#not high enough to make me give them money but its not beyond reasonable doubt lol | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

kinglazrus · 3 years

Text

Double Date

Phic Phight

Submitted by @ghostgothgeek: Danny/Sam and Johnny/Kitty double date

Summary: All Danny wanted was some dating advice from the only couple he knows, but of course he got more than he bargained for. At least going to the boardwalk sounds like a nice first date, right?

Word count: 9464 | links to ffn and ao3 in my bio

Danny stares at the tickets in Johnny's outstretched hand. He looks up at Johnny's slanted grin, then back down again. On the other side of the roof, Shadow lurks in the shade of the Ops-centre, drifting dangerously close to the supports.

"When I asked for dating advice, this isn't what I meant," Danny says. He thought Johnny dragged him up to the roof of Fenton Works for some "man to man" talk, not... whatever this is.

Johnny shrugs and stuffs the tickets into his jacket pocket. "Maybe so, but it's what you're getting! You want to treat your girl right? What better way to learn than watching the best boyfriend you know in action?"

"Johnny, I've seen you in action. Downtown. Driving around the community college and looking at all the girls while Kitty is off doing whatever," Danny says.

"Is that really such a big deal? Come on, kid. Listen to me." Johnny throws his arm around Danny's shoulder and drags him toward the edge of the rooftop. "Look how big this place is." He sweeps out his arm, gesturing toward the city. The sun is nearly set, but lots of people are still out at this hour. A warm haze of light glitters on the northern edge of the city, at the beachfront. Danny can almost see the top curve of the Ferris wheel from here.

Johnny continues. "Lots of people down there. Who knows who you actually saw doing what? I bet there are loads of blond guys with bikes around here. And I've got two tickets to the pier that says so."

Danny turns away from the glowing city to stare incredulously at Johnny. "You're using a double date with you and Kitty to bribe me into not telling her I caught you ogling college girls?"

"You said it, not me."

"Did you steal those tickets?"

"Kid, I know you're the goody-two-shoes type. I bought them fair and square with money right of pocket."

Danny snorts. "Whose pocket?"

"I don't think that matters. Come on, it'll be fun. I don't give advice for free, you know." Johnny squeezes Danny's shoulder, a little too hard for what's meant to be a casual chat. The desperate sheen in Johnny's eye kind of ruins the threat, though.

As Danny considers the offer, a shiver goes up his spine. His next breath leaves in a puff of pale blue air. With a sigh, he goes intangible and extracts himself from Johnny's hold, smiling a little when the older ghost stumbles at the sudden loss of Danny's support. Looking over the rooftops, he can't see another ghost, but they can't be far if they set off his ghost sense. He hopes with all his heart that they might be here for a friendly chat, like Johnny, but doubts it. Danny isn't lucky enough for that.

"Okay. I'll go," he says.

"And?" Johnny's grin stretches as he gestures for Danny to go on.

Danny tips his head back and sighs. He doesn't have time for this. "And I guess I didn't see you at the college last week."

"Great!" Johnny gives Danny a hearty slap on the back and climbs back onto his motorcycle. "You're not so bad, kid. When you're not kicking my ass. Just stick with Kitty and me on the day and I'll show the ropes." He kicks up the stand on his motorcycle and revs the engine. "Oh, and before I forget. If this date doesn't go perfectly, then... Shadow!"

The murky ghost rises from beneath the Ops-centre.

"Wait, don't!" Danny shouts, too late, as Shadow zips across the roof, cutting through as many of the Ops-Centre's supports as he can before melting into the darkness. Johnny takes off cackling as the whole thing comes crashing down.

—

The next morning, Danny keeps his head low, his gaze locked on the bowl of soggy cereal in front of him. Across the kitchen, his father stops to slap the counter.

"Didn't even hear a thing! Can you believe that?" Jack asks.

"Crazy."

"Must have happened while we were sleeping."

"Must have."

"When I find the ghost that did it, they're gonna get a face full of Fenton grade vengeance! You know what happens when a ghost looks in a mirror, Danno? Makes 'em go crazy. We're working on this new gun that makes them see—"

"Look at that, time for school!" Danny shoots to his feet. He can't meet his father's gaze as he dumps his cereal bowl—still half full—into the sink and scurries out of the kitchen.

"Have fun!" Jack calls after him.

"Yeah, sure, I will!" Danny shouts back. Under his breath, he adds, "as long as I never have to see that gun." He grabs his backpack as he leaves, snagging the strap and swinging it over his shoulder on his way out the door. Once he is outside, and there's a solid barrier between him, his ticked-off father, and whatever ghost-fighting monstrosity his parents have made now, he stops to take a deep breath.

There are still a few minutes before Tucker should arrive for their walk to school, but Jack does not know that. Danny did not want to sit there and listen to his own father talk about all the ways he could make Danny double-dead, much less re-experience his first death. In fact, he usually tries to avoid people like that. Unfortunately, that does not always work when he lives with two of them.

Danny shakes his head. He can think about those things later. Right now, his conversation with Johnny is the only thing he cares about. Only time will tell if he made a huge mistake agreeing to the double date, but it would be nice if at least one thing could go right for Danny for once.

Inside the house, something slams, followed by a shout from Jack that rattles the window. Danny jumps away from the door and nearly tumbles down the stoop, his front foot slipping off the top step. He latches onto the bannister to keep from falling back, and his foot thumps against the next step. The landing jars his leg as his knee locks, a jolt shooting up his thigh.

"Whoa, it's freshman Danny." Tucker's voice drifts through Danny's ears.

Danny turns, rubbing his now aching knee, and scowls. "What?"

"You know. Freshman Danny." Grinning wide and smug, Tucker motions to Danny's entire person first, then his leg. "Clumsy as hell and too chicken to ask Sam out."

"Shut up! Am not."

"Are too."

"Am not!"

"Are too!" Tucker waves his hand in an airy gesture of finality, turning up his nose. He spins away from Danny, a signal that their little squabble is over. His mistake.

With a final cry of "Am not!" Danny launches himself at Tucker, pouncing on his back. Tucker shrieks in surprise, a peal of laughter echoing off his cry, and stumbles under the new weight. He tries to beat Danny off with the flat of his palm. In response, Danny clings tighter. He wraps his legs around Tucker's waist and hooks his arms over his shoulders, latching on to his wrists to keep a firm grip.

"Holy shit. You're so short, why are you so heavy." Tucker wheezes as he tries to pry Danny's arms off.

Danny throws his head over Tucker's shoulders, shifting his weight forward enough that Tucker bows underneath him. "Ghost fighting muscles, baby."

"Ugh." Tucker's palm finds Danny's chin and he pushes, shoving his head back. "You totally could have asked Sam out for homecoming but nooo, you had to go with me as a hot young bachelor."

Danny's cheeks burned. "It was your idea!"

"Only because you were getting all pouty about not going with Sam, and the only reason that didn’t happen is because you never asked!"

"Well, I'm asking today!"

Tucker freezes. For a second, Danny wonders how ridiculous they must look to anyone watching, with him clinging to Tucker worse than Klemper to literally anyone, and Tucker stretching back to push Danny's head as far back as it will go. Actually, maybe they wouldn't find it so strange. Danny's neighbours have seen a lot of weird things in the past four years; him and Tucker being their usual selves can't be high up on that list.

"You're really gonna ask today, finally?" Tucker asks.

Danny nods, as much as he can Tucker still shoving his head back. "Johnny was here last night."

"Oh yeah?" Tucker pauses, giving Danny a chance to elaborate. He doesn't, waiting for the gears to click in Tucker's head instead. It takes a moment, but he gets there. "Oh! Oh, right, yeah. He finally got back to you? Is that why, uh... you know." Tucker finally withdraws his hands and points to the roof of Fenton Works.

"Oh. Yeah." Danny's limbs go intangible, slipping through Tucker's torso in one final act of petty vengeance as Danny rights himself. Tucker shivers, shooting Danny a glare, before looking back at the Ops-Centre. Normally a pinnacle of Fenton genius that stands proudly above their home, now it lays on its side. Danny managed to catch it, barely, before it could crash into the roof, but overnight the saucer-like body crushed itself under its own weight. Now, the side touching the roof is a crumpled mess, the supports that once held it up rusted beyond repair.

"Shadow," Danny says. It's all he needs to say. Tucker nods, understanding perfectly what happened here. "Other than that it went... okay. He asked me out."

"What?!" Tucker's head whips toward Danny, his eyes wide. "I hope nobody tells Kitty. But he does give off bi energy, doesn't he?"

Danny rolls his eyes. "Not like that. He invited me and Sam on a double date with him and Kitty."

"Oh, so they're swingers."

"Tucker!"

Tucker snickers. "Okay, okay. I'm serious now. Promise." The cat-like grin he gives isn't the most reassuring, but Danny will take what he can get. "You're really gonna ask her out today?"

"Got carnival tickets and everything."

"Well, shit, man. Don't blow it."

Danny grabs Tucker's beanie and yanks it down over his face. Tucker's teasing laughter chases Danny all the way to school.

—

At lunch, Danny pulls Sam aside. He meets her at her locker, which is two halls away from his and Tucker's, waiting along the opposite wall for her to finish switching out her books for her lunch bag. The hall is still fairly crowded since it's only been a minute since the lunch bell went. Down the way, Danny can see Paulina and Elliot, standing with their heads tucked together by Paulina's locker, working on the local rumour mill no doubt. When Sam looks done digging through her bag, and Danny pushes off the wall toward her, Elliot happens to glance in their direction. His sharp eyes go from Danny to Sam, then back. A wicked smile takes over his face.

Danny ducks his head, letting his hair flop forward and hide his slowly reddening cheeks. In two quick strides, he crosses the hall and thumps against the closed lockers beside Sam's.

"Done lurking?" Sam asks without looking up.

"I wasn't lurking."

"Sure you weren't." Sam knocks her elbow against her locker door. Danny's eyes catch the small, black-framed mirror taped to the inside, which reflects the exact spot Danny was standing when it hits the right angle.

At this rate, Danny's face will be red as his shoes. "Oh."

"Yeah, oh. What's up?" She finally looks up from her bag as she yanks the zipper closed. When she turns toward him, she hits her locker door with her elbow once again, this time to knock it closed; but, as the door swings, Danny glimpses Paulina and Elliot again. This time, they are both watching, and the way they cover their mouths as they talk is far from reassuring.

Danny's hand jerks out. He stops Sam's locker, shoving it back open, and holds it in place to block the gossiping duo's view.

"I wanted to ask you something," Danny says.

Sam shoots a raised eyebrow at her locker door, then turns it on him "Are you okay? You've been acting kind of weird all day."

"No, yeah, I'm fine. I was just– you know. This weekend, yeah?"

Sam looks entirely unimpressed with his fumbled words. "I can't say that I do."

"I have tickets to the boardwalk," Danny clarifies. "For this weekend. We don't have anything planned and I know you're free. So, want to go?"

As he waits for Sam's answer, he is struck by the realization that she could say no. They have been friends for years, and he has had an inkling, the past little while, that she might like him back. But he doesn't know it. No matter what Danny feels for her—and thinking about his own feelings makes his face hot and his heart stutter—she still might not feel the same. She could say no. And it's not that Danny hasn't thought about this before; there's a reason he is only asking her out senior year even though he has had a crush on her since they were freshman. But worrying about it in the back of his mind is very different from standing in front of her knowing it could actually happen.

This was such a bad idea. He is asking her out in the hallway. Within sight of Paulina and Elliot. He should have waited until after school, at least. Oh, god. Should he have gotten her something? Are you supposed to bring something when you ask someone out? Oh, this is so bad. She is going to say no, and then Danny will have to tell the story to Tucker, and Tucker will laugh because of course she said no, this is terrible.

"Sure, sounds fun," Sam says.

Danny blinks. He shakes his head, goes over her words in his head to make sure he heard it right, then blinks again. "Yes?"

"Absolutely. It's been so long since we've gone to the boardwalk. Maybe Tucker can win that stuffed shark he couldn't get last time." Sam nudges Danny's hand off her locker door and closes it, then snaps her padlock back into place.

Danny watches her blankly, slowly processing what she just said. "Tucker," he says.

"Yeah. At the ring toss booth, remember? I think he wasted fifty bucks on that thing. I told him it was a scam, but whatever." Sam starts down the hall toward the cafeteria, but Danny stays rooted in place.

He remembers the ring toss, of course. After Tucker finished emptying his wallet on the booth, Danny took a turn and got the top prize in one go. He might have had a little telekinesis to help him along, but no one else needed to know that; the giant stuffed alien was worth it. But that had nothing to do with this, right?

Before his thoughts can spiral too far, Danny shakes his head. "I meant without Tucker."

Sam pauses mid-step. Slowly, she sets her foot down and turns back around to face Danny. Her grip on her backpack tightens, and he can see the muscle along her jaw working as she clenches her teeth. Those are... probably not good signs. "Like, just you and me?"

In the background, Danny hears Paulina and Elliot snicker. He groans, dragging a hand down his face, and glares over Sam's shoulder at them. "Can you not?"

"Not our fault you're doing this in the middle of the hall," Paulina says.

"Seriously. I had way better class," Elliot adds.

Paulina looks at Elliot and beams. "You so did. But I've been rooting for this since the beginning, and I am so invested right now."

"Oh my God, this is so embarrassing." Danny has to fight off the urge to go intangible. He almost wishes his ghost sense would go off so that he could have an excuse to leave. This is not how he imagined this going, and Paulina and Elliot are making it so much worse than it has to be.

"Come on, Danny." Sam's voice snaps him out of his pity party. At some point, while he was wallowing, she walked back toward him and now has her hand on his wrist. She tugs him forward. He gives in, letting her drag him along the hall past the tittering pair until they disappear around the corner. Once they are out of sight, Sam's hand slips down into Danny's. It's warm. She squeezes his hand, just once, then tugs him into the nearest empty classroom and closes the door.

Neither of them says anything for a long moment.

Danny's hands flex at his sides as he tries not to fidget. Sam won't pull her gaze up from the floor.

"So, uh. Just you and me?" she repeats.

Danny nods vigorously, then stops and shakes it instead. "Yeah, but no. Johnny and Kitty will be there."

Sam's head snaps up.

The first thing Danny notices is the red tinge to her face, a rosy band stretching across her cheeks and nose. Her lips pinch together, not in a show of disapproval, but an expression of hers that he has become familiar with over the years. Sam doesn't usually do hopeful most of the time. Nerves aren't her thing either. But when she wants something bad enough, and she dares to look on the brighter side, she gets this look on her face. It's like she wants to smile but she holds herself back, sucking on her lips as she tries to keep composed.

That expression wavers now, her mouth relaxing as a frown tugs at her lips instead. "Now I'm confused. Are you trying to ask me out or not?"

"Yes!" Danny bursts out. "To the boardwalk with me. But it's, like, a double date with Johnny and Kitty, because he got the tickets. Actually bought them, although I'm pretty sure he stole the money." He considers telling Sam about the deal but holds back. "I really thought this was gonna go better but now I kind of want to punch Elliot in the face or something."

"Please don't punch my ex-boyfriend in the face."

"Right, not a good look. Got it."

Silence falls again. Neither of them can meet each other's eyes, although Danny keeps stealing glances at Sam. One hand hovers in front of her mouth, but when she turns her head away from him, he sees the full-blown grin on her face. Her eyes sparkle in a way he hasn't seen before. It sounds cheesy and dumb, but it's the truth. He looks at her and all he can see is how genuinely happy she is. Soon enough, Danny wears a grin to match hers.

"So," Sam says, and that one syllable sounds so much lighter than her usual tone. "It's a date."

—

In retrospect, asking Sam to go out with him on Saturday on a Wednesday wasn't the best idea. Danny floats around school for the rest of the day with a dopey grin on his face. He actually lifts off his feet a few times and Tucker has to clamp a hand down on his shoulder to keep him down. Over the next two days, he asks Tucker no less than five times if that really happened, if Sam actually said yes. Tucker, naturally, teases Danny relentlessly over it.

By Friday, Paulina and Elliot have made good work of spreading Danny's disaster attempt to ask Sam out all around the school. More than once, he sees money changing hands in the hallway, trying to be discreet and Danny and Sam pass by, so close together that their knuckles keep brushing as they walk.

He hasn't held her hand since she dragged him to the classroom on Wednesday, even though he wants to.

