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haztory · 2 months ago

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where you are.

— continuation to bias. (yes, i am making a series. yes, i am making us work for it) — jack abbot x fellow f!reader; attending/fellow dynamic, age-gap (unspecified but reader is late 20s and up, jack is mid 40s), heavy plot, slow-burn, angst, mention of patient death, gore, medical descriptions, descriptions of c-sections and premature birth, medical inaccuracies, jack and city girl being a formidable unit together in the ER then a LONG stint of pining, yearning, and embracing of domesticity, these two taking care of each other without realizing, please heed the warnings there are descriptions of invasive and traumatic birth — word count: 4.5k — summary: The sight of you instills a relief akin to a cool splash of water on Abbot—something he notes and stores on the shelf of things to deal with later. A shelf that is starting to pile up these days with things he’s avoiding. Things that all, concerningly, relate to you.

masterlist

The night had been going fine up until this point. Maybe it was that faulty line of thinking that led to this. The sudden implosion, the shatter of the steady.

Jack isn’t one to brag much about himself. There’s no grand honor in being a doctor. Private practice, sure. Maybe. In the ED, it's shit work in shit situations where actual shit may or may not be involved. He’ll tell that to anyone who asks. When the inevitable question comes—are you any good at it?—he’ll shrug and tell them, depends on the day.

He’s seen enough, done enough, worked with little more than two plastic straws and a boning knife to do a crike in the middle of a firefight in Afghanistan. He knows his way around the block, and can do more than the average ED can—that he will admit. But it's still a shit job sometimes.

He hates all of the tragedy that rolls through the doors. They all eat away at the sinews of the mortal coil, but pregnant traumas? They get to him. It’s unsteady ground, the one type of call that he’s always shown a physical reticence to handling.

There’s too much variability, too many unsuspecting errors, too much divided attention in the multidisciplinary approaches where focus has to be split for the sake of mom and baby. Crack open a body and you’re in for a world of hurt. Throw pregnancy into the mix, and now you’re one step away from God’s door asking what kind of games he’s playing.

Aching despair is wedged in each part of an obstetric trauma that makes someone as battle tested and weathered as Dr. Jack Abbot sweat and cringe with a grief too profound for words.

They wheel the young woman into Trauma One and the adrenaline surges through him like a needle straight to veins. His eyes, cold and hurried, press into Lisa. A terse instruction is barked out, your name in his lips.

“Get her in here now.”

Lisa is quick on her feet, stepping out of the OR to find you just as he cuts open the young girl’s shirt. In his survey of her body—the distended stomach dark with bruising from her injuries, blood staining every part of her body, most notably her inner thighs—his eyes find her face, shining a light in her eyes.

The pupils remain unilaterally fixed in their dilation, non reactive. And it’s then that he notices how much of a child she looks.

The sudden slam of the trauma doors welcomes you into the room, a rush in your step as you tie the surgical gown behind your back. A readied focus on your eye. The sight of you instills a relief akin to a cool splash of water on Abbot—something he notes and stores on the shelf of things to deal with later. A shelf that is starting to pile up these days with things he’s avoiding. Things that all, concerningly, relate to you.

“Tell me.”

A resident presents with speedy construction as Jack oversees the tracheostomy. Young female ejected from an MVC, tachycardic, extensive blood loss and apparent extreme cardiovascular collapse and hypoxia. Non reactive pupils indicating neurological nerve damage. EMTs conducted an ultrasound to confirm pregnancy and baby’s length at 30 weeks. Dr. Hudson, the OB-GYN specialist, is on the phone, her own hands wrapped up in an emergency delivery upstairs, asking for details just as they’re presenting them to you. But there’s value in having you in the room—you’ve told Abbot enough about your New York residency. He knows just how much knowledge you have in obstetrics for this.

The decision is made by you without further delay. Sure and serious.

“We’re getting this baby out, now.” Your suggestion meets no rebuttal from Dr. Hudson over the line.

“CT has been ordered, we’re next in line.” Dr. Basu, the attending surgeon, speaks from the side of the bed.

“For it to confirm what we already know and waste more time?” You explain, not meanly. Just direct, intense. “We’ve got vaginal bleeding, likely dealing with placental abruption and the longer we wait, the longer the baby is not getting oxygen. We get this baby out now or we lose both of them.”

Dr. Hudson’s voice rings on the other end of the line, “I agree. Keep me updated.”

Abbot’s a good soldier, takes direction without problem. He’s heard your directive loud and clear, the specialist’s agreement is just icing on the cake.

“You heard them. Let's move.”

You fall beside him in perfect time, meeting his movements quickly as skin is cut, hands move, and a baby—small, pink, and too pure for how he’s born—is introduced to the world.

The baby is passed to a resident for care, a separate team filling up the connecting OR to secure baby boy before getting him up to NICU. Your attention remains fixed on attempting to stabilize mom, or at least getting her stable enough to be put on life support so that her family can see her and make the call. Jack is by your side, equally intent as you. Grounds his feet to the floor, keeps himself firm as you speak directions to one another, pass steady compliments at performance, grit out expletives of frustration.

Intent to share in the dread of this one.

It’s not going well. The injuries are so severe, compounding on each other that right when you think you get something halfway resolved, another crash of vitals sounds through incessant beeping.

He says your name softly, an hour and fifteen minutes into the procedure, after her pulse is lost for the third time and three units of O-Pos have been pumped through her. A gentle echo in the orchestra of chaotic beeps. You look at him, blood staining your forearms, sweat beading on both of your foreheads, the dismay creasing on your face mirrored on his own.

“Anything else you want to try?” He asks. It’s not a test of knowledge, a sudden pop-quiz from your attending, but true deference.

You hardly imagine he’s had to do many emergency c-sections on the floor, much less when he was on the field, but seeing the monolith of a man equally lost like you is hard hitting. You shake your head, tired.

“Call it.” He gently issues.

“Time of death, 3:07.” The words heave out of your mouth in a shuddered breath. It’s through shot nerves and sheer adrenaline that your hands shakily pull the bloodied gloves off of them. You toss them to the floor in defeat as the respiratory therapist stops her manually pumping of the bag valve mask and Lisa shuts off the monitors.

It’s the same punch to the gut every time the words are uttered. You still struggle to get used to it.

“Thank you all for your work on this one.” Jack says to everyone in the room. The team seems to deflate at his words, solemnity a gaseous cloud that poisons the crowd.

“Let’s take a moment and honor her and the life that was here.”

It’s a tense and desolate moment of silence. They always are. It’s broken by the sound of the sneakers in the hallway and the opening of the operating doors.

“Dr. Abbot—” Bridget’s whisper stirs the room, “Your patient in two is vomiting.”

That’s all that can be afforded. The room breaks, everyone filtering out as the world continues to revolve beyond this room. As everyone makes out for the doors, he notices you stay. Staring. Reviewing.

Going through it all over, and over, and over again.

“We did everything we could.” He calls to you, ritualistically. Because it’s the right thing to say, not necessarily the one he believes.

“I know.” You tell him, because it’s true, but not because you believe it. You stay focused on the girl’s face, childlike features marred with contusions. “I just want a moment.”

“Course.” He offers quietly, “Anything you need.”

Your lips tilt at the shared mantra, a settled phrase that you find each other saying more often these days. You nod, appreciatively at him, your blessing for him to take his leave. Still, he hesitates. Holds. Waits. Staying close in case you voice a need—in case you say you need him.

He forces himself out of the room before he makes a fool of himself.

—

Abbot finds you in the aftermath. When a clean blanket is covering the girl's face, and she’s been wiped of the blood and fluids, and moved to an observation room waiting for her family’s arrival. After you both have moved forward through the night in other cases. He finds you outside of the vending machine, your gaze stuck flicking between the number of options.

“You’re supposed to put money into the machine in order to get something out.”

The sound of his voice hardly surprises you, even from behind. Almost like you anticipate him throughout the night, expect to find him somewhere nearby—these days, you practically hear him in the swirl of your own thoughts. Guiding you, teasing you, comforting you.

“I’m fighting a battle against the urge to gorge on chocolate.” You tell him succinctly, eyeing the trail mix hesitantly.

“How’s that going?”

“I’m losing.”

He huffs a breath then pulls out his card from his wallet. He steps up behind you, close enough where his chest brushes your shoulder as he reaches around and taps it against the machine's card reader. You don’t move from the innocent meeting of your bodies, out of some curious interest in seeing if he will.

He doesn’t. You shove the desire to lean into his subtle touch with a ten-foot pole, beating it until it's nonexistent.

He punches in ‘B6’ on the keypad without hesitation and watches as a Snickers bar is dropped from the rack. He bends down, reaching his hand through the slot and raises back up with a grunt, handing the chocolate bar to you.

Your stare is scolding, but you take the bar anyway. Ripping the wrapper and taking a bite of the candy. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Cushion before the blow.” He warns. Your chewing slows, eyes widening in dread at him.

“Our pregnant mom’s parents are here.” Jack explains and you sigh heavily. “She was sixteen.”

Solemnly nodding, your eyes find comfort in fixating on the tile floor. “We have her name?”

“Kerina Jackson.”

“Okay. I’ll head over now.”

“You want me in there?”

“No. I made the call, I can do it.”

“I don’t mind.”

He watches you think for a moment. Weighing the pros and cons of it all, before you meet his gaze. Looking into him as if searching for any insincerity or any indication that he might take your acceptance as weakness.

Finding nothing, you nod slowly. “Yeah, okay. Please.”

The walk to the observation room is harrowing. Your candy lays half eaten in your hand before you eventually tuck it into your pocket, appetite lost. You both convene one final look at each other at the door—a quick check-in, an agreement to step in before doing so. Jack moves, his hand on the handle of the door and holds it open for you, following in after you.

You speak first, introducing the both of you to the parents as the doctors responsible for overseeing their daughter. They hang onto your words with fevered worry. You tell them the outcome as softly as you can. Life shatters for them in an instant.

Through their heaves and sobs, you manage to croak out. “The baby is stable, for now. He’s been sent up to NICU for care. One of our nurses can take you to go see him.”

“And our daughter, where is she?” Her father asks.

Jack speaks then, “We have her ready for you in an observation room. You can see her whenever you’d like.”

“I speak for Dr. Abbot and I when I say that we are so sorry that this has happened.” You continue. They ask a few questions—what killed her? Severe blood loss. Blunt force trauma. How long were you operating on her? An hour and fifteen minutes. Are you sure you did everything you could? No. But that part stays quiet.

The room descends in a choked mood. Tempered by the soft sobs to two mourning parents who have no questions to ask but to the God that decided to take their child.

“We will be here for any other questions you have or help you may need.” Jack speaks amidst the tears. There’s gratitude at his insertion as you find yourself at a loss of what else to say. But Jack knows. He always knows. “If you let one of our nurses know, they’ll come get us.”

His hand rests on the small of your back as he guides you both out of the room. It’s a welcome feeling, a steady rock on shaky ground. As soon as the touch is there, it’s gone. He’s rounding on you, staring intently into you.

“You good?”

“No.” You shrug. “You?”

He crosses his arms, tendons in his forearms stretching for a moment as he opens and closes his palms. For a moment you see the sliver of the man—the one that is becoming more and more familiar to you. That he’s revealing slowly, a new crack into the armor each time you happen to be around when these things happen. Weary and upset in a way that stretches beyond anger at the unfairness of life. Targeted almost in judgement, in disappointment at choices—his and beyond.

It touches depths of sadness and hurt in ways that he doesn’t often let show. Visible only in the slow nod of his head and the downturn curl of the corner of his lips.

A slew of questions sits in his mind—What was she doing out on the road so late? What did she run into? Why wasn’t she wearing her seatbelt? Why the fuck was she pregnant at sixteen? Each is more devastating than the last, sticking a knife into his back and drags down, down, down the seam of his skin until he feels like he’s split into two.

His leg aches, loudly, but admitting that is forsaking a life that this young girl doesn’t get to have anymore.

“Gotta keep going.” He says, plainly. But his lips curl downward and his stare says more than he thinks it does.

Your fingers itch to grab onto him and hold him tight.

—

The sun rises slowly and with it comes the harrowing end of the shift. It couldn’t have come sooner.

You should run—make for the streets of Pittsburgh and never turn back. Let your heart race in adrenaline from something other than tragic chaos. Run for nonexistent hills that whisper a promise of calm and levied bliss as you leave PTMC and all that it holds. It’s an amusing thought. If you were stronger, more committed, you would. But the clock ticks past your scheduled exit time, your bag slung over your shoulder and yet, your feet remain firmly planted to the ground at the loading bay. Stuck, held, waiting. For something.

A sign, maybe. A reminder of why you’re here.

“I need a beer.”

Much like he’s done all night, Jack sidles up beside you. Appearing out of thin air and standing next to you. You’re brows furrow in question, having thought he had made for the rooftop like he usually does after a long shift.

“Isn’t it too early for that?” You ask.

“Never too early for a good thing.” He shrugs. “Isn’t that a ‘city that never sleeps’ specialty?”

“Touché.” You nod in concession. Silence befalls the two of you as the world sounds around you. Cars drive by as people wake up, sirens from an ambulance ring only a hair’s width away. The air is cool on your skin and you take the moment to breathe. The urge to run wanes, slightly.

“I’ve got some beer at my place.” You offer, casually. “Wanna head that way?”

Jack turns to meet your gaze. It's an innocuous invitation, smeared with exhaustion and nonchalance. Nothing untoward. Like you wouldn’t be offended if he didn’t take you up on it, just as you wouldn’t make it a big deal if he did. Your thumb points south, gesturing to your apartment, the complete opposite direction of his home.

He tilts his head after a thoughtful moment of consideration. “You take the train?”

“Bus.”

“Fuck that. I’ll drive us.”

—

Your apartment is deep in the strongarm of the city, right at the crossing between loud and hectic, and just past the Allegheny River. The building is as quaint as it is quiet, which isn’t saying much. A big, tall eyesore and Jack can’t help but scoff.

City girl staying close to what she knows.

He follows, woefully out of his element, as you guide him past the concierge and through the modern and minimalist decor of the lobby into golden elevators. You press twelve on the buttons and the elevator ascends in a quiet hum—lulled only by the whir of the machine.

Comfortable silence emphasizes the line that’s been drawn in the sand. Work staying at the steps of the hospital, far from a desirable topic of conversation, even farther from being a worthy disruption of the tranquility. Rehashing the night, wondering what could have been done differently is a task you both save for personal time in the privacy of your spaces when no one else is looking.

“Bienvenido a mi casita.” You sing, tired and a feeble attempt at jovial, as your keys unlock the apartment door. 1224, he notes. Puts it up on the crowded shelf with everything else about you he pretends he isn’t storing. He steps inside, eyes scanning the home with barely concealed interest.

It’s a small space, clean—save for the mail you have scattered on the counter and the stray bottle of cleaner that you have yet to put away. The apartment is decorated modestly, color popping in the pillows on your couch, the rug you have in the living room, the dinner mats on your two-chaired dinner table. Photos of friends, family, your nieces hang on every wall in a pleasant array. It’s lived in, alive, warm, yours.

He doesn’t realize he’s studying the place until you call from behind him from the kitchen, your head deep in the pantry. “You still want that beer? I can make some coffee instead?”

“Coffee’s good. Bl—”

“Black. I know.” You look at him over your shoulder, a twinkle somehow emerging in your eyes. From the ash of a smoldering fire that burned all that was sane, you still rise—sparking anew. He watches, curious. You grab coffee grounds and move through your kitchen, filling the machine and starting a brew.

“You hungry?” You ask.

“Are you?”

“I could eat.”

He didn’t come here to eat breakfast. He’s not sure why he even came in the first place. But he nods despite the uncertainty that makes him feel idiotic. “Sure.”

He wades awkwardly into your apartment. Unsure where to stand, how to take up less space, if he should bid his goodbye now or later. His eyes fall to a box leaning against your living room wall, beside your television that sits pathetically on the floor.

“What’s going on here?” He asks, gesturing to the cardboard with black lettering that has too many umlauts above them.

“A TV stand that I’ve been procrastinating building.” You respond, the sound of eggs cracking on the counter and into a bowl ringing throughout the room.

“How long?”

“‘bout a month.”

“Christ.” He scoffs. “You waiting for God to show up?

“Something like that.” He hums. His eyes narrow for a moment, before deciding resolutely.

“Got a tool kit?”

The morning unfolds slowly, comfortably. Jack sitting in your living room, building your TV stand to create a reason as to why he’s here. He pauses only when you plate up some breakfast. Eggs, toast, and a cup of coffee. He eats in a steady quiet with you, unsure when the last time he had breakfast with someone was.

Conversations are interspersed infrequently. Mostly unimportant; something about this new hot sauce you got from the farmer’s market and the plans you have for redecorating. He tells a stupid story about the billboard outside your apartment window that used to have the picture of the two twin lawyers and their fish man.

(“Their fish man?”

“Shenderovich, Shenderovich, and Fishman. 1-888-98-Twins.”

“Shenderovich to the second power. God, that’s awful.”

“You’re telling me.”)

Quiet things, small delights that bring the slight quirk to his lips and the gentle huff of laughter from you. The small things the diffuse the tension of the night, that force the slow revival into becoming a human again.

You take both plates when you finish, humming at his quiet thanks and returning to the kitchen to clean while he returns his attention to the stand. And it’s normal—so pointedly normal and domestic it’s a wonder this hasn’t been a routine occurrence. Jack is sore thumb in his scrubs sitting on your living room floor, your measly excuse for a toolkit beside him as he fits wooden slabs together and builds. An entirely new sight, certainly not something the version of you a few months ago would’ve thought you’d ever see, but it's a welcome one.

Weirdly, he fits. His figure, his presence, him. Makes your home feel whole, meaningful.

Time passes with little recognition. It’s a relatively simple stand—easy and mindless to put together. The Swedes are built off of functional efficiency and he sends a quiet hail mary to the Scandinavians. One moment, Jack is scanning the instructions, his eyes glancing to yours as you place a glass of water beside his mug on the coffee table next to him. Then he blinks and the stand is assembled, only the quiet hum of the morning news sounding from your television.

It’s a welcome thing. He’s never able to fully turn his mind off but in the mundane, the easy turn of the screw and the pleasing click of pieces together, the turmoil dulls to a quiet chatter and he can breathe easily. Zoned in so readily that he lost touch with reality for a second. Forgot where he was, what he was doing, who he was doing it for.

He pushes the stand into the place where your TV sits on the ground, then lifts the TV onto its surface. Settling the furniture into the place that he supposes you would want—the place he thinks it looks best.

He’s turning, content at being useful and ready to ask for your approval. Then he realizes that he’s heard very little from you while he was building.

He finds you on the couch behind him. Eyes shut, mouth slightly open as your breaths are softly and evenly exhaled in your sleep. Your hair is released from the tie you had to hold it back throughout the shift, the strands messily framing your face as you lay against the pillow of the couch. Still clad in your scrubs, your face settles peacefully as you rest. Not scrunched in frustration or stony in your focus.

Under the soft of the morning light, a sharp contrast to the fluorescents he’s always seen you under, exhaustion resounds on your face. Tamed only by the sweetened sighs of your slumber that remedy the ailment. You sleep, sweet and easy.

A stray strand of hair crosses over your nose, moving with the rhythmic rise and falls of your breaths. A twitch aches in his fingers. Spurned by need and the deep rooted ache of loneliness that craves the taste of tenderness.

He brushes the strand away from your face, eyes focused on the action, watching your face remain peacefully asleep. Relishes in the brief moment of softness he’s been afforded.

There’s a twinge of guilt as he has to disturb the solitude, yours and his, when he taps your leg gently. You stir in tired confusion.

“Lock the door behind me.”

“You’re going?” You ask, wiping your mouth, sounding disappointed at the notion.

“Yeah. You need to sleep.”

“You sure? You can stay.”

The excuse is on his tongue fighting against the urge to read into that. There was hardly a reason for him to be here today, much less one for him to linger around. Insist and bore drill into the cracks of his thick skull that this shouldn’t happen again. That this is inappropriate.

It’s pointedly not, though. He built a stand for you, you made him breakfast. That was all there was to it. That’s all that was being expected by you, because why would you expect anything further?

(You wouldn’t. Because there’s nothing going on. Despite the stares from the nurses, and the whispers of a rumored bet, and the lingering glances that get sent between you two—nothing is going on.

He’s sure of it.)

But, Jack doesn’t do things flippantly, without purpose. And walls don’t get torn down, softened, for just any reason. In the ingrained pattern that Dr. Mott insists is a defense mechanism and that Jack believes is just normal human condition, he feels the walls so carefully erected find their place once more. Fortified to shut out the possibility of some inane want for something burn without restraint within him.

The armor that’s been slowly cracking back settles onto him and he aims for a neutral expression. Curt, succinct. No room for error. “Thanks for breakfast.”

“Thanks for the stand, you didn’t have to do that. But it looks great.” You trail behind him slowly as he walks towards your front door. “I’ll be calling you for all of my furniture builds. I’m spoiled now, old man.”

Here’s the chance. Stop it here, smother the budding growth of a tender seed before it takes root and spreads into his lungs. Prevent the tendons from reaching up his throat, crawling into his brain, and mold the perfect image of you into the grey matter.

He should tell you, firmly, that this will not happen again. Throw in a degrading tease, diffuse the sincerity of the moment. Get you to stop looking at him like he means something.

“Anytime, city girl.” He says, instead.

You smile— warm, relaxed, gentle and he’s ready to aim gun to temple at the realization of how much he likes it. He can only do what he knows best, what he does with everything else he stupidly seems to notice and grab onto with you, and puts it on the shelf. Half ready to lock it in a chest deep in his mind and toss the key into a cavernous abyss.

“I’ll hold you to it.” You say, content. And he nods.

He drives back in silence and the promise forged in tired smiles and quiet closeness chokes him all the way home.

a/n: i would like it known, this is the fastest i have ever put out work in a series. im just so bewitched by this middle aged man, i want him inside me.

know this is a quick one and not much happens but i'm a true believer in slow burn being both slow and burning :)

next one will be fun, promise!

#jack abbot #my writing #the pitt x reader #jack abbot x reader #jack abbott x reader #dr abbot x reader #the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #jack abbot fanfiction #jack abbot x you #i would also like it known that while jack is a capable man #the man is attracted to a woman of equal capability #city girl pulls shit together and the man has heart eyes unknowingly #shawn hatosy #jack abbott #is it crazy that i want to dissect my own fic #is anyone catching that he says he's doing nice things for reasons other than showing he cares and yet its also to show that he CARES #im begging for someone to ask me what my favorite part is because i need to discuss how much i love this dynami

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scribeofmorpheus · 8 months ago

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Veilguard Review: Doom Upon the World

Warnings: Spoilers for Veilguard, very political review (considers race, gender, religion and choice consequences centred around established Thedas).

Another long post: 4k words

In my first review (Love, Wisdom and Pride), I focused on the relationships most pivotal to Solas’ arc reaching resolution: Inquisitor and Mythal (though heavily Solavellan inspired, I tried to be aware of how the Inquisitor’s role as a rival/friend outside of romance was still considered as an important relationship in his story). This review, on the other hand, will focus on the worldstate and what we lost [x], as well as my speculations on which story beats/companions/advisors I feel should have been integrated into the story for a deeper emotional payoff for past Dragon Age players (and overall story cohesion).

EDIT: Why Dragon Age Veilguard isn't a "Cathedral" thread (very important tet-a-tet about understanding game development politics--especially what was happening in Bioware)

N.B: This review is definitely a critique of something I love, born from love, because—yes, I had expectations; yes, they were high; no, I don’t think that’s a problem; no, I do not hate the game we got, but I mourn for what the devs clearly were building towards with the last 3 games in the series, and from what we know from the internal struggles with Bioware under EA’s helm (as evidence from the development time, layoffs, staff’s disappointment, and the differences between the final game and the concept art) the only thing getting in the way of a truly epic game was corporate meddling and greed.

Spoilers below the cut.

Without further ado, the primary criticism I have is that Varric should not have been our advisor! I read a post somewhere that succinctly surmised the that Varric was chosen as our Advisor so that:

Solas would make an “irredeemable” mistake for all the Solas haters to use as an excuse to simply view him as an antagonist, simplifying the goal of the game to: stop the elf from bringing down the Veil.

Varric was used for marketing purposes rather than story depth choices; he’s popular, beloved and an easy carrot for the EA stick to dangle in front of loyal fans.

