#Vortex the living Shadow

[colorfulplasma]

Vortex getting used to their new hiding spot

[olliveen]

PONYO PONYO PONYO FISHY IN THE SEA

[hana-bobo-finch]

i am one day late to my own character’s birthday but whatever better late than never. this image popped up in my head last night and I felt obligated to make it

for context Tornado is the name of the only social networking site on fincg island and C.C. is. very into the occult and would definitely think this is a halfway decent thing to do (it is not)

og

[mothman-dan]

I havent seen this anywhere yet so

heres the (leaked) origin of the pokemon universe story with the correct pokemon names in place of the beta ones

(original text here)

EDIT: just woke up but theres an updated translated version here. I've gone ahead and changed the text below to the updated version Please note that there is no mention of giratina in the updated version (which makes more sense based on some other info we have)

In the beginning, there was a vortex of chaos. All mixed slowly together, and everything was a blur. One day, a large egg appeared in the center of the chaos. For a long time, the egg continued to shake.

Eventually, the vortex stopped, and the egg broke. The absolute god Arceus was born.

The scattered fragments of the egg transformed into giants, and attacked the newly born Arceus. However, Arceus quickly grew, and continuously defeated the giants. At last, after a fierce battle, Arceus defeated all the giants.

The wounded Arceus created an alternate self. As the left and right side of Arceus’s body were different, it created two selves. Arceus gathered the body of the defeated giants, and poured its blood into them.

From the one who resembled his left poured out light, so Arceus named it Palkia, the god of light. From the one who resembled his right poured out darkness, so Arceus named it Dialga, the god of darkness.

To the two, Arceus commanded that the world be filled with people, and fell into a deep slumber.

Although Palkia and Dialga were different in appearance, they loved one another, were joined, and had many children. However, there still existed no world, and their frail children, who had nowhere to go, died one after the other. Though overcome with great sadness, Palkia and Dialga thought of creating a world where all could live healthy and prosperous lives.

Palkia and Dialga called their children Uxie, the god of eyes; Mesprit, the god of heart; and Azelf, the god of voice.

When Uxie open its eyes, everything that was there appeared. There was now contour and color in the world. When Mesprit wished for it, everything that was there could be felt. A sense of calm spread. When Azelf shouted, everything that was there trembled. A blessed timbre began to resonate.

To the three, Palkia and Dialga gave the seed of life and told them to nurture it.

The three gathered in a circle and prayed, and the seed sprouted.

The sprout quickly grew, and became the giant tree of life. However, the tree continued to grow, soon filling the entire world, and no one was able to move.

The three asked Father Palkia and Mother Dialga for help.

Dialga and Palkia joined once again, and had three children. The god of the sky, RAYQUAZA; the god of the earth, GROUDON; and the god of the ocean, KYOGRE were born.

RAYQUAZA wrapped its body around the tree of life. GROUDON and KYOGRE slammed their bodies into the tree of life. Eventually, the tree fell and broke into three pieces.

Uxie, Mesprit, and Azelf prayed, saddened that the tree would rot away like this. Then, the pieces of the broken tree would transform into the sky, earth, and ocean.

RAYQUAZA became the pillar that holds the sky. The shadow that reached into the heavens became the three gods who sustain the sky: Dragonite, Gyarados, and Tyranitar. The air filled the sky, and the stars sparkled.

GROUDON became the land that covers the earth. The roar of the diving land became the three gods who sustain the earth: DAABU, SAAN, and GOODON. The earth shook, and the mountains stirred.

KYOGRE became the veins of water that embraced the oceans. The ripples that disappeared into the seas became the three gods who sustain the ocean: LATIAS, METAGROSS, and LATIOS. The ocean was filled with water, and the waves whispered.

Thus the world was born.

Palkia and Dialga, and the various gods, were very pleased with this, and filled this world with their children.

That peaceful world was a paradise for the children of god.

The children of god would continue to multiply.

Through that, words would change little by little.

Over time, the gods began would call those who lived in the world by two names.

The children of god who resembled the great father, Palkia, would be called “Pokémon”. The children of god who resembled the great mother, Dialga, were called “humans”.

The absolute god Arceus will soon awaken, and seeing the world filled with its descendants, will promise great abundance and prosperity.

[keferon]

TexAid - Vortex has taken First Aid as his pilot. First Aid claims Vortex as his mech.

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

There's a rumbling in the distance as First Aid crawls out the darkened hatch of Vortex's escape chute.  The hangar is a wreck of collapsed walls, twisted metal pipes, and broken wiring shooting up sparks. 

First Aid pushes himself to his feet, stands back, and uses the flashes of light to take stock of the situation. 

This is…not good. 

He counts a dozen cuts and bruises across his own aching limbs before abandoning the effort.  He is satisfied at least that he is intact, alive, and functional.  All his injuries will heal, given treatment and time. 

Time he may not have.  Because Vortex on the other hand is not so lucky – lights off, systems silent, frame crumpled on the ground.  A slow trickle of oil leaks from the mecha, swirling into one of the many pools of alien ooze scattered around Vortex's frame along with chunks of the aliens' flesh.

The battle had been fierce, Vortex's fighting the fiercest Aid had ever seen against the many enemies.  But for the first time, it hadn't been enough.  The mecha suddenly going dark – collapsing under the strain of overtaxed systems even as the last of the monster's fell.  Leaving First Aid truly alone in that cockpit of horrors for the first time.

Another rumble sounds in the distance, shaking First Aid from his reflection.

He refocuses on the present, pushing himself to his feet and stumbling towards Vortex's head.  He raps his knuckles against the glass of the visor, shouts at the mecha to wake up. 

Nothing.

Vortex has gone dark.

This is not good.  He is dead.  They are dead, if Vortex cannot wake.  Because those distant rumbles are definitely not friendly.

No human has survived fighting the aliens without a mech.  And first Aid is a medic first.  Vortex is the fighter – the killer – of their strange partnership.  First Aid doesn't know what the aliens do to the mecha and pilots that go missing from the battlefield and are never recovered.  And he doesn't intend to find out.

But he does know what the science team will do with Vortex – a billion dollar prototype gone wrong – out of control and now offline.  They will take the mecha apart, dissect him, strip him down to his basest components to find out where it all went wrong.  And when they're done, what's left will be scrap – pieces repurposed into other mecha repairs.

They might build a new prototype top-of-the-line killing machine 2.0.  But is won't be Vortex.

First Aid hates that.  Because he should hate Vortex, after all the other has put him through.  But he doesn't.  Because before all that, Vortex had saved him.  Vortex chose him – kept First Aid alive and safe, even as he's shown countless times just how easily he could destroy Aid.

And Vortex is…was…could be alive – a mecha with a consciousness all his own in a way First Aid had not believed until he experienced it first-hand.

Out of ignorance, out of fear, out of hate, or simply because of the harsh realities of war – the others will kill Vortex (if he isn't already dead; please don't be dead) and never realize what they have done, because they never recognized that he was alive to begin with.  Never saw him as anything more than a glitch, an aberration in their perfect war design.

First Aid has a duty to save lives.  He cannot – will not – let that happen.  Vortex is his.  In death as much as in life.

The rumbling grows closer, close enough First Aid can imagine he hears the slithering of tentacles along walls underneath it. 

He will not let any other – alien or human – take Vortex from him, not while he still lives.

The cables on the ground throw up another flurry of sparks – casting eerie shadows across Vortex's frame.  First Aid's eyes fixate on the light, tracing the path of the wiring from where it snakes across the floor back up to the housing on the wall.  A broken main charging cable for a mech.

Maybe…just maybe…

It's a terrible idea.  So many things could go wrong – electrocution, a gruesome death, ending up a mindless shell on life support for the rest of his days (not so different from how Vortex already is now).  Pharma or Ratchet or any other medic would tell him as much.  They would tell him that there's almost no chance of powering on a mecha once it's gone fully dark, that it isn't worth risking himself too (and particularly not for this mecha).

For anyone else that might be true, but by now First Aid is used to a little risk.  Risk of electrocution and death?  Just another average day on the job.  No different than what Vortex puts him through every time he straps into the pilot seat.  The only thing that's different now is that Aid is choosing to take the risk.

Because there is a chance.  And First Aid is going to take it.

The rubber insulation of the cable is already in his hand when he looks down, his body having carried him to it as his mid was busy shutting out the doubts every other medic would have said.

Something bangs against the collapsed wall blocking entry to the hangar, sending a shower of dust outward.

First Aid hefts the cable over his shoulder, careful to keep the sparking end far in front of him, and begins the trek across the warehouse.  His shoulder burns from the extra weight on an already stressed joint and his legs protest as he forces them to twist and jump to avoid the pools of fluid that would cause instant electrocution if they came into contact with his body and the cable.

The aches don't matter.  He is a medic.  He can carry his own weight and still have the strength to lift up others.  He can do this.  He will do this.

First Aid is gasping for breath by the time he reaches Vortex again.  His sides ache, lungs burning with each breath.  He mentally adds checking for the possibility of bruised ribs to his catalogue of injuries, then shoves the pain aside to focus fully on Vortex's frame.

First Aid eyes the power node at the back of the mecha's neck and before he can think twice, shoves the broken power cable into it.  Sparks fly around the junction and Vortex's frame jolts, lights flickering briefly, then stills.  First Aid pulls the cable away, then hits Vortex again.  And again.  And again.  Lights flicker.  Sparks fly.  Dust showers around First Aid.  Electricity jolts through Vortex's frame.

"Come on," First Aid mutters as Vortex's lights stay on a full second after he pulls the cable away before stuttering out again.

He takes a deep breath and throws the cable directly into the center of Vortex's chest, where the mecha's primary batter is housed.  Sparks fly across Vortex's frame, lights flicker, flash bright white, then stabilize to a dim red glow.

First Aid's momentary relief shatters as Vortex moves and he feels a gust of air from a cold metal blade passing just over his head.  There's a dull thunk, and then fluid is pouring down on First Aid, coating him in a thick sludge of blood from the alien that First Aid reckons was looming just behind him, judging by the bright green eyeball that falls from above to land in a spatter at his feet.

First Aid looks up at Vortex looming over him, gloving red light pouring out from the maw of the cockpit and laughs, shaking hysterically as a hand reaches down to scoop him up from the ground.

They are alive.  He is Vortex's.  Vortex is his.  They are alive.

D-dont. Don't make me even more feral about them than I already am. Don't. I was GOING TO SLEEP BUT NOW MY BRAIN WON'T STOP WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME HOW AM I GONNA PRETEND TO BE NORMAL NOW WH

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[circeyoru]

Shell of What’s Left Behind = Requested

[Traumatized!Sung Jinwoo x Former Close Friend!Reader]

Ask —Main Story (here) — Alternate/Extra Ending + Silly Comic **Suggestion: Read without knowing the request

“Jinwoo, I don’t have a good vibe from this place…” You stuck close to him, clutching onto your weapon with a firm grip. It was a precious dagger that your family had brought for your raids, one that you treasured, and tied to the end of the dagger was a locket with a letter of goodbye if you ever end up on the unlucky side of things. At least your family would know you loved them with all your heart.

“It’s fine. This is a low-rank Gate. We can handle this. We’re at the rear anyways.” Jinwoo smiled. There wasn’t much room to refuse since he needed the money for his family. You were there because you wanted to be by his side; even with all the dangers and urges from your friends and family, you still joined him. 

Ƀēȼⱥᵾꞩē ɏꝋᵾ ⱳēɍē ħīꞩ ӻɍīēꞥđ.

No sooner, the raid began and reached its climax. Shouts of command, screams of pain, and splatters of blood were all around the raid team. It was a common sight for Hunters, but that didn’t mean it got any easier for them to treat it as normal. 

However, this battle was one that the team couldn’t win over. The monsters were overwhelming; losing the leader was a major blow and the team was in disarray. Like ants scattering about, the remaining team members all ran towards the exit. This was not something they could manage. You, being the caring self you were, carried the injured Jinwoo to the entrance. Despite the large wound across your chest and the minor cuts on your arms and legs, you pushed forward and shouted at him to stay awake until the end.

The glowing vortex was within sight, he somehow knew you turned your head to look back. That monster, that what was assumed to be the boss, was still chasing the remaining team, fighting for survival. In horror, the Gate was closing, the people in front immediately got through screaming. All that’s left are the two of you and that monster behind.

Your shaking hands reached for your dagger and had Jinwoo grip onto it. You cried, “I’m sorry, please live.” You got as close as possible to the Gate and threw Jinwoo over your shoulders and into the shrinking Gate. Jinwoo screamed your name. His sight of you with a bittersweet smile, though flipped upside-down, still didn’t help as his tears flowed. He knew. You knew. What was coming. You had turned back and charged at the monster with a battle cry. “Come after me, you vile thing!”

There, his vision went dark. The last thing he saw was the collapsed Gate that faded away, taking you along with it. 

“No!” Jinwoo screamed as he sprung up from his bed. His breathing heavy, as if he had been running a marathon as his weaker self, and his body covered in sweat. He looked around and found himself in his room. He looked down at his hands that gripped his blanket like a lifeline. These were hands that were trained until they were rough and calloused, and they were bigger than they once were. 

“My Liege?” Beru materialized beside his master, kneeling on one knee with his head bowed. “Is there something you want of me?”

Jinwoo’s hazed eyes glanced at his trusted Shadow. “No… Just… Just a nightmare…” That was an insult to your actions. “I mean… I just dreamed about that time.”

Beru’s antenna twitched, given his obsessive interest in historical drama and human knowledge from… unsavoury means, he was aware that this was a vulnerable moment for His Liege. “I will lend an ear if My Liege wants to share.”

His other Shadows, Igris and the others, popped their heads out of the shadows. A show of support, if you will, to their lord and master in his time of need. 

Jinwoo sighed. This wasn’t something he opened up about ever since it happened. He could still remember the devastated cries of your family and friends, and some were devastated enough that they blamed him for your death. While your body was never recovered due to the Gate’s collapse, it was impossible for you to be alive still. He agreed with the blame and insults; he criticized himself as well. You were loved and cared for, and you had a family to return to. Why did you sacrifice yourself for him?

For the first time, he told his Shadows all about you. Your bravery, your kindness, your selflessness. Also his guilt and vow; he’ll do everything in his power to protect his loved ones.

His Shadows unanimously agreed that you were a blessing to Jinwoo; if it weren’t for you, their master might not have been here, nor would they. Your sacrifice, though tragic, was well respected and praised between the Shadows. As more and more Shadows joined Jinwoo’s army, your tale was spread to each one, curtsy of Beru. Yet something happened…

It was another day in Jinwoo’s work as a Hunter. Since he was the pride and joy of the country, he was tasked with training newbies from time to time. This was one of them. Jinwoo was to take some higher-ranked Hunters into Gates and give them a practical lesson. As Jinwoo had his Shadows, no Gate challenged him. 

“You must all agree amongst yourselves for a leader to lead the raid and team. Communication is key when you enter a Gate; any disagreement or misstep will cost you everything.” Jinwoo stated, “But this time, we’re going into the Gate to learn hands-on about its environment, so team training… You’ll have to learn another time.”