When Saturday rolls around, Danny phones Tucker an hour before he and Sam are supposed to meet.

"Do I dress normally?" he asks.

On the other end of the line, Tucker sighs. "Why are you asking me?"

"It's the boardwalk. People don't get dressed up for the boardwalk. And Sam has already seen everything in my closet. Should I try to look really nice, or should I just be myself?"

"We are talking about Sam, right? Relax, man. You know what she'd like."

In the end, Danny decides to go mostly normal. He throws a button-up over his usual outfit, rolls the sleeves up, and calls it a day. If he knows Sam, she would appreciate him not making things weird by getting too fancy and not like his usual self. He maintains that attitude up until he gets to the boardwalk and sees her waiting by the ticket booths.

"I should have dressed up," he whispers.

At a glance, Sam's outfit doesn't seem too different from her usual attire. Black on black with a few purple accents thrown into the mix. He has seen her in dresses before, but rarely outside school dances, and he has never seen this one with Flowing lace sleeves that slope down her shoulders and a flared skirt. She even has a new wide brim hat to go with it, even though it's already sunset.

Before Danny even considers turning back around and putting something nicer on, Sam's gaze roves over the parking lot and settles on him. She gives his outfit a good look. A second passes. She bursts on laughing.

"Oh, come on," Danny whines as he approaches.

"I'm sorry," she says, but she is still hunched over clutching her stomach. "But your face. You should have seen your face."

It takes a good minute for her to get her giggles under control. Even still, a few quiet snickers breakthrough when she finally composes herself, smoothing out her dress and righting her hat.

"Tucker texted me," she says. "He told me all about your little fashion dilemma."

"I'm gonna kill him." Tucker just had to get in one last jab before the date began, Danny supposes. He hopes it was worth it because Tucker is going to pay dearly. Although...

He subtlety takes in Sam's outfit again, the way the dress hugs her waist, and those boots. He didn't notice them at first but now he can't stop staring at them. Slick, black, buckled up to the knees, with the purple lace edging of a pair of stocking peeking out the top. The only exposed skin on her legs is a few scant inches of her thighs between the end of the stockings and the bottom of her dress. And it's a damn good few inches.

Danny silently amends his earlier statement. He won't kill Tucker; he will collapse into his best friend’s arms crying tears of gratitude for helping him spend a whole evening with Sam dressed like that.

Realizing that he is staring, Danny quickly drags his eyes back up to Sam's face. The last thing he wants on their first date is for her to punch him because he is being a creep. Except Sam doesn't look angry to have caught him staring. In fact, she is blushing again, nervously plucking at her sleeves with her nails.

"For a second I thought you had bought a whole new outfit just for today." Danny chuckles, his own nerves showing through. Despite how long they have known each other, he feels wholly unprepared for tonight.

"Not exactly," Sam says. She drops her sleeves and smooths out her skirt again, this time pinching some of the fabric in her hand and swishing it back and forth. "I've had this outfit for a while, but I haven't worn it yet."

"Oh, man. I'm really underdressed, aren't I?" Danny tugs at the collar of his NASA shirt with a grimace. The button-up, at least, is black, because he knew she would like that. But otherwise, he is plain old Danny.

"Not that you don't look good all dressed up, but I like it when you're yourself," Sam says.

The rumble of a motorcycle approaches from the distance.

"Besides, I think you'll look pretty fancy next to Johnny."

At least Danny has that going for him. They both turn toward and watch Johnny's motorcycle peal into the parking lot. It goes intangible, along with its riders, and phases through the parked cars, only coming back into the physical world when it screeches to a stop in front of Danny and Sam.

Johnny runs a hand over his slicked-back hair—is that gel? "You're really setting the tone for your first date, huh."

To Danny's horror, Johnny is dressed up. He switched his dusty gray jacket for a shiny leather one, and instead of his usual shirt, he wears his own button-up. But unlike Danny's, Johnny's shirt is white and crisp, and actually buttoned up.

Kitty, meanwhile, looks the same as always. "Come on, don't tease the kid. He ain't half bad looking. He snagged me for a couple weeks, didn't he?"

Danny opens his mouth, about to remind her that she had been using him to make Johnny jealous the entire time; one look at Johnny's scowl and Sam's glare has him shutting up before he can utter a single syllable.

"Uh, should we go in? You do have the tickets, right Johnny?" he says instead.

Johnny scoffs and reaches into his jacket, pulling out the tickets. "Cool it, little man. I got us covered."

"Johnny! You actually bought tickets?" Kitty gasps.

"Only the best for you, babe. Let's go." Johnny holds out his elbow for Kitty to take, which she goes with glee, her steps bouncing as they take off for the ticket booth. Over his shoulder, Johnny shoots Danny a wink.

"Oh, uh. Shall we?" Danny cringes as the words fall from his mouth, but offers his arm to Sam nonetheless. She looks between Danny and Johnny, a questioning look in her eye. Just when Danny thinks she is going to leave him hanging, she shrugs and loops her arm through his.

They follow Johnny and Kitty. Already at the booth, the ghostly couple is passing the tickets over when Danny and Sam get close.

"The pipsqueaks are with us," Johnny says.

The girl at the counter, who looks only a year or two older than Danny, stares at Johnny with wide eyes. His aura, a dull grey that's usually hard to see, is much brighter at night. With the poorly lit parking lot at their back, it's impossible to ignore. Kitty's soft green aura is far more noticeable, but she stands just behind Johnny, her arm still curled around his, staring ahead at the twinkling lights of the boardwalk.

The sun hasn't completely set yet, but the top of the Ferris wheel touches the darkest part of the sky, and its colourful lights flash in a mesmerizing pattern, beckoning people in.

Johnny seems to have forgotten the whole reason he arranged this date in the first place because he takes full advantage of Kitty's distraction to lean in close to Ticket Girl, looking her up and down.

Behind them, a line is forming.

Ticket Girl's lip curls in disgust, but Danny can see fear shining in her eyes. "Sorry, sir, but I don't know if I can let a ghost in."

The fawning curl to Johnny's smile drops away abruptly, twisting into something more similar. "That's a bit rude, don't you think?" Shadow rises from Johnny's feet, growing taller until he looms over the booth, a menacing grin stretching his blank face wide.

"Johnny!" Danny slides up to the booth, nudging Johnny over with the arm not held by Sam, and beams at Ticket Girl manning the booth. "Hey. You might recognize me—Danny Fenton, son of Maddie and Jack Fenton."

"The ghost hunters." Ticket Girl nods.

"Right. We're actually doing an experiment right now. See, some ghosts actually have really human behaviours. Like Phantom, I bet you love him. But any good scientist has to test their hypothesis multiple times. So me and my– uh, my girlfriend?" He glances at Sam, whose red face matches his, but nods in agreement. "Are here to observe these too ghosts"—he tips his head to Johnny and Kitty—"doing normal human things. Such as getting into the boardwalk with paid tickets, just like everyone else wants to do."

"But he...." Ticket Girl glances nervously at Shadow.

"The big guy will be so chill. Super chill. You won't even know he is here, because you'll be at the booth, far away from the ghosts that just want to get inside and definitely not hurt anyone here."

The kid snatches up the tickets before Danny finishes his sentence, ripping off the stubs, and shoves a handful of wristbands across the counter, along with a whole roll of game tickets. "Just don't come back, okay?"

"Thank you!" Danny grabs the items and hustles everyone along.

"Nice work, Danny." Kitty gives him a thumb up under her and Johnny's intertwined arms. "Way to use your head."

"I could have thought of something," Johnny grumbles.

"Sure you could have, babe. Now let's check out the roller coaster first!" She drags him off, both of them without their wristbands, but Danny doesn't think it will be a problem. Everyone steers clear of them as they plow through the crowd. Every second the sun gets closer to setting, every shade darker the sky turns, the more obvious it becomes that Johnny and Kitty aren't human as their auras grow brighter.

"What should we do first?" Sam plucks four of the wristbands from Danny's fist—the kid gave him seven—and puts them on, grinning at her little collection. She takes the remaining three and puts them on Danny.

"Roller coaster sounds fun. Go with the thrills first?" He watches her slip the bands around his wrist, looping them together so that all three are intertwined.

Sam pauses on the last bracelet. "But you like saving the big rides for last."

He peeks over Sam's shoulder. Johnny and Kitty are halfway across the boardwalk already, well on their way to the coaster. Johnny twists mid-step, catches Danny's eye, and beckons him forward.

Right. Stick together. See how it's done.

"Yeah, but it might be fun to shake things up." He takes over putting the last bracelet on, hurrying to slap the sticky pieces together. In his rush, he catches some of his hair, drawing out a wince, but Johnny and Kitty are nearly there, and they've fallen way too far behind. "Come on!"

Danny takes Sam's arm and pulls her along. Focused on the path left by Johnny and Kitty's charge, he misses the frown on Sam's face as she looks down at him.

—

It goes better than Danny expected. Kitty leads the way, picking attraction after attraction with such gusto that he thinks she has never been to a theme park of any kind, which may very well be. Danny doesn't know much about Johnny and Kitty's life before ghost-hood, except that they died young and poor.

More than once, Danny catches Johnny watching other girls. Kitty doesn't seem to have noticed, so far, but Danny is not taking any chances. He remembers Johnny's threat and Shadow's piercing eyes watching them every step of the way serves as a constant reminder. Whenever he catches Johnny in a moment of distraction, he nudges the ghost and draws him back to the present. It earns him a few glares, but it works.

Despite Johnny's mounting annoyance, he still fulfills his side of the deal, giving Danny quick advice, either through vague gestures or whispered words while the girls are distracted.

"Let her choose what to do." Johnny feigns examining the bright bulbs overhead as they wait in line for the bumper cars. The golden lights dangle from the tent, flashing intermittently. Neither Sam nor Kitty are paying attention to the boys. Sam leans against the railing, cheering on the current bumper car drivers. A quick glance into the rink shows Valerie Grey ramming her cart against Dash Baxter.

If Johnny weren't dispensing important advice, Danny would be right next to Sam cheering along.

"It makes her feel like you care about what she likes when you do," Johnny continues.

"I do care," Danny says.

"Perfect, then you won't have a problem."

The bumper cars don't provide ample opportunity to use Johnny's advice, but when Kitty drags them to the Tilt-a-Whirl next, he gets the perfect chance. At the front of the line, he and Sam get first pick of the available seats. The Amity Park boardwalk, unlike other theme parks, has an eclectic collection of Tilt-a-Whirl cars ranging from a cupcake, to a plain seat, to a bat to a spaceship. Danny already knows which one Sam would like.

"You want to take the spaceship?" Sam asks, tugging Danny in that direction.

He resists her pull. "Don't you like the bat?"

"Yeah, of course. But you like the spaceship."

It's the strangest tug of war Danny has ever found himself in. He nearly gives in, but Johnny kicks the back of Danny's leg—lightly—and coughs "lady's choice" under his breath.

"It's just a car. We can take the one you like," Danny says.

Sam frowns, her grip slackening. It's all that Danny needs, and he eagerly pulls her toward the bat, sliding in before she can protest further. When he turns to face her, instead of a smile, she meets him with a frown.

"Is something wrong?" Danny asks, startled. Panic rises within him. Oh, no. She is not having a good time. It's a disaster after all.

"No, it's fine," she says after a moment of silence, which does nothing to assuage Danny's worries. Everyone knows "fine" doesn't actually mean "fine." It's one of the most used words in Danny's vocabulary, typically after a nasty ghost fight that leaves him limping and bruised.

Desperate, Danny leans out of the car, searching the ride for Johnny. He finds him across the way, sliding into the cupcake next to Kitty. Johnny meets Danny's gaze and motions for him to watch. In one smooth move, Johnny stretches his arm out with a feigned yawn, then settles it down around Kitty's shoulders and tugs her close. When Danny leans back into the car, Sam is watching him.

"You're acting weird," she says.

"I'm just a little tired." Danny stretches his arm up, just like Johnny did. Sam's gaze follows it all the way until he drapes it over her shoulder. It isn't until he has settled that he realizes he forgot the yawn.

The rest of Johnny's advice follows that same vein: do what Sam wants and use every chance possible to invite her closer. Danny follows it to the letter, mimicking everything Johnny does. Take the lead when walking, but let her choose where to go. Keep her close, but let her wander when she wants to. The hardest part, though, is finding excuses to stick with Johnny and Kitty.

"We don't have to spend the whole night with them," Sam says.

They are loading onto the Ferris wheel, Johnny and Kitty taking one side of the four-person carriage while Sam and Danny get the other. Danny had hoped to save this for the end of the night, for just him and Sam, but Kitty wanted to go now. When Danny tried to suggest otherwise, or even suggest he and Sam take a different carriage, Shadow's low growl cut off his protests.

"I want to make sure they don't get into trouble. You know they like to cause drama," he whispers needlessly. Neither Kitty nor Johnny is listening.

"I don't think we have to worry about that. We've been here for three hours already and they haven't done anything. I think they just want to have a good time. Mostly." Sam tilts her head, shooting Johnny a pointed look.

To Danny's dismay, Johnny is once again feasting on the local sights. As Kitty braces herself against the rail of the carriage, staring out over the beachfront, Johnny leers at the woman who helped them onto the ride. His posture mimics Kitty's as the Ferris wheel turns for the next passengers to load on, and he leans over to get one last look at the woman.

"It's a double date. Aren't you supposed to stick together on a double date?" Danny draws Sam's attention back to him with the question and uses that moment to kick Johnny's ankle.

"Ow!" Johnny cries. He whips around, fixing a glare on Danny. "The hell was that for?"

"Do I have to say it?" They both know he won't, though. With the threat of Shadow hanging over the evening, Danny won't risk letting Kitty on to what's happening behind her back.

Sam, however, has no such qualms. "I can't believe you. You're literally on a date and you're not even paying attention to your girlfriend?"

That grabs Kitty's attention. She turns, eyes wide, and looks at Johnny. "What?"

"I bet she spent a long time getting ready for today, trying to look good for you, but here you are, faking interest when she watches, then looking to someone else whenever you think she isn't." As Sam berates Johnny, her voice slowly growing louder, Danny gets the sinking feeling that she isn't just talking about the ghost. "I wonder how long she has been looking forward to this. Probably a really long time, but you're so distracted that you can't even see she isn't enjoying herself."

Danny's stomach plummets. He really screwed up, didn't he?

"You. What?" Kitty's ice-cold voice reminds Danny that there are real stakes on this date.

"I was checking out her jacket, not her! It looks like the kind of thing you like to wear," Johnny rushes to explain.

Kitty's eyes narrow. In a blink, she lurches across the carriage and takes Johnny's place at the rail, peering back at the receding woman. Damningly, she isn't wearing a jacket.

"You! You! I can't believe you!" Kitty shrieks. "I thought you wanted to take me on a nice date. I didn't even care that you the ghost kid and his girl were coming, because he's nice, and you were finally taking me to a theme park like I always wanted!"

Viridescent tears streak down Kitty's cheeks. Danny has seen her livid and raging plenty of times over the past few years, but now she looks downright distraught. Her face crumples, scowl giving way as a sob wrenches from her throat. Johnny looks as stricken as Danny feels.

"I'm sorry, baby, I didn't mean it. You know you're the only girl for me," he says, dropping to his knees.

"I thought this– this meant something." Kitty struggles to speak through her tears, fighting against the tightening of her throat and gasping sobs. "How could you?"

She takes off, then, launching herself out of the carriage with enough force that she sends it rocking. Johnny reaches after her, but it's no use. She streaks across the sky, a blur of red and green, and disappears into the sparkling lights of the game booths, out of sight in seconds.

An oppressive silence descends for one long moment.

Johnny, shoulders trembling, turns to Danny. His shadow bubbles and bulges as two furious eyes blink open. "Kid, I am going to kill you!"

Sam jumps forward, sending the carriage rocking again, and brings her leg up. Danny glimpses the neon sole of her boot before she slams her heel down on Shadow's growing face. Shadow screeches in pain and withers into the floor, disappearing into a grey blob with a pathetic sizzle.

"Shut the hell up, Johnny, and go after your girlfriend!" Sam shouts, thrusting an arm out toward the game booths.

Johnny gnashes his teeth but doesn't fight. "This isn't over, kid." He falls through the floor of the carriage, intangible, and takes off after Kitty.

