic pub. A real boozer, where the floor is always slickly sticky and the walls are a cheery, tobacco-stained yellow. The kind of place that serves only pork scratchings and pints.

Your husband didn't expect to see him there. Fox in the henhouse, only he's too stupid to realise that he's the bird.

"System is running well, mate! Thanks. This round's on me," he claps at John's shoulder and does admirably well at hiding his nerves.

It has him smiling into the pint glass, schadenfreude as your husband subtly stretches his aching palm and paints on a wary smile.

(Foot hovering just above the spring; steel teeth ready to -)

"You here alone?" John sips at his drink, eyes scanning the dingy room until - yes, there in the corner he sees a familiar Union Jack cap. Good lad.

"No, no. My mates have just left. Like to linger, you know, for the company," he sends a wink to some pretty thing nursing a G&T by the window.

"Not enough company at home?" he tries to make it light, hoping that the gravel in his tone could be mistaken for interest. And it is, really, if prey drive could count as mere 'interest'.

Buck scoffs, rolling his eyes in a way that looks a lot like rolling belly-up. 'Tell me I'm a real man, look at me! I've got the pick of the flock'. "You know how it is. Gets boring, fishing in the same hole all the time, eh?"

"I wouldn't know," he hums, eyebrows drawn low in faux-consideration. Meets him dead in the eye, lets the mask drop for a just a second. Let's the words come out flat and dangerous. "I've never had a problem reeling in what I want."

The words linger, settling heavy and awkward in a way that has him licking his teeth. Tension so thick he can chew it, feel the fat and gristle rend under the strength of his jaw. It's heady watching the way your husband flounders, not sure how to react until the pack leader backs up and loosens the canines at his nape. Lets him breathe. It's a joke, really. Go on. Laugh. And he follows suit so easily. It's almost boring, he thinks, with eyes cold and muscles frozen under his fake smile as he watches the man chuckle.

"You've gotta stay, Price, that's a good one. One more drink, c'mon." Funny. He thinks that it's his right to give orders. He thinks that John's staying at his command.

John taps twice at the foamy rim of the glass. Catches his sergeant's eye from across the room. "Sure, why not."

It's time.

It's masterful, really, how well Gaz slips over. Greets Buck like an old friend. Drops hints and in-jokes that have the man chuckling along as his eyes flit about with confusion.

"Can't believe I've run into you, here. I thought I'd seen the last of you when you moved house, what, a year ago?" Kyle slides into the barstool on the left. Boxes him in, piggy in the middle. "Still with that finance company?"

"Yeah, yeah it's been a while," he trails off. Too proud to admit that he doesn't know Gaz. Has never met the man. John can feel the way his eyes keep flicking towards the side of his face. Needy. Histrionic.

"You lads catch up, have fun. I'm away for the night," he sets the empty glass at the bar with a soft thud. Makes a show of introducing himself to Gaz and waving the two of them off.

In the cool air of the smoking area he has a moment of fika. Cars roll by on a distant road. The muffled sound of laughter and murmuring filters through frosted pub windows. The rich, heavy smoke of his cigar swirls around and around until he's closing his eyes in the haze. It's slow, calming, and he takes a moment just to appreciate the hand that he's about to play.

He thumbs over the smudged screen of your husband's phone. Only 2 missed calls and 1 text.

>>Sorry to go on at you, but you said you were finishing work at 5 today. It's nearly 8 now. Can you at least let me know where you are? We were going to start that series tonight and I've been getting worried waiting for you :/

Poor, sweet thing. Polite, too. All love and care wasted on the pathetic, juvenile lump slumped over the bar right now.

(It whets his appetite, seeing how well-trained you are. How you toe the line, defer to the farcical rules set out for you in your relationship. 'Stay at home. Don't blow up my phone.'

Would you come to heel for him? If a weak, useless hand could shape you so well, what could a strong one do?)

<< Sorry, baby. I goty caugtht up at the pub w some friends. HAd a few drInks. Cmome and get me? [LOCATION SHARED]

He flicks the stub of the cigar away as he pockets the phone.

Curtains up; show about to begin.

He settles into his seat, a well-worn booth. Threadbare, stained upholstery and faded coasters. It's shadowy here, tucked away in the corner but offering a perfect line of sight to the door. And right by that very door is Gaz, your husband, and the pretty thing from earlier.

The bell jingles; wind whistles in.

Gaz lets his grip slip, lets your husband slump in the seat until his head is resting against the neck of the woman he was chatting up. Fingers inching up her thighs as she laughs and flirts back.

"What..?" it's too noisy in here to hear you, but he's listened to your voice over and over. He knows just how your pitch is rising. The slight crack on the final consonant.

You stand, face screwed up as you try to make sense of the situation. But two plus two can only ever equal four, and your husband's hands up a skirt can only ever equal-

"Hi, gorgeous. Here to meet someone?" his sergeant grins up at you. Plays the charmer so well. "Got an empty seat with us, if you fancy it."

There's a little bitterness cutting at the furl of your lips. You're holding it in so well but, god, the words must burn, coming out like bile. "What, sure that I'm not interrupting something?"

"No, no. He said he's just having a little fun. Said he wants something warm before he goes home to his bitch wife," Gaz chuckles, leaning towards you like he wants to whisper a secret. "Bit sick of hearing his complaining, if I'm honest. Makes her sound like a right harpy. But you could take my mind off it."

"Not sure about that," he sees the way your chest hitches. Sees the sob that you swallow down as you steel your expression. "I am the 'bitch wife'."

And it's magnificent. Kyle's played his part so well; stuck to the script like he's performing at The Globe. An ad-lib here, an improvisation there. He hands you a napkin, rubs at your shoulder as he looms over the treacherous tableau he fashioned for an audience of two. You, and John. Ache and Hunger; betrayal and mastery. He maneuvers you, keeps you from causing a bigger scene as he hauls your husband by the scruff of his jacket. Choreographs the steps so that John can see every last microcosm on the universe of your face.

It's his set, his design. He's the architect, director, and audience all in one.

(And that foolish, stupid player of yours tugged at the lure. Found himself swinging, tied up in the string).

--------------------------

Ik reader wasn't really present here, but had to get the ball rolling (: Also I've been stressed and not sleeping so forgive me for this being a bit...

And yes. John stood there and put all the typos in that message on purpose. Unhinged.