His writer has literally been trying to kill him off for the last 2 games! Varric was supposed to die in Inquisition! (lol) [EDIT: Just want to clear up one mistake I wrote here--I say Mary Kirby (Varric's Author) was trying to kill him off since D2, but I meant the scrapped Exalted March DLC helmed by Gaider, and then someone else wanted to kill him off in Inquisition (Mary, I'm sorry I accidentally passed a fib about you!)]

I firmly believe he should have been holding the blight back in Kirkwall, and that his position as Viscount of Kirkwall should have affected the outcome of the blight spreading in the South!

Advisors in the North

Right off the bat, the two best choices for advisor, (excluding the Inquisitor out of favouritism) should have been Dorian and Morrigan.

Dorian: because we’re in the North, the Shadow Dragons are by far the more “grassroots organisation against imperial power” kind of organised body the Inquisition started out as. Since we don’t have a calling to fight against like the Wardens in Origins or a family to try and keep together in a city on the brink of implosion like Hawke, or a pseudo religious-political body to inspire Hope in the faithful like the Inquisitor, Valour, Love and Hope cannot be at the heart of this story. It has to be JUSTICE [x].

Justice for the culmination of Anders’ story; for Merril and everything she endured to repair the eluvian; for Fenris, the origin of his lyrium tattoos (which according to GhilDirthalen’s post, there was a plot point linked to elves whose lyrium bodies did not possess latent magical prowess) and the slaves in Tevinter; for the rebelling elves that should have formed factions as the Dread Wolf’s Agents like the Trespasser epilogue hinted at; for misunderstood spirits hurt by mages like Cole; for the ancient elves like Abelas; for the templars who saw the corruption in their ranks but had no way out because of lyrium addiction like Sampson; for those corrupted by red lyrium that was spreading throughout Thedas with no cause or cure; for the dwarves like Branka, obsessed with the answers held in the Anvil of the Void, or Harding, or Shaper Valta who saw a Titan and witnessed the death of the Legion of the Dead; for Sandal’s prophecy!; for the qunari oppressed by the Qun, turned talvashoth, searabas, hisraad like Bull! Justice for two decades worth of worldbuilding on the part of the writers and the devs who loved telling these stories.

Morrigan: is self-explanatory to the story they were crafting between Solas and Mythal. And what would have been even better is if they actually just explained away the Well of Sorrows’ choice unaffecting the Inquisitor because Morrigan eventually had to assimilate the essence from the well to keep the Inquisitor from going mad—like the anchor had to be tempered by Solas in Trespasser. Easy as that!

The best part is that pitting Morrigan and Dorian as foils of each other further allows the game to have greater stakes and tension because Morrigan (changed by Mythal’s righteous anger and need for justice for what was done to her by the Evanuris) could champion making choices more detrimental to Thedas but ultimately in line with Solas’ plans. And Dorian could make choices that put the safety of Thedas’ citizens at the forefront by sacrificing headway in stopping Solas and his Agents from advancing with their plans!

Best yet, we could have had a hardened vs softened Dorian depending on whether you recruited him in Inquisition, and/or did his quest.

[Inquisitor concept art by Matt Rhodes]

Favouritism Bonus Round: The Inquisitor (or alternatively Morrigan) should have been the voice to champion Rook to seek out the wolf statues, and they should have been present when discussing the memories, as it would have given them more gravitas when uncovering the literal story of "Solas is Andrastian God creating the Veil" or "the Dalish Dread Wolf is being proven to be a saviour" or "Elves originally being spirits in the beginning", or "Titans were at war with the elves" beyond comments like: “Oh, Solas regrets this” or “They were doing it”. (This is the issue with having a “couch setting” for a “war room”—discussions feel less intellectual, factions don’t necessarily bring their own unique viewpoint into the interpretation of Solas’ decisions/Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain’s presence, etc.) Everyone is not digesting the material given like it’s a clue to stopping the world from ending but rather like gossip. With the Inquisitor, as either a friend to Solas, a rival or a romanced Lavellan, finally finding the Dread Wolf’s Achilles Heel after vowing to stop him would have rung true, closed the loop.

Sigh.

This is also why I feel the Inquisitor should have been the one in Varric’s place—like literally. I mean recovering from an injury after failing to catch up to Solas in ACT 1, possibly dispatched by Agents of Fen'Harel! Because they could then be forced to pass the mantle to hunt down Solas to “Rook”. Not dead. Or a blood magic illusion. Just, Inquisitor, wounded, making small talk, sometimes bringing up plot points from Inquisition—your Hawke on the battlements in DA:I or Alistair in the gardens with Morrigan and Keiran.

It would also make more sense for the Inquisitor to be able to use the eluvian to travel between Skyhold and the Lighthouse, allowing for believable absences during plot points where their lack of action inspite of their presence wouldn’t make sense. Not to mention more gut-wrenching if we heard about the South from Inky rather than reading 4 letters!

Previously, I stated how the Inquisitor’s presence needed more weight in the non-Solavellan endings! Some people’s Inquisitor befriended Solas, some hated him, either way, the Inquisitor should have been present for the final showdown beyond a passive observer! If the Inquisitor ended up being the last friend/former love that Solas destroys (in a bad worldstate end where you don’t collect Mythal’s essence), which then prompts Rook to fight him because Solas’ last tie to empathy failed to redeem him, that would have added so many layers! The Inquisitor falling is the last straw for Solas too, whether friend, lover or foe, he fought beside them, stopped Corypheus with them! The Inquisitor was partially his making of a hero; his first “good” mistake! It would then make sense for him to snap, choosing to be a villain in the hopes of being stopped because he can’t stop himself, he’s come too far! Rather than the ‘I am a God’ ending they gave us.

Agency of a “Rook” on an Empty Chess Set (Factions and Backstory)

Personally, from both a writing and a viewer’s perspective, I think our protagonist should have always been linked to the Shadow Dragons (and the factions choices shouldn’t have been incorporated). This is more because, framing one’s backstory as being a member of a faction—not a people with established political positions in Tevinter—siphons the narrative of personal stakes. Imagine being a mage who could have begun with higher approval in Tevinter but lower elsewhere, maybe they’d be saved from the Venatori’s thrall that was linked to Neve’s companion story—again linked to Ashur and the Dragons. Or an elf mage could begin a storyline like that of the city elf in da:o but focused on the Shadow Dragons’ tackling slavery’s presence in Tevinter. A Qunari origin could explore being a refugee aided by the Shadow Dragons as they flee the Qun because they don’t fit in the dogmatic religion. A warden could be a criminal in Tevinter, showing us what is considered ‘rules for criminality’ in a city that corrupt and extremist.

Overall, the factions don’t add much diversity to Rook’s background, backstory, dialogue tree or influence on the world state beyond a last name that doesn’t really matter. With a Shadow Dragons’ background, the very ethos of “Rook” would have been about overcoming oppression, and then the nickname makes sense too, a name to stay concealed, to keep loved ones safe while DAV’s protagonist battles politics, blood mages and blighted gods. It would have been even more meaningful if the nickname “Rook” paralleled “Dread Wolf”, in that it was bestowed by your origin-based backstory antagonist and then used as a call to freedom (we wouldn’t even need a cutscene, this could have been revealed in part of their banter/dialogue). This simple choice would have allowed us to focus on Treviso and the Antaam’s occupation and Tevinter and the Venatori’s rise to power on a more personal level. It would also place our Rook in a position to be a foil to Solas’ “do what is necessary for the greater good” vs “be better than those that came before” plot lines. Building off this, the hardened companion status between Neve and Lucanis should have formed a parallel, with one tilting towards understanding Solas’ extreme efforts to stop the Gods, whereas the non-hardened character should have taken the role of foil. Both of whom would add balance to the tension when discussing Solas’ memories or even in exploration banter during missions (one the “devil” on your shoulder, the other your “angel” depending on where Solas’ actions stand for you since Inquisition).

Finally, the Shadow Dragons' should have been linked to Dorian more directly, potentially created with backing/support from the Inquisition’s advisors/Inquisitor directly (since their default attire is the Shadow Dragon apparel).

Companions: Cole for Compassion; Briala for Rebellion and Revenge

Cole

In my review Love, Widsom and Pride, I briefly touched on the fact Cole (whether recruited, not recruited, kept spirit or changed human) was absolutely necessary as a companion. Because it doesn’t matter which version was present in the world (RIP the tapestry), every iteration of Cole works synergistically with appealing to Solas’ spirit side:

If he wasn’t recruited in Inquisition, he could simply have his default origins as a compassion spirit that ‘follows’ the greatest pain in the Fade that yearns to be healed, giving a compassionate viewpoint to Solas’ folly.

Recruited-to-the-Inquisition Spirit Cole could have a greater connection to Solas than even Varric, seeing as Cole was most likely a literal representation of Solas rewriting his own history of corruption by preventing a spirit from becoming something against its nature.

Human Cole would have a deeper connection to the world of Thedas, and could have been a great tool to prove how change was inevitable, not always a bad thing, and inevitably out of even Solas’ control. And he could still offer insight into Solas' mind via 'remnants' of the time he was more spirit.

Briala

What I enjoy about this companion head canon is that Briala is literally Solas’ direct parallel story-wise:

She’s in love with Celene, the ‘best’ choice for ruler in Orlais even though she burned Briala’s alienage. They share a great power imbalance, with Celene able to affect the fate of all elves in Orlais, yet is unwilling to free them, return the Dales, or concede power even though she claims to love Briala, too. Briala is a rebellion upstart, raised by Felassan for crying out loud. She controlled the eluvians and knew how to get around the crossroads, she has more of a bone to pick with Solas than any other NPC not close to the Inquisitor! (Celene and Mythal share many similarities as well, with Celene seen as the more benevolent of rules when compared to Gaspard the Warmonger; and if Gaspard is in power but controlled by Briala, imagine her being dethroned from her seat of power by Agents of Fen’Harel after she lost access to the eluvians, that would have been a great story arc to explore).

Sidenote on DAV's Romance, Companions and Choice Consequence

Building off having either Cole or Briala as a companion, I do think it would have been nice to have them as non-romanceable too. Don’t get me wrong, I know it's great to have options, but I do feel making everyone “pansexual” wasn’t the right way to go for all the companions. It takes away character choice, personality, taste and individualism from the companions. Dorian’s story would not be nearly as impactful if he could have been romanced regardless of gender. Solas being unwilling to romance any race/gender besides female elf (though a direct correlation to the developers being afraid of the ‘evil bisexual’ trope that was popular in the 2010s) also adds to his story; where he’s reluctant to see the world as real, to accept non-elven people as having agency, because that would mean he wasn’t walking through a see of Tranquil, but instead, he was the Forgotten One out of time.

I also firmly believe that a possible reason Cole wasn’t a companion despite there being plans in place that he’d return (Trespasser epilogue slide, I remember you), is because I can 100% see an EA big-wig being like: “He’s unfuckable. Give us someone hot and brooding and slap a demon in them and you’ve got fuckable-Cole” and then we got Lucanis.

I like Lucanis. I’m not crazy about him, but I enjoy the Machiavllian family drama. Very Renaissance Medici story beats. I adore Mary Kirby as a writer, too, but I feel the introduction to the Crows of Antiva should have been Zevran’s mantle, or he should have at least haunted the narrative and missions related to the Crow factions (of which there should definitely have been factions within the Crows). Considering the fact I romanced Lucanis, I couldn’t shake the fact that a lot of his “acceptance for being bound to Spite” beats paralleled a Human Cole having been ‘cured’ from Compassion.

The romances seem less… memorable to me than past games. The importance of choice means you have to accept the story unfolding based on the consequences of your choices; and gender-locking at least one companion would show the cause and effect of beginner choice. Taash is actually written to prefer women over men, which is vital to their arc around gender dysphoria and being non-binary, they would have been a perfect candidate! I imagine their story would also be a great way to explore how being one race attempting to romance another could have a slower progression rate (again, because of Taash’s multi-cultural background, and their complex feelings at having been raised by a mother so tied to the Qun, them being cagier around a qunari Rook romance would also have added layers!) But with everyone available to be romanced, and having no initial repercussion for early game choices despite which character model would have bruises or cuts (Neve or Harding), genuinely roleplaying as Rook, and not as someone using Rook as a stand-in for ourselves, is more disconnected than previous games. This is why the romances feel off to me. Doing the romanceable companions’ storylines seem like I’m the one trying to date them, not Rook. Maybe it’s because Rook’s established personality is the direct repercussion of a sanitized worldstate!

Foibles of being ‘Unproblematic’: A Sanitised World

The issue with trying to make a game that won’t touch on difficult topics, is that, when you make that game a sequel to a series that was literally built on the backs of tackling real world politics, it makes a lot of the world seem plastic. A poor imitation perhaps.

The World of Thedas book actually tells us that Thedas is a fantasy setting that uses the real world as its backdrop for conflict and world building. Andraste is Joan of Arc. Andrastian faith is Christianity founded by a woman. Orlais is the French bourgeois era. Fereldan is more Highlands/Celtics region if it never had a chance to expand because of the blight. Elves are the disenfranchised (and a direct parallel to popular elven cultures that were often portrayed as the pinnacle of advanced magic/civilisation). City elves live in alienages (literal ghettos). Dalish elves (native to the land) are being run out of their homes, the Orlesian’s are trying to claim the territory for their Empire, and their numbers are dwindling, their culture and language a poor imitation of what it had been, barely surviving colonialisation! Dwarves have a caste system that determines everyone’s future! Dagna had to leave her home! Harding grew up on the surface. Varric’s whole plot thread anchoring him in act 1 of DA2 is helping his brother discover Deep Roads riches so they can get their family’s title again.

And through all 3 games prior to Veilguard, we’re told the Ventaori are monsters, the Imperium is crueller to its elves/slaves than any place in the South! The best option beyond turning Feynriel tranquil in DA2 (one of the few Dream Walker mages) is to send him to Tevinter. What becomes of a half-Dalish mage in Tevinter? Neve, our first companion beside Harding, is determined to make Dock Town a place worth living! So, to walk into Veilguard and have no slavery storylines in a place called the fucking TEVINTER IMPERIUM (modelled after the fucking Roman Empire close to collapse) is so jarring. So unbelievable. What injustice is Neve battling? What woes has Dorian been dealing with in the Magisterium?

The closest we get to seeing the darkness that exists in the world (besides the hanging corpses lining the streets of Dock Town if you save Treviso) is the side quest where a father makes a deal with a demon to keep his child alive by sacrificing so many innocents.

And then there's Tevinter's "savage" neighbours, the Invading forces of the Qun! Frightening, right? But from the blasé manner the Qun's rigidity is discussed, it is framed as though anyone can simply up and leave the Qun if they so wished it, according to Taash’s mom. Yes, Taash is being hunted, and their mom is taken prisoner, but it was all in service to a tablet that discussed fire-breathing, not about returning to the Qun. Iron Bull being deemed talvashoth holds less severity when the consequences of leaving a subjugating, dogmatic, religious-political society are simply... nothing. There's no anchor to Taash being raised in Rivain for safety reasons beyond keeping their fire-breathing secret. And what of all the elves that commit to the Qun? Why are there no elf converts among the Antaam? What about the fucked-up stuff the Dwarves of Kal-Sharok were doing before Veilguard? Kal-Sharok dwarves apparently were changed by the First Blight, and are supposed to have a ‘tainted’ appearance according to the World of Thedas concept art book. Why are they just... normal dudes in booby armour (lol)?

[Imshael! A demon/spirit of choice & Calpernia as potential companions is insanity>>!]

I possibly wouldn’t have these strong opinions if the games gave the companions more… just more ‘controversial’ stories with harder choices! Veilguard in a way feels like playing a game with child-lock on. Yes, what happens to Tevinter or Treviso looks awful when you see it, but the side-quests, companion stories, NPC dialogues and world around the ‘mise-en-scene’ don’t reflect this--it's like set dressing. The “I can’t believe the Venatori are evil” side comments by Rook in Tevinter when the Venatori takes over become whiny, child-like and “hopes and prayers” coded. Do something then, Rook. You are the hero of this story, are you not?

I am forever grateful that Lucanis is actually hardened and removed as a romance interest if you sacrifice Treviso (finally, good old dragon age consequences).

Now onto good criticism of our companions!

Companions: The Good, the Balanced and the Essential

Good: Neve and Davrin.

Neve is our eyes and heart to Dock Town, our humanising presence for the Tevinter Imperium. She is also written in a way that I find her to have the best agency as a non-romanced character than most.

Davrin is a breath of fresh air for the reputation of the Grey Wardens, he’s the genuine article. Him owning up to being young and foolhardy when he rejected the Dalish ways in search of adventure, only to be battle-hardened and then become more appreciative of the fact he was taught to live in harmony before he was exposed to the discord of the Deep Roads is such a good character growth moment.

Balanced: Harding. Harding grows into a much more invaluable story piece when she unlocks the Stone Sense and uncovers her people’s history. It’s a rather short-sighted choice to have her be one of the Ultimate Sacrifice characters because what becomes of the story of the Stone? Who hears the song? Who will speak of the Titans to other dwarves if she is chosen to go on the final mission?

Essential: Antoine and Evka! No notes, they should have been conditional companions in a side quest! They’re fleshed out so well, and their relationship is real and built into their character, but it’s not all they are! Antoine is smart, hopeful and also tortured by the new blight. Evka is powerful, pragmatic and also caring.

The Red Herring that should have been: Bellara as an Agent of Fen’Harel! Her storyline would have worked with the concept of being found ‘suspicious’ by players if the Agents of Fen’Harel were an active group. A Veil Jumper in Arlathan whose brother got entabgled with a Forgotten One? Someone who is an outright believer in the elven pantheon? O, Bellara, the power you would have had as a possible double-agent in our midst, only for us to have been wrong in doubting her and having it be someone else! Race and position to power should have inforced so many story beats in this game, man!

Finally: Religion, Where?

I’m a little exhausted, so I’ll wrap this part a little quickly. Religion is paramount to understanding the decisions and states of mind of so many characters in Thedas. Leliana’s arc alone is one of the most intimate insights into Andrastian faith! The Inquisitor is literally responsible for appointing the Divine! The Divine can call for an Exalted March! The Black Divine is a huge plot point when discussing the differences between the Southern and Northern iterations of the Chant. Tevinter’s Old Gods (Archdemons) are blighted dragons linked to the Evanuris that whisper the will of their masters to humans. Archdemons are responsible for the Blight, our first “save the world kiddo” moment in da:o! So where is the disbelief in the streets that Elven Gods exist? Why is it always “Our Gods” are back? What about city elves who believe in the Chant of Light? Where is the Black Divine? Why is everyone okay remaining Andrastian when the fact Solas made the Veil is revealed? Where is the politics and religious civil war in the streets between NPCs?! Between companions? Why isn’t there a cultish, zealous group of extreme Andrastians following Solas around? Why isn’t there another version thinking of Solas and all elves as the second coming of Maferath? How are city elves fairing compared to Dalish elves at the reveal it’s their pantheon gunning to end the world? Again! RACE AND POLITICS MATTER! They always mattered in Thedas before, yet here they are anecdotal at best.

The Veil Should Have Come Down

It’s apparent to me, and numerous others, that Veilguard was stunted by its attempts to be an entry piece that wasn’t alienating to new players of the RPG game format, but it was also haunted deeply by it’s very EPIC tapestry mechanic (choices mattered!). Ironically, Veilguard served to be a soft re-boot of the series. This, I think, was the grandest mistake. If they meant to reboot the series for future instalments, we should have fundamentally changed the physics and rules of Thedas completely to allow the next instalment to start from the literal ground up. By bringing down the Veil, we’d finally free the Titans, introduce the concept of Dwarves with magic, awaken the Forgotten Ones and maybe allow for new species/lore/concepts to shape the future. And to work around the tapestry, they could have simply set the next sequel 200 years later. Sent our heroes to rest. Ended with a new canvas.

It should have concluded with the very ending that was prophesied by Sandal in DA2:

“One day the magic will come back. All of it. Everyone will be just like they were. The shadows will part, the skies will open wide. When he rises everyone will see.”

Bonus: Anaris should have been a DLC boss with Fenris involved!

Why, you ask? Just this data-mined codex entry still present in the game:

Truth be told, like they did with Corypheus in the Origins DLC, I think they could very well bring him back as the big bad of DA5—which I think should have always been about fleshing out the war between the Titans / the Forgotten Ones / Evanuris!

Anaris and a waking Titan?! That would have been beyond amazing!

Which… again, is why the Veil should have COME DOWN!

P.S.: I know a lot of these criticisms seem like unhappy nitpicks, but I did enjoy Veilguard, I got an ending I could live with. BUT I am so angry by how many roadblocks are placed before game devs with a clear story in mind--as is obvious with the concept art book. Obvious threads were leading to Veilguard having always been the end of the Dragon AGE! We kill the last Archdemon! The last dragon linked to the Gods and the blight! The game developers have even alluded to having fought tooth and nail with EA's suits, but could only manage to give us the game we got. And I'm beyond grateful. But MAN does it hurt!

Remember to say thank you to the writers/artists/voice actors on their socials, they deserve a little love too.

Fin!

#dav spoilers #datv spoilers #veilguard spoilers #dragon age #rook #dragon age critique #veilguard review #solas #varric tethras #cole dragon age #felassan #morrigan #zevran #mythal #da2 #dao #da inquisition #dorian pavus #thedas

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idk-maybe-i-did-it · 2 months ago

Text

what happened earlier?

not quite the beginning, but close enough. when a bad mission leads to a bad moment, who will be there for her in the aftermath?

warnings: blood mentioned (a lot), violence/vague fighting, nightmares, glass, lil swearing, panic attacks, I think that’s it?

roughly 2.2k

A/N: I think I’m making a lil series about these two, this one is not the best and is more background/plot than angst but I really like how it builds onto them

someone asked to be tagged???? omg???????

@doilooklikeagiveafrack

─────────

She remembers the day it all started like it was yesterday. She wishes she could forget.

—

There was blood everywhere. Splattered. Exploded. Dropped. Splashed. Staining. Tainting. Draining from their bodies.

She didn’t know what to do.

how to feel.

how it even happened.

Her hands are shaking and she hardly recognizes them, the blood splattering her gloves making her nauseous. The air in her lungs is too heavy, her chest too tight, the gravel too harsh, the silence too deafening—

“We’re surrounded, fall back!”

“Steve we’re in too deep, we can’t!” A panicked, feminine voice.

“Clint’s hit!” A baritone rings out in her ear.

They’re outnumbered, beat, and the men just keep coming. So many soldiers. So many guns.

A tightness settles in her chest and her mind goes hazy. Everything hurts. She’s so new, barely knows these people. They saved her from the compound and now here she is, three missions in and she’s not doing jack shit.

“Bucky, get down!”

It’s the explosion that does her in. The former Winter Soldier holds Cap’s shield over a charred bit of rock. It’s not the grenade that goes off. Not the explosion of rock and the implosion of air.

It’s the explosion of her.

Horror fills every bone in her body, weighing her down like lead, and she just drops.

The ground doesn’t hurt as much as she expected. Nothing really hurts anymore. She can’t feel the puncture in her side, the gash on her arm, no, she can’t feel anything.

She can’t feel anything.

Sixteen years of training and missions and she still can’t remember immediately. She still can’t feel the floor beneath her skin. Massacring enemies and innocents still comes so easily, why does it always have to come so easy?

Eyes so numb and devoid in the pool beneath her, tears dripping steadily down her cheeks, a gash across her neck— and no sign of her.

Why couldn’t they just make her a mindless drone, something that wouldn’t feel when it happened? Why didn’t they drop her when she failed her first two missions? Why didn’t they just—

Dark boots appear in her line of vision, jolting her eyes from the pool of blood below her, and she frantically meets The Winter Soldier’s gaze as he squats in front of her.

“Breathe.” He commands it gently, his face unyielding.

She tries, she really tries, but every time she sucks the air in it doesn’t stay. Every time she pushes a hand to her chest to make her lungs work they just don’t.

She can’t breathe. She can’t breathe. she can’t breathe—

“Look at me.” He orders sharply, his metal hand reaching to squeeze her shoulder. She does.

She meets his eyes again, really meets them, and feels her chest squeeze horribly one last time before letting the valves all open.

It’s that look in his eyes, the look that says ‘I know, I know’.

The look that says ‘you’ll never truly be able to get rid of the past, it’s just something you live with’.

She searches his face for something else, anything else, and finds acceptance.

The air comes back.

—

Fear and disappointment, but mostly fear.

She doesn’t understand why she’s here, why she isn’t being chained and locked up right now.

“What was that back there?” Stark’s voice is quiet, tense. His eyes are brimming with anger and lined with fear.

Rogers’s body language is subdued, more guarded, but the distrust is obvious in his eyes.

They never guard their eyes. Nobody does.