With a huff, Sam drops onto the bench opposite Danny, crossing her legs and arms, and glares at a point over Danny's shoulder.

Danny fidgets, pinching the fabric of his jeans and rolling it between his fingers. He looks up at Sam, down, then out after Johnny and Kitty. "Should we–"

"They can wait until the ride is done," Sam snaps.

Danny nods, afraid to say anything else and screw this up even further. He should have noticed Sam wasn't enjoying herself. It started off great, and now... he is not sure if there will be a second date. He wouldn't blame her. With that realization comes the dawning horror of what that might mean for their friendship. It would end because of this, right? They have fought a few times over the years, and it never lasts long, but this is different. They tried dating; that changes things. If it doesn't work and they go back to just being friends, it won't be the same. They will both know that they like each other, and they will know that it didn't work.

What would happen then? Danny can't imagine not having Sam in his life, but if she is really mad at him... she has dropped people for less. Everyone in Casper High remembers the middle school debacle that led to Sam cutting off all ties with Paulina. They might be better now, but it took six years for them to become friends again. Danny couldn't wait that long.

"Danny!" Sam jostles him, her hand on his shoulder, and yanks him back to the present. She stares into his eyes, assessing him. Once she is satisfied that he is back in the moment, she returns to her seat, this time with her gaze fixed on him.

Looking outside the carriage, Danny realizes they are over the crest. He was so caught up in his thoughts that he missed half the ride, including the best moment. The realization hits him worse than one of Skulker's ecto-seeking missiles. He nearly spirals again, but Sam reaches out and clamps onto his knee, keeping him grounded.

"Danny, I think we need to talk."

This is his nightmare. Literally, he has had nightmares about Sam rejecting him. They usually end with the haunting echo of Elliot's pompous laughter as Sam chooses him, old jealousies thriving in his dreams. Sometimes Valerie is there, too, her face overlayed with Sam's as they turn him down in unison. But the worst ones are when it is just Sam, looking him straight in the eye, and saying no. Right now, this is all too close to those nightmares.

He swallows, unable to find the right words, and nods instead.

"Why did you ask me out if you weren't even going to pay attention to me?" she asks.

Danny's mouth stays clamped shut as his earlier fears are realized. Her rant was for more than just Johnny.

"You asked me if this outfit was new." Sam skims her fingers along the lace of her stockings, tracing the spiderweb patterns hidden within. "I didn't lie when I answered. I bought this a few months ago for homecoming. It was our last one, and I thought... I thought you were going to ask me to it."

"But that's not..."

"Yeah, I didn't wear it."

The dress she did wear was fancier, with layered skirts and glittering black beads.

"I bought this one because I knew you wouldn't care if I dressed fancy or not. And I know you don't like to unless you have to." She nods to Danny's casual outfit. "So when you asked me out, I already knew what I wanted to wear, because I know you. But this whole time, you haven't acted like the Danny I know and care about. You've been clingy, and overly accommodating, but at the same time ignoring everything I wanted. And when you weren't doing that, you were watching Johnny?"

Sam ducks her head and looks away. With the brim of her hat hiding her face, he can't see her, but the quiet sniffle she makes is unmistakable.

A rotten taste seeps through Danny's mouth. This was supposed to be a nice first date, but all he did was make Sam cry.

"I know I say I don't care about this stuff. I say it all the time, but..." She reaches up, carefully dabs at her eyes so she doesn't ruin her makeup. "I wanted you to look at me."

Danny finally finds his voice. "Sam, God, no. You're beautiful. When I saw you? Holy crap, I couldn't breathe. You're always beautiful. Not that that's the only reason I like you! You're my best friend. I love your passion, and your smarts, and how you won't put up with guys like Johnny getting away with any of their shit. Or me getting away with mine. I love so much about you, and I love–"

He cuts himself off before the last word, the unsaid "you" hanging between them. He knows what he meant. She probably does, too. Now isn't the right time to say it, though, so he lets his voice fade to quiet.

The Ferries wheel jerks to a stop, their carriage rocking back and forth, and the ride technician opens the door for them.

"Hey, weren't there for of you before?" she asks.

"They got off early," Danny says. He ignores the startled look on the technician’s face as he rises to his feet. On instinct, he reaches toward Sam but holds back at the last moment. Clingy. The word echoes in his head. He wavers, unsure what to do.

Sam takes the choice away from him, jerking to her feet before he can decide. She touches his hand, but doesn't take it and brushes past him, exiting the carriage onto the boardwalk.

"Harsh," the technician whispers.

"I deserve it," Danny mutters back before running after Sam. She walks at a brisk pace, weaving through the crowd toward the line of booths. Danny catches up as she reaches the first tent. "Where are we going?"

"We need to make sure Johnny and Kitty haven't trashed anything, don't we?" Sam says.

"Right, yeah." Danny wishes his ghost sense would go off. At the very least, it could tell them if Johnny and Kitty were close by, but that only worked if they left his range in the first place. In his freshman year, they might have, but today his range stretched over most of the boardwalk, if not the whole thing.

As it turns out, tracking them is easy even without Danny's sense. When he and Sam reach the tightest cluster of game booths, they find a trail of destruction. Fallen stands, scattered prizes, and shattered lights guide them through the maze of booths and back out into the main thoroughfare.

"This looks tame for Shadow," Sam comments.

"Twenty bucks says Johnny did it," Danny says as they pick their way through shattered boards.

"Not Kitty?"

"Right now, the only person she's mad at is Johnny. But when Johnny gets mad, he isn't the only source of bad luck in their trio," Danny explains. It doesn't come out often, since Shadow does most of the fighting, but he has seen it often enough to recognize the effects.

When they leave the booths behind, they find themselves near the boardwalk entrance. In the middle of the wide path, Johnny and Kitty are locked in a screaming match. Or Kitty screams while Johnny wilts with every new word.

"It was always supposed to be our place, Johnny! And you ruined it!" She beat her fist against his chest, wailing all the while.

Johnny's silence under the onslaught speaks volumes. He doesn't even look mad anymore, just heartbroken.

"All I ever wanted, and you couldn't even—!" She stops, shuddering, and takes a deep breath. Her next words come out quiet. "If you hadn't tried to look at that stupid girl! If you had just watched the road like you were supposed to!" A gut-wrenching sob cuts her off. "Leave me alone, Johnny."

She turns on her heels and runs toward the nearest building. For a moment, it doesn't look like Johnny is going to follow. His legs tremble, seconds from collapsing beneath him. He manages to lift his gaze, though, and finally notices the sign hanging over the building that Kitty missed: Hall of Mirrors.

"Shit! Kitty, wait!" he calls, but she ignores him. With another swear, he leaps up and flies after her.

"Oh, no," Danny says. He sprints across the boards, Sam following without question. They're halfway to the house of mirrors when they hear a piercing scream followed by a crash. The building crackles. Something inside pulses, imperceptible to regular humans, but it makes Danny stagger.

"Danny, what's going on?"

Before he can answer, a wave of power surges from the house and everything goes back.

—

Danny wakes to a sharp ringing in his ears. Hazy light edges his vision. His hearing returns slowly. First, the muffled sound of his name, then the fizzle and pop of broken lights, and finally the soft rumbling of a gathered crowd.

All at once, Danny becomes aware. Sam hovers at his side, her hair tousled, a thin cut on her temple, and her hat in her hands. He sits up, squeezing his eyes shut when the world spins around him. Sam provides a steady hand, rubbing small circles on his back until he can open his eyes again. Around them, the stalls are dark. Thirty feet out in every direction from the house of mirrors, every light is broken. Glass litters the boardwalk. The normally glowing entrance to the park is dark, the metal twisted. Beyond that, the ticket booth lies on its side.

Directly ahead of them, a large crack splits the house of mirrors.

"What... what was that?" Sam asks. "It was like Shadow's power but way bigger. I've never... did Johnny do that? I didn't know he could."

Danny groans, rubbing his head. The piercing ring lingers in the back of his head, and it probably won't fade for a while, but it is not so bad that he can't ignore it. "Normally, yeah, but..." He grimaces. "We should get in there."

Sam nods and helps Danny to his feet, pulling him up by the arm. He staggers toward the broken attraction with Sam at his shoulder, casting wary glances all around them.

The gathered crowd isn’t big, yet. It looks like Danny was the only one knocked off his feet, the only one really affected by the ghostly surge—three guesses as to why that is, and the first two don't count. Judging by the sparks still raining down down from the shattered lights, it has only been a minute since the surge. Security isn't here yet. That gives them some time.

The employee manning the attractions sits on the boards, staring wide-eyed at the broken building. He doesn't even blink as Danny and Sam slip through the curtain.

Inside, it's dark. The lights are all down. Glass crunches under their shoes, every mirror in sight shattered, leaving blank boards behind. Johnny and Kitty aren't far from the entrance, no more than a few feet. Sam sees them first, catches the glow of their auras in the corner of her eye, and points toward a dead-end alcove after the first bend in the maze.

Kitty is tucked against Johnny's chest, her jacket pulled up around her head. Johnny has his arms around her waist, and his soft voice provides the only noise beyond the glass under Danny and Sam's feet.

When Johnny hears them, lifts his head, just enough to glare at them through the darkness. No threats spill from his lips, though, and he goes back to comforting Kitty soon enough.

Danny can't help it. He looks down at the mirror shards below them, and immediately wishes he didn't. Bloody road rash stretches up Kitty's right side, torn to the bone. Her face, protected by the darkness around them, and the shadows of her jacket, remains hidden from Danny's prying eyes. He prefers it that way.

A gentle nudge at his side reminds him that Sam is with them.

"What's going on?" she mouths.

Danny crouches, carefully not to make too much noise, and picks up a shard of glass. Johnny still hears him, though, and Shadow rises threateningly at the sight of the glass. Danny holds up a placating hand, then motions to Sam, the glass, then himself.

No matter what low opinion Johnny has of Danny right now, he wouldn't stoop so far as to expose other ghosts like that. To Danny's surprise, however, Johnny thrusts an arm out and motions for the glass. Danny raises his eyebrows. Johnny sticks his hand out further. Without complaint, Danny passes it over.

Johnny holds the glass up, angling it so that they can see his face. He and Kitty have matching road rash.

Sam gasps.

"Come on," Danny says to Johnny and Kitty. "Security will come soon. And if they see a couple of ghosts, you know they'll call my parents."

Kitty sniffs. Danny can't see her well behind the jacket, but the way her hair bobs, he assumes she nodded. All four of them go intangible, Danny lending his power to Sam. They slip through the mirrors toward the side of the building and step out into the open air. As Johnny continues to comfort Kitty, Danny creeps toward the corner of the building and peers out into the open. They left just in time. A security guard pushes through the gathered crowd and heads for the front entrance.

Danny retreats before anyone can see him, leaning against the side of the building. He shudders.

"I didn't know that could happen," Sam whispers as she comes up beside Danny.

"Not your fault. Ghosts don't make a point of going near mirrors," he says.

"You do, all the time. I saw you in a mirror this week."

"In your locker, yeah. But I'm not a ghost all the time. It doesn't work when I'm in human form."

"So, when you picked up the glass..." Sam trails off. Danny doesn't answer, letting her fill in the blanks for herself.

Neither of them says anything for a long moment. They hear the shout of the security guard, calling an al clear. Danny feels sorry for the workers at the park who have to deal with the aftermath. It didn't affect the whole boardwalk—he can see the Ferris wheel operating just fine, and a glow in the air from the game booth lights.

"Hey, kid."

Danny lifts his head toward Johnny.

"We're heading out. Consider us even."

"Thanks for showing her." Danny tilts his head back and thumps it against the wall of the house of mirrors. "You know, so I didn't have to."

Johnny shrugs. "Yeah, whatever. You're too young to deal with that shit, is all. Take care of your girl, alright?" He doesn't wait for an answer. Kitty is already gone, and Johnny goes invisible before Danny can think of a reply, leaving him and Sam alone.

"You never actually answered," Sam says, breaking the silence between them. "About why you took the double date."

Thank God it's too dark for Sam to see Danny's face go scarlet. In retrospect, of course Johnny's idea wouldn't end well, Danny was just so desperate he was willing to risk it.

"I asked him for dating advice," he mutters.

Sam splutters, a startled laugh bursting out of her. "What?"

"I couldn't think of anyone else to ask, so we made a deal. He invites us on a double date and gives me some tips, and I don't tell Kitty I caught him at the girl's college."

"You are such a dork." Sam snickers. "Is that why you kept watching him? I thought for a second me and Kitty might need to band together to keep you two apart."

Danny groans. "Please don't say that. Tucker already got me with that."

"Good. I hope he did." Sam shuffles over, leaning against Danny, and rests her head on his shoulder. "Danny, I don't need to hang off you like some soul-bound lovebird. We've known each other for ten years. I don't need some idealized romance, I just need you."

Danny feels like an idiot for ever thinking otherwise. The date might have been a train wreck, but half the boardwalk is still functioning. Maybe the evening doesn't have to be a total waste. He pulls the roll of game tickets—a precious commodity at the boardwalk—from his pocket and holds them out.

"Want to win Tucker that shark?" he asks.

Sam laughs, her shoulder shaking against his. "Only if we can ride the spaceship car on the Tilt-a-Whirl."

"Deal."

69 notes · View notes

angelicyoongie · 4 years

Text

desolate (5)

— summary: you just wanted a cute little normal cat to keep you company. so, you're not really sure how you ended up with the grumpiest hybrid on earth that seems hellbent on making your life difficult.

— pairing: cat hybrid yoongi x human reader

— genre: angst, fluff, eventual smut

— word count: 2.8k

— tag list: @mrcleanheichou @ladymidnightt @cheese123344 @xanny91 @dinorahrodriguez @best-space-boy @dulcaet @moccahobi @keijaycreates @staytrillswag @xsmilebitesx @serendipityoreuphoria @jiminot7 @beyond-the-swag @nananaum1 @faithsummers11 @twomilkmen-gocomedy @theonewholovestoread @karissassirak @veryuniquenamegoeshere @yourlipssoirresistible @ayoo-bangtan @murderyoursoul @btsxdoll @see3milyblog @gukiyi @officialcarly9701 @mtgforall @narcissism-iskey @sp3ak-yours3lf @cesthoney @imluckybitches @hd-junglebook @sugarrimajins @multifandomgirl29 @beach-bitch-bitch-beach @bangtansleftnut @theresa-nam-nam-me

Part one Part two Part three Part four Part six Part seven Part eight Part nine Part ten (M) Part eleven Part twelve Part thirteen Part fourteen (M)

You feel like your brain has short-circuited as you stare at the hybrid in front of you. The first thought that hits you is how badly you’ll have to grovel at Jihyo and Sana’s feet for not believing the dog hybrid.

“How?” Your legs are shaking as you lean heavily against the front door, every muscle in your body still on high alert.

“What do you mean, how?” Yoongi tilts his head. The narrowed gaze that peaks out from between his long bangs makes it seem like he wonders if you’re a little dumb for not comprehending what’s in front of you immediately.

“But you’re a cat! Not a human,” You squeak.

“Yes, I’m a cat. But, I’m also human. I believe the correct term you’re looking for is a hybrid,” Yoongi quirks his eyebrows. It’s hard to make out his face properly in the low-lit hallway, but there’s no denying the pure smugness that seems to be radiating off him.

Your mind clings to the familiarity of the sassy attitude you’re used to getting from your cat, and you try to force down the building panic as you narrow your eyes right back at him.

“Well I can see that,” You reach up to gently flick against his fluffy cat ear, your annoyance temporarily winning over your anxiety. Yoongi drops his hands from your shoulders with a disgruntled sound. A threatening hiss slips past his lips at the audacity you have to touch his ear as he reaches up to cover it from any further assault.

“What I don’t understand is why my cat is a hybrid, when that’s not what I adopted,” Yoongi’s cool demeanour cracks for a second as you see a flash of unease pass through his expression. You aren’t sure if he’s embarrassed on being called out for lying to you, or if it’s something .. else.

“Does it matter?” Yoongi takes a step back as he crosses his arms, his posture tense and defensive.

“Does it matter?!” You echo, a bubble of hysteria forcing its way up your throat.

“Of course it matters, Yoongi! I adopted a cat for a reason. I can’t take care of a hybrid,” The reality of the situation sets in as the words leave your lips. You can’t take care of a hybrid. You can’t take care of Yoongi.