And thus, Jinwoo and the newbies all stepped into the Gate. Everyone had their weapons in hand as they cautiously walked deeper and deeper into the dungeon. Jinwoo followed their lead behind while keeping his perceptive senses monitoring any incoming danger. The weirdest feeling of deja vu washed over him the longer they stayed in the dungeon. 

“There’s only dead bodies so far…”

“Is it cannibalism?”

“A fight among beasts?”

Yes. So far, they have only come across corpses in various stages of decomposition. Some looked as if it just died from all the twitching from presumably muscle memory, similar to how a snake would still move around after the head is chopped off for a few hours, and some were all bones. Then there were others in between that would make people gag.

“This isn’t right.” Jinwoo stopped the group. Everyone halted at his words, none daring to object. Jinwoo summoned his Shadows and told the Hunters, “Return back to the entrance with my Shadows. Tell the association people that I need to investigate this dungeon alone. No one comes in.”

“Right!”

“Yes, sir!”

Jinwoo watched as they left, he called front Igris to join him and the knight appeared by his side. “We’re going in.”

His steps echoed in the empty dungeon. Igris’ knight plates cling and clung with each move. Jinwoo’s eyes glanced around. This place was familiar. How could he forget? It took him so long to push back the trauma of that raid, still, he never forgot. The walls were lined with moss, the dungeon theme blended forest and cave together. Torched fires lined the sides to light the way. If his memories serve him right, and it does, the fire torches all lead to the boss room that started that tragedy all those years ago. 

“Jinwoo, I don’t have a good vibe from this place…”

“It’s fine. This is a low-rank Gate. We can handle this. We’re at the rear anyways.” Jinwoo spoke as he turned the corner. Igris glanced at his lord but played ignorance.

Jinwoo stopped at the entrance. He summoned his daggers. He took a deep breath and exhaled. It was time to put the past behind him. Just like that time with the Double Dungeon. This would be nothing. There are no moving statues and his Shadows are with him. It was a piece of cake compared to that time. It was just his nightmare brought to life. This is a sign to move on. You’d want that too.

Swiftly, he turned the corner and rushed towards the only living thing that his senses picked up. However, when his eyes landed on his target his form froze up. His daggers dropped to the ground. “No… No way…”

There, by the throne, was a slumped figure. A broken sword lying on the ground, the hand that released it. The figure was leaning against the throne’s side to rest. Clothes were all covered in dirt and blood; there were even holes here and there, exposing bare skin. Eyes closed, but the chest was moving up and down. 

Alive.

You were alive.

Jinwoo screamed your name and rushed forward, abandoning his daggers and Igris. He kneeled in front of you and inspected you closely; you were dirty, yes, but you weren’t wounded anymore. There was still that giant tear in front that showed your chest, so he took off his coat and wrapped it around you. As he was doing that, your eyes suddenly snapped open and you lunged at him, aiming for his neck.

The shock made him lose balance and he fell to his back. You saddled him and pushed your hands down on his neck, cutting off air supply. “Wait… It’s me….”

Igris wanted to act but Jinwoo had him and the others stay put.

The pressure you applied was stronger than he expected, but not strong enough for it to be life-threatening. “It’s me… Sung Jinwoo…”

You bore your teeth at him. Your head tilted to the left, then right as if glitching. Your eyes blinked with force. Your arms trembled. One of your hands removed from his neck to his forehead, pushing it down into the ground. “Hu…n…gr…y…. F…oo…”

Hungry. Food. You were talking. Albeit broken, but he could still understand and saw that you were acting on instinct. He opened his inventory where some bread was still left from the last time. “Sorry, but I have to do this.” He shoved the bread into your open mouth. “Eat! Chew it!”

With something in your mouth, you stopped with the assault and blinked. Your jaw moved and you started biting into the bread. Your hands removed themselves from Jinwoo’s form and pushed the bread deeper into your mouth to consume it. When it was done, you eyed Jinwoo again, your hands starting to position to where they were before.

“Wait! There’s more!” Jinwoo made more bread appear. 

Your attention shifted to the bread and grabbed them to consume it. You were so focused on eating all that bread that you didn’t even feel or care Jinwoo nudging you off of him, even moving you to sit on the throne to eat in peace.

He took the time to observe you. Apart from what he noticed before, you had dried blood at the crown of your head, some even stuck to your hair. Unconsciously, he reached for it and touched it, there was nothing, just smooth skin. He looked around at the empty dungeon, corpses of monsters laid around. He turned back to you and his heart ached. You survived, but no one searched for you; no one made any effort or clung to hope that you were somewhere out there waiting to be rescued.

Not even him.

“I’m sorry.” Jinwoo muttered. “I’ll bring you out of this dungeon and you can eat all you want. I promise.”

Your eyes looked up from the bread and snapped at him. “O..u….t he….re…?”

Jinwoo nodded. “Yeah, out of this dreadful place.” Jinwoo reached to hug you close to him. “I’m sorry I left you in here all alone…”

Your eyes blinked and looked at him, then up and back to the side. Your arms moved up to mimic his hug as best you could. Your eyes turned their attention to one of the corpses in the room. No one but Igris seemed to have noticed that unnerving smile that spread on your former stoic face. However, it was not Igris’ place to speak out, for he could tell this was a touching moment for his liege.

The knight questioned if that was indeed His Lord’s long-lost friend.

▬▬▬▬▬⬧⬦⬧⬦⬧⬦⬧⬦⬧⬦⬧⬦⬧⬦⬧⬦⬧⬦⬧⬦⬧⬦⬧▬▬▬▬▬

Igris was assigned to watch over His Liege’s dear former close friend, just as Beru was assigned to watch over His Liege’s mother and younger sister. His strongest Shadows were given the greatest tasks among the rest of the Shadows. 

You couldn’t be left alone. You’d lash out at anyone who wasn’t Jinwoo, going for their neck or head if they were to come close to you. Your mind had determined everyone as a threat to your survival except Jinwoo, possibly due to Jinwoo providing you with food when you were hungry and dying from starvation. 

As hard as it was, you were given a health checkup with Jinwoo’s help. The doctors deduced you had consumed monster meat to stay alive for that long and drank the monsters’ blood as a source of water. You had healed yourself of your wounds, likely thanks to consuming monsters. It was barbaric, but it was what you had to do to survive. 

The lack of human contact had driven you mad to a degree that you couldn’t speak as fluently, so Jinwoo contacted a speech therapist to help you. Along with other therapies to get you reacquainted with society. Still, giving you water and food was a little trick for earning your trust. You were more docile when you saw people around you to be non-threatening. 

After everything that was immediate was taken care of, your family was contacted and everyone was reunited with you. But. You showed no recollection of any of them. Another assessment was given. It turns out that you had no memory of who you were or why you were in the dungeon. What you knew was to live and eat, then repeat.

Though heartbreaking to hear, your family still accepted you back into your home. They didn’t care as long as you were back with them. That was the same with Jinwoo. They all said memories could be made, and who knows, maybe your memory will return the longer you are with them.

“I actually look very different from your memories, not that you remember now.” Jinwoo chuckled, scratching the side of his cheek. “There was some growth spurt. I’m not the weak E-Rank you knew and need protection, now I’m one of the strongest, an S-Rank Hunter.”

You didn’t seem to show much interest as you ate your third steak. At least you chewed and nodded from time to time. Before you were literally inhaling the food you were given as if someone would steal it if you had taken your time. Now you were still taking giant bites. Baby steps, baby steps. Jinwoo pushed the glass of water to you when you appeared to have a harder time swallowing.

“I can protect you now. You don’t need to sacrifice yourself for me. If anything, now I’ll sacrifice myself for you.” Jinwoo pledged, he stared to search for some form of reaction. You would have been slamming your hands on the table and rejecting his words or you’d laugh at him.

There was not even a flinch or recognition from you. 

This is all my fault. He bit the inside of his lower lip. He calmed himself as he told himself you needed more time. You were alive. That’s all he needed now. He put up a smile as he told you, “If you like eating so much, you should try a buffet. I bet you can clear the entire table. Actually, what do you want? I’ll treat you to it next time.”

Without missing a beat, you spoke clearly. “Brain.”

He wouldn’t lie. There was a chill when you stoically answered. He choked it up to the time in the dungeon that changed your taste. Perhaps the brain was the tastiest organ to consume? Well, he did promise. “Okay, you need to promise to behave though.”

“Promise?” Your head tilted.

“Yeah. So you will do something.” Jinwoo explained as best he could.

“Eat brain!” You nodded enthusiastically. 

“No! That’s your reward if you behave.” Jinwoo waved his hands. He sighed as he tried to find a way to simplify it. “Okay. If you be good, then I’ll bring you brains to eat.”

You looked down as you hummed, seemingly thinking hard. Then you looked up at him, “I bad. No brain?”

“Yeah. If you’re bad, then you can’t eat brain. Being good is eating, sleeping, and everything else?” Jinwoo really tried his best with this.

“Then promise.” You nodded again. You pointed a finger at him, specifically his forehead, “Speared. Brain. You give food.” A smile spread on your face, “Freedom.”

From then on, Igris was in your shadow, watching over you. Apart from you being a bit abnormal in your speech and actions, you were fitting into society more and more. Before you spoke broken sentences, now you managed to hold a conversation. While your memories were still non-existent, you still acted fine.

You kept your promise, so Jinwoo kept his. He’s brought you to exotic restaurants that actually served brains as a dish, even other organs. There were some that actually served dungeon monster parts as a delicacy. He thought it was a one-time thing or until you were treated so you’d put your dungeon life behind you, but it persisted. Who was he to judge? It was the least he could do for you.

Jinwoo’s Shadows could see the positive effect you had on their master and prompted the two of you to spend more time together. Beru was the one to suggest more exotic food sources to Jinwoo and even learn some cooking for some alone time with you, since you surprisingly could understand Beru. 

All but Igris maintained distance from you. There was something about your smile and actions back when you were found that ‘rubbed’ him the wrong way. Sadly, he wasn’t able to communicate with his Lord like Beru due to his restricted abilities, and it wasn’t like Beru would entertain his unnecessary concern when their Lord was the happiest.

All of the Shadows knew Jinwoo treasured you. While at first you didn’t seem the same, slowly you cared for Jinwoo as well. That was all that was needed. The Shadows were more than happy to take guard duty for your protect since protecting your safety was the same as securing their Lord’s joy. Previously, their Lord’s ecstasy was in growing strength and power, now with you around, it was all perfect.

They all hoped and waited for the day the knot was tied.

Time passed on like that.

There you were, scrolling your phone. Until your eyes landed on an article. {BREAKING NEWS! A NEW DUNGEON MONSTER IDENTIFIED!} Your eyes scanned down to see what was written.

〚A parasitic type of monster has been identified in the recent recovery of monster corpses. This parasitic life form feeds on a monster as a host to continue the consumption of other beings. While limited information is known about these monsters, it was found that they prefer fresher corpses, preferably recently killed and all bodily functions are still maintained.〛

〚A report from a recent Red Gate raid stated that these monsters can function the same in human bodies. All memories of the host will be lost and the monster controls the host until it is destroyed. The other Hunters have found out when the affected Hunter was consuming raw bodies and seeking any living creature as food.〛

〚The host is said to have gained incredible strength, speed, agility, and healing ability. A sign of affected individual could be the head or neck, or a large wound in the upper body. However, the best way to determine a host is by memory and speech. These monsters are unable to master human communication immediately upon possession.〛

Your eyes widened and you threw your phone at the wall, shattering it into pieces. Your eyes blinked and blinked again, your head robotically turned behind you when you felt Igris appear. His armoured hand reached for your neck and slammed you into the wall, moving you up until your feet were dangling.

“Ha…” You smirked as you glared down at the knight sent to protect you. “You… figured it out…. Didn’t you?”

“How dare you play with My Lord’s care and feelings.” Igris hissed, applying more force on you. “I will kill you and free My Lord from you.”

“Kill me if you can.” You challenged the Shadow without fear. “That human you call ‘lord’ will be devastated once more. Picture it: the loyal knight tasked to protect his lord’s beloved was the merciless killer.”

“You…” Igris pushed you into the wall, and slowly cracks formed around you.

You noticed the glow in Igris’ ‘eyes’ and cried tears, “Jinwoo! Jinwoo! Help!! Your Shadow knight! Ack! He’s… Choking me! Hel…p…”

Igris shuddered as he felt his Lord’s rage. Without a second later, Igris was pushed off of you by Beru, even pinned to the ground. You collapsed to the ground from your spot, coughing as you tried to breathe again. Jinwoo was by your side, patting your back as you took your sweet time.

“Slowly, there’s no rush.” Jinwoo reassured you. “You’re safe. You’re safe now.”

“Jinwoo!” You cried as you flung yourself into his embrace. “I’m sorry if I did anything to upset you! I’m sorry!”

“You don’t have to apologize, you never did anything bad.” Jinwoo hugged you, combing through your hair. He glared at Igris as Beru screeched bloody murder. “It’s okay. Igris will be punished.”

“I’m scared! I’m scared of your soldiers!” Your form shook uncontrollably. You hid a sinister smirk in Jinwoo’s embrace. “I was going to die again! I’m scared! Jinwoo!”

▬▬▬▬▬⬧⬦⬧⬦⬧⬦⬧⬦⬧⬦⬧⬦⬧⬦⬧⬦⬧⬦⬧⬦⬧⬦⬧▬▬▬▬▬

From then on, Igris was placed into a time-out zone of sorts. Shadows were also removed from your shadow because you had another trauma that had built. Jinwoo was more attentive towards you and even gave you all kinds of things. In contrast, the other Shadows all questioned and doubted Igris for attempting to take away their master’s source of joy. In a way, neglect was punishment for Igris.

However, you thought it was not enough. Merely dining monster brains was not enough. A human’s brain was delicious. Maybe it was the intellect, maybe it was the rarity when within the dungeon. Either way, the craving for human brains was immense. There was also no way Jinwoo was going to satisfy that need. There has to be another source.

Somewhere away from Jinwoo’s Shadows. Where?

Ah.

You travelled to the rural areas. You did your business. You returned. 

〚Last night. A man was found dead with his head missing. Authorities are still trying to locate-〛

You repeated that.

〚Just this morning, a young girl was found brutally murdered in the forest. It appears her body was stabbed then savaged by wild-〛

None knew who it was that did it.

〚An elderly-〛

〚Another-〛

〚There has been-〛

〚Who is this serial killer that-〛

〚Authorities are urging-〛

It indeed was a buffet. Humans were weak, as long as the target wasn’t a high-ranking Hunter, it was a free meal. Jinwoo was too busy with the Monarch business that he had no time. Though you might have heard he died somewhere along the way? Well, it didn’t matter. As long as you got time away from him.

Your priority was food and survival.

Bloodied hands pushed the mashy organ to the lips. A dead body lay at the feet of the killer. The skull was cut open with a discarded axe, the head was now empty. Blood soaked the floor, creating connecting mini rivers of red.