Barnes is the only one not looking at her with fear. He’s got this curious expression on his face. Curious and pained, like he’s remembering something he wishes he could forget.

“I didn’t mean to,” she bites out, quiet and defensive. She really didn’t, it just happened.

She never meant for any of it to happen, not the blood, not the deaths, not the arguments and tense silence that ensued.

Stark is quiet for only a moment, but it’s obvious he’s not shocked.

“You didn’t mean to?”

Derision, distaste, distrust, anger, and a tendril of fear drips from his words. His tone, his body, his entire being. It’s as if he wants her to crawl in the Earth and die.

Trying not to squirm is the easy part, it’s meeting his gaze that hurts. All she sees is anger and this look that says ‘I knew you were dangerous, but a monster?’

She was hoping they wouldn’t look at her like that for a while.

One, two, three; in.

Four, five, six; out.

“I didn’t mean to.” She repeats, meeting his eye with a look of remorse.

—

Barnes is the one to bring her food that night in her cage. Her room, where she’s locked herself inside to preserve what tentative bond she has left with the group.

“I don’t blame you.” He says as he passes her a paper bag and a bottle of water. His voice is deep and rough, though she can tell he’s trying to be gentle as he speaks.

Her heart beats fast within her chest and she’s so scared that maybe he can hear it, that maybe he knows how much his words have done to her. He doesn’t blame her? Everyone blames her.

When she looks up and meets his eye, the air coming quick from her lungs stops.

Steel blue, deep and drowning. Calming. Eyes that are haunted, eyes with demons dancing in them, eyes swimming with remorse. It takes a feat for her to look away.

“Thanks.” She says quietly, taking the bag and bottle from his hands as she looks down.

“Anytime.” His voice is warm, earnest, and she knows he means it.

—

Voices, low and husky in the worst way. The harsh ring of her tactical gear hitting the floor. The halls blur as she runs down them.

She’s being followed, someone’s right behind her, turning her last corner, running, running, running—

Sliding through slick pools, slipping in wet spots, the sting as her wounds hit the floor—

A cage— A chair— A bed—

Orders.

Demands.

Questions.

—

Cuffs.

Cold.

—

Hot.

get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out getoutgetoutgetout GET THE HELL OUT.

She scrambles blindly from her bindings, throwing fabric from her body and stumbling from the bed. It’s dark in here, so dark, and she needs the light.

Tripping over objects as she goes, hissing quietly when she smacks into things, begging and pleading when the doors won’t open—

Air, sweet air. She hardly notices as she glass she shattered stabs into her skin. One step out and—

A body, strong and heavy tackling her to the floor.

Blood trickles down her arm and her shin, a gash on her neck, and the air’s stolen from her lungs again.

A body— get off get off get off—

“Stop fighting me, dammit—“ A panicked, rough voice breaks out.

She needs to get out, get out, get out—

A metal and warm arm holds her in a vice, yanking her down to the floor. The sharp contrast between the two startles her, has her kicking and smashing her head back against his face.

And then a metal hand is on her jaw, holding her still. And her head is tucked under his chin, her nose just above his thumb. And she can see the shine of his wrist in the moonlight.

Panic returns quick as she realizes she’s being held by Bucky damn Barnes, pressed against a balcony railing.

He was meters from her when it happened. He had just shielded them from the grenade and, then, she flipped. Her eyes said everything and nothing all at once, stole the air from his lungs and put new meaning to his breathing.

He saw the switch, witnessed the moment she went from panicked to calm. It felt like a ticking bomb in his head. It sent him back in time, back to when he had that exact look on his face. Back to HYDRA.

It was all he could do to help her up when it was done, when all the bodies were on the ground and Steve had pulled everyone else back. He saw the desperate look in her eye, saw the pain in her movements, in the way she locked herself out of it all.

If he hadn’t grabbed her arm, he’s not entirely sure she would have gotten up.

—

He’s been watching her all day, not in a creepy way, just been keeping an eye on her. Noticing things he hadn’t before. Things he shouldn’t have looked over.

He’s a trained ex assassin, he should have seen some of the signs.

It causes him extreme discomfort to watch Tony berate her, question her, accuse her with his eyes. It reminds him so much of when he came here, almost two years ago.

Watching Tony interrogate her makes a fire burn beneath his skin, an itch he can’t scratch. It makes him feel so angry, makes him lose control so easily from just remembering the past by seeing her in the present.

The girls fierce, he’ll give her that. He respects her for the steel beneath her skin, the bite in her words, the defense in her tone, and the look of absolute regret in her eyes.

He respects her for staying in her room later, for refusing to come out. With what he saw through the blood on her face, he doesn’t blame her for hiding. The woman deserved the peace of mind that came from it for Christ’s sake.

Bucky doesn’t understand why he’s so worked up, though the memories slapping him in the face every time he thinks about how she slipped to her knees, how she seemed to break, how she—

He doesn’t need to think about her this much.

But he does bring her dinner, it’s takeout he made Steve order.

(he asked steve, politely, if he would order him something on DoorDash because he couldn’t figure it out himself, he just happened to give it to her instead)

Her dinner was in a sealed bag, he’s seen how the drivers gave them taped up food, and he brought her an unopened bottle of water too. Used to, when he first found Steve again, he wouldn’t eat anything unless it was cooked in front of him or wrapped and sealed.

Maybe it was the years of poisoned food, he doesn’t really want to think about it, that made his body lock down and his mouth go clammy. Maybe it was something else. But if anything about her was like how he used to be, he was going to be safe.

—

He couldn’t sleep on the bed but on certain nights, the ones where he was so exhausted he’d just pass right out.

It wasn’t one of those nights.

His mind was active, alight with thoughts and memories and emotions, all swirling around in his head like a raging storm.

If they weren’t wall neighbors he probably wouldn’t have heard it, if they hadn’t put her room specifically by his in case of emergencies, he wouldn’t have known.

The ripping of bedsheets, a body hitting the floor, objects being walked into, the balcony doors being slammed— he’s in her room and tackling her before she can go over the damn ledge.

When she kicks him off, he yanks her back. When she scratches, he subdues. When she goes for the balcony again, he wraps his arms around her like a straight jacket.

When her head slams back against his face and has him seeing stars, and not the ones in the sky, he grabs her jaw and holds her still. He’s rough, but efficient. And it works.

This woman, god, she’ll be the death of him one day.

—

The glass was easy enough to pick up, they both worked on it and sat it all in a box by the broken doors. The tea was easy to fix, the woman had a setup in her room that looked like it came right from his time.

They’re both on the floor, balcony railing against their backs, and it’s almost peaceful. It’s almost as if they can pretend they aren’t two beautiful people with terrible pasts.

He’s glances over at her, the red rimming her eyes, the scattered bandages covering her. A lump forms in his throat and he shoves it down, along with any other thoughts of her, when he clears his throat. Voice firm, he doesn’t give anything away when he speaks. “I read your file.”

“I didn’t have to read yours.” Her voice comes out quiet, cool.

A crack in his composure, shooting down low from her words. His hands, squeezing just a bit tighter on his mug.

“What happened earlier?”

“What happened earlier?” His voice comes out quiet, curious, and only a little concerned.

A warm cup of tea in her hands, a blanket around her shoulders, and a few bandages on her body. But she’s fine, everything is fine now after he stopped her from diving off the side of the tower.

A long drag of chai. A tense moment passing as she calms her senses.

“She doesn’t like crowds,” she begins quietly.

That was the start of their dance.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #angst #the winter soldier #author is bad at dialogue #mean Tony stark #bucky Barnes my love

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bangytell · 2 years ago

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jk | m

Santa, tell me if you're really there Don't make me fall in love again If he won't be here next year. Santa, tell me — Ariana Grande

Summary: After the holidays, your new boyfriend gives you more than enough reasons to know he wants you.

Genre: Friends to lovers, smut

Rated: mature

Pairing: Jungkook x f!reader

Word Count: 1.4 k

Warnings: non idol au! Pet names (here we go again), jealousy, thristing over Jungkook, oral (fem! receive), degradation kink? unprotected sex, creampie, double orgasm and pussy drunk Jungkook

a/n: Here's a second part of my soo dear brother's best friend, just some smut cause we all love it, and have a merry christmas !!!

Having Jungkook as your now boyfriend had you in pure bliss, everything with him was feeling so perfect, the last two months of holiday break were a daydream, reality came to you when you started to talk about your university routine, Jungkook had too many of extracurricular activities and not so many of free time.

“Don't worry, love, I'm sure we'll make it work” he caresses your face and gifts you a peck on the nose

But you were so unsure. Something in the inside of your stomach made you… anxious.

Jungkook was so attractive and the ability to do every little task so smoothly and perfectly had the attention of almost if not every girl in school and you both were so newlyweds you were unsure if he would maintain that decision of being with you.

Surely you didn't have all your schedule full of activities, you weren't so popular, your only friend being Ava, other than Jungkook and your brother. As you watched another series together a week before classes began and you were snuggled in the cup of Jungkook's neck as he caressed your hair, you were anxiously thinking and fidgeting your fingers.

“I can hear your thoughts love” You chuckle

“ Don’ worry baby” he hums and pauses the tv show

“Tell me what your earworm is eating inside” you giggle and sigh feeling uncertain as if you should let your overthinking got the best in you, with a smile you gaze upon him from his chest and shake your head in deny

He didn't push you any further, knowing that it was something that you'll tell him, eventually, or he thought you would.

After classes, Jungkook has boxing training. He invites you over, and since you have to do your routine, you do attend.

After his instructor gives a few shouting with instructions you notice a girl, no more taller than you with a beautiful long hair in a high ponytail asking something to your boyfriend and then pointing out her gloves, he gaze at you, as expecting for approval and you shrug your elbows, the girl suddenly has a pout and she walks away, with her gloves in hand, the rejection gave you a wave of confidence.

You see him as his hands punch the punching bag, and the way his muscles flexes and how the drip of sweat fall of his forehead as his long black hair sticks to his neck, barely letting him see in front of him, he looks even feral and something in your core makes your heart pounding heavy in your heart and you're sure that if you were alone you'll definitely pull his shorts off of him and make him cum undone by your mouth. He gazes at you, noticing the way you're looking at him, and he grins in satisfaction as he continues to release a punch here and there.

His class finishes, and then the instructor tells everyone to jump with the rope, and you're sure you're about to implosion if his body keeps moving like that in front of you. The class is over now and he approaches you, holding your waist, all full of sweat yet still smelling clean and so masculine, he pulls you to his warm body and kisses you softly but hungry, as if he had been deprived of you for so long.

“If you continue to drool for me in that way i dunno if I'll be able to let you finish your workout” you giggle as he pulls away from you

The rest of your workout continues smoothly, at the end the usual chit chat as he mentions the girl with the gloves, she wanted help, but he told her very politely he was busy already, when you get home you realize you're alone, you invite him over, and soon you're both walking towards your room. He sees the swings of your hips and the way the fabric hugs your body, once inside he pulls you to his body, kissing you hungrily as you cave in to his strokes in your body and the way his warm close to yours makes you a wombling mess.

He's taking off your clothes, in between wet kisses and gasps from feeling the cold air.

He's golding your body, not stepping away from the door, each cloth already on the floor and he's kissing his way down to your neck, his hand caresses your breasts and you're moaning his name as you're trembling as your aching pussy feels neglected.

“Such a needy slut” you moan his name and he kneel in front of you, looking up and you gasp as he licks the nub of nerves, you loll your head back and he hums and you feel the vibration in your cunt, soon you have one digit into your pussy and its becoming really hard for you to stay standing up, his hands maintain your legs in place and your hand is making swirls into his long locks.

Hes sucking and licking, bullying your pussy with two fingers now and you can't do more than moan and gasp saying his name as a prayer.

“Look at you, all tear apart for me” he grins and continues his pace as you feel yourself gettin closer to your orgasm

“ ‘m coming Jungkook! oh… fuck!” your body trembles and he keeps you in place as he sucks and licks the milky secretion leaving your slutty hole.

“C’mon baby I haven't even fucked you yet” he helps you get in fours at the edge of the bed, you keep your ass up and your face is buried in your bed, at the sight Jungkook discharges his sweatpants and boxers and he can't seem to focus, he begins to slide his tip onto your folds, and he adores the way you're moaning, he loves the sight of your dripping and bullied cunt.

He lets out a groan as he buries himself into your cunt, you gasp and he holds your hips as he begins to thrust into you

“I know you were jealous of that girl at the gym…” he groans again as his thrust become slower and he leaves a trail of kisses onto your back. “But I can only think of you, and your slutty little hole all tight and pretty for me” you moan as his pace quickens he pulls you and now you're holding with your hands as he cups your breasts with one hand and he adores to watch them bounce.

He leaves wet kisses onto your neck and you're with nothing on your mind as one of his hands goes to your clit, the fact that he's doing you raw and that his soft thumb is massaging your clit in circles is making you more that a mess, all dumb for him, only and ever him

“Jungkook! ‘m close so close!” you shout and moan as your orgasm hits you again.

He feels the way your body trembles and the way your cunt is almost sucking him in it makes him cum with a guttural sound, he moans your name and his cum and your own is dripping as he slips out of your cunt.

You let your body fall in your bed as he leaves to your personal bathroom, you close your eyes, sigh in blissfulness and when you open your eyes again you notice him with a towel, cleaning the mixture of fluids.

He smiles and you do too.

“I went raw, I'm sorry” you shake your head in deny

“No worries, I'm on the pill” he kneels and you giggle

“Why didn't you… told me sooner” you chuckle and he does too as his ears and cheeks turn crimson

“How can you call me a slut in a moment and the other your flushing for cumming inside of me” he laughs as he sees you grabbing your clothes

“Well you know”

After getting dressed, you cuddle, he caresses your hair and leaves soft pecks at your temple.

“You know I was afraid you'd leave me when we started classes” he looks confused

“Why 's that?” you chuckle

“Well, you're very popular, and good looking, and your body is like a dream come true I mean, I didn't really thought you were going to still be with…me” he listens to you, and nods understanding your words

“I've waited so long to be with you, and I wouldn't hurt you, that's a promise” he kisses you, softly as you open your mouth and with your tongue open your way to his

“I promise we'll be together as long as you allow me”

After that statement, you knew he could be the partner you'll like to maintain for the rest of your life, and who knows, maybe you would.

<<before

masterlist

©️bangytell, please do not copy or steal my work. Any translation can’t be done. This is the only way to read it.

#bts fanfic #bts imagines #bts scenarios #bts drabble #bts maknae line #jungkook smut #jungkook x you #jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook imagine #jeon jungkook fanfic #jeon jungkook

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rosachae · 2 months ago

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blood money | manon x reader

Part Six previous -- final

Soundtrack: listen while reading on Spotify → Genre: AU A/N: this is the final part of this 6 part fanfic series. please be sure you've read all other parts before reading this one. w/c: 11.8k Warnings: mentions of death, grief, coping, and mental health. heavy mentions of blood and trauma. overall, jam packed final chapter.

Synopsis:

"Manon was a lot of things: cold, mysterious, casually nonchalant in the most infuriating way possible. Y/N just didn't expect this to all be a byproduct of the duffle bag stashed away in her bedroom, filled to the brim with blood money and bearer bonds. When the CEO of a large pharmaceutical conglomerate is reported murdered and that over a million dollars had been stolen, Y/N is left trying to connect the dots between the crime and her new roommate."

manon wasn’t sure when everything changed. maybe it was the day she finally moved out of the house and into her first apartment with her sister, yoonchae. they were always close, despite their five-year age gap—ever since her parents adopted her as a baby with one crooked tooth and a laugh that could light up a room. they did everything together. went out. stayed in. they genuinely liked each other, bonded over the tangled mess of trauma and joy that shaped their childhood.

they stayed close with their father too. homemade waakye and gimbap every tuesday night, cheap wine (yoonchae always stuck with pepsi, much to her own loud chagrin), and old home videos from when they were kids. videos of them chasing sun in laos and laughing on the beaches of florida. their mother’s smile beaming back at them through the camera lens, eternal and glowing, as if she were still there. real. tangible.

manon thought everything would’ve fallen apart when her mother passed. and in some ways, it did. the kind of quiet implosion that settles into people slowly. but eventually, things stitched themselves back into a new kind of normal. not the same, never the same—but something livable. and manon tried her best to carry her mother’s memory like a fragile heirloom: carefully, tenderly, wrapped in bittersweet smiles and scattered tears. she knew, with everything in her, that if she didn’t have her father and yoonchae, she might never have made it out of that grief.

they had each other. it was the three of them against the world.

until it wasn’t.

“…creutzfeldt-jakob disease,” dr. hwang said, leaning forward in his chair, the deep line between his brows cutting sharper than usual. manon sat frozen beside yoonchae and their father, the rest of the conversation blurring into static the moment those words landed.

it had started out like any other day. manon always made time for yoonchae’s near-daily doctor visits, no matter how often her sister waved her off. she didn’t care if she was drowning in coursework or halfway across the city—hell, even if she were on the moon. she would’ve been there. always. and she told her so. told her to “shut up and scoot over,” flashing that small, crooked smile she only ever gave to yoonchae. the kind that said i’ve got you without needing to say it at all.

but now, her blood felt like ice in her veins.

yoonchae hadn’t said a word. her eyes were glued to her lap, hands twisting and pulling at her fingers like she could wring the sickness out of herself.

“it’s… a rare and very aggressive brain disorder,” dr. hwang explained, each word slow and deliberate, as if softening the syllables might somehow soften the blow. “it’s caused by abnormal proteins—prions—that build up in the brain and trigger rapid degeneration of neural tissue. it moves quickly. too quickly. we’ve only just begun to recognize the signs, but already… the damage is likely well underway.”

manon blinked hard, trying to absorb it. trying and failing.

“but— but why?” their father choked out suddenly. “why now? why is it happening now?” his voice cracked like old wood splitting down the grain. manon swallowed hard. she had only ever heard her father sound that small once before—at the funeral. and it broke something open in her all over again.

dr. hwang gave a slow shake of his head.

“i’m sorry, but we just don’t know. it could be genetic, but without access to her biological family history, we’re left in the dark. i know that’s not what you wanted to hear.” he paused, then added, more gently, “and even if we did know why… it wouldn’t change what we’re facing. there’s no cure. not yet.”

manon’s stomach twisted. a slow, sinking feeling took root inside her chest.

dr. hwang leaned in, eyes steady, voice edged with urgency. “there are some experimental treatments in development—therapies that might slow progression or ease symptoms. nothing guaranteed. but we’re in a race against time. if you’re willing, i can connect you with trials, specialists, anything. but this is not something we can afford to wait on. if we wait, we lose.”

her father let out a broken breath beside her, like all the air had been knocked from his lungs at once. and for the first time in her life, manon saw him not as a pillar—but as something small and trembling. a man hollowed by helplessness.

manon opened her mouth to speak, to promise she’d fix it, to say anything—but her throat closed up. all she could do was look at yoonchae, her beautiful, defiant, impossible sister. and this time, she didn’t bother hiding the sob.

everything went downhill from there.

it happened faster than any of them could’ve imagined.

at first, it was little things. yoonchae would forget what day it was. misplace her phone, her keys, her shoes—things she swore she just had in her hand. she’d get frustrated, but she laughed it off. told manon she was just tired. told their dad she was “fine, seriously,” even as her hands began trembling too often to hide.

within a month, her speech had started to slur.

two months in, she couldn’t finish sentences without losing track of her thoughts, her words splintering mid-way through like broken glass.

they did everything they could. every test, every scan, every appointment dr. hwang could schedule. manon sat through each one with a pen in her hand and her heart in her throat. her father asked every question, scoured every pamphlet, stayed up night after night researching until the blue light of his phone cast shadows under his eyes.

they followed every recommendation like gospel—new meds, clinical trials, appointments with specialists who looked at yoonchae like she was already gone. they tried a low-protein diet. they tried physical therapy. occupational therapy. speech therapy. home care nurses came and went, each one with a clipboard and a careful smile.

but nothing changed.

or maybe it did—but only for the worse.

she stopped cooking. stopped texting back. stopped remembering what year it was. sometimes, she didn’t recognize the apartment they had moved into together. once, she called manon by the wrong name, and manon had smiled like it didn’t gut her.

three months after the diagnosis, yoonchae had to stop studying. she was only seventeen. five months more, she could barely walk without help. the decline was merciless. cruel. like watching someone you love unravel in front of you, thread by thread, memory by memory, and being unable to do a single thing to stop it.

manon kept track of the days, marked them in her journal like a countdown. every time yoonchae forgot something, every time she stumbled, every time she looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize the face staring back at her. and still, despite everything they tried, despite every desperate effort, nothing slowed it down.

and that was when the email came.

buried deep in manon’s inbox—wedged between spam, work newsletters, and unread department updates—was a message with no subject line. no greeting. just a strange sender address she didn’t recognize, and one line of text:

we can help her.

maybe she never forgave herself for opening it. maybe she never forgave herself for what came after. but in that moment—alone in her office, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the low hum of a printer somewhere down the hall—manon couldn’t look away. yoonchae was at another hospital appointment, the third one that week already. it was only tuesday. waakye and gimbap night had become a ghost of itself. something sacred they could no longer bring themselves to keep alive. too quiet without her. too painful to pretend.

she read the message again. and again. until the words etched themselves behind her eyelids, blinking back at her every time she closed her eyes. we can help her. beneath the line: a phone number. no name. no explanation. she hesitated for a long time. then she called.

manon regrets ever introducing her baby sister to the evil conglomerate that was geffen corp.

in another world, if only she knew the things she knew now, she would have ignored the email. she would have visited the hospital after work to collect yoonchae, take her to buy her favorite ice cream, and go home. maybe finish the night watching a movie she had loved since she was five but could no longer remember, just to see the joy on her face at all the scenes she loved as if it truly were her first time watching. she would have invited their dad over for dinner, made gimbap because she knew how much yoonchae loved it, and enjoyed the time they had together as a family. together, as they always had been. she would have enjoyed the time she had left with yoonchae. been by her side. loved her unconditionally through all of her sickness.

instead, she trusted her to a company who swore they had her greatest interest in mind. a company that swore they would help them, swore they would do what their doctors could not.

she sees yoonchae’s face everywhere. in crowded subway windows. in puddles on the pavement. in the blue-white flicker of the TV late at night when sleep won’t come. she hears her in the rustle of plastic hospital curtains. in the crinkle of ice cream wrappers she still buys, then throws away untouched. she thinks of how geffen corp looked so clean. all white walls and gentle voices. how they handed her brochures printed on thick, expensive paper. how they told her she was doing the right thing.

how she believed them.

they promised breakthroughs. whispered words like pioneering and compassionate care. they told her yoonchae would be more than just a statistic—she would be a miracle.

but there was no miracle. there was no breakthrough. there was only a silence so complete it rang in her ears. shame sat heavy in her bones. guilt curled around her spine like rot. manon had trusted them with yoonchae’s life. and they gave her back a corpse wrapped in a lie.

she kept the email. still. unread, unopened—but not deleted. she didn’t need to look at it to remember what it said. she only kept it so she wouldn’t forget who she had been the moment she read it. the version of herself who wanted so badly to believe in something.

sometimes she opened the email just to feel the rage return—hot, precise, and blinding in a way grief never was. rage was simpler. easier. it filled the spaces where memory used to ache. it didn’t ask for gentleness or grace. it didn’t hollow her out the way sorrow did.

after yoonchae died, she stopped seeing people. it wasn’t deliberate at first—just one missed call, then another, until the idea of conversation, even casual small talk, felt like a burden she couldn’t carry. she didn’t want to talk about her. she didn’t want to hear anyone say her name like it was a fragile thing, or worse, like it had already been buried.

her father had tried. he called every few days, always starting with “just checking in” like if he made it sound routine enough, she might pick up. but she couldn’t. not when the grief in his voice mirrored her own. he had always been the steady one—the one who held them together when things fell apart. but after yoonchae, even he looked like someone else. someone smaller. someone trying not to break. she couldn’t begin to imagine how it felt. no parent should ever have to deal with the pain of losing a child. it just shouldn’t be.

and maybe that was selfish, but manon couldn’t take that on too. she needed solitude, needed silence, even if it gnawed at her.

sunghoon, though, had never been one to take a hint.

they had known each other for years—since university, where they studied side by side, scribbling notes during lectures and chasing leads in their early days as private investigators. he was sharp, intuitive, the kind of person who never let things go if he thought something was wrong. and he knew her too well to be fooled by distance.

he showed up one night with his signature crooked smile, the same one he flashed mischievously in college whenever she buried herself too deep in casework and he wanted to dig her back out. only this time, she wasn’t buried in work. he didn’t ask questions. just told her she was coming out with him. and maybe it was the drink, or the exhaustion, or the guilt curling under her ribs like something alive, but she didn’t fight him. not that night. the bar was familiar—dim, low ceilings, cluttered walls with photographs that hadn't been straight in years. it buzzed with too much laughter and too many lives untouched by hers. she let the noise wash over her, drank something sharp and fruitless, and tried not to notice how sunghoon kept looking at her like he was waiting for the moment she might finally speak.

but she didn’t. not really. not about anything that mattered.

an hour in, when the weight in her chest got too heavy to sit with, she excused herself with a whisper and a weak smile. she didn’t wait for him to ask where she was going. she didn’t want to lie.

the train home was nearly empty. it always was this late—fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, windows darkened into mirrors, the city outside reduced to smudges of passing light. she chose a seat by the window and rested her head against the cool glass, watching the ghost of her own reflection stare back at her. she looked pale. distant. like she’d been underwater too long and forgotten how to breathe.

the train rocked gently as it moved, a low, rhythmic hum that usually lulled her into forgetting. but halfway through the ride, someone slid into the row across from her. she didn’t look up at first. not until he spoke.

“you’ve stopped working.”

her eyes lifted slowly.

the man didn’t smile. didn’t fidget. just sat with his hands folded neatly in his lap, as if this were any other conversation on any other night. his coat was dark, his shoes clean, his face forgettable in the way that made her immediately suspicious.

“excuse me?” she said, voice hoarse from disuse.

“you’re manon. private investigator. your last case was six months ago.”

he didn’t sound like he was guessing. her pulse quickened. she glanced around the car. still empty, save for the two of them. she instinctively reached for her phone in her front left pocket, sobering almost immediately.

“who are you?”

“someone with work.”

manon shook her head. “i’m not taking cases.”

“this isn’t just any case.”

his tone was calm, precise—measured in that unsettling way that suggested he already knew exactly how this would go. like he had studied her grief and found the seams. she should have gotten up. walked to another car. told him to mind his own damn business.

but she didn’t.

“what’s the job?” she asked.

he reached into his coat and slipped a folded piece of paper across the aisle. she didn’t move to take it.

“you’ll come,” he said. “if not for the job, then for her.”

her fingers twitched. she took the paper. coordinates. a time. no name. no details. she shook her head again, a frown cementing itself across her face. her…? she wanted to stand, to push him, to slap him in the face. what the hell did he know?

he stood just as the train began to slow for the next stop. then he was gone. she stared at the paper the entire ride home. she didn’t know whether she was angry or afraid. but the next night, she followed the money.

it didn’t take long for manon’s life to unravel.

everything after felt like a blur. meeting with the same man where he introduced her to their cause, their vendetta against geffen corp and their unethical methods of madness. meeting with sunghoon a day later after he called her the entire night before in worry, scared she hadn’t made it home safely. she initially planned on staying silent, on keeping it all to herself– but she caved. she told him everything. she didn’t expect him to stay, hell, to even offer his support. he promised his silence, that he would do what he could do help her. she wanted badly to believe him. it was sunghoon, afterall– the man that had never let her down once before. but doubt clung to her now as easily as water did after heavy downpour.

she remembered the body of ceo park haneul falling to the floor after a stray bullet struck her directly in the chest, sending her tumbling down to her knees. manon instinctively ran forward, pressed her hands over the wound, desperate to save a life. it wasn’t supposed to go down like that. she was told it would be a simple in-and-out, that getting the evidence would be a one-woman-task. eventually, she was dragged away from the womans lifeless body, blood coating her hands. she followed the direction the bullet travelled until her eyes traced the long end of a barrel, a beretta owned by the man who once recruited her. she was lied to, again. her breath was uneven, her chest tight, rising and falling as pure panic pronged at her relentlessly. he simply shook his head, turned, and walked away. she could do nothing but follow.

she remembered meeting daniela that same night. the blonde latina’s eyes went wide when she stared at the blood staining her hands. but when she looked up and noticed the pure distraught look engraved across manon’s pretty features, it’s almost like she knew. they weren’t too different, afterall.

they clicked almost immediately. there was something about daniela—earnest, curious, a little raw around the edges. she didn’t know anything about the plan, not really. all she’d learned was that her parents were somehow involved, funneling private funds into the same black pit of corporate rot that geffen called innovation. and when she found out, she wanted to help. manon remembered thinking that was either brave or stupid. maybe both. she’d been approached the same way manon had—some stranger in the dark, speaking in riddles, dropping names like poison, hinting at truths she wasn’t ready for. whoever he was, he knew things. he knew too much. and daniela, like manon, couldn’t walk away after that.

it scared her, even now, how easily they’d fallen into orbit with each other. no hesitation. no pretense. just this quiet understanding—like they'd both been holding their breath for years and had finally found air in each other. if she was being honest, daniela reminded her a little too much of yoonchae. it almost split her heart even further than it already had been.

so much had happened so quickly. one moment she was sitting besides yoonchae in their apartment, the next she sat collapsed on her knees besides her grave. then finally, she stood in the living room of daniela’s apartment with a duffel bag full of secrets stashed away in the room she’d temporarily call her own.

and then… y/n.

manon couldn’t begin to place the moment she felt her eyes drifting towards the infuriating, curious girl with newfound interest more and more often. maybe it was the first time she laid eyes on her. when y/n came trudging into the apartment with a loud slam of the front door, shouting out an annoyed “daniela! you will not believe the day i’ve had—” before stopping short the very moment their eyes met each other. there y/n stood, drenched from head to toe in a hoodie that clung to her frame. it made her seem smaller than she was. cute, manon hated to admit. the way y/n’s hair clung to her forehead, the way she stood still and stared as if manon held the world within her fingertips. manon couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked at her the way y/n had in that moment. perhaps, no one ever had. for the first time in a long time, manon felt something in that moment that wasn’t anger or grief, an overwhelming sadness. she felt wanted. even when y/n gave her attitude, when her initial awe was replaced by a cautious reservation– there was no ignoring the normalcy y/n carried on her back, so close but just out of reach. maybe that’s what drew manon in. y/n was safe.

the night y/n laid beside her in the motel room, their wrists chained together by cold metal, soft snores filling the tense silence of the room– manon simply sat and watched. the entire night was spent with her gaze snapping back and forth between the sleeping girl and the window, ready for trouble. more often than not, she found her gaze returning to y/n. the way her chest rose and fall, the way she unconsciously nuzzled closer into her legs, providing a warmth that distracted her from the coldness of the motel room, and the numbing coldness in her chest.

that night, manon could have reached into her pocket and unlocked their cuffs. she could have up and left. but she didn’t. maybe she was selfish. selfish when she denied her father the luxury of grieving together, selfish in her desire of wanting to be alone to sit in silence to grieve yoonchae and all they would never get to experience together.

selfish in the way she didn’t let y/n go.

maybe it was that same safety she exuded that made manon cling on a little longer. maybe it was an internal desire for going back to the way things used to be, before her life collapsed around her. y/n felt like a promise of all that could be.

maybe that’s why she confessed. why she told her the truth about her sister, about geffen corp. why she proposed they forget it all and simply leave.

hope. it was tantalizing, seductive. manon had given up on it so long ago. but somehow, for some reason, y/n made it feel all the more possible.

and it scared her.

y/n couldn’t shake the nerves crawling beneath her skin, even hours after manon had gone over the plan. she’d tried to sleep—counting the rhythm of rain against the motel window, letting her eyes blur with the dull flicker of the overhead light—but nothing stuck. the mission had rooted itself in her chest like something alive, coiled tight and pulsing. every breath felt like pressure.

she had no clue what time it was. sometime between too late and too early. dark circles smudged under her eyes. her body ached, but it was her thoughts that wore her down.

manon sat at the edge of the bed, scribbling on a clean sheet of paper like the world wasn’t unraveling outside. her face was drawn, mouth set in a hard line, but her hands were steady. y/n couldn’t stop watching them—quick, precise movements like she’d done this a thousand times.

manon’s questions still echoed in her mind, stirring things y/n wasn’t ready to name. hope. confusion. something more dangerous. but she pushed those thoughts down. there wasn’t time. not with what they were about to do.

“it’s not our plan,” manon had said earlier, her voice low and deliberate, like she was afraid the walls were listening. “but it’s the only one left.”

y/n had been curled on the floor, cross-legged and small, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. “whose was it?” she’d asked, even though a part of her already knew.

“kal,” manon answered, and the name hit like a stone. y/n finally had something to tie to the face—the man who dropped the second a bullet tore through his skull during the fed raid. she could still see it, too clearly. the way his body folded. the spray of blood against concrete. she hadn’t seen death up close before. not like that.

she’d wanted to break, to sob until her lungs gave out. but she didn’t. she couldn’t.

she watched as manon paused, jaw clenched. then she kept going.

“he mapped it out weeks before the raid. said if everything fell apart, this was the last move. one shot. a backdoor into the grid.”

“you think it’ll work?” y/n asked.

manon didn’t even hesitate. “it has to.”

she leaned over the notepad, sketching out routes in rough, clean strokes. every turn, every checkpoint—burned into memory. y/n could tell. she spoke like someone reciting scripture.

“he made me memorize it,” manon added, her voice dipping lower. “before we even hit geffen the first time. said i was his contingency.”

“and the grid?” y/n’s voice cracked slightly. “what are we walking into?”

“old infrastructure. skeleton crew, if any. used to run emergency broadcasts before the city went private. plug into the right terminal, you bypass everything—firewalls, blocks, all of it. upload the files, and the system forces a live feed. every regional news outlet picks it up. no time for geffen to stop the spread.”

“and the files?”

“surveillance footage. audio logs. financial trails. things no one can explain away.”

y/n nodded slowly. it made sense now. the location. the setup. the risk. an ancient power grid buried in the city’s outskirts, forgotten by most, but still wired into something vital. all they had to do was finish what kal started.

“you’re sure about the terminal?” she asked, softer this time.

“third floor,” manon said. “just past the auxiliary panel. tucked behind the server cluster. kal called it the ‘dead corner.’ signal’s strong, oversight’s weak.”

y/n didn’t respond. she only nodded, gripping the usb drive tight in her palm. but her eyes drifted back to manon.

she watched the way manon’s brow furrowed in concentration, the way her pen lingered against her lips between notes. her expression was sharp, focused—calculated. even bruised and running on fumes, manon was striking. not just beautiful in the effortless, quietly devastating way that made people turn their heads, but brilliant. dangerous in how clearly her mind worked—precise, methodical, always five steps ahead.

every movement was deliberate. every breath measured. she looked like someone built for survival, like she was holding the whole world together with nothing but stubborn will and muscle memory. y/n hadn’t meant to stare. but she did. how could she not, when manon looked like that? and maybe—maybe she was a little in like with her. not that she’d say it. not now. maybe not ever. but it was there, thrumming just beneath the surface. an ache. a truth she carried like a splinter in her chest.

the plan was set. there was nothing left to say. they left at god knows what hour, the motel still buried in shadow, the rain thinning into mist. the world felt suspended, like it hadn’t woken up yet—like it was holding its breath just for them.

sunghoon’s car was right where they left it, tucked behind the motel. y/n slid into the passenger seat without a word, her hand tightening on the door handle as manon dropped into the driver’s side. the keys jingled once before the engine turned over with a rough cough.

manon didn’t flinch, didn’t react, but y/n saw the tension in her jaw, the way her hand hesitated just a second too long over the gearshift. she was still bleeding, somewhere beneath the hoodie—still stitched and tightly wrapped. the bullet had passed clean through, but that didn’t make it painless, didn’t make it easy.

“you sure you should be driving?” y/n asked, voice soft, cautious.

manon didn’t look at her. she just stared ahead and raised an eyebrow, the kind of look that carried more weight than words—a warning, a promise. she was fine. or at least, she would make herself be.

so y/n stayed quiet, even as worry curled warm and sick in her stomach, shifting like something alive. she watched the city slip by in fragments—concrete, glass, and fog-washed neon, all bleeding into the silence between them. the streetlamps flickered without rhythm, casting their car in brief, twitching light. nothing moved outside. no people. no noise. but it didn’t feel empty. it felt like being watched by something patient.

manon hadn’t said a word since they left. her grip on the wheel was too tight, knuckles pale and sharp. her shoulders were drawn high, locked. sweat traced a path down her temple despite the chill, and the way she sat—too still, too careful—told y/n more than any confession ever would. the hoodie draped loose around her frame, but y/n had seen what it hid. the bruises. the gauze. the pain stitched in deep.

“we’re almost there,” manon murmured finally, not looking at her. like she could feel the weight of y/n’s gaze pressing sideways.

y/n nodded, not trusting her voice. the usb in her pocket might as well have been a brick. heavy. dangerous. loud.

they turned off the main road and into the back veins of the city, slipping through rust-stained alleys and under half-lit overpasses. old shipping lots and gutted warehouses rose around them, silent sentinels. the farther they went, the quieter it got—until only the low rumble of the engine remained, and the occasional gust of wind slicing past the car.

but the quiet didn’t mean safety.

they passed a patrol three blocks out. two dark SUVs, parked nose-to-nose under a blown-out traffic light. agents leaned against the bumpers, smoking, talking low. they didn’t see the car—or maybe they did and chose not to move yet. manon didn’t slow, didn’t look. just drove casual, like she belonged here. like they both did.

“they know,” y/n said finally, soft. “they have to. after the safehouse.”

“they expect us,” manon said. “but they won’t expect us to hit now. not after yesterday.”

y/n glanced over. “you sure about that?”

“no. but we don’t have another option.”

the grid appeared like a wound in the city. fenced off, half-swallowed by weeds and rust, the structure was a sprawl of cracked concrete, aging infrastructure, and old surveillance tech humming low. the perimeter was ringed in floodlights—most were out. the few that still worked glowed dull orange, casting the place in deep shadow and molasses-colored light.

manon killed the engine. they sat for a beat. breathing.

her eyes scanned the perimeter, sharp and quiet, catching every shape and flicker. y/n followed her gaze. one guard near the northeast substation. pacing slow. maybe bored. maybe not.

“no gun,” manon muttered, patting herself down. her jaw tightened like the words tasted bad in her mouth. not fear. something closer to self-disgust.

“you sure you can do this without one?” y/n asked, voice barely above a whisper.

manon looked at her, face unreadable, eyes fixed and quiet. there was no pride there, no fear either—just a sharp, unshakable focus. like she’d already decided what had to be done, and nothing was going to move her from it.

“i’ll get one,” she said, and that was it. she stepped out of the car without another word.

y/n scrambled after her. the night air slapped cold against her skin. metallic and damp, thick with the ghost of lightning. she felt small, suddenly. exposed. like she was just now realizing how far out she’d followed manon into something she didn’t understand. manon moved with precision, slipping through the shadows along the fence. her body stayed low, every step deliberate. she didn’t pause. didn’t look back. y/n followed anyway. too fast. too loud. trying to mimic the movements but not knowing how.

the guard stepped into view—definitely not bureau. private security, cheap and last-minute, probably brought in to cover holes after the raid. one man on a lazy loop, no backup, no real training. nothing manon couldn’t handle. y/n couldn’t move. she watched. manon was on him before he even sensed her. an elbow to the neck, quick and brutal. her other hand grabbed his collar to soften the fall. the body folded to the ground without a sound. like it had been rehearsed.

y/n stood frozen. her stomach turned. part of her wanted to run. the other part couldn’t stop staring. she remembered manon’s words from the night before, quiet and sharp: i wasn’t always what i seemed. she’d said it like a confession. but this felt like proof. manon crouched and pulled the pistol from the guard’s holster. checked the magazine with a flick of her thumb. clean, fast. like it was just a routine. then she yanked the earpiece from the man’s collar and held it out to y/n.

“listen, don’t talk,” she said. “they’re probably running chatter. if we’re lucky, we’re still under their radar.”

y/n hesitated. the plastic felt sharp between her fingers. wrong. she fumbled it into her ear anyway, her hands trembling. manon watched her, eyes narrowing slightly.

“you okay?” she asked. not in the clipped way she’d spoken earlier, but rather softer. at least, soft in true manon-like fashion. she was trying.

y/n looked at her. really looked. the hoodie. the bruises beneath. the calm in her face that didn’t match the chaos. “are you?” she asked, unsure why she bothered.

“no,” manon deadpans. “but that’s not what matters,” she reached out, not to push, not to rush, but to steady. her hand closed gently around y/n’s wrist. warm and solid. it was the first time she’d touched her like that without urgency. “i care more about you being okay.”

y/n’s throat tightened. she didn’t respond. didn’t know how to. seven words she never in a million years would have expected to fall from manon’s lips. it made her feel sick. why was she suddenly being so kind? people don’t just change overnight. had she truly had a change of heart, just like that? nonetheless, y/n nods, feeling every inch of her body buzzing like it didn’t belong here.

manon stepped back. the moment vanished like it had never happened.

“we stick to the plan,” she said. “no stalling. no detours. if something goes wrong, you finish the upload and get out. don’t wait.”

“i’m not leaving you behind.” y/n said. her voice cracked, but she meant it.

manon didn’t answer. they moved together toward the building, manon in front, always one step ahead. y/n trailed behind, still trying to keep up, still trying to figure out how they’d gotten here. at the door, manon paused.

“you ready?” she asked without looking back.

y/n hesitated. “are you?”

manon didn’t answer right away. she just exhaled, slow and steady, eyes locked ahead. “don’t ask,” she said at last. then she cracked the door open and slipped inside.

the building greeted them with a low, electric hum, half-dead lighting overhead, casting long, fractured shadows. the air was thick with dust and ozone, like something had burned out and never been fixed. they moved fast and quiet, boots brushing against warped tiles. y/n tried to breathe evenly, to match manon’s pace. every sound felt amplified: the buzz of fluorescents, the grind of old wiring, the creak of the walls themselves.

“you remember the steps?” manon asked without looking back.

y/n nodded, her voice low. “third floor. right past the auxiliary panel. terminal’s tucked behind the—”

“server stack,” manon finished. “good.”

they rounded a corner and immediately ducked back. voices. two of them.

manon pressed her back to the wall, motioned for y/n to stay still. they waited as two figures passed the far hallway, feds this time. not private security like the last guy. armored vests, rifles, clipped conversation. it had y/n’s breath hitching. manon’s hand slid to the pistol at her side, her other subconsciously drifting out to help y/n squeeze herself closer to the wall, hidden firmly out of view. she didn’t raise the gun but rather just held it close, watching the agents disappear out of sight. when the hall went quiet again, she nodded once. they moved. they moved up another flight of stairs, careful to step wide where a piece of metal had buckled. y/n’s nerves were fraying with every floor.

“do you think they’re already on to us?” y/n found herself asking, her voice quiet. manon glanced at her briefly before turning away, a thoughtful look on her face. she scanned every direction, anticipating someone to jump out at any moment. when nothing happens, she hums.

“luck’s a fuse. it always runs out.”

it was a simple answer, but it was all y/n needed. she knew realistically that manon was right. she wasn’t quite sure how they managed to outrun the feds like they had. the first time when they fled from the apartment, and the second when they fled from the hideout. luck had been on their side, that much was true. she couldn’t help but wonder when it would come to a close.

she shook her head when she almost crashed into manon’s back, the tall swiss woman stopping at the edge of a corridor. they reached the landing of the third floor. the hallway was darker up here, longer, like the light couldn’t stretch far enough. a sharp draft moved through the corridor, humming around loose ceiling tiles. ahead, a faded label marked the room they needed.

restricted access – clearance required.

the door was slightly ajar, propped open with a splintered piece of conduit. someone had been here recently and they hadn’t bothered to hide it. manon stopped at the junction, shoulder brushing the wall, gun already loose in her hand. her eyes scanned the shadows.

manon turned to look at y/n then, something unreadable on her face. her voice was low when she talked, quiet but loud enough for the two of them to hear. despite the situation they found themselves in now, it felt almost intimate. she scanned y/n’s face, making sure they held eye contact. she speaks with a kind of sincerity that makes y/n freeze. she searched y/n’s face carefully, like she was memorizing it. making sure they met her eyes and didn’t look away.

“i need you to promise me something,” she said.

y/n blinked, thrown by the seriousness in her tone. she nodded, silent, waiting. manon’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly before she spoke again.

“if something goes wrong… run. don’t wait. just go.”

the words landed like a slap. y/n stared at her, stunned, almost insulted. her head shook once, sharply. then again. and again, harder.

“no,” she said finally, her voice low and fierce. “don’t. you don’t get to make that call.”

manon didn’t flinch. didn’t argue. she just looked at her—long and steady. something cold in her gaze, but not cruel. like this wasn’t a plea. like it was a truth she’d already accepted.

“i’m not leaving you,” y/n said, and meant it with every inch of her.

“you might have to.”

“i won’t.”

silence pressed in around them. outside, something crashed—distant, but close enough to remind them both that time was running thin. manon reached out, fingertips brushing against y/n’s wrist. it wasn’t a touch meant to comfort. it was grounding. a tether.

“then be smart,” she said, her voice quieter now. “don’t be brave if it gets you killed.”

y/n’s throat tightened. she wanted to say a hundred things. she wanted to scream. instead, she nodded once, even though she wasn’t sure she could ever follow through.

nothing else can be said before manon offered a final nod, and moved. she motioned for y/n to approach the server room while she took flank, raising her gun as she tucked herself into a corner, waiting. y/n turned to the server room immediately. when she entered the heat hit immediately, dry and artificial, radiating off the humming machines stacked against the walls. the room pulsed with low, uneven light. some of the towers blinked like dying stars, others flickered wildly. wires snaked across the floor like trip lines, looping up the walls and across the ceiling. each step echoed, too loud and too exposed.

she slipped between the server racks, fingers brushing metal, the vibration of the machines like a heartbeat under her skin. her eyes found the terminal—half-hidden behind a rusted panel, blinking with a faint green pulse. she knelt quickly and pulled the usb from her pocket, her hands shaking as she plugged the usb into the terminal. instantly, the screen stuttered, then blinked to life.

uploading… 14%. 28%. 42%.

y/n exhaled the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. but whatever relief she felt in that moment disappeared just as quickly. the sound of footsteps walking towards her had her spinning around in shock, turning to face a figure she hadn’t seen tucked into the dark of the room when she walked in. perhaps she should have looked closer, given the room a clear once over before walking straight in. but she didn’t. she takes a step back when a man comes into view, entering the flickering lights of the terminal around them. she recognized him immediately. the face of a man she’d seen in news articles since it was revealed the ceo was murdered.

mr park– haneul’s husband. the man who stepped up to lead the company, the man who stepped up to continue their vile work. y/n felt sick to her stomach.

his face held a grim expression, lips pressed together as he looked back and forth between y/n and the usb in the terminal behind her, slowly counting up in percentage by the second. outside, just as quick as the man came into view, she hears a deafening pop. a gunshot, followed by another one soon after. gunfire, shouting, and the stomping of footsteps echoed through the hallway, reverberating through the room through the open door. but still, it was just the two of them. the man raised his hands in faux surrender as if indicating he meant no harm, but y/n could still feel his malice all the same.

61%.

tall, poised, tailored in something dark that didn’t quite match the blood in the air. everything about him screamed control—from the way he folded his hands to the way he watched her, like she was a glass he’d already cracked and was just waiting to shatter.

“you really should’ve cleared the room,” he said, voice smooth. low. a lawyer’s voice, or something worse. “first rule of infiltration.”

she backed up a step, eyes darting to the usb, still lodged in the terminal behind her.

63%.

he followed her gaze, smile barely curving at the edge of his mouth. not warm. not even smug. just knowing.

“it’s not too late, you know. you could still walk out of here. i’d let you.”

y/n swallowed. “you’re with geffen.”

his head tilted, just slightly. “you make that sound like a crime.”

silence cracked open between them. from the hall outside: another sharp burst of gunfire. shouting. someone screaming.

67%.

his eyes flicked back to the screen, then to her. still calm. still collected. “you don’t have to go down with her.”

“i’m not,” she said. “i’m doing this for the people your company ruined.”

he didn’t flinch. didn’t even blink.

“you’re doing this because you think it makes you good,” he replied, softly. “because someone whispered the right story in your ear at the right time and told you it was yours.”

y/n stiffened. “i know what you did. what you’re still doing.”

he stepped closer, and though his hands stayed at his sides, the menace in his presence pushed into her like a pressure front. “you don’t know half of it,” he said. “but someone made you feel like you did. someone fed you just enough truth to make you dangerous. does she even care what happens to you when this goes live?”

70%.

he watched her carefully, eyes flicking between her face and the terminal like he was measuring where to press next.

“you’ve never done time, have you?” he asked, almost conversational. “never sat in an interrogation room while someone picked your life apart piece by piece. your job. your education. your family. all of it. gone. for what, exactly? a data leak? a woman with a martyr complex and a body count?”

y/n’s hands curled into fists at her sides. her legs wanted to run, but her body wouldn’t budge. her heart was pounding too loud to hear anything else.

he kept going. smooth. relentless.

“it wasn’t hard to find you,” he said. “once your name turned up in the bureau logs, someone from your university was very eager to fill in the blanks. a classmate, i believe. funny how fast people sell each other out when there’s a badge in the room.”

he let the words hang. just long enough for y/n to put it together.

sophia.

her mouth went dry.

74%.

“we know who you are,” he continued, quiet now. “your address. your family. your student record. everything.”

he took a breath, as if centering himself. as if this was a kindness.

“i can fix it. all of it. right now. wipe your record. make this disappear. no one has to know you were here. no trial. no prison. no media circus. you go back to your life, like none of this ever happened. just… unplug it.”

his voice gentled even more. almost paternal.

“you’re not like them. you still have a future. you still have time.”

76%.

y/n felt her vision tunnel. the words were velvet-wrapped shackles. so soft she barely noticed them tighten.

“don’t throw your life away for a cause you barely understand,” he said. “you were normal, once. weren’t you? school. friends. a future.”

he took one step closer. “you can have all of that again. if you just unplug the drive.”

the words should’ve tempted her. maybe they did. for a split second, she felt that old life—before manon, before the blood, before any of this. she thought of daniela, of their apartment. some part of her so badly wanted to cave.

79%.

she drew in a breath. then another. and when she spoke, her voice didn’t shake.

“you’re right.”

his expression shifted. barely—but it was there. the subtle lift of his brow, the faint easing in his posture. hope, or something like it. y/n met his eyes, steady.

“i was normal,” she said quietly. “before i found out the truth. you turn people into test subjects and called it progress. you print salvation on glossy paper and sell it to families who’re already drowning.”

she took a single step back, one hand brushing the terminal behind her.

“i’m not normal anymore.”

85%.

his jaw clenched. the shift was instantaneous. the warmth vanished, replaced by something sharper, colder.

“don’t be stupid,” he snapped, voice slicing through the hum of the machines. “you’re throwing your life away.”

“maybe,” y/n said, heart pounding. “but at least i won’t be the one who killed for nothing.”

he moved fast, way too fast. a flash of silver, and then black. the gleam of a pistol as he drew it from his coat, leveled with practiced precision. she didn’t have time to react.

92%.

his finger curled on the trigger, and the gunshot cracked through the server room like a thunderclap. but it wasn’t y/n who fell.

it happened in a flash. one minute she was staring down the barrel, the next she watched as manon practically raced into the room, caked in blood that wasn’t hers. for the briefest of seconds she saw the pure shock on her face. the pure anguish as she realized y/n was seconds away from being gunned down. she moved without thinking. she burst in from the doorway like a shadow come to life, a blur of motion between them. the bullet struck her clean through the side, not far from her first gunshot wound. only this time, the bullet didn’t clear through. it lodged into her abdomen, a pained teeth-gritting groan splitting through the air. her body jolted mid-run as the force knocked her off balance, but even as she stumbled, she didn’t stop. her shoulder slammed into the man with her full weight, driving him back into the nearest console. his skull hit metal with a sickening crack, and he collapsed, dazed—arms splayed, gun skittering across the floor.

y/n’s scream caught in her throat. “manon!”

the other woman staggered, blood already blooming through her hoodie once more, staining it a deep, ugly red. she braced herself on the console with one hand, the other clutched over the wound like she could hold the pain in.

“finish it,” she gasped, voice raw and breaking.

y/n turned, hands trembling as they slammed down on the casing. she didn’t let herself cry. not yet. the terminal flickered.

96%.

behind her, manon dropped to her knees. the man on the floor groaned, one hand reaching weakly toward the discarded gun—but he was still out of it. disoriented. blinking slow and sluggish.

98%.

manon’s breath came shallow, but her eyes were still open. still fixed on y/n.

upload complete.

the terminal blinked once. a soft chime followed, the only sound in the room. y/n didn’t move. her fingers slipped from the keyboard, her hands numb, arms heavy with exhaustion. the adrenaline that had kept her moving was gone now, replaced by a hollow stillness that sank deep into her limbs. her knees weakened, and for a moment she thought she might fall, but she caught herself, barely. the screen in front of her flickered, its light pale and unsteady, painting the room in a thin glow. it was finished.

it was done. she turned, and the world shifted. manon was on the floor, blood spreading out beneath her in slow, heavy pulses, dark and thick against the concrete. her breathing was uneven, her chest rising in shallow, strained motions that looked weaker each time. her eyes were open but distant, her jaw clenched tight, fighting through pain she couldn’t mask. the sight of her like this—wounded, still, human—was almost unrecognizable. y/n moved toward her without thinking, everything else falling away.

but a groan stopped her in place. behind her, the man stirred.

he rolled onto one side, coughing wetly. his hand twitched. it found the cold metal of the gun just inches away. his fingers curled toward it with purpose, and when y/n saw his face, she knew. he wasn’t dazed. he wasn’t afraid. he was going to kill her. there was no time. no cover. no weapon. the man’s fingers were inches from the gun when a sharp burst of sound cut through the air—louder than a breath, quieter than a gunshot, but unmistakable. electricity cracked across the room in a bright, sudden flash. his body seized instantly, limbs locking, spine snapping into a rigid arch as the taser hit. his mouth opened in a frozen scream, but no sound came out. then he dropped. hard. his body hit the floor with a dull thud, twitched once, and went still. y/n stood frozen, heart hammering, the silence pressing in around her as her ears rang in the aftermath.

y/n looked up and around, her eyes searching for the source. only when they landed on the man standing several feet away, taser raised to the air, she felt the wind knock out of her.

sunghoon stood in the doorway. and he looked like hell.

a fresh scar ran down the side of his face, red and angry beneath a loose bandage. a cast hugged his ribs beneath a half-fastened tactical vest, barely hidden by his unzipped jacket. bruises painted his throat like someone had tried to strangle the life out of him. his right arm hung heavy, the spent taser still humming faintly in his grip. but his eyes—god, his eyes. they found hers and softened, just for a moment, in the middle of everything. he was alive. she didn’t move. she couldn’t. her body refused to believe what she was seeing. she saw him fall with her own two eyes, watched manon grieve in her silent way.

flanking him were three agents geared in dark armor, helmets off, weapons lowered but ready. they didn’t wear the insignia of the bureau or geffen. clean uniforms, clean faces, and eyes that looked between her and manon with pure, sincere worry etched within them. they were someone else. someone new. someone not corrupt. the one in front gave a sharp nod to sunghoon before stepping forward, scanning the room and moving to secure the gun on the ground. another was already on the comms, voice low and fast, calling in a medic, an evac, backup. real support. sunghoon didn’t wait. his gaze darted to manon and he was at her side in seconds, dropping to his knees with a wince, every movement laced with pain. he ignored it. his hands found the wound, pressing down, applying pressure. y/n was quick to follow. she rushed to her knees.

“she needs help,” sunghoon said, voice hoarse and tight. “now.”

y/n instinctively reached for manon’s head before she can think about it, lifting it to rest on her lap. her hands found manon’s hair, gently caressing her as if she was fragile. manon’s eyes fluttered open, and for the briefest of seconds, y/n doesn’t miss the way she seems to pointedly search for her. manon looked up at y/n through her half lidded eyes, a look akin to relief crossing her face. and for the first time y/n had ever seen, they filled with tears when she turned her attention to sunghoon.

manon’s lips trembled as she looked at the man pressing his hands into her fresh gunshot wound. “you’re… you’re not…”

sunghoon swallowed hard, giving her a crooked, tired smile. “not dead,” he murmured. “not yet.”

a shaky laugh broke from manon’s throat—half a sob, half relief. she turned her head slightly, eyes landing on y/n. there was pride there, even through the pain. pride and something that felt dangerously close to peace.

“you got it out,” she whispered.

y/n nodded, words stuck somewhere in her chest.

the sirens outside had grown louder. not alarms from the building, but rather something that sounded citywide. emergency broadcasts. police. maybe news choppers already overhead. the upload had gone through. the truth was out, and the world was watching.

it had begun. but right now, none of that mattered. her attention stayed solely on manon as her eyes closed, fighting the sleep that wanted to overwhelm her.

y/n woke up in the corner of the hospital room, curled up in a stiff plastic chair that had molded slightly to the shape of her aching spine. the lights overhead buzzed faintly, but the real sound—the one that had kept her grounded through every hour—was the soft, steady beeping of the heart monitor beside manon’s bed.

she blinked, not sure how long she’d been out. time had stretched thin here. days bled into nights and back again, and somewhere along the way, she stopped counting. it felt strange, almost wrong, to have slept so deeply. even in a chair that felt more like punishment than rest. but her body had given in. maybe it knew something her mind didn’t. maybe the worst really was over.

her eyes lingered on manon’s face—still, quiet, but not lifeless. there was color in her cheeks now. less wires. fewer machines. progress.

she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and leaned her head back against the wall. and, like it had been waiting for this exact quiet moment, the memory came back.

it was a month ago. the air outside the building had been chaos—sirens, helicopters, the sharp, high-pitched voices of news anchors shouting over each other. red and blue lights flashing across every surface. but y/n hadn’t cared. she wasn’t listening. her focus had tunneled in on the stretcher in front of her, manon’s unconscious body strapped in, blood drying at her temple, paramedics working quickly but carefully. sunghoon had walked beside her, silent and sharp-eyed, his jaw set tight like he was daring the universe to try anything else. before y/n could say anything, that’s when she saw her.

daniela.

she was standing by one of the black cars, flanked by two agents in dark armor that matched sunghoon’s. her hair was pulled back, her face calm, but her eyes were moving fast, scanning, searching. she wasn’t in cuffs. she wasn’t guarded. she looked… like she belonged. y/n stopped walking. everything around her, the sirens, the news choppers overhead, the chaos of cameras flashing and people shouting, went silent. the stretcher carrying manon rolled on ahead, but y/n couldn’t move. couldn’t breathe.

then daniela turned. their eyes met across the mess of uniforms and vehicles and broken night, and y/n’s chest caved in. she didn’t think. didn’t check with anyone. didn’t ask if it was allowed. she ran. feet pounding pavement, lungs burning, vision already blurred with tears. and daniela—daniela was already moving, already reaching, meeting her halfway in one breathless collision of arms and shaking shoulders.

“you’re here,” y/n whispered, fingers curling into the back of daniela’s jacket, anchoring herself. “you’re—god, you’re here.”

daniela just nodded, arms tightening. “i’m okay,” she said, voice thick. “i’m okay.”

they stayed like that, in the middle of it all, clinging like the world hadn’t just split open days ago. like maybe this was the first piece of it stitching itself back together. it was later that sunghoon explained—quietly, in the back of the ambulance, when things had calmed. he’d pulled daniela from police custody within hours. she hadn’t disappeared—she’d been helping. her testimony had pushed the right people into action. she’d given them the leverage they needed to move, to bring everything down. she’d been part of it. all of it.

but that was a month ago. ever since, here she’d been. sitting in the corner of the hospital room waiting.

y/n shifted in the stiff plastic chair, muscles sore from another night folded into it. outside, the morning had turned pale and gold, painting soft lines across the walls. the hospital quiet had become something familiar. something she could live inside. just the beeping of machines and the low hum of vents, all of it pressing in around her like fog. manon hadn’t woken up. but she was here. breathing. healing. every nurse, every doctor said the same thing—she was strong. she’d come through.

it would’ve been easy for y/n to back to her old life. after the police interrogation, after giving her statement, they’d told her she was free to go. she’d even been given a monetary grant for her involvement—something about civilian bravery and assistance in an ongoing investigation. she was told she could return to university on a full scholarship. everything was laid out for her. all she had to do was walk away. but she didn’t. she’d taken time off instead. she needed the quiet. the pause. the space to understand what had happened. but more than that, she couldn’t leave manon. not like this.

in the motel room, before it all went sideways, manon had asked her if she would stay. y/n hadn’t answered then—maybe because she didn’t know how, or maybe because the question had felt too big, too real. but now, sitting here day after day, holding manon’s hand through the silence, she knew. the answer was yes.

y/n stood and walked to the bed. she did this every morning, scanning manon’s face for something new. color. movement. a flutter beneath her eyelids. anything. she reached out and gently ran her thumb over the back of manon’s hand, tracing the familiar lines like they were something sacred.

behind her, the door opened. she turned and there he was.she knew it was him before he said anything. something in the way he looked at manon, like the world had cracked open and was just now trying to piece itself back together. he stepped inside slowly, cautiously, like he was entering holy ground and wasn’t sure he was welcome. his coat hung loose around his frame. there were deep lines carved into his face, the kind grief leaves behind and time never fully smooths out. his posture sagged, heavy with the kind of guilt that doesn’t ask to be forgiven. but his eyes were steady, fixed on manon with a quiet desperation that said everything.

y/n stepped aside without a word.

this was her first time seeing him in person. the man manon mentioned only once when she told her about her sister. for a moment, he just stood at the edge of the bed, looking down at his daughter like she might vanish if he blinked. finally, he looked at y/n. his gaze didn’t waver, but something in it softened like recognition without ever having met.

“you’re y/n,” he said quietly.

she nodded. “yeah.”

he turned back to manon. his shoulders dropped slightly, like just saying her name out loud had taken something out of him.

“sunghoon told me what happened. what you did.”

his voice was rough, but steady. his hand hovered just above manon’s, not quite touching, like he was afraid one wrong move might shatter the moment. for a long time, he just stood there. watching her breathe. not saying anything else. and y/n didn’t interrupt. she knew there were some silences that had to be honored. for a while, he didn’t speak. he simply looked at his daughter, and y/n could see the weight in it—months of not knowing where she was, if she was okay. the ache of being shut out, even when all he’d wanted was to be close.

“she wouldn’t talk to me after her sister,” he said finally, voice low. “i kept trying. calling. showing up. i didn’t want to push her, so eventually i just… gave her space. but not a day went by that i didn’t wonder if she was safe.”

y/n didn’t say anything. she didn’t need to. the truth of it hung between them, raw and quiet. after a moment, he looked at her again.

“thank you. for being with her.”

y/n shook her head, but said nothing. it didn’t feel right to take credit for anything. she’d only done what she couldn’t stop herself from doing. his gaze dropped to manon again. his voice barely above a whisper.

“i’m here now.”

they stood in silence, side by side, watching the girl who’d carried too much for too long.and together, they stayed. the room settled into stillness again. soft light spilled through the blinds, warming the corners of the sterile space. the machines hummed and beeped in their steady rhythm, the only measure of time that seemed to matter here. y/n sat back down, folding into the chair like she had so many times before. manon’s dad didn’t speak again, just moved the second chair closer to the bed and lowered himself into it with a care that made y/n’s chest tighten. like he was afraid the sound of it scraping across the tile might wake a ghost.

they stayed like that for hours. sometimes a nurse came in and checked the monitors, adjusted an IV line. sometimes no one came at all. the world beyond that room kept turning, but inside it, everything had slowed to something tender and weightless.

y/n lost track of how long she sat there, chin tucked into her palm, eyes tracing the shape of manon’s hand beneath her own. her body was tired, but she didn’t care. her chest ached, but that didn’t matter either.

then it happened. it was nothing at first. a flicker. barely there. manon’s fingers twitched.

y/n blinked and sat up straighter. “manon?” her voice came out too loud. too sharp.

the man at her side stood so fast his chair tipped back, hitting the floor with a dull thud.

y/n leaned in, heart in her throat. “manon,” she said again, softer now.

another twitch. then the smallest turn of her head. and finally, her eyes fluttered open. unfocused, blinking against the light. y/n couldn’t breathe. she didn’t realize she was crying until the tears blurred her vision.

“hey,” she whispered, barely able to get the word out. “hey, you’re okay. you’re here.”

manon’s gaze dragged toward her slowly, like it took everything she had. her lips parted, cracked and dry, but no sound came. still, she looked at y/n—and then past her, eyes landing on the man at the other side of the bed. her brow furrowed, confused, and he stepped forward, voice trembling.

“meret,” he said. “it’s me.”

and something in manon’s face broke open—recognition, disbelief, relief all tangled together. her chest hitched like she might cry, though her eyes stayed wide and stunned. she was awake. y/n reached for her free hand again, tighter this time. manon’s eyes flutter open again, this time with more focus. the light around her is harsh, and she squints, her gaze shifting between y/n and her dad. her voice is barely audible, hoarse as she speaks.

“the usb... did it... did the news get out?”

y/n’s heart tightens. she doesn’t even need to ask what manon means. she nods softly, her throat tight. “yeah. everything came to light. people know now. the truth.”

manon’s face crumples, the weight of it all crashing in. tears spill down her cheeks, and her body shakes with a sob she hadn’t let out until now. the quiet devastation in her eyes is everything she’s been holding back, all the fear and grief and hope, now freed.

“it’s over,” manon whispers, her voice breaking. “it’s... it’s finally over.” she lets out another sob, and y/n reaches forward, pulling her into a careful embrace.

“you did it,” y/n says softly, her voice gentle but steady. “you did everything you could. you gave it your all.”

manon clings to her, shaking in her arms as her tears fall freely now. the tension, the fight, the struggle she had carried for so long—it all spills out at once. for the first time in so long, she can let go.

her dad watches quietly, a few steps away. the room is thick with emotion. after a while, he clears his throat softly. “i’ll give you two some time,” he says quietly. “baby, i’ll be right outside, okay?”

manon barely reacts, her face buried in y/n’s shoulder, but her dad lingers for a moment before quietly stepping out of the room, leaving the two of them alone.

y/n stays close, holding manon through the storm of emotions. eventually, manon pulls away, her face flushed and tear-streaked, but there’s a relief there now. a quiet kind of peace.

“i didn’t leave your side,” y/n says softly, brushing her thumb over manon’s knuckles. “i didn’t go anywhere.”

manon looks up at her, her eyes still red but full of gratitude.

manon’s breathing is still shaky, but the tears have slowed. her grip on y/n’s hand tightens, and for a moment, everything seems still—like time is holding its breath, allowing them both to process the weight of everything that’s changed.

y/n sits there, watching her, giving her space, but also offering her presence, her warmth. manon looks at her, eyes still a little unfocused, but there’s something different in them now—something softer.

and then, without warning, manon leans forward.

y/n barely has time to react before manon’s lips are on hers. it's a kiss that takes her by surprise—a soft, tentative thing at first, like manon isn’t sure whether she should let herself go there. but she does. with everything they’ve been through, with the truth finally out, manon is unraveling in ways y/n never expected.

it’s so different from the stoic, controlled woman y/n’s always known. manon had always kept things in check, distant, nonchalant in the face of everything. but, with every second they’ve spent together, she’s been letting go, piece by piece. and now, in this quiet hospital room, with everything resolved, she allows herself to be weak, to feel.

the kiss deepens, slow and uncertain, but it carries all the things manon hadn’t said. the weight of loss, the relief, the gratitude—everything she couldn’t put into words, she pours into that kiss. it’s raw, vulnerable, and for the first time, manon lets herself be open.

y/n doesn’t pull away. instead, she closes her eyes and lets herself feel it too. the tenderness, the unspoken connection between them, something far deeper than she’d realized.

when they finally pull apart, both of them are breathing a little harder, a little faster. manon’s face is flushed, and y/n’s heart is pounding in her chest. manon looks at her for a long moment, her eyes searching y/n’s, as if trying to gauge whether everything she’s feeling is okay.

y/n reaches up, gently brushing her thumb over manon’s cheek, wiping away the last traces of tears. “you don’t have to hide from me, manon,” she whispers softly. “you don’t have to hold back anymore.”

manon’s eyes flicker with something—relief, maybe—before she leans into the touch, her lips pressing together in a fragile smile. “i know,” she says quietly. “for so long, i thought i couldn’t let myself feel this. but now...” she hesitates, taking a deep breath, her voice steadying. “now, i can.”

they sit there, the silence comfortable now, no longer filled with the tension of unsaid words. manon, for the first time in a long time, lets herself lean into the moment. and y/n, in return, is right there, by her side.

they had their shot at normal, now. with everything said and done, they could get to know without all the secrecy, without all the falsity. y/n once figured that in the perfect world, maybe they would’ve met on better terms. perhaps in a coffee shop, perhaps as work colleagues. but it didn’t pan out that way. now, for the first time since meeting the enigma that was manon bannerman, she wasn’t sure if she’d have it any other way. this experience brought them closer, and y/n knew deep, deep down– that she was there to stay.

it was the end of a chapter in manon’s life, but the start of something they could share together.

previous -- final

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classic-blue · 6 months ago

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Nature of the Arcane- Positive and Negative Energy

(For reference, Arcane = the series; arcane = the magic) Come help me figure out how the heck the magic system of Arcane works.

What is the anomaly? Why was it born? Why is it that other mages in the series don't seem to cause anomalies, but Hextech does?

I refuse to be content with a magic=good or magic=bad explanation, and Arcane loves to play with nuance. I was trying to sort out my thoughts on why some magic has bad side effects while others don't, and this is where I'm sitting now. My (spit-balled, half-baked, and probably leaking) thesis:

The arcane/using magic has 2 separate outputs: the order you placed (Hextech) and the resulting exhaust (wild runes; the anomaly). Hextech can use runes to control magic, but there's a second output of natural, wild magical energy, that Hextech doesn't account for. Both of these energies can build up, and when they're reunited, they have explosive reactions (see: Mage Viktor's world, the final blip that takes Jayce and Viktor, and possibly various smaller explosions throughout the series).

For example, when positive and negative charges meet, lightning strikes.

Justification below the cut.

Science break! Ever been shocked by static electricity? That's because of a buildup of one charge, say positive, on you, and a buildup of negative charge on another object. Nature loves balance, so when you two touch, the charges discharge in a shock that connects the positive and negative charges and allows them to balance out. Size this idea up big enough, and you get lightning- powerful, fast, and destructive.

More importantly though, you can't just charge positive energy, without also charging negative energy at the same time- creating one by necessity creates the other, so that there's an overall balance of electricity types (hey look, a metaphor, creating one inevitably leads to the other…).

Let's carry this idea over to the arcane. What if there's a 'positive' magic and a 'negative' magic output?

(Note, I use the electricity words here intentionally- positive/negative do not mean in a cosmic/moral/ethical way, but in a scientific, 'hey we need 2 connected words to separate these concepts' sort of way.)

Positive: Hextech; runes; the intended output. Teleportation, levitation, everything we see it accomplish.

Negative: the wild rune, the anomaly; the unintended output.

And, when the two come together, lightning strikes.

Lightning 1- Viktor vs Ekko's Z-drive. Viktor spends S2 becoming a centralized conduit of 'positive' magic, via the Hexcore and top ups from the crystals under the Hexgates. As the Machine Herald, the claw is continually using runes and doing magic behind him. In short, he's been building up a lot of positive magical energy. When Ekko chucks the Z-drive at him, it's powered by an anomaly, or 'negative' magical energy. Put the two forces together, and let the fireworks happen; a part of the Machine Herald's mask gets struck off in the blast. (But the Z-drive has less negative energy than Viktor's positive, so it doesn't totally wipe him out.)

Lightning 2- Viktor and Jayce's rainbow time. Jayce's acceleration rune might be the negative magical energy in this case (since it travels with him via Mage Viktor's anomaly), paired with the anomaly that Viktor grabbed beneath the Hexgate. That works in opposition to Viktor's compiled positive magical energy via the Hexcore and similar products. With these together, the balance between positive and negative is reached, achieving net neutral magic dispersion, and of course, an implosion that sucks in (or teleports, we can be happy) Jayce and Viktor, ending the conflict.

Perhaps in Mage Viktor's timeline, a similar explosion occurs, resulting in the destruction that we see Jayce traverse in the alternate timeline. But in the main timeline, Jayce and Viktor were able to contain that explosive potential to just themselves, via Jayce's acceleration rune.

"Pass me a tome" Jayce's (quoting Viktor) explanation of the anomaly/wild rune (S2:E3)

Jayce says that Viktor theorized that wild runes are "patterns that would occur naturally where the border between our world and the Arcane is thin." By the theory, wild runes are expressions of magic not quantifiable by traditional runes- natural outputs of magic that are uncontrollable and untamable.

This still works with my positive vs negative theory- it's just that Hextech, and by extension the boys, are only viewing it from the perspective of positive energy (they accessed magic, but really only half of it). From that view, negative charge, which they can't interpret why it's building up or that it even is, might look pretty wild and untamable- however, we see mages control this negative magical energy. Mage Viktor uses the anomaly to send Jayce back to his timeline. The Machine Herald is able to transport it and start to destroy/convert the world.

Because it's still a useable product, so long as you understand what it actually is, I'm not fully content to say that the anomaly is an entirely wild thing, or an unpredictable force. It's possible that Mage Viktor intentionally manipulated it to send Jayce, Ekko, and Heimerdinger to their temporary alternate universes to set in motion events to save the main timeline. I think the anomaly definitely has somewhat volatile characteristics, a bit more chaotic perhaps, but it's still controllable.

(Additionally, Ekko breaks time using both hex shards (assuming they're still in the Z-drive, I'm not sure off the top of my head), and a tiny anomaly. The fact that he's able to control it to a degree also shows that the anomaly is not fully wild and untamable.)

I suppose my overarching feeling is that the anomaly is not necessarily better or worse, or more dangerous, than the 'positive' magic of Hextech- it's just a different, inevitable byproduct of magic use.

Then why don't mages cause anomalies and 'lightning strikes'?

Simple- they know how to account for both positive and negative energy in their spellwork. They know how to equate a balance, so nothing blows up in their faces.

Granted, the only mages we really see in Arcane are Mel, the Black Rose, and Mage Viktor, and the only real discussions we get about magic is from either the Hextech nerds or Heimerdinger, who may not be working with the full picture of how the arcane works. Our sources with regards to actual mage work in Arcane are pretty thin (and I probably need to rewatch Mel's S2 scenes).

But the Black Rose mentions as Mel leaves that (paraphrased) 'it's a dangerous world out there for a solitary mage.' This seems to imply that mages work best in collaboration- perhaps that allows for a balance between positive and negative energies, preventing 'lightning strikes.'

The real point- The Need for Collaboration

While the obvious theme to be drawn from this is the need for balance, another interesting one is the need for collaboration. If mages in Arcane indeed do work together to prevent destructive magical fallout, this again points back to a core element of Arcane's relationships:

Things (magic in particular) work best in collaboration.

That's how the boys crack Hextech

That's how Jinx and Vi start to bring Vander back and reconcile

That's how Viktor and Sky work in the commune

That's how Ekko, Powder, and Heimerdinger crack Hextech again

That's how Caitlyn and Ambessa start to work, and how the lack of honest collaboration exposes Ambessa's selfish gains and weakens Caitlyn emotionally and politically

That's how Mel literally does everything politically (and why her arc narratively suffers when she's on her own against the Black Rose for so long [I still love her tho])

That's how Piltover and Zaun fend off Ambessa's assault

That's how Viktor and Jayce end it- together.

More assorted thoughts on this topic:

This theory somewhat requires that the arcane is not conscious, not retaliating for Hextech using magic improperly, which is debatable. The Black Rose says "the arcane is waking up," which could imply a sentient force, or simply a natural force like how the world 'wakes up' to spring after winter. Ekko also claims that Jayce 'pissed off' the arcane, which Jayce is cutely embarrassed about, which is a possibility, but not one that I'm getting into here- it's entirely possible that Ekko is also wrong! Jayce and Viktor frequently are! (also, the hexcore being sentient does not necessarily mean that the arcane is sentient- Viktor describes it as a learning matrix, so it could very much be a Flubber situation. He done taught the rubix cube science before ethics.)

As Viktor brings Jayce up to the top of the Hexgate, Viktor winds the anomaly in his staff and talks about the balance between order and chaos- maybe positive magic is one and negative the other?

@avelera and @linddzz were throwing around some awesome thoughts similar to this strain, including how it looks like Mage Viktor 'cleans up' the smoke output of the spell in the snowstorm. Their theory is that what I call positive and negative energy is actually constructive vs destructive force in equal output from the Arcane, and that balance between those two types is needed (i.e. if you want magic to do what you want, you also need to let it blow up some stuff) which would also explain what I've called lightning here. Definitely worth a read!

There are so many holes in this theory, but I still wanted to organize my thoughts about the anomaly, Hextech, and how Arcane tells the audience to view magic. In S1, Hextech is all good and great, possibly dangerous, but in S2, Hextech and its byproducts are all infectious, destructive, and never productive. I found the switch a little jarring, and went searching for a deeper meaning.

Also… does this mean that Arcane is actually a big metaphor for the dangers and impacts of technological advancement on natural society and how Mother Nature will come back to bite us all in the butt? Has Arcane been a secret Ghibli film all along???

#arcane #arcane meta #viktor arcane #jayce talis #ekko arcane #I guess I'll tag #jayvik #Since I know fic writers are having the same questions as me #hextech #hextech meta #mage viktor #If you've got thoughts to expand on this please be my guest #I need not validation I just need this out of my head #I just felt so weird about the way they treated magic S1 vs S2 #Like I want the magic to be fun and cool whyyyy is it moldy and infecting things! it makes me sad!#Yes I understand that it's part of a greater nuanced conversation about how progress today can mean destructive impacts on tomorrow #Because Arcane is usually good at nuance #But I want happy magic time!#And I don't dislike that Mel is a mage #it just seemed kind of sudden and very underexplained #But she did get a great fight scene as a mage tho!#Give my girl more political manipulations to be doing!

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pedgito · 1 year ago

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MILLER'S GIRL ✎ SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter Four: Under Your Skin

Chapter Summary: An implosion that changes everything, leaving results devastating but unseen. [5k]

[student/teacher relationship, age gap, no outbreak, power dynamic]

Chapter Warnings: fem!reader, professor!joel miller, inappropriate behavior, reader is delusional lol, background tess/joel (mentions of infidelity), technical infidelity on joel's behalf, unprotected piv, f!oral, angry sex, lack of aftercare, belt as restraints, inappropriate use of a tie & desk, semi-public sex (sorta), angst at the end i'm sorry.

— AO3 | PLAYLIST | PINTEREST

↝ other fics | requests? | ao3 | update blog | fic rec

There’s a deep ache in your body and between your legs as you toss in bed that morning, rousing from a less than relaxing sleep, the faint smell of Joel still lingering on the clothes you fell asleep in, not bothering to change. Licking at chapped lips he’d kissed you so feverishly the night before, you recollect the night in flashes, rubbing sleep from your eyes and feeling riddled with anxiety.

You reach for your phone blindly, stuffed under your covers as you scroll through your phone, expecting some type of change—an updated grade, a note or two on your follow-up essay. But, there’s nothing. The big, glaring fucking zero staring you back in the face. And for a moment, you feel guilty. You wonder just how badly you screwed things up by doubling down and approaching him so boldly in his office. In his space.

You threatened him and he attacked. Not you.

You never intended for things to unfold the way they did, but you wanted to get your feelings across clearly, even if that meant getting under his skin.

Joel. Not Mr. Miller.

Those were two entirely different entities now.

You take your morning slow, enjoying the relaxation of the weekend and taking your time—researching and looking into things you definitely should not be. First, it’s his name.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t bring up much. His job history was fairly public, no local or national awards, nothing note-worthy and only a few small non-fiction pieces to his name, though you knew there were more—there had to be. With his taste in poetry and fiction you expected something, but came up with nothing. He’s so inexplicably boring to the naked eye and maybe that’s what he wanted. He wanted to blend and disappear.

Curiously, you do more digging on his wife. Who—yeah, it was definitely his wife. A few links later and you stumble upon the marriage certificate, nearly ten years strong. No kids, either.

It was impressive, more than what a lot of people could be prideful about. But Joel, he wasn’t prideful about Tess. He was secretive, dismissive, and shot a look of disgust at his phone every time he received a text, whether purposefully or not.

You find that she works at a law firm, relatively small and headed by two partners. One significantly older than the other—father and son? You squint slightly, searching through the website carefully but not coming up with much. She was a lawyer, that much was obvious.

Still, it didn’t explain the rift.

What happened?

You try and struggle to find anything rational or tangible, feeling like you might drive yourself insane trying to find out and you spend most of the weekend trudging through the obscurity of things you could find online, very little compared to what you could find out by just asking him.

There’s a tinge of dread in attending class that Monday knowing that no matter how hard you tried, Mr. Miller would never see you the same. He wouldn’t treat you as he had, pedestaling you up above the rest and, though he’d never admit openly, admiring you.

But, god, it ails you. Sickens your mind and keeps you from focusing on anything else.

You needed more answers, more clarification. But, more importantly, you still needed him.

That deep, gnawing feeling of desire in your gut had only grown stronger since your encounter in his office and you feared—knew, it would only worsen as time went on.

Joel knew that night that he needed to follow through on his plans.

His lack of trust in Tess, his instability in his life now, and how he couldn’t get you out of his head. The three were a volatile mix and he knew if he didn’t start somewhere that things would quickly grow out of control.

He makes the call to his lawyer the following morning, hungover and tired. Nursing a headache in his open palm as he conversed quietly over the phone. Tess was home, far off and distant in another room but he can hear her shifting around, moving about, and he feels like he’s betraying her. He doesn’t know why he’s filled with guilt and shame—maybe that was partly because of you, his willingness to cross that line for just a moment and kiss you.

It was a momentary slip, his want clouding out his sense of rationality.

You were conniving and manipulative, using his own selfish thoughts against him, his eagerness to aid you in your progress but also allowed a level of vulnerability between you both. Joel should’ve known, he should’ve seen it in the way you looked at him.

It was admiration and obsession and he fed into it.

It was something he never had, not even with Tess.

He loved her, sure. Cared about her, absolutely. But the physical connection—sexual or not, had never truly been there. And Joel figures that was why she did what she did, despite how badly it hurt him. He felt at fault for a while, like he had caused it.

Maybe he did—but he would never have betrayed Tess like she did so easily, even if she swore it meant nothing at the time. Late nights for her were fickle, but they still happened. And that’s when Joel allowed the doubt to seep in and eat away.

But, he just couldn’t do it anymore. He felt like an intruder in his own home.

Tess would be served the papers on Monday evening and Joel would face the wrath when he arrived home, but there was still time. Time to prepare and settle, commit through his day and do his job, even if you lingered in his peripheral as class went on.

Your lack of reaction and response to his unchangingness of your grade gives him a false sign of relief—had you finally moved on from the idea? Joel was clueless to how preoccupied you actually were, chewing on the end of a pen as you sifted through tabs as he droned on at the front of class. Discussion days were always long and dreadful, and as most of the class was discussing the troubled assignment Mr. Miller had given you the week prior, your silence was…required. He avoided you like the plague and you were thankful, to some degree.

Still filled with frustration and simmering rage, you can’t ignore how despite everything—Joel still glances your way. And where his looks before were restrained, subtle and less driven…these were not. Like he was replaying the events in his head every time he looked at you, wondering if he’d tossed your panties out or kept them, if he still tasted you on his lips—at this point, fucking you was the least he could do.

And you know it’s in poor taste, but you approach him at the end of class with a revered look on things—hopeful, even. Apologize, fix your grade, and move on like things never happened.

He straightens a stack of files on his desk as you approach, jaw tense as he swallows and his gaze follows the last few lingering students as you neared on him, like prey. But, your face softens when he looks at you and whatever retort he has on standby dissipates for the moment.

“Um,” You start, unsure of how he would react, “I—can we talk?”

“I don’t think that’s the best idea,” Joel offers logically, “not…now.”

End of day, he thinks. In his office. Privacy. Secrecy. He didn’t feel like airing things out in the middle of the day, not with his divorce on the forefront of his mind.

“I just…I wanted to apologize.” You tell him quietly, “For everything.”

Was it genuine? Not really.

“I can’t change your grade,” He admits, “I’m not going to and it’s beyond the deadline for that assignment.”

You breath sharply through your nostrils and intertwine your fingers in front of you—Joel can see from the way your grip tightens that you’re holding back and nothing has changed.

Unstable and volatile, you both stared at each other for too long, an eerie silence settling.

“That’s—”

He interrupts without much care, “Unfair? Unethical? Don’t start with this. Not now.”

He doesn’t have any leverage here either, but you quiet down under his gaze slightly.

You begin to speak again, but he holds up a careful finger. Like scolding a child for their actions and you bite back a venomous retort as he talks over you, “Meet me in my office at six. Fifteen minutes. That’s all you get.”

He’s on edge, jaw flexing around a tense swallow that feels impossible to get down. He turns back to his desk, ignoring you and ultimately ending whatever conversation you were hoping to have.

He wants you to wait and despite your stubbornness to address the situation now, you settle with his words and nod, a quiet “Okay.” in response.

“Don’t be late.” He stresses, eyes flicking up towards you briefly.

Your insides twist ominously in anticipation, but you feel yourself throbbing with need.

“Yes,” You respond, “Of course, Mr. Miller.”

There’s an urge for praise that Joel bites back.

Joel is already opening the door as your footsteps approach later that day, anticipating your arrival and eyes glancing over your figure in the darkened lights of the classroom, the warm glow of his office blanketing you both as he welcomes you in with a gesture, moving out of your way slightly and closing the door to his office as you trailed toward his desk, lingering quietly.

“You can sit.” He directs, thumbs digging into the waistband of his slacks as he adjusts them slightly, the uncomfortable press of his belt pressing into his stomach. Normally he’d undress a little, relax, but he couldn’t allow that. Not with how anxious he felt, knowing what he faced at home, sure that the divorce papers had already been delivered to Tess.

He’s tried to ignore it—and he doesn’t know why he’s worried, but her refusal to cooperate is always an option and that isn’t something Joel thinks he can handle calmly.

“Okay,” You listen, taking a seat in one of the two leather chairs placed in front of his desk, watching as he leaned against the edge of his desk a few inches away, hands clasped in his lap as he looked down, unsure of how to begin, or where, “Um, I can—”

“You need to understand something,” Joel begins suddenly, interrupting you again—it really, really fucking bothered you. He did it on purpose, as a way to assert himself over you, and you felt it in the way he looked at you, down and scrutinizing, “this—whatever this is, or was—it’s inappropriate.”

As if he had a proper moral compass to explain his actions.

“I don’t need a lesson in appropriate behavior,” You counter, “if that’s what you’re leading into.”

“No—”

It’s your turn to interrupt, sitting up straighter in your chair.

“And truthfully, it’s a little unprofessional of you to continue to fail me after I did the make-up assignment.” You respond, a tinge of condescension in your tone, “and you kissed me, if I remember correctly. So—if this is because you’re upset, then I’m allowed to be too. I want a fair grade. Not what you’re punishing me with now because you—for whatever fucking reason, can’t get passed the idea that you had those thoughts too, but can’t accept it.”

“I’m not punishing you.” Joel responds lamely and you squint your eyes slightly as you look at him before huffing out a breath of defeat, chuckling softly under your breath.

“You know—we talked for weeks. Back and forth. And you reached out to me first. So, if you want to deny that then let’s talk about you abusing your power and holding it over my head now after all of that. Genuine talks. You had to care, to some degree.”

“You’re not the first student I’ve talked to outside of class—”

You roll your eyes, feeling the conversation stalling out quickly.

“Do you still have them?” You ask curiously.

Joel doesn’t need to be told. He knows what you’re referring to.

And the guilt on his face as he looks away briefly, tongue pressing into his cheek as he glances at his watch, avoiding your question.

“Am I out of time already?” You ask patronizingly, leaning over in the chair slightly as you struggle to meet his gaze, his eyes pointed elsewhere. “Tight schedule today?”

“What are you expecting out of this?” Joel asks, arms crossing over his chest, biceps stretching under the dark button-up, licking at his bottom lip anxiously. “Are you that fucking stubborn that you think this is somehow going to work in your favor?”

Your face twitches in frustration and you cock your head slightly, rising from the chair and into his space, close enough that you can smell the faint waft of his cologne, looking him over slowly as his eyes fall on you.

“Where are they?” You ask curiously, squeezing yourself between the small space, thighs rubbing against his own as you walk around him, trailing by his desk. “Here?” You point toward the stack of closed drawers nestled in the wood and Joel glances over his shoulder, quick to move as he pushes you away gently, palm flat against your chest.

“The fuck are you doing?” He asks, “You came here to talk. So talk.”

You click your tongue against the roof of your mouth and test your limits once more, “Oh, so they are in there? Kept them for yourself? You know, this whole moral high ground thing is really fucking annoying, Joel.”

He speaks your name as a warning, but it only makes you feel more at ease.

“What?” You ask innocently, “Do you have somewhere to be?”

Joel chews at his bottom lip and removes his hand from the center of your chest, feeling it sting like a hot brand as his fingers curl around the edge of his desk, feeling oddly small as your eyes track him and watch like he’s some type of prey, a devilish smile pulling at your lips.

He made a mistake underestimating you—or even allowing you back into his office. He was screwed.

“Stop.” He warns, watching as you sucked your bottom lip between your teeth and reach behind him quickly, yanking at the drawer but he draws your hand up, tight in his grip and forcing you against his chest, your unrestrained hand falling against the desk to catch yourself.

“What’s going on?” You ask softly, feigning genuine emotion. The crease between his brow growing deeper—you’ve spent enough time with him to know when something is bothering him, someone, and it’s written all over his face. “Come on, I won’t say anything.”

“It’s not your business.” Joel offers lamely, feeling you create a small amount of distance as you push away, your wrist still held firmly in his grip, but lower by his waist.

“Is it her?” You ask carefully, “It’s her, isn’t it?”

Another breath of your name—stop here, stop now.

“Did you tell her?” You ask suddenly, eyes widening. “God, are you really that much of a —”

“No, fuck—” He interrupts, “I’m—not that it’s any of your goddamn business, I served her divorce papers today.”

“Oh…” It wasn’t what you expected, not by a longshot. “Was that—is that because of—”

“No,” His eyebrows quirk up slightly, amused that you thought you were the cause of his marriage's untimely dismantlement, “not at all, actually.”

He doesn’t know why it feels like a weight lifting on his chest, but talking about it with you feels…less imposing than he expected. And your eyes soften slightly at the mention, still beckoning something dark but he can see the genuine reaction that flashes momentarily.

He loosens his grip but doesn’t quite let go, thumb rubbing over the vein of your wrist.

Joel doesn’t understand why he can’t just let go, like he’s weirdly tethered to you.

“Do you…want to talk about it?” You ask, feeling the need to reassure some comfort.

You didn’t really care, but he seemed so pathetically sad. It spilled over and flooded into you, that small tug at your heart. It quickly fades, his mouth opening to speak.

“Not really.” He doesn’t feel the need to bother, glancing at his watch briefly again.

The minutes were ticking down and he knew you were overstaying your welcome—and he was allowing it. But, you here—it feels good.

“I can’t change your grade,” He reiterates again, “but if you promise to not do something like that again—I can offer some extra credit, something to help make up for it.”

And ultimately teach you a lesson and punish you in the process. Did you really have a choice?

“Extra credit,” You stress, saying slowly as you consider the word, the implication—you don’t think he means it in a nefarious way, it just feels ridiculous, “seriously?”

Joel nods, “Consider it a…lesson learned.”

A small laugh bubbles from your chest but you ignore it, staring down at his touch and speaking.

“You know—I did appreciate the recommendations you made,” You admit, “if that counts for anything.

Joel stares at you, despite your preoccupied gaze, speaking directly.

“I wasn’t lying when I said I care about that,” Joel says, “I give recommendations to students all the time. But, you seemed more interested so–I gave you more.”

“Right,” You say with finality, “and all those nights at the coffee shop?”

“I’m there quite a bit anyways,” He admits, only a half-truth, “you’re not the first student I’ve had meetings with outside of class.”

He’s trying to reiterate to himself that his actions are justified, but his body is saying otherwise.

“Mr. Miller,” You start softly, “can I ask you one more question?”

Silent, he nods again.

“Why are you still touching me?”

And he doesn’t know why, but something in him snaps. The quickening of your pulse under his fingertips, your eyes finally flicking up to him. He does have your panties tucked away in his desk, he doesn’t meet with students outside of his class like that, and he can try and convince himself all he wants, but him reaching out to you was a personal, selfish decision that had nothing to do with anything but his own curiosity. He sees the subtle catch of your breath and doesn’t stop you when he sees you moving closer, quick and determined.

Fuck his time limit, you think.

If he wanted you to leave he would’ve forced you out by now.

Your lips are soft but forceful, pressing against his with fervor as you slip your wrist from his grip and bury your fingers into his shortened curls, trimmed down at the base of his neck but there’s still just enough to tug, swallowing down his soft grunt as you pull and bite as at his bottom lip.

Joel has the thought to stop you, but he can’t.

He feels guilty, appreciating the touch that he’s lacked for so long. But, there’s a creeping sensation of frustration that fills him, vexed with you. And it snaps, completely.

His hands finally touch you, releasing a breath into his mouth you didn’t realize you were holding. One hand cradling the back of your head, the other wrapped firmly around your neck. Just a solid weight that he uses as leverage when you get too eager, nipping at his lip.

Joel moves you easily, silently as he turns and presses you against his desk, mumbling a soft “Up.” as he aids in the lift of your thighs, taking a seat on his desk as it shakes with the movement and he slots himself between your open legs and kisses you fuller, selfishly.

He’s eager to slip his tongue into your mouth once more, like beforem and you welcome it with ease. Giggling into his open mouth as he squeezes at your throat, the sound breaking his focus.

“So, is this the extra credit?” You speak against his lips, a soft puff of his breath over your face as he keeps his eyes closed, face pressed against yours. “Because I think my fifteen minutes is up.”

Joel can’t do conversation right now, the noise grating in his ears as he blindly reaches for his tie and loosens it, yanking it away from his neck and balling up the material, his eyebrows shooting up slightly in response as he catches your gaze, momentarily confused until you quickly catch on.

Oh, he wants you to shut up. Noted.

He’s guiding the fabric to your mouth before you can properly speak and that’s what he wants, stuffing it between your teeth and forcing you to bite down, his eyes darkened as he squeezes your cheeks between his fingers, shifting a hand under the hem of your dress where it tickles your thighs and you legs widen instinctively, even more. There’s an obvious absence of fabric that Joel notes as his fingers dig into your hips, your eyes brightening at his realization.

And that’s how Joel knows—you never came here to talk. You always had some underlying intention or reason and it drove him insane, but he was a raging hypocrite, wanting it just as selfishly. His fingers drag over your pussy with intention, gliding through your slick and pressing a single digit inside of you with little resistance and you gasp, muffled by the fabric.

“You didn’t come here to talk,” Joel surmises, though it was obvious from the start, “did you?”

You shake your head weakly, eyes squeezing shut as he pumps his fingers and quickly adds another, hand flying to his wrist as he quirks his fingers inside of you and hits a spot that has your stomach coiling in anticipation.

“What do you want?” He asks hotly, hand squeezing at the base of your neck while he uses his other hand to rub messy, slow circles over your clit. Your hands reach for his belt without question, palm flattening over his cock that was held tightly behind the stiff material of his slacks. “Yeah?” He questions, the subtle squeeze of your hand against his shaft in response.

And part of you really doesn’t think he has it in him to go through with it, but then he’s pulling his hand away from you to manipulate and manhandle, yanking you off the desk sloppily and pressing your front against the edge, fumbling with his belt behind you and pulling it off in a sharp snap, hand flattening against your back as he presses you down.

“Give me your hands.” He tells you, a soft whine of protest coming from your mouth, but then he’s pulling himself from his briefs, cock in hand as he tugs at himself slowly and glides along the center of your pussy, dragging through the wetness. “You want me to fuck you, right? Give me your hands.”

You had control on just about every aspect of his mind—he needed this, the physicality stripped from you.

You oblige silently, face resting against the cold wood as you offered up your hands and allowed him to constrain them tight and snug—he does it with ease. Practice and perfected and he uses it as leverage to pull you back toward him, “So, we have a caveat here. No condom.”

You nod deftly, eyes closing as he tightens his grip and ultimately squeezes the belt even tighter.

“But, something tells me you don’t care—” A shake of your head in response, “—don’t tell me you’re that fucking naive.”

You shrug lamely, wiggling your ass in an effort to move closer, eyebrow furrowing as he moves his hips away slightly. You growl in frustration and spit out the tie, “Fuck you, I’m on birth control. Do you really think I’m that irresponsible?”

His lack of answer is enough of one and he stuffs the fabric back into your mouth with a grimace, “Given your behavior, yes.” He fists himself tightly and slips inside of you with ease, a snug fit but you mold around him perfectly.

And it shouldn’t feel right, but it does. Joel breathes a soft breath of relief as he uses his free hand to fist into the fabric of your dress and use it as a perfect leverage to fuck into you with fervor, disregarding of your own pleasure for the time being—though the angle and the intensity of your thrust doesn’t have you far off, snapping his hips with a furiosity that strikes something inside of you with each harsh movement.

He’s huffing behind clenched teeth, a low growl emitting from his chest as he feels you tighten around him instinctively, sobbing brokenly around the fabric in your mouth, eventually allowing it to slip as you feel his grip shift, pulling you upright by your dress and pressing you back against his chest.

“Why the—sudden change of heart?” You tease, an underlying suspicion in your mind that you don’t speak aloud. He wanted a distraction and you were proving to be a great one. His hips slow suddenly, almost like he’s contemplating a response.

He huffs out a bitter laugh, snapping his hips sharply and forcing a gasp from your chest.

“Do you ever shut up?” He asks, “If I knew you’d be this annoying I would’ve just shoved my dick in your mouth—maybe that would do you some good. You’d like that, huh?”

You giggle softly but it falls off into a broken moan as Joel buries his face into your neck, biting roughly at your skin as he feels himself reaching his peak, knowing it’s been far too long for him—years of lacking sex that quickly divulged into nothing. “I think you would like that, Joel.”

You’re waiting for a chastise that never comes, knowing he hates when his name falls from your tongue—he makes a muffled sound as he loosens the belt with fluid, practiced fingers and discards it to the floor, relieving the growing ache in your shoulders as he crosses an arm over your chest, palm flat against it to hold you in place as he snaps his hips once, twice, before his other hand is digging into the flesh of your own hip as he comes, deep inside of you and with a muffled grunt, teeth leaving a faint impression in your skin—and you’re only slightly disappointed in his lack of attention in making you come, but then he’s pulling out and spinning you around, hands coming up under your thighs to spread you out over his desk, silently pressing for you to lean back, dropping to his knees with his pants pooling low on his thighs. Too impatient to redress fully.

You gasp when he dips a finger inside of you, catching the slow spend that slips out, stuffing it back in as he presses his tongue over your clit and groaning at how you clench tightly around his fingers, spasming at the pressure.

“Quiet,” He warns, “put the fucking tie back in your mouth if you can’t control yourself.”

You can admit defeat, pathetically stuffing the fabric back in your mouth—haphazardly as half of it drapes over your chest, eyes locking on Joel’s as he laps at your clit, fingers stuffed inside of you to keep his cum from dripping out. And it’s so overwhelming that when you do finally come, you feel your vision blacking out, biting down roughly on the silk tie as you claw at the hand he has braced against your stomach, desperately trying to keep your writhing body still.

The aftermath is quiet, jaded—shifting on his desk silently you watch as he redresses, tucking his shirt back into his pants as he slips his belt through the loops, the fingers that were just buried inside of you working so easily against the leather.

“Satisfied?” He asks suddenly, into the silence as you both lock eyes.

He slips the tie from your fingers, placing it back around his neck and tying it diligently.

“Are you going to try and convince me you did that for my benefit?” You retort in annoyance, despite how satisfied you actually may be, this wasn’t just on you, “How about you apologize for using me as an outlet for your troubled marriage?”

“You’re not an outlet–”

And as if you spoke it into existence, the knock comes a few moments later. The door opening.

This is the part where Joel’s life finally implodes.

You on his desk, compromising as he still stands halfway between your legs in the middle of shifting his tie and Tess is…stoic. Silent.

“This is what’s been keeping you so preoccupied?” Tess asks, the dooming stack of papers gripped tightly in her hand. “Fucking a student?” Her eyes flicking to you briefly but quickly back to Joel and he nods toward the door, beckoning for you to leave.

You do, without question.

And the aftermath is abysmal.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fic #tlou fanfic #joel miller smut #professor!joel miller #the last of us fanfiction #my writing #miller's girl #pedro pascal characters

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reiderwriter · 2 years ago

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♦️There Are No Words Left to Speak ♦️

Chapter 5 of That's What You Get

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Pairing: Spencer Reid X Fem Reader

Summary: In a panic, you spill your guts to Penelope and receive some much needed advice before your "date" with Reid.

Warnings: None!!

A/N: This one is 4k words long because I absolutely could not help myself 😭 I've has a lot of messages and asks about this series lately, and it's been really encouraging to see! If you like this chapter, please comment or reblog and let me know or come chat with me in my inbox! Happy Reading!!

You can find my masterlist here and the series masterlist here.

"Penelope, I fucked up and I need your advice," you screamed into the room as soon as the door slammed open, startling the other woman as she threw her phone up in surprise.

"Jesus, Y/N, you're lucky I didn't reach for the all too full can of pepper spray I store in here, oh my god."

"I'm sorry, Pen, I'm just, I'm kinda freaking out, and I need your help."

"Are we going to need wine, or are we going to need ice cream and a chick flick? What kind of problem are we talking here?" she asked from her place at the desk.

"I married Spencer in Vegas." You said and then clamped your hand over your mouth as you finally let the pressure of the weekends mess seep out of you now that you'd shared your secret.

"Oh my god, both, we'll do both. We need both, let's go, let's go now."

–X–

Penelope drove the two of you home, immediately moving into a mothering role as soon as the words left your mouth, and she could see your impending implosion. You were grateful that she didn’t ask you any further questions as you made your way back to her apartment, just turning on the radio to a channel playing 90s pop hits and simply letting you calm down through the fun music.

When you finally got through her door, she let you get comfortable and then immediately came back with all the things she promised.

“Okay, I know you’re more a rose girl, but all I have is this really nice white that Derek got me for my last birthday and half a bottle of tequila, and I think it’s better for the both of us if we don’t open the tequila. Also, I have chocolate, cookie dough ice cream, and tissues, and When Harry Met Sally on DVD, I'm ready to be plugged in and played as soon as you say the word.”

“Penelope, we do not tell you how brilliant you are as often as we should.”

“While that is true, I’m trying my best not to immediately cave and ask you to spill, so can we please sing my praises after you explain what you mean by saying you married Spencer.”

“God, Penelope, I don’t know what happened,” you let your head hang in your hands and she immediately moved to sit closer to you, rubbing a hand over your back and getting the tissues ready.

“We went out drinking, and my mom got in my head earlier in that call I took, and I don’t remember anything and then I woke up and we were in bed together and-” you rambled out, lifting your head up as you tried to explain, but she cut you off quickly there.

“You were in bed together? Did you… you know, bump uglies with Spencer? Do the old in n’ out? Sorry, I’m making this worse, I’ll shut up now,” she said, but you laughed at her enthusiasm, and you felt more of the weekend’s tension leave your body. You knew that you had made the right decision coming to Penelope with this. She always knew how to make you feel better.

“I don’t know, but it looks like it. TMI but-”

“Hold on, I don’t think I want to know what the Good Doctor is like in bed.” She visibly shuddered, and you let out another shaky laugh.

“Well considering I remember none of it, you’d be hard pressed to get those details from me. I did wake up handcuffed to the bed, though.”

“Shut the front door, no you did not!” Penelope’s jaw dropped. “Oh god, I’m almost morbidly curious, but I don’t want to open that can of worms. Sorry, please continue.”

You took a swig of the wine she poured you and relaxed a bit further into her couch, pulling your legs up under you to find a more comfortable position as you told the rest of your story to Penelope, gaining more confidence with each of her reactions to what you told her.

“So, now we just need to track down our two witnesses and get the marriage quietly annulled, and we can forget it ever happened.” You could hear the frown in your voice before you realised you were making that kind of expression, and from Penelope’s reaction, you could see that she’d noticed too.

“Oh.. oh, I know that look. You don’t want the annulment, do you?”

“Yes! I mean, no! Look, I really don’t know how to answer that right now, it’s just…” you trailed off, and Penelope silently filled your wine glass again, not saying anything and letting you come around at your own pace.

“Earlier today, after we told Rossi, and before I came running to you, he… he kissed my forehead, and he called me Mrs. Reid, and I really liked it. And I didn’t think about it before, but Reid is nice, and he is good, and he is obviously really smart, and, god he’d be a great dad, and he took care of me yesterday and today… Penelope, I think I have a crush on my husband.” You gasped out, feeling the weight of your revelation as it hit you straight in the gut.

“But we talked about it and we’re getting an annulment and now it’s like I fucked up before I really got the chance to let it go anywhere, and what if it’s a mistake? What if I made the world’s greatest fuck up and married a great man in Vegas and then threw it all away a week later?” you raked your hand through your hair quickly, trying to ignore the tears forming quickly in your eyes.

“Oh my god, sweetie, it’s going to be okay… You’re going to have to trust me when I tell you that it’s going to be okay…” she patted you on the back and you let the tears fall down a bit, quickly dabbing them away with the now balled up tissue in your hand.

“I don’t know if I can, Pen…” you tried to smile up at her, but you could feel your lips wobbling and you let your head hang again before you could let out a choked sob.

“No, nonononoonono, listen to me… Okay, promise you won’t hate me after I say this?” She said, squishing your cheeks between her hands as she made you look up into her eyes.

“I pwomise,” you sniffed out, voice muffled by her strong grip. She let you go then, content that she had your attention.

“I know for a fact that the boy is as infatuated with you as you are with him because… because I saw you two.” She stopped there to watch your reaction, but you froze, so she continued.

“You… you called me from wherever you guys were out in Vegas, mumbled some words over the phone and then sent me a picture of a brochure with an address on it, and then when I turned up it was a wedding chapel and you were getting married.” She winced out those last words, and you gasped at the confession.

“You were one of the witnesses! Penelope!” You pointed an accusatory finger at her, but it was half-hearted. You knew that you were stubborn enough while sober. You certainly wouldn’t have been persuaded out of something you obviously wanted while blackout drunk.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry, but you guys were just too cute! He was giving you all these small kisses on your forehead and on your cheeks, and you looked like innocent kids giddy and high on love, and I didn’t want to bring you back down to earth. You looked so happy, and I do not make it a habit to get in the way of my friends’ happiness.”

“Penelope, why didn’t you say anything?” You groan out, sounding a bit like a petulant teenager who has just discovered her mom threw out a shirt she hadn’t worn in years.

“I wanted to, but I was told not to…” she winced away. “And before you ask, I won’t tell you who else was there! Just know it was someone else who also loves both of you and would’ve pulled you two out of there. No questions asked if they thought you were making a stupid decision!”

You let the revelations sink in, one by one. Penelope was there. Reid couldn’t keep his lips off of you. The other witness thought you two were good together. It almost didn’t surprise you when you started giggling, finding humour in the situation at least.

“Oh my god, Penelope, I got married in Vegas to my coworker. And I think I’m in love with him now.” You were in a fit of giggles now, and Penelope hesitantly joined in at first.

“Yeah, I suppose it is funny when you put it that way.”

“God, what am I going to do? How am I going to face him from now on?” You pulled yourself together again and faced Penelope again, hoping that she would have actual answers for your very rhetorical question.

“Well, at least we have a couple of days off now. You don’t have to see him again until we go to work.”

“No, we have a date tomorrow,” you said matter-of-factly. “Appointment, really, he’s reading some books on alcohol induced memory loss tonight, and then I’m going over to his place to see if any of it can help us fill in the blanks.”

“Oh god, you’re going to talk books with Reid. That’s practically as romantic as it gets for him. No wonder he wifed you up.” You playfully kicked her leg, and she laughed again. “Okay, so no avoidance, okay. Maybe you could put the moves on him? Try to recreate that scene with the handcuffs. Who knows what might happen.” She wiggled her eyebrows at you then, and you did your best not to once again be overcome by a fit of giggles.

“Okay, enough of my romantic problems. I was promised When Harry Met Sally and that ice cream has probably melted, so let’s get to it.”

–X–

You braced yourself at the apartment door as you psyched yourself up to knock. As promised, you’d been greeted in the morning by a text from Spencer with his address and a proposed time to meet. He’d suggested 5pm, and you’d agreed, but here you were 20 minutes early, probably looking overdressed and over eager to spend time with your coworker/ husband/ soon to be former husband, maybe.

You’d left Penelope’s apartment that morning, having had an impromptu sleepover, happy that you’d at least confirmed your own feelings. You’d taken a taxi to collect your car, then spent the rest of your time at home overthinking and overpreparing.

You’d put on a dress and some make-up, and you were almost regretting the decision now you were on his doorstep, wondering what he’d think. You worked one of the toughest jobs in the world together, and you knew that he’d seen you completely black and blue after going blow for blow with unsubs in the past. Would he think this sudden effort was weird? You tried not to pace, knowing that your footsteps in the hall would alert him to your presence, but you couldn’t bring yourself to knock just yet.

You checked your phone again. 4:45. You couldn’t spend another fifteen minutes out here overthinking, so you finally just pushed ahead and knocked. Almost as if he had been waiting on the other side of the door this entire time, Reid answered immediately, not even letting you get a third rap in before he was there standing in front of you.

“Hi,” you said, standing there awkwardly with your hand still up, ready to knock again.

“Hey,” he replied, smiling at you.

You felt his eyes trail down your body, taking in your appearance. The dress you’d chosen wasn’t particularly special, just a mid-length tiered dress with bow straps. The weather was getting chillier so you’d layered it over a plain turtleneck, enjoying the added bonus of not having to conceal down your neck to mask the love bites he’d lavished upon you only a few nights prior.

You looked at him as well, and you were pleasantly surprised by his casual wear. He was more dressed down than he was in the office, but not by much. He was still wearing slacks, and a button down shirt as well, but he’d thrown a beaten up CalTech sweater over the top of them, and he looked so cosy you wanted to bury your head in his chest. He was wearing his glasses, and you were so thankful for that, as you forgot how well they suited him, fitting him perfectly.

“You’re early.” He said, finally breaking the silence between the two of you, drawing you out of the trance he’d kept you in while you took in the sight of him.

“Yeah, I guess I just overestimated how long it was going to take to get here. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s great, totally fine. Come in.” He moved his body to the side slightly so you could enter the door, but kept his outer arm pressed against the door so you had to duck under it, brushing past him as you went. The small contact made your entire body buzz, your heartrate picking up as you willed yourself to act natural.

“The food should be here any minute.” He smiled as he followed you back into his apartment. “I wanted it to arrive before you got here so I could surprise you.” You turned around to face him, and you could hear the bashfulness in his voice as he made the admission.

“Sorry for ruining the surprise,” you smiled up at him. “What did you order?”

“I remembered you mentioned that Korean streetfood place a while back that does those spicy rice cakes and kimbap rolls, so I got us some of that. Is that okay?”

“Sounds perfect.” You were touched that he even remembered the conversation when you yourself couldn’t even think of when it might have happened. He turned and walked further into the apartment, and you followed him this time, finally looking around and taking it all in.

The walls were obviously lined with bookshelves, and there were books laying around in piles everywhere. The walls were painted a dark colour, which made the space feel calming, almost more intimate, and sunlight was streaming in from the open window on the back wall.

“Sorry, it’s not much. Take a seat wherever, and I’ll grab those books I was talking about.”

You took a seat on the couch and watched him trail around the room, picking up books from several shelves and stacks.

“Okay, this is all of them. So the main takeaway is that it usually takes two weeks to fully recover memories from alcohol induced blackouts.” He explained, bringing you a stack at least eight books high.

“Spencer, did you read all of these last night?” You asked.

“Yeah, I said I would, I thought it would help.”

“Spencer,” you took his hand into yours as he set the books on the floor and flopped down to the couch beside you. “I really appreciate you putting in all this effort to help us, but you could’ve just come home and relaxed, you know. Our case was long and tough, and now all of this, you deserve a break.” You stroked your thumb over the back of his hand, trying to make the gesture calm and reassuring.

“I know, I wanted to do this. I want to remember what happened between us,” he whispered the words softly, not needing to fill the space with much sound as you’d crept closer and closer together since he’d returned.

“So, uh, two weeks then, is that it, we just have to wait for the memories to return?” you asked quietly, letting go of the small moment you’d shared to get back to the task at hand.

“It seemed so, but there are some other more general tips we could implement that could help us piece together what happened. We might at least be able to figure out who our witnesses were.”

You felt almost guilty then, but you kept your mouth shut. You’d decided the night before that you wouldn’t tell Reid about Penelope. At least not yet. You wanted the time first to see if he could possibly feel the same way about you before you worked up the courage to let him in on what you had learnt.

“Yeah, I’m open to try anything. Within reason, that is.”

“Great! I was thinking at first that maybe we could do a cognitive interview, but as we only have each other to work with, I thought that might make some of our answers more biased and not garner effective results. But we could still try to jog our memories by working out some of the same emotions, doing some things we could have done that night, and seeing if any of it rings a bell?”

“Some of the things we did that night?”

“Yeah,” he repled.

“Like… like make out or get handcuffed to a bed?” You enjoyed watching the flush creep up his neck, and his eyes go wide as he struggled to backtrack on that one.

“No, no! I mean, unless you want to, or you think it would help?” It was your turn to be left speechless, your mouth suddenly not complying with your brain as you begged yourself to respond somehow. All you could muster was a glance down at his lips that lingered a bit too long, your body slowly creeping forward.

He noticed and moved closer towards you as well, letting his hand grasp your waist as you got caught in his atmosphere.

“It’s worth a try, right? To regain our memories.” He supplied you with the words, letting you stay silent as your lips grew closer and closer together, seconds away from taking your breath away forever.

A loud rap at the door and a shout of “delivery” had the two of you suddenly bouncing away from each other, Reid scrambling to the door to collect the food, while you stood up awkwardly and tried to pretend there was something really interesting on his bookshelf that had caught your attention all of a sudden.

For the Nth time in so many days, you found yourself trying to convince your heart to beat a little quieter, and you managed to get yourself under control as he returned with the food.

“I’m sorry, I lost track of time…” he trailed off as you nodded, joining him back at the couch as he began unpacking the food.

“It’s totally fine, we should eat anyways, trust me when I say this stuff doesn’t taste even half as good cold.” You smiled at him, but it didn’t go quite to your eyes. You really wanted to kiss him, and you were really doing your best to control your disappointment, not wanting to show off how desperate for him you were.

“Well, you’re in luck, because you now get to witness one of my only flaws,” he said, fishing out two sets of chopsticks from the delivery bag. “I am absolutely terrible with chopsticks.”

You giggled at him and grabbed the pair he offered you, letting out a dramatic fake gasp. “And you only tell me after we get married? That’s it, I want a divorce,” you laugh, and the two of you settle down into a comfortable silence as you begin your meal.

–X–

Two hours later, and you’re still no closer to locking lips with the man than you were earlier. You’d had a nice time talking with him over the food, both of you sitting like kids on the floor as you ate over his coffee table. He’d told you about a Korean film festival he’d attended a few years back, one of many international film festivals he’d been to, and you sat and listened, in awe of the way his eyes lit up when he talked about something that excited him. You hoped that one day, he’d talk about you in that same way.

You helped him clean up and settled back onto the couch, where he’d mentioned having a copy of one of the films that had since been subtitled, and you ended up in another movie marathon.

The movie was good, but his presence next to you was even better. He’d stretched out his arms on the couch behind you, letting you snuggle up into his side as you pulled your legs up and under you, screwing yourself up in a comfortable little ball, burrowing into him for warmth. He was a fire beside you, and you wished you were bold enough to push further into him, to drag your hands across his skin and feel even more of him, continuing the exploration from earlier. But you weren’t, and, honestly, you were tired, so you let yourself sit peacefully beside him, touching but not much, as you were lulled to sleep by the sounds of the TV.

It was pitch black outside when you finally cracked your eyes open again, but he was still there next to you on the couch. The movie had been turned off, and so had the TV, and there was a blanket now wrapped around your legs, so he had obviously moved, but he had also come back to you. You shifted your head up to look at him and smiled. He’d picked up another book from who knows what shelf and was reading slowly so as not to wake you with the movements of his hand as he traced down the page. Your head had moved from his chest to his lap, and he held the book off to the side in one hand, his other resting protectively over your waist. He was so engrossed by his book that he hadn’t even realised you’d moved and that you were awake until you spoke to him.

“Spencer? What time is it?” you asked, your voice thick with sleep.

“It’s 11:30. You fell asleep during the movie and you looked like you could use the sleep.”

“Wow, what a way to tell a girl she doesn’t look so good,” you laughed at him as he pouted down at you.

“I didn’t mean that. Y/N, you look beautiful today. You look beautiful everyday.”

You lifted yourself up from his lap, one hand braced on either side of his legs on the couch as you bought yourself eye-to-eye with him, your chests close enough to touch if you took a big breath in. Instead, yours were shallow as you looked up at him through heavy eyes.

“Thank you, Spencer.” You whispered, silently begging him to close the space between the two of you. But he didn’t, instead, clearing his throat and putting his book down, breaking your eye contact.

“I should be getting home now. It’s pretty late.” You said, standing up from the couch. He followed you up and around as you started collecting your things and organising the space you’d occupied.

“Y/N it’s late, and you’re tired. I can’t let you drive home like that. An estimated 30% of road accidents occur due to sleep deficiency, you know.”

“It’s fine, I don’t want to get a taxi and just leave my car here and then have to come back in the morning. I’ll be fine driving,” you said, but he softly took the keys out of your hands as you grabbed them from your bag.

“Stay here tonight.” He said, less of a suggestion than an already established fact. You looked up at him and knew there was no changing his mind, but he continued anyway.

“I have a spare toothbrush and some old clothes you can probably use as pajamas, and it’s not like we haven’t shared a bed before. Maybe…maybe waking up next to each other again will help jog our memories, too. We only have until the end of the week, right?”

He looked at you expectantly, and you let out a little sigh and nodded your head, letting him guide you away to the bedroom and back into sleeping in his arms.

--×--

🏷 @w-windy @multifandom-on-the-side @reidandhotchsgirl @babybluecakes @hugyourlungs @prentissesredtanktop @reidscaffeine @bethanyhaas01 @average-sunflower @academiareid @sailortongue @daddy-dotcom @anniewhalelover @abbyshmaby @isabel-ffl-xoxo @sujan39 @frxcless @bluestuesday @busy-buzzing @breadbrobin @maxinehufflepuffprincess @l0v3cam @booksandwonderlands @myescapefromthislife @ferrjulie @scoobydoopoo @aelinismyqueen @littlesingingbean @jamiemuscatosslut @xohoneybun @anchovy89freya @dysphoricsanity @ghostheartbeat @rebloggiest-reblogger @wishyoudaskme @imawhoreforu @academiacoffeelover @softservepunk @andiebeaword @r-3dlips @wakaladjarin @ratbastardchild @mcira @danika1994 @stargurl99 @whovianwholikesgirls @its-not-too-late-for-coffee @doriantomybasil @shqwqrma @shits8gigs

#spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfic #mgg #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fandom #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x oc #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fluff #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid series #that's what you get

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lurkingshan · 7 months ago

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Random QL Grievances: 2024 Edition

For every superlative there must be an equal and opposite grievance. It's just science, the universe demands balance! So let's get into the Festivus spirit and begin the airing of grievances.

Most Infuriating Implosion of a Good Show: Last Twilight

When I think about how much I loved this show for the first 3/4 and how I felt as Mhok and Day watched the sunset on the cliff at the end of episode 9... we really coulda had it all. Justice for Mhok!

Worst Failure to Set Off the Chekhov’s Gun: Dead Friend Forever

Not only did they show me a dropped axe in the penultimate episode that never got picked up and used in the finale, they also didn't let me see Non's biggest betrayers die a bloody death. I had to watch Phee kill New and then get an ambiguously happy ending. Unforgivable!

Most Egregious Blue Balling of the Audience: The On1y One

How dare they build such a beautiful, careful relationship narrative and then just... not finish it. Not only did we not get an end to the story, we didn't even get to see Tian and Wang express their feelings. I will never forgive the creators of this show for playing these games.

Side Pair that Deserved Better: Arun and Tattoo, Jack & Joker

Where is their actual romance, show? WHERE IS IT?! You have a chance to make it right in the coming special and I pray you take it.

Messiest Show Built Around a Great Character: 23.5

The show was an unholy mess, but Ongsa (as performed by Milk) was the nerdy cringefail lesbian of our dreams. She deserved better!

The WHY?! Award for Blowing a Great Show on the Dismount: Unknown

I make this exact face when I think about how close this show came to perfection, and how needless the ending stumbles were when the book version was right there as a guide. What was the reason?!

The Everyone Involved Needs a Timeout Award: Jazz for Two

How did this show get made? I need a detailed explanation of exactly what they thought they were doing with this horrific depiction of a series of abusive relationships framed as romantic.

Worst Letdown for Me Personally: Wandee Goodday

Will anyone ever make the fuck buddies to lovers BL of my dreams? It definitely hasn't happened yet. I am Plakao just making frustrated faces at everyone throughout this show.

Worst End of an Era: My Strawberry Film

What was the point of this show? What was it trying to say? I watched every single minute and I still have no clue. It gets bonus hate for ending the Drama Shower project on such a bum note.

Silliest Use of Lore: Sunset x Vibes

They teased us with past life dreams and gorgeous seascapes and Naga fantasies and all we got in the end was some ugly ass jewelry.

Noble Idiocy Hall of Shame: Blue Canvas of Youthful Days

I loved this show a lot, so you can imagine my dismay when they did a double noble idiocy + time skip ending. I am still so disappointed.

Petition to Free Ohm Pawat: Kidnap

To go from roles like Pat in Bad Buddy and Phukao in 10 Years Ticket to this... oh how the mighty hath fallen. I know my guy had some scandals but surely this was enough penance to set him free from terrible script purgatory. Right??

#bl grievances 2024 #last twilight the series #dead friend forever #the on1y one #jack and joker #23.5 the series #unknown the series #jazz for two #wandee goodday #blue canvas of youthful days #my strawberry film #sunset x vibes #kidnap the series #multi ql #shan shouts into the void #if you make your own grievance list pls tag me!

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torscrawls · 8 months ago

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Reaching for a Phantasm

This fic is based on the wonderful art of @astravis! Go check it out!

It's been a blast working on this years ecto-implosion and I was lucky to be paired with such a talented and nice artist!!

Words: 5,201 Can be read on AO3!

Valerie knew that ghosts were evil. She also knew that Danny was not. So when she saw him use ghostly powers she realized that he must not yet know that he's dead and that as long as she could keep the truth from him she wouldn't have to hunt him down. She just wished that someone had told her how hard it was to mourn someone who was still there.

----

Danny felt the back of his head collide with the wall as he slammed into the side of the school gym, hard enough to make his ears ring and for his eyesight to cut out for a split second. The building groaned with him as he pulled himself out of the hole he'd made. around him and as Danny pulled himself out of the divot he’d made he could see cracks spreading out all around him.

Vlad laughed as he lobbed another volley of ectoblasts at him and Danny dove out of the way at the last second with a curse and a burst of energy he didn’t really have. The blasts slammed into the building, sending cracks racing across the whole front.

As Danny ducked around the shots he hung onto his transformation by the skin of his teeth, thankful that their drawn-out and violent fight had at least cleared out all possible spectators. Less people to see him if—strike that, considering his luck it was only a question of when—he lost control of his transformation.

“Why do you always have to stick your nose in my business?!” Vlad growled with a couple more shots to emphasize his point.

“That’s rich coming from you, you fruitloop!” Danny said as he attempted to eke out a bit of ghostly power to raise a shield, only able to produce a faint flicker of green in the air before one of the blasts slammed through it and grazed his left thigh. “Fuck!” Danny swore at both the pain and the realization that his battery really was empty. He needed to get away. “Just—Can you stop trying to mess with people for a damned minute?!”

“There’s nothing you can do to stop me,” Vlad laughed. “I’m going to get the support of the Residents' Association and get them to ban you Fentons from all the town’s stores!”

Danny gritted his teeth, tired of Vlad making his life harder at every turn. “It’s not real support if you force them through possession!” He threw a desperate ectoblast back at Vlad, cursing the fact that he’d been up since before dawn fighting ghost after ghost for days by this point.

Which was most likely all Vlad's fault too.

“You’re too young to get involved in politics, little badger!” Vlad snarled and hurled electricity right at him. Danny yelped and dove out of the way a split second too late. The shot clipped him in the shoulder, sending him spinning to the ground as his transformation suddenly slipped from his grip.

He came crashing down as a human, striking the ground hard and thanking his increased durability.

Vlad landed in front of him as Danny struggled to his feet, raising his fists, and praying that he wouldn't have to actually fight.

“I will teach you to learn to respect your betters, boy,” Vlad said with a grin as ectoplasm pooled in his hands, he raised them up and—

And was suddenly slammed to the side by the bottom of a hoverboard connecting with his face.

Danny flinched backwards as Valerie screamed, “Get away from him you disgusting ghost!”

And he'd never been happier to have her barge into his fight with guns drawn. Maybe because they weren't aimed at him.

Valerie immediately went for Vlad with a vicious series of shots aimed right at his core, forcing him to weave and dodge. A few of the shots went wide and slammed into the side of the gym, causing the whole building to groan and start to tilt dangerously.

“Va—Red Huntress!” Danny called, trying to get her attention, “Be careful where you aim, the gym is about to—”

He didn’t get the warning out in time.

Vlad laughed as he fired off an ectoblast big enough to throw Valerie backwards with the shear force of it. Right into the side of the gym.

She slammed into the side of the building and Danny watched in horror as the cracks spread and grew, widening into holes before the whole building gave one last groan and then promptly toppled over with a deafening crash.

Right on top of Valerie.

Danny caught a split second glimpse of her helmet staring up at the approaching building before it touched down and he instinctively raised his hands to protect his face from the explosion of dust that blew out from the collapse.

“No!” He screamed as he immediately ran to the rubble, scanning desperately for any sign of her. There was none.

Please let her suit keep her safe.

Vlad snorted and Danny glared up at him with a snarl. Vlad only raised his hands and gave a pointed look at the collapsed building. “Well, have fun with that. I’ll get back to my scheduled possessions.” And then he took off, laughing.

If Danny let him go now then Vlad would turn more of the town against him, would make his life even harder.

But. Val.

Val was under the rubble. She was most likely hurt, especially considering the fact that she hadn’t burst out of the wreckage with her guns blazing, and he couldn’t just leave her.

So Danny turned his full attention back to the mess of rubble in front of him, subconsciously reaching out with his ghost sense and there—

A sense of ghostliness, a tickling at the edge of his awareness. It wasn’t his own exhausted ectoplasm he was feeling, this was subtler, more repressed. Controlled. Molded.

He’d felt this before, tasted it at the back of his tongue every time he talked to Valerie ever since she became the Red Huntress. Which meant that it had to be her suit!

With new hope he reached for his core, desperately grasping that cool sensation and wrapping it around himself to turn into a stronger, more useful, version of himself and—

Nothing happened.

He was too tired, too empty. Even without changing form he might be able to dig her out; he still had some of his abilities as a human, but it would take a long time. Too long.

That left him with intangibility. With it he could probably reach her much faster, but she would see him. She would know.

It didn’t matter.

Danny bit down on the panic blooming in his chest and resolutely pressed it back down. He couldn't afford it right now. Valerie's life was more important than his secrets. He would deal with the fall out afterwards. He always did.

Danny turned himself intangible, took a deep breath, and reached out.

——

Valerie was crushed by the rubble all around her. She tried to pull in a breath, gritting her teeth as her rib cage protested the action. If she didn’t have her suit on she was sure that she would have been dead by now.

She had lost the grip on her gun in the chaos and there was no way she could reach the one strapped to her belt to try and blast her way out. Still, she needed to get out. She couldn’t leave that ghost alone with Danny, she needed to save him.

But she couldn’t move, couldn’t even pull in enough air to curse. This realization made her chest tighten further. What if she wasn’t able to pull herself out of this? What if she was stuck down here in the dark until her air ran out?

Just as the panic started to set in, suddenly, there was a hand on her arm and just as suddenly she could breathe again. The rubble didn’t crush her any more and she was floating as if in a safe bubble. As if separate from the world.

Then she was pulled up, up, up and out.

Daylight reached her and she blinked dazed eyes as she tried to focus. And she looked up at the person who had saved her; looked up at Danny right through their clasped hands.

She stared at Danny's worried face through her own hand for a long moment, uncomprehending. Her first thought was what happened to Plasmius? Her second was oh, I’m dead, aren’t I?

But then she paused. No, that wasn’t right. She had been stuck under that rubble and it hadn't been until Danny had grabbed her that she had turned intangible. He had done it to her.

Which meant that he was—That Danny was—

“Valerie?” He asked with worry clear on his face. His face that looked so familiar; no anger or malice or evil in sight. Just... Danny. Danny who was—

“Danny?” She asked carefully, voice rough and shaking as she sat up on the dusty ground, not trusting her legs to carry her if she attempted to stand.

“Yes?” The worried frown didn’t leave his face as he let go of her arm, giving her some space. “Are you okay?”

“I'm—Yeah. I'm good. Are you—?” She stopped herself. Of course he wasn't. He was de—

But he acted just like normal.

It wasn’t fair. He should be angry and violent and give her a reason to feel like her world was crashing down around her, joining the school gym in a heap on the ground. He wasn’t supposed to look at her with worry and kindness after helping her up. After saving her.

So how could he possibly be a ghost? Had he died just now? Because she had made a split-second mistake and gotten taken out of the fight? Because she hadn’t been fast enough to save him?

She might be out of the rubble, but she still felt crushed.

At least he wasn't fighting and destroying things. Yet. Maybe he hadn't been dead long enough for him to be corrupted? Did she still have to hunt him? She had to, right? He was a ghost. But had he done anything to deserve it?

…Did it matter? He was a ghost. And that should be all there was to it.

She found that it wasn’t.

“Valerie?” Danny asked and his open expression conveyed only worry, a hand outstretched as if to support her. As if he didn’t even know that he’d just—

Wait… Did Danny even know?

Valerie felt cold wash through her at the realization that he probably didn’t. Which meant that she had to be the one to tell him. Or wait, maybe she shouldn’t; if he didn’t know then maybe he didn't have to turn evil. Maybe she wouldn’t have to hunt him down.

“What happened?” The question was out of her mouth before she could stop it, an instinctual demand for answers and an explanation for what was in front of her.

Danny pulled his hand back with a suddenly guarded expression on his face, fear creeping into his eyes. “What do you mean?”

He knew. He had to know. He had to.

Her silence made his worried frown reappear and he crouched down in front of her. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Stop that!” She was surprised by the anger in her own voice as she pushed him away, but she hated the fact that he acted like normal.

“Val?” His eyes were wide and full of hurt and she hated it. “What’s going on?”

Wait. How did he know her name? She was in her suit, he shouldn’t know—

Her hand went to her face and immediately found the big hole in her helmet. So that’s how he’d seen her face. But. He hadn’t seemed surprised. Which meant that he had already known.

Secrets. Lies. He had lied to her. He had manipulated her. Just like a ghost. And now he was pretending to help her, pretending to be her friend, pretending to be Danny!

She felt hot anger rise in her chest and fuel the blazing hate as she pulled out her gun and trained it between his wide eyes. “Don’t move.”

Danny drew back, stumbling on the same plank from which he had pulled her up from underneath. As if he was a normal human. As if he could feel surprise.

Then he stammered out, “I’m not—I’m Danny! I—I would never hurt you!”

She knew that he was Danny. That was the whole problem!

She kept her gun trained on him and tried to keep her hands from shaking. She didn’t feel any of the usual satisfaction that came from staring down a ghost through the barrel of her gun. “Don’t—” She swallowed heavily and tried again, “Don’t move.”

He didn’t. He just cowered in front of her, hands up to protect his face and his wide, wide eyes full of fear fixed on her. As if she was the danger here. As if she was the monster.

She felt like one.

Besides, if she was responsible for his death then she was also responsible for the creation of an evil ghost. Didn’t that make her just as bad?

The ghost sounded exactly like Danny as he—it said, “Valerie?”

Her hand twitched on the gun as she tried desperately to think. Maybe he really wasn’t aware that he’d died. Could he still be evil? Could she hunt him down for sins he hadn’t committed yet?

She couldn’t keep this from him. She couldn’t. It would kill her too.

But this was Danny.

She looked at his wide eyes and imagined his reaction to her telling him that he was dead. It would be like killing him all over again. She couldn’t do it.

It might kill her not to say anything, but she had to stay strong. She would keep it from him for as long as possible. She would make sure he didn’t realize he was dead, keeping her eyes on him to make sure he didn’t start acting like a ghost, make sure he didn’t hurt anyone, and when he inevitably did she would—

She would put him down.

Danny kept his gaze fixed on her as he asked in a small voice, “…Val?” He looked up at her with his blue eyes, and she—

She lowered her gun. And she hated him so much at that moment that it burned in her chest.

As she holstered the weapon she tried to play her actions off with an angry, “Don’t tell anyone. About me.” Maybe he would believe that her threats had been in response to him finding out about her secret identity. She had to make sure he didn't find out the truth.

Relief flashed across his face. As if he had been scared she would say something else. She told herself again that he didn't know. “Yeah, of course I won’t.” He gave her a shaky smile and a tremulous laugh. “You have no idea how badly I’ve wanted to tell you, both that I knew, and that—Well, you know.”

“That’s… great,�� Val managed, the words stiff on her tongue. She found that him knowing her secret identity didn't matter that much anymore. She also found that it was harder to talk to him than she had thought, to act like normal when everything had changed. “I just. I have to go home.”

Home. Would he be safe to go home? The whole town knew about his parents’ obsession with hunting ghosts and he would be going into that situation blind. She focused her suit's remaining sensors and let out a breath of relief as she noted that he didn’t show up as a ghost. It was probably a side-effect of just being created and still being weak, but she would take it. It would mean that he was safe for the time being.

He gave an easy laugh. “Right! Your dad must be worried.”

Valerie barely held back a flinch at the ghost mentioning her dad. He wasn’t threatening him, she reminded herself. He didn’t even know that he was dead.

But that didn’t mean that she wanted her dad anywhere near him.

Danny, oblivious to her whirling thoughts, waved as he turned away. “See you tomorrow!”

In school. As if nothing had changed.

Val gritted her teeth and flew off, not able to make herself respond. She felt like the crushing pressure hadn't lifted off her at all, despite being out of the rubble.

——

In school she watched Sam and Tucker hang around Danny with a knot in her stomach. No one in their tight-knit little group acted out of the ordinary. She took in Danny’s smile as he got punched in the shoulder by Tucker and reeled. Did Danny really die only for no one to notice? Not even his closest friends? Not even him?

Val watched and watched and came to the conclusion that they hadn’t. They all acted exactly like normal. Which meant that the knowledge of his death was only her burden to bear. So she squared her shoulders and went on with her day. She could do this.

It was her fault that he had ended up like this in the first place and she would—She would carry this for them all. As long as no one realized then it was fine, right? It was like nothing happened.

The only real difference was the glances that Danny kept sneaking her whenever he thought she wasn’t looking. She guessed it was because of what had happened the day before; even if he wasn't aware of the fact that he'd died it must have been traumatic for someone not used to it to get attacked by a ghost.

She could do this, she repeated as she watched him drop a ball in gym class. No, not dropped. It slipped through his hand.

He looked around with wide eyes as if to see why that had happened.

And since she couldn’t let him realize the truth, she stepped in. “I heard Skulker messed with the gym storage last week. A lot of the equipment has been weird ever since.”

Her voice came out slightly shaky and she swallowed the lump in her throat when Danny stared at her with fear for a split second before he gave her a small smile full of relief. “Thanks for the heads up. Haha, I thought I had just gotten even clumsier.”

And then he went back to what he'd been doing, as if nothing had happened, leaving Valerie to get herself back under control.

It was hard to talk to him, knowing that he was dead and not being able to say anything. She felt like she missed him which was ridiculous because he was right there. As if nothing had happened.

Really, she couldn’t understand how no one else hadn’t noticed, not even his closest friends. Not even himself. She thanked the gods that he was so oblivious.

But that didn’t mean that no one would. She checked her scanner between classes and let out a breath of relief every time she confirmed that he still didn’t show up on it. Combined with him acting normally, it probably meant that he was still safe at home if nothing else.

But acting like normal wasn't foolproof. In English class when Mr Lancer handed out worksheets, he must have touched Danny while handing him his papers because he flinched back with a startled, “Wuthering Heights Mr Fenton! Your hands are ice-cold!”

Danny looked startled, as if he hadn’t noticed anything strange about his hands. And of course he hadn’t, the dead didn’t feel warmth.

Val, from her seat next to Danny, leaned over and said, as casually as she could manage, “You always had such bad circulation Danny. Maybe you should try wearing gloves?”

Danny gave her a grateful look. “Thanks. I’ll… Maybe I will.”

During the rest of the class he kept sneaking glances at her and Valerie felt herself tense up more and more as time went on. Every time she looked at him he sent her a conspiratorial smile and turned back to his worksheet. He was trying to spy on her, to suss her out, her mind screamed.

But after class he just gave her a small nod and left. Leaving her to watch after him. And she watched. And watched.

Valerie watched him laugh with his friends, knowing he was dead. She watched him eat lunch, knowing he was dead. She watched him get bullied by Dash, knowing he was dead. She watched him live his life, knowing he was dead. He was dead.

He was dead. And only she knew.

Did it count as him dying if she was the only one that knew? Since he had only died in her eyes then maybe a part of him was still alive somewhat. She didn't know. She hoped so. It was driving her crazy.

She found that it was really hard to mourn someone by herself. Someone who was still around. Someone who was standing right in front of her, laughing and living his life.

And everyone acted as if nothing had happened.

And then the day was over.

Val went home as if in a trance.

She didn’t go out as Red Huntress that night.

——

The next day was the same.

And the day after that.

As time moved on she found herself dreading the day he finally realized that he'd died and she had to put him down. She tried to convince herself that she looked forward to it instead; that she would be rid of this empty feeling in her chest. Be rid of the dread and horror she felt every time she looked at him.

Despite this, she watched him more than ever. But she still could barely bring herself to talk to him and instead she started checking her scanner every chance she got.

A majority of the time he didn't show up, not registering as anything ghostly, but the issue was that sometimes he did.

The first time it happened Valerie's breath caught in her throat and she'd grabbed her gun before making the conscious decision to do so.

It was confirmation. It was damnation. Part of her had hoped that she'd been mistaken after the rubble; confused and dazed and seeing things. But he was dead. He was dead and he just hadn’t moved on. But that didn’t mean that she couldn’t. It was just hard to do when you were watching him attending school everyday as if nothing had happened.

But then the dot on the scanner had gone away. And then it came back.

He seemed to flip between showing up and not on a regular basis, with him being detectable often coinciding with a ghost attack or similar.

Danny would straighten up from being half-asleep in class, or stop in the middle of a sentence and then excuse himself from the room.

Valerie had never figured out where he went or why but he always showed back up not long after, often injured and trying to hide it. Her best guess was that he got hunted by people or that ghosts attacked him.

At least no one ever complained that Danny had attacked them, so she felt safe to assume he hadn’t turned evil yet and she was determined to keep it that way.

But maybe that was just wishful thinking; she was desperately trying to come up with reasons why she wouldn't have to hunt Danny down.

Once, he showed up on the scanner and for once she managed to follow him out of the classroom and all the way to an empty classroom. Only to find him talking to a ghost.

The ghost in question was a black and white kid and Danny sat on a chair while the kid floated at his side, both of them engrossed in what seemed to be a deep conversation. Danny didn’t give any indication of caring about the fact that his conversation partner was dead. Did that mean that he'd realized what he was? But. Neither of them attacked anyone. They just talked.

Valerie stood still just outside the classroom, peeking inside through the slightly cracked door and felt her anger rise. Because here Danny was, a ghost, conniving with another ghost right under her nose, even though he knew who she was, knew that she went to this school.

And they were just talking. And that was the worst part, because under the anger and the guilt and the pain, there was fear. Fear that she'd been wrong about ghosts this entire time.

But that was impossible.

She hurried away from the classroom and didn't know if she was angry or worried or sad anymore, she only knew that she needed to get away from there.

Before the next class started, Danny came back and sat down in his seat to talk to his friends. No ghost attack happened that day.

Valerie started putting even more effort into avoiding Danny than she had before.

Sadly, she couldn’t avoid him forever and he caught her after their last class a few days later. Before she could shoulder her way past him and out the door he said softly, “Val. I just wanted to say… Thank you. For looking out for me. It—It means a lot.”

She glowered as she balled her fists at her sides. “Don’t thank me.”

“I mean it, I really—”

“Don’t,” she cut him off before she skirted past him, making sure not to touch.

She couldn’t handle him thanking her for something she hadn’t done. She hadn’t looked out for him, that’s why he had died in the first place.

She was shaking for the rest of the day. But the conversation made her realize that she had to tell him the truth. Both for her own sake and for his.

If he'd started showing up on scanners then it was only a matter of time before his parents figured him out. And after that it wouldn't be long until he figured out that something was wrong—if his parents didn't simply do what she hadn't been able to and put him down without hesitation. And that was. Hm. She found that she didn't like the thought of that.

Not that she was worried for him or anything like that. Of course not.

But regardless of why, she realized that she couldn’t do this any longer. She couldn’t pretend that nothing had happened. Which left her with the problem of how to tell someone that they were dead.

The first step was easy; after a few days of gathering courage she asked him to meet her after school, and of course he said yes. He was Danny.

They filed into an empty classroom, the same one she had seen Danny talking to a ghost in, and she took a deep breath before deciding that there was no easy way of doing this. She would just have to go for it. So she squared her shoulders and said, “Danny, I’m— I’m so sorry.”

That stopped him short. He tilted his head at her. “What for?”

“You—you’re dead,” she managed, teeth gritted and hands in tight fists.

He blinked at her. “I… know?”

He didn’t seem surprised.

Valerie scowled. “You know?!” Valerie tried to keep her voice down, failing as she continued, “Since when?!”

She had been so scared, so alone. And he had known?!

And if he'd known, then why hadn't he moved on? Could he be that scared of ghost hunters? His own parents?

She had lived in fear of ghosts for so long, it was strange to think of a ghost hiding out of fear for her, for humans.

She also knew how hard it had been for her to accept that he was dead, she couldn’t imagine what it would be like for him.

He frowned with clear confusion. “Since it happened? I thought you knew? Or what was up with the last few days?”

“But—” She cut herself off, reeling. “But you didn’t react. You didn’t seem to notice.”

“What?”

“Plasmius,” she tried to clarify with a reeling mind. “The rubble.”

He frowned in what appeared to be confusion for a second before his eyes widened in realization. “Ah. So you saw that.”

Him making her intangible, she guessed.

“Yeah. And you— Danny, you died.”

Then he shook his head with a small, sad, smile. “Oh. Oh, no. That wasn’t when— It happened a long time ago.”

Valerie blinked.

So maybe. Maybe he had been dead for a while. Maybe she hadn’t been the one to kill him. She thought that should make her feel better. It didn’t.

Because the immediate question that popped into her head was; how long had he been pretending to get this good at it? How long had he been dead?

Which, of course, led to; how had he been able to hang around her? Date her? Had he ever even liked her?

He knew how she felt about ghosts. But then again, she also knew what his parents thought about ghosts.

“You haven’t shot me,” he observed and she hated the calm acceptance he said it with.

“Not yet.”

But that seemed to be enough for him as Danny slumped in relief. For some reason, he smiled. “You have no idea how nice it's been to have someone else knowing the truth. Thanks again for all the help, it means a lot.”

Before she could protest his thanks for the second time, he continued with a much more serious expression, “I just—I'm sorry. I never meant to mess things up for you.”

He never had. Even though he’d been dead for a long time he had never let that affect anyone else as far as she could tell. ��I know.”

“And, please, don’t tell—”

Who would she tell? The school? No one would believe her. His parents the ghost hunters? They would capture him or attack him immediately.

But wasn’t that what she wanted? He was a ghost, after all.

“…Val?”

“I won’t.”

He relaxed. “Thank you. And I—I’m sorry you found out this way. I didn’t want to keep it from you, but—Well…”

She knew why he hadn’t told her he was a ghost; she hadn’t kept her hatred of ghosts a secret. And still, he had hung around her. And a part of her still screamed that it had been to find out her weaknesses, to try and hurt her.

No, she chided herself, she knew better. He had tried to hide for his own safety and to spare her feelings.

Cause now she had found out and he wasn’t attacking her, wasn’t threatening her, was even asking for her forgiveness despite everything she had done wrong. All he was doing was talking to her like a person. Like Danny. Because that was all he’d ever been.

“It—It’s fine,” she found herself saying and found that for the first time since the rubble she could breathe again.

She reached out and laid a hand on his arm, gripping tight when she could feel him solid beneath her palm and neither of them turned invisible. He looked up in surprise but didn't shake her off. And this time it was Valerie who dragged him forward, into the crushing embrace of her arms.

Danny was dead, but he was still here.

And nothing truly had happened.

#danny phantom #dp #danny phantom fic #dp fanfic #ectoimplosion2024 #I hope you enjoyed!#Danny: Wow I’m so happy Val accepts me #Val: Fuck fuck fuck fuck I killed him he’s a ghost he’s a disgusting ghost and it’s my fault #Val: I have to keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn’t realize what a horrible creature he is #Danny: So accepting :)

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