Yoongi tsk’s at your words. “You’ve been taking care of me just fine,” He shrugs, but even you can see that he looks too thin and pale. His way too prominent collarbones are peeking out of the dark sweater he’s wearing, and your sweatpants look too loose on him.

Wait–

“Are you wearing my clothes?” You surge forward on shaking legs to grip at the material of Yoongi’s sweater, your sweater, and the hybrid only rolls his eyes.

“Why? Would you prefer it if I was naked? Because I can make that happen,” Yoongi smirks; eyes looking down at you with such cockiness you can only gape at him in return.

You’ve never encountered someone so brazen before, and you don’t have the quick comebacks Yoongi seems to have an endless supply of. You feel a little out of your depth, in more ways than one.

Yoongi unfurls his arms to grip the hem of the sweater when you stay quiet, and it’s only when you start to see a sliver of pale skin that you jump into action.

“Don’t take off your clothes!” You forcefully tug the material back down, embarrassment staining your cheeks red as you avoid meeting his gaze.

“You’re giving me mixed messages here,” You see Yoongi roll his eyes out in your peripheral vision. You wonder if that’s his default reaction.

“I just asked if they were mine, I didn’t tell you to take them off!” You rub your temple tiredly, the exhaustion of the long day at work finally starting to catch up with you.

“Of course I’m wearing your clothes, it’s not like I have my own,” Yoongi sneers, lips pulled back in distaste as he watches you.

You ignore the bad feeling you get in your stomach at his words. You didn’t know he was human – how were you supposed to provide it for him? You can’t believe you’re essentially fighting your cat about clothes. This for sure wasn’t how you expected the day to end.

“Let’s just move to the living room,” You gesture weakly down the hallway. Yoongi studies you for another second before he spins around and leaves, giving you a few seconds alone to wrap your head around what has happened.

You shrug off your coat, taking a deep breath before you follow after him. There are a million thoughts and questions racing around in your head, but there’s really only one person that can give you the answers to them.

Yoongi is sat on the couch, back leaning against one of the sides, and one leg crossed under the other. His eyes are glued to your form until you take a seat on the other side of the couch, your posture painfully straight and tense.

“Relax. I’m not going to hurt you,” Yoongi huffs, reaching up with a pale hand to run it through his bangs. He needs a haircut, you think.

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” You mumble, but you can see his cat ears twitch, and you don’t doubt he heard you perfectly.

“Then why are you so tense?” Yoongi grumbles as he grabs one of the pillows on the couch, squeezing it to his chest. He really isn’t that much taller than you, but his attitude was so confident that you felt tiny out in the hallway. When you see him like this however – he seems smaller than he did before. He seems .. vulnerable.

“I told you Yoongi,” The fluffy tail laying down the side of the couch gives a lazy twitch as you say his name.

“I can’t take care of you. You’ve been staying in your cat form for way too long and it isn’t healthy. Look at how thin you are,” You give him a pained expression, guilt brewing in your stomach as he winces.

“The food you eat when you’re a cat obviously isn’t enough to actually feed you, and I don’t think I earn enough money to feed two mouths,” Actually, you know you don’t earn enough to provide for the both of you, but it feels terrible to say it. It feels like you’re letting him down.

Yoongi’s shoulders slump, ears flattening against his head as he looks out into the room.

“So you’re kicking me out?” His voice is emotionless, but you notice how his hands are curled into tight fists around the hem of your sweater.

Yes, yes, yes. You can’t take care of somebody else when you barely have the means to care for yourself. It’s unrealistic. It’s plain stupid. But ..

“I don’t know,” You sigh. “You don’t need to leave right away, okay? You can continue to live here until I can figure something out.”

Yoongi nods, eyes still not meeting yours. The force behind his grip has lessened however, and his hands don’t look so deadly white anymore.

“Let me get some dinner ready, and then we’ll talk. You have some explaining to do,” You feel Yoongi’s eyes track you until your slip around the corner. You didn’t expect him to answer, but you’re pretty sure you hear a soft okayjust as you disappear from his sight.

You both eat in silence. You thought it would be awkward, but it feels strangely familiar. Of course, you’re technically still eating dinner with the same creature, but cat Yoongi and human Yoongi are two very different forms.

“So ..” You being as Yoongi sets down his plate on the coffee table. “Explain. How did you end up at the shelter as a cat?”

Yoongi narrows his eyes at you, and for the first time you’re stricken with how pretty they look, how nicely his eyelashes frame his dark gaze.

“It’s not that hard,” He scoffs.

“I just made sure I acted like I couldn’t understand what they were saying, and didn’t react to any of the normal tests they do. It’s pretty easy to fly under the radar when you know what reactions they’re looking for,” Yoongi shrugs. You want to ask how he knows how to avoid it, but you bite your tongue.

“I just didn’t shift, and after a week they didn’t even think twice about me being a hybrid. Humans really aren’t that smart,” He gaze is pointedly locked at you as he wrinkles his nose in distain.

You let out a harsh breath through your nose, trying your best not to give in and start a fight. It’s pretty obvious that it’s what he’s after as he stares you down, chin slightly upturned.

“So Yeonjun doesn’t know?” You ask.

“Yeonjun doesn’t know. Nobody knows. And nobody can,” Yoongi bites, the raw panic flashing in his eyes making you feel uneasy. Why is he so adamant about hiding who he is?

“.. O-okay,” You stammer, as you realize he’s waiting for you to give him a verbal confirmation you won’t tell anyone else about him.

“But why all the secrecy Yoongi? Wouldn’t it have been better to go to the shelter as a hybrid and get properly adopted by someone who can actually care for you?” He shakes his head.

“I can’t.” You’re about to ask why when he shoots you a glare, your mouth snapping shut so fast it makes your jaw ache.

Yoongi’s tail is swishing back and forth, and the little snap the end of his tail does at every turn makes you realize how annoyed he really is. You’ve seen him do the same motion a few times when you pet him past what he wanted you to. From experience you know he’s not far away from hissing at you to make you stop doing whatever you’re doing, whether that’s petting or asking too many questions.

“Alright,” You finally relax against the couch, too tired to keep interrogating him. He’s not off the hook, but you can tell he isn’t willing to talk about it right now – whatever it is that he’s keeping from you.

“How long were you planning on keeping me in the dark?” You ask.

Yoongi’s jaw clenches.

“You weren’t supposed to find out either,” His voice is monotone as he stares down at his hands, fingers picking at the skin around his thumb.

“I wasn’t ..” You still against the couch, the breath you’ve sucked in refusing to expel out again. If he didn’t mean to reveal it, then it means he was planning on staying in his cat form .. forever?

Even you know how harmful it would be for him to stay shifted for at least two thirds of the day, and not to mention the fact that he would never actually get enough food. Your stomach lurches.

“Yoongi, you would’ve ended up killing yourself,” You whisper, voice breaking as you realize the slow torture he must’ve been putting himself through these last weeks, or maybe even months, considering all the time he spent at the shelter before you picked him up.

Yoongi rests his eyes on you again, the cold indifference boring straight through your soul.

“Maybe.”

You turn your head away, desperate to look away from the indifference he seems to have in regards to his own life. You stare at the wall in front of you until the burning in your eyes goes away. At this rate, it feels like Yoongi could’ve scoffed at you if you cried.

“Then why did you reveal yourself? If you weren’t planning on letting me find out,” You try to steer the topic back on something you hope is less heavy, something you hope you’ll be able to stomach better on low sleep and with a building headache.

“Lapse in judgment. I thought you weren’t coming back,” You wonder if Yoongi woke up with the need to kick your heart with every word today, because that’s surely what it feels like.

“Why would you think that?” You itch to reach out and comfort him, but you know him well enough to know that it will do more harm than good.

“It’s Sunday. You never leave home at the weekends, and suddenly you were gone when I woke up, and you didn’t come home until almost midnight. I figure you had just left,” Yoongi lips are in a thin line as he shrugs, the two actions such a contrast you aren’t really sure if he’s really that indifferent or not.

“I’m so sorry Yoongi, if I had known I would’ve told you,” You mutter. A lot of things would have been different if you had known. But you didn’t. And sadly, you can’t change anything about it.

Yoongi doesn’t say anything else, and you’re not sure what else to do. Your chest hurts, and you feel like you haven’t slept in a week. You can’t remember the last time you had a day that was so emotionally draining as this. You throw a glance at the phone you’ve placed on the coffee table, your eyes feeling heavier by the second as you realize how late it has become.

“Let’s talk more about this later, okay? I have work again tomorrow,” You give him what you hope is a soft smile, but everything just feels so forced and terribly off that you’re not sure if it’s a smile or a twisted grimace.

“Sure,” Yoongi agrees.

Your sleep depraved brain picks up on the almost soundless footsteps trailing behind you to your room, but you don’t realize Yoongi has been following you until you turn around to close the door, and find yourself face to face with pink lips.

“Uh Yoongi? Why are you following me?” “To go to sleep?” He accentuates the words, an eyebrow raised as he cocks his head at you. His pupils look slightly bigger with the darkness spilling from your room, and you feel a shiver travel down your spine as he locks eyes with you. The ears and tail aside, it never stops catching you off guard just how much he actually acts like a cat. The mannerisms are almost a little eerily when he looks so human.

“Yeah, I’m going to sleep in my bed. You’re not. I was just getting some blankets for the couch,” You pray the low light hides the awkward flush on your face. Did he really think he was still sleeping with you tonight?

“Oh,” Yoongi’s face falls blank. You swear you see hurt flash through his eyes, but you hope it’s just a trick of the light.

“Right, that’s why I’m here. To get the blankets,” He scowls. Yoongi’s expression is sour as he looks down at you with challenging eyes, as if he’s waiting for you to call him out and expose him.

“Right,” You echo, quickly stumbling over to your closet to find some bedding for the cat hybrid. You feel a little bad that you’re making him sleep outside in the living room where it’s much colder, but it’s not like he can sleep with you. It was different when he was just a cat, but this Yoongi? You don’t know him. Frankly, you’re not sure if you should really trust him.

Yoongi snatches the blankets from your hands as soon as you reach him, turning on his heels to stalk back to the living room. You close the bedroom door with a sigh, leaning your forehead against the cool wood. You have a feeling you won’t get much sleep tonight.

You don’t waste any time getting into bed. Despite the exhaustion in your bones, you end up tossing and turning for way too long. You don’t know what to do about Yoongi. Should you give him back, should you let someone else care for him, can you care for him? Do you even want to?

You think you must’ve fallen asleep at one point, because when you groggily wake up to turn to the other side, you find a mass of black fur next to you. Your mind slowly registers that Yoongi is back in your bed, the cat curled up into a little ball on top of your comforter. You should probably throw him out, but he just looks so small and soft, tiny snores escaping his mouth at each exhale.

You tell yourself you’ll just deal with it in the morning instead, and that you’re too tired to get up now. That it has absolutely nothing to do with the rush of affection you feel in your body as he hugs his tail underneath his paw, or the twinge of sadness in your chest as you realize Yoongi has been alone for so long.

You burrow down deeper into your sheets, eyes lulling closed as you watch Yoongi sleep peacefully. You’re totally unaffected, you promise yourself.

Too bad you’ve never been a good liar.

- - - -

Hello! Hope you enjoyed the fifth chapter of desolate! Poor kitty yoongles :( P.s. In case you haven't seen it yet, I've posted the first chapter of Abundance, which is the ot7 version of this fic, and you can read it here!

My inbox is always open if you want to chat about the story or just fics or life in general! See you all soon!

#yoongi #hybrid bts #cat hybrid yoongi #hybrid!bts #yoongi x reader #suga #bts #bts fanfic #bts x reader #fluff #smut #angst #hybrid au #romance #twice #jihyo #sana #yeonjun #txt

2K notes · View notes

silence-burns · 3 years

Text

Please Hate Me //part 47

Fandom: Marvel

Summary: Based on: “Imagine having a love/hate relationship with Loki.” by @thefandomimagine Who would have thought that babysitting a god could be so much fun?

Genre: slow-burn, enemies to lovers, banter

There are few things better suited to following a great summoning ritual than stalking a kindergartener and, quite literally, taking the candy out of his chubby little hand.

"Hey, that's mine!" the brat, Timmy, screamed, but had to watch Loki unwrap the popsicle and munch on it.

"Oh, Timmy," you sighed. "I thought a tough kid like you would handle this better."

"Who the hell even are you weirdos?" Timmy considered ending his question with a kick to the shins of one of you, but decided otherwise under the unnerving gaze of the strange man in a green suit. There was something off about him, that much was certain, but little Timmy couldn't wrap his mind around how otherworldly he actually felt.

He looked around, but none of his friends were around yet, and neither were any adults.

You smiled your beautiful, wicked smile. "Don't fret, Timmy. We've heard all about your deeds, and boy, did we actually love them."

Timmy frowned. His chubby cheeks puffed up just in case it was time to scream. You didn't look like parents of whatever kid he might've recently offended. The pocket money he was getting ;ately from his schoolmates was nothing to worry about. A few bucks here and there weren't a reason for such a direct approach. Okay, those glitter pens he took from that girl last week might cause some bigger stirrup, but she certainly had a different set of parents last time he saw her.

"The hell are you talking about?" the boy settled on a safe approach.

Loki chuckled and leaned down to look him in the eyes. The features of his face started to blur. Timmy frowned, but blinking didn't clear it up. The harder he looked, the more they melted, and molded, and reformed-

"We know what you've been doing, child," the creature's horns grew and curled, just as more and more sets of eyes popped open. "We have our eyes on you."

The shadows deepened, and the world turned colder and eerily quiet. It was the absolute stillness of something deeply unnatural moving right past you.

But Timmy, despite what his teachers might say, was a smart kid. Being a bully and a petty little thief for years without facing actual repercussions of his actions could not be achieved if one didn't know when was the time to run. Timmy knew that time had come and didn't wait for things to unravel any further. His short legs took him surprisingly far in just a few seconds. Loki and you could only watch him go.

"Do you think it'll be enough?" you asked, taking the lollipop from Loki. It was the strawberry flavor. "I certainly wouldn't want to fail our first commission."

"I guess we'll see," Loki shrugged off the spell. "But I'm pretty sure we gave him something to think about. I can send one of the shadows after him to make sure he doesn't pick on our 'client' at school tomorrow. It'll be awhile before they disperse after summoning, so we can make use of them."

"Will they still lead us to the stolen pin though?"

"Without any problem."

And that closed the case. It was a little satisfying, Loki had to admit.

He was still unsure about the pin, though. There was something off about the type of magic he sensed in the box. Faint as it was, the tang of death and rot was still unmistakable and didn't fit in the mental image of SHIELD's safehouse it was supposed to be stored in. It made the chase after the truth more thrilling.

Loki fixed his suit. It was not the type of fashion he usually preferred, but the way you looked at him in it made it worth it. There was nothing as confidence-boosting as being aware that you’re the eye candy for anyone lucky enough to pass.

"Shall we?" Loki offered you his elbow as the shadows gathered and formed a rough doorway. Beyond it, only darkness swelled.

Stepping through it was a fight against condensed mist, but at least it had none of the flesh-shredding quality of Bifrost.

The shadows Loki had called followed the invisible trail of magic the pin left behind after it was stolen. There was little chance of them being wrong or simply misled, Loki had assured you earlier. As beings stuck in a state of half-existence, there was not in the physical realm so often that it could affect their judgement and cover the tracks. Still, even Loki had a moment of doubt when he took in the place the two of you had been led to.

"I think we should've used that chicken," you said, looking around what was unmistakably a forest. A thick, dark, and very old forest. Definitely the type of forest unwelcome to unannounced travelers.

It did not mean you were scared. You were just aware of a certain, thick atmosphere hanging low in the cold, winter air. Somehow, it was darker than it should've been at that hour. The trees loomed over you, their branches twisted and hanging low enough to strangle.

Loki kept on patting your arm while your terror grew, and despite ignoring him for a while, you finally decided to turn.

A thick wall of a hedge, painted in a rotting green and sprinkled with half-melted snow, stood tall and guarded whatever was behind it. The branches were woven too tightly together to take even a peek between them.

"Is that a house? In the middle of a forest?" You asked, but no answer came. There was no road leading to the house. The trees encircled the hedge, but didn't interrupt its space, as if that particular spot had been chopped out of the forest. As if the usual rules of logic and nature didn't apply there.