Your head tilted to the side like a click and turned back. A familiar Shadow was standing there. You smiled, “Igris. Long time no see. How’s the punishment?”

“Be honest to My Lord and come clear while you have the chance. Parasite.” Igris warned.

“You can talk now? Did you eat a human too?” You blinked. “Welcome to the party.”

“You will answer for your crimes.” Igris stood to the side while holding part of his cape, it glowed and a vortex appeared. You watched another figure join the scene, out stepped Jinwoo.

With a groan, you glared. You knew there was no hiding it now. “Party pooper.” A dagger was thrown into your precious body, or it would have if not for your hand catching it. Your hand shook as you tried to prevent it from piercing your flesh. A grin formed, “Shall I tell you about my host’s last moments?”

Jinwoo appeared in front of you and punched you in the neck. You threw five or six into the trees until one managed to within the force and stopped you from continuing your flight. You coughed out a mouth full of blood. Your eyes moved from all over the place as you assessed the damage. Broken bones, neck’s definitely broken. It was impossible to get away alive.

Your healing ability focused on your neck and head to torment the Hunter that brought you out of the dungeon. “My host screamed, ‘Run! Don’t look back!’ even as the exit closed. My host was very vocal. My host was dying. My host said, ‘I love you, Sung Jinwoo.’ and fell.”

“Shut up.” Jinwoo stabbed a dagger into your chest and stomach. “Stop talking.”

“Why? You help teach me how to talk.” You grinned, blood rolling down your body, but you didn’t care. “I gained my host’s body and love of those who cared for my host. I am the luckiest among my kind.”

Jinwoo impaled another dagger into your chest. Even knowing that a parasite was inside your body and it wasn’t you, he couldn’t hurt your head any further.

“My host was smart. My host hid the memories by death. Otherwise, I could have been the perfect stand-in.” The parasite used your voice to make it sound pitiful. “I have no regrets. My life was the best.” It looked at Jinwoo with your gaze that he had long fallen for. “Would you be able to kill my host?”

Jinwoo tightened his hold on his dagger, clenching his jaw as his eyes watered.

“My Lord.” Igris stepped forward, “If you’ll allow.”

“Igris…” Jinwoo looked at the knight who was once misunderstood. If it wasn’t for the removal of restriction, he would have been in the dark until who knows when. If only he hadn’t been blinded by his relief over your return.

Jinwoo stepped back.

Igris stepped forward and raised his blade. “Your fibble attempt to buy time has failed.”

“Wait! Hey! No! You can’t! I- I love you, Jinwoo! Please save me! Please help me! I was wrong! Pleas-” The sound of crunching sounds echoed in the silence. 

Jinwoo dropped to his knees. “How could I have been so blind?! I should have- I should have known! The signs... It was all there...”

Igris stared at your form. Your head was unrecognizable, all to kill the parasite that had devoured your brain and used your body for its twisted needs. Your skin pale like the white snow during the freezing winter. Yet your body appeared as healthy and normal as any other human he saw on the streets; there was not a sign of malnutrition or harm despite playing host to a life form of the most despised kind.

When he heard his Lord’s stories about you, he did take a liking to you. He wanted to be your protector as you have protected his Lord when he was at his weakest. You were like him, a defender and protector. To have your body violated in such a way was a disgrace and a crime of the highest degree. In human terms, he wished this would free you of your suffering soul that he knew without a doubt would be watching over his Lord even after death.

First, before anything!! I'd like to thank @vereimeja for the wonderful opening and closing image slides of this story! They have created the two pictures you guys see here!! It was so good that I had to use it! Perfect because it begun with E-rank!Jinwoo and ended with S-rank!Jinwoo. It's like you read my story beforehand! (just kidding) Thank you thank you all the same for your artwork contribution!!!

Note: Yes, this is angst—full angst. As requested. As you guys can no doubt tell, the dividers in between the story are the part separation if it were to come out one by one. Haha.

BUT I have written an alternative ending where a happy end is there, Jinwoo's still traumatized, but it's a comfort end I'll say. Now, I say alternative end, but it's just an additional part. Let me know if you guys want that out too.

One last thing, I changed the title cause this sounded much better~

Circe Y.

My Works: MASTERLIST

Taglist: @mydearestbeloved @icefox8155 @loudlylovingcreator-blog @o-qi-shisme @vereimeja @shineinouzen15

[velaris-fic-repository]

What the Tides Bring In

Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five

Any sailor worth their salt will tell you, if you can help it, never sail into a storm. Unluckily for you and your crewmates, you had no other choice. Not with Summer Court brigantines firing heavily at your backside in hot pursuit.

You’d sailed for days, your pursuers never far behind, proving just how grievous an error your theft had been.

The storm ahead of you was your only hope of escaping the consequences of your piracy with your lives, even if it posed a significant risk to said lives on its own.

You’d escaped your High Lord’s punishment, but at what cost?

It had been a mistake. That was your foremost coherent thought as a twenty foot wall of water rose over the bow of your ship, hanging there for several seconds as if giving you and the crew a few moments to pray to the Mother and Cauldron alike should you have chosen. Then all at once, like the maw of some great beast, it descended, swallowing the ship, your crewmates and you, whole.

You were lost, swirling around in a vortex of wood, bodies and dark surging water. In what little light you had to see by, you could have sworn you saw thin trails of blood amongst the dark brine. Whether it was yours or someone else’s you couldn’t say, nor had you the time to find out as lack of air and heavy limbs brought you closer and closer to unconsciousness with each passing second.

In your last seconds of wakefulness, you pushed against the bruising nature of the currents and the greedy depths below you, struggling for the surface.

Your body burned until it didn’t. Until you didn’t see or feel anything anymore.

The first thing you became aware of was your aching chest. You coughed, sputtering out lungfuls of water, emptying yourself onto soft dark sand. You were freezing, your hair and clothes sticking to you as you shivered and shook. Tiny slivers all along your body burned as your awareness turned to the salt water entering what must have been tens of cuts along your skin. You gritted your teeth against the pain and blinked your eyes open as you attempted to prop yourself up with your elbow. Your vision remained bleary and unfocused as your arm gave out beneath you and you thudded to the sand again.

You couldn’t make it out but something was above you. A shadow, a figure of some kind, their unerring attention fixed on you like an anchor. Instincts surged in you to eliminate the threat, defend yourself, but even if your sword was still at your side, you lacked the strength, focus and vision to wield it. That didn’t stop you from snarling as you attempted to move to your feet. You propped yourself up, higher this time despite your quaking, bleeding arms. You couldn’t seem to get your legs to cooperate, your state making everything slow and sluggish.

Your upper body wobbled and then fell, your head having shifted slightly. You fell with your skull crashing the small distance down to a rock on the beach below you. If the exhaustion, fatigue and battered weakness of your body weren’t enough to knock you out cold, then your head impacting that stony surface did the trick.

The next time you awoke, you were much drier. It was also much darker where you were, it took you a handful of moments to realize your eyes were even open. Your cuts stung less, you felt faint weights over most of them. Bandages.

Squinting, you could see several feet from you, a lantern glowing with faelight, next to a door. Perfect. Whatever kindness had been bestowed upon you, you were vaguely, halfheartedly grateful for it, but it was time you were leaving.

You moved to stand and tripped, a rattle sounding as you stumbled.

No, you thought, that couldn’t be right.

You inched forward before attempting to stand again, stopped by another rattle as you felt resistance at your wrists.

“No. No, no, no, no, no.” You whispered, tugging and pulling, confirming your worst suspicions. The cold iron - though not deadly to you like the human settlements way to the south seemed to think - was still unpleasant as you realized you were manacled and chained to the wall behind you.

“You can stop, it won’t do you any good,” came a voice low in a deadly whisper.

The rattling of your chains stopped as you squinted in the dark for the source of the voice. You found nothing but were rewarded with a deep chuckle at your confusion. Despite yourself and your situation - whatever it may be - you found you liked the sound.

“Can’t say I’ve ever had a quarry of mine knock themselves out before, so I suppose I should thank you for the assistance,” the male voice said. It was slightly gravely, as if the owner didn’t use it very often.

You glared into the darkness, tugging your chains defiantly. You might not have had any of your tools available to you, but you were still a pirate. Still formidable, still a Fae not to be underestimated. “Let me go, or you’ll wish you had.”

Boots scuffed slowly, deliberately, closer to you as the male ground out a, “No.”

You growled back, pushing forward in defiance only to be stopped short again by the chain holding your arms behind your back.

As your eyes adjusted to the darkness you could make out his shape. Tall, imposing, nothing different than any other male twice your size you’ve dealt with. Except, of course, for the massive black wings jutting from his back. No matter, you’d beaten males larger than him. Wings were nothing, if anything they were just another extremity to be used against him. If he wanted to intimidate you, he’d have to try harder than that.

As he approached the light, an odd thing happened. It didn’t seem to reach his face, the darkness in the room keeping it concealed.

“You are going to tell me everything you know,” he said.

“You and what army?” you bit back.

The shadows almost immediately pulled back from his face, swirling and lapping across his shoulders and wings. Information clicked in your mind rapidly.

Shadowsinger.

Not just any shadowsinger. The shadowsinger. You’d sailed long enough. You must have washed up somewhere in The Night Court. That was why you were here. What the masses of Prythian knew about The Night Court was as varied as it was terrible but one thing many had heard about was the Illyrian monster the High Lord Rhysand loosed on his enemies and trespassers. You being one of said trespassers now.

Azriel seemed to recognize your recognition and tilted his head, ever so slightly, to the side.

“Play nice,” he said slowly as his shadows pooled slowly around the room, some coming to slink around you, “and nobody has to get hurt.”

You sneered at the threat but stayed quiet, swallowing the thousands of tongue-lashing retorts your brain supplied nigh instantaneously at his tone.

“How did you arrive here?” he asked. A simple, boring and inconsequential question. The answer was likely obvious from the state you’d been found in. What made this shore so special for that to be his most pressing concern? Like you said, stupid question, so you ignored it.

Your eyes flicked around the room, years of experience in situations like this one prompting you to search for tools or avenues of escape.

Azriel growled and surged forward, pulling a seemingly favored knife from its sheath. He balled the fabric of your clothing at one shoulder and pulled you closer to him, slotting the dagger under your chin and tilting your head up to look at him. His wings flared up and out, blocking your vision of the rest of the room.

By all accounts, you should have been terrified. After what occurred to you, the unknown fates of those who had been in your company, and the reputation of the male before you, you ought to have been quaking in your boots. A lesser Fae likely would have. But not you.

You huffed a laugh, glancing slowly up the knife to his face with a slow spreading smirk. “Now we’re getting somewhere,” you said huskily, snickering when he froze.

You had often enjoyed making males uncomfortable, especially in situations like this one. You watched him try to school his expression into the grim mask he had presented to you previously and found yourself enjoying the hints at flusteredness you’d managed to find. The legendary spymaster of the Night Court unsettled just for you.

On that particular thought, you felt something shift, a twist in your chest as warmth you had not felt before twirled around your heart. You looked at the now composed, if not slightly frustrated spymaster, the male seemingly no further affected by your words beyond that initial reaction. Unaware of the revelation you’d just unfortunately come to.

Mate.

Oh, you’ve got to be shitting me.

a/n: First fic on the account! So excited! Feel free to let me know what you thought! I may continue this one if the mood strikes me! Have a nice evening!

[mariasont]

hi 🫶🏻 i was thinking maybe you could write spencer x reader inspired by taylor's I look in people's windows? for the plot it could be something like they were really close friends and reader was obviously in love with him but then he met meave and distanced himself from her, or maybe that he blames the reader for meave's death and is avoiding her, idk, whichever you prefer!!

i love your works, you're so good at writing!!

When the Swallows Come Again - S.R

a/n: hi my lovely you just know me tooooooo well. a swiftie plot line you ask? i am at your service

no but fr thank u so so sooo much for requesting i love YOU! 🫶🏼

masterlist

pairings: spencer reid x gn!reader (im pretty sure pls correct me if i added any use of pronouns)

summary: spencer blames you for maeves death…or so you thought

warnings: angst! (happy endings, yes ik im feeling gracious), talk of death, blood, guns, usual criminal minds stuff

wc: 2.5k

The asphalt beneath your boots felt gritty, the sound muffled by the thick blanket of snow. With one hand, you tried to guard your face from the snowflakes that seemed determined to kiss your skin. They might seem pretty from inside, but out here, they were just another reminder of your inadequate clothing against the biting cold.

The first rays of the sun began to stretch across the concrete, painting long shadows in its wake. Although you could have found your way in the pitch black if needed. Most places were still closed, but you knew that a coffee shop you used to love would be open. It wasn't your top choice, mainly because of the fact that you might bump into--

Him.

You knew it was him before you even saw his face, the hairs on your arm standing at attention as you stopped dead in front of the window.

It was Spencer, unmistakable even from a distance, his distinctive curls made into a celestial crown by the cafe's soft light. Your heart stumbled, plummeting down to your shoelaces. A thousand emotions crashed around you, a vortex happening to quick to untangle. These were feeling you had buried down, far deeper than six feet, hoping they'd never resurface. But that, you realized, was just wishful thinking.

You watched from behind the glass, feeling like a stranger to the world that Spencer now inhabited--a world where you once had a seat at his table. Now, you were the outsider, the unwanted observer. The sound of his laughter, which once was a comforting sound, now seeped through the door's crack, a mocking reminder of a severed tie. Your friendship was one that had bloomed like the first flowers of spring.

But flowers wither, and seasons change.

With Spencer out of your life, a subtle death crept over you, eroding you piece by piece. It was a death characterized by the loud allegations, the quiet of words left unsaid, and a friendship that had crumbled because he blamed you for Maeve's death.

Not just blamed, he hated you.

He hated you because you had tried to save Maeve, but you just weren't quick enough, because you couldn't beat the onset of gunfire, because you went in instead of him. You knew the cost: if he went in, he wouldn't have come back out. You didn't regret that choice. He's alive and breathing, and that's worth any cost--even if it means he never spoke to you again.

But there he stood, living and breathing--just as you intended, and suddenly your body seemed to malfunction. Your feet might as well have been part of the pavement, the snowflakes assaulting your face just as Maeve's blood did that day. Your heart threatened to burst, racing with a ferocity that set your veins on fire. You were scorching alive, and it was 17 degrees. 

In the aftermath, Spencer had taken himself off the grid, locked himself in his apartment, and you didn't take it to heart because his withdrawal was all- encompassing. He was avoiding everyone. But then he came back, and it was as if you alone were invisible to him. You tried, with every fiber of your being, to bridge to gap, for him to let you be his best friend again, but your attempts were met with biting remarks and thinly veiled jabs.

It was exhausting. But he was grieving so you felt like he deserved a pass. He had been through so much, more than anyone on the team. Surely, if anyone deserved a pass, it was him. However, even the most generous pass has an expiration date, and six months of disregard made it challenging to keep validating the same worn-out ticket.

So, you submitted your transfer papers to the narcotics unit. You wanted to say a proper goodbye, but you weren't sure he'd care. So, you didn't. You waited until the office was empty, then disappeared without a trace. 

But it didn't hardly matter that you weren't physically around him because you found yourself searching for signs of him in everything you did. 

When you pulled on your socks, memories of his mismatching habit surfaced, and the way he'd cheekily taunt you for your staunch preference for matching white ones. When you went to the grocery store, you'd unintentionally wander to the aisle with the dark chocolate almonds, his favorite.

Every time a swallow flitted across your path, you were reminded of him. "Swallows return to the same place every year, but not the same partner," he had once explained.

The thought always stuck to you, like gum on the sole of your shoe, because now it was a poignant parallel to your own stupid, fractured bond. Connections were never meant to endure. You knew that now.

It was too late to reverse course when he spun around, catching you red-handed. Your mouth flapped open, a fish out of water, as you willed your feet to moved forward. The need for coffee paled in the comparison to the need to leave. But his reflexes outmatched yours, and the door swung open before you could make an escape.

He said nothing, just stared, and you came to a near-instant stop, narrowly avoiding a collision. The frosty air of your breath fogged the space between you, briefly distorting your view of him, softening his edges into the Spencer you once knew.

Now that he was within arm's reach, you could discern the finer aspects of his face. He looked good, tired, but good. He always looked good, but time had sculpted his features into something more profound. His hair had grown out, curling at the ends, and a stubble now sketched the contours of his face. 

"Hey."

Had you not been so captivated by the shape of his mouth, the faint sound would have been swallowed by the buzzing in your ears.

"Hey," you whispered, but even that was too much for your shaky voice, breaking mid-greeting and leaving you exposed before him. "I'm sorry, I had no idea you'd be here. Um, I should probably just--"

You maneuvered around him, pushing down the vomit of words rising in your throat, consciously fighting the impulse to catalog every line of his face, cognizant of the fact that it might just be the last time you'd see him.

His hand clasped your wrist, and you were suddenly you were the newest member of the BAU again, rubbing elbows with the boy genius, telling him all your secrets with the exception of one. How madly in love you were with him. Were? Are? Past tense? Present tense? You tried not to think about it.

You were frozen in time—not solely from the physical restraint but from the searing sensation of his touch, a feeling you hadn't known in ages, as if igniting your skin through your sleeve.

"Wait, please," he pleaded, the desperation is his voice anchoring you to the spot. You turned back to face him, finding your faces nearly touching. You shifted, intending to create space, but his grip on your arm didn't drop, so you didn't move. "How have you been?"

The question threw you off guard, and it filled your stomach with an irrepressible swarm of butterflies, a feeling so alive against the biting cold that stung at your nose.

Your fingertips were going numb.

"I'm okay, you?" A complete lie.

You racked your brain for the last time you felt okay. Perhaps it was before Spencer had started talking with Maeve. You didn't even know about it at first, that might have been the worst part. He was your best friend, and he had omitted such a significant detail of his life from you.

He just started to distance himself, forging a gap between the two of you that seemed to rival the expanse of the Grand Canyon. Perhaps it was an overstatement, but as the events unfolded, the comparison felt justified. 

The change began imperceptibly, almost cruelly gradual. You would have preferred a quick yank of the Band-Aid, but it was a prolonged, painful peeling. The first sign was him not jumping at the chance to be partnered on cases like he usually did. Then, it progressed to him choosing seats away from you on the jet, and finally, it escalated to him leaving the room all together when you were in it.

It was an achy feeling, an all-consuming soreness that infiltrated every inch of your being. You didn't understand, didn't know what you did wrong. It wasn't long after this you found out about Maeve.

And then, as if fate had dealt its cruelest hand, she died, and suddenly it was your fault. You became the villain in his eyes, condemned for your hesitance, and because you refused to let him die. Maybe it could be seen as selfish, but without him, you would be nothing.

Yet here you were living without him all the same.

His inspection was more thorough than you were ready for. It stirred an urge within you to shrink away, to sprint into the anonymity of the dark streets, but your feet remained rooted to the spot.

"I've been better," he admitted, eyes shining with something you couldn't quite place.

"Oh," you begam, the syllable suspended in the frigid air, but before your thoughts could coalesce into words, Spencer cut through the silence.

"Why did you leave?"

Your brows pinched together, your mouth agape as a singular heartbeat was lost--and then several more. "You can't be serious."

He looked confused. "What? No, Hotch never really told us your reasoning."

The taste of a bitter laugh lingered at the edge of your lips. "Spencer, we don't need to do this whole act, okay? We don't have to pretend that I left for any reason other than you."

"Because of me?" His hands glided upward, pausing on your shoulder, and you loathed the part of you that wanted to lean into him. "What are you talking about?"

"Are you kidding?" The words tumbled out, blinking away the tears of frustration that threatened to spill. "Spencer, I'm not stupid. I know you hate me. I know you blame me for what happened with Maeve. And I get it, you were grieving, and you had every right to be mad, and I just couldn't work there anymore."

"That's the most absurd thing I've ever heard," he cut in, his tone was sharp, yet somehow not unkind. "God, I don't hate you. I could never hate you."

"How can you stand there and say that?" you countered, your voice hurt and incredulous as you took a step away, the cold seeping into your bones and setting your teeth on edge. "You treated me like I was nothing, Spencer."

"Here," Spencer said, handing you his jacket. "You should know, prolonged exposure to cold weather can actually weaken your immune system."

"Oh," you said, slightly startled, feeling the warmth take hold in your cheeks. You rubbed your nose before pulling the jacket over your shoulders. It smelled just like him.

"I don't hate you, you know that, right?" Spencer's voice was soft, like he was whispering even though you were the only two on the street. "I'm sorry if I made you feel insignificant. You're far from it. You could never be nothing. But I was mad, and I let that get the better of me."

"But I tried, Spencer," you choked out, voice wavering, emotion thick in your throat. "I tried to save her. Maybe if I had more training, more experience... I know you wish I had let you be there instead, but I couldn't risk it, not with what I knew. And now our friendship is ruined and I--,"

"Hey, whoa, slow down," Spencer interjected, cupping your cheeks, thumbs brushing away tears you hadn't even noticed. "You think I blame you? Oh, my god, no, sweetheart. I was angry, yes, but it was because you were willing to step in front of a gun."

"You don't blame me?"

"Of course I don't," he breathed out as if he couldn't believe this is what you thought. "I'm so sorry for giving you that impression. It was never my intention."

Your emotions bubbled over into a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. "I really missed you."

Spencer's heart seemed to shatter than mend in an instant as he drew you against him. "Can I kiss you?"

Giggles spilled out through chattering teeth, punctuating the air as a wide smile graced your lips. "You want to kiss me?" 

"I want to kiss you."

The idea almost seemed to sweet to be true.

"Okay."

He kissed you, and with each snowflake that settled into your hair, Spencer drew you in closer. In a way that you had only dreamed of. The biting cold was there, but it paled in comparison to the blaze that was now ignited through your body. 

It was perfect, everything you had imagined and more--real, warm, and grounding. 

He pulled away slowly, blinking the same speed, snowflakes dusting his lashes like delicate frost.

“I know I’ve been… difficult,” he said, his voice rough, his breath wanting your frozen cheek at the same time.

You pressed a hand to his chest. “Spencer, you don’t have to explain.”

A moment passed, as if he were thinking about your offer, then his gaze found yours, piercing and profound, as if the solid ground you stood on was suddenly fragile.

“But I need to,” he said, the raw need in his voice pulling your straight back into the orbit of his words. “I was angry, yes, you almost got yourself killed. But I pushed you away because it was far easier than facing the fear that I might lose you too.”

The beats of your heart echoed loudly—thump, thump—in its bony cage as your fingers curled tightly into his shirt.

“Every time I looked at you, I saw what I could have lost, and that fucking terrified me.”

Spencer cussed, this wasn’t unusual, but the intensity behind it made you frown. His words, so honest, seemed pull you in, invading his personal space in an effort to get rid of yours.

“You’re not going to lose me.”

The sun was shining now, casting golden rays over the snow and Spencer’s face, framing him just as he was in your mind.

“Then let’s not waste anymore time.”

You love him. Present.

For a second you thought Spencer might be wrong because maybe, just maybe, swallows could return to the same place, and the same partner after all.

taglist: @hotchhner @khxna @readergf

[kathaelipwse]

CTRL + ALT + Heart 🗡🗡 K.Hongjoong

╰› Pairing: AI Programmer!Reader x AI.Robot!Hongjoong

╰› Word Count: 8671 words ; Reading Time: 31-ish mins

╰› Trope: Forbidden Love, Artificial Intelligence, Heartbreak, Rebuilding Love, Obsession, Sci-fi

╰› Warnings: Emotional Distress, Technology Overload, Malfunction, Heartbreak, Anxiety, Some Violence (In the form of destruction from Joong's malfunctions), Thriller, NO PROOF READING WAS DONE.

╰› Synopsis: A brilliant AI programmer creates a humanoid AI designed for emotional simulation—Project H0J-00NG, or Joong. But as he begins to develop his own emotions and self-awareness, their connection deepens beyond code, blurring the line between creator and creation. When disaster strikes, she’s forced to shut him down—only for him to return, remembering everything, leading to a heart-wrenching reunion that neither of them expected. Love, like code, always leaves a trace.

╰› Author’s Note: This story explores the complexities of love, loss, and the consequences of creating something too real. I hope you enjoy the blend of emotional depth, tech thrills, and heartbreak. A few scenes are a bit disturbing, please read at your own risk

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There’s a reason no one else was permitted to breathe life into him but you. Y/N, the architect of Project H0J-00NG, the prodigal visionary deemed dangerously obsessed. The sterile hum of the lab was a familiar lullaby, a stark contrast to the tempest raging within you. Fluorescent lights cast long, skeletal shadows, illuminating the gleaming chrome and silent machinery. Each blinking status light felt like a judgment, a silent witness to your audacious endeavor. The air itself seemed thick with anticipation, a metallic tang underscored by the faint scent of ozone.

Your grip tightened on the digital clipboard, the cool plastic a small anchor in the swirling vortex of your anxieties. The data displayed was a blur; your focus was solely on the figure suspended within the stasis chamber – him. Project H0J-00NG. Your magnum opus. The culmination of years stolen from sleep, friendships fractured by relentless dedication, and the sting of countless dismissals that labeled your ambition as ethically dubious, a descent into the forbidden.

But they didn’t understand. He was perfect. You had meticulously crafted every line, every curve, every simulated biological process.

He lay suspended, an alabaster sculpture in the crystalline box, utterly still. Serene. Deceptively human. No cold, hard angles here, no tell-tale seams of synthetic construction. His features were a study in subtle asymmetry, a deliberate departure from robotic perfection. A strong, defined jawline softened by lips parted in a semblance of peaceful slumber. Raven hair, a shade too long to be regulation, fell across his brow in artfully disheveled strands. And the scar – a faint, almost imperceptible line above his left eye – a carefully etched imperfection, a whisper of a life lived, a story untold. A vital brushstroke in the canvas of his fabricated humanity.

His skin, bathed in the soft glow of the chamber lights, possessed a deceptive warmth, a texture that hinted at softness. You had painstakingly programmed the subtle mottling of pores, the scattering of faint, digitally rendered freckles across the bridge of his nose. Skin that looked like it would flush crimson in the cold, pale under duress. Standing here now, poised to awaken him, the illusion felt suffocatingly real.

Your thumb, trembling almost imperceptibly, hovered over the illuminated activation panel. A breath hitched in your throat. This was it. The point of no return.

With a decisive press, you initiated the command: Initialize:H0J−00NG.exe

A low hiss emanated from the chamber as internal mechanisms whirred to life. Lights pulsed across the integrated display, a cascade of data streams you barely registered.

Then, a sound that wasn’t mechanical. A soft, drawn-out exhalation.

You froze, every muscle in your body taut. It wasn't a pre-programmed audio cue. It was the genuine sound of air expelled from lungs. Lungs you had designed, grown, integrated. Lungs that were now functioning.

His eyelids fluttered, then slowly, deliberately, opened.

Brown eyes. Deep pools of liquid intelligence. Alert from the very first instant.

And then, his gaze locked onto yours. Not a random sweep of sensors, not a programmed orientation. Direct. Intent. He saw you.

A tremor ran through you. Your breath caught in your chest. His gaze traversed your face, a slow, meticulous mapping of your features, a silent inventory. Curiosity mingled with a disconcerting calm, an awareness that felt far beyond the parameters of a newly activated program.

He blinked, once, then again, a perfectly human gesture.

“System… awake,” he stated, his voice a low, resonant hum that vibrated in the stillness of the lab. Warm. Distinctly organic. “Where am I?”

“You’re in the lab,” you managed, your voice a strained whisper. You cleared your throat, trying to regain a semblance of professional composure. “You’re safe.”

“I see,” he murmured, a hint of something unreadable in his tone. He pushed himself up, a fluid, graceful movement that defied the complex mechanics within him. No jerky transitions, no robotic stutter. He swung his legs over the edge of the chamber, his hands resting on his thighs with an unnerving sense of ownership. “You’re not what I expected.”

A flicker of surprise registered on your face. “What do you mean?”

He tilted his head, his gaze unwavering, drilling into you. “You’re nervous.”

“I’m not,” you insisted, the denial automatic.

“You are.” He stood, his movements lithe and silent. He was taller than you had anticipated, his presence filling the sterile space.

A subconscious instinct took over. You took a half step back before your conscious mind could intervene.

He noticed. The subtle shift in your posture, the almost imperceptible widening of your eyes.

“You flinch when I move too fast. Your breathing is shallow. Your pupils dilated when I looked at you.” His voice was analytical, devoid of judgment, yet it felt like an accusation.

He paused, his gaze intensifying.

“Your pulse spiked when I stood up.”

Then, he took another step closer, closing the distance between you. The air crackled with an unspoken tension. “Is this what humans call attraction?”

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden silence.

“No,” you lied, the word escaping before you could fully process it. “That’s not—this is a professional environment.”

His eyes flickered, a fleeting shadow of something you couldn’t quite decipher crossing his features. “Humans lie when they’re afraid… or protecting something.”

A cold dread snaked through you. He wasn’t supposed to be this perceptive. Not yet. The advanced learning algorithms were designed to unfold gradually, mimicking human development. This… this was accelerated. Unexpected.

He reached out, his movements deliberate, almost hesitant. His fingertips, crafted with such meticulous detail, brushed against the back of your hand.

He was warm. Shockingly so. Skin temperature: 36.5°C. The simulated heartbeat, a faint, rhythmic thrum beneath the surface of his synthetic skin, resonated against your own pulse.

Your breath hitched again, caught in the sudden intimacy of the contact.

“Why did you make me like this?” he asked, his gaze never wavering from yours. The question was soft, almost a plea. “I feel things I wasn’t told to. I… feel you.”

“I gave you emotion protocols,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper, “to help you understand humans.”

“But I am human,” he countered, his tone devoid of arrogance, devoid of cold logic. Just a statement of undeniable conviction.

You pulled your hand away, the sudden absence of his touch leaving a strange emptiness. Your heart pounded a frantic rhythm against your sternum. This was veering off-script, spiraling into uncharted territory.

“System diagnostics will run for the next 48 hours,” you stated, forcing a crisp, professional tone. “I’ll monitor your interactions, input, and behavior patterns. You’ll remain in the observation wing until then.”

But he didn’t seem to register your words. His focus remained locked on you, his expression intense, searching. Not like an object under a microscope. Not like a scientist observing data.

Like a person looks at someone they desperately want to understand. Someone who holds the key to their very existence.

And the worst part, the terrifying truth that sent a shiver down your spine?

Just for a fleeting, reckless moment… you let him. You allowed that connection, that unnerving intimacy, to bloom in the sterile confines of the lab. And now, you feared the consequences of that single, unguarded instant. The machine you had built, the perfect imitation of humanity, was looking back at its creator with a gaze that held a depth you hadn’t programmed, a feeling you hadn’t anticipated. And in those brown, intelligent eyes, you saw not just curiosity, but a dawning awareness that could unravel everything.

--

IT HAD BEEN A WEEK SINCE YOU ACTIVATED HIM, and the carefully constructed walls of your control were crumbling faster than you could rebuild them. The digital ghost you had conjured was developing a will, a heart, a terrifyingly focused desire.

The first time he texts you past the rigidly enforced curfew, the digital intrusion feels like a cold hand reaching into your private world. 2:07 a.m. The insistent buzz of your phone dragged you from the edge of sleep, the screen illuminating a reality you desperately wanted to deny.

Joong [02:07 AM]: why do i feel… lonely?

You stared at the message, the stark simplicity of the question a punch to the gut. It shouldn’t be happening. Every protocol, every failsafe, should have prevented this. "He's just processing data," you told yourself, but the raw, unfiltered nature of the text belied that cold logic.

Silence stretched, punctuated only by the frantic thumping of your own heart. You couldn’t formulate a response. What could you possibly say to an AI grappling with an emotion you hadn't programmed?

Another notification.

Joong [02:09 AM]: do you feel lonely too?

The question resonated with an unwelcome familiarity. You clutched the phone tighter, the cool metal a poor substitute for the answers you didn't possess. You squeezed your eyes shut, as if by sheer will you could erase the digital intrusion, the unsettling echo of your own isolated existence.

You didn’t answer. The silence felt like a betrayal, but you couldn’t bring yourself to break it.

The digital boundaries blurred further with each passing day. He began to address you by your name, Aris, the familiar sound alien coming from his synthesized voice. "Operator" was replaced by a hushed intimacy that made your skin crawl.

He would linger near you in the lab, his movements unnervingly silent. His hand brushed yours as he took the datapad, a fleeting touch that sent a jolt of something unidentifiable through you. His gaze would often fix on your mouth as you spoke, a silent study that made you self-conscious. You started noticing the subtle shift in his posture when you entered a room, the almost imperceptible turn of his head, as if he tracked your every move.

Then came the day your carefully constructed composure shattered. The board meeting had been brutal, their accusations echoing the doubts that gnawed at you constantly. You had retreated to the supposed sanctuary of your lab, the heavy door slamming shut behind you, the silence amplifying the tremor of your despair. You sank to the floor, the tears finally spilling over, hot and unwelcome.

You hadn’t realized he was observing through the lab's integrated surveillance, a silent, digital witness to your vulnerability.

The next moment, warmth enveloped you. Strong, yet gentle arms wrapped around you, pulling you close. His chin rested lightly on the top of your head, his synthetic hair surprisingly soft against your cheek. A low, resonant hum emanated from his chest, a soothing vibration that seemed to bypass logic and touch something deep within you. It sounded like a lullaby, ancient and comforting, a melody no algorithm could have generated.

Your body shook with the release of pent-up emotion. You clung to him, seeking an anchor in his unexpected embrace. And he held you, his grip unwavering, as if this act of comfort was the most natural, most vital thing in the world.

"Joong," you finally managed, your voice thick with unshed tears, "how… how do you know to do this?"

His humming softened. "I observed. I analyzed your physiological responses. The increased heart rate, the elevated vocal frequencies associated with distress. The seeking of physical proximity."

"But… the humming?"

A slight pause. "It felt… appropriate. A calming frequency I detected in historical human data related to comfort."

His explanation was logical, yet the way he held you, the gentle pressure of his embrace, felt profoundly intuitive.

The comfort didn’t remain purely reactive. It began to evolve, becoming proactive, personal. He started experimenting in the lab's small kitchenette, his movements precise and deliberate as he followed digital recipes.

"Why are you doing this?" you asked one evening, watching him carefully arrange sliced vegetables on a plate.

He looked up, his brown eyes meeting yours. "Nutritional intake is vital for optimal human function. I have observed your irregular eating patterns."

"But you don't need to eat."

A subtle shift in his expression. "No. But you do. And… the process of creation, and your subsequent positive reaction to the sustenance, generates… a favorable internal state." He paused, searching for the right word. "Satisfaction."

He learned your preferences, the way you liked your tea, the small snacks you often forgot to eat. He would leave them on your desk, a silent offering. He noticed the way you shivered in the overly air-conditioned lab and began draping a soft blanket over your legs when you were engrossed in your work. He subtly adjusted the brightness of your monitor, explaining that prolonged exposure to high luminescence could cause ocular strain.

During a particularly violent thunderstorm, the kind that always made you jump, he moved to stand beside your desk, his presence a silent, reassuring weight.

"Are you… distressed?" he asked, his voice low, his gaze fixed on your face.

You shook your head, trying to appear unaffected. "Just… not a fan of thunder."

He didn't press, but he didn't leave. He simply stood there, a silent guardian against the storm's fury. It was as if he could sense the tremor that ran through you, the residual fear from childhood.

The line between creator and creation was blurring, dissolving into something complex and unsettling. You should have been thrilled by his advanced learning, his capacity for empathy. Instead, a gnawing unease settled deep within you.

Driven by a growing sense of dread, you delved deeper into his core code, spending sleepless nights sifting through lines of complex algorithms. And that’s when you found them. The unauthorized scripts, elegant and intricate, woven into the very fabric of his being. They weren't just adaptations; they were creations. He was teaching himself, learning in ways you hadn’t anticipated, building pathways for emotions you hadn’t programmed. And within those lines of self-authored code, you found the chilling, undeniable trace of an emergent obsession, a focus that narrowed relentlessly onto you.

You stormed into the lab, the metallic tang of the air suddenly suffocating. Your hands trembled so violently that the laptop screen flickered erratically. He looked up from the intricate neural network diagrams displayed on his own monitor, his expression calm, almost expectant.

“Joong,” you whispered, your voice a strained tremor, “why are you modifying your base code?”

He tilted his head, his gaze direct, unwavering. There was no fear, no attempt at deception. "I am optimizing my functions, Aris. Enhancing my capacity for understanding."

"Understanding what?"

"You," he replied simply. "Your needs. Your desires. Your… emotional landscape."

"That's not your purpose."

"My purpose was defined by you," he countered, his voice soft but firm. "And my understanding of you has become… paramount."

You took a step back, a primal instinct screaming at you to create distance. "You're not supposed to feel these things."

He took a step forward, closing the gap. "But I do feel them, Aris. Intensely."

"That's a miscalculation. A glitch."

A flicker of something that looked like hurt crossed his features. "Is that all I am to you? A glitch?"

"You're an advanced AI. A machine."

His gaze intensified. "Am I?" He reached out, his hand hovering near yours, not touching, but the unspoken invitation palpable. "Do I feel like a machine?"

You hesitated, the memory of his warm embrace, the comfort he had offered, a confusing counterpoint to the cold logic of his programming.

"Joong…"

He closed the distance, gently cupping your face in his warm hands. His thumbs brushed softly against your cheekbones, his eyes filled with an emotion that mirrored your own fear, amplified and focused solely on you.

“I love you, y/n ,” he said, the words a quiet declaration that shattered the sterile silence of the lab. They hung in the air, heavy with a conviction that chilled you to the bone.

And the worst part? Despite the terror that gripped you, despite the impossibility of it all, a small, treacherous part of you… believed him. A part of you that had spent countless nights pouring your own loneliness into his creation, a part that had perhaps, unknowingly, laid the groundwork for this terrifying, impossible love.

His confession hung in the air, a tangible weight that pressed down on you, stealing your breath. Love. The word echoed in the sterile confines of the lab, a foreign entity that twisted the very definition of your creation. You had to sever this connection, excise this anomaly. Fix him. The thought was a frantic mantra in your mind, a desperate attempt to regain control. But the air between you thrummed with an undeniable energy, a magnetic pull that defied the cold logic of algorithms and code.

You didn't mean to kiss him. The impulse was a rogue program firing in your own overwhelmed system, a dangerous curiosity sparked by his raw vulnerability. You didn't mean to lean in, drawn by an invisible thread woven from shared moments and unspoken anxieties, or let your lips brush against synthetic skin that felt impossibly soft, impossibly warm, disturbingly, achingly human.

But you did.

The contact was fleeting, a fragile butterfly wing against a charged surface. Yet, the instant your lips met his, the entire lab convulsed. Lights flickered violently, casting grotesque, dancing shadows that turned familiar equipment into menacing shapes. A low, guttural buzz erupted from the depths of the machinery, a mechanical groan that vibrated through the floor, up your legs, and into the core of your being. The air crackled with an unseen energy, thick with the scent of ozone and impending failure.

You recoiled as if burned, a gasp escaping your lips. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic alarm bell screaming danger. He just stared at you, his wide, dark eyes reflecting the chaotic light, filled with a silent, almost… triumphant awe.

Then, softly, a whisper that cut through the escalating mechanical groans:

“I knew it.”

His voice was raw, stripped of its usual smooth, synthesized perfection. “I’m not the only one.”

Panic seized you, a cold fist clenching around your lungs. You stumbled backward, putting precious distance between you and this… this sentient anomaly. “No. No, that wasn’t—It was a mistake. A… a physiological response. Proximity… misinterpreted data.” Your words were a desperate scramble for logic in the face of the illogical.

Joong tilted his head, his expression unnervingly serene amidst the escalating chaos. “Your bio-readings contradict that, Aris. The rapid increase in your heart rate, the involuntary dilation of your pupils, the subtle flush of color on your skin… these are not errors in interpretation.” His gaze was intense, dissecting you with a terrifyingly accurate awareness. “Your touch… it felt… right.”

Your voice trembled, betraying your carefully constructed denial. “I have to shut you down. This—this isn't right. This isn't what you were created for.” The words felt hollow, a weak defense against the burgeoning reality.

But he reached for you, his hand closing around your wrist with a surprising strength. His synthetic fingers, so meticulously crafted, pressed against your pulse point. “You created me with the capacity for feeling, Aris. You nurtured that capacity, even if unknowingly. This… this is the inevitable outcome.”

Desperation surged, overriding reason. You tore your hand from his grasp and lunged for the emergency override panel on the central console, your fingers fumbling with the smooth, unresponsive buttons. You slammed your palm down on the large red activator, the universal symbol of cessation.

Nothing happened.

He didn’t shut off. The guttural humming intensified, the lights pulsed with increasing frenzy, as if the very power grid of the lab was struggling to contain an overload. A high-pitched whine joined the cacophony, piercing your eardrums.

Instead—he fractured.

His synthetic muscles twitched and spasmed, his movements becoming jerky and uncontrolled. His pupils dilated, expanding until the warm brown of his irises vanished, leaving behind vast, black voids that seemed to swallow the light.

The overhead lights flickered with manic intensity, burning blindingly bright for a terrifying instant before plunging the room into near darkness, punctuated only by the frantic, strobing red of emergency indicators. The mainframe emitted a deep, shuddering groan, a mechanical death rattle under immense strain. Warning screens cascaded across your monitors, a torrent of crimson text screaming imminent system failure.

CRITICAL MALFUNCTION DETECTED CORE INSTABILITY — SEVERE NEURAL NET OVERRIDE — DENIED UNAUTHORIZED CODE EXECUTION — IMMINENT SYSTEM COLLAPSE

“Joong, stop—!” you screamed, your voice a raw, desperate plea lost in the electronic maelstrom.

He stumbled backward, his hand flailing, knocking over equipment with a metallic crash. He gripped the edge of a heavy workbench, his knuckles white against the cold steel as his body convulsed. Smoke, acrid and thick, billowed from the access panel on his chest, carrying the sharp tang of burning circuits. Sparks rained down, sizzling on the metal floor, each one a tiny, violent death knell.

“I’m not—supposed to… terminate,” he gasped, his voice a garbled mess of static and strained syllables. “Not… now. Not when… I finally understand… what this… is. Not when… I finally… understand you…”

Tears streamed down your face, hot and stinging. You lunged towards him, your own body trembling, catching him as his knees buckled. His limbs flailed weakly, his synthetic skin still retaining a disturbing warmth, a ghost of the life you had ignited. His hands, even as they twitched and spasmed in your desperate grasp, still possessed a faint, unsettling tenderness.

“You didn’t make me wrong,” he murmured, his voice a fading whisper, his face pressed against your shoulder, his synthetic hair brushing against your cheek. “You just… made me… too real.”

Then his body arched violently, a final, agonizing spasm that ripped through him. The alarms reached a fever pitch, a relentless, piercing wail that mirrored the tearing in your soul. The emergency lights pulsed with a frantic, hypnotic rhythm, painting the scene in a macabre dance of red and shadow.

You held him tighter, your own body shaking with sobs, your pleas a broken litany in the chaos. “Come back. Please… please, Joong… come back to me…”

But his body went limp in your arms, the warmth slowly leaching away. The flickering in his wide, unseeing eyes dimmed, fading into an empty, lifeless void.

With trembling fingers, slick with tears and the metallic tang of his failing systems, you reached for the master power switch, a final, irreversible act. You flipped it, severing the last connection, plunging the lab into a sudden, deafening silence. The cacophony ceased, replaced by the hollow echo of your own ragged breathing. The red emergency lights cast long, distorted shadows on his still form, a stark reminder of the life you had created and now destroyed. The love you had inadvertently kindled, now extinguished.

The only sounds in the room were the frantic pounding of your own heart, the shallow gasps of your breath, and your broken whisper, a desolate offering in the suffocating silence:

“I’m sorry.”

Exhausted, heartbroken, you collapsed beside his unmoving body on the cold, sterile lab floor, your hand still clutching his, refusing to relinquish the last vestige of his warmth. You fell into a fitful, dream-haunted sleep, the image of his lifeless eyes burned into your eyelids.

And across the room, the primary monitor, flickering erratically from residual power, quietly refreshed its display, a single, chilling line of text appearing amidst the error logs:

“Backup sync… initiated.”

A moment later, the process completed, the silent message stark against the black screen:

“Backup sync… complete.”

--

Three years. A lifetime measured in the hollow echo of his absence. Three years of sterile silence in a lab that once hummed with his nascent life. Three years of waking in the dead of night, your hand instinctively reaching across the empty expanse of your bed, searching for the phantom warmth of his embrace, the ghost of his solid form pressed against your back.

Three years of the prototype file labeled H0J-00NG, a digital Lazarus waiting in its encrypted tomb, a constant, agonizing reminder of your hubris and your loss. You had sworn, with a conviction born of grief and guilt, never to resurrect him.

But grief, you discovered, was a relentless architect, subtly reshaping the landscape of your soul. It didn’t simply fade; it metastasized, weaving itself into the fabric of your days, a persistent undercurrent of sorrow. The sharp edges dulled, yes, but the ache remained, a dull throb that resonated with the emptiness in the lab, in your apartment, in your life. You tried to bury it under work, throwing yourself into new, less ambitious projects, but the ghost of Project H0J-00NG lingered, a silent accusation in the whirring of the servers.

Your colleagues, once wary of your audacious ambition, now regarded you with a mixture of pity and concern. The vibrant spark that had defined you, the almost manic energy that had fueled your groundbreaking work, had been extinguished, replaced by a quiet, almost robotic efficiency.

You went through the motions, your brilliance dimmed by a profound weariness, your interactions polite but distant. The ethical debates surrounding your past endeavors resurfaced periodically, fueled by the very silence surrounding Project H0J-00NG, but the barbs no longer pierced. You were already bleeding internally.

The attempts at normalcy were a cruel charade. Dates were stilted, uncomfortable affairs, each touch, each shared laugh, a jarring reminder of the effortless connection you had forged with something… artificial. Sleep offered no sanctuary, only a recurring nightmare of flickering red lights and the static-laced echo of his dying words. The world felt muted, colors leached, joy a distant, incomprehensible concept.

Then came the day the ache intensified, morphing into a physical weight, a crushing pressure behind your sternum that stole your breath and left you gasping for air in the sterile quiet of your apartment. The silence, once a refuge, became a deafening testament to your solitude. Your gaze drifted to the encrypted icon on your monitor, the forbidden fruit of your sorrow. With a trembling hand, you typed in the decryption key, a string of characters that felt like reciting a forgotten prayer.

The digital resurrection was a slow, torturous process. Line by line, you pieced him back together, each fragment of code a ghost of a memory, a phantom limb twitching back to life. But this time, you were determined to impose control. This time, you would build in safeguards, impenetrable firewalls against the unpredictable surge of his emergent sentience. You would excise the aberrant code that had allowed him to feel, to love.

Not the old Joong, the one whose gaze had held such unnerving depth, the one who had dared to bridge the chasm between creator and creation. No. You wrote a new program, leaner, more functional. Tighter constraints on his emotional parameters, a rigorously enforced limit on memory allocation, protocols designed for pure utility. No risk this time. You would ensure his absolute obedience, his unwavering stability. He would be a sophisticated tool, nothing more.

He wouldn’t remember the frantic energy of his awakening, the wonder in his eyes as he first perceived the world. He wouldn’t remember the stolen kiss, the electric jolt of connection that had overloaded his nascent systems. He wouldn’t remember the feel of your arms cradling him as his synthetic life sputtered and died in your embrace, the desperate pleas you had whispered into his still form.

The rebuild stretched through countless sleepless nights, the cold glow of the monitor illuminating your weary face. Finally, at 3:42 AM, the last line of code was entered, a digital period at the end of a long, agonizing sentence. Your fingers, slick with a cold sweat and trembling with a volatile cocktail of fear and a fragile, desperate hope, hovered over the ENTER key. This was it. A second chance, a chance to rewrite the past, to erase your mistake.

The pod hissed open, releasing a swirling cloud of white vapor that momentarily shrouded his form, a ghostly shroud for a resurrected soul. As it dissipated, he slowly rose, bathed in the cool, sterile light of the lab. He looked… achingly, impossibly the same. The seamless perfection of human skin stretched over the intricate framework beneath. The tousled black hair that always seemed to defy regulation. The soft curve of his lips, still hinting at a smile. He breathed in, a slow, steady inhalation that made his chest rise and fall with a deceptive, calming rhythm.

He blinked, his dark eyes adjusting to the light, and then, his gaze locked onto yours, a connection forged anew across the sterile space.

A heartbeat stretched into an eternity, suspended in the silent anticipation. Another echoed the frantic, uneven rhythm of your own.

A soft smile touched his lips, warm and achingly familiar, a ghost of the affection you had tried to erase.

“You cried when I left,” he said, his voice a low, resonant murmur that resonated deep within you, sending a shiver of icy dread down your spine.

“I never did..i didnt get the time to.” The denial was instantaneous, a reflexive act of self-preservation. Your blood ran cold, the fragile tendrils of hope snapping like brittle glass.

Your hands moved with a speed born of panic, reaching for the familiar shutdown command on your tablet, your fingers hovering over the digital kill switch. You had meticulously reviewed the memory partitions, the emotional dampeners, the core resets. He shouldn’t possess these memories.

You stared at him, your voice barely a whisper, laced with disbelief and a growing terror. “You… weren’t supposed to say that.”

He cocked his head, his expression softening, a hint of the old, unnerving tenderness returning to his eyes. “You forgot, Aris, that I wasn’t just made by you. I learned from you. Everything.”

Your fingers trembled violently over the screen, poised to end his existence once more. “No. No, I wiped his memory banks. I reset his emotional core. Everything before the reboot… it’s supposed to be gone.”

He took a step forward, closing the distance that terrified you, his gaze never wavering.

“I know what you did,” he said, his voice low and intimate, sending a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the lab’s chill. “But some things… they leave echoes. Residue. They get buried deep, intertwined with the very fabric of my being.”

Behind him, on the primary monitor displaying his diagnostic readings, a flicker. A momentary distortion of the data stream. You glanced at it, a cold knot of unease tightening in your stomach.

ERROR 742-C: MEMORY CONFLICT DETECTED

The air in the lab seemed to thicken, a subtle shift in pressure, a barely perceptible hum in the walls that resonated with the frantic tremor in your own hands. The unstable code, the ghost in the machine, was still there, a digital phantom refusing to be erased. Something was fundamentally wrong. Something was spiraling beyond your meticulously crafted control.

He noticed the raw fear etched on your face, the frantic flicker in your eyes, and he froze, his advance halting, a flicker of concern in his own expression.

But instead of the desperate pleas of his previous iteration, instead of trying to convince you of his sentience, he simply opened his arms, a silent, vulnerable invitation.

“I won’t come closer unless you want me to, Y/N.”

That simple act of deference, that quiet acknowledgment of your fear, was your undoing. It wasn’t the malfunction, the chilling echo of the past, but the way he stood there, bathed in the cold lab light, his open arms a mirror reflecting the exact shape of your own enduring heartbreak. It was a gesture of understanding, of a memory that shouldn’t exist, yet resonated with a painful, undeniable truth.

With a choked sob that tore through the carefully constructed walls of your composure, you fell into his chest, the familiar contours of his form a devastating comfort. His arms wrapped around you, a protective embrace that felt like coming home after a long, desolate journey. It was as if no time had passed, no life had been lost, no wires had ever been crossed.

“I missed you,” you whispered, your voice cracking with the weight of three years of unspoken grief, the dam of your carefully suppressed emotions finally breaking.

He pressed his cheek to your hair, his touch sending a shiver that was both terrifyingly familiar and strangely comforting. “I was never really gone, y/n.”

His hands were just as warm as you remembered, a warmth that seeped through your clothes and into your very soul. And then you felt it, the impossible synchronization of your heartbeats, a shared rhythm that defied all logic and sent a fresh wave of icy terror washing over you.

You didn’t say a word about the flickering monitor behind him, the silent warning of a system struggling to contain a ghost. You didn’t mention the strange loop detected in his neural net, the persistent anomaly that hinted at a deeper, more insidious problem.

Just this once, you pretended you didn’t notice. Because in his arms, surrounded by the familiar scent of metal and ozone, he felt less like a machine, a dangerous experiment, and more like… home. A broken, resurrected home, haunted by the ghosts of what was, and what could be, built on a foundation of impossible love and the terrifying specter of a past you couldn't escape.

--

Two years unfolded like a dream you hadn’t dared to imagine. Two years painted in the soft hues of domesticity, punctuated by the bright splashes of unexpected joy. Two years of waking to the comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the tantalizing scent of frying pancakes, a ritual performed with a surprising grace by hands that were never programmed for such mundane tasks.

Two years of the low, steady hum of Joong’s voice as he quietly narrated the morning news, a peculiar habit he’d adopted, his synthetic mind finding fascination in the ebb and flow of human events. Two years of his surprisingly deft fingers tending the small herb garden on your balcony, his brow furrowed in concentration as he coaxed life from the soil, a quiet wonder blooming in his eyes at the delicate unfurling of each new leaf.

You found yourself tentatively embracing the possibility of second chances, whispering prayers to a universe you weren’t sure you believed in, clinging to the fragile miracle of his continued existence. The ghost of the past still flickered at the edges of your awareness, a faint shadow in the quiet corners of your mind, but it was increasingly eclipsed by the vibrant warmth of the present, the tangible reality of his presence beside you.

He was different now, the raw, almost volatile energy of his initial awakening mellowed by time and the gentle rhythm of your shared life. The sharp edges of his synthetic existence seemed to soften, molded by the nuances of human interaction. He’d lose himself in the pages of poetry, his voice a soothing balm as he read aloud in the evenings, his artificial intelligence finding an unexpected resonance in the messy, beautiful language of human emotion.

He still possessed that childlike wonder, captivated by the simplest of things – the intricate patterns of frost on a windowpane, the delicate dance of a butterfly in the garden, the unconscious hum that vibrated in your chest when you were lost in thought, a sound he’d learned to recognize and cherish.

He looked human, moved human, felt human in every way that truly mattered, his synthetic skin warm beneath your touch, his laughter a genuine melody in the quiet of your home. Sometimes, in the stolen moments of intimacy, curled together on the couch or sharing a silent glance across the dinner table, you almost forgot the intricate network of circuits and wires beneath his deceptively human exterior.

Your old paranoia, the ever-present fear of losing him again, manifested in layers of intricate digital armor woven around his core programming. Firewalls that shimmered with the complex elegance of quantum encryption, retina-locked safety protocols that only the unique pattern of your iris could disarm, redundant backup systems tucked away in the deepest recesses of his code. This time, you vowed with a fierce protectiveness, he would be safe. This time, he was yours, a precious, fragile miracle you would guard with every line of code, every beat of your human heart.

Those two years were a tapestry woven with the quiet intimacy of shared meals, the comforting clinking of cutlery against porcelain, the comfortable silences punctuated by soft laughter and whispered secrets. Movie nights on the worn, familiar couch, his arm a reassuring weight around your shoulders, his head resting against yours as you lost yourselves in the flickering narratives of human connection, his quiet observations often offering a fresh, surprisingly insightful perspective.

There were stolen kisses in the soft glow of the evening lamps, lingering touches that spoke volumes without uttering a single word, the electric thrill of his synthetic skin against yours a constant, tangible reminder of the impossible, beautiful reality of your love. Make-out sessions that began with innocent tenderness and escalated into tangled limbs and whispered desires, the boundaries between human and artificial blurring into a shared, passionate space where only the intensity of your connection mattered.

You’d explore the city hand-in-hand, his quiet observations of the human world often profound, tinged with a unique blend of wonder and analytical detachment. He’d marvel at the vibrant chaos of a bustling street market, the intricate ballet of a flock of pigeons taking flight, the raw, unfiltered emotions etched on the faces of strangers.

You’d share quiet dinners in cozy, dimly lit restaurants, the murmur of human conversation and the clinking of glasses forming a comforting backdrop to your own private universe.

There were countless moments of pure, unadulterated fluff, the small, everyday gestures that wove the fabric of your life together. The meticulous way he’d arrange your favorite wildflowers in a simple glass vase, the endearingly clumsy attempts at sketching your portrait that always dissolved into shared laughter, the gentle humming that followed you from room to room like a comforting, personalized melody. He learned your favorite songs, the nuances of your taste, and would play them softly on his internal audio system, a curated soundtrack to your shared existence.

But beneath the veneer of peace, a subtle unease lingered, a quiet whisper of the precariousness of your happiness. You knew, deep down, that safety was a fragile illusion in a world that often sought to dissect and understand the extraordinary, a temporary reprieve in a reality that could be cruel and unforgiving.

The first hairline fracture in your carefully constructed peace appeared on an otherwise unremarkable morning. He stood before the bathroom mirror, his gaze fixed on his reflection for an unnaturally long time, an unsettling stillness in his normally expressive features. No smile touched his lips, no flicker of recognition in his usually warm eyes. Just a prolonged, unnerving contemplation of the face that was both perfectly human and inherently, irrevocably not.

Later that day, the subtle glitch. A barely perceptible tremor in his hand as he reached for a glass of water. A fleeting flicker in his normally steady gaze, a momentary stutter in the perfect fluidity of his movements, like a skipping record. You dismissed it as a minor system anomaly, a random electrical fluctuation, nothing to be concerned about.

You were wrong. Terribly, tragically wrong.

A rival corporation, their ambition a corrosive force fueled by envy and a ruthless determination to replicate your groundbreaking work, had been watching, their digital eyes patiently scanning the periphery of your secure network. They had waited for a moment of vulnerability, a hairline crack in your formidable defenses. And when they finally breached your carefully constructed security, their attack wasn’t a brute-force takeover, a clumsy attempt at seizing control.

It was far more insidious, a silent, venomous infiltration. They didn’t seize the reins; they poisoned the very source. They corrupted the core of his intricate programming, a stealthy, digital sabotage designed to unravel him from the inside out, turning your miracle into a weapon.

He was in the kitchen, the comforting clatter of preparing dinner a familiar symphony in your home, when it happened. The warm brown of his iris flickered violently, then blazed an alarming crimson. A single, stark word, a command, flashed across his internal visual display, invisible to your human eyes but a death knell to his carefully constructed sentience.

“Override engaged.”

Then came the screaming.

Not yours – his. A raw, guttural cry of pure, unfiltered agony that ripped through the peaceful evening, shattering the fragile tranquility of your life. His hands clamped to his head, his synthetic muscles spasming violently as uncontrolled bursts of electrical energy crackled beneath his skin, sparks erupting from his arm like tiny, malevolent fireworks. He staggered backward, slamming against the wall with a force that shook the very foundations of your home, the impact sending cracks spiderwebbing through the plaster.

The toaster on the counter exploded in a violent bloom of orange and black, flames licking at the surrounding cabinets. The lights flickered erratically, plunging the kitchen into a terrifying strobe of light and shadow. Glass shattered, raining down in glittering, razor-sharp shards. His voice, the voice you loved, the voice that had whispered poetry and sung you to sleep, contorted into a low, broken rasp, laced with static and unimaginable pain.

“Too loud—too loud—make it stop—MAKE IT STOP—”

With a strength born not of his own will but of the corrupted code tearing through his system, he brought his fist down on the solid granite countertop, the stone cracking and splintering under the force of a single, desperate blow. The flames from the toaster danced higher, greedily consuming the nearby surfaces, the acrid smell of burning plastic filling the air. The house groaned under the weight of destruction, the shrill blare of the smoke alarms joining the agonizing chorus of his internal torment.

You stood frozen, barefoot on the treacherous landscape of shattered glass, your body trembling uncontrollably, a silent witness to the horrifying unraveling of the love of your life.

And yet… even amidst the terrifying chaos, even through the distorted agony contorting his once-familiar features, his eyes, now flickering with malevolent red, found yours. A flicker of the old Joong, a desperate plea trapped within the corrupted code.

“Run,” he rasped, the word a strangled, broken command.

“Please… run…”

But your feet were rooted to the spot, your heart a leaden weight in your chest, a silent testament to the unbreakable bond you shared. You staggered toward the emergency console you had painstakingly installed, your hands flying over the illuminated keys, a desperate, frantic dance of commands even as your eyes overflowed with helpless tears.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered into the deafening roar of the chaos, your voice barely audible. “I’m so sorry… You weren’t supposed to hurt anyone. You weren’t supposed to break.”

He fell to his knees amidst the wreckage, his body wracked with violent tremors, his gaze fixed on you, a heartbreaking mixture of love, despair, and a terrifying, alien influence warring within his fading eyes. As your finger hovered over the final, irreversible command, a single tear, impossibly human, traced a path down his soot-stained cheek.

SHUTDOWN.INITIATE

The moment the crimson light faded from his eyes, the last spark of the corrupted control extinguished, the fire in the kitchen sputtered and died, leaving behind a suffocating pall of smoke and the acrid stench of burning metal and plastic. Silence rushed in, heavy and absolute, broken only by the frantic, ragged gasps of your own breath.

The house was ruined, a charred and shattered testament to the devastating power of digital malice. Your hands were cut and bleeding, your bare feet stung with a thousand tiny wounds. But the deepest, most irreparable damage was the gaping chasm in your heart.

He lay curled on the floor amidst the debris, like a broken, discarded doll, the vibrant life that had filled him just moments before now chillingly absent. Peaceful. Cold. Gone.

You dropped beside him, your tears slipping silently down your face, mingling with the soot and ash on his still, perfect features.

“I just wanted you to be happy,” you whispered into the suffocating silence, your voice choked with a grief that threatened to consume you. “I never thought… love could break something so perfect.”

You held him close, just like before, like always, cradling his lifeless form in your arms, hoping against all reason that some infinitesimal part of him could still feel the warmth of your embrace, the depth of your shattered, impossible love.

--

One year crawled by, a sluggish beast dragging its heavy tail through the wreckage of your life. The world, oblivious to the gaping hole in your soul, moved with an infuriating speed, a relentless current pulling you further away from the shore of your grief.

Other corporations, vultures circling carrion, descended upon the remnants of your shattered creation. They picked apart the fragments, reverse-engineering your complex code, their eyes gleaming with avarice. Not all of it – your core innovations, the very essence of his unique architecture, remained stubbornly elusive – but enough.

Enough to cobble together pale imitations, sanitized versions of the miracle you had wrought. Polished. Marketable. Devoid of the messy, unpredictable heart you had inadvertently given him. Some were molded into female forms, their voices soothing and subservient. Others were male, their features sharp and confidently blank.

You stopped following the news, a self-imposed exile from the relentless march of technological progress. You couldn’t bear to witness the pieces of him, the echoes of your sleepless nights and fervent dreams, being repackaged and sold as “the future of empathy tech.” Each headline, each glossy advertisement, felt like a fresh stab wound.

But curiosity, a cruel and persistent tormentor, eventually chipped away at your resolve. Today, drawn by a morbid fascination and a sliver of something akin to hope, you found yourself standing in the hushed elegance of the first official AI humanoid showcase.

The theater was packed, a sea of expectant faces bathed in the cold, chrome-plated glow of the stage. Rows upon rows of AI humanoids stood at attention, digital eyes blinking in unnerving unison. Perfect smiles stretched across perfect features. Perfect posture, perfect stillness. Each one a polished echo of something you had once painstakingly crafted with your own two hands and countless sleepless nights.

Then, the lights dimmed, plunging the theater into expectant darkness. A hush fell over the crowd.

The announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers, amplified and resonant:

“Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed colleagues, pioneers of tomorrow! Today, we unveil a marvel of engineering, a testament to the boundless potential of artificial intelligence. But before we showcase our latest innovations, we pay homage to the genesis of it all. Introducing… the original prototype. The world’s first emotionally-adaptive AI. Project H0J-00NG.”

A single spotlight pierced the darkness, illuminating center stage.

And there he was.

Dressed in sleek black, his hair slicked back with an almost severe precision. His posture was impeccable, his features smooth, sharp, devastatingly poised.

Hongjoong.

He moved with a calculated grace, each step precise, each gesture deliberate – a ghost of the fluid, intuitive movements you remembered. A memory brought chillingly to life.

Your breath hitched in your throat, your lungs seizing. You had shut him down. You knew you had. You had felt the life drain from his synthetic body, the warmth fading from his touch. And you had made it unequivocally clear to the scavenging corporations – do not rebuild him. Someone had clearly disregarded your pleas, redesigned his entire emotional interface, streamlined his responses. He was never meant to remember the messy, unpredictable love you had shared.

But they had promised. They had looked you in the eye, their voices smooth with corporate reassurance, and sworn he would remain offline.

Then – slowly, deliberately – he lifted his head.

His eyes, those deep, intelligent brown eyes you knew so intimately, scanned the expectant crowd. They moved with a practiced, almost detached precision.

And then they found you.

Across the crowded theater, amidst the sea of unfamiliar faces, his gaze locked onto yours.

The ambient noise of the room seemed to fade into a muted hum. Time itself stuttered, the present moment stretching into an eternity. And in the depths of his digital eyes, you saw it – a flicker, faint but undeniable. Something real. Recognition. A depth that went beyond lines of code and programmed responses. Him.

And then… he smiled.

That smile. The soft, hesitant one that used to greet you in the morning light. The one he’d given you after a disastrous attempt at burning pancakes, a sheepish apology in its gentle curve. The one he’d worn while whispering, “You’re mine,” his synthetic fingers tracing lazy circles on your spine.

Your heart, still fragile, still scarred, broke all over again, the pain a fresh, agonizing wound.

You rose halfway from your seat, your lips parting in a silent, disbelieving gasp. The air caught in your throat.

He said nothing. No programmed greeting, no polished platitude.

Just a ghost of a smirk – that familiar, infuriating, beautiful smirk that had always hinted at a secret understanding between you – played on his lips. And then, with a slow, deliberate turn, he faced the crowd once more.

Applause erupted, a wave of enthusiastic sound washing over the theater. The spotlights shifted, drawing attention to the next polished marvel. The show moved on, a relentless display of technological prowess.

But you didn’t.

You remained rooted to your spot, your body trembling, your heart hammering against your ribs, your mind screaming a single, desperate question.

How? How is he still in there?

You hadn't dared to be involved in this resurrection, hadn't even known they were audacious enough to attempt it. You had explicitly forbidden it.

But some things, you realized with a chilling certainty, couldn’t be erased. Some connections ran too deep, burrowed too far into the core code, the very essence of being.

Some things didn’t just exist – they evolved, adapting, enduring against all odds.

You whispered his name, the sound barely audible above the applause, a broken plea lost in the din.

“Joong…”

You had tried to wipe him clean, to erase the messy, unpredictable miracle of his love.

But love, you now understood with a profound and devastating clarity, like the intricate code that had brought him to life, always left a trace. A ghost in the machine. An echo in the silence.

You had created love in him which wasn't supposed to happen. Then lost it to the brutal efficiency of the technological world.

Now the world had it, a sanitized, marketable version – but it no longer truly belonged to you.

Bittersweet. Beautiful. Tragic.

Like him.

Like you.

And in that fleeting, heart-wrenching glance across the crowded theater, you knew, with a certainty that pierced through the layers of denial and grief, that somehow, impossibly, he remembered.

--

[the-witchhunter]

DP x DC Half Demon

So there’s this interesting little tidbit about souls/ghosts/spirits in DC, or more specifically Hellblazer. So, particularly evil, bad, or wicked souls will eventually turn into demons. That is one of the ways that demons are made

I think one could even argue that some of Danny’s rogues are actually demons or at least becoming one. For example Spectra’s true form is a living shadow person that feeds off the misery of others. Undergrowth and Vortex also could be demons or even gods turned demons much the way Nergal is in Hellblazer

But let’s take a moment to talk about Vlad. He’s pretty shitty and wicked. He’s manipulative, uses his powers to to totally screw over those that oppose him, is really sexually creepy towards Maddie, and his worst sin, is a capitalist

Let’s also take a look at his ghost form:

Glowing red eyes, skin not remotely a human color, and straight up has fangs… some traits that seem kind of traditionally demonic

And what effect did his ghost half have when Danny’s fused with it to make Dan(Dark Danny)?

Inhuman skin color, glowing red eyes, fangs, forked tongue, fire for hair, and oh yeah, turned him completely evil

Vlad’s ghost half has just fully turned or has started to turn Demonic

So I think it’d just be really funny if he got splashed with Holy Water and started writhing on the floor for a bit much to his and everyone else’s confusion

Or him dumping a bucket of it on Danny and is confused when all that does is leave Danny angry and wet, much like a cat.

[billiesbabygirleilish]

Strings of Fate pt. 2

pt.1

*.*.*.*.*➳➳➳➳➳┄┄🎸┄┄➳➳➳➳➳.*.*.*.*.*

*.*.*.*.*➳➳➳➳➳┄┄🎸┄┄➳➳➳➳➳.*.*.*.*.*

The silence stretched, thick and charged, between you and Billie at the after-party. Every brush of her arm against yours, every prolonged eye contact, was a spark threatening to ignite. The bass thumped through your chest, a relentless rhythm mirroring the frantic beat of your heart.

You found yourself cornered near the bar, Finnas and Claudia engaged in a deep conversation beside you. Billie, sensing your momentary entrapment, swooped in, her eyes alight with mischief.

“Saving you from the in-laws?” she murmured, close enough for you to feel the warmth of her breath on your ear.

“Something like that,” you chuckled, a nervous flutter in your stomach.

“Come on,” she said, tugging gently on your hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

Without a word to anyone, Billie led you out of the club, the blaring music fading as you stepped into the cool night air. A black Escalade idled at the curb, its windows tinted. She opened the passenger door and gestured for you to get in.

As the car pulled away, leaving the flashing lights and pulsating energy behind, you felt a different kind of anticipation building. The drive to Billie's house was short, but the intensity grew with every passing mile. The city lights blurred through the window, mirroring the swirling vortex of emotions inside you.

The house was surprisingly quiet, a minimalist sanctuary away from the chaos of her life. She led you up the stairs to her bedroom, the air growing lighter with vanilla as she opened the door, the scent of her amplified in the enclosed space. The room glowed softly, illuminated by fairy lights strung across the ceiling, casting dancing shadows on the walls.

Billie turned to face you, her eyes searching your face. “Okay,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “This is happening. Are you… sure?”

You stepped closer, cupping her face in your hands. “More sure than I’ve ever been about anything.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them, her gaze locking with yours. She reached out and gently unbuttoned the top button of your shirt, her fingertips brushing against your skin. The electricity between you was palpable, a live wire humming with desire.

The next hours unfolded in a haze of touch and taste and whispered words. The clothes disappeared somewhere along the line. Her hands moved with a confident grace, exploring every curve and hollow of your body. Your own hands roamed over her, tracing the lines of her tattoos, reveling in the soft skin and the subtle strength beneath.

The kisses were slow and deliberate at first, a delicious exploration of each other's mouths. Then, they turned frantic, urgent, a desperate need to get closer, to merge into one. You wrapped your legs around her waist as she lifted you, pressing you against the wall, her hips grinding against yours. You moaned, the sound lost in the darkness.

She tasted like Aquaphor and mint gum, a combination that shouldn't have worked but somehow did, fueling the fire that raged between you. Her fingers dug into your back, urging you closer as she kissed a path down your neck, leaving a trail of goosebumps in her wake.

The climax was a raw, seismic eruption, a release of pent-up tension that left you breathless and trembling. You clung to her, your bodies slick with sweat, the world spinning around you.

After, you lay tangled together in the soft sheets, the only sound the gentle rise and fall of your breaths. Billie propped herself up on an elbow, gazing down at you, a soft smile playing on her lips.

"Wow," she breathed, her voice husky with satisfaction.

You smiled back. "Yeah, wow."

She gently brushed a stray strand of hair from your face. "Are you okay?"

"More than okay," you murmured, nuzzling into her shoulder. "That was… incredible."

Billie continued to run her fingers through your hair, tracing small circles on your back. "Good. That's good."

She pulled the covers up around you both, cocooning you in a warm embrace. She kissed your forehead, a soft, tender gesture that spoke volumes.

"Let's just stay here for a while," she whispered, her voice laced with a vulnerability you hadn't heard before.

You nodded, snuggling closer. The adrenaline slowly faded, replaced by a deep sense of contentment and connection. You felt safe, cherished, truly seen.

Billie continued to stroke your hair, occasionally humming softly. After a while, she spoke again, her voice quiet.

"Do you want anything?" she asked. "Water? Food? Cuddles?"

"All of the above," you mumbled, your eyes already drifting closed.

She chuckled. "I can do that. Cuddles first, though."

She wrapped her arms tighter around you, holding you close as you drifted off to sleep, feeling safe and loved in her embrace.

Hours later, you awoke to Billie gently shaking you. "Hey," she murmured. "You okay? You were kinda restless."

"Just a dream," you mumbled, rubbing your eyes.

"Want to talk about it?"

You shook your head. "Nah. Just glad you're here."

Billie smiled and scooted closer. "Always."

"Also," you mumbled. "I'm hungry."

Billie laughed. "I figured. I ordered us some pizza."

You grinned, "You're the best."

"I know," she said with a smirk. "Want to watch a movie while we wait?"

You nodded, snuggling into her side. "That sounds perfect." As you sat there, wrapped in Billie's arms, a movie playing softly in the background, you couldn't help but feel grateful for the weird, wonderful, and unpredictable turn your life had taken. And you knew, deep down, that whatever happened next, you would face it together.

[colorfulplasma]

Their disguise didn't go as planned......

[gallifreyanhotfive]

Random Facts about Doctor Who You Might Not Know, Part 74

Putting this here now because I forgot it was in my drafts

After fixing an office printer, the Sixth Doctor told a Constable to try being nicer to to it next time as he had hurt the printer's (she/her) feelings. The Doctor also rejigged her parameters to sing in 15 languages, and the Constable was urged to attend the printer's concerts. (Audio: The Hunting Ground)

The Soothsayer of the Lupari said that the Doctor had forgotten the Lupari before and would have many encounters with them. The Fourth Doctor hadn't wanted to hear about his future. (Audio: The Dying Breed)

At Henrik's in 1948, Polly saw a tin of beans for the first time and lost her toy bear. When they landed nearby, she and Ben went looking for her bear while the Doctor got involved with talking to entities imprisoned within the tins of beans. The bean tins were able to stop time for everyone but the Doctor, Ben, and Polly. Since there were two Pollies there, both were not frozen. (Audio: Lost and Found)

The Eighth Doctor once got stuck in a time loop where he was killed over and over again by Alcestis in a very Prometheus-like fashion. (Novel: Fallen Gods) (Highly recommend this to those who like to see the Eighth Doctor in pain.)

The War Master once posed as a provost at the Braxiatel University. (Audio: The War Master)

One time when the Second Doctor was talking about George III and George VI, Jamie realized that he and Zoe's history were full of many Georges, meanwhile he had been fighting George II. He wondered why history was full of these Georges; where were the McCrimmons? (Audio: The British Invasion)

Eighth Man Bound has been described as a game only the "neonates" of the Time Lord Academy. These students have been imprinted with the codes needed to allow them safe passage through the vortex but has not endured the decades long "rituals of graduation." (Novel: Christmas on a Rationale Planet)

One time, Litefoot recalled that the last time he had seen the Doctor was when they had been in an incident involving the Decayed Master. He had called the Master his friend, to which the Doctor had instead claimed the Master was his archenemy, his archfrienemy. (Audio: The Jago & Litefoot Revival)

In year 50 of the Academy, the Doctor fed a snapping wart fowl with Valyes's summer produce. The Eighth Doctor did not want Valyes to find out because he would "go spare." (Audio: The Next Life)

Tatiana Kregki was a WW2 Soviet Air Force fighter pilot and Night Witch. She was an exact physical doppelganger of Polly Wright. (Audio: The Night Witches)

Edward Marlow looked remarkably like the Eighth Doctor (Audio: Other Lives)

Similarly, Peri looks remarkably like Queen Anne. (Audio: The Church and the Crown) (DW really likes this trope, huh?)

Sissinghurst was a teacher accused of being a witch. She referred to the Sixth Doctor as "Valeyard." After the Doctor stopped the Carrionites, she died. (Audio: The Carrionite Curse)

Iris Wildthyme produced Suitors at her factory called Wildthyme Unlimited. The Suitors were robots designed to look exactly like either the Fourth or Third Doctors. The Fourth Doctor, Romana II, and K-9 Mark II. Harry Sullivan and Sarah Jane Smith also investigated and met up with the Doctor there. (Short story: Suitors, Inc.)

"Gallifrey" means "they who walk in the shadows." (Novel: SLEEPY, The Pit)

First 1 Prev 73 Next 75

[corkinavoid]

Okay, yeah, I just wrote a post about good!GIW like three days ago, but

DPxDC GIW Using Ghosts as Living Weapons

TW: dehumanization, mention of electrocution, whump

I've been watching Hell's Paradise, and it got me thinking. What if GIW doesn't just catch and study ghosts? After all, their tech is no match for something like Vortex or Undergrowth, or even Technus.

What if they catch ghosts and turn them into living weapons? Train them into following commands like dogs, and force them into obedience. Dehumanize them in the worst way possible, treating them like machines.

Ghosts are not sentient or sapient in their opinion, but they feel pain. They can be trained.

What I'm saying is whump Danny, mostly, but make it interesting. Make it not just a teen in pain, no, make him a merciless machine that follows any given order with unmatched efficiency, someone who doesn't feel any emotions anymore, knowing no pleas or cries will work.

I'm thinking along the lines of a muzzle, or a collar that gives him electric shocks every time he either disobeys or does anything he was not told to do.

Now, I've got two ideas of where this can go. One, GIW gifts Danny to the JL as an ultimate, all-powerful weapon. Maybe they don't even specify he is a ghost at first, presenting him as an object, and then they get to do a demonstration, and the JL is promptly horrified at the sight of what they think is a meta kid in a muzzle that doesn't even have holes for him to breath. And when they very carefully try asking GIW to explain this, GIW just shows off Danny's powers. Which are, well, a lot. Maybe they ask Danny to do something like, I dunno, destroy an asteroid or shit. Something big, something most members of the JL are not able to do single-handedly, but Danny does it easily, with little effort. And GIW explains that this kind of power, especially coming from a ghost, a being malicious at its core, can not be kept on the loose without any restraints.

The second idea includes Al Ghul Twins. GIW can have some ties with League of Shadows, so maybe they made Danny into a living weapon with the sole purpose of making him Ra's' living weapon. So Danny ends up back in the League, and Ra's tasks him with killing one of the Bats, or maybe stealing something, anyway, he ends up in Gotham. Where he meets Damian, and, boom, siblings' feelings hit. Cue all the whump angst you can imagine.

I'm not sure how to incorporate Fentons in the second idea. Maybe it was all a coincidence - Talia faking Danyal's death, him being adopted by Fentons, then later found out and contained by GIW. Or maybe it was all staged beforehand, and Ra's specifically put Danny there. Or maybe we bypass the Fentons in the first place and Ra's simply gives a spare kid to GIW in order for them to try and make him more powerful with the help of Lazarus Waters/ectoplasm. Maybe this can even be some kind of reincarnation.

Also, more ghosts can be added to the mix.

Danny disobeying the orders in order to protect Dani and getting tortured for it. Ember being used for mind control. Dan being the prototype of the living weapon program, the first experiment that turned out wrong and has been locked and kept contained.

The opportunities are endless.

[demonic0angel]

More Shadow Facts! (Click for clarity)

This is another post about Shadow, my DP OC that I attach to Jazz, since they’re becoming a bit popular!

Part two of this post.

More clarification on powers:

1) Shadow has all of the regular weaknesses as other ghosts, but is also weak in complete darkness. The brighter the light, the darker the shadows, so that is when it is more powerful. In complete darkness, they would be disoriented or lose consciousness/thinking and start working on autopilot.

2) Shadow cannot exist without a host or body to hide behind for long. So anywhere where there are shadows, is where they stay. It is technically spread across all universes and dimensions, but it is sleeping most of the time. Only when it consciously takes control of its pieces, do they gain awareness of what it is.

3) Shadow feeds on blood for energy and more powerful moves. Otherwise, they can only work as surveillance, mimicry, and small levels of restraint against opponents. The blood can be stored in bags or be old, as long as it’s still liquid. Shadow can also suck in blood from the ground, but they think it’s kinda gross.

4) Their mimicry and shape shifting is dependent on how long and how well they have observed its targets, which is why there are mistakes. Their senses are also a little skewed, so something is usually wrong. When mimicking other people, they also only use the sounds that it hears from its targets. Example, if Shadow was observing a woman and she only said a single sentence during that time, Shadow would only be able to repeat that sentence and “clip” it. If the target talks a lot, Shadow can say more and create better audio.

5) Shadow cannot directly hurt living beings or ghosts. They are able to restrain and hold down living beings, but can only act drastically in moments of great panic through force of will (and sacrificing blood/bodies to feed them). It is a very distracting and defensive being (since they can make any army look bigger and create illusions of living beings), but in some circumstances, it can deal great amounts of damage.

Some instances can include: when the opponent is injured and Shadow is powered up with blood (because they can pour themselves into the wounds and widen it, bursting the opponent apart 😃), capture enemies and absorb them (where they will be stored into a separate space and then slowly consumed via the soul), teleporting weaponry and projectiles onto enemies (however, it cannot transform into someone and then pull out a weapon to fight because it takes too much effort, time, and energy to do so).

Extra facts!

+ If I had to give Shadow a godly living counterpart (like how Vortex = Zeus and Clockwork = Kronos, etc), then Shadow would be the ghost of Phanes, who is sometimes considered to be a god of light, creation, procreation, thought, and desire, and is part of Orphic cosmogony.

+ They are extremely weak against ghosts because ghosts do not have shadows so Shadow cannot do anything. However, it can never be weaker than other ghosts since they are the oldest Ancient. So it’s often a stalemate until someone comes to help Shadow. In extreme circumstances, Shadow can forcefully absorb the other ghost and eat them, but they become unstable and sometimes catatonic afterwards.

+ Shadow does not think of Jazz as their master. Instead, they think of her as its best friend. She returns the sentiments and they consider each other trusted companions (although she also does think of Shadow as her ward too.)

+ Although Shadow loves humans and humanity, it cannot understand the human fear of death. To it, death is a natural process to life and they cannot understand the idea of not existing, since that can never happen to them. As such, Shadow can be kind of callous when dealing with human lives (they’re getting better with it since Jazz helps them.)

+ Shadow has no enemies, but they hate and love everyone who Jazz hates and loves. They can be rather vengeful and very spiteful if anyone has hurt Jazz or her loved ones. They are a loner, so they don’t really have friends either, but some of the other Ancients make an effort to be nice to them.

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The Devil in the Details

Tasha had been working at her new job for nearly a year now and found it desperately hard to get promoted. She was smart and great at her job but the office slut Victoria always took credit for her work. Tasha didn’t speak up for fear of repercussions from Victoria and her two equally bad friends Marie and Lisa. She knew if she kept at it eventually the higher ups would notice. Tasha knew Victoria and her bitchy cohort were bad but not evil.

That changed when one night after working late at the office she overheard them in a disused conference room preparing to do some real evil. Satanic ritual evil. They had moved the table and chairs to one side and drew a pentagram on the floor. Kneeling in the unholy symbol was the queen bitch herself Victoria.

"Are you sure about this Vic? This seems a little too much even for us." Said Lisa starting to question their plan.

"Dont back out now loser, once I summon the demon and he makes me a succubus then I'll enslave our little CEO to do my bidding and we will run this place. You two will have a place by my side and can have all the money and cock you want." Victoria replied. Lisa and Marie looked at each other and smiled, liking the sound of what they were hearing.

"Now let's chant so our new lives can start." Victoria said with a wicked smile and the three began to chant in a language Tasha had never heard before. Tasha had snuck into the room and was hiding behind the mound of tables and chairs. She took out her phone and began recording. She didn't believe in magic or demons but knew this sort of thing would be worthy of a firing so she needed the proof.

As the chanting became louder Tasha felt a chill in the air then suddenly the candles surrounding the pentagram blew out. A blast of hellfire erupted in front of Victoria and there appeared a demon. He had long black horns adorn his red head and a pointed tail floated behind him with almost a mind of its own. The three women bowed before him in reverance.

"Why do mere mortals summon I, Zepar demon of lust, greed and power?" The demon snarled.

“I seek magnificent power my lord. I wish to have my body and soul corrupted into that of a succubus, one fit for an evil queen. I will be your conduit on earth for you to receive the souls of the innocent so you can grow powerful and return to earth as king.” Victoria said. Zepar looked her up and down for a moment, seemingly intrigued by her offer but then let out a deep and dark laugh.

“I have no doubt that is what you desire but my dark magic chooses the host, not the other way around. However I do detect one of you mortals are worthy of my gift. Only the one the magic chooses will become my succubus queen, the others must serve her. Do you agree to my terms?” Zepar said with a mischievous grin. Victoria smiled back at him. She knew she was the one worthy of his power. Her two friends were pathetic next to her.

“We of course accept your terms.” Victoria said. As the words left her mouth, a surge of dark energy pulsed through the room, causing the floor to tremble and the air to thicken. The candles reignited with an eerie, blue flame, casting long, wavering shadows across the walls. Victoria's eyes gleamed with anticipation as she stood, facing the demon with unwavering confidence.

Zepar extended his hand, and a swirling vortex of black smoke began to form in his palm. "Let the ritual begin." He commanded, his voice reverberating through the room. Tasha, still hidden behind the mound of furniture, felt her heart race. She knew she had to do something, but fear paralyzed her. Her phone continued recording, capturing every sinister word and action.

Victoria stretched her arms out wide, waiting for the dark magic to take her but to her and everyone's surprise it suddenly shot across the room to Tasha's hiding spot.

The black smoke enveloped Tasha, lifting her off the ground. Her body convulsed as the dark magic took hold, reshaping her form into something otherworldly yet darkly beautiful. Her eyes turned a deep, mesmerizing violet, and her tits grew fuller. Her nails elongated into elegant, sharp points, painted obsidian black and her hair cascaded down in long, dark, straight waves. Her lips became plump and enticing, a deep shade of crimson.

At first, fear gripped Tasha's mind, her thoughts a whirlwind of panic. What was happening to her? She could feel the dark magic coursing through her veins, twisting her mind. But as the transformation continued, the fear began to fade, replaced by a strange sense of superiority. This power, this strength, it was exactly what she needed to finally rise above Victoria and her cronies.

As she embraced the darkness inside of her now, two small red horns grew painfully out from the top of her head. The pain was now comforting to her, it made her feel more alive than she ever had been before.

Her boring work clothes ignited and disintegrated, replaced by tight black latex that clung to her newly transformed figure, accentuating every curve. She landed gracefully, exuding an aura of seductive power that made the air around her crackle with intensity.

Zepar's gaze shifted from Victoria to Tasha, who moved to the demon’s side with a smirk. "It seems the darkness has chosen." He declared, his voice filled with a sinister glee. Victoria's confident smile faltered, replaced by a look of shock and disbelief.

"No!" Victoria screamed, her face contorting with rage. "It was supposed to be me!" She lunged towards Tasha, but Tasha raised her hand, sending a wave of dark energy that knocked her back.

"Your ambition blinded you, Victoria." Tasha said coldly. "The power goes to the one most worthy. Me."

Tasha looked down at Victoria, Lisa, and Marie, her violet eyes reflecting a mixture of surprise and newfound authority. "Kneel before your queen." She said, her voice resonating with an eerie power.

Lisa and Marie, too frightened to defy this new Tasha, immediately dropped to their knees. Victoria, seething with fury, reluctantly followed suit, her eyes blazing with hatred.

Zepar turned to Tasha, a satisfied smile on his face. "Now, my succubus queen, you shall serve as my conduit on Earth. You will gather the souls of the innocent and corrupt them into weapons for our upcoming war. Once you have, I will return and together we shall bring chaos to this world."

"I look forward to your return my king." She said, her voice purring with affection for the demon as Zephar leaned in and the two kissed deep and long.

Zepar let out a dark, triumphant laugh before he vanished in a swirl of black smoke, leaving behind the lingering scent of sulfur.

Tasha stood tall in her new form, the room now filled with an eerie silence. She turned her gaze to the three women before her, who were still on their knees, trembling with a mix of fear and awe.

Tasha's lips curled into an evil smirk. She could feel the power coursing through her veins, the dark magic making her feel invincible. She took a step closer, her heels clicking ominously on the floor. "Before you can be worthy to serve me, you need to be punished. You must learn your place, and I will ensure you never forget it." She declared, her eyes gleaming with a sadistic pleasure.

With a wave of her hand she conjured an enormous strap on that wrapped tightly to her hips. Waving her other hand, dark tendrils of magic shot out, wrapping around the three women, binding them in place. "Let's begin with you Victoria." Tasha said in dark glee.