#also u can decide whether or not buck was really ranting about his wife to gaz #but i imagined it as an elaboration on gaz's part because he's good at his job and has to make his captain proud (:#báirseach writes #captain john price #dark john price #john price/reader #john price x reader #cod fanfic #cod mw3 #cod mwii #cw stalking #cod x reader

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serpentface · 7 months ago

Note

how do you come up with the ways cultures in your setting stylize people/animals/the world in general in their artwork, i.e. jewlery, rock carvings, statues, etc? Each culture in your world seems to have a very unique "art style" and I love it a lot - makes them seem that much more 'real'. This is something I struggle with a lot in my own worldbuilding and I'd love to pick your brain if possible 😁

I think a starting point is to have a research process based in the material realities of the culture you're designing for. Ask yourself questions like:

Where do they live? What's the climate/ecosystem(s) they are based in? What geographic features are present/absent?

What is their main subsistence method? (hunter gatherer, seasonal pastoralist, nomadic pastoralist, settled agriculturalist, a mix, etc)

What access to broader trade networks do they have and to whom? Are there foreign materials that will be easily accessible in trade and common in use, or valuable trade materials used sparingly in limited capacities?

Etc

And then do some research based on the answers, in order to get a sense of what materials they would have routine access to (ie dyes, metal, textiles, etc) and other possible variables that would shape how the art is made and what it's used for. This is just a foundational step and won't likely play much into designing a Style.

If you narrow these questions down very specifically, (ie in the context of the Korya post- grassland based mounted nomads, pastoralist and hunter-gatherer subsistence, access to wider trade networks and metals), you can direct your research to specific real world instances that fit this general idea. This is not to lift culturally specific concepts from the real world and slap them into your own setting, but to notice commonalities this lifestyle enforces - (ie in the previous example- mounted nomadic peoples are highly mobile and need to easily carry their wealth (often on clothing and tack) therefore small, elaborate decorative artwork that can easily be carried from place to place is a very likely feature)

For the details of the art itself, I come up with loose 'style guides' (usually just in my head) and go from there.

Here's some example questions for forming a style (some are more baseline than others)

Are geometric patterns favored? Organic patterns? Representative patterns (flowers, animals, stars, etc)? Abstract patterns?

Is there favored material(s)? Beads, bone, clay, metals, stones, etc.

When depicting people/animals, is realism favored? Heavy stylization? The emotional impression of an animal? Are key features accentuated?

How perspective typically executed? Does art attempt to capture 3d depth? Does it favor showing the whole body in 2 dimensions (ie much of Ancient Egyptian art, with the body shown in a mix of profile and forward facing perspective so all key attributes are shown)? Will limbs overlap? Are bodies shown static? In motion?

Does artwork of people attempt to beautify them? Does it favor the culture's conception of the ideal body?

Are there common visual motifs? Important symbols? Key subject matters?

What is the art used for? Are its functions aesthetic, tutelary, spiritual, magical? (Will often exist in combination, or have different examples for each purpose)

Who is represented? Is there interest in everyday people? Does art focus on glorifying warriors, heroes, kings?

Are there conventions for representing important figures? (IE gods/kings/etc being depicted larger than culturally lesser subjects)

Is there visual shorthand to depict objects/concepts that are difficult to execute with clarity (the sun, moon, water), or are invisible (wind, the soul), or have no physical component (speech)?

Etc

Deciding on answers to any of these questions will at least give you a unique baseline, and you can fill in the rest of the gaps and specify a style further until it is distinct. Many of these questions are not mutually exclusive, both in the sense of elements being combined (patterns with both geometric and organic elements) or a culture having multiple visual styles (3d art objects having unique features, religious artwork having its own conventions, etc).

Also when you're getting in depth, you should have cultural syncretism in mind. Cultures that routinely interact (whether this interaction is exchange or exploitation) inevitably exchange ideas, which can be especially visible in art. Doing research on how this synthesizing of ideas works in practice is very helpful- what is adopted or left out from an external influence, what is retained from an internal influence, what is unique to this synthesis, AND WHY. (I find Greco-Buddhist art really interesting, that's one of many such examples)

Looking at real world examples that fit your parameters can be helpful (ie if I've decided on geometric patterns in my 'style guide', I'll look at actual geometric patterns). And I strongly encourage trying to actually LEARN about what you're seeing. All art exists in a context, and having an understanding of how the context shapes art, how art does and doesn't relate to broader aspects of a society, etc, can help you when synthesizing your own.

#I have a solid baseline because I like learning about history so don't do this like. Full research process every time. It's just the gist #of what the core process is.#I think I've gotten a similar question about clothing in the past that I never answered (sorry) so yeah this applies to that as well #Though that involves a heavier preliminary research end (given there are substantially more practical concerns that shape the #making of clothing- material sources they have access to (plant textile? wool? hide? etc). The clothing's protective purpose (does #it need to protect from the sun? wind? mild cold? extreme cold?). Etc #Also involves establishing like. Beauty conventions. Gendered norms of dress. Modesty conventions. Etc #I think learning about the real world and different cultures across history is like. The absolute most important thing for good #worldbuilding. And this means LEARNING learning. Having the curiosity to learn the absolute myriad of Things People Do #and Why We Do Them and how we relate to shared aspects of our world. The commonalities and differences. I think this is like...#Foundational to having the ability to synthesize your own rather than just like. copy-pasting concepts at random

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komaedalovemail · 6 months ago

Note

komaedas have you tried straw.page?

(i hope you don't mind if i make a big ollllle webdev post off this!)

i have never tried straw.page but it looks similar to carrd and other WYSIWYG editors (which is unappealing to me, since i know html/css/js and want full control of the code. and can't hide secrets in code comments.....)

my 2 cents as a web designer is if you're looking to learn web design or host long-term web projects, WYSIWYG editors suck doodooass. you don't learn the basics of coding, someone else does it for you! however, if you're just looking to quickly host images, links to your other social medias, write text entries/blogposts, WYSIWYG can be nice.

toyhouse, tumblr, deviantart, a lot of sites implement WYSIWYG for their post editors as well, but then you can run into issues relying on their main site features for things like the search system, user profiles, comments, etc. but it can be nice to just login to your account and host your information in one place, especially on a platform that's geared towards that specific type of information. (toyhouse is a better example of this, since you have a lot of control of how your profile/character pages look, even without a premium account) carrd can be nice if you just want to say "here's where to find me on other sites," for example. but sometimes you want a full website!

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neocities hosting

currently, i host my website on neocities, but i would say the web2.0sphere has sucked some doodooass right now and i'm fiending for something better than it. it's a static web host, e.g. you can upload text, image, audio, and client-side (mostly javascript and css) files, and html pages. for the past few years, neocities' servers have gotten slower and slower and had total blackouts with no notices about why it's happening... and i'm realizing they host a lot of crypto sites that have crypto miners that eat up a ton of server resources. i don't think they're doing anything to limit bot or crypto mining activity and regular users are taking a hit.

↑ page 1 on neocitie's most viewed sites we find this site. this site has a crypto miner on it, just so i'm not making up claims without proof here. there is also a very populated #crypto tag on neocities (has porn in it tho so be warned...).

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dynamic/server-side web hosting

$5/mo for neocities premium seems cheap until you realize... The Beautiful World of Server-side Web Hosting!

client-side AKA static web hosting (neocities, geocities) means you can upload images, audio, video, and other files that do not interact with the server where the website is hosted, like html, css, and javascript. the user reading your webpage does not send any information to the server like a username, password, their favourite colour, etc. - any variables handled by scripts like javascript will be forgotten when the page is reloaded, since there's no way to save it to the web server. server-side AKA dynamic web hosting can utilize any script like php, ruby, python, or perl, and has an SQL database to store variables like the aforementioned that would have previously had nowhere to be stored.

there are many places in 2024 you can host a website for free, including: infinityfree (i use this for my test websites :B has tons of subdomains to choose from) [unlimited sites, 5gb/unlimited storage], googiehost [1 site, 1gb/1mb storage], freehostia [5 sites/1 database, 250mb storage], freehosting [1 site, 10gb/unlimited storage]

if you want more features like extra websites, more storage, a dedicated e-mail, PHP configuration, etc, you can look into paying a lil shmoney for web hosting: there's hostinger (this is my promocode so i get. shmoney. if you. um. 🗿🗿🗿) [$2.40-3.99+/mo, 100 sites/300 databases, 100gb storage, 25k visits/mo], a2hosting [$1.75-12.99+/mo, 1 site/5 databases, 10gb/1gb storage], and cloudways [$10-11+/mo, 25gb/1gb]. i'm seeing people say to stay away from godaddy and hostgator. before you purchase a plan, look up coupons, too! (i usually renew my plan ahead of time when hostinger runs good sales/coupons LOL)

here's a big webhost comparison chart from r/HostingHostel circa jan 2024.

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domain names

most of the free website hosts will give you a subdomain like yoursite.has-a-cool-website-69.org, and usually paid hosts expect you to bring your own domain name. i got my domain on namecheap (enticing registration prices, mid renewal prices), there's also porkbun, cloudflare, namesilo, and amazon route 53. don't use godaddy or squarespace. make sure you double check the promo price vs. the actual renewal price and don't get charged $120/mo when you thought it was $4/mo during a promo, certain TLDs (endings like .com, .org, .cool, etc) cost more and have a base price (.car costs $2,300?!?). look up coupons before you purchase these as well!

namecheap and porkbun offer something called "handshake domains," DO NOT BUY THESE. 🤣🤣🤣 they're usually cheaper and offer more appealing, hyper-specific endings like .iloveu, .8888, .catgirl, .dookie, .gethigh, .♥, .❣, and .✟. I WISH WE COULD HAVE THEM but they're literally unusable. in order to access a page using a handshake domain, you need to download a handshake resolver. every time the user connects to the site, they have to provide proof of work. aside from it being incredibly wasteful, you LITERALLY cannot just type in the URL and go to your own website, you need to download a handshake resolver, meaning everyday internet users cannot access your site.

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hosting a static site on a dynamic webhost

you can host a static (html/css/js only) website on a dynamic web server without having to learn PHP and SQL! if you're coming from somewhere like neocities, the only thing you need to do is configure your website's properties. your hosting service will probably have tutorials to follow for this, and possibly already did some steps for you. you need to point the nameserver to your domain, install an SSL certificate, and connect to your site using FTP for future uploads. FTP is a faster, alternative way to upload files to your website instead of your webhost's file upload system; programs like WinSCP or FileZilla can upload using FTP for you.

if you wanna learn PHP and SQL and really get into webdev, i wrote a forum post at Mysidia Adoptables here, tho it's sorted geared at the mysidia script library itself (Mysidia Adoptables is a free virtual pet site script, tiny community. go check it out!)

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file storage & backups

a problem i have run into a lot in my past like, 20 years of internet usage (/OLD) is that a site that is free, has a small community, and maybe sounds too good/cheap to be true, has a higher chance of going under. sometimes this happens to bigger sites like tinypic, photobucket, and imageshack, but for every site like that, there's like a million of baby sites that died with people's files. host your files/websites on a well-known site, or at least back it up and expect it to go under!

i used to host my images on something called "imgjoe" during the tinypic/imageshack era, it lasted about 3 years, and i lost everything hosted on there. more recently, komaedalovemail had its webpages hosted here on tumblr, and tumblr changed its UI so custom pages don't allow javascript, which prevented any new pages from being edited/added. another test site i made a couple years ago on hostinger's site called 000webhost went under/became a part of hostinger's paid-only plans, so i had to look very quickly for a new host or i'd lose my test site.

if you're broke like me, looking into physical file storage can be expensive. anything related to computers has gone through baaaaad inflation due to crypto, which again, I Freaquing Hate, and is killing mother nature. STOP MINING CRYPTO this is gonna be you in 1 year

...um i digress. ANYWAYS, you can archive your websites, which'll save your static assets on The Internet Archive (which could use your lovely donations right now btw), and/or archive.today (also taking donations). having a webhost service with lots of storage and automatic backups can be nice if you're worried about file loss or corruption, or just don't have enough storage on your computer at home!

if you're buying physical storage, be it hard drive, solid state drive, USB stick, whatever... get an actual brand like Western Digital or Seagate and don't fall for those cheap ones on Amazon that claim to have 8,000GB for $40 or you're going to spend 13 days in windows command prompt trying to repair the disk and thenthe power is gong to go out in your shit ass neighvborhood and you have to run it tagain and then Windows 10 tryes to update and itresets the /chkdsk agin while you're awayfrom town nad you're goig to start crytypting and kts just hnot going tot br the same aever agai nikt jus not ggiog to be the saeme

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further webhosting options

there are other Advanced options when it comes to web hosting. for example, you can physically own and run your own webserver, e.g. with a computer or a raspberry pi. r/selfhosted might be a good place if you're looking into that!

if you know or are learning PHP, SQL, and other server-side languages, you can host a webserver on your computer using something like XAMPP (Apache, MariaDB, PHP, & Perl) with minimal storage space (the latest version takes up a little under 1gb on my computer rn). then, you can test your website without needing an internet connection or worrying about finding a hosting plan that can support your project until you've set everything up!

there's also many PHP frameworks which can be useful for beginners and wizards of the web alike. WordPress is one which you're no doubt familiar with for creating blog posts, and Bluehost is a decent hosting service tailored to WordPress specifically. there's full frameworks like Laravel, CakePHP, and Slim, which will usually handle security, user authentication, web routing, and database interactions that you can build off of. Laravel in particular is noob-friendly imo, and is used by a large populace, and it has many tutorials, example sites built with it, and specific app frameworks.

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addendum: storing sensitive data

if you decide to host a server-side website, you'll most likely have a login/out functionality (user authentication), and have to store things like usernames, passwords, and e-mails. PLEASE don't launch your website until you're sure your site security is up to snuff!

when trying to check if your data is hackable... It's time to get into the Mind of a Hacker. OWASP has some good cheat sheets that list some of the bigger security concerns and how to mitigate them as a site owner, and you can look up filtered security issues on the Exploit Database.

this is kind of its own topic if you're coding a PHP website from scratch; most frameworks securely store sensitive data for you already. if you're writing your own PHP framework, refer to php.net's security articles and this guide on writing an .htaccess file.

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but. i be on that phone... :(

ok one thing i see about straw.page that seems nice is that it advertises the ability to make webpages from your phone. WYSIWYG editors in general are more capable of this. i only started looking into this yesterday, but there ARE source code editor apps for mobile devices! if you have a webhosting plan, you can download/upload assets/code from your phone and whatnot and code on the go. i downloaded Runecode for iphone. it might suck ass to keep typing those brackets.... we'll see..... but sometimes you're stuck in the car and you're like damn i wanna code my site GRRRR I WANNA CODE MY SITE!!!

↑ code written in Runecode, then uploaded to Hostinger. Runecode didn't tell me i forgot a semicolon but Hostinger did... i guess you can code from your webhost's file uploader on mobile but i don't trust them since they tend not to autosave or prompt you before closing, and if the wifi dies idk what happens to your code.

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ANYWAYS! HAPPY WEBSITE BUILDING~! HOPE THIS HELPS~!~!~!

-Mod 12 @eeyes

#ask #Anonymous #neocities #web development #long post #mod 12

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yrsonpurpose · 2 years ago

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The world fuzzes out into static, and his brain is swimming hard to keep up, adding up the equation of teenage grudges and wedding cakes and two a.m. texts and not understanding the variable that got him here, except it’s … well, surprisingly, he really doesn’t mind. Like, at all.

#rwrbedit #rwrb #red white and royal blue #alex claremont diaz #henry fox mountchristen windsor #rwrbgifs #lgbtedit #lgbtq #usermaloune #usersteen #usernuria #uservik #mine*#congratulations you absolutely played yourselves

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cy-fi-theansweris42 · 7 months ago

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So @keferon's Empurata Prowl posts are living rent-free in my mind, lol. I just had to write out the scene from this post so look out for the angst below the cut!

(Tumblr please don't kill my formatting--)

There's someone in front of him.

Prowl doesn't dare make a move, doesn't dare let the mech in front of him know he's awake and aware now. Doing so runs the risk of them putting him under again if they're an enemy, removing all possibility of escape (awake the chance is small; 25%. Unconscious— he doesn't need to run those numbers to know it's zero).

He will not lose this chance.

He waits, hoping his vision will improve enough that he can see more than the darkened silhouette moving in front of him, that his hearing will lose the staticky quality it took on the moment he regained consciousness and he might recognize a voice. It's taking every ounce of willpower he has to keep his doorwings from fluttering ever so slightly to gather data on his surroundings.

It's taking everything in him not to run away as the restraints are undone, to keep his doorwings from flaring high and wide to scream stay away, danger, threat in a way that a small buried part of him wants to scream.

(He will ignore that part. Emotions have no place in trying to plan an escape. Fear can cause one to act too soon, to lash out when they should be biding their time waiting for the moment with the highest chance of escape. Tactically, emotions lower the chance of a successful escape.)

He has to wait, he cannot lose this chance to escape over something as trivial as emotions. Not when that runs the risk of more being done to him.

He will not let them do anything else to him.

So Prowl stays as still as possible as the final restraint is removed, not daring to try and run. Not yet. They would be prepared for him to try and escape the moment he could, they would plan for it. If he waits, pretends he's not aware enough to realize he's free to move, they may slip up, may give him the chance to escape successfully.

…Or he could be missing the only opportunity he'll have, and he doesn't even know it.

He doesn't know enough. There's too many unknown variables.

Number of enemies: 1 (or more) Location: Unknown Route to exit: Unknown Status of allies: Unknown Chance of successful escape: Unable to accurately calculate (no more than 30% at best).

He wishes he could see more, see who's in front of him, who the taller mech who just came close enough for him to notice is (had he been there the entire time?). He wishes this static in his audials would go away so he could hear what was being said. He wishes he could move his doorwings freely and know if he was surrounded by enemies instead of just not knowing.

(He wishes he had his hands still, he doesn't know if he'll be good enough of a shot with this claws. He wishes he had his face still, this singular optic being a screaming sign of what was done to him and he was helpless to stop it. He wishes he knew what all they did to him, what did they do, what did they do to him—).

He can't help it. He needs to know.

His doorwings twitch, just enough to tell him the two mechs in front of him are the only others in the room. It's enough to catch the smaller one's attention. There's noise, maybe speech, and he can make out their hands coming towards him—

Their hands are coming towards his head, his neck, he thinks he sees needles, and he can't just stand there anymore.

Prowl feels his new claw dig through metal, through the glass of a visor, as the static in his audials crescendos, becomes a roar. His plating is flared, his doorwings spread high and wide, and he is shaking.

He can't stop shaking.

What did they do to him?

#Transformers #Fanfic #Transformers Fanfic #Fanfiction #Transformers Fanfiction #Prowl #Transformers Prowl #Empurata!Prowl #Cy writes #Angst #Empurata!Prowl AU #When I say this lives rent-free in my mind I'm not joking #I have. Maybe 3/4s of a fic surrounding this already thought out #Will this be the thing that gets me writing more than just RP-specific stuff? We'll see!#Guess I'm writing Transformers Angst now--#Lol jk I was already doing that for RP stuff #But now I'm Sharing

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erebus0dora · 7 months ago

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page 7/20, and i think it's like... the fourth Armand in there..? time to add more variables, i guess

(that's absolutely not me eyeing Eric, no, you can't prove anything so far)

bonus static pics bc i am too sleepy to be coherent

textures are fun tho (gonna add the IDs in the morning......)

#art is a coping mechanism #this gives me serotonin #interview with the vampire #fan art #daniel molloy #vampire armand #assad zaman #iwtv fanart #devils minion #devil's minion #kiiiiiinda if you squint past the hammer #the hammer just happened there #my table looks exceptionally grungy these days #mostly covered in gold #but still grungy

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cupidologys · 3 months ago

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⸻ THE ART OF DYING WELL.

pairing: aizen x reader

word count: 2k

synopsis: "lovers? we are much, much worse."

notes: good luck!

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

It’s not like you planned on killing the man you loved. You had wished for it, certainly. You had dreamed of it too—often enough that the steady, sickening crunch of your blade through his chest was well-memorized. In such dreams, the same scene played out, over and over and over, until you gasped awake, sweating and shivering from the chilling dread burrowing into your skin.

His eyes would stare into yours, hollow and still. His lips, slightly parted, only whispered one thing: weak.

He called it out into the static space. The only sound breaking the eerie silence was his voice, heavy and mocking, as that one word repeated in vicious tandem.

Weak for not letting go.

Weak for what you felt.

Weak for what you could not do—what you could not bring yourself to do—and deep down, you knew that weakness would ruin you.

Just like Aizen did when he unraveled the Seireitei to a state of near collapse.

They were ill-prepared for what he had set in motion and only desperately held on to the hope Ichigo and yourself brought. The Substitute Shinigami was an unknown and powerful variable, while you, as the Arrancar’s prisoner, had access to their inner workings.

Aizen didn’t like it when you referred to yourself as a “prisoner” or his actions as what they blatantly were: kidnapping, so you continued to do so at every chance possible. It irked him—that small ounce of defiance. It made a man like him, weighed by hubris, sink a little deeper.

The slight twitch of his lips every time—a signal of his discomfort— made you smile. You could still get under his skin. You revelled at that fact. Any chance to fight back was an opportunity you seized; Even though fighting him physically was out of the question, you at least had that slight over him.

You didn’t ask him to take you with him. You didn’t ask him to spare you. And you certainly didn’t ask him to hold you captive, sequestered away while war rages on in the land above.

You didn’t ask for any of it. So, you would make him pay for it in any way you could.

Despite that, there had been a question nagging at the corner of your mind since the day he swept you away. As fitting of its subject, it asked something treacherous.

The fact of the matter was: Aizen had spared you. He had taken you from your home and turned his back on everything you knew, yes, but he had also kept you safe—and not only safe, but well-fed, pampered, and shielded away from the violence.

Violence he perpetuated, you reminded yourself.

It did not matter how fancy your room was. It was still sealed by four impenetrable walls—a cushy cell made impossible to escape. It was a prison forged to hold its inhabitants captive.

Aizen may not have shackled you with chains, but freedom was as lost to you as the man you once knew.

Despite that, you had technically not planned to kill Aizen. Not today, at least, which is why the sight of his blood dripping down the dagger in your hand makes you scream.

The shock of the sight jolts you awake. You find yourself springing up in bed, sweat beading on your skin as the nerves slowly dispel. The sheets are crumpled up in your fists and you try to let go, but the tension hasn’t yet dissipated.

It was another dream?

Even in dreams, he haunts you.

This time, however, it felt too real. It was strange. The vividness was startling—bordering on traumatizing—and you can’t shake off the foreboding feeling clinging onto you. He was right in front of you. Pale, cold, and lifeless.

The door clicks open and Aizen strides in with a palpable air of urgency. There’s a crease in his brow, indicating worry.

“A nightmare?”

You don’t even reprimand his intrusion. You are far too exhausted by what you just experienced.

“Yes.” You run your hands over your face, trying to rub away the stress. “Or maybe a very lovely dream.”

“Care to share it?” He inquires.

“With you?”

Aizen nods, moving closer. His steps are light and smooth, almost like he is floating. Maybe he is.

“I want you to leave,” you whisper. The words are soft and unhurried, but they carry an unbearable weight.

“Will you be alright?”

You scoff. “I am in a prison of your making. It doesn’t get any more secure than this, right?”

“I heard you scream,” he replies coolly.

“Yes, well…” You lean back onto the headboard and stare up at the towering, empty ceiling. “If we’re both lucky, one day you will hear far worse.”

Aizen doesn’t leave. Instead, he makes his way even closer, until he hovers at the end of your bed.

“What did you dream of?”

Why are his words spoken with such gentleness?

“Your death. Your murder.”

A pause. “And it scared you?”

“It delighted me,” you lie.

If he’s bothered by your words, he doesn’t show it. He just nods and makes to leave. Out of habit, you reach out a hand to stop him, only to freeze as you realize what you’re doing. Your grasp falls short and you watch as he ignores the gesture—for your sake or his, you aren’t sure—and turns his back to you.

No more words are spoken as Aizen vanishes, leaving you to cold silence and muddled thoughts.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“You keep me confined here. Why?”

The question has been in your mind since the beginning, and your curiosity has finally reached its boiling point—alongside your irritation.

Aizen looks up from the book he had been reading and tilts his head in consideration.

“Are you concerned for your safety? I promise no harm will come to you.”

“Your promises mean nothing,” you say bluntly. “Answer the question.”

He closes the book in his hands, but not before smoothly folding a corner crease to keep the page. He sits at the opposite end of the large coffee table, facing you directly. You had been reading something of your own when Aizen decided—much to your protests—to join you. It has been an hour of silent reading and uncomfortable tension—at least on your part. Aizen could not look more relaxed if he tried.

“Let me ask you something then-”

You interrupt him. “I asked first.”

Aizen only smiles.

“Indulge me?”

Again, you ignore him. “Why not just kill me?”

His smile fades. “I don’t want you dead.”

“Why?”

“So many questions…”

“And you still haven��t given me an actual answer!” You snap.

He’s still infuriatingly calm, as always. You resent the fact you can’t leave—that every sense of your space is dictated by him. You want to be away from him, more than anything. Staying here with this man, stuck in this beautiful, suffocating room, is a tremendous effort.

His continued silence drains you. You slump, anger whisked away and replaced by exhaustion.

“Do you want me to hate you?” You whisper.

“Quite the opposite. I would never hurt you.”

“So you say,” you reply dryly.

“It’s the truth.”

“Is that what you told Hinamori before you stabbed her and left her for dead? Hm? Is that what you said to Central 46 before slaughtering them all?”

He sighs. “You can believe what you want.”

“Oh, but I can’t, can I? Thanks to you, I can’t even trust my own thoughts, much less my beliefs.”

“Your beliefs are your own to have. I would never take that away from you.”

“Ah, right. Just my freedom then.”

“What is freedom in a meaningless world?”

“Enough with the philosophy, Aizen. I’m sick of running around in these circles, chasing my own tail in search of answers.” You lean forward and hold his piercing gaze. Eyes so full of wisdom and judgement—how easily you could get lost in them again, just like before. “Tell me why.”

Something flickers across his expression, but whatever it is, remains unnamed.

“This is how I guarantee your safety and secure my weakness.”

Your confusion must be evident because Aizen continues.

“I can predict many things. I can plan and organize down to the very last detail—until the future unfolds along the seams of my script. I can prepare in every way imaginable. All of that… and I still cannot control everything. Not yet.” He drums his fingers on the armrest, frustration lacing those last words. “Your safety couldn’t be guaranteed unless I secured you myself. With that, I eliminate my weakness as well. With you here, contained in this fortress, I have no need to worry about you on the battlefield.”

You stare, unable to make anything of his confession.

“Are you saying I’m your weakness?”

“As far as I understand.”

A short pause. You nod.

“Good.”

He quirks a brow. “Good?”

“Yes. It is good I make you weak. It will make it easier to kill you.”

Again, he only smiles.

“I look forward to dying.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“You always act like you know everything—that everything is all a part of your plan.” You look up at Aizen through tear-filled eyes. “Tell me, was this a part of your plan?”

The blood is real this time. It is warm and sticky and runs viscous lines down your forearms before pooling at your feet. You press your palms against the gushing wound in an attempt to staunch the bleeding, but it’s no use. Doing so is as useful as putting a single bandage on a severed limb and hoping it’ll grow back.

Aizen is leaned against a wall with his head slumped against your shoulder. His skin is a startling shade of white and sweat beads on his forehead. The sight makes you panic, and the panic makes you hyperventilate.

This isn’t supposed to happen this way. How is this even possible? This is Aizen, of all people—the closest thing to a God the world has seen. How could Aizen be this shivering, weak mess bleeding out in your arms?

The blood won’t stop. His clothing is soaked a deep red, forming a dark ring in the area around his chest where a hole has split it open. The sight makes you nauseous, but your desperation to save him overtakes that feeling.

“I need to call for help. Comms are cut but maybe if I-”

“No.” His voice is so quiet that, for a split second, you think you’re hearing things.

“What?”

“It is inevitable.”

“What are you talking about? You are not dying like this. You’re too smart for-”

He cuts you off again. “Which is…” he groans as he shifts back, head lifting to look at you through lidded eyes. The pain is tense in his face. “Which is how I know it is inevitable.”

Somehow, he softens. “You do too.”

Tears roll down your cheeks as you face him—and reality.

“I know,” you whisper.

His head falls back and he lets out a pained breath. Your hands are still on his chest, stained red with his blood.

“I regret I could not be what you wanted.” Each word is quiet and strained. Your heart clenches in response.

“For a while, you were,” you reply. You can barely speak the next words without choking on them. “I did love you. The ‘you’ that was presented to the world, at least.”

“Good.” He nods.

“Aizen?” Your voice trembles. The acceptance is numbing. It is turning you to stone.

“Yes.”

Do me a favour and die well. Die… happy. It will lessen the pain.”

“Yours or mine?”

“Can’t it be both?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Keep that promise for me, won’t you?”

…

“Aizen?”

You wait, but an answer doesn’t come.

It never comes.

It takes his death for you to realize that your relationship with Aizen was a frantic undoing of legacy and trust. It was doomed from the very beginning—just as anything he touched would be.

Perhaps death came for Aizen because of that—because it was the only thing that had the power to free him from the confines of a world too small for him.

Perhaps death was exactly what he needed.

You did not think you could envy death until now.

#aizen sousuke #aizen x reader #sosuke aizen #bleach aizen #aizen #aizen x y/n #aizen x you #aizen angst #bleach x reader #bleach angst

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fannedandflawless · 9 days ago

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The Veritaserum Paradox: When One Drop Became a Flood

He told Harry that a single drop was enough. "Veritaserum. A powerful truth potion. Three drops, and you would answer any question put to you." The implication? Lethal precision. Controlled power.

And yet—when the time came to extract the truth from Barty Crouch Jr., Severus Snape tipped the entire vial into his mouth. Not a drop. Not three. All of it.

Was it a contradiction? A mistake? A forgotten line? Perhaps.

But if you look closer—if you know Snape—perhaps not.

🖤 Theory 1: Tactical Intimidation

The "drop" line was never about dosage. It was theatre. Psychological warfare. When Snape speaks, it’s not just for information—it’s for effect. With Harry, it was a warning dressed as education. With Barty Jr., it was certainty dressed as silence.

He didn’t need to empty the vial. But Snape never takes chances. Not when the truth is this dangerous.

🧪 Theory 2: Variable Potency

Veritaserum isn’t static. The dose depends on the strength of the subject’s Occlumency, their magical resistance, and even their mental state.

Harry, a 14-year-old boy? A drop might do. Barty Crouch Jr.? A trained Death Eater with a gift for deception?

You drown liars. You don't drizzle on them.

🎭 Theory 3: Alan Rickman knew what looked good on camera

Let's be honest. A single dainty drop would not have carried the same visual weight. The steady, deliberate pour? The silence? The glint of the vial?

Rickman performed Snape as someone who embodied gravitas. He didn’t administer truth. He delivered judgement.

—

So was it a contradiction?

Maybe.

But more likely—it was Snape doing what he always does: Choosing precision when possible. Certainty when necessary. And theatre, always.

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fear-is-truth · 4 days ago

Note

“he’s interested in you, the way a biologist would be interested in a new insect specimen.” the way i need you to write more about this immediately

PATRICK HOCKSTETTER is convinced he’s the only real thing that exists. not in a metaphorical sense, like when philosophers speculate about solipsism—he knows it, with the cold certainty of fire devouring oxygen. the rest of the world is an elaborate set dressing, populated by twitching mannequins programmed to simulate emotion. humans are just meat with delusions. their pain isn’t real. their voices are pre-recorded. their blood is just color and warmth. the only true consciousness is his.

you, though. you’re the first variable in a long string of scripted bullshit. patrick watches you the same engrossment a biologist applies to observing an insect they’ve never seen before, debating whether to pin it to a board or let it crawl free just to see where it goes. you make something itch behind his eyeballs. a vibrating buzz at the base of his skull akin to a fly trapped in a glass. he’s not sentimental enough to mistake curiosity for attachment—it’s nothing more than just chemical static, a delusion propagated by hormonal surges and societal conditioning a way the body tricks itself into mating before it decomposes. dopamine, oxytocin, serotonin firing like faulty wiring. he regards it with the same detached interest he gives to decomposition or combustion: fascinating in theory, grotesque in practice. he’s felt none of it.

sometimes, he wonders if you’re just a projection of his boredom. something his brain vomited out so he wouldn’t snap entirely and set the school on fire just to watch the colours dance against the grey smear of existence.

but most days, he’s sure you’re not. just another insect under the glass. lovely, twitching. still—he keeps you. for now.

#patrick hockstetter #patrick hockstetter x reader #bowers gang #it 2017 #patrick hockstetter x y/n

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slyfpy-head · 1 month ago

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Lachesis - Part 2

part 1 - part 3

Chishiya × f!reader

His mind keeps coming back to you. a/n: Tumblr is always down, so this is a repost-

That was not part of his plan.

Was not part of his backup plan.

He’d chosen a house at random—just another hollow shell in this graveyard of a city. A place to scavenge, to strip for parts. Nothing more.

And yet, of all the empty doorways, all the abandoned ruins he passed by…

It had to be yours.

Fate, that fickle bitch, had led him straight to yours.

This feeling.

Regret.

Or pleased?

Which one should he feels?

He doesn’t know. Doesn’t want to know.

You.

If he’d turned left instead of right, picked a different house, a different street, a different moment—he wouldn’t be standing here with the ghost of your voice still ringing in his ears.

If he hadn’t walked out with that singular purpose—tools, supplies, survival—none of this would’ve happened.

He doesn’t believe in fate. Doesn’t believe in cosmic irony or twisted destiny.

Always a stupid concept. A crutch for the weak. Those are the delusions of people who need meaning in chaos.

And yet, here you are. Defying logic. Defying reason. Defying him.

But he does believe in patterns.

You. You’ve always been a pattern he can’t break.

But will he still meet you again with all the possibilities? Would he have found you anyway?

On the street.

In a same game.

At the Beach.

He hates thinking about it.

Thinking about you.

Reunion. That’s what it was.

Meaning this isn’t over.

He shouldn’t have come there. Shouldn’t have lingered. Shouldn’t have let himself fall into the trap of your presence again.

But he had.

And now, the weight of it sits heavy in his chest, an unwelcome reminder of everything he’d once had—and everything he’d thrown away.

The streets are empty as he walks, the world around him is dead, but somehow, it’s you that makes him feel the hollowness of it all.

You made him feels alive.

His fingers brush against the tools in his pocket, the cold metal grounding him. Practical. Useful. Things that make sense.

Unlike this.

Unlike you.

He’d thought, perhaps foolishly, that seeing you again would be nothing. A blip. A minor inconvenience.

But the moment he heard your voice calling out his name.

Really heard it.

The way it wrapped around his name, frayed at the edges but undeniably yours.

”Shuntaro.”

Your voice echoes in his skull, that fractured whisper wrapping around his given name like a noose. No one gets to say it. No one ever will says it like you do.

Something in him had shifted.

And now?

Now he can’t shake the way your eyes had looked at him—sharp with anger, yes, but beneath it, something softer. Something achingly familiar.

He scoffs under his breath.

Your door.

That's the problem, isn't it?

Every step away from your doorstep is a step he shouldn’t have taken. Not toward you. Not away.

Idiotic.

He’s survived this long by being ruthless. By treating people as variables, not anchors. Yet here he is, mentally retracing the flicker in your eyes like some lovestruck fool.

Pathetic.

A gust of wind carries the stench of rotting concrete. The city’s corpse breathes its last around him, but all he smells is the faint trace of your shampoo—something floral, stupidly out of place in this hellscape. Had you always used that scent? Or was it new?

His jaw tightens.

Irrelevant.

Sentimentality.

Always his downfall when it comes to you.

Sitting in the council room, Hatter, as always, stands at the head of the table, his grin too wide, his eyes too bright. Talking about making the Beach, which he himself called 'the paradise', better for all the residents here.

“The Beach is stable,” he declares, fingers drumming against the polished wood. “But stability isn’t enough. We need progress. More cards. More players. More control.”

Chishiya doesn't listen, he doesn't care. He sits motionless, gaze fixed on the wall just past Hatter’s shoulder. He offers a vague hum when addressed, the bare minimum to feign engagement.

Hatter’s voice fades into static, no longer making sense. Because his mind is nowhere near here.

It’s on you.

Your gaze.

The way you looked at him when realization struck.

Your hands, trembling slightly, finger resting on the trigger—as if you could’ve pulled it. As if the bullet, instead of staying locked in the chamber, could’ve been buried anywhere in his head, in his body.

And yet, it didn’t, still stays in the gun.

You’re still there.

Letting him leave.

Unscathed.

Untouched.

Not even the ghost of your warmth against his fingertips.

He shouldn’t be thinking about you. He should be thinking about the plan. The games. The cards. He needs to stay sharp. Stay detached.

Hatter’s voice finally filters back again into his awareness, a dull buzz replacing the memory of you.

Good.

Let it drown you out.

“We need more manpower. Loyalty. Usefulness.” His gaze sweeps the room, lingering on each face. “Bring me people who can contribute. People who won’t break under pressure.”

His fingers tap idly against the armrest, his mind already drifting again.

To you.

But thanks to Hatter because-

Hatter claps his hands together, snapping him back. “Dismissed!”

The room erupts into movement, chairs scraping. Chishiya stands slowly, his hands slipping into his pockets.

And as he steps out into the room, heading back to his room, one thought lingers, stubborn as a stain:

This isn’t over.

And for the first time in years.

He isn’t sure if that’s a threat.

Or a hope.

His mind drifted back to Hatter’s earlier words.

Useful people. Loyal people. What a joke.

Chishiya’s lips curve, just slightly. The stolen tools—your tools—click together as he adjusts the taser's wiring. Kuina lying on his bed, sprawls like a discarded jacket, words tumbling out in an endless stream, rambling, gossiping about things as she always does when she’s bored. She doesn't care if he's listening - she just needs to fill the silence.

He wondered if you’d be a good recruit.

Would you fit in here? Would you like the neon-lit chaos, the false promises, the way people clung to each other like survivors of a shipwreck, dragging each other under in their desperation to stay afloat?

Would you survive?

His chest tightens.

He doesn’t want to think about it.

But he does.

The Beach would chew you up and spit you out—if the games didn’t kill you first.

This place was a gilded cage, its residents dancing like marionettes for the illusion of safety. They drank, they fucked, they laughed too loud—anything to drown out the knowledge that tomorrow might not come.

You’d see through it in seconds.

You’d hate it. You’d hate the noise. The chaos. The way people here pretended they weren’t already dead.

And most of all?

You’d hate him for being part of it.

And then there’s Niragi.

The Beach’s threaten—a rabid dog let off its leash.

Everyone knew what he was, what he did. Chishiya’s seen it firsthand—the way Niragi’s eyes light up when someone begs. The way he grins as he pulls the trigger.

Chishiya exhales through his nose.

That dog means nothing to him.

In his eyes, Niragi is just a fool, a brute who mistakes violence for power, cruelty for strength. He acts without thought, without strategy, a rabid animal in a world that rewards cunning.

But.

If you were here—

The thought coils in his gut like a blade.

Niragi would be the first thing you’d need to avoid.

He’s seen what the man is capable of. The way he puts a bullet between someone’s eyes without blinking. The way he preys on the weak, the way he takes what he wants.

He’ll torture for fun. He’ll kill for less. And no one stops him.

Hatter turns a blind eye. The inner circle laughs it off. The rest? They scatter like roaches when the lights flicker on.

But to Chishiya?

Niragi means nothing to him.

Just another rabid animal in a circus of clowns, mistaking cruelty for strength, brutality for power. A fool who thinks dominance is the same as control.

Pathetic.

And yet—

You.

If you were to stumble into this so-called paradise, into this chaos, Niragi would be the first thing you’d need to avoid.

No, more than avoid.

Escape.

Because Chishiya has seen what that man does to the weak. To the defiant. To the ones who interest him.

He can picture it too clearly.

You, standing in front of Niragi, breath caught in your throat, eyes wide with something too close to fear. Niragi, circling you like a predator, hungry for the way you don’t cower.

And then—Fuck.

He doesn’t want to picture you lying in a pool of blood. Blood on the tiles. Your body crumpling.

Or worse.

You beneath that bastard’s weight—

His hands tighten.

He hates this. Hates the way his mind conjures the image without permission. Hates the way his mind lingers on possibilities that shouldn’t matter. Hates the acidic burn of something too close to fear curling in his chest.

But most of all?

He hates how he can see himself in Niragi, the flicker of something sickeningly familiar in Niragi’s reflection.

He recognizes it. The hunger. The selfishness. The way Niragi chases what he wants without hesitation, no matter who gets trampled in the process.

It’s familiar.

Because Chishiya is selfish too.

He understands the calculus behind those cruel eyes. The ruthless pragmatism. The willingness to sacrifice pawns to win the game. They'd played Diamond together once, after all. The man wasn't stupid - just unrestrained.

But there are lines even Chishiya won't cross.

He doesn't get off on pain. Doesn't revel in suffering. His manipulations are clean, surgical - sever the connection, walk away, no messy aftermath. No sobbing victims. No bloodstains on his pristine white jacket.

He’ll sacrifice pawns to survive. He’ll manipulate, lie, and discard people when they’re no longer useful.

But that’s where the resemblance ends.

Niragi is a beast, driven by base instincts—violence, domination, the need to make everyone hurt as much as he does.

Chishiya? He’s better than that.

He’s calculated, precise. He doesn’t revel in suffering, he simply acknowledges it as a variable. A means to an end. He doesn’t revel in the blood—he simply acknowledges it as a necessary cost.

Niragi wants you to know he’s a monster.

Chishiya is one—he just doesn’t feel the need to prove it.

And that’s the difference.

Where Chishiya calculates, Niragi consumes. Where Chishiya manipulates, Niragi destroys.

That’s why Niragi disgusts him. Not because he’s cruel. But because he’s weak. A slave to his own impulses, his own rage, his own pathetic need to be feared. He only needs control. He gets off on the power, the fear, the way people shrink when he walks by.

Chishiya doesn’t need fear. He doesn’t care about the screams, he’s not the one making them happen.

Not like Niragi. That bitch is everything he refuses to be. A rapist. A murderer. A weakness disguised as strength. The filth who stains everything he touches.

Survival isn’t about mindless brutality. It’s about adaptation. Control.

Niragi thrives in the chaos, a cockroach surviving in the ruins of the world.

And Chishiya?

He’s already thinking ten steps ahead.

Niragi doesn’t survive.

He infects.

As well as The Beach.

And Chishiya won’t let that sickness touch you. Wouldn’t let it touch you.

Because this world doesn’t reward monsters.

It just creates them.

＿＿＿

#aib chishiya #aib x reader #alice in borderland #chishiya #chishiya shuntaro #chishiya x reader #chishiya x y/n #chishiya x you

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