"Strange," Loki muttered to himself as he walked closer. The hedge ran far in both directions, and from the point you approached it, no gateway could be seen. High above your heads, thin swirls of smoke rose into the air.

"We should walk around and see how to get in." You gestured to the left.

Loki looked up. The hedge loomed a few heads above him. Even if Loki jumped, he wouldn't see above it. He jumped anyway.

And was swallowed by the hedge.

You knew there was something wrong with that forest, and the strange house especially, even before the branches shot out and wrapped around Loki. He only managed a yelp of surprise before he was pulled in towards the impenetrable depth of the bushes. As much as it was reassuring to know that your senses and intuition were as sharp as ever, the time to brag would come later. Using the ace up your sleeve, or rather sword in your pocket, you made quick work of all the choppable branches.

Loki dropped to the ground.

"You could've cut off my hand!" He looked in horror at the cleanly cut piece of his sleeve. It had been a close call indeed.

"Couldn't you regrow it?"

Loki stopped shaking off the twigs for a moment. "I'd prefer not to find out, honestly."

The hedge, despite your trimming, was as impenetrable as before. The only thing that changed was the distance you kept away from it. After not a long discussion, you decided to look for a way in.

The little gate looked suspiciously ordinary. The metal rusted in a few spots, mercilessly beaten by years of rain and humidity. The path beyond it winded between neat rows of herbs and vegetables and occasionally flowers you couldn't name. The scent of fresh soil hung in the air as you walked through them. The house itself was neither big or new, but was most definitely haunted. There was no doubt about it. It was obvious in the way the windows watched you approach. In the way the smoke curled lazily through a draft you couldn't feel. In the doorknob in a shape of a hissing bat.

"Do we… knock?" you whispered. For reasons you couldn't explain, you had a feeling the house was listening to every word.

"That's usually how it goes," Loki's reply was equally quiet. He made no move to knock, though.

A hollow hooting was the only warning before a dark shape swooped by your heads and landed over the door. The owl was big, even once it settled and closed the wings. The feathers, in various shades of grey and muddy brown, hid it almost perfectly against the wooden planks of the house.

It was a nice owl, one might think without looking closely. Because under further scrutiny, one would notice the deep gash only partially hidden by the puffed up feathers, and the bones peeking out underneath them.

You stared at the dead owl and it stared back.

It hooted.

"I know, I said I'm coming!" the voice from inside the house shouted. The footsteps neared. Loki and you braced against whatever you'd have to face.

The door creaked open.

Many thoughts had passed through your mind, but one thing you didn't expect to see was a spotty-faced, alarmingly skinny young man in jeans and a cloud of smoke surrounding him. You got a facefull of an aroma that reminded you of college dorms. You wondered if Loki thought he’d met the wrong end of a skunk.

"Listen," he said, gesticulating wildly. "I know that y'all always want shit, but my grandma is still on her vacation, and I'm currently busy. She'll surely contact you once she's done, but nothing has changed since last time, and I still don't know when she'll be back."

The owl descended majestically and sat on his still raised hand. The man blinked in mild confusion.

"I fed you already, don't give me that look, Barbara."

Loki looked at you. You looked at Loki. The owl turned her head backward and noticed both.

"I might be wrong, but I'm pretty sure this is the first time we're meeting," Loki forced himself to say after your not-so-subtle nudge to his ribs. "Could we bother you for just a moment?"

"I'm busy, I've got a shift tomorrow and—"

Loki barged in anyway, not interested much in whatever the man had to say.

The little house turned out to be more of a cottage. Even though some work had been done to restore it and make use of modern inventions, the very core of the cottage stayed the same as it possibly had been for decades, if not longer.

The herbs hanging from the ceiling to dry filled the air with a pleasant, if a little heavy smell that clung to skin and clothes alike. The huge chimney was full of wooden planks and blasting enough heat from the other end of the large working space to make you regret wearing winter clothing. Whatever was boiling in the huge iron pot hanging over the blazing fire was unlikely to be edible judging by the consistency and color. Or at least you hoped it was not supposed to be edible.

The owl flew in and perched on a chair.

"Listen, I'd really appreciate it if you could leave me alone," the man groaned, following you.

He took another drag and exhaled a cloud of smoke, eyes red-rimmed. The owl hissed and moved over the chimney, where she sat with as close to an angry expression as a half-dead owl was capable of.

To your left, a rather familiar and highly surprising uniform laid along with medical equipment.

"We'll leave as soon as we get the answers we need," you promised. "And our first question is - who the hell are you, exactly?"

The man blinked. "Are you joking? I thought you were clients."

"What would you sell if we were?"

"I mean," he gestured around. "It's my grandma who deals with potions, but I suppose I could give you a medical check up if you need one? And don't worry if you're dying, that's even better, I've got that covered too. Just make sure to come to me before the decay starts, and I'll put you back on your feet in no time."

"Wait, I'm confused," Loki frowned. "Are you a doctor or a necromancer?"

"My dude, I have no idea where you've been the past few decades, but if you think med staff is capable of making a living from just one job, you honestly should get a reality check. Look around - I literally still live with my grandma and don't even get me started on how much debt I still have to pay off with those stupid side jobs."

"You mean, resurrecting pets?" You looked at the owl. Barbara was not blinking.

"Listen, I'm at the point of my life where I don't ask questions. I just need the money. I want to move out. Have you any idea what it is like to live with your 260 year old grandma who has a better social life than you?"

The silence was a little awkward.

"Precisely."

Loki wanted to take a deep, steadying breath, but whatever the young man had been smoking didn't sit well with Loki's lungs.

"I must ask though, are you raising the dead because you're such a terrible doctor, or is—"

"Paperwork."

Loki blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Have you any idea how much paperwork follows every death? I'd rather bite off my hand than do any more extra unpaid time than I absolutely have to." The man sat at the table and produced a stash of pot from somewhere. With slow, precise movements he started to roll another blunt. You bent your knees to see under the table, but couldn't find any hidden drawers.

Loki nodded at the man’s comment, although he was nowhere near possessing that kind of knowledge. Deaths that he usually participated in involved little to no paperwork.

"Was this involved in one of your recent side-jobs?" Loki put the little wooden box on the table.

The man shook it before opening. Only after sniffing it did the look on his face change to recognition. "Yeah, I think it was. I was paid to get a pin from it. I don't know what happened to it afterward, though. The client just paid and disappeared."

"How did you get it?"

"Mice."

"What?" Loki asked. You looked around, just in case.

"No one cares about mice, especially in huge warehouses. That makes them perfect for the job, especially if they're controlled properly."

The dead owl hooted in agreement. Loki had an idea how the mice had been initially caught.

"That complicates our case," he whispered to you.

"Who paid you?" you asked, hoping that the answer wouldn't be...

"I don't know," the young man shrugged. "Some guy in a trenchcoat and lots of shiny money. My favorite kind of a client."

The man suddenly had a few golden coins out and in his hand. You hadn’t even seen his hands go under the table that time. The coins were heavy and most definitely not fake, although you didn't recognize any of the symbols they bore.

Loki did.

"Do you think that agent of yours will cover any extraterrestrial expenses?" he asked, watching the reflexes shine on the golden surface.

"Where are we going?"

"To the biggest black-market-turned-casino-turned-complete-mess of a planet in the universe."

"How lovely," you said.

Barbara agreed, hooting happily as she hopped off the chimney and landed on Loki's shoulder.

"Take her." The young necromancer yawned sleepily. "She hates me anyway. Just remember not to give her any pickles. She's got terrible gas."

#please hate me #loki x reader #loki x you #loki #loki laufeyson #loki marvel #loki imagine #loki laufeyson imagine #loki series #loki mcu #marvel loki #loki fanfic #avengers loki

56 notes · View notes

tealin · 4 years

Text

Cape Crozier: The Outward Journey

As always, please visit the original blog for proper formatting. Sigh, Tumblr.

I am telling this as the last of my field trips, because it was without doubt the climax of my Antarctic adventures. In actual fact, this happened the day after the previous climax, which was when I flew over the Beardmore Glacier. If time was invented so everything didn't happen at once, and space was invented so it didn't happen to you, then Time and Space were apparently out on a girls' weekend in late November 2019.

There was one major journey yet to undertake, in my visits to sites of historical importance. It was the location of a minor side-quest in the story of the Scott Expedition – one could, theoretically, leave it out of a retelling with no narrative consequences – but it's the central episode and emotional fulcrum of The Worst Journey in the World, and gave the book its title. In June and July 1911, the dead of Antarctic winter, three men set off from Cape Evans to reach the Emperor penguin colony at Cape Crozier, on the other side of Ross Island, to fetch some eggs when the embryos were at the right stage of development to yield potential clues to the evolution of birds. The adventure ended up being more of a test of human endurance than avian ancestry, and the results got from the few specimens they did collect did not advance the theory they were hoped to prove (though scientists would remind us that negative results are still results). However, it is an amazing story of what people are willing to undertake for the sake of intellectual progress, and in this instance, of how cast-iron character can make the unimaginably awful endurable, and as such, it very much warrants the retelling.

Unlike Cape Evans, Cape Crozier is hard to get to, hostile, and not very well documented. There was no way I could ever visit it at midwinter, but, having almost no clue what the place was like beyond the written word, it was vitally important to me to stand there myself and get a sense of the geography, so that I could draw figures groping around it in moonlight and blizzard when the time came. Luckily the NSF agreed that it was important I go, because it was the most complex and expensive trip to arrange. It would necessitate a helicopter ride; helicopters cost so much to fly, and are so necessary for shuttling people and stuff around any part of Antarctica that is inaccessible by plane (which is most of Antarctica), that their use is very strictly rationed. I had exactly enough helicopter time allocated to get me to Cape Crozier and back. Therefore, we had to fly on a day when it was absolutely certain we would not have to turn around, because an aborted trip would mean I didn't have enough flight hours left to try again. Antarctic weather is unpredictable and Cape Crozier has a reputation for turning very nasty very fast, so this needed to be a careful judgement call.

The first day it was posited I fly, it didn't happen – I forget why; I think there was a backup in other jobs, and mine, being of low importance, got dropped to make room. The second time, I was slotted for 3:45pm, though with one eye on the weather and the other on resources, the right was reserved to cancel at any time. A little after 2:30 my coordinator called to say we were, as far as anyone could tell, good to go, so to meet at Helo Ops at 3 for the safety briefing and helmet fitting.

Accompanying me to the far reaches of Ross Island would be my coordinator, who had been a few times before; the pilot, who was one of the best in the biz and had flown for pretty much any Antarctic documentary you care to name; and a biologist, who was required to go because Cape Crozier hosted a rare and fragile species of Antarctic lichen, which we must be careful not to step on or disturb in any way. The biologist who usually went on these trips was feeling unwell, so she sent a replacement, who was very happy to have the opportunity as he had never been to Cape Crozier before. Of course, this meant he didn't know what the lichen looked like, but we would doubtless find out when we got there.

Team assembled and briefing done, we had only to wait for the flight to be activated. The last possible moment came and went without cancellation, so we were on.

The latest weather report from the station at Cape Crozier was that it was 30% cloudy with winds at 7 knots. Keeping an eye on the wind was important for obvious safety reasons; the cloud conditions, though, were important for less obvious reasons. The helicopter pilot needs shadows and detail to be able to tell how far away the ground is, either to stay in the air or to make an emergency landing. When clouds diffuse sunlight, a snow-covered surface looks perfectly blank, and no details show up to give a sense of scale or distance, so it's unsafe to fly.

We were supposed to have flown along the south coast of Ross Island, following the route that Wilson, Bowers, and Cherry-Garrard sledged at great cost in 1911. That side of the island was cloudy, however, so we were redirected to fly around the other side. From a historical perspective this was a bit of a disappointment, but from an artistic one, the north side of the island was absolutely stunning, and I very quickly came to see why people with money to burn choose to travel by helicopter.

Plus, it meant we started out journey by flying over Cape Evans.

All of Ross Island is volcanic, and near Cape Royds is a small parasitic cone which was explored by the expedition's geologists, who were also the first to climb Mt. Erebus. I thought it was named Mt. Sis, after someone's sister, but in fact it is Mt. Cis, after one of their dogs. Our pilot had been this way before and had something special to show us:

On top of Mt. Cis is a pickaxe. I don't believe there's any historical record of anyone leaving it there, but the Nimrod Expedition is not my speciality. It has been checked out, and the pickaxe is a model that was in use in the early 20th century, so either an early explorer stuck it there and didn't bother writing it down, or a later explorer found an old pickaxe and stuck it there to give the impression an early explorer had done so. Anyway, it's been there as long as anyone can remember, and doesn't seem to have suffered much, so will probably continue to be there for some time to come.

From there, onwards up the east coast to cross over the shoulder between Mt Erebus and Cape Bird, then over the snowy slopes of Terror, and the dissipating sea ice, to reach our destination.

Our first sight of Cape Crozier was the Adélie penguin rookery. This is one of the largest in the world, where upwards of 250,000 penguins congregate to make the next generation of penguins every year. I had not seen a penguin yet, and though my eyeballs were pointed directly at them, I was too far up to see any now, but their presence is evident in the vast, vast amount of light brown penguin poo.

On this side of Ross Island, the ice shelf is unimpeded by smaller islands or awkward quirks of geology as it is around McMurdo. As it grinds around the corner, here, it crinkles, and then as it straightens out again, the crinkles break, and the ice lets in long fingers of sea, which freezes during the winter. It is on these frozen fingers, sheltered from the worst of the blizzards by the taller segments of Ice Shelf, that the Emperor penguins incubate their eggs through the Antarctic winter.

It was these finger bays that our intrepid explorers were trying to reach, but they needed to establish their base camp somewhere a little more secure, on the solid rock of Cape Crozier. We were on our way to do the same.

The hill coming up was incredibly exciting to see, perhaps even more exciting than Observation Hill. When the Terra Nova first arrived at Ross Island, it was not on the McMurdo side of it, but rather here, because Cape Crozier was posited to be the most sensible site for Expedition headquarters. It had been explored on the Discovery Expedition, so they knew there was permanent access to the ice shelf, and thus the road south, unlike Hut Point or Cape Royds which would be cut off by miles of open sea for half the year. It had reliable fresh water nearby, and the Emperor penguins would be right next door. On the day the Terra Nova arrived, though, the swell on the sea was too high to permit a landing, and when they sent out a scouting party on one of the whaleboats, they discovered no suitable landing place. So they had no choice but to make for the old familiar haunts on the other side of the island.

Now, this is so much historical trivia, except that as part of exploring my desired artistic style and putting together my grant proposal for this trip, I had drawn that scouting journey, and prominent in the scene is this very hill, with its orca eye-spot of snow. The early explorers called it The Knoll.

This was based on a photograph taken on that day, which clearly shows The Knoll, and also that in January 1911 the ice front was a very long way back from where it is now.

As you can see, what is open water in 1911 is thick and pressured ice in my own photo from 2019.

Now, before you jump on this as proof that climate change is a lie, you may like to hear about my conversation with a scientist who has been studying the Cape Crozier Emperors for over forty years. He said that, while usually the leading edge of the ice shelf crumbles into small icebergs, occasionally enormous chunks drift off in one go. When they do, they take a whole generation of Emperor chicks with them, long before they are ready to swim, and that generation is lost. There is another Emperor colony at Beaufort Island, off the north coast of Ross Island, and following a catastrophe at Cape Crozier, a lot of breeding pairs move to Beaufort, and vice versa.

When the Crozier party arrived at the Emperor rookery in July 1911, Wilson was expecting the two thousand birds he'd seen when he visited with the Discovery, but there were only a hundred. Therefore it is plausible that, sometime between 1903 and 1911, a very large chunk of ice had pulled away from Cape Crozier, pushing the shoreline back and scaring off the penguins.

Back to the present, now, or at least last November. We had just passed The Knoll and were on our way to our landing site, a short walk away from the site of our penguin hunters' stone igloo. The place they chose to call home is the thin little ridge sticking out into the mist at the left of this photo:

Here we come …

And there we are.

When the Crozier party set off on their science trip in 1911, the three men hauled two sledges for two and a half weeks, through deep soft snow and temperatures that broke known records – down to -77°F one night, according to the thermometer slung under the sledge. The transcendent misery of marching in frozen clothes, not being able to get proper sleep for the shivering, and burning their precious fuel through the night just to survive, is carved deep in Cherry's writing of the experience. To say it was hellish is no exaggeration: Cherry points out that Dante put the circle of ice below the circles of fire in his Inferno, and thought it was apropos. The greatest challenge of our own journey out was landing the helicopter: given the sensitive environment and the fragile lichens, there was a specific landing site that was supposed to be marked out with stones. Our pilot circled once to find it, and came back around because he couldn't spot it the first time, then finally landed right on the GPS waymark because there was no visible clue where the actual site was supposed to be. As difficulties go, it hardly bears mention. Whether we'd earned it or not, however, we were there.

#antarctica #cape crozier #helicopter #travel #photography #photos #winter journey #the worst journey in the world #apsley cherry-garrard #edward wilson #birdie bowers #henry robertson bowers #edward adrian wilson #bill wilson #emperor penguins #science #adventure

45 notes · View notes

timelordthirteen · 3 years

Text

In All Things 25/?

Mr. Gold/BelleFrench, Explicit (eventually)

Summary: A Rumbelle arranged marriage AU.

Chapter Summary: The morning after the party, Gold and Lady Ella have a talk over breakfast, Lady Ella is a goddamn delight, and I do some blatant foreshadowing. :)

Notes: The conversation in this chapter was intended to be a bridge to what I really wanted to get to, but Ella ran away with things because she is so fun to write. Apologies that this chapter isn't longer, this is probably a huge mess because it was edited late. I'm curious if anyone will notice the blink and you'll miss it thing I slid in here...

[AO3]

Gold went to bed not long after Belle left him in the library, having waited several minutes, until he was sure that she had made it all the way upstairs to her room.

The evening had been much more enjoyable than he’d anticipated, and indeed more than it had been for him in some time. He could only attribute that to Belle’s presence. Most people who lived in the area were no doubt as excited to see the new Lady Gold as they were for a party. Of course once they met her in person, she won them over as easily as she had him with her charm, grace, and beauty. It only made what he’d done worse.

His thoughts had kept him from falling asleep for some time, but he had, unfortunately, awoke early to an agonizing pain in his leg. He felt he rather deserved it, both for dancing quite a bit more than he should have, and for his having committed Belle to a life she would likely come to resent.

If they had been simply indifferent to each other, it might have been more manageable. He could have accepted their marriage as a useful and satisfactory association for both of them, but she had been so determined to be kind and to befriend him. He’d told her she was the most beautiful woman in the room, and he’d meant every word of it. Last evening, with her twirling and smiling so radiantly, he could only admit that his plans made him the worst sort of man. In truth, he might end up being seen as no better than the likes of Milton in her eyes, and the idea of it pained him far more than his leg.

Countess de Vil came into the room as Gold shifted in his seat, trying in vain to find a position that would relieve his aches. She made a face at the windows beyond the breakfast table, her eyes narrowing in the morning light and her face contorting as if in pain.

“Feeling a bit worse for wear?” he asked.

Lady Ella waved a hand at him and walked around the table to take a seat with her back to the double doors leading to the patio. “I’m perfectly fine, dear.”

He let out a short, bemused scoff. “Clearly. I’m sure it’s just the morning sun reflecting off the snow and ice, and not at all your enthusiasm for my wine last night.”

She shot him a glare and reached for the teapot, filling her cup almost to the brim and forgoing any milk or sugar. “So, about your lovely bride...”

“I’m sure she’ll be down soon.”

Ella selected a pastry with peach jam and sat back in her seat with a smirk. “That’s not what I was going to say.” He looked at her sideways, busying himself with spreading butter over a piece of wheat toast. “Truthfully, Gold, when did you become a fan of matrimony again? Lady Belle is pretty to be sure, but -”

Gold rolled his eyes. “My reasons are my own, thank you.”

“- was she really that bad off that she needed your money?” Ella continued, ignoring Gold’s interruption entirely.

She took a large bite of her pastry, pausing to lick some of the peach from her thumb, and then kept talking. “Of course that’s what everyone has been saying, but I think there’s more to it. Are you afraid you’ll need someone to look after your son? If so, you could have hired a governess to do that, and for far less than bailing out old Maurice I should think.”

“Ella...” he warned. “Please, this is not the time or place.”

Ella popped the last bit of fluffy pasty in her mouth, her eyes narrowing at Gold as she chewed. “Well, there has to be some reason you’ve suddenly married after spurning every other option available to you, and why you’ve chosen a woman fresh out of an engagement of her own, which, I will add, was rather abruptly - and possibly scandalously - ended.”

The lid of the teapot rattled sharply as Gold brought his fist down on the table. “That’s enough!”

The Countess sighed, not the least bit startled by his outburst and lifted her tea. “I don’t give any of that nonsense with Sir Gaston any credit,” she said, gesturing with the cup, “and I don’t mean to pry, but -”

“Oh, yes you do mean to,” he said wearily, sagging back against the chair as he rubbed at his knee.

��I don’t like to hear my friend’s name being raked through the mud by the gossips.” A moment later her hand, warm from holding her cup, covered his, and he sighed, finally meeting her eyes. “Just put my mind at ease and tell me there’s nothing to it.”

He flashed her a smile and nodded. “I promise, there’s nothing to it. And I’ve heard enough of it to know what they’re probably saying.”

“Good,” she answered with a tight squeeze of his fingers and a smile. “Because I rather like your Lady Belle. She’s delightful, and I’d be very disappointed if I had to hate her on your behalf.”

Then she took two slices of bacon, sliding them onto her plate with a fork, and sat back in her seat. “I heard you were at the palace last month. What was that about?”

Gold waved a hand and made a face. “Just some business with the King.”

“Like paying off Lord Maurice’s debts?”

He shook his head. “Countess, I believe you’re about to overstay your welcome.”

Lady Ella threw her head back and laughed. “Oh, when do I not, darling?”

“When do you not.... what?”

Gold and Lady Ella looked to the doorway to see Belle, who smiled at them as she entered and took the seat across from Gold.

“Put her foot in her mouth,” Gold said with a smirk.

Belle’s eyebrows lifted, but she said nothing as she poured herself some tea.

The Countess gave Gold yet another glare, and then smiled sweetly at Belle. “When do I not make a marvelous spectacle of myself, of course.”

“Is this a trick question?” Jefferson asked.

Everyone turned to look at him, and he pushed off the doorframe to saunter into the room. He was without his usual jacket, and seemed to be fighting to get the cuffs of his shirt buttoned. Lady Ella, Gold, and Jefferson shared a hearty laugh, and Belle sat back in her chair, holding her teacup to her lips as she looked on.

Jefferson joined them at the table, and there was the usual light conversation that had filled their mornings for the last few weeks. Belle was keen for the Countess’ opinion on the matter of a woman running an estate, which Lady Ella was all too eager to lay out for her in detail. She went so far as to relay the story of having to sort out her late husband’s investments and the problems with some accounting irregularities.

“I’m afraid I know how you feel in that regard,” Belle said, exchanging a look with Gold. “Seems we’ve both had our share of irresponsible finances.”

“That’s men for you,” Ella sighed, “can’t be trusted.”

Gold rolled his eyes. “Present company accepted, of course.”

Ella laughed again and then pushed to her feet. “Well, thank you for a lovely celebration as always, but I should be off. It’s a long ride back home.”

Belle’s eyes widened at Lady Ella’s attire. Long gone was the elegant gown of the previous evening, or the day dress she’d been expecting, and in its place was a set of well fitted riding leathers, complete with knee high boots.

Belle stood slowly, the surprise almost making her forget her manners. “You’re riding, Lady Ella?”

“Oh, yes,” Ella said, grinning. “I always do. Best cure for what ails me after a party is fresh air.” Then she paused and gave Belle a wistful look. “And I adore it.”

Belle smiled widely. “As do I.”

Ella’s face lit up and she moved around the end of the table to take Belle’s hands in hers. “Oh, well then, when you visit we must go for a ride together! I have a gray gelding named Jasper, just turned four. He’ll be perfect for you this spring, very docile.”

Belle could feel Gold’s eyes on her as her lips curved. “If it’s all the same to you, Countess, I’d prefer to ride my own horse.”

“Of course!” Ella said, giving her hands a squeeze. “As you wish, darling, you’d be my guest after all, and I am never deficient in what is owed to my guests, am I, Gold?”

“I would never suggest such a thing,” he replied, hiding a wince as he pushed to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane. “Come, Ella, let me see you out.”

Ella gave him a short nod and then stepped back from Belle.. “It was lovely to meet you, Lady Belle.”

Then she offered a short bow, in the manner of a gentleman rather than the curtsy expected of a lady, much less a Countess, and Belle’s amusement grew. Though she did not know Countess de Vil all that well yet, the blatant eschewing of societal norms in such a way, and her intent to ride her own horse back to an estate she rightfully owned, could only be described as delightful.

In turn, Belle inclined her head towards the Countess, and smiled. “And you as well.”

Gold exchanged a look with Jefferson, that was bemused to say the least, and then followed Lady Ella out of the room. Jefferson and Belle went back to their breakfast, which suddenly seemed much more reserved and sedate than before. Her intention to ask Jefferson why he seemed so rushed this morning, was forgotten as her mind whirled with thoughts of Lady Ella.

Belle had always been frustrated by the role impressed on her by the world, and the lack of agency and freedom that came with it. The Countess was a woman who seemed to care for none of it and to do exactly as she pleased, while maintaining the whole of her title and power in the process. Lady Ella de Vil was definitely someone with whom she wanted to become better acquainted.

Gold and the Countess walked in silence to the wide front entrance of Thornhill.

The cold winter air felt pleasant against his face, and though he did enjoy Lady Ella’s company, this seemed to be one of the times where he was anxious for her to be on her way and to have his home back to normal again.

“Look, Ella,” he said quietly, “you’re not entirely wrong in your assumptions, but there are - there are other things in play right now. I need to keep things close, do you understand?”

Ella waved a hand at him. “Oh, you know I just enjoy teasing you, Gold. I know full well you’re scheming something, you always are, just be careful.”

He gave her a wry smile. “I know how to handle the royal court, and the King.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Her look was pointed, making his eyes narrow as he regarded her. “I’m talking about your Lady Belle.”

Gold frowned and planted his cane in front of him. “What about Belle?”

Lady Ella sighed and looked over to where the coachmen were loading the last of her things into the carriage “Just - just make sure you know what you’re doing,” she said finally. Then she turned back to Gold. “She’s a delightful young woman and it would pain me to see her hurt. Or you for that matter.”

He huffed and tipped his head back. “Ella...”

“I’m serious!” she insisted, taking him by the arm as she came closer. “The heart is a volatile thing, Gold. You know that.”

His eyebrows lifted as he fixed her with a flat look. “There is little danger of any hearts being broken, I assure you.”

A soft snort escaped her and she patted his arm before letting go. “I’ll remember you said that.”

He smiled. “You always do.”

The coachmen brought over Lady Ella’s horse as they talked, and stood holding the reigns at the bottom of the front steps until she came down. The horse, a broad, jet black Friesian mare, nudged the Countess, and she gave her muzzle an affectionate rub. She moved to the side and mounted the beast in one, rather elegant, motion, and Gold found himself wondering at how Belle might look on such a horse. He had the fleeting idea that he might buy her one if she wanted it, but then she had her own horse, which she was no doubt missing, and he determined that bringing it to Thornhill would be a far better option. He would write to Desmond about it, and see if it were possible to do before within the next fortnight.

The clack of hooves on the stones shook Gold from his thoughts, and he noticed Ella staring down at him with a bemused expression. “I’ll be back at court in two weeks,” she said, “for the New Year’s ball. If I hear anything interesting, I’ll let you know.”

Gold tilted his head and started to smirk as another idea came to mind. “Perhaps I’ll be there as well.”

The Countess grinned devilishly as her horse pranced impatiently next to the steps. “Well, you do have a new wife to show off...”

He shook his head and raised his hand, giving her a small wave. “Good bye, Lady Ella.”

Her head dipped as she flashed him one last cheeky smile. “Gold.”

He stayed outside for several minutes after the Countess and her carriage had passed through the gates of Thornhill. The contrast of the warm, bright sun and the cold, crisp air was oddly soothing. The heart is a volatile thing, Gold. You know that. And he did, all too well, just as he knew the pain of it being broken. It was why he had decided to marry the way he did. It would ensure his son’s future without any other entanglements on his part. Lady Ella might be perceptive, and she liked to tease now and then, but on this he had decided that she was simply wrong.

#rumbelle #rumbelle fic #belle x mr. gold #arranged marriage au #in all things #my rumbelle fic #fic

24 notes · View notes

tiaragqueen · 4 years

Text

Aegis

✂ Pairing: Yandere! Adult! Shouto Todoroki x Reader

✂ Word Count: 1,2k+

✂ Trigger Warnings: Manipulation, possessiveness, mention of kidnapping

[Edited]

***

If you like my writing, please support me on ko-fi!

“Your job's a joke, you're broke, your love life's D.O.A. It's like you're always stuck in second gear. When it hasn't been your day, your week, your month, or even your year, but I'll be there for you.” - I’ll Be There For You [The Rembrandts]

It was just a joke, honestly.

During the peaceful silence with Shōto, who liked to visit your apartment from time to time, you’d playfully wished someone would just ‘kidnap you already’. You didn’t really think about the implication of your desire since you tended to speak nonsense when stressed out, anyway. All you wished for was a break from your growing paperwork, someone to pamper you and ease the pressure like a lover would. You might not necessarily yearn for a relationship, but the idea of someone being utterly devoted to you was nice.

And that was what Shōto thought, too. But his way of showing it was… startling, to say the least.

The first thing you saw after you opened your eyes was a plain white ceiling with a pendant light, its bulb dark. Next, you felt the fluffiness pressed against your head. A pillow, you concluded as you groped the said thing, but it was strangely wider than your old one, and comfier too. Then, you noticed how the room had more space and there was a LED TV in front of the queen size bed you were occupying. All of it just screamed ‘wealth’ throughout, and you didn’t know whether you should scream for help or relish the luxury. Perhaps, you could even pretend you owned every belonging despite your poor finance. A little imagination never hurt anyone, no?

A door to your left suddenly opened, snapping you back to reality. Shōto sauntered inside wearing nothing but a towel to cover his lower part, bicolored hair tousled. Your face blanched as you gawked at him, the realization that you’d been sleeping on his room – on his freaking bed – finally settled in. Although you knew that you were just jumping to conclusions, who else was richer anyway? Who else was born from a famous and wealthy family?

“S-Shōto, what–? What am I doing here? Why am I here?! Did I – oh God!” You screeched and pulled your hair in frustration. “I didn’t sleep with you, did I?! Tell me we didn’t. Please!”

He stopped searching for his clothes and turned to face you, wondering the reason why you seemed alarmed around him. Why did it matter if you both slept together? Didn’t you say you loved him? “Technically, yes–”

“What?!”

“But we didn’t have sex.” he continued before you could break down, and the effect of that sentence was powerful enough to elicit an audible sigh of relief from you. Slumping on the white mattress, you clutched your chest to regulate the violent heartbeats.

Cocking his head, Shōto drawled. “We can try if you want.”

“No!” you shouted quickly, hiding your blooming visage with both hands. For as long as you could remember, Shōto never once referred sex, not even a joke. He always looked impassive whenever those raunchy scenes appeared on the TV, or make out. Then again, it was his default face, anyway. Nevertheless, you liked and respected his cute obliviousness and ability to handle erotic things without constantly insinuating them like other males.

However, you tended to forget that he was an adult now, not the awkward teenager you’d first met in high school.

“Why not? We’re lovers, after all.”

You slowly raised your head and blinked dumbly. “What…?”

“Isn’t that why you prayed for someone to kidnap you? So they could take care of you?” he inquired innocently. “I admit, I’m still rather dense to people’s feelings, but your wish has opened my eyes to see beyond the obvious. I felt guilty for being ignorant of your sufferings, so I made it up by moving you to my house. Or, should I say, our house.”

You opened your mouth to say something, anything, but no words managed to leave. On one hand, you were glad that you didn’t have to live in your horrible apartment anymore. But, on the other hand, this was too sudden. Living with your best friend? Wait, no, lover. Did he assume that title after you made your silly wish? But it was just a joke, and besides, you never mentioned dating anyway.

“If something isn’t up to your liking, tell me and we can change it immediately. I want you to be more comfortable here.” Shōto smiled guilelessly, much to your disbelief.

“Shōto, no…” His tender mien morphed into confusion when you shook your head. “I didn’t… I didn’t think about anything when I said that, okay? It was just… it was just bullshit on my part because I was stressed out and–”

“Exactly.” Shōto cut you off and clasped your hands, a gleam of affection flecked his bicolored eyes. “I don’t want you to become more stressed out than necessary, so I decided to remove you from such an environment. After all, as my girlfriend, you deserve only the best in life.”

His reason didn’t make sense to you, but the sincerity behind it was enough to hinder you from speaking once again.

“B-but… what about my job? I need money to live, too.” you finally whispered after a moment of doubtful silence.

Sighing, Shōto patted your crown and smiled. “There’s no need for you to worry about that anymore. I’ve already dealt with it.”

“And what exactly do you mean by ‘dealt with it’?”

“I told your boss you quit.”

Time seemed to slow as your brain processed another bombshell he dropped on you in less than an hour. Once it sunk in, it felt as if the only piece of freedom you had now after moving to his house finally slipped through your fingers and shattered like glass. It wasn’t your favorite job in the world, but the result – your hard work and payment, regardless of how small it was – brought a sense of security and gratification. You hated having to rely on someone financially, because what if they descend to poverty tomorrow?

“You… you can’t do that! My job might be shitty, but it’s everything to me, just like heroism to you!”

“If you hated your job, then why did you devote so much time to it? I thought people would rather avoid such work, or do it poorly.”

“Y-yeah, well, that’s because…” you stammered, trying to elude his piercing gaze. “That’s because for some people… love the feelings it gives. You know, like, personal satisfaction of being paid after working so hard.”

“But your salary sometimes isn’t enough to cover you daily, is it? Especially the rent that seems to rise every month.”

“I-I know that already!” you huffed, scowling. “It’s just… I’m not ready, Shōto. It’s all too sudden for me to comprehend.”

“Well, I’m here, aren’t I?” he murmured, squeezing your shoulders reassuringly. “If it’s money you’re concerned about, rest assured, I’ll bring it to you every day. I may even save some if it’ll be any consolation to you. Your boss clearly didn’t appreciate your hard work, because if he did, he would’ve promoted you or gave you rewards. But he didn’t, and you were still stuck in the same position as years ago.”

Shōto leaned forward and kissed your forehead. “Don’t worry too much, okay? Just enjoy your new life now. All I’m asking is your obedience, that’s all. If you listen to my words, then everything will be okay.”

You stared at him for a moment before sighing in defeat, acknowledging the futility of arguing with him any further. There was something about him that made his logic sounded… infallible, even if you couldn’t fathom it.

Suppressing the triumph that twitched the corner of his lips, Shōto tousled your hair and stood up.

“Now, go take a shower. There’s a place I want us to visit today.”

381 notes · View notes

gunmetal-magnus · 3 years

Text

And what if I can’t? What if I’m not worthy of my ideals?

As I stare out my apartment window and watch the drizzling sky, I’m drawn to the subtle gradient of yellow. Clouds coasting through the sky, gray yet without dismay. And the sun? The sun will live to break another day, that I am confident in. I only wish I were so confident in myself.

....

Life is strange. Mine in particular looks like it might be going in a good direction. I’ve been getting interviews for jobs and as someone who’s spent their fair share of time hopelessly unemployed and depressed, not knowing what to do with themselves (besides salsaing with suicide ideation), I should be elated about any progress. I wish I could say that I am or even that I was but that wouldn’t be accurate. The truth is that I’m a harrowing hailstorm of things - surprisedsleepybusycuriousthankfuloptimisticexposedhorrifiedcriticalnervousanxiousinsecurepressuredtired - it’s all a bit overwhelming, isn’t it?

Knocking on the looming doors of success, I find myself feeling the crushing weight of my expectations. The walls are a deafening white with not a texture or pattern in sight. If you try to touch them they ripple like water. There are no windows for me to peer through. Fog creeps around me like a cheetah stalking its prey. It’s so thick you could choke on it. Success is...scary.

I know I know, that sounds a ridiculous thing to say, shouldn’t I be more afraid of failing? Welllll...no. You see, the weight I mentioned earlier was not merely crushing, it was also comforting. Over time failure became familiar and eventually, my friend. I got used to failure as the status quo, smothered in its cosy embrace and the threat of change, of combing out of this embrace into the chilling embrace of uncertainty, of becoming someone worthy of their success - it’s unfamiliar, it’s scary. But just what is so comforting about not achieving your goals - about not getting what you really want? For me it’s because of one paralyzing question: And what if I can’t? What if I’m not worthy of my ideals?

“But…I’m…I’m just a soldier, I-I’m not worthy.”

It’s a terrifying prospect that I could give something my all and find that I just couldn’t do it. I don’t want to be saying “I did my best and it wasn’t good enough,” because what I may mean is “I wasn’t good enough. I don’t have the power.” But that’s exactly the point! I do have the power and if that is true then I have to come to terms with my responsibility to that power - that it’s up to me to use that power because when you can do the things that you can do...and then the bad things happen...they happen because of you. I don’t want that burden so it’s easier to cast it off and reinvent the narrative by claiming powerlessness. It’s easier to identify as a fraud and be done with it, to say to myself “men like me should’ve never dared to believe.”

Haha…paradoxically in our journey to discover our own power we discover just how little power we hold, that our only power is in ourselves. Time and how bound we are to what we know at present, our surrounding circumstances, and the fact that we’re only people who can only do people things - these serve to remind us that the power of what we control and free will are only so vast. It’s strange - you are responsible for how you use your power but not the outcome because you’re not omnipotent. Bad things don’t always happen because of you. Sometimes they just happen. Sometimes things in general...just happen.

Let’s say I achieve success, what then? The pressure to maintain is immense and to exceed - it’s even more so. Who perpetuates this pressure? For many of us it’s society but the greater threat lies within the darkness of our own hearts. The societal gaze is nothing without validation and that validation comes from our self-worth and how grossly entangely that is with achieving success. There is an expectation of linearity and escalation in progress, if you get good grades you’re expected to keep getting good grades and then some, so it’s shocking and disappointing when you don't. People wonder how that could’ve happened, you wonder how it could’ve happened, you start to doubt yourself...should you though? Writer and retired athlete Christopher Bergland challenges the expectation of linearity in success and explained in a conversation with his daughter, “I learned as an athlete that in order to succeed and become the best that I could be, I had to fail again and again—but always keep trying. Inevitably, every time I raised the bar, and took on a new athletic challenge, I would have to fail first in order to ultimately succeed and break a record." He embraced failure as part of the ebb and flow, it was part of success. To him, failure was no reason for doubt. So why should it be for me? I don’t know, because life’s not that simple I suppose? Identifying as unworthy and fraudulent, these are not easy to shake. Negative self-identity manifests itself in habitual self-sabotage. Worrying about how we align with our perceptions of ourselves, procrastination via instant gratification distractions like Instagram scrolling and going back on our promises such as taking that drink we know we shouldn’t become commonplace - habitual and they will take habitual work to undo them.

Even so, is this really just about the burden of ideals? Perhaps not. Susanne Babbel writes in her article “Fear of Success'' that the physiological reactions to trauma and excitement over success are similar - too similar. “When we experience a traumatic event — such as a car accident or a school bullying incident — our body associates the fear we experience with the same physiological feelings we get while excited.” Heart tensions, shortness of breath, quivering and more - they are triggered in me by both stimuli and my body cares not for the messenger, only the message and that message is “be afraid.”

if I’m responding to excitement as if it were trauma, the question is what is my trauma?

…

Babbel mentions that throughout our lives, we may be made to feel less than, “many of us — especially if we've been subject to verbal abuse — have been told we were losers our whole lives, in one way or another. We have internalized that feedback and feel that we don't deserve success.” I knew someone who made me feel like this, I called her my mum. I spent a lifetime being told by her in one way or another that I wasn’t good enough. I remember being dragged into the unlit attic by her for losing a crayon as a child, I remember being shouted at for getting some mediocre grades in junior high school - being told that I better do better, I remember being told that she had given up hope on me - I remember, all of it. We don’t talk anymore - except we do. I internalised her voice and I made it my own, I began to identify with failure. I have an excerpt from an old journal entry that illustrates this identity crisis all too well.

5.11.20

“Sometimes I really wonder

If it’s better

To be a

Fuckup

Than a Success

Without

The Interesting Mess.

...Why do I have to compromise the things that make me who I am to be happy?...Why can’t I have my misery?...I hate doing the right thing...Maybe I like being a failure, a mess, a no man’s man.”

By this time I had long since left home but you can’t outrun your demons, only challenge them. I have only begun to unravel this voice due the therapy I have recently completed and am fighting this battle every day. Sometimes I lose and they gain territory. Other times I manage to reclaim it and even add more. It’s an endless battle.

And yet, the voice of Failure clings to me like some foul smog. Since he doesn’t want to let me try and fall, he’ll say, “It’s comfortable here. Flounder into the fondue of failure, it’s what you know - it suits you. What precisely is so wrong with failure in the first place?”

…

It’s a good question. In an ideal world, the answer may be, “nothing in particular,” because I don’t need to succeed to be valid - do the people you love need to be successful for you to love them? I should hope not. However, it is not so simple for me to love myself. Failure will cost me something more than money and a career. The price of failure is stagnation, embracing the non-linearity of progress and I hate that. I’m grossly impatient and want to move forward with my life, not wallow in the depths of Misery Mires. I’ve been stuck here all my life and I’ve just begun the journey out of here. Failure, as far as I’m concerned, you don’t suit me as well as you think. I must change sometime because I don’t want to die in the claws of the demons from which I was born.

I can’t stay in my comfort zone. Yet I can - I’d even quite like to. Why? Because...because...deep down I’m still reconciling with the idea that I’m worthy, that I’m worthy of living a life worth living, that I can be what I say I am without fear that it’s all a lie and always will be. The only way for me to challenge such a belief is to fly in the face of it - to say that “I am worthy” and to act like I mean it, whatever that means - I don’t quite know yet. My therapist and I agreed that this would be a long road and that ideals are nothing without practice. I guess all I can do now is drive…

“If you aren’t worthy, you’ll keep trying until you are.” In order for me to be worthy of my ideals, I first need to believe that I even have a shot. Beyond that, I need to believe that I deserve to take it. Being worthy means recognising my power to change and the responsibility to act that comes with that. Simultaneously, my power is not all-controlling as I am only a person. Success isn’t linear and failure is a part of that. However the burden of trauma is heavy. The self-sabatory habits I picked up from that will require me to reinvent my self-identity and in turn deconstruct those habits. Lastly and perhaps most importantly, I need to be willing to give the process time. Can I? Haha! - s-sure, why not?

Perhaps one day I will find myself staring out into the sky - maybe it’s drizzling, maybe it’s not. Maybe through an apartment window, maybe in a lush field as the gentle breeze brushes by. The clouds are coasting by as they always have, slowly but surely. What colour are they? Who cares, I don’t even know what colour the sky will be. Maybe it’s illuminated with a lovely peach pink that reaches out and touches the heart of my inner romantic. Maybe it’s an apocalyptic red that leaves you weak in the knees - the possibilities are endless but it doesn’t matter - it doesn’t matter what may be. What matters is what will be and

I will be watching.

I’ll say I’m worthy and

I will mean it.

I don’t know yet know how

But I will

Because that’s what I’ve decided.

#self worth #fear of failure #fear of success #trauma

5 notes · View notes

spotofimagines · 4 years

Text

Keeping A Secret ~ Isaiah Jesus

A/N: Reader is a Shelby sister so a good chunk of this is about that. This gif is perfect for what I was picturing in my head when writing, that’s why it isn’t a gif of Isaiah in case people got confused. Enjoy! :)

Requested by: no one

Warnings: pregnancy, smoking

Summary: You are pregnant with your boyfriend Isaiah’s child and the last thing you want is your family to find out, but some are faster to realise than others.

Part 2(Unveiling A Secret) - Part 3(No Longer A Secret)

When you found out you were pregnant you were beyond happy. Happy because your relationship with Isaiah had reached such a high level of beauty. But god were you scared as well. Scared about having a baby so young. Scared about not being married. Scared about the things people would do to Isaiah since they had such strong opinions about your relationship already. But most of all, you were scared - no terrified - about what your brothers would do when they found out their little sister was one of those stupid girls that got knocked up out of wedlock.

You didn’t let them know, couldn’t let them know. That’s why you hadn’t much choice but to get the money you needed to go to the hospital from the vault. There was one strict instruction when it came the vault: you don’t take money out unless Tommy approved the reason. You knew the repercussions of doing this would be big but them knowing you were pregnant would be much worse so you took the risk, waiting for the perfect chance to take the amount you needed for your session the next day.

Unlucky for you, Tommy was the last one to check the amount he had that night and also the first to go in there in the morning after. As soon as he stepped through the heavy door he noticed the few messily-placed wads on the shelf to his left and realised some had been taken.

Tommy was absolutely furious. The rules concerning Shelby Company money were very clear and he knew it was the doings of someone who had keys to the shop as he wasn’t the last one out that locked up during the night. He had called a family meeting with Shelbys and Grays only, going mad at everyone sat around the table, explaining the rules in a bellowing voice yet again in disbelief that someone sat in front of him would do such a thing.

He took a deep breath and pointed his cigarette at each person in turn, calmly stating with long pauses in a quiet voice, "Whoever stole from family savings without reason is gonna get their head cut, so I hope you chose wisely." He flicked his cigarette onto the table in the middle of the kitchen and stormed out of the house. You were left trembling on the inside at your brother’s fury at the small act of missing money, knowing that at some point he would find out your secret and be ten times angrier.

---

A week later, everyone was gathered at the Garrison, talking and drinking after quite the hectic week they’d shared. Whilst sat opposite you in the Blinders’ private room, Tommy had noticed you weren't drinking your usual cocktail and when he asked you why, you blamed it on having a busy workload the next day. He accepted it as an answer, being too tired to investigate the real reason, but he didn't buy it for a second.

Then Isaiah came through the door behind Finn. He put his drink on the table and sat next to you, kissing your cheek and keeping his arm on the bench behind you as he asked you how you were feeling. You nodded and muttered "I'm alright, could be better." He smiled at you and replied, "No, you couldn’t be more perfect." before looking down at your stomach for a second so only you knew where he was looking.

His grin got bigger and goofier when he met your eyes again. He kissed your lips, pouring all of his love into you before smothering your face then your neck in cheeky little pecks. His arm fell from the back of the bench and snaked its way around your waist as your hand moved to hold his cheek. The feeling of his mouth on the soft spot under your ear made you giggle quietly and Isaiah’s heart bounced at the sound.

Tommy smiled to himself from across the table at the interaction as his little sister reminded him of his own Grace, forgetting about your excuses for no alcohol and letting the somewhat peaceful environment force himself to relax.

---

You hadn't turned up for work on time.

Being just under 2 months pregnant now the morning sickness was starting up. You'd told Isaiah to let Tommy know you'd be in your office after lunch, deciding to have a slow morning after spending an hour wretching up your guts with Isaiah rubbing your back before he had to leave.

When Isaiah walked in to the betting shop on his own, Tommy took a double take at his unusual sole appearance. Isaiah answered Tommy's questions, telling him you were sick but kept the reason why to himself, knowing you wanted it to remain a secret from them for a little while longer.

Tommy sighed a little frustrated but nodded his head, getting Isaiah caught up and started on his work. Isaiah’s yawn and the weary look on his face hit Tommy in such a way that he wished he would have missed it. He’d seen that behaviour in a few of the men in the shop in the past, hell he’d even experienced it himself.

That’s why he wished he hadn’t seen it because, like magic, all the parts started to align. You avoiding alcohol, spending most of your nights at Isaiah’s house, suddenly being rather tired and slow with work, you both leaving the Garrison early a few times, maybe even the culprit of the missing money from a couple weeks ago. The realisation that his precious little sister might be pregnant had dawned on him and it was scaring him half to death.

---

When you walked into the shop at noon it was fairly empty, most of the people having gone out for food or drinks. You were relieved as it gave your head a break from the loud noises of Birmingham for a minute as you slowly made your way to your office, your sniffling alerting Tommy you had arrived.

The break to your headache was short lived as you opened your office door to the back of Tommy's head sat at the chair in front of your desk. You closed the door behind you and leant back against it, your hand resting on the handle as you were frozen to the spot watching Tommy take a drag of his cigarette.

"Sit down y/n." Tommy said with no expression, waving his hand toward your chair across from him without turning to face you. You took a deep breath, preparing yourself for what seemed to a serious conversation as you made your way to your seat.

Your mind was in overdrive thinking about all the things he could want to talk about; the money you took, coming in late, maybe he knew about your pregnancy. No, he couldn't. The only person that knew was Isaiah and you had full trust in him that he would let you tell your brothers in your own time. He was a pretty good secret keeper too so you doubted he would let it just slip out.

The silence was deafening as you dumped your purse on the desk and sat down, wiping your nose again and lighting a cigarette of your own, taking a drag as you tried to avoid making contact with Tommy's stare.

It took a minute before Tommy stamped his cigarette into the ash tray and slid a small glass of whiskey toward you with a gentle tap. "Why weren't you in this morning?" He asked, leaning back and folding his hands across his lap as he watched you move the glass to the side. "I was sick. I am sick. I don't know where its come from but, its here."

"Y/n," Tommy sighed after your little drabble of excuses. "Why weren’t you in this morning?" He repeated, his serious tone making your heart beat faster as your mind racked over ways to hide the truth. "I told you," you said taking a drag, "I'm sick. I have snot in my nose, a pain in my head and vomit in my stomach. What more do you want?" Your tired red eyes met his for the first time, your physical state making Tommy ease up a bit as he knew, even if he didn’t like the reason why, you weren’t feeling good enough to take him shouting at you.

He raised his eyebrows at you in expectation, waiting for you to give in and tell him if his suspicions were correct, but you just looked away, staring out the window and smoking some more.

"Y/n I'm not angry, and I'm not going to raise my voice, but I'm tired. I know you are too." You nodded your head, your eyes closing as your head leant back against the top of your chair. "I'm tired of trying to figure things out, trying to find whose responsible for things, and tired of prying for answers. So just this once can you please make my life easy and tell me the truth." Your eyes were fixated on the chandelier in the middle of the ceiling while you absorbed Tommy's slow but stern words, quickly trying to decide if telling him the truth was the best thing to do.

Tommy opened his mouth, and you expected him to ask you the same question for a third time, but what he asked threw you off. "Have you talked to Polly about it?" Your eyes snapped to his before you relaxed and played off your nervousness. "About what?" You asked hoping your confused expression would trick him. But he knew you better than you knew yourself. He could see the fear in your body. "You know what." His quiet voice made your heart jump as the look in his eyes told you he knew what was going on.

"You refused a whiskey, you've been throwing up all morning and, correct me if I’m wrong, that money went missing for your benefit." He stayed monotone, making sure you didn’t lash out at him. All he wanted was answers and, by your lack of protest and drag of cigarette, he knew you had stopped lying to him.

"I don't need to know the details Y/N," He said leaning forward on the desk and lowering his voice, "but I suggest you talk to Polly about it. Yes?" You timidly met his eyes, drained of effort and energy, then nodded a little.

He smiled at you softly and stood up as you rubbed your sore head. "And you should stop smoking those, they're supposed to be bad for the baby." You paused for a second before taking one last long drag and squishing it down in the ashtray next to you.

Tommy was making his way out of your office as you tried to rub the pain out of your eyes from the stress. "Don't tell Arthur." You mumbled, barely loud enough for him to hear. But he did, stopped in his tracks and turned to face you with a raised eyebrow. You stayed with your hands against your forehead to keep it from falling down to the desk.

"Please don’t tell Arthur." You repeated a little louder, Tommy's heart breaking at the sound of your exasperation. "I don’t want him cutting Isaiah's head off." Tommy chuckled lowly, assuring you he wouldn’t tell a soul before quietly slipping out the room and leaving you in a quiet space.

Your secret was finally out to the person you were most scared to tell. And yet you still had to come up with a way to tell Polly about it without her throwing you and Isaiah into the fire by the scruffs of your necks.

#isaiah jesus #isaiah jesus x reader #isaiah jesus imagine #peaky blinders #peaky blinder imagine #thomas shelby #oneshot #my fic #my og post

512 notes · View notes

ahgaseda · 4 years

Text

enough | two

even if everyone else leaves me, you’re enough for me, you’re my only one, stand by me forever, only you, just you...

summary : to survive as a single woman in the big city, you resort to letting rich men pay for your company, but never anticipated that your first client would be the boy you once loved, Jinyoung.

warnings : strong profanity, explicit dialogue, references to prostitution, mentions of gang activity, graphic sexual content, potentially triggering elements involving mental health, panic attacks, etc.

miniseries chapters : one / two / three / four / five / six / seven

There weren’t enough cups of coffee in the world to rouse you after the sleepless night you’d had. Once Jinyoung ended the call, you searched the building for him, ultimately alarming security with the way you frantically checked every exit.

Eventually, you gave up, but his words haunted you and replayed in your mind the entire way home. Back at your apartment, you stripped to nakedness and collapsed on the bed, leaving your new violet gown lumped on the floor. Resting on your stomach with a pillow crammed between your arms, you felt your pulse quicken as you played his words over and over in your head.

It seemed Jinyoung had finally found you.

Your entire focus was fixated to him and refused to let go. Your heart raced out of control, practically dancing in your chest at the realization you were to be reunited with the boy you had once loved. Yet bitter tears pricked at your eyes, because you knew there was no reason Jinyoung should bear anything other than hatred for you after you left him.

He had tapped into the poison coursing through your home. He entered the perilous world of the gangs, vowing to surge up their ranks and provide some sort of stability for you in a town going under. But you loathed him for it. You despised the gangs with every fiber of your being for what they had done to your beloved hometown. When Jinyoung joined them, you ran. No, you abandoned him.

And understandably, he never forgave you for that.

Tightening the sheets around your naked body, you struggled with sleep. Jinyoung was your prospective client; the man who was willing to pay your bills in exchange for loveless sex. On your back, you pictured him above you, fitting himself between your thighs and owning you in every possible way.

God knows you had dreamt of this day since you left. What would happen when you were forced to reconcile with the boy you had promised never to leave?

Tears burned your eyes. You imagined Jinyoung taking his pleasure from your body, fucking his anger and stress out on you. Once upon a time, you would have enjoyed that, but now your mind warned you of an image of him pulling away from you and leaving a couple hundred dollars on the dresser.

Would that be your fate with Jinyoung? Was there a chance the love you both had shared was long gone and replaced with hatred? But everyone knew hatred wasn’t actually the opposite of love. It was indifference and just by his sharp tongue at the gala, Jinyoung was far from indifferent where you were concerned.

With a heavy sigh, you decided it was worth the risk. You had to know where this would lead or you would regret walking away. Again.

Staying in bed until the day was half over, you eventually crawled out from under a pile of blankets and called Seokjin to tell him you were ready to proceed. If he prepared a contract with your new client that entailed you sleeping with the man for money, you were ready to sign it. But you said nothing of Jinyoung.

Seokjin returned your initial call a few minutes later to inform you the client had agreed to a meeting and you needed to be at the office in one hour. Panicked, you quickly rushed off of the phone to shower and make yourself look as much like a prize as possible.

Despite arriving to the meeting by the skin of your teeth, you were still the first to enter the room. Of course, Jinyoung would be fashionably late. He probably wanted to ensure you had to wallow and wait for as long as possible.

Sitting at the conference table alone, you mulled over the decision. With your back to the expansive windows, you let the chair swivel to and fro as you tapped your bare toes on the floor. You had slid out of your high heels momentarily, stretching the bridges of your feet of their tension.

“Good afternoon,” Seokjin greeted, marching to the head of the table. You were in the center on the long side, knowing the heads of business always took the ends.

“Afternoon,” you replied tiredly, fighting another yawn.

“You look exhausted,” Seokjin commented, opening his folder and sorting through the papers.

You nodded, running a hand through your hair absentmindedly. “Didn’t sleep very well.”

“Did everything go alright last night?” he quickly asked, visibly concerned.

That always surprised you about Seokjin; how kind and compassionate he was toward his employees. Given his line of work involved trading flesh for money, you initially expected him to be a cold, heartless bastard. After years of having him as your employer, you considered him a reliable friend that you could call at your lowest, darkest times and knew without a doubt he would come to the rescue with sage words of wisdom.

“It went well,” you assured him with a soft smile.

Despite your respect toward him, you didn’t dare tell Seokjin the illustrious, new client was your ex-boyfriend. Knowing him and how he had a set of rules for almost everything, you assumed he would cancel the deal without a second thought. And right now, that was the last thing you wanted.

You needed to see Jinyoung with your own eyes.

Seokjin opened his mouth to reply, but his gaze fell to the approach of your client. You heard forceful footsteps that drew your attention a split-second before Jinyoung strode into the conference room, another man trailing behind him with a briefcase tucked under his arm.

Seokjin leapt to his feet, bowing dutifully, but you were frozen in place and your mouth fell open.

It really was Jinyoung.

He was taller, that was for sure, and much thicker than before. You remembered the skinny boy that had caused endless trouble with you as a child and passionately romanced you as a teenager, always complaining about his oversized ears and full face. Personally, you adored both traits. Once upon a time, you loved everything about him.

Even now, you took long, lingering looks at him, noting the years apart had aged him quite well. He was as handsome ever with his slicked-back dark hair, but there was something icy and rough festering in his eyes. He radiated power and strength, not just from a physical perspective. You knew he was the smartest, most cunning man in the room no matter where he stood.

It was evident that like you, the childhood innocence you both once shared was long gone and had been ripped away violently.

Clad in a crisp, charcoal suit, Jinyoung returned Seokjin’s bow shortly and didn’t bother to offer a glance in your general direction. After your boss cleared his throat, you lifted to your bare feet and bowed as was expected of you, nearly stumbling over your discarded shoes hidden beneath the table.

Jinyoung ignored you frigidly, sitting at the other end of the table and unbuttoning his suit coat as he did so. You were amazed how superior he looked at the moment. It wouldn’t shock you if he could buy the building you currently sat in a hundred times over.

“This is Youngjae, my attorney,” Jinyoung explained, gesturing to the smiling man alongside him. “He’s here to make sure I don’t get roped into anything.”

Seokjin nodded, resisting a frown at the insinuation. “Of course.”

Youngjae was kind enough to meet your eyes and give you a reassuring grin. His very presence flowed with energy and was a stark contrast to the icicle at his side. You found yourself returning a smile to the lawyer before his role in this meeting sank in.

You quickly gawked. Jinyoung had his own attorney? Beyond that, Jinyoung had a lawyer simply to navigate the contract between you and him?

The contract, you were abruptly reminded. That’s right. You were here to agree on a contract between you and your first - and presumably only - client. Bristling, you wished for the awkwardness to be at a minimum, though you trusted the parties involved to be the definition of professional.

For the most part, they discussed the privacy aspect of this deal. Everything would be done under foreign accounts and fake names. Jinyoung reserved the right to a certain degree of anonymity, given the fact he was a supposed pillar in his illegal community.

You furrowed your brow and knew in that moment Jinyoung had kept his vow of working up the ranks of the gangs. You were possibly looking at the kingpin of your hometown, but you also acknowledged he was now here in the city with you. Just how high did he want to go?

“Even with this contract and its inherent nature, consent is still required at every act,” Seokjin asserted, turning the page. “If there is any dissent with this clause, then we may as well call it a day.”

Jinyoung waved him away and nodded his compliance.

You wanted to laugh. Here you were - agreeing to a list of acceptable sexual practices with the only person you had ever been sexually active with. To you, the whole ordeal felt symbolic more than anything else.

Jinyoung wanted ownership. You had left him and now, he was quite literally buying you back. You knew you were in for a hell of a lot of vengeance, but had gradually come to terms with that. This was Jinyoung. No matter how much both of you had changed, you knew he would never hurt you.

“Alright, with the core rules in place, we can now begin with additions,” said Jinyoung’s attorney, glancing between you and his employer.

“No other parties ever,” Jinyoung said, twirling a pen between his fingers.

“What do you mean?” Seokjin asked for clarification.

You were also curious as to what he was referring.

Jinyoung glanced at your boss, as if it were obvious to a man of his chosen profession, and huffed, “No one else in the bedroom. No threesomes. Don’t bring another girl home for my birthday either.”

You snorted at the idea. Seokjin shot you a warning glare to be more respectful, still clueless as to the nature of your relationship with this surly customer.

“No ass,” you spoke up.

Youngjae looked over in surprise.

“No anal whatsoever. And none of that, ‘Sorry, baby, my aim was off,’ bullshit either,” you elaborated, tapping your hand on your thigh under the table.

Jinyoung chuckled at your sass, but kept his eyes on the contract. He was going out of his way to avoid looking at you. Probably because if he did, he would either melt or combust into a flurry of flames. It was hard to tell at this point.

“Did that happen to you before?” Seokjin asked under his breath, face creased with worry.

You shook your head and quickly explained, “No, never. But the girls have told me to err on the side of caution.”

With amusement, Jinyoung cut in, “I have great aim. Don’t worry.”

“Good,” you chirped, pretending to be impressed.

As the two lawyers in the room scribbled simultaneously on their contracts, you bit your lip to keep from giggling. This whole exchange seemed unrealistic and downright laughable to you. Crossing your legs under the table, you let your bare foot swing back and forth, distracting yourself from the humor of the situation.

Out of the corner of your eye, you took your time studying Jinyoung. The boy always did look damn good in a suit and today was no exception. But you were dreading the inevitable conversation both of you would need to have once this was finished. You needed to know where you stood.

A moment of tense silence later, Seokjin called your name, prompting you for anything else you felt worth including.

You mulled, then remembered, “Oh, my classes take precedence to... intercourse.”

Jinyoung snorted, his attention fixated on the pen in his hand.

“What do you mean?” asked Youngjae, bemused.

“I’m finishing my undergraduate degree. Pre-med,” you explained, sitting up a little straighter with pride. “My classes and exams will have priority.”

“You won’t be in violation of the contract if you choose school over me occasionally,” Jinyoung droned, skipping a perfect opportunity to be vindictive. “Moving on.”

You narrowed your eyes with annoyance on his profile, irritated at being dismissed so easily.

Youngjae met your visible scowl and said, “You will be moving into the Dongjak house.”

“Wait... what?” you exclaimed.

He added flatly, “It is one of Mr. Park’s properties.”

You were tempted to ask who the fuck was Mr. Park, but instead you turned to Seokjin and asked, “I have to move?”

Before Seokjin could pose a question of confirmation, Jinyoung’s lawyer answered, “Yes, we can better control security and access at this property.”

You quipped, “Are you worried I will try to escape or that I’ll have a steady flow of men coming in and out when you’re not around?”

Seokjin sucked in a breath as if he were having a sudden wave of heart palpitations.

Jinyoung lifted the corner of his mouth in a smirk, but still didn’t look at you. “You’re going to pay for that snark later,” he crooned under his breath.

Brow lifted, you asked coyly, “Am I?”

An image of Jinyoung slamming you against the wall and shoving his tongue down your throat passed through your mind. There was a time when you were young and reckless, and you exhausted every possible opportunity to get a rise out of him - knowing his choice of punishment was always rather gratifying.

Disrupting your imagination, Youngjae broke away from his page and asked, “Is the relocation a deal breaker for you?”

With a shrug, you replied blithely, “No, I could use the change in scenery.”

Relieved your acerbic tongue had yet to dissuade the very wealthy client, Seokjin said, “Many of the girls opt for a different location due to security protocols. It’s just a precaution. You aren’t in any danger.”

Brushing some of his hair from his eyes, Youngjae also comforted, “It has a stunning view of the river and is fairly close to Seoul National University, which would be much more convenient for you.”

Stiffening, you turned your attention back to Jinyoung and asked rather roughly, “And how do you know which college I go to?”

The lawyer glanced at Jinyoung for a suggestion of how to answer you, but Jinyoung merely shook his head and your question went answered.

A knowing smile tugged at your lips.

After receiving your acceptance of the deal thus far, Seokjin faced your prospective client and asked, “Are there any additional concerns?”

Jinyoung tapped his finger on the table to a rhythm and snarