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jungkoode · 8 days ago

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THE 25TH HOUR | 10

"𝐂𝐎𝐆𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄"

"Information overload has consequences when your brain tries to map infinity. And some revelations about intellectual competition, tongue habits, and emotional resonance tracking really shouldn’t happen in the same afternoon."

next | index

— chapter details

word count: 8.5k

content: noma being demandingly curious, yoongi being feral about her dying 16 times, jungkook trying to be helpful, cognitive temporal dissonance aftermath, sobbing jungkook, angry yoongi, taehyung not being able to register info as a threat, team guilt spiral ft. everyone learning why information is literally dangerous, noma waking up in hopemin's bed (jimin is SO pressed about it), mission briefing: formal wear edition, jimin's fashion expertise meets his general disdain for houseguests, hoseok being chaos incarnate about intellectual foreplay patterns, "the tongue thing" revelation (rip noma's brain), yoongi's arousal tracking hitting 347% (someone pls help this man), gala infiltration setup, and SO MUCH unresolved sexual tension it could power the entire resistance base.

— author’s note

AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH IT’S HEEEREEEE it’s FINALLY here. The chapter I have been holding in my evil little claws like Gollum with the ring. My precious… (⁠ʘ⁠‿⁠ʘ⁠)

Okay okay okay. Deep breath. This chapter is so much. Like we are in full “this is why nobody should say anything around Noma without thinking first” territory. I’ve been WAITING to show you the consequences of information being mishandled around a brain like hers. And it was such a challenge to write because obviously YOU (dear reader) need to get some of this lore and intel too—but we’re not in omniscient narration. We’re in deep, close POV with Noma, and occasionally Yoongi, and that means there’s no “as you know, Bob” exposition. That’s amateur hour. Everything that comes through to you has to come through them. It has to feel lived in. Felt. Filtered. With weight.

And YEAH. There’s a reason I wrote it the way I did. The info needs to creep in, not be dumped on you. This chapter was a narrative challenge and a DREAM to tackle because of that. I went full evil little narrative goblin. There are crumbs. There are cracks in the wall. There is an entire buffet of lore and psychological tension here. If you don’t pick up on it… I will cry. And then stab you. Lovingly.

Also. That convo between Tae, Jungkook, and Yoongi? YEAH. That’s not filler. That is pivotal. I needed to show how people in a massive resistance organization aren’t perfectly synced or briefed. This isn’t a YA chosen-one fantasy. Jungkook is a literal baby with powers he doesn’t fully understand, Taehyung is a modded enforcer who doesn’t register information as a threat (which is SUCH a fascinating limitation, ugh I love him), and Yoongi is the only one who has full comprehension of the consequences. The disparity is real. Organic. Messy. And necessary.

Tae’s assumption that Noma chose to push herself?? Very on purpose. Because if any reader also thought that? WRONG. And I wanted that to get addressed in canon. Noma didn’t push anything. She’s not reckless. She’s a computer. A genius. The kind of person who hears a truth and immediately starts mapping it across every axis of possible meaning. She’s Yoongi’s intellectual match. They are both monsters of cognition. They get off on being the smartest person in the room and guess what—it’s each other, always. They’re each other’s equals. That’s what makes their resonance so terrifying. So fragile. So powerful.

And yeah. It’s like when someone tells you not to think of an elephant. Your brain immediately defaults to elephant. Same with telling someone like Noma “you control space.” It doesn’t stop at space. It spirals. What does that MEAN? What are the LIMITS? What are the variables? Her brain starts crunching a concept that shouldn’t be understood. And it fries her.

So yeah. Now you know why they have to be so careful about what they say to her. Why Yoongi said back in earlier chapters that forcing memories or info on her could be catastrophic. This was that moment. I’ve been waiting to show you.

Also HEEEHEHEE the Hoseok and Jimin section is SO FUN. I love them so much. I couldn’t go deep into their backstories here because your brains already got fried with the temporal dissonance meltdown, but I loved weaving in the details carefully. The way they look at each other for permission to share, the way they dance around what’s safe vs. unsafe to say, the way Jimin cuts himself off—TENSIONNNNNNN. There’s a REASON she doesn’t have access to everything. There’s a REASON some things are safe, and others aren’t.

And let’s be honest. The moment Yoongi detects her arousal spike from three floors down??? Bro. I am unwell. Imagine being a telepathic soulmate with emotional resonance and you’re trying to drink your 4am rehydration tea and SUDDENLY you’re aware the love of your life is thinking about your sexy dissertation and the angle of your tongue. I’m gooning. I’m shriveling. I’m vibrating.

Anyway. Chapter 10 is intense. And intimate. And so so layered. I hope you love it. I hope you scream. And I hope you pay attention. Or else.

— read on

ao3

wattpad

The transition leaves an aftertaste of ozone and broken physics.

One moment, you are a collection of atoms held together by sheer will and Agent Min’s grip; the next, you are solid again.

Your feet meet a floor of polished, off-white composite material that seems to absorb all sound.

Back in the resistance headquarters; your mind helpfully supplies. Back to that long, sterile corridor that stretches before you, lit by light panels that emit a flat, shadowless glow.

The raw, bleeding edge of the portal behind you pulses once, then seals itself shut with a sound like tearing fabric, leaving no trace it was ever there.

“What was that?” is your first immediate question, referring to their commentary about Jungkook’s apparent teleportation abilities.

Your processing centers demanding data to fill the void left by the impossible event. It’s directed at the back of Agent Min’s head as he walks ahead.

No answer.

Agent Min’s shoulders remain rigid, mint-colored hair looking like someone splashed watercolor in a grayscale simulation.

You can see the unnatural angle of his left shoulder, the controlled set of his jaw against what must be a significant level of pain.

But his gait suggests someone who’s done answering questions for the next seventy-three hours.

The probability he is ignoring you registers at 98.7%.

Fine. If he won't provide the data, you'll find a more willing source.

You turn your head, your gaze finding Jungkook. “What did you do?”

Jungkook’s eyes dart from you to Min’s rigid back, a flicker of conflict crossing his features. He presses his lips into a thin, unhappy line and gives a minute shake of his head.

A clear non-verbal cue: can’t.

The first spark of real frustration ignites in your chest. A low-grade thermal reaction. It’s inefficient. Annoying.

“Why is nobody telling me anything?” The question bursts out, louder than intended, echoing off the sleek, quantum-reinforced walls. Your vocal modulation is off—pitch elevated by 12%, volume spiking beyond optimal conversational levels.

You don’t care. The lack of input is suffocating, a void where data should be.

“What did he do? He mimicked my abilities, didn’t he? I registered that much. I heard it.”

The query is directed at Taehyung this time. He’s the most likely to respond, with a 43% higher probability of verbal engagement based on past interactions.

But he just lets out a long, weary sigh, the sound echoing unnaturally in the dead air of the corridor. He doesn’t reply. Instead, his hand closes around Jungkook’s forearm, and he begins walking, pulling the younger agent along with him.

Jungkook releases a sigh himself, this one loud and theatrical, a clear broadcast of his own displeasure with the mandated silence.

Your hands curl into fists, knuckles whitening under the pressure.

The sensation is odd—muscle tension at 87% of maximum capacity, a physical manifestation of something you can’t quite name.

Anger? Frustration? Both?

You’re a walking processor, a system built for logic and analysis, not this messy, bubbling surge that threatens to override your control.

But it’s there, undeniable, pushing against the edges of your restraint—you want to slam your fist into the nearest wall, propriety be damned.

Instead, you plant your feet, the soles of your boots gripping the floor with a stubborn finality.

“I require answers.” The statement is flat, cold, and absolute. “If you refuse to provide the necessary information, I will acquire it through alternative, and likely less cooperative, means.”

That does it.

Taehyung and Jungkook freeze mid-stride. Min stops a few paces ahead, his back still to you, but the tension in his shoulders makes him seem taller, more dangerous.

Your eyes, those traitors, find the mint strands of his hair—a soft, pale contrast to the harsh black of his tactical vest and jacket.

The color is striking, almost unfairly pretty, like a glitch in an otherwise monochromatic design. It distracts you for exactly 0.7 seconds before you force your focus back to his face, to those golden eyes that always seem to see too much.

“Min.”

He turns slowly, the movement measured and deliberate.

“Noma,” he begins, his voice low and grating, “you are not in an adequate headspace for a tactical debriefing.”

“I will be the judge of that.”

“No.” He takes a step toward you. “I am.”

A humorless laugh escapes you, a puff of air. “By what authority? My operational parameters are my own.”

“Not when they intersect with mine.”

“And why,” you challenge, taking a step to meet him, closing the distance, “would you have any say in what I need, or what I don’t?”

His breath hitches, a ragged, sharp intake of air that speaks of immense pressure barely contained.

It sounds like he’s holding back a scream, or venom, or wrestling with something volatile. Anger, maybe. Or something darker. You don’t know, and that lack of knowing is driving you up the wall.

He stalks toward you, his gait fluid despite the injury. Taehyung and Jungkook melt away, retreating to the periphery as if clearing the stage for a collision they know is inevitable.

He doesn’t stop until he’s so close you have to tilt your head back to meet his gaze. Inches away.

You can feel the heat radiating from him, and this time

it’s not just the ozone—but spearmint, that sharpens in the air around you. His eyes are no longer just tinged with gold; they are molten, blazing down at you.

“Because it became my choice,” he grits out, each word a shard of gravel torn from his throat.

Your own defiance rises to meet it. “I don’t recall giving you a choice.”

His jaw ticks, a violent spasm of muscle. “It became my choice the moment I had to watch you die sixteen times.”

The air vacates your lungs in a single, silent rush.

Sixteen times.

You died sixteen times.

Revival technology, temporal manipulation, parallel timelines—none of the models align with the raw certainty in his voice.

How is that possible? You’re alive. You’re here, breathing, thinking, processing data. There’s no evidence of revival technology in your medical records. No gaps in your memory that would suggest temporal manipulation. No—

If revival is possible, if you’ve died and returned multiple times, what does that mean for the fundamental laws of physics? For the nature of consciousness? For the reality you’ve been operating under?

What timeline are you even in? Or better, worse—how many have you lived through that you don’t remember?

“And I’m not letting you become a seventeen.”

He spits the last word out like poison, a final, damning verdict.

Then he turns, the motion sharp and decisive, and walks away down the corridor without a backward glance, leaving you shattered in his wake.

Jungkook and Taehyung remain stationary.

You note Taehyung’s grip on Jungkook’s arm—pressure increasing by approximately 12 newtons. Restraint behavior. But Jungkook’s eyes find yours anyway.

Then—

Something shifts inside your skull.

Not pain. Not memory. Something else entirely.

A voice that isn’t yours, speaking words that arrive without traveling through your auditory processing centers.

«Yes. It was your abilities. You control the spatial dimension.»

The transmission carries Jungkook’s vocal patterns but bypasses standard sensory input entirely—direct neural interface.

Telepathy.

He’s using Taehyung’s ability without anyone else detecting the connection.

Your gaze remains locked with his for exactly 0.7 seconds before he allows Taehyung to guide him forward.

Spatial dimension.

The words echo through your consciousness, connecting to memory fragments of golden tendrils and impossible physics. Of matter phasing and reality bending and distances that compress at your unconscious command.

Sixteen deaths. Seventeen possible.

You control space itself.

And apparently, nobody trusts you enough to explain why that matters.

The dream always starts the same way—with your hands mapping his chest like you're solving an equation.

You're above him, thighs bracketing his hips, that familiar analytical tilt to your head as you study him. Your hair falls in loose strands across your forehead, catching the low light of whatever timeline this is. Your mouth is parted just slightly, breath coming in those careful, measured gasps that drive him fucking insane.

You move like you always do—deliberate, testing, like every roll of your hips is gathering data. Like his body is some complex system you need to decode. Your palms press flat against his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heartbeat, cataloging the way his muscles tense beneath your touch.

"Fuck, Noma," he breathes, voice already wrecked, and you pause—just for a second—to process the sound.

That little furrow appears between your brows, the one that means you're filing away his response for later analysis.

Then you sink down on him again, slow and torturous, taking him inch by inch like you're conducting some kind of experiment. His hands move to grip your waist, but golden tendrils—yours, not his—wrap around his wrists, pinning them to the mattress above his head.

The restraint makes him growl, a sound that rumbles up from his chest. Every instinct screams at him to flip you over, to pin you beneath him and fuck you until you stop thinking so goddamn much.

But your tendrils hold firm, crystalline and unforgiving, and all he can do is lie there and take whatever pace you set.

"You're studying me," he pants, watching the way your eyes track every micro-expression that crosses his face.

"Always," you murmur, and the admission makes his cock twitch inside you. "Need to understand how you work."

You lean forward, changing the angle, and he sees stars.

Your breath ghosts across his ear as you whisper, "What does this do to you?" and roll your hips in that specific way that makes him see fucking galaxies.

His answer is a broken moan, hips bucking up involuntarily. The tendrils tighten around his wrists, a gentle warning, and you make that soft sound of satisfaction—like you've just confirmed a hypothesis.

"And this?" You clench around him, internal muscles squeezing, and his vision whites out for a second.

"Christ, Noma," he gasps, straining against the golden bonds. "Let me touch you, please—"

But you just smile, that small, secret curve of your lips that means you’re exactly where you want to be. In control. Gathering data. Driving him out of his fucking mind with the slow, methodical way you take him apart.

You ride him like you have all the time in the world, like this is your favorite puzzle to solve.

And maybe it is—maybe he’s your favorite system to understand, the one equation you never get tired of working through. The way you look at him, like he’s the most fascinating thing in any timeline, like every reaction is precious data you want to memorize.

He knows that look. It’s the same one you get when you’re completely absorbed in something you‘re obsessed with.

He’d let you study him forever if it meant keeping you here, keeping you safe, keeping you—

The orgasm builds slow and devastating, your name falling from his lips like a prayer as you work him closer to the edge with scientific rigor.

“Yoongi.”

His name in your voice, breathless and wanting, and he's gone—

He wakes with a sharp intake of breath, forearm thrown across his eyes, skin slick with sweat. His heart hammers against his ribs, the phantom sensation of your tendrils still wrapped around his wrists.

His room is dark, as usual, silent except for the climate control system.

He turns his head lazily toward the nightstand, where the digital clock glows an offensive blue: 3:47 AM.

He fucking hates that thing. Analog clocks don't mock you with their precision. They just tick, steady and reliable, marking time without judgment.

But digital clocks? They count down to the exact second when everything falls apart.

Again.

He keeps the forearm pressed against his eyes for a few more seconds, chest rising and falling in measured intervals.

In, out. Steady.

He wills his heart rate to slow, tries to sink back into sleep, back into dreams where you're safe and whole and—

His forearm jerks away from his face.

Something's wrong.

The feeling hits him like ice water in his veins, sharp and immediate.

He checks his Chrono-Sync Watch with frantic urgency, heart hammering against his ribs so hard it might crack them. The numbers blur—he doesn't give a shit about the time.

It's you. He feels it in his head, in his soul, in his fucking heart.

Something's wrong with you.

The sheets tangle around his legs as he throws himself out of bed, stumbling forward with too much momentum. His knee hits the floor hard, pain shooting up his thigh, but he doesn't stop. Can't stop. His chest is caving in on itself, lungs refusing to work properly as he runs.

Your door is already open when he rounds the corner.

Taehyung and Jungkook stand in the doorway like sentries, their faces pale in the hallway light. He darts past them without a word, shoulders clipping the doorframe.

The scene inside makes his stomach lurch.

Namjoon is on the floor, cradling your limp form against his chest. Jin kneels beside him, one hand tilting your head back, the other checking your pulse clinically.

There's blood—so much fucking blood—pooling on the concrete floor beneath you.

Your nose. It's your nose, dripping steady and relentless, painting your lips and chin crimson.

You're motionless. Completely still except for the shallow rise and fall of your chest.

His hands shake as he forces himself to breathe slowly, eyes darting around the room, cataloging details.

Your nose. Non-stop bleeding.

The telltale signal of cognitive temporal overload—too much information, too fast, your brain trying to process data it’s not ready for.

"Who told her."

His voice comes out low, barely above a whisper, but there's enough venom in it to make everyone in the room tense. Everyone except Jin, who's too absorbed in monitoring your vitals to care about the threat in Yoongi's tone.

"Who. Told. Her."

He rounds on Jungkook, whose eyes immediately dart away, guilt written across every line of his face. The kid can't even look at him.

Yoongi strides forward, rage building in his chest like a wildfire, but Taehyung steps between them.

"Yoongi."

"Move."

"Yoongi, listen—"

"Move!"

His eyes flick up to meet Taehyung's, and whatever Tae sees there makes him take a half-step back.

"He's just a kid," Taehyung says, voice steady but careful. "He's the youngest. Has only been active since timeline 715."

The bile rises in Yoongi's throat.

He's not violent—never has been. Doesn't lose his temper like this, doesn't let emotion override logic.

But if you're dead, if you fucking died for the seventeenth time because some kid couldn't keep his mouth shut—

He delivers a blow to Taehyung’s stomach. Hard. The impact sends pain shooting up his arm, and he hisses, shaking his hand.

Taehyung doesn’t even flinch.

They both know he wouldn’t. Former enforcer, body modified to withstand worse than anything Yoongi could dish out.

That’s exactly why he hit him instead of Jungkook—because Taehyung can take it, and because the kid doesn’t deserve his rage.

But someone needs to feel it. Someone needs to understand that this isn’t a fucking game.

“Feel better?” Taehyung asks quietly, not moving from his protective stance in front of Jungkook.

Yoongi’s breathing is ragged, chest heaving. “She’s bleeding out on the floor, Tae.”

“She’s not bleeding out. Jin’s got her.” Taehyung’s voice carries that enforcer-calm that always makes situations feel more controlled than they are. “And this isn’t anyone’s fault. She made a choice to push her abilities—”

“Choice?” Yoongi’s voice cracks with disbelief. “You think this was a fucking choice?”

Behind Taehyung, Jungkook’s face crumples.

“I just told her what she was doing,” he whispers. “She asked why I could grab her abilities, and I said—I said she controls spatial dimensions. That’s it. That’s all I said.”

“All you said.” Yoongi repeats the words like they taste bitter. “Do you have any idea what that means? What controlling space actually entails?”

Jungkook looks genuinely confused, eyes growing glassy. “She was already using it. When I mimicked her signature, I could feel how powerful it was, so I thought—”

“You thought what? That because you can copy abilities without consequences, everyone can handle that knowledge?”

“I don’t understand,” Jungkook says, voice breaking. “She manifested spatial manipulation during the rescue. I was just explaining what she’d already done.”

Taehyung’s jaw tightens. “He was trying to help her understand her own abilities. That’s not reckless—”

“Not reckless?” Yoongi rounds on him, eyes blazing gold. “Do you know what spatial dimension control means, Tae? Do you have any fucking clue?”

“I know it means she pushed too hard—”

“She didn’t push anything!” Yoongi explodes. “It’s called cognitive temporal dissonance, you absolute dimwit! It’s a fucking medical condition!”

Taehyung blinks, doubt creeping in his enforcer certainty for once. “What?”

“Jin?” Yoongi whips around, desperation bleeding into his voice. “Help me out here.”

Jin doesn’t look up from where he’s monitoring your pulse, voice dry as sandpaper. “Bit busy keeping her stable. Ask Joon.”

“Joon,” Yoongi turns to Namjoon, who’s still cradling your limp form. “Tell them. Tell them what cognitive temporal dissonance actually is.”

Namjoon shifts carefully, making sure your head stays supported. His voice slips into that analytical tone he uses for briefings.

“Cognitive temporal dissonance occurs when an Outlier’s consciousness is exposed to information that exceeds their current neural adaptation threshold.”

“Incongruent. She has better neural adaptation than any of us here. She should be able to process minimal information like that with ease, especially when she’s faced—”

“Jesus Christ.” Yoongi drags his hands through his hair. “It’s not minimal information Tae, it’s an entire fucking dimension of reality. When you tell someone they control space itself—not just ‘spatial manipulation,’ but the actual fabric of dimensional reality—their brain tries to comprehend the scope of that.”

Taehyung simply blinks, eyebrows furrowing. Yoongi sighs out loud, gestures wildly at your unconscious form.

“She doesn’t get headaches because she’s analyzing equations. She gets them because her human brain is trying to process the concept of controlling something infinite. Something fundamental to existence itself.”

Jungkook’s face goes white. “I… I didn’t know it was that big. When I copy abilities, they just feel like… like tools. I can use them without thinking about what they actually are.”

“Because your mimicry protects you from the full cognitive load,” Namjoon interjects softly, never taking his eyes off your vitals. “You experience abilities in ‘safe mode’—all the function, none of the existential weight.”

“But she was already using them,” Taehyung insists, clearly still struggling to categorize information as a physical threat. “How is knowing what you’re doing more dangerous than actually doing it?”

“Because doing it unconsciously is instinct. Understanding it consciously means your brain tries to map the parameters. And when the parameter is ‘I control one of the fundamental forces that governs reality’…” Yoongi gestures at the blood on your face. “This happens.”

Jungkook is sobbing now. “I thought I was being helpful. She seemed frustrated not knowing, and I just—”

“Your brain can barely fucking handle copying my temporal manipulation for seven minutes, Jungkook,” Yoongi cuts him off. “Could you handle knowing you control time itself? That every second that passes is subject to your will? That causality bends around your existence?”

The kid’s face crumples completely. “No. No, I couldn’t.”

“She’s been Outlier-aware for three days. Three fucking days. Her neural pathways are still forming the connections needed to process basic temporal awareness, and you just told her she controls space.” Yoongi’s voice breaks. “That’s like… that’s like telling someone who just learned to walk that they’re actually capable of flight. The concept is too big for a brain that’s still learning how to exist outside normal time.”

Taehyung is quiet for a long moment, his expression cycling through several configurations as his modified brain processes this new categorization of information-as-threat.

“But she’s strong,” Jungkook says desperately. “She handled manifesting the abilities—”

“Unconscious manifestation is completely different from conscious comprehension,” Namjoon explains gently. “When abilities manifest naturally, they’re filtered through instinct and necessity. When someone consciously understands the scope of what they control, their analytical mind tries to map it, test it, understand its limits.”

“And Y/N’s mind…” Yoongi’s voice is barely a whisper. “Y/N’s mind doesn’t half-ass anything. When she learns something, she learns everything about it. Every variable, every possibility, every potential application. Tell her she controls space, and her brain immediately starts trying to comprehend infinity.”

The room falls silent except for the sound of your steady breathing and Jin’s quiet monitoring.

Taehyung stares at you for a long moment in what Yoongi knows is enforcer processing—that mechanical way his brain reorganizes information when it encounters something that doesn’t fit his neural framework.

“I didn’t know,” Taehyung says finally, voice flat in that way that means his modifications are struggling with the concept. “Information overload isn’t… my brain doesn’t process it as a threat.”

Jungkook looks up at him, confusion mixing with his guilt. “What do you mean?”

“Enforcers were designed to absorb massive amounts of tactical data without psychological impact,” Taehyung explains, still staring at your unconscious form. “When you told her about spatial control, and you looked to me to see if it was dangerous…I literally couldn’t register it as harmful. To me, it’s just information. Like learning the time of day.”

“Yeah, that’s why you thought she was being reckless instead of recognizing she was having a medical emergency.” Jin sighs loudly.

Taehyung nods slowly, that mechanical processing still evident in his movements. “I thought she chose to push herself with new abilities. My programming doesn’t… it doesn’t understand how knowing something can hurt you.”

“Because it can’t hurt you,” Namjoon adds quietly. “Your modifications make you immune to information-based trauma. You could learn you control reality-warping abilities the same way you’d process a weather report.”

Jungkook makes a broken sound. “It’s my fault. When Tae didn’t react like it was dangerous, I thought it meant it wasn’t.”

“No, it’s my fault.” Taehyung runs a hand over his face, frustration bleeding through calm. “I keep thinking there should have been warning signs. Behavioral indicators. But information processing doesn’t trigger my threat assessment protocols. I should have deferred to Yoongi, should’ve known better than to let Jungkook make that call.”

“We all should have known better,” Jin speaks up without looking away from your vitals. “But beating ourselves up won’t fix her brain chemistry.”

Yoongi kneels beside you, careful not to disturb Jin’s positioning.

Your face is pale, dried blood still crusted around your nose, but your breathing is steady.

“Next time,” he says quietly, “any questions about abilities, about the past, about anything—you come to me first. Both of you. No matter how harmless it seems.”

“Understood,” Taehyung says, slipping into that formal tone his enforcer training defaults to during protocol establishment.

Jungkook just nods, still crying softly.

Yoongi reaches out toward your face, then stops himself, hand hovering in the air between you.

Even like this—unconscious, vulnerable, bleeding from cognitive overload—he can’t quite bring himself to touch you.

Not when you don’t remember choosing to let him.

Particles of light drift together like puzzle pieces finding their home.

The ceiling materializes above you—unfamiliar angles, different shadows. Not your assigned quarters. Not even the sterile white of Jin's lab space.

This ceiling has character, personality. Warm lighting fixtures instead of clinical panels. Personal touches that speak of actual habitation rather than temporary assignment.

Your processing centers catalog the discrepancies while your vision sharpens from static to clarity.

The bed beneath you is softer than regulation standard, sheets that smell like fabric softener instead of industrial detergent.

Someone's personal space, then.

But whose?

Voices carry from somewhere beyond your field of vision, muffled by distance and what sounds like architectural features—columns, maybe, or room dividers.

"—absolutely ridiculous, Hoseok. She's not our responsibility."

"Where else is she supposed to go? Her room's a biohazard zone.”

A scoff. “So we’re the charity case now? It’s not fair to us, Fuyu. Why not just stick her in Jin’s lab?”

“Because Jin’s not a doctor, Jimin. He’s a memory tech. He doesn’t want her in there while he’s running diagnostics. She needs rest, not a front-row seat to his data streams.”

A pause. The sound of someone pacing, footsteps sharp against what must be concrete flooring.

"Yoongi's room, then. He's the one who—"

A sigh from Hoseok. “You know the protocol he set for this cycle, Jimin. Minimum proximity. No unnecessary contact. He’s trying a different variable; we have to respect that.”

“Respect it? He’s miserable. And right now his misery is sleeping in our bed.” There’s a sound of restless pacing. “I don’t want her here. It’s bad enough we have to watch him self-destruct from a distance, I don’t need a front-row seat to the cause of it.”

“She’s not the cause, Jimin. She’s the… focus. And you know as well as I do she can’t be in his space. Even without the distance protocols, she just went through a neural fissure. The least she needs right now is more cognitive strain.”

Your head turns slightly, seeking the source of the conversation, though the movement sends a dull ache through your skull—not the sharp, stabbing pain of cognitive overload, but the lingering throb of neural exhaustion.

"She could trigger memory fragments just by being in his space," the first voice continues, petulant. "Fine. But that doesn't mean she has to be in ours."

"It's temporary, Mochi. A few days at most."

"A few days of what? Pretending we're running a halfway house for temporally displaced analysts?"

Footsteps approach, and a figure emerges from behind what you now see is indeed a decorative column. Orange hair catches the warm lighting, and Jung Hoseok's face comes into view. His expression shifts from mild exasperation to something softer when he notices your open eyes.

"Oh. You're awake."

You manage a nod, the motion careful and measured. Your vocal cords feel scratchy, unused.

"Well," he says, hands finding his hips, "you really know how to put on a show, huh?"

A scoff of laughter accompanies the words, but there's genuine concern in his eyes. He sighs, the sound carrying relief and residual worry in equal measure.

He walks toward the bed, movements easy and unhurried. "How are you feeling? Scale of one to ten, with ten being 'ready to manipulate dimensional reality' and one being 'please keep the lights dim.'"

"Somewhere around a four," you manage, voice rougher than expected. "Maybe a three-point-seven."

"Specific. I like that." He settles into a chair beside the bed, leaning forward slightly. "Any nausea? Dizziness when you move your head?"

"Minimal. Cognitive processing feels... sluggish. Like running diagnostics through damaged circuits."

"That's normal after what you went through. Jin says your neural pathways are basically reorganizing themselves. Building new connections to handle the information load."

You process this, filing it away with the growing collection of data about your condition.

"Why am I here? In your room?"

"Because everywhere else was either contaminated, occupied, or specifically off-limits."

Pink hair like cotton candy ambushes your vision next, familiar, snappy voice joining the conversation. Jimin appears from behind the same column, arms crossed.

"Lucky you." Jimin’s tone carries enough sarcasm to power a small generator.

"Your room's got blood all over the floor," Hoseok explains, shooting Jimin a warning look. "Jin's lab isn't set up for overnight stays. And Yoongi..." He trails off, diplomatic.

"Yoongi's being a dramatic bitch," Jimin finishes, not bothering with diplomacy. "So you get to camp out here. In our space. With our things."

"Jimin."

"What? She should know what she's signing up for." Jimin's gaze finds yours, walking until he’s next to Hoseok. "This is the biggest room, so we've got a spare bed set up in the back area. But don't expect us to tiptoe around your delicate temporal sensibilities."

You blink, processing the implications. "Meaning?"

"Meaning," Jimin continues, deadpan, "if you hear sounds at night, you can suck it up. I'm not putting my sex life on hold just because we have a houseguest."

"We can be considerate for a few days," Hoseok sighs.

"Absolutely not." Jimin's response is immediate and firm. "What if two days become three? Become five? You know how Yoongi gets.”

His fingers trail down the front of Hoseok’s shirt, a deliberate, slow movement that draws attention to the motion. His eyes flick from his own hand to Hoseok's face, intentionally loaded.

“And you know how I get.”

Hoseok's hand moves to catch Jimin's wrist, stopping the downward trajectory. He licks his lips, head tilting in what looks like a silent plea.

Jimin's eyebrows furrow in response, and you realize you're witnessing an entire conversation conducted through micro-expressions and body language.

A communication system developed through intimacy and time, that you somehow, suddenly, crave.

You clear your throat. "I can handle background noise. My auditory processing filters are quite efficient."

Jimin jerks his hand away from Hoseok’s grip, snapping back to full irritation mode.

“I’ll take that as a challenge,” he says, rolling his eyes as he starts walking away.

He pauses, looking back over his shoulder with an expression that clearly expects you to follow.

Hoseok offers his hand, palm up—steady, warm. You take it, more out of protocol than necessity.

Your legs hold, but the world still lags half a step behind your movements.

He keeps pace beside you, easy and patient, while Jimin moves ahead with the attitude of someone eager to put distance between himself and the problem.

“Thanks,” you say, voice low.

It’s the kind of word that feels strange in your mouth, like you’re borrowing someone else’s language for a moment.

Hoseok glances down at you, one eyebrow raised. “For what?”

You keep your gaze ahead, watching Jimin’s back.

“Allowing me a place to stay. Even when your partner is clearly… less than enthusiastic about it.”

He snorts, the sound soft but genuine. “I’m not gonna insult your intelligence by pretending Jimin’s thrilled. You’d see right through it anyway. And I’d be lying.”

You nod, cataloguing the honesty.

Hoseok’s direct, but not unkind.

“He understands the need, though. Even if he hates the idea.”

You allow the silence to settle. Two seconds pass—long enough for discomfort to threaten, short enough to feel intentional.

“I asked him last time if he dislikes me.”

Hoseok’s lips twitch. “And?”

“He said yes.”

He laughs again, louder this time, shaking his head. “That’s Jimin for you. He doesn’t sugarcoat.”

You blink, parsing the statement. “Is that… typical?”

“Very.” He grins, then sobers a little. “He’s honest to a fault. If he doesn’t like you, he’ll tell you. If he does, you’ll know. There’s no in-between with him.”

You blink, trying to process the humor. “Why does he hate me?”

Hoseok’s gaze drops to the floor, mouth curving into a half-smile.

“It’s not hate. It’s… frustration. This whole mess has been rough on everyone, but Jimin—he takes things personally. Holds onto them. It’s just how he is.”

You nod, not sure you understand, but the explanation feels sufficient.

Maybe you don’t need to understand all the variables to accept the outcome.

The corridor opens up into a space that could pass for a boutique if not for the utilitarian racks and rows of tactical gear.

Jimin is already there, hand braced on the edge of a table, posture radiating impatience.

“Welcome to heaven,” he says, deadpan, not bothering to look back as he starts sorting through hangers with practiced flicks of his wrist.

“What is he doing?” you ask Hoseok.

Hoseok moves to a nearby section, fingers trailing through what appears to be a collection of coats. The fabric makes soft sounds under his touch—silk, wool, materials your tactile processors can identify even from a distance.

“Prepping you for your next mission.”

You narrow your eyes slightly. “I was not informed there was a mission.”

Jimin doesn’t look up from the rack he’s browsing. “Right. Because you were unconscious. Bleeding from your face. Kind of hard to deliver briefings in that condition.”

“That would imply poor timing on your part,” you say dryly. “Or an urgent operation being executed under suboptimal readiness conditions.”

Hoseok exhales—an audible, weighty thing. “It’s not ideal, but it’s happening. And you’re the only one who can do it.”

Your gaze drifts to the gown Jimin is holding, then back to Hoseok. “You’re sending someone who just experienced cognitive collapse into a mission requiring social infiltration?”

Jimin finally lifts his eyes, voice clipped. “Welcome to the resistance. We don’t have backups. We have probabilities.”

“That is not an explanation,” you counter. “It’s a deflection. Explain the mission parameters and the rationale behind assigning me.”

“Okay, before you go all ‘I demand answers’ on us, let me remind you—you just had a huge temporal dissonance episode. We will not be giving you new, life-altering info like Jungkook did.” Jimin snaps back. “Accept that first or there will be no answers.”

You narrow your eyes at him.

Curiosity demands answers.

Jimin demands accepting uncertainty.

Not accepting will result in no answers at all.

Plausible compromise.

“I accept.”

Hoseok rubs the back of his neck. “There’s a gala. High-level CHRONOS operatives. Important enough to warrant surveillance. We need eyes inside. Preferably someone who won’t trip alarms just by walking in.”

Your mind catches on the phrasing. “Yoongi.”

Jimin snorts under his breath.

You glance at him. “This is about Agent Min.”

“Of course it’s about Agent Min,” Jimin mutters. “He’s the only one who can get in without being flagged. You know that.”

“Because he disrupts CHRONOS’s detection systems,” you recall. “He reflects causality. Appears unindexed. A statistical blindspot.”

Hoseok nods. “Exactly. But using his ability too long causes fluctuations. Even Yoongi’s signature starts to spike.”

You blink. “So you need a stabilizer.”

“You,” Jimin says flatly.

You frown. “I stabilize his temporal signature?”

“You synchronize with it,” Hoseok corrects. “Your presence keeps both of you from triggering scans.”

Like on the rooftop.

Jimin crosses his arms. “And with CHRONOS agents watching everything? Even a small spike gets flagged.”

You nod once, calculation already forming behind your eyes. “So I’m the stabilizer. Redundancy protocol.”

“More like failsafe,” Hoseok mutters. “You’re the only one who keeps him from unraveling.”

“And vice versa,” Jimin adds. “You two stabilize each other.”

You don’t remember practicing synchronization. You don’t remember learning how to do it. But your body does.

You remember Yoongi’s presence—how time slows when he’s near, but never quite slips. You remember the way the air holds still when he stands too close.

And how your temporal signatures synchronized to 0% on that rooftop.

“I see,” you say. But you don’t see, not really, because— “Why not assign Jungkook as the stabilizer? Have him mimic Min’s ability to stabilize himself.”

A beat of silence.

“Should I…?” Hoseok prompts, looking for Jimin’s eyes.

“It’s basic info. She already knows Jungkook’s mimicry and some scope of what Yoongi can do.” He replies. Looks at you again. “It doesn’t work like that, Yoongi’s stabilization doesn’t work on himself. He anchors other people, sure, but he can’t anchor himself.”

You frown. “But why? If his ability can neutralize temporal spikes, why doesn’t it neutralize his own?”

Jimin’s jaw tics. “Because it simply doesn’t, okay? We’ve seen it. Firsthand. When he spikes, he spirals. No one can pull him back unless you’re—”

He cuts himself off, lips tightening.

You wait. He doesn’t finish.

Hoseok clears his throat gently. “His ability reflects outward. It doesn’t fold inward. He’s a buffer for others, not for himself. And if the pressure’s high enough… he unravels.”

“And Jungkook can’t hold his ability long enough anyway,” Jimin adds, apparently returning to safe grounds. “Mimicking heavy abilities drains him fast. Which is why he wouldn’t be able to mimic yours for long either—and you’d have to be present anyway. So.”

Your brain ticks through the logic—matching memory to data to anomaly.

And then it clicks.

“The travel spot,” you murmur. “When I lost stability. Jungkook—he was mimicking Min’s ability when he stabilized me.”

Hoseok nods once.

Jimin scoffs. “Look at her, she can actually process info slowly and make her own answers through assumptions. Who would have thought?”

Hoseok ignores his partner’s commentary. “Jungkook was able to do it for a few seconds. Long enough to suppress the spike and get you through.”

“He seemed fine afterward.”

“He was,” Jimin says. “It was under a minute. Well within what he can handle. But he still can’t sustain it for long periods of time.”

“That’s… inefficient,” you murmur. “Reliant on replication. He’s not a constant.”

“Exactly,” Hoseok says, voice quiet. “But you are.”

You process the implications.

Yoongi: a walking temporal singularity with no internal stabilization.

You: the only Outlier whose temporal signature resonates with his to perfection.

Together, you cancel out the spikes.

Together, you are balanced.

A paradox in perfect sync.

It seems deliberate.

Jimin breaks the silence. “Look, I don’t care if you’re barely recovered. You’re his anchor. That’s why it’s you.”

You look down at the dress again. “And if something goes wrong?”

Hoseok shrugs. “Then you sync with him.”

Jimin huffs. “Better keep the ticking bombs contained.”

You nod once, the weight of the truth settling over your shoulders like armor.

“Understood,” you say. “I’ll be ready.”

Jimin eyes you, skeptical. “Physically, maybe. Emotionally? I’d bet against it.”

“Emotions are statistically irrelevant to mission success,” you reply.

Jimin just snorts. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”

You watch Jimin aggressively pull out another hanger.

Your mind immediately drifts back to resource allocation within this resistance base.

“May I ask how does this organization acquire such resources? This collection suggests significant financial investment or alternative acquisition methods.”

Jimin rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that’s safe info. Shouldn’t trigger any significant memory bleeds. The problem is usually with information you are not consciously aware of.”

Hoseok chuckles, pulling a velvet jacket off a rack. “Let’s just say my network of ‘friends’ in unregulated territories have eclectic taste. We trade in information and temporal contraband—unregulated timepieces, pre-war historical records, that sort of thing. They help us, we help them stay off CHRONOS’s radar.”

“And sometimes,” Jimin adds with a smirk, not looking up from a silk blouse, “CHRONOS just conveniently ‘loses’ a shipment of luxury goods. Taehyung has a knack for manipulating their inventory logs.”

“So formal wear is necessary for this gala.”

Hoseok chuckles. “It’s a social infiltration. High-security event, lots of important people, very specific dress code.”

“Define ‘very specific.’”

“Black tie,” Jimin says, returning his attention to the dress in his hands. He holds it up, studying the cut with professional interest. “Which means floor-length gowns, designer labels, and the kind of jewelry that costs more than most people’s annual salary.”

“I don’t own formal wear.”

“Obviously.” Jimin’s tone suggests this is the most ridiculous statement he’s ever heard. “That’s why you’re here instead of standing around looking helpless.”

“Jimin’s got an eye for this stuff,” Hoseok adds, moving to examine a section of what appears to be evening wear. “Fashion, style, making people look like they belong in places they definitely don’t belong.”

“Mhm,” Jimin hums, pulling another dress from its hanger. This one is milky white, with beading that catches the light. “The right outfit can make you invisible, or it can make you the center of attention. Depends on what the mission requires.”

“And what does this mission require?”

Jimin pauses, dress still in his hands, and looks at you directly for the first time since you entered the space.

“That depends on whether you can handle being someone you’re not for an entire evening.”

"I seem to follow that particular directive quite well," you observe, processing the implications. "Being someone I don't know I am appears to be my default operational state."

The words emerge as simple factual analysis, but Jimin's hands still on the fabric he's examining. He turns slowly, fixing you with a look that could strip circuits.

"I had just forgotten how analytically cunty you can be."

You blink, head tilting slightly as your processing centers attempt to parse the statement.

"Define ‘cunty’."

"Girl." Jimin's voice drops into a register that tells you his patience has officially expired. "I've seen you and Yoongi's version of foreplay. Very semantic, very 'I'm such a genius and I'm gonna demonstrate my intellectual superiority through vocabulary precision and get you horny whilst doing it,' so don't even try me."

Your optical processors stutter for exactly 0.4 seconds.

"I don't understand that reference."

"Of course you don't." Jimin returns to his clothing analysis with renewed vigor, pulling a cordovan dress from its hanger and holding it up to the light. "Because your brain conveniently resets every time you figure out that your analytical observations are sometimes intellectual dirty talk."

Hoseok makes a sound that might be a suppressed laugh. "Jimin."

"What? I'm stating facts." Jimin's tone carries that particular sharpness that means he's building momentum.”Yoongi’s already interrupted her twice when she starts with their whole intellectual play kink. She already knows she does this thing where she breaks down complex systems using precise technical language, and somehow makes equations sound like pillow talk. It's very specific. Very her."

"That sounds highly improbable," you say, though something in your neural pathways flickers—a ghost sensation, like muscle memory for conversations you've never had.

"Improbable." Jimin repeats the word with theatrical precision, mimicking your inflection. "See? There it is. Nobody says 'highly improbable' when they mean 'unlikely.' But you do, because your brain processes everything like it's conducting peer review on reality itself."

He moves to another section, pulling what appears to be an evening gown with a thigh cut.

"And apparently, certain people find that incredibly attractive. Which says concerning things about their psychological profiles, but here we are."

Your arms cross in front of your chest. "I don't recall engaging in any behavior that could be classified as—"

"Intellectual seduction?" Jimin supplies helpfully. "No, you wouldn't. Because every time you remember how to weaponize your brain for romantic purposes, CHRONOS hits the reset button."

Hoseok steps closer, clearing his throat. "Maybe we should focus on the mission parameters."

"Oh, we are." Jimin’s scoff is loud. “Because watching her figure out how to be someone else while simultaneously being exactly herself is going to be the entertainment highlight of this entire operation."

You process this information for 2.3 seconds before responding.

"Mission success probability increases when operatives maintain behavioral consistency within acceptable deviation parameters."

"There it is again." Jimin gestures at you with the dress still in his hands. "That sentence could have been 'I work better when I can still be myself,' but no. You chose the academic route. Every single time."

"Because precision in communication reduces misunderstanding and increases operational efficiency."

"And because you think being smart is sexy," Jimin adds, deadpan. "Which, according to my observations across multiple timelines, is apparently correct. At least for certain mint-haired individuals with concerning attachment issues."

Your mouth opens, then closes, processing algorithms struggling with the concept that analytical precision could be interpreted as flirtation.

Hoseok clears his throat. "Should we maybe start with sizing measurements?"

"Excellent suggestion," you say, grateful for the redirect to practical considerations. "Accurate dimensional data will ensure proper garment fit and reduce probability of mission compromise due to wardrobe malfunction."

Jimin stares at you for exactly three seconds, then turns to Hoseok.

"I rest my case."

“Could you provide specific examples of this alleged intellectual foreplay, though?” you ask, genuinely curious about the behavioral patterns being attributed to you. “I find the correlation between semantic precision and sexual arousal to be statistically unlikely.”

Jimin’s eyes close for exactly 2.7 seconds—a clear indicator of someone gathering patience.

“I’m not doing this right now.”

Hoseok, however, releases a delighted cackle that echoes off the boutique walls. “Oh, this is perfect. She doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.”

“Doing what, specifically?” You tilt your head, awaiting clarification.

“The way you two go at each other,” Hoseok grins, settling against a nearby rack like he’s preparing for storytime. “It’s not about complimenting each other’s intelligence. It’s the competition. The verbal sparring. Like in Timeline 289—you spent forty-seven minutes deconstructing his temporal cascade theory just to prove you could find a flaw in his logic.”

“That seems like standard peer review protocol,” you observe.

“Except it ended with him pinning you against a whiteboard while you tried to explain quantum entanglement with his tongue down your throat.”

You blink, processing this information. Your core temperature rises by 0.3 degrees.

“Or Reset 12,” Hoseok continues, clearly enjoying himself. “When you corrected his pronunciation of ‘dirigible’ during a mission briefing and somehow that turned into a three-hour debate about linguistic evolution that had the conference table creaking by the end.”

“Hoseok, please stop,” Jimin interjects, but his voice lacks real conviction.

“She asked for examples,” Hoseok defends, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Remember Timeline 467? The great coffee temperature optimization argument? They literally got into a screaming match about thermodynamics that ended with—”

“I get it,” you interrupt, though your analytical centers are spinning. “You’re suggesting that intellectual competition serves as our primary arousal mechanism.”

“Not just competition,” Hoseok clarifies. “It’s specifically when you try to out-genius each other. When you go all ‘actually, your calculation failed to account for these seventeen variables’ and he responds with some devastating counterpoint that makes you recalculate everything you thought you knew.”

You consider this data carefully.

“That does align with certain observations. When Agent Min dismissed my temporal analysis with a condescending partial smile in the alley, I did experience a statistically significant increase in heart rate.”

“There it is,” Jimin mutters, pulling dresses with increasing aggression.

“It’s particularly pronounced when he does that slight smirk—0.3 millimeter lift of the right corner of his mouth—while explaining why my analysis is incomplete.” You pause, accessing the memory. “I find myself wanting to… dispute his conclusions. Though I attributed it to simple frustration at the time.”

“It’s never simple with you two,” Hoseok laughs. “It’s this elaborate dance where you’re both trying to prove you’re the smartest person in the room, and somehow that translates directly to—”

“Choose a dress,” Jimin interrupts loudly, shoving the navy blue gown in your direction. “This one. Backless. Navy. Will complement your features.”

You take the dress, examining the fabric. “This one is structurally sound. The open back allows for optimal movement and ventilation.”

Hoseok wiggles his eyebrows. “And easy access.”

“Hobi.” Jimin warns.

“I doubt ‘easy access’ is needed. Agent Min has made it very clear that he refuses skin contact with me.”

Jimin straightens. “For the love of everything that’s holy—do not make skin contact.”

You nod, thoughtful. “Noted. Though with this cut, the probability of skin contact is high.”

“It’s not, because he will be wearing gloves like he always is.” Jimin interjects. “So just behave and don’t think about his big sexy brain.”

“I do find his brain appealing.”

Hoseok is practically vibrating with glee. “Oh, and that’s not even talking about the tongue thing.”

You freeze mid-examination of the dress. “What tongue thing?”

“HOSEOK.” Jimin makes a strangled sound.

“You haven’t noticed yet?” Hoseok looks genuinely shocked. “But you mention it every timeline! It’s like your sexual Achilles heel.”

“Define ‘tongue thing.’”

Jimin lunges for Hoseok. “Don’t you dare—”

“When he’s thinking really hard,” Hoseok dodges easily, still grinning, “he does this thing where he’ll bite it to the side. Or lick the corner of his lip. Sometimes he’ll just let it rest against his teeth while he’s processing something complex.”

Your memory banks immediately scroll through recent interactions, isolating relevant footage.

The briefing room. The coffee shop. That moment when he’d been calculating trajectories, pink tongue darting out to wet his lower lip while his eyes went distant with thought.

Oh.

“Fascinating,” you breathe, skin temperature rising 0.3 degrees. “I hadn’t consciously catalogued that behavior pattern, but reviewing my memory files… I need to pay closer attention to that.”

“No, you don’t.” Jimin groans. “What you need to do is try on the dress. Think about fabric. Think about thread count. Think about anything except—”

“The way his jaw tightens when I successfully identify flaws in his logic?” you supply helpfully. “Or how his pupils dilate by approximately 32% when I use technical terminology to dismantle his arguments? Or the specific angle his tongue—”

“This isn’t funny,” Jimin snaps at Hoseok, who is now doubled over with laughter. “You know what happens when she gets like this. He’s going to feel it, and then—”

A sharp beep cuts through the air. Jimin’s Chrono-Sync Watch lights up with an incoming message. He glances down, face draining of color.

“Fuck.”

“What?” Hoseok leans over to look.

Jimin holds up his wrist, displaying the text in glowing blue letters:

𝐌𝐢𝐧: 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗.

“Feel what?” you ask, but Jimin is already shaking his head.

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Just—” He gestures wildly at the dress. “Try this on. Make sure it fits. Don’t think about intellectual superiority or competitive dynamics or anyone’s tongue doing anything whatsoever.”

“That seems like an unreasonable request given the neural pathways that have now been activated,” you observe. “I’ll likely spend the next 3-7 hours involuntarily cataloging Agent Min’s linguistic microexpressions.”

“Which is exactly what I was trying to avoid,” Jimin mutters, then louder: “Dressing room. Now. Before this gets worse.”

“How could it get worse?” you ask with genuine curiosity.

Jimin and Hoseok exchange a look—Jimin’s expression screaming ‘don’t you dare’ while Hoseok’s radiates pure mischievous delight.

“Well,” Hoseok starts, and Jimin immediately throws a shoe at him.

Another buzz. Another message.

𝐌𝐢𝐧: 𝙴𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝟹𝟺𝟸%. 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙.

“Fuck,” Jimin breathes. “He’s tracking percentages now.”

“He can quantify emotional resonance?”

“Of course that’s what you focus on,” Jimin mutters. “Yes, he can tell exactly how aroused you are, probably down to the fucking decimal point. Which means he knows you’re up here having revelations about wanting to fuck his brain out.”

“The phrase ‘fuck his brain out’ seems anatomically impossible—”

“Stop saying the word ‘fuck’, stop thinking about tongues, brains and how hot it makes you when Yoongi is being intelectually challenging to you.”

“That’s paradoxical. Telling someone not to think about something guarantees—”

“I know how cognitive psychology works,” Jimin interrupts. “Just. Try. Please. Before he decides to come investigate why you’re suddenly thinking about his doctorate in temporal physics.”

“He has a doctorate?” Your interest sharpens immediately. “What was his dissertation on?”

A third buzz.

𝐌𝐢𝐧: 𝟹𝟺𝟽%. 𝙸’𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗.

“I’M NOT TELLING YOU,” Jimin practically screams. “THAT’S EXACTLY THE KIND OF THING THAT LEADS TO PROPERTY DAMAGE.”

Hoseok is now laughing so hard he’s crying, collapsed against the table. “She doesn’t even remember why she’s attracted to him but she’s already ready to throw down about academic credentials. This is AMAZING.”

You take the navy dress, mind already calculating the statistical probability of Agent Min doing that specific tongue movement they mentioned during the upcoming mission.

The calculation suggests 87.3%.

Your core temperature rises another 0.4 degrees.

Behind you, Hoseok’s laughter echoes through the boutique while Jimin mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “he’s going to fucking kill me.”

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kakeashi · 22 days ago

Text

of all dreams: you ─ songs of love & devotion. ⠀⠀⠀⠀pre-boyfriend!itachi, in the corner of your love.

PRE-BOYFRIEND!ITACHI who peels the fruit for you. it all started when the orange juice got on your hands and chaos ensued on your tray: after laughing once, twice, itachi took your orange and, with all care and precision, made sure that all the orange segments were properly separated and peeled for you. since then, itachi couldn’t control his hands. he couldn’t unravel the delicacy of his act, but whenever itachi made that small effort, whenever he stopped what he was doing to help you with something so banal — whenever itachi wanted to show you how much he thought about you, he helped you with the fruit. you didn’t notice this little habit of itachi’s, and maybe that’s why he kept doing it — for you to see itachi, for you to see how dedicated he is when it’s something about you. peeling a fruit, something that is so insignificant, but for itachi it means a new promise of eternal love. ‘don’t be an idiot, i don’t mind. let me peel the apple — i need to peel mine too, so… no need to thank me, come on! give me the apple and stop talking about it.’

PRE-BOYFRIEND!ITACHI who memorizes every time you called him by name. your voice was gentle and calm when you chanted itachi’s name. as if whispering the secrets of the world, itachi’s name escaped your lips with flowers trapped in its syllables, decorating its letters with delicate petals of the most varied flowers. you seemed magical when you said itachi’s name — it seemed like your name was an incantation to summon him because, every time you chanted it, he appeared. like a winter ghost or a child’s promise, you said itachi’s name very briefly, starting as quickly as it started — but that second, those fragments of temporal dust stolen by you, were enough to plant a garden of comfort in his core. itachi, when you saw him on the street. itachi, when they asked you who you were going out with. itachi, when you asked for an umbrella. itachi, yesterday. itachi, today. itachi, always. that's all. itachi.

PRE-BOYFRIEND!ITACHI who helps you grow a garden in your home. whether you’re lucky with plants or not, the reality is that there was always something wrong in your garden. flowers were mixed together in such a random way that only discomfort covered the entire surface of your flowerbeds. excessively intense smells rose in clusters early in the morning, polluting the air with that sweet aroma. plants died. flowers wilted. weeds appeared. all of your flowerbeds were simply chaotic. but, whether by luck or pity, the universe sent itachi to help you with all of your gardening problems. between small smiles of pride and mocking laughter, itachi’s delicate hands mixed in the earth at your side, looking for basic solutions to general problems. between small shy glances and awkward touches, itachi paid attention to your smiles that originated with his work. hoping to see you happy, itachi would help you with everything he could with the unspoken promise that, if he didn’t know, he would learn for you. ‘yesterday i was reading in a magazine that if you put a jug of water... what are you doing and why do you have dirt on your face? what do i have to revive today?’

PRE-BOYFRIEND!ITACHI who likes to celebrate festivities with you. be it religious celebrations or village traditions, itachi liked to spend them with you. since he was little, he was taught that important days were to be spent with important people. and you were the most important person to itachi, so it was only natural that he would want to spend days and nights by your side. sliding through stalls and tasting different foods; marveling at dances and reciting prayers; smiling at children and dreaming at the stars — everything you liked to do was shared with itachi. his eyes only stayed on your happiness, always trying to find the next thing that would make you smile, that would make you happy. it could be something small, like buying a small porcelain figurine for you. it could be big, like wishing on the same lantern as you. it could be nothing, like holding your hand in the crowd so as not to lose you. but it was something with itachi and, soon, that was everything. ‘on the way to konoha there’s a small village that’s going to be 100 years old and they’re going to celebrate over the weekend. i thought, if you’re not too tired, of course!, we could stay there for a few days? to relax from the mission and just… be together.’

PRE-BOYFRIEND!ITACHI who believes in your light. how could itachi, your safe haven, not believe in your courage? how could itachi, your best friend, not believe in your strength? how could itachi not believe in you? through all the darkness that spread in your life, consuming your heart and ruining hopes, there was always a persistent light inside you: a small spark and that was all it took. with a small spark, even before creating bonfires or fires, you could do anything: get up, eat, smile, exist. but when you fed that fire, when the calls inside you covered all the black in shades of bold red and courageous orange — when you didn’t doubt yourself, you could live. and itachi admired you for that. itachi saw you as someone divine, capable of making worlds collide if you had the strength, if you had dreams. and, even when you got tired of that burning heat, even when there was no more wood to burn, itachi was there. for a few moments, itachi held your spark and assured you that it would never go out. rest as much as you need. itachi is by your side, protecting your essence. ‘take as long as you need. i won’t leave. i won’t burn myself. my love is fireproof, capable of holding you for a lifetime if necessary.’

PRE-BOYFRIEND!ITACHI who always supported you, always. it didn’t matter when he came into your life, what mattered was that he came. itachi had a gift for listening, letting himself get lost in incredible worlds whenever you talked to him. of course, with pain and anguish itachi was quick to help you, using his fingers to comfort you and his words to soothe you. but, more than anything, and first of all, itachi listened to you. in your dreams, itachi encouraged you — with wide smiles and bright eyes; in your stories, itachi admired you — with pride in his chest and vanity in his soul; in your hopes, itachi fed you — with friendly words and endless promises. anywhere, with whatever it was, you always had itachi by your side, holding your hand, gently pushing you, supporting all the potential he knew you had. of course it is scary, and it often goes wrong, but it is in the learning of our life that we can reach all the steps on the ladder of existence. and you don’t need to worry. itachi was there. holding your hand so you wouldn’t fall, itachi would always be there. 'life can be spent rushing, but you have to remember that there is time. you don’t need to have everything figured out by the time you’re 20, nor have a family by the time you’re 30. you have time to live. life is not a race, nor a competition. don’t look at your neighbor’s garden longing for their oranges when you still have the seeds to plant. everything has its time. you have a place in this life. just take it easy, take a deep breath.’

PRE-BOYFRIEND!ITACHI who was a little nervous, but he just wanted to be understood. what if you didn’t notice? seeing you interacting with your friends and family made itachi nervous — was he imagining things in your little interactions? i mean, yes, it was normal for you to love the people who are important to you, but was there really desire when you looked at itachi? was there hope in all the smiles you gave him? did you understand what itachi felt? in the little touches and blushed cheeks — did you know that itachi only gets flustered with you? in the wide smiles and heartfelt laughs — did you know that itachi only felt genuinely happy with you? in the whispered words and delicate promises — did you know that itachi only imagined a life by your side? when he saw you with everyone else, itachi felt that you didn’t know and that your entire relationship was just a figment of his imagination. so itachi took a deep breath, gathered his courage, and went to talk to you — he wanted to be completely transparent with you. ‘i just wanted to tell you that i like you. i don’t know if you’ve noticed or if you’ve just ignored my feelings, but i had to tell you. i needed to get this weight off my chest and really tell you how i feel. so, yes… i like you.’

#kea's archive ᝰ.ᐟ #kea's file: !series ᝰ.ᐟ #itachi #itachi fluff #itachi headcanons #itachi x reader #itachi uchiha #uchiha itachi #itachi x you #itachi imagines #itachi drabble #uchiha clan #itachi naruto

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buldakcorn · 3 months ago

Text

[IMYJ-1111] Heroine in Grave Danger! The Fall of Sailor Pluto

LOONA/LOOSSEMBLE Yeojin x Monsters

Genre : (TW) Dubcon, JAV-inspired, Superheroine, Electrocution, Mindbreak, Sweaty Sex, Gangbang, Monster Cock, Overstimulation, Triple Penetration,

9141 words

As dawn broke over the bustling metropolis, the usual hum of activity began to resonate through the concrete jungle. The neon lights that had once cast a vibrant glow over the city streets gradually dimmed, making way for the early morning sun. In a modest apartment nestled between towering skyscrapers, Im Yeojin stirred from her sleep. Her night had been anything but ordinary—as Sailor Pluto, she had single-handedly thwarted a heinous plan to steal the city's time itself.

The criminals, a mysterious group known only as the Time Snatchers, had sought to plunge the world into an eternal nightmare of stagnation and chaos. With her trusty Garnet Rod and her unyielding sense of duty, she had sent them reeling into the depths of oblivion, restoring the flow of time and granting the city's inhabitants another chance at a brighter future.

But as Yeojin stretched and rubbed the sleep from her eyes, she was keenly aware that she had to juggle two very different lives. In just a few hours, she would transform from the guardian of the underworld to a mild-mannered office worker. She had to keep her secret identity under wraps, ensuring that her colleagues never suspected that their punctual and diligent coworker was the very heroine who had saved them from the clutches of temporal despair.

The delicate balance between her two worlds was a constant challenge, one she faced with the same determination she brought to her battles as Sailor Pluto. With a deep breath, she donned her business attire and set off to conquer the day ahead, her secret identity nestled safely beneath her square glasses and the surface of her mundane existence. Little did the city know that their salvation was just a coffee break away.

The office buzzed to life as the clock struck 9, and Yeojin, still half in her Sailor Pluto mindset, found herself lost in the sea of paperwork on her desk.

Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted when her coworker, flicked on the small TV mounted in the corner of their shared office space. The news blared to life, displaying scenes of panic and chaos at the city square.

Her heart skipped a beat as the newscaster reported a brazen attack by a monstrous creature and its goon squad, leaving a wake of destruction in their path. The mood in the room grew tense as the images of terrified citizens flashed across the screen. Yeojin's eyes widened with recognition—this was no ordinary street brawl.

She knew all too well the eerie aura that clung to the monsters she battled as Sailor Pluto. The Time Snatchers had returned, and it was clear they had not abandoned their nefarious goals. With a silent vow to protect her city once again, Yeojin felt the transformation stirring within her.

Yeojin's pulse quickened as she excused herself from her colleagues, her mind racing with the gravity of the situation. She swiftly made her way to the rooftop of the office building, the solace of the early morning air offering a brief reprieve from the tension building within her. Gripping her Garnet Rod tightly, she recited the sacred incantation that would empower her transformation. A burst of light enveloped her, and as it faded, she stood tall in her Sailor Pluto uniform—a stark contrast to the dull office attire she had worn just moments before.

The blue crop top and skirt fluttered in the gentle breeze, her knee-high socks adorned with the symbol of Pluto's power, and her brunette hair now adorned with a fiery red bow. She took a deep breath, feeling the weight of her duty press upon her once more. With a graceful leap, she cast aside her glasses, and as they tumbled to the rooftop, so too did the last vestiges of her civilian identity. Her eyes, now a piercing shade of blue, surveyed the chaotic scene unfolding below.

Time had once again been disrupted, and she was the only one who could set it right. With a powerful beat of her heart, she launched herself into the sky, her transformation complete. Sailor Pluto was on her way to face the Time Snatchers.

Sailor Pluto descended upon the city square with the force of a meteor, her arrival shaking the very foundation of the concrete playground the Time Snatchers had claimed as their battleground. As she hit the pavement, her fist connected with a tremendous thud, sending a shockwave that toppled the nearby goons like bowling pins. The monstrous creature and its minions, caught off guard by her sudden appearance, paused in their destruction to gaze upon the new threat.

Yeojin felt the power of Pluto surge through her veins, her eyes narrowing with the unyielding determination to protect her city. Rising to her full height, she called upon the ancient guardian within, her voice echoing through the square as she announced her intentions,

"I am Sailor Pluto, protector of the underworld and the keeper of time! I shall not let you desecrate the flow of time any further!" The creature snarled, its eyes flashing with malice, as the battle for the city's future was about to commence anew.

The monstrous leader of the Time Snatchers, a creature that stood a towering ten feet tall with a grotesque grin, sneered at Sailor Pluto's declaration. "A mere mortal dares to stand before us?" it bellowed, its deep, echoing voice laced with amusement. It gestured to its minions, who cackled in agreement, pointing at her diminutive form.

Yeojin, despite her smaller stature, remained unfazed. She knew all too well that true power did not stem from size but from the unyielding spirit that resided within her. With a grace that belied her compact frame, she raised her Garnet Rod high, its gem pulsing with an eerie light that seemed to resonate with the very fabric of time itself. Her eyes gleamed with a fierce resolve that sent a shiver down the creature's spine, hinting at the formidable force she was about to unleash.

The monster's overconfidence was about to be its undoing, as Sailor Pluto, the guardian of the temporal realm, was more than prepared to teach it a lesson it would never forget.

"My goons, attack!"

The goons, emboldened by their leader's command, charged at Sailor Pluto like a horde of maddened bulls. She deftly dodged their clumsy advances, her movements swift and precise. Each evasion was a dance with fate, every step calculated to bring her closer to the monstrous leader. The creature watched with growing irritation as its minions were sent flying with a graceful twirl of her Garnet Rod. The air around her grew thick with anticipation as she gathered her power, the very essence of time bending to her will.

In a flash of bluish-white light, she unleashed a powerful blast, "Chronos Typhoon!" The goons were sent spiraling into the sky, their shrieks piercing the air as they were dispersed like leaves in a tornado. The creature, caught off guard by her sudden display of strength, took a step back. Its smug grin had vanished, replaced by a snarl of fury. It knew then that it had underestimated her. The battle was far from over, but the Time Snatchers had just caught a glimpse of the true power of Sailor Pluto—a power that would not be so easily dismissed.

The creature grew in size, its eyes burning with a dark, malevolent energy. The ground trembled as it raised its arms, ready to unleash an attack of its own. Sailor Pluto's grip on her Garnet Rod tightened, her stance unyielding. She was ready to face whatever horrors this being had in store, her eyes never leaving the monstrous visage that now loomed over her. The fate of the city hung in the balance, and she was the only one standing between the Time Snatchers and their ultimate goal.

The creature's attack came swiftly, a black tendril of shadowy energy that threatened to swallow her whole. But Sailor Pluto was not one to back down. With a swift pivot, she sliced through the tendril with her Garnet Rod, the energy dissipating into a shower of sparks. The creature roared in anger, its true form momentarily revealed—a twisted amalgamation of time and darkness.

Yeojin felt a surge of adrenaline as she recognized the true enemy she faced—Chronos, the god of time itself, an enemy she once fought, corrupted by an unknown force. This was no ordinary fight; she was battling the very fabric of time that she was sworn to protect. The gravity of the situation weighed heavily on her shoulders, but she pushed aside her fear. This was her duty, and she would not fail.

With renewed vigor, Sailor Pluto leaped into the fray, her crimson bow fluttering like a banner of defiance. Her eyes never left Chronos's, a silent promise that she would not rest until time itself was restored to order. The battle raged on, a spectacle of light and shadow playing out in the heart of the city as the fate of everyone she knew and loved hung precariously in the balance.

Chronos, the corrupted god of time, took a malicious delight in the moment, its dark eyes glinting with victory as it shot forth a beam of condensed temporal energy. Sailor Pluto, ever the agile warrior, attempted to dodge the attack with a graceful leap.

But the beam, as if it had a mind of its own, curved and struck her squarely in the crotch. The Chronos's sadistic laughter filled the square as Sailor Pluto crumpled to the ground, the searing pain in her crotch causing stars to dance before her eyes.

A defeated goon, witnessing her momentary vulnerability, took the opportunity to scuttle away, his mission a failure but his survival instincts sharp as ever.

Her breaths came in ragged gasps, and for a moment, Yeojin felt the weight of her dual lives threaten to crush her. But she knew she could not let this be the end. Drawing upon the deep reservoir of strength that had carried her through countless battles, she pushed herself back to her feet, gritting her teeth against the pain. Her uniform clung to her body, slightly singed from the attack, but she was not broken—not yet.

Summoning the last of her strength, Sailor Pluto stood tall, her eyes blazing with the indomitable spirit of Pluto. With a battle cry that seemed to shake the very air, she raised her Garnet Rod and pointed it at the monstrous Chronos, the gem at its tip pulsing with a fiery light. The creature, surprised by her resilience, took a step back, its grin faltering. Yeojin knew this was her moment—her chance to reclaim the city's future. She whispered the words of her ultimate technique, "Dead Scream!"

The power of the attack was palpable, a sonic boom that sent shockwaves through the city. The beam of light shot forth from her Garnet Rod, a scream that seemed to rip through the fabric of time itself. Chronos bellowed in agony as the light engulfed it, the corruption writhing within it struggling to resist the purifying force of Pluto's power. The creature's body began to break apart, its form disintegrating into a maelstrom of shadow and time. With a final, desperate roar, Chronos was vanquished, the stolen moments of the city's time released in a burst of dazzling light that showered down like confetti upon the relieved citizens below.

As the dust settled and the square returned to a semblance of order, Sailor Pluto's form began to flicker. The strain of the battle had taken its toll, and she knew she had to retreat to the shadows once more. With a final glance at the scene of victory, she transformed back into Yeojin, her office attire reappearing as if by magic. She gathered her things and slipped away, her heart pounding with a mix of exhaustion and triumph. Her secret remained safe, her mission accomplished—for now.

///

In the bowels of the Time Snatchers' hidden lair, the shadowy figure known only as the Grand Maestro of Temporal Chaos seethed with rage. His screens flickered with the images of his monstrous creations being decimated by the pint-sized yet mighty Sailor Pluto.

"How could this be?" he roared, slamming his fist onto the control panel before him. His perfectly manicured nails left dents in the cold metal as he watched his meticulously laid plans crumble to dust. He had underestimated the girl with the crimson bow, and now his dream of controlling the flow of time lay in tatters. He vowed, his voice a sinister whisper, that he would not rest until he had uncovered the source of her power and claimed it for his own. The game was far from over, and Sailor Pluto had just earned herself an even more dangerous enemy.

The goon that had escaped the battlefield, nursing its bruised ego and a newfound respect for the pint-sized heroine, managed to limp its way back to the Time Snatchers' lair. It stumbled into the Grand Maestro's chamber, its breath ragged and eyes gleaming with excitement.

"Maestro," it rasped, "I have observed a weakness in our adversary, Sailor Pluto. She is not invincible!"

The Grand Maestro's eyes lit up with interest, his rage momentarily abating.

"Tell me," he hissed, his tone a mix of anticipation and malice.

The goon, eager to regain its master's favor, revealed what it had witnessed during the battle.

"Her crotch, my lord. It seems to be a... a... sensitive spot. When struck, she is momentarily incapacitated!"

The Grand Maestro's smile grew cold and calculating.

"Ah, so the keeper of time has a temporal Achilles' heel," he mused, stroking his chin.

"Very well, this knowledge shall not go to waste. Prepare my newest creation, one that will exploit this weakness and bring Sailor Pluto to her knees!"

With a renewed sense of purpose, the goon scurried away, eager to be part of the plot that would spell the heroine's downfall. The Grand Maestro's mind raced, already crafting the perfect monster to dethrone the guardian of time.

///

As Yeojin returned to her office, blending into the sea of cubicles, she remained blissfully unaware of the new peril lurking in the shadows, waiting to strike when she least expected it.

///

In the coming days, Sailor Pluto threw herself into the fray with unyielding determination. Each new monstrosity spawned by the Grand Maestro of Temporal Chaos was met with swift and decisive retribution. Yeojin's nights grew longer as she tirelessly patrolled the city, her Garnet Rod a constant reminder of the power she wielded and the responsibility it entailed. Despite the relentless onslaught, she emerged victorious time and time again, her spirit never faltering. Each battle was a testament to her unwavering dedication to her duty, a dance of light and shadow that she performed with the grace of a warrior and the heart of a guardian.

As Yeojin settled into her office chair, sipping on the lukewarm coffee that had become the lifeblood of her mundane workday, she couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss. The air in the city felt charged with an energy she hadn't sensed before—a sinister presence that seemed to coil around the very fabric of time itself. Her intuition, sharpened by countless battles, told her that the Time Snatchers had cooked up a new, more terrifying plot. That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, she felt the now-familiar transformation stir within her. Sailor Pluto's iconic outfit materialized around her, and she set off to face whatever horrors awaited.

The city streets grew darker as she approached the designated battleground, the Grand Maestro's latest monstrosity already causing havoc. This creature was unlike any she had faced before—its body a writhing mass of wet, eel-like tentacles that crackled with electricity, leaving trails of sizzling asphalt in its wake. The creature's eyes gleamed with a sickening intelligence as it surveyed the chaos, searching for the one who would dare to challenge it. Sailor Pluto's heart raced as she stepped forward, her Garnet Rod at the ready.

The creature's sly grin grew wider as it issued a guttural command to its minions, the goons eagerly rushing towards Sailor Pluto.

But instead of the usual barrage of fists and kicks, they aimed for her limbs, their cold, clammy hands reaching out to seize her. Yeojin's eyes widened in surprise, realizing that the Time Snatchers had indeed learned from her past battles. She danced away from their grasp, her movements swift and precise, her heart racing with the realization that she was in for a far more tactical battle this time.

Her back now to the monster, Sailor Pluto's instincts were on high alert. The creature's tentacles shot out like lightning, aiming for her limbs with a precision that spoke of the their newfound strategy. She spun and twirled, the crimson bow fluttering around her, as she narrowly avoided each electric embrace.

The monster's tentacles grew longer and more agile with each failed attempt, stretching out like the twisted arms of a giant octopus. Yeojin's eyes darted back and forth, searching for an opening, a weakness she could exploit.

The creature's grin grew wider, enjoying the cat-and-mouse game it had orchestrated. But she was Sailor Pluto, the guardian of the underworld, and she had faced down the jaws of defeat before. With a swift pivot, she ducked under a tentacle and rolled away, creating enough distance to regain her composure.

Before Sailor Pluto could fully recover her bearings, she found herself ensnared by the goons' tight grasp, their grip like iron around her arms and legs. Sailor Pluto knows she can escape their hold with her super strangth.

With a wicked chuckle, the creature took its shot, a tentacle lashing out with the speed of lightning to wrap around her most sensitive area. The tip of tentacle rubbing on her crotch.

Electricity surged through her, a white-hot agony that seemed to freeze time itself as she arched her back in pain. The goons' laughter grew louder, echoing through the square as they tightened their hold, eager to watch their foe suffer.

The electric tentacle's grip loosened, and with a gasp, Sailor Pluto collapsed face down onto the scorched pavement, her body trembling with the aftershocks of pain. The goons, cackling in triumph, released their ironclad hold, watching as she fought to push herself back up. Her limbs quivered, her usually steadfast resolve momentarily shaken.

The goons closed in, their twisted grins widening as they sensed her weakness. Sailor Pluto mustered every ounce of her will and swung a punch at the nearest goon, only to have her blow land with the strength of a feather's touch.

Her shock was palpable—the crotch attack had sapped her of her usual formidable might. She gritted her teeth, her eyes flashing with determination as she realized she would have to outsmart them if she was to survive.

As she tries to kick the approaching goon, her leg is caught in the vice-like grip of another, leaving her open to the creature's vile intentions. The monster's tentacle, still crackling with electricity, rears back for another strike at her crotch. Yeojin's eyes widen with horror as she feels the electricity surge through her once more, a pain so intense that it seems to pierce her very soul. The world around her begins to dim, the laughter of the goons and the chaos of the battle fading into a distant cacophony. Her body convulses, and she can feel the last of her strength draining away. The monster's grin widens in anticipation of her defeat, as the electricity courses through her veins, stealing her consciousness.

And just as the world goes dark, she feels herself being hoisted into the air by the tentacles, her body limp and powerless. The goons retreat, their victory assured. The Grand Maestro's laughter echoes through the square as Yeojin's unconscious form is carried away into the night, leaving behind only the fading whispers of a battle that had tested the very limits of her power.

///

Yeojin's eyes snapped open, the remnants of electric pain still crackling through her body as she took in her new surroundings. The air was thick with the scent of ozone, and she found herself hanging by her wrists, body standing above a cold, metallic floor. The goons from the battle swarmed around her, their twisted forms cackling and jeering. The Grand Maestro of Temporal Chaos loomed over her, a smug smile playing on his lips as he observed his captive prize. The room was dimly lit, with screens and control panels flickering with images of the city's distorted timeline—a twisted reflection of the chaos he had sown.

"I see you are awake now, little menace."

"Stop this right now you ugly creature! Release me before I end the lives of everyone in this room."

The Grand Maestro of Temporal Chaos chuckled at Sailor Pluto's defiant words, his eyes gleaming with a sadistic glee.

"Ah, so the mighty guardian of time is not as invincible as she believes. I have studied your battles, and I know where to strike to bring you to your knees."

He gestured to his goons, who approached Yeojin with gleeful anticipation, their twisted grins revealing their excitement at the prospect of causing her pain. One of them produced a device, a twisted mix of technology and dark magic that hummed with an unsettling energy.

"You will learn to fear me, Sailor Pluto," he sneered, "and when you do, when you are broken and begging for mercy, I will take your power and reshape the fabric of time to suit my whims!"

The device was brought closer, the air around it crackling with a dangerous electricity.

The goon lifted Sailor Pluto's skirt with a sneer, exposing her most sensitive area to the Grand Maestro's twisted invention. The device buzzed with malicious intent, its vibrations sending a wave of nauseating fear through Yeojin's body.

The device's vibrating shaft reached the edge of her panties, and Sailor Pluto could feel the electricity building up, ready to be unleashed upon her once more.

"AHHHHHHH"

Her scream pierced the air as the Grand Maestro's invention made contact with her most sensitive area, the pain beyond anything she had ever endured. Her body went rigid as the current surged through her, the very essence of her power being drawn out in a torrent of agony. The goons jeered, their eyes alight with sadistic pleasure at her suffering, and the Grand Maestro leaned in close, whispering sweet nothings about the fate of the city she had sworn to protect.

"All you have to do is to give me your source of power and you will be as free as a bird," the Grand Maestro tells her with his hand grabbing her chin.

Through gritted teeth, Sailor Pluto refused, "Never! I will never surrender the power that protects this city!"

"Very well"

The vibration intensity on the device increased rapidly, and Yeojin could do nothing but look up to the ceiling and let out a soul-wrenching scream.

Her eyes squeezed shut, she could feel the power of Sailor Pluto being ripped from her core with every pulse of electricity, leaving her weaker by the second. The Grand Maestro's laughter grew louder, feeding on her agony.

As the device's intensity grew, Yeojin could feel her body begin to convulse, the pain from the relentless crotch attacks growing unbearable. With a final, desperate cry, she felt her transformation slip away, leaving her in nothing but her underwear.

Her uniform lay in tatters around her, revealing her bra-covered, erect nipples and the damp, glistening fabric of her panties that clung to her exposed pussy lips. Her body was a canvas of sweat, a testament to her struggle and the sheer force of the Grand Maestro's power.

Her body trembled, and her breaths grew shallow, but she would not give in to his demands. The very essence of Sailor Pluto's power was being siphoned away, but her spirit remained unbroken, a beacon of hope in the face of overwhelming darkness.

The Grand Maestro's eyes gleamed with a newfound idea as he took in the sight of the weakened Yeojin. His smile grew broader, a twisted reflection of his sadistic intentions.

He knew that brute force had failed to break her, so he would have to employ a different tactic—one that would play upon her most primal fears and desires. The Grand Maestro had deduced that if pain alone could not make her submit, perhaps a more... intimate approach would be more effective.

The Grand Maestro stepped back, his eyes raking over Yeojin's exposed body with a hunger that was palpable. He leaned in close to her ear, his breath hot against her neck, and whispered,

"You are quite the captivating creature, aren't you, Sailor Pluto?" His tone had changed, the malice replaced with a syrupy sweetness that made her skin crawl.

"I can offer you a deal. If you pledge yourself to me, as my personal plaything, giving me all of your powers, I will not only spare your life but grant you unparalleled pleasure beyond your wildest dreams. You will be adored and pampered, your every need met, as long as you cooperate." His hand trailed down her spine, pausing at the small of her back before sliding around to cup her covered crotch.

The goons' laughter grew more frenzied, their eyes alight with the depraved joy of witnessing their leader's twisted seduction. Yeojin's heart raced, fear and anger warring within her as she felt his grip tighten around her. She knew she had to keep her wits about her if she was to survive this new form of attack.

Her voice trembled slightly, but she found the strength to spit out a vehement refusal.

"I will never betray my duty to protect this city. Release me now, or face my wrath!" The Grand Maestro chuckled, his grip loosening just enough to let her know that she was still in his power.

"We shall see," he said, his voice a dark promise that sent a shiver down her spine. "We shall see just how long you can resist the allure of the darkness before you embrace it willingly."

The Grand Maestro's goons, eager to please their leader, rushed forward to do his bidding. Two sets of rough hands reached up to cup Yeojin's bra-covered breasts, playing with her erect nipples through the fabric, eliciting gasps of pain and disgust from her.

Meanwhile, more hands grabbed and smacked her exposed asscheeks, the sound of flesh meeting flesh echoing through the chamber like a perverse symphony.

Another hand, cold and slimy, traced the outline of her pussy, the fabric of her underwear providing little barrier to the unwanted touch. Yeojin's eyes burned with a mix of anger and fear, her mind racing for a way to escape this degrading torment.

The Grand Maestro stepped back, watching the scene unfold with a twisted smile. He knew that the physical pain was just the beginning—his true weapon was the psychological warfare he was about to unleash upon her.

"Look at her," he taunted, "the great Sailor Pluto, reduced to a mere plaything for the amusement of the Time Snatchers."

Yeojin gritted her teeth, her body on fire with humiliation. She knew she had to find a way out of this nightmare before it was too late. As the goons continued their lewd assault, she searched for an opening, any weakness she could exploit. But with every touch, every smack, she felt herself slipping further into despair.

"Please, stop this!" she begged, her body squirming against the relentless assault of the goons.

The Grand Maestro's grin grew wider, his eyes gleaming with victory as a goon's hand slipped into her underwear, the cold, wet digits brushing against her sensitive flesh. Despite her pleas, she couldn't help the involuntary moan that escaped her lips as the creature's touch grew bolder.

"Look at her," he gloated, "she's already beginning to crave it. Soon, she'll be begging for more."

"Get....out.....Mmfffgh.....No.....Don't!"

The goon's fingers delved deeper into Yeojin's pussy, eliciting a whimper of mixed pain and embarrassment from her lips. The Grand Maestro's eyes gleamed with triumph as he watched her body react to the unwanted intrusion, her wetness growing despite her protests.

Her panties clung to her now, the fabric darkening as she grew wetter with each invasive stroke. The goons' laughter grew more raucous, their excitement palpable as they reveled in her degradation.

With a Herculean effort fueled by her unyielding will, Yeojin managed to break free from the entanglement around her wrists and the goons' clutches. She pushed them away with a strength born of desperation, sending them sprawling across the metallic floor.

Gasping for breath and clutching at her bruised body, she sprinted towards a nearby door, her bare feet slapping against the cold surface. The goons scrambled to their feet, their leers twisted into snarls of frustration, but she was too fast.

Slamming the door shut behind her, she stumbled into a small, dimly lit chamber, her chest heaving as she searched for a means of escape. The room was sparse, with only a single chair and a control panel that pulsed with a sinister glow.

Before Yeojin could even consider her next move, a sudden sensation of cold and slimy grip encircled her wrists and ankles.

Her eyes widened in horror as she found herself ensnared by the tentacled monster that she fought before had emerged from the shadows, its elongated limbs wrapping around her with alarming strength. The creature's beady eyes bore into hers, a twisted grin stretching across its grotesque face.

She struggled and squirmed, her heart racing as she realized the Grand Maestro had been toying with her all along. The tentacles grew tighter, the pressure on her wrists and ankles increasing, forcing her to her knees.

The tentacled monster took advantage of her vulnerable position, sending another jolt of electricity directly into her body, centering on her pussy. Yeojin's body spasmed, her eyes rolling back as the agonizing current surged through her.

Despite her pleas for mercy, the creature's grin only widened, the sadistic glee in its eyes growing more intense with each jolt. Her body writhed in pain, her cries for help echoing through the cold, metallic chamber.

"Please.....Ah....No more....."

With a final, agonizing pulse of electricity, Yeojin felt the last vestiges of her Sailor Pluto transformation leave her.

Her underwear disintegrated, leaving her fully exposed and vulnerable in the tentacled creature's grasp. Her body spasmed one final time before going limp, the pain too much for her to bear.

The goons' eyes bulged with excitement as they took in the sight of her naked form, the Grand Maestro's plans having stripped away her last shred of dignity along with her powers.

She laid down after being released, panting and trembling, her breasts heaving with each desperate gasp for air. The cold, metallic floor was a stark contrast to the warm, sticky wetness between her legs, a testament to the monster's relentless assault.

The Grand Maestro leaned over her, his twisted smile never leaving his face as he offered one last ultimatum. "Your choice, Sailor Pluto—surrender your power, or suffer an eternity of torment at the hands of my minions."

Yeojin's chest heaved with exertion, her eyes brimming with determination despite the agony etched into her features.

"No.....you cannot.....bring me....down."

She weakly yet firmly shook her head, her sweat-drenched hair sticking to her face. The beads of perspiration trickled down her neck, carving a path between her breasts, pooling in her cleavage.

"You leave me with no choice, Sailor Pluto."

The Grand Maestro's smile grew wider, his eyes gleaming with victory as two of his goons grabbed Yeojin's arms, hoisting her weakened body into a kneeling position. Her legs trembled, her knees shake from the relentless assault but she managed to keep herself upright.

The Grand Maestro reached into the folds of his cloak and revealed his monstrous, pulsating cock, the size of which was incomparable to any human's.

Yeojin's eyes bulged with fear, unable to comprehend the sheer magnitude of the horror before her. It was a weapon of nightmares, a tool of violation and submission that seemed to beckon to the very core of her being.

The goons' held her in place, their grip tightening around her arms, ensuring she had no escape from the Grand Maestro's depraved intentions.

The creature's cock grew larger still, a grotesque display of power that seemed to feed on her terror. Yeojin gulped, her heart racing as she stared at the obscene appendage, her mind racing for any way to resist the fate that seemed to await her.

The Grand Maestro leaned in closer, his monstrous cock a mere inch from her face.

"Open your mouth," he demanded, his voice thick with desire.

"No!" Yeojin's eyes widened with horror, and she turned her face away, her jaw clenched shut.

Without warning, the two goons holding her arms leaned in, prying open her mouth with their fingers. Yeojin's eyes snapped open, her scream of protest muffled as the Grand Maestro's cock was shoved deep into her throat.

She gagged and choked, her eyes watering as she struggled against the intrusion. The creature's grip on her face was unyielding, his hips bucking forward with each thrust, pushing her to her limits.

"Aughhh...Mmmff.....Gleurghh!"

It took several painstaking moments for the Grand Maestro's massive, pulsing cock to be fully sheathed within Yeojin's delicate throat. Her eyes watered and bulged with the effort of taking in the monstrous girth, her cheeks hollowed as she struggled for air around the intrusion.

Her throat muscles convulsed around the shaft, a silent protest against the violation, as the creature's head tilted back in ecstasy at the feeling of her tight warmth surrounding him.

Each thrust brought forth a muffled gagging sound that only served to spur him on, the obscene outline of his cock clearly visible as it vanished into her throat. Yeojin's body trembled with each deep penetration, her legs threatening to give way beneath her as she fought to keep herself upright.

"Yes, take it all in, little slut."

Her eyes rolled back, the whites showing as she struggled to maintain her consciousness amidst the relentless onslaught of the Grand Maestro's monstrous cock. Saliva cascaded down her chin, leaving a wet trail that pooled at her neckline before trickling down to her heaving breasts.

When he finally withdrew from her throat, she gasped for air, her chest heaving with the desperate need to breathe. Her vision swam, and she felt a tear escape the corner of her eye, trailing down her cheek to mingle with the saliva and sweat that coated her face.

The Grand Maestro's eyes gleamed with a twisted mix of pleasure and triumph, his cock glistening with her saliva. He leaned in closer, his hot breath against her ear.

"You see, you do crave the darkness. Embrace it, Sailor Pluto, and perhaps I'll make your existence pleasurable."

Yeojin's resolve shone through her tear-stained eyes as she choked out a firm, "N-Never!"

Despite her weakened state, she gathered every ounce of her will and shoved back at the Grand Maestro's chest, her voice a testament to her unbreakable spirit. However, her resistance only served to fuel his anger.

With a snarl, he pushed her back onto the cold, hard floor, his tentacled creature holding her legs in place as he positioned himself between her trembling legs. The goons watched with rapt attention, their own malicious desires reflected in their twisted expressions. Yeojin's legs were forced apart, the Grand Maestro's massive cock poised at her entrance, ready to claim victory over her body and soul.

"W-wait, don't!"

With a snarl of fury, the Grand Maestro ignored Yeojin's desperate pleas and thrust his monstrous cock into her tight, unyielding pussy. Yeojin's eyes widened in agony as she was stretched to her limits, the pain unlike anything she had ever experienced. Her nails dug into the palms of her hands as she clenched her fists, trying to find any purchase in the cold, unforgiving floor beneath her. The creature's tentacles tightened around her ankles, holding her in place as the Grand Maestro claimed her, inch by agonizing inch.

"Ah!..Ah!..geugh...ah...n-no stop i-it!"

Her screams of pain and defiance filled the chamber, echoing off the metallic walls, a stark contrast to the gleeful cheers of the goons that watched on. The Grand Maestro's hips moved with a brutal rhythm, each thrust driving home the reality of her newfound captivity.

"Let see if you can handle all of this, Sailor Pluto!"

Yeojin's head fell back with a mix of pain and a surprising, unwanted pleasure as the Grand Maestro's monstrous cock invaded her with each punishing thrust. Her eyes rolled upwards, the ceiling spinning as the intense sensations overwhelmed her.

"Ohh...fuck! Pull t-that monster o-out!"

Despite her fierce will to resist, she couldn't help the low, guttural moan that slipped from her throat with every brutal penetration.

His palms found her breasts, squeezing and kneading them without mercy, the harsh bounce only serving to heighten his pleasure. The room was filled with the obscene sounds of wet flesh slapping against wet flesh, a symphony of violation.

Her body, usually a bastion of strength and grace, now trembled and convulsed beneath his, her Sailor Pluto uniform discarded and forgotten.

Her thoughts swirled in a maelstrom of agony and degradation, the once stoic guardian of time now reduced to a writhing, moaning plaything for her enemy's sick desires.

The tentacles held her tight, their grip unyielding as he pounded into her with a ferocity that seemed to defy the very laws of the universe she was sworn to protect.

The Grand Maestro's eyes gleamed with perverse triumph as he noticed Yeojin's eyes crossing and her pussy clenching around his monstrous cock, a clear sign she was approaching climax. His thrusts grew more frenzied, driving into her with a speed that seemed to defy the very fabric of time itself.

Yeojin's cries grew louder, echoing through the chamber like a siren's call, her body a canvas of pain and unwanted pleasure. Each powerful thrust sent waves of agony and ecstasy crashing through her, her mind struggling to reconcile the two as she felt herself inexorably drawn closer to the brink.

Despite her desperate attempts to maintain control, her body began to betray her, her moans growing more wanton, her hips bucking up to meet the Grand Maestro's punishing rhythm. Her cheeks flushed a deep shade of red, and her eyes squeezed shut as she tried to hold back the tide of pleasure threatening to overwhelm her.

Yeojin's mind was a tumult of conflicting emotions.

"Why...why does it feel so...good?" she thought to herself, her body involuntarily responding to the brutal invasion with a betrayal of pleasure. The thought of enjoying this violation sent a fresh wave of despair crashing through her.

She was Sailor Pluto, a guardian of justice and purity—how could she find any solace in such depravity? Her mind screamed for it to stop, yet her body seemed to crave the very thing she detested. Her thoughts grew hazy, the line between agony and ecstasy blurring until it was almost indistinguishable.

"No...no, this can't be right," she whispered to herself, her voice lost in the cacophony of her own moans.

The Grand Maestro's grin grew wider with each passing second, his eyes gleaming with victory as he watched Yeojin's resolve crumble. He knew that he had found her weakness—the dark, carnally base desires that lay dormant within even the purest of hearts.

"Surrender to the pleasure, Sailor Pluto," he taunted, his voice a seductive purr that seemed to resonate through her very soul.

Yeojin bit her lower lip, her eyes squeezed shut as she tried to fight the inescapable truth. The pleasure was overwhelming, a crescendo building within her that she knew would soon shatter her. Her body trembled and arched off the floor with every deep, powerful thrust, her breasts bouncing with the rhythm of his depravity.

"I...I can't...I won't!" she protested through gritted teeth, her voice strained with the effort to maintain her sanity.

But the crisis within her grew more intense with each passing moment, the pleasure threatening to consume her entirely. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, her body moving in time with the Grand Maestro's vile dance.

"Oh...god...no!" she screamed internally, her thoughts a chaotic jumble of resistance and capitulation.

With a final, guttural scream, Yeojin's body betrayed her, succumbing to the Grand Maestro's twisted seduction. Her pussy clamped down on his cock, her orgasm ripping through her like a tempest. Her eyes squeezed shut, and she threw her head back, her long hair a wild mess around her. Her entire body quivered and writhed in the throes of ecstasy, her breaths coming in ragged gasps. The Grand Maestro, grinning triumphantly, withdrew from her, allowing her to ride the waves of pleasure that crashed through her.

The tentacles released their hold, and Yeojin's limbs fell limp to the floor, her body shaking uncontrollably as she succumbed to the intense climax that had been wrung from her. Her sweat-soaked skin glistened in the harsh, cold light of the chamber, each tremor sending droplets flying in every direction. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes, though still not open fully, bore the marks of her defeat.

"Get up you pathetic whore."

The Grand Maestro's triumphant laughter echoed through the chamber as he lifted Yeojin's limp form off the ground and placed her onto his broad, muscular chest as he laid down. She felt the coldness of the floor leave her body as she was positioned atop the creature, his monstrous cock still erect and demanding. Her legs were spread wide, and she could feel the sticky warmth of her own juices mingling with the creature's precum, creating a slick mess that made her stomach turn. Her mind racing as she tried to find the will to resist. But the relentless pounding she had endured had taken its toll, and she was barely able to hold herself upright.

The creature's hands found her hips, guiding her into a rhythm she knew all too well. Yeojin's body, still reeling from the intense orgasm, had little fight left in it. Her hand willingly reinsert his cock to its awaiting prize. Her legs began to move almost of their own accord, her pussy sliding up and down his thick, pulsing shaft. His grip on her hips tightening as he felt her body begin to respond to his touch once more. Despite her protests, her hips rocked back and forth, her movements growing more urgent as she felt the beginnings of another climax building within her.

"Look at you, Sailor Pluto," he sneered, his voice thick with lust. "So eager to be filled with my darkness."

Yeojin's eyes snapped open, her teeth clenched in anger. The humiliation of being used so thoroughly was almost too much to bear. Yet, she couldn't deny the traitorous pleasure that washed over her as she rode his monstrous cock. Her breasts bobbed with each movement, her nipples hard and sensitive to the cold air. Her cheeks flushed an even deeper shade of red as she heard the goons' lewd comments and felt their eyes on her.

With a snarl, she tried to push herself away from the creature, but his grip was too strong. Instead, she found herself grinding down on him, her pussy clenching around his cock as she sought to regain some semblance of control. The Grand Maestro's eyes widened in shock and pleasure, his hips bucking up to meet hers.

"Come my minions. Get a taste of her for yourselves."

Her eyes widened in horror as two of the goons stepped forward, each grabbing one of her wrists and forcing her hands to wrap around their grotesque, pulsing members. Their skin felt like a twisted mockery of flesh, cold and slimy, and Yeojin had to fight back the bile rising in her throat. Despite her struggles, they held her firm, their grips unyielding as she was made to pleasure them.

Meanwhile, another goon approached, his tentacle-like appendage slithering towards her mouth, eager to rejoin the depraved orchestra of her degradation. The Grand Maestro's chuckles grew louder as he watched his minions claim their spoils from the defeated heroine. Yeojin's mind raced, searching for a way to escape, but her body remained a prison to the overwhelming pleasure that still lingered from her recent climax. She could feel their excitement growing with each stroke of her hand, each bob of her head, their eyes burning with a sick, twisted lust.

The tentacle monster, driven wild by the sight of Sailor Pluto's degradation, eagerly approached her exposed and vulnerable form. Its tentacles coiled and twitched with a newfound purpose, forming a massive, throbbing phallus that aimed straight for Yeojin's trembling asshole. Despite her fierce resistance, the creature's overwhelming desire could not be denied.

The Grand Maestro's grip on her hips tightened, holding her in place as the tentacles slithered closer to her tight, puckered hole. Yeojin's eyes widened in horror as she felt the cold, slimy appendage brush against her sensitive skin, the reality of the impending violation sending a shiver down her spine. Her struggles grew more desperate, her body tense with fear and disgust, but she was no match for the monster's inhuman strength.

The tentacle began to probe her asshole, its tip slick with a strange, oily substance that seemed to ease its passage despite the initial resistance. Yeojin's breath hitched as she felt the monster's phallus pushing against her tight sphincter, her mind screaming in protest. But as much as she fought, her body had been pushed to its limits, and she was unable to resist the inevitable.

With a sickening pop, the tentacle breached her, sending a wave of pain and unwanted pleasure through her body. The creature's tentacles wrapped around her waist, holding her in place as it began to thrust into her, the Grand Maestro's cock still filling her pussy.

"AHHH FUCK! IT'S TOO MUCH!"

Yeojin's screams of anguish and humiliation filled the chamber, a cacophony of despair that seemed to fuel the goons' depraved lust.

At the brink of the session, the Grand Maestro's watched his minions take turns with the defeated Sailor Pluto, her body a playground for their twisted desires. Yeojin, her resolve wavering, was passed around like a prize, her mouth forced onto one cock after another, the taste of them mingling with her own tears and sweat. Her pussy, already raw and tender, was at one time, stretched to accommodate two of the goons at once, their grunts of pleasure mingling with her cries of pain. The tentacle monster had moved on, leaving her asshole gaping and sensitive, only for it to be filled by the thick, pulsing cock of another goon.

The Grand Maestro, basking in his victory, continued to pound into Sailor Pluto's ravaged pussy, her small body a limp ragdoll in his arms, her legs and arms wrapped around his waist and neck. His minions had finished their perverse ritual, their cum painting Yeojin's face and body in a vile tableau of conquest. Her moans had transformed from those of resistance to a symphony of carnality, her body no longer able to differentiate between pain and pleasure.

Each thrust from the Grand Maestro sent a fresh wave of liquid fire through her, her orgasms now a never-ending cascade of sensation that obliterated all thought and reason. Her eyes, once filled with determination and righteous fury, were now glazed over with a mix of pleasure and despair. The creature's monstrous cock filled her completely, his movements growing erratic as he approached his climax. Yeojin's body shuddered and spasmed around him, her mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Despite the horror of her situation, she could feel her body responding to the brutal violation, her pussy clenching and unclenching around his thick shaft like a vice.

"Here it comes! Take it all in your tiny tight pussy!"

With a triumphant roar, the Grand Maestro's cock swelled and erupted within Sailor Pluto, filling her to the brim with his hot, potent seed. Yeojin's body convulsed as she was claimed by the monster, her orgasm tearing through her like a supernova, leaving her trembling and spent in his arms.

Sailor Pluto's limp body was unceremoniously tossed onto the cold, stone floor of the chamber, a pitiful sight amidst the detritus of the battle she had so valiantly fought. The Grand Maestro's semen pooled and flowed out of her, mingling with the remnants of her own juices and the cum of his minions that had been forced into her earlier.

Her eyes stares blankly, a single tear escaping to trace a sad path down her cheek. Occasional twitches rippled through her form as the aftershocks of her numerous orgasms continued to plague her, a silent testament to the overstimulation she had suffered. The goons stepped back, panting and sated, their grotesque forms basking in the glow of their victory over the once-mighty guardian of time.

Her transformation rod appeared out of thin air and clattered to the ground beside her, a stark reminder of the power she had once wielded. The Garnet Rod, now a simple, innocuous object, seemed to mock her with its presence. Her body, still quivering from the relentless onslaught of pleasure and pain, could no longer contain the essence of her guardian form. The symbol of Pluto's power had been forced from her, a silent surrender to the Grand Maestro's dominance. The room grew still as the creature loomed over her, his monstrous cock still erect, his eyes gleaming with triumph. Yeojin knew that she had lost more than just a battle; she had lost a piece of herself to the dark embrace of temporal chaos.

///

A week had passed since Sailor Pluto's defeat, and the city was a shadow of its former self. The once bustling metropolis had descended into a cacophony of fear and confusion as the Time Snatchers' influence grew unchecked. The citizens walked the streets with their heads down, the joy and vitality that had once characterized their lives now replaced with a palpable dread. The absence of the heroine who had sworn to protect them was felt in every tick of the clock and every racing heartbeat that echoed through the city's veins.

In the dimly lit chamber of the Time Snatchers' lair, Yeojin, once the mighty Sailor Pluto, knelt before the line of grinning goons. Her mind, once a bastion of resolve and duty, now for the darkest of desires, had been irrevocably corrupted. Her lips, once a symbol of righteousness, were now a vessel for the perverse satisfaction of her captors. Each goon stepped forward, presenting their erect members to her with a lewd smirk.

Yeojin's eyes, now devoid of the fiery determination that had once been their hallmark, flickered with a mix of submission and despair as she took the next cock into her mouth. Her tongue danced around the swollen heads, tasting the vile flavor of their malicious intent, as the Grand Maestro watched on with a smug smile. Her body had become a mere instrument for their depravity, her will shackled by the very essence of temporal chaos that she had once vowed to combat. The room was filled with the sickening sounds of her gagging and slurping, her cheeks hollowing with each forced deep-throat, as she served the very beings she had sworn to vanquish. The stench of sweat and cum lingered in the stale air, a constant reminder of her degradation.

Her eyes, once a deep blue reflecting the power of Pluto, now clouded with a mix of need and despair, searched for the Grand Maestro's approval. As she noticed him standing there, watching with a cruel smile, she crawled over to him, her movements animalistic and submissive.

"Please," she whispered hoarsely, her voice a mere shadow of its former authority, "I need Master to fill me up."

The Grand Maestro's grin grew wider, his monstrous cock twitching in anticipation. Yeojin looked up at him with a pleading gaze, her own hands moving to spread her ass cheeks apart, offering herself up to him completely.

"Fuck me," she begged, her voice cracking with the weight of her own degradation. "I want Master's cock in my ass."

The creature's eyes gleamed with dark pleasure at her words. He stepped closer, her ass now coated in the cum of his minions, a vile symbol of their collective victory over her.

"You shall have what you wish," he said, his voice low and rumbling. "But remember, Sailor Pluto, you are no longer a heroine. You are merely our plaything, to be used and discarded as we see fit."

With a cruel twist of his hand, he inserted a finger into her gaping asshole, causing Yeojin to gasp. He watched her reaction with amusement, enjoying her whimpers of pain and pleasure. Then, without warning, he plunged his thick cock into her, the force of his thrust making her cry out. The room was filled with the sickening sound of flesh slapping against flesh as he began to fuck her hard, his movements punctuated by her desperate cries for more.

The goons, their lust rekindled by the sight of their leader claiming Sailor Pluto, began to stroke their own cocks once more, eager for their turn to violate the heroine who had once stood tall against them. Yeojin, lost to the endless cycle of pain and pleasure, could only whimper and moan, her mind a haze of submission and despair. The Grand Maestro's thrusts grew more intense, his eyes locked onto hers, boring into her soul.

"Fuck me harder! Fill me with your cum! Make me your bitch, Master!"

The Grand Maestro's grip on her hips tightened, his pace increasing as he approached his climax. Yeojin could feel her own orgasm building again, the relentless waves of pleasure threatening to consume her. The room swam around her, the boundaries between her two lives blurring into one dark, twisted reality.

As the Grand Maestro finally came, filling her ass with his thick, hot seed, Yeojin collapsed onto the floor, her body trembling from the sheer intensity of the experience. The goons stepped closer, eager to continue her corruption, their eyes gleaming with malicious intent. And through it all, Yeojin smiles. She knew that she was no longer the protector of time; she was now its prisoner, forever bound to the whims of the Time Snatchers.

#yeojin smut #loona smut #loossemble smut #kpop smut

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amimuu · 11 months ago

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Cold (Alter)

So guess who got bored and decided to remake the certified gut punch mini-comic….

(temporal link to original post cuz tumblr is being dumb again)

https://amimuu.tumblr.com/post/745325470342578176/cold-throws-this-here-and-runs-away-as-fast-as

Comic is under the cut!

HEY @artistic-misf1t GUESS WHAT

Ahem—I mean….hello again, crowd.

*The crowd stares at me, silent*

Uh…anyways—lord this weeks have been crazy. Je ne peu penser. My brain is mushing all three languages I know into one and it’s CHAOSSSS…but good chaos. Like Leshy!…Wait….

So guess who decided to test out how much she had improved drawing these dorks in the last couple months….MEEEEEEE—And what better way to do so than with one of my favorite mini-comics???

The first time I drew it I was a little sad I couldn’t exactly transmit the emotions I wanted to through the expressions of the characters—but now that I tried it again I was able to convey it so much better!! Perhaps I should do this kinda stuff more often LMAOOO would that be cool?

Anyways…thanks for reading, I had lots of fun drawing this :DD (Lamb was kind of imposible to draw at some points tho but eh)

Huh? What’s that? Why did I change the ending? No I didn’t, this is the alter of the og comic! It serves as context for this one too! (Go check it out) alright, I’m out now. Until next time!!!

#cult of the lamb #vows to ash au #cotl narinder #cotl lamb #narilamb #true devotion #cotl au #personally I think the facial expressions in this are SCRUMPTIOUS #la neta me la rifé JAJAJAJAJJDJS #random Spanish moment #sorry brain tired 🫡

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inkspiredwriting · 11 months ago

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Goodbye Five

A/N: I'll be honest with you when I wrote this, I cried. I had to watch that horrible five and lila scene again because I wanted the exact wording. My heart is still bleeding and I don't know if I'll take a break soon. I still feel pretty sick when I think about the whole Lila and five thing.

Warnings: spoilers for season 4 episode 5

Y/N stood alone in the dimly lit subway station, her breath coming out in shallow, shaky gasps. The briefcase in her hand hummed softly, its temporal energy pulsating beneath her fingers. She had used it to escape the chaos of her own timeline, seeking refuge in another. But as she looked around, she realized that she had arrived in a place she never expected—a timeline where the love of her life, Five, was not hers.

She knew she had to stay hidden. The risks of revealing herself were too great, both for her and for this version of Five. So, she kept to the shadows, slipping through the timeline like a ghost. She watched from afar, her heart breaking with every passing moment.

It didn’t take long for Y/N to realize that in this timeline, Five had found someone else. And that someone else was Lila.

The first time she saw them together, her heart nearly stopped. She had been walking through a House, drawn by the sound of laughter. It was a sound she knew well, a sound that had once been the music of her life. But as she peered through the foliage, she saw that it was not her laughter mingling with Five’s—it was Lila’s.

They were in a greenhouse, surrounded by lush greenery and the sweet scent of strawberries. Five was standing by a patch of plants, carefully watering the fruits, while Lila stood opposite him, a mischievous smile on her face. Y/N’s heart ached as she watched Lila pluck a strawberry from the vine and toss it at Five, who observed it with a grin.

“If you keep this up, we’re not gonna have strawberries when the snow comes.” Five said, his voice teasing as he gently tossed the strawberry back at Lila.

She felt the breath leave her lungs as she watched Lila stumbled and Five caught her. Five’s eyes softened as he watched her, a look of affection that Y/N knew all too well. It was the look he used to give her, in another time, another life.

Y/N pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling a sob as she continued to watch the scene unfold. it was all too much. She wanted to turn away, to flee from the pain that was tearing her apart, but she couldn’t. She was rooted to the spot, unable to tear her eyes away from the man she loved and the woman who had taken her place.

The strawberries were forgotten as Five stepped closer to Lila, his hands reaching out to cup her face. Y/N’s heart shattered as she saw the way Lila leaned into his touch as they kissed, her eyes closing as if savoring the moment.

“Don’t.” Lila whispered, her voice soft and full of emotion.

“Don’t what?” Five replied, his voice equally tender.

“Be weird.” Lila's voice was soft as she looked into Five's eyes.

“Was that weird?” Five’s voice thick with emotion.

“No, which is what makes it weird.” Lila replied,

And then, as if to seal their words, they kissed again. It was a kiss filled with love, with the kind of love that Y/N had once known, but now felt slipping away from her grasp. She watched them, her vision blurring as tears filled her eyes.

When they finally broke apart, Five rested his forehead against Lila’s, a contented smile on his face. and Lila smiled back at him, her eyes shining with love.

Y/N couldn’t take it anymore. She turned and fled, her feet carrying her as far away from the greenhouse as possible. She didn’t stop until she reached a secluded spot at the edge of the House, where she collapsed onto the ground, her body wracked with sobs.

The pain was unbearable. It wasn’t just the sight of Five with another woman—it was the knowledge that in this timeline, she didn’t exist for him. She was a stranger, a ghost from another life. And he had moved on. He had found love, and happiness, with someone else.

Y/N curled up on the ground, her tears soaking into the earth. The briefcase lay beside her, a cold reminder of the choices that had led her here. She had never imagined that she would end up like this—stranded in a timeline where the man she loved was lost to her forever.

As the night wore on, Y/N’s sobs slowly subsided, leaving her feeling empty and hollow. She stared up at the ceiling, her heart aching with a pain that seemed to have no end. She had thought she could handle anything, that she was strong enough to face whatever life threw at her. But this—this was too much.

She didn’t know how long she sat there, lost in her grief. But eventually, the reality of her situation began to sink in. She was alone in a timeline that wasn’t hers, with a man who didn't even know she existed. And even if she could go back, what would be waiting for her there? A world where Five didn’t love her? Where he was in love with Lila?

Y/N wiped her tears, trying to summon some semblance of strength. She knew she couldn’t stay here, wallowing in her sorrow. She had to find a way back to her timeline, to accept that this timeline was not hers to change. This Five had found happiness, and she had to find her five again, the five who loved her.

With a heavy heart, Y/N picked up the briefcase and activated it. As the familiar hum of temporal energy surrounded her, she cast one last look behind her. The memory of Five and Lila, laughing and kissing in the greenhouse, would haunt her forever.

“Goodbye Five.” Y/N said, a tear slipping down her cheek

And then, with a flash of light, she was gone, leaving behind a timeline where the man she loved was lost to her.

#five hargreeves imagines #five hargreeves x reader #five hargreeves x you #number five imagine #number five x reader #the umbrella academy #number five #number five one shot

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headspace-hotel · 6 months ago

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current progress in theories of ecological succession!!!!!! This paper lists 19 different ecological succession theories and their perspectives and limitations

Before I knew its name, I knew succession....I still remember the exact moment of realizing the endless flow of change moving through the ecosystem around me. Looking at weeds, shrubby woods, gardens, and fields, I was seeing this unfolding and expanding web of trajectories and possibilities, and it was like peering into the secrets of the universe.

And ever since I've paid attention to it. Constantly observing the movement in ecosystems and its patterns.

All of these theories are partially correct but incomplete. How could we ever come up with a complete theory of succession? It's like studying the convergence of order and chaos itself. Some of the important tensions of succession brought up in this paper are:

Does the environment determine which plants survive, or do the plants that survive determine the environment? (both)

Does the plant community before disturbance determine post-disturbance regeneration, or does dispersal of new plants determine it? (both)

Are communities at different successional stages formed by whatever random assemblage of plants happens to exist at that stage, or are plant communities adapted to form certain stages of succession? (both)

Is succession a process of maturity of one big thing, or cycles of death and life of a bunch of smaller things? (both)

Do plants exclude other plants from niches as succession progresses or do they open up new niches? (both)

Is succession cyclical or linear? (both)

and like ok. this topic will get me sounding like some kind of deeply unscientific weirdo because I will be like Yes, The Weeds Taught Me The Secrets of Order and Chaos. but also this is a topic in science where all the literature written for non-layperson specialist audience makes Sense.

I was really excited reading this paper because this is like, the stuff I think about randomly all the time. like the other day I just basically blacked out and wrote like 2000 words about The Nature of Disturbance and Temporal and Spatial Dimensions of Ecosystem Change not even thinking about how I was writing about succession, and almost made my brain blow up.

like each successional theory developed so far has highlighted part of the big picture but there are several pieces of the puzzle that have barely been articulated yet. my questions:

Disturbance: What Does It Mean. When talking about something alive and changing, there is no stable state of being, so what does it mean to "disturb" an ecosystem? Every ecosystem is maintained by disturbance, like in an old-growth forest animals will graze and trample and trees will occasionally die and fall and there will be storms and fires and that is part of what a forest is. So like...where is the line between a disturbance that maintains an ecosystem at "climax," and a disturbance that makes the ecosystem no longer "climax."

disturbance, even the most severe and devastating disturbance with near 100% mortality of all plants, does not fully erase the previous plant community. so like, early-successional communities aren't a blank slate, but there is a such thing as an "early-successional community" in the sense that weed species not visible in the pre-disturbance community will pop up. Now, a lot of the theories assume that long-distance seed dispersal (and the availability of seed sources and dispersers) influences the arrival of weeds, but I think the soil seed bank is just as important if not MORE important. Do all soil seed banks have plenty of weeds? Do they have different weeds or the same weeds? Do those weeds match what was there the last time there was a weed community on that site?

disturbance is usually distributed over the land SUPER unevenly except in cases of lawns, logging and industrialized farming. at what spatial scale do edge effects irretrievably muddle the concept of discrete early-successional or late-successional communities. Like if you go into the forest and bulldoze a patch of forest down to bare dirt, that patch is fundamentally different from the bare dirt in a huge housing development, just because of being directly adjacent to a forest. Even completely disregarding seed dispersal- it's shaded, it is affected by the leaf litter and fine woody debris, etc.

I would tentatively state that linear processes of change occur in most man-made environments that are disturbed cyclically, for example, lawns- intensively managed monoculture lawns seem to persist in a lush state for a short time before the grass starts to die. most tilled agricultural fields are losing topsoil and fertility in a linear fashion. so like, the land has an accumulative legacy of tens or hundreds of disturbance cycles. Isn't this likely to be true on a much larger temporal scale? Like, is a forest ecosystem now affected by the fact that it was a prairie 1,500 years ago?

likewise, might this accumulative legacy be necessary for certain ecosystems to reach a "climax" state? e.g. prairie will overgrow into woodland in a few decades absent any disturbance, but cyclic disturbance by fire allows the cumulative progression of a larger successional process

#ecology #ecological succession #succession #the ways of the plants #environment #ecosystems

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void-dude · 8 months ago

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Bill In Therapy: Rise of Static Ford

Have you ever written a word on a sheet of paper so often that the ink bled onto the following page? Now what if I told you that actions can have the same effect?

The abundance of alternate universes which included Stanford Pines meddling with forces beyond his human comprehension have given birth to the anomaly Static Ford. An amalgamation of the three most repeated aspects of the man himself; " I love my muse " , " I hate Bill cipher " and " I am Stanford Filbrick Pines". Now aware of his state between dimensions he's working on using a weakened Bill to free himself of his prison and go about creating what he truly deserves: a life of his own.

The entire comic in chronological order as well as extra- and fan content!

Static reference

Static playlist

Bill In Therapy:

Part 1: What if therapy worked a little tiny bit on BILL?

Part 2: Nestled right between the frontal and temporal lobe

Part 3: Would that interest you my muse?

Part 4: He's so stupid I can't please just get over him already

Part 5: It’s a bit darker this time sorry guys

Part 6: There’s no rest for the wicked

Part 7: Step one

!Doodles and alike!

He reaches

All the colours

KAZOO

Magma doodles 1

Magma doodles 2

And then they kissed-

Static making friends?

The crossover ever

Subconscious (outdated)

I missed Halloween here but i think chaos and static had fun

Predator born from prey

Oh brother of mine.

!Fancontent!

Three became two

The sacrifice

ANIMATIC WHOA

THE FIRST

Bill in Therapy pt1 COMIC DUB

Bill at therapy pt2 COMIC DUB

Static ford, my beloved

Girl Help

You look lonely...I can fix that

Why did you do it?

Bro fumbled so hard

Does that interest you my muse?

their dynamic is making me claw at the walls

Tea time

they are best friends <3

He's so silly

MALWARE

Came to me in a vision

((Static Ford still lives in my head...))

MY MUSE

bill misses his wife

*looks at notes* uhhh static ford

STATIC FORD STATIC FORD STATIC FO

#master post #static ford #bill in therapy #gravity falls au

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hydrus101 · 2 months ago

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Yog Sothoth,,,,

I will be taking this opportunity to finally post about my Yog-Sothoth endgame theory for malevolent. (The discord already knows I’m crazy but now the tumblr folks get to know it too)

The Belief:

Yog-Sothoth is an ever-present part of malevolent, but not an active force in the way Kayne or Lillith may be. He is not the player or the keys, he’s the whole goddamn piano. (Figuratively)

Yog-Sothoth, all in one, the key and the gate, as his name states, has deep ties to gateways and temporal passages. Malevolent begins with a gateway gone awry, opened by Antoine for Shub Niggurath—and co-opted by the King in Yellow—the results of which killed one and fragmented the other. Gates are a recurring theme in Malevolent, most notably this first instance and the “Tear” which was tampered with by the man posing as Edward William Allan.

The famed Yog-Sothoth summoning chant from the Necronomicon is present in Part 8 (19:50) right after John reads out “The King in Yellow” from the book annotated by Sarah Cummings, accompanied by what sounds like a PA chime. The text reads as:

Past, present, future, all are one in Yog-Sothoth. He knows where the Old Ones broke through of old, and where They shall break through again. He knows where They have trod earth's fields, and where They still tread them, and why no one can behold Them as They tread.”

Charon is mentioned briefly in Season Four, and Charon is one of the names/personas attributed to summoning Yog-Sothoth in the Grimoire. (CoC Grimoire pg 38).

Notes: I don’t believe the “Charon” mentioned here is Yog-Sothoth, proper merely that the “Charon” we met (Aldrich Ward) was a follower and took his name from Yog as a moniker.

Yog-Sothoth is not involved with the Order directly, (as is standard in his lore, he is not often solely worshipped, but frequently called upon in the pursuit of other ends) beyond being a patron of moving things from location to location or possibly the deity of Aldrich, personally.

There is also potential for a deeper connection here, as “Charon” is revealed to be Aldrich Ward, possibly named after the character Charles Dexter Ward from the short story of the same name, which is the first of Lovecraft’s works to introduce the Yog-Sothoth chant.

It’s possible, albeit unlikely, that the Dark World might be a domain of Yog-Sothoth’s. The Dark Ages manual (pg. 140, which contains information on Horig) tells of a place called Limbo spawned of Yog-Sothoth and described as “a living yet mindless…..land of gloom and chaos, where light is like darkness.” Very similar to how John describes the Dark World.

Yog Sothoth is also a deity of time, which might explain the time dilation John and Lillith have both experienced at the hands of the Dark World and wherever Lillith was trapped beyond a gate. (Lifetimes for John, in a span of ten years, and two hundred years from Lillith’s point of view).

The symbol found on the floor of the secret room at Marie’s (which contains the desiccated body of the man that was posing as Edward William Alan) is described as a “circular, with a pattern that repeats into its center” (Part 32). This symbol is also found on the bestiary, (which also sports Shub’s symbol, among four others) as well as the floor of the barn at the farm where the Tear is. This, in my eye, essentially confirms that the Circular Pattern is Yog’s, and not Lillith’s, as has been hypothesized. Lillith herself wasn’t being summoned in both locations, but a gateway was.

Larson’s child, the mines monster, was said to have been gifted to him from the Outer Gods, and children begotten from Yog-Sothoth have the tendency to be invisible, and may only be observed through magical means. (Malleus Monstrum p165) This doesn’t effect the plot so much, but is another piece of evidence towards his overall existence.

Kayne mentions in Part 52 that Charlie is “standing at the… threshold”. This could be a number of sites, most notably the site of the ritual at the house at 58 Pelican Lane, (CoC Game One) which housed the gate that initially severed the King in Yellow. Yog-Sothoth is often known as the Lurker in the Threshold, and frequently intercepts people who are cast haphazardly through gates. It’s possible Charlie is currently in his care, so to speak. We know for certain that Malevolent’s storyline doesn’t end here, giving rise to (hopefully, fingers crossed) a Charlie spin off series (maybe involving Yog ((fingers crossed again)).

#malevolent #malevolent podcast #I’m crazy insane about this

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bunji-enthusiast · 1 month ago

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Hello and good morning/ afternoon or evening wherever you are. I hope this isn’t a bother but could you write something similar to the spider man post but instead we’re a version of doctor strange for the invincible characters. (And once again, I love your work. I honestly love how creative you fuse two fandom together and creating something unique.)

𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐀 𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐝𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧? 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡

Dr. Strange!reader

Summary || The only only doctor with the ability to twist reality upon the receiver. Many respect you, many fear you… and some — strange enough — befriend you.

Notes // went with my pick of the litter for this one. I loosely based the iteration on marvel rivals strange for this like I did with mantis!reader and peni!reader. Thank you for kind words dear anon :3

Oliver Grayson

Oliver didn’t expect his first real solo mission to feel like being a bug under a magnifying glass.

He’d been told the anomaly was magical—an unstable rift outside of Chicago spewing out corrupted energy, disrupting gravitational fields, and, for some reason, screwing with satellite transmissions. No Viltrumite strength could punch it shut. Even Cecil admitted they were out of their depth. So they called in… someone else.

Oliver hovered high in the air, goggles reflecting the strange violet arcs of energy spiraling across the sky. Below him, buildings shimmered like mirages, ground buckling gently as if the planet itself was exhaling wrong.

“Ugh. Magic,” he muttered under his breath.

And that’s when you arrived.

The air folded, then ripped open like paper, and from the tear stepped a figure clad in flowing robes, your crimson Cloak of Levitation trailing behind you like a banner of war and wisdom. Your presence halted the chaos for a moment, as though the very fabric of reality was acknowledging its master had arrived.

Oliver blinked. “Okay, cool entrance…”

You didn’t look at him immediately. Instead, your fingers etched glowing glyphs in the air, spiraling golden runes flickering around your hands as you assessed the rift. Your tone was calm, but carried a weight older than him, older than most of the world.

“This tear is bleeding across dimensions. Not your usual bruised sky.”

Oliver crossed his arms. “I could punch it again.”

Your eyes flicked toward him, mildly. “And risk shattering this sector’s temporal axis? Let’s not.”

“I’m Oliver Grayson. Kid Omni-Man.”

You raised a brow. “That explains the entrance. And the lack of a plan.”

He bristled. “Hey, I have a plan. It just involves...punching things really hard until they stop being a problem.”

“And yet the problem remains.”

Oliver floated beside you now, arms still folded, but quieter. “You act like you know everything, but do you ever think he was right?” His voice was quiet, eyes flicking to the rift. “About some things needing force?”

You paused mid-cast. Your voice dropped, gentler.

“Force without understanding is just chaos waiting for an excuse.”

He hated how that line made sense. Hated it more that it reminded him of Mark’s lectures. Still, he didn’t float away.

Suddenly, the rift pulsed violently.

Without hesitation, you lifted your hand and cast Pentagram of Farallah, one portal opening above the anomaly and the other beside you. As unstable energy burst forth, it was siphoned cleanly through the portals, harmlessly redirected to a dimensional null-space.

“Okay, okay! That’s...cool,” Oliver said, visibly impressed.

You smiled slightly. “Try not to sound too surprised.”

“You… Sorcerer Supreme, right?”

You turned toward him, your cape flaring softly in the breeze. “Doctor. But yes.”

“Cool. So...what’s it like being Earth’s magical guardian? You always this smug?”

“Only when I’m right. Which is always.”

The Cloak looped playfully around Oliver, causing him to flinch and spin in midair. You chuckled.

He rolled his eyes but smiled, floating closer. “Teach me something. Something that doesn’t involve punching.”

You studied him for a moment, then slowly raised your hand. “Catch.”

Daggers of Denak shimmered into existence—slower than bullets, glowing with eerie violet light. Oliver caught one in a flash, eyes wide.

“Magic isn’t about control. It’s about respecting what you wield. Not everything needs to be a hammer, Oliver.”

He held the spell in his hand, feeling its hum. Then looked at you. “But sometimes it is a hammer, right?”

You gave a knowing smirk. “Let’s start with weaving it with a punch.”

Eve Wilkins

Eve had built sanctuaries before.

Fields of green that used to be wastelands, cradles of life sculpted from ruins. But this forest—this one had changed without her. The trees had started moving. Breathing. Watching. Something unnatural had seeped into the roots and twisted nature into something alien.

She stood atop a levitating pink platform, hands glowing faintly as she scanned the terrain.

“No human signs… just corrupted matter. Like the molecules were rewritten, then forgotten what they were supposed to be.”

A branch cracked behind her. Eve turned, ready to react, but the crack wasn’t from the woods.

Reality itself peeled open.

You stepped through calmly, your crimson cloak drifting behind you like smoke in reverse. Your aura preceded you: regal, measured, composed. The glyphs circling your hands faded as you took in the warped land.

Eve frowned. “So you’re the magic guy.”

You met her gaze evenly. “Sorcerer Supreme. But I’ve been called worse.”

She floated down beside you, arms crossed. “You here to help or just judge what I’ve done wrong?”

“Depends. Did you cause this?”

She looked away. “No. I came to fix it. And I can’t.”

Your eyes narrowed as you knelt beside the corrupted roots, brushing your fingers along the moss-turned-flesh. Magic symbols flickered in the air—wards, warnings. “This isn’t science gone wrong. It’s something older. Darker.”

“So it is magic,” she said, sounding more frustrated than surprised.

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you conjured a Shield of the Seraphim, letting it absorb a pulse of corrupted energy surging from the ground. It shimmered, then sputtered—your cloak rising as you hovered slightly off the ground.

“What you’re dealing with isn’t just nature twisted. This is a place where laws—yours and mine—have started to fail. Left unattended, it spreads.”

Eve stared at the landscape—her creation on the edge of unraveling. “I thought I was helping. But I just gave it more to infect.”

“Power without perspective is just acceleration without direction.”

She flinched at that. “You sound like Brandyworth.”

“Good company, then.”

A moment passed. Then Eve exhaled slowly, her hands glowing again—but this time, uncertainly. “So... what do I do?”

You glanced at her, and for the first time, your tone softened. “You adapt. You learn. Just like I did when I lost my hands and found something greater.”

She hesitated. “You lost your hands?”

“Not literally.”

You summoned the Pentagram of Farallah, placing a portal across the corrupted streambed. It shimmered. Stabilized. “You’re not the problem here, Eve. You’re part of the solution. But you need more than power. You need discipline.”

Eve floated closer, intrigued despite herself. “Teach me something. Something real. Not just flashy spell circles or cryptic metaphors.”

You turned toward her, eyes twinkling. “Alright.”

A Dagger of Denak flickered into existence. You hurled it forward, then followed with a precise melee strike that split the air with magical resonance. The combo rippled through the corrupted land, purging the infection with a controlled burst.

“That was dope,” Eve whispered.

You raised a brow. “We call it frame-weaving. You call it ‘dope.’ Either works.”

She smirked. “Think I can do that?”

“With time. But you’re not here to be me, Eve. You’re here to be better than who you were yesterday.”

Eve looked at the wounded forest, then at you. “So what now?”

“Now,” you said, floating beside her, “we rebuild. Together.”

And in that moment—two powers, one born from science, the other from sorcery—stood side by side, ready to rewrite the world.

Not with force. But with understanding.

And just like that—she remembered what being a hero felt like.

#invincible fluff #invincible x y/n #invincible x you #invincible x reader

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help-itrappedmyself · 2 months ago

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Birdflash Part 1

Guys, I am officially trying to be back on my bs. I have mostly recovered and am getting back in the swing of life as best as possible. My life is still a little crazy, I am still getting settled and back into a routine, but I hope I can start being more active and start writing more frequently.

With that news, here is part one of a prequel to Changes in Perspective starring Birdflash, and featuring a very tired overprotective Dad!Bruce (he's trying his best). From what I am imagining, this should come out to about 3 parts on Tumblr, and a one-shot on AO3.

The part is under the cut. Happy Reading!

Flash and Company have changed the timeline multiple times. Some that they have been aware of and some that they haven’t. They know that, and most try not to do it once they figure out what they’re doing in the first place. Every once in a while, there will be an attempt made on purpose to change something so big the changes to the timeline don’t matter in comparison.

They are not the only superheroes to try and change the timelines. Villains also make attempts to alter the timelines semi-frequently. There is a multiverse full of alternates and power sets and complications.

Bruce, ever a control freak, did not like learning this, and ever since Bruce found out about it, he worked to find a way to shield himself and his family from temporal readjustment. It was extremely difficult, and involved him requesting the help of magic users. And as it turns out, it was still impossible to implement temporal safeguards on the human mind. Apparently it was much too delicate and the force of the changes, magic, something, the brain couldn’t handle it.

However, Bruce and Zatanna did manage to find a way to safeguard the Batcomputer. It even pings a notification in the event of temporal anomalies. This meant that whenever anything messed up the timeline, the Bats could know about the change.

They would have to read about what the timeline was like before, but they wouldn’t have any real connection to the changes considering their brains automatically convert to the new timeline.

This is not always necessary. Sometimes the changes to the timeline are obvious, and people remain aware of the way things were before, and how they are different now. It does not happen often. To this day there are only two known instances of the timeline being irreversibly altered, without memory modifications to go with it.

One was the event caused by Superboy-Prime, which altered the timeline, killing many and reviving others. This change also caused Jason to revive, unknown at the time.

The other change was indeed caused by one of the Flash brigade. It caused people to be able to connect with their ‘soulmates’, known because in a few alternate universes, this is commonplace. There are universes where soulmates are known from birth, and universes with many differing ways of connecting and finding your soulmate throughout your life.

In this universe, it causes soulmates to bodyswap until they can reach each other. For some, this was easy. Some soulmates were already married, already dating, or at least already knew each other. Others were countries apart, stuck in places where they didn’t know the language, struggling to find their way back to each other.

The soulmate phenomenon has caused panic and joy throughout the world. Chaos, divorces and weddings. Everyone knows what’s happening, but no one knows when or who until it happens.

For a while, everyone thought the change would only affect the younger generation, as sixteen was the most common age for the change to occur. But reports came in of older switches, age ranges varying and random. There were only two things they knew for sure.

The body swap always happens on the birthday of one of the pair, usually the younger.

It did not happen to anyone younger than sixteen.

They figured out what they could about the phenomenon and life moved on as best as it could. They had a lot going on at the time, these changes all occurring around the time when Bruce was dead (except not).

Bruce came back to a new world, but adjusted quickly. He made plans and contingencies, and thought he was prepared for anything.

And then he got a call from his son Dick, except the person on the phone was freaking out about being in someone else’s body.

“Dick?” Bruce asked, confused that his son would be calling him from upstairs, and worried that they had missed an injury from patrol or something.

“Sir! I woke up here, and I didn’t know where here was, and I was looking around and I recognized Dick Grayson in the mirror. Like, I am Dick Grayson right now, but I’m not, normally, and I know you're his dad, right? You adopted him? I didn’t know the phone password, but you’re one of his speed dial emergency contacts, so I figured you were a good person to call. And I needed to call somebody and I really need to call my family as well, but I was hoping you could help me?” The voice is fast, rambling and giving Bruce a headache.

“Yes, I’m his father. Who are you?” Bruce’s voice came out as a tired sigh, Alfred and Damian both looking at him from the kitchen table, confused and wary.

“Uh, Wally- Wallace West, Sir.”

Bruce wanted to faceplant. Instead he just ran a hand down his face, cursing the existence of speedsters.

“Where are you right now?” Bruce sighed. Dick had spent the night here, he was visiting Damian, who was still rather attached to Dick after their time together while Bruce was lost in the timestream. “Are you in his room? I can come get you?”

“I might have been in his room when I woke up here, but I tried to leave to figure out where I am and this house is massive and I think I got lost like five turns ago. I know I saw an art room at some point, like to make art not to display it, because there is art everywhere in this house. I came across some stairs, and I went down, because I figured down would lead me closer to the front of the house but I have come across at least one other staircase since then and I haven’t seen a window in a while.”

“Can you just,” Bruce stood and started to pace, both Damian and Alfred becoming more concerned. “Stop moving. Tell me what you can see and I will come get you.”

#batman #fanfiction #dick grayson #wally west #birdflash #kid flash #nightwing #so. technically this is dcxdp #but only by virtue of being a prequel to changes in perspective #which is dpxdc #but danny does not ever actually show up in this

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sunarryn · 3 months ago

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DP X Marvel #3

The thing about being seventeen and King of the Infinite Realms is that nobody prepares you for the paperwork.

Sure, Danny thought there’d be some responsibility when he accidentally overthrew Pariah Dark and inherited an ancient, eldritch realm full of undead beings and chaos entities. But this?

“This” being a five-hour council meeting about whether the Blob Ghost could legally marry the Ghost of a Haunted Taco Bell.

Danny slammed his forehead into the obsidian table, sighing. “Can someone remind me why this is my life again?”

Fright Knight, sitting to his left in full spectral armor, replied without missing a beat. “Because you claimed the Throne of The Infinite Realms by Rite of Spectral Conquest, my liege.”

“Right…” Danny muttered, dragging his crown—which looked less like a crown and more like an aggressive mass of bone, metal, and green flame—off his head and onto the table. “That. Cool. I love my life. I’m living my best afterlife.”

The Ghost Zone’s politics were a nightmare. The Council of Wailing Scepters argued in riddles. The Ministry of Temporal Loops wouldn’t stop trying to undo Danny’s birth “as a preventative measure.” Ember was unionizing musical ghosts. Skulker demanded hunting permits. Box Ghost somehow had diplomatic immunity.

And let’s not even talk about the Realms’ economy.

“Have you ever tried to make a tax code for entities who don’t obey time?” Clockwork once asked with a deadpan stare.

Danny had not. Danny did not want to.

And all of that was on top of being a superhero, a public figure, a full-time student at Midtown, Tony Stark’s ghost consultant intern, and, most critically, Peter Parker’s boyfriend.

The one bright spot in his entire liminal, half-dead, legally dubious existence.

Peter was the only reason Danny hadn’t exploded yet. Or accidentally declared war on Canada (long story, don’t ask). Or gotten exorcised by a rogue Vatican unit (longer story).

When Danny phased into his boyfriend’s bedroom at 2:43AM wearing royal armor, covered in ghost slime, with a ghost octopus clinging to his leg screaming, “LONG LIVE THE GHOST KING,” Peter didn’t even blink.

He just put his book down and said, “Do you want hot chocolate or a sedative?”

“Both.” Danny croaked.

“Got you.” Peter said, already moving toward the mini kitchen.

Danny melted into the couch, dropping his crown on the floor. It rolled slightly, then hissed at the furniture. He kicked it under the table.

“I hate everyone.” He muttered. “The fire ghosts are trying to annex the Library of Screams again, the Spectral Senate is debating if time travelers have souls, and a councilwoman called me a fleshling with trauma issues.”

“Well,” Peter called out gently from the kitchen, “she’s not wrong.”

“Peter.”

“I’m just saying. You did try to punch Death last week.”

Danny groaned. “It was a misunderstanding!”

“You called them a dusty crypt bitch.”

“They insulted my hoodie!”

Peter returned, holding two mugs. He handed one to Danny, kissed his forehead, then sat beside him.

Danny leaned heavily against him.

Peter didn’t complain.

“Y’know,” Danny said after a moment, sipping his cocoa, “sometimes I forget I’m still seventeen.”

Peter chuckled. “Babe. You’re seventeen, King of a spectral empire, on the Avengers’ emergency contact list, and still get detention for being late to gym. You’re living like six lives at once.”

“I died once,” Danny muttered. “That should’ve been enough.”

Between ghost attacks, council drama, interdimensional skirmishes, and Midtown High exams, Danny hadn’t had a full night’s sleep since… well, since before dying.

The living world had opinions too. America couldn’t decide if he should be considered a minor, a sovereign leader, or a health hazard. International ghost regulations were passed in his name. He had diplomatic immunity in over a human countries and was banned from a hundred others. There was a conspiracy subreddit entirely dedicated to the theory that he was an alien hybrid bred by the government to replace the Queen of England.

Danny’s response to that was, “Do I look like I want to colonize anything?”

He still had math homework due tomorrow.

Sometimes he phased into the UN to yell at their Interdimensional Defense Committee. Sometimes he missed bio class because a ghost war broke out on the edge of the Dreaming Isles and he had to teleport to stop Nocturne from invading people’s nightmares.

Sometimes, Peter would find him sitting on the floor of their shared dorm shower, still glowing, muttering, “I am the King of Everything and Nothing and I can’t figure out mitochondria.”

“I’ll tutor you,” Peter always offered. “And also get you a nap and a cookie.”

Peter was… everything.

Unflinchingly patient. Wickedly smart. Constantly worried.

He patched up Danny’s wounds, whispered jokes during council meetings when Danny looked five seconds from screaming, brought extra snacks when Danny forgot to eat.

He held Danny after Danny woke up screaming from ghost-fueled nightmares.

And when the burden got too heavy—when Danny stood on the balcony of his palace in the Infinite Realms, overlooking a kingdom of madness and memory, time fractals and ghosts whispering in languages lost to the living—and said, “I don’t think I can do this anymore,” Peter kissed his knuckles and said, “Then I’ll do it with you.”

The other ghosts hated it.

A human, dating the King? Scandalous. Blasphemous. Soft.

Danny told them all to choke.

Peter? Peter told them to submit a formal complaint in triplicate and then kissed Danny in front of them just to be petty.

They ruled together, in a way. Danny signed the decrees. Peter corrected the grammar. Danny banished tyrants. Peter took notes and organized his calendar. Danny fought for peace. Peter made sure he didn’t forget who he was fighting for.

Once, Clockwork pulled Peter aside and said, “He will burn out without you.”

Peter just nodded. “I know.”

And yet, through all the madness, they found joy.

Danny giving Peter flying lessons. Peter webbing Danny’s locker shut as a prank. The two of them building a spectral stabilizer out of Tony’s spare tech, laughing hysterically when it turned the floor into a trampoline.

They shared ghost patrols, movie nights, star-watching on top of the Empire State Building.

Peter calling Danny “Your Majesty” in a ridiculous accent until Danny threatened to drop him into a lava lake.

Danny threatening international leaders by day and then cuddling with Peter by night, wearing fuzzy socks and a hoodie that said “Half-Dead, Fully Tired.”

Sometimes, Danny just stared at him. In awe.

Peter, who knew the truth. All of it. The weight. The loss. The terrifying power clawing beneath Danny’s skin. The fact that Danny was the anchor between dimensions, balancing the afterlife and reality like a tired high schooler with PTSD and ghost fire.

And still loved him.

Still said, “You’re doing great.”

Still held him when it all came crashing down.

The Realms called Danny a King.

To Peter, he was just Danny.

Sometimes, that was all Danny needed to be okay.

Just… Danny. Human. Ghost. Hero. Boyfriend.

King of the Infinite Realms, sure. But also a seventeen-year-old who just wanted to pass his math test, kiss his boyfriend, and maybe get five hours of sleep.

With Peter by his side?

He could do it all.

Even the haunted Taco Bell marriage negotiations.

#danny phantom #danny phantom fandom #danny phantom fanfiction #danny fenton #peter parker #spiderman fanfiction #spider man #spiderman #dp x marvel #marvel mcu #marvel #mcu fanfiction #mcu #mcu fandom

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jungkoode · 2 months ago

Text

THE 25TH HOUR | O8

“𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐒”

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

next | index

— chapter details

word count: 5,4k

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

— author’s note

OKAY OKAY OKAY—wow. phew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Godspeed and love. <3

— read on

ao3

wattpad

You’ve never registered an aversion to coffee.

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

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

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

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

The query returns a null set.

Error. File not found.

“Good?”

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

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

A defensive posture? Or observational?

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

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

Why?

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

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

Unconscious action.

Flagged for later analysis.

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

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

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

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

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

Flat delivery. Fact confirmed.

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

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

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

His response is immediate. No processing delay.

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

"How can you be certain?"

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

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

The statement contains multiple logical inconsistencies.

Agent Min does not look significantly older than you.

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

Your glance moves back to the cup.

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

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

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

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

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

Wouldn't you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You frown. "Source?"

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

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

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

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

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

His gaze flicks to your hands.

“...idle curiosity."

You follow his line of sight.

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

A subconscious pattern emerging at 2.7-second intervals.

"Noted."

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

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

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

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

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

All return access-denied.

"Define 'normalcy' parameters."

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

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

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

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

"Such as?"

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

Your watch beeps softly—temporal variance: 0.89%.

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

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

"And you?"

“I'll be the ghost in their machine."

Ghost.

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

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

You count their footsteps.

He counts your breaths.

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

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

His cup sits empty. Yours remains 73% full.

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ll be okay?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He laughs, easy. “That’s… specific.”

His gaze lingers, searching for something.

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

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

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

Cold metal presses to your temple. Soft click.

You catalog the sensation.

Barrel diameter: 9mm.

Temperature: room.

Pressure: firm, not shaking.

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

You comply.

Data input: threat detected.

Output: unknown.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"—emporal breach Sector 4-Alpha—"

"—arget exhibits Reality Shifter signatures—"

"—containment protocol Theta-7 authorized—"

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

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

Your lungs register 14% oxygen decrease.

Insufficient for hypoxia.

Sufficient for discomfort.

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

Your Chrono-Sync Watch beeps erratically:

TEMPORAL VARIANCE: 4.89%

ANOMALY DETECTED

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

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

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

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

But Yoongi never looks back; not even once.

Nature’s lumbar support leaves much to be desired.

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

"What the fuck did you do?"

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

“I answered his query within established social parameters."

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

"Statistical probability suggested—"

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

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

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

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

Fascinating.

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

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

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

The revelation triggers 23 simultaneous neural queries.

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

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

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

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

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

The cave wall explodes.

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

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

Realization crystallizes.

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

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

"To save your statistically suicidal ass."

"Without consent."

"Without options.”

The standoff lasts 4.7 seconds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

What ‘again’ means to him.

Your eyes narrow, recalculating.

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

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

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

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

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

No matches found.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You process this, calculating energy transfer ratios.

"And the 25th hour?"

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

"That you exploit."

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

"How many like you exist?"

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

The admission feels sad.

Terribly lonely.

"And me?"

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

"You're something else entirely."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At first, nothing happens.

Then—

Gold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He watches you cautiously, measuring your reaction.

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

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

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

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

The word choice seems odd, triggering your curiosity further.

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

He sighs—perhaps denoting exhaustion.

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

You process this information.

"Like nerve endings," you suggest.

"Yeah… Something like that."

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

He doesn't.

Your fingertip makes contact with the golden energy.

The sensation is... unexpected.

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

You pull back instantly, recalculating.

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

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

No further clarification.

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

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

"They recognize you," he repeats, simply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

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

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

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

You detect deliberate vagueness, information being withheld.

"What's mine?"

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

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

You frown, dissatisfied with the non-answer.

"More cryptic responses. Inefficient communication strategy."

His mouth quirks again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Logical. Rational.

Yet you find yourself strangely reluctant to end the experiment.

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

His eyes meet yours again, unreadable.

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

You correlate with your observations.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He is right.

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

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

Another anomaly to add to your growing collection.

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

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

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

"What is that?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Travel spots?"

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

No matches found.

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

"I..."

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

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

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

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

Theoretical models. Probability factors. Energy requirements.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another anomaly to catalog.

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

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

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

You tilt your head, considering.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Some variables outweigh probability," he says finally.

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

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

He hesitates again, that same weighted pause.

"That's a different ability entirely."

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

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

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

"Designed by who?"

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

"By us," he says simply.

The pronoun registers with unexpected weight.

Us. Collective. Collaborative.

You and him.

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

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

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

Another anomaly. Another piece of the puzzle.

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

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

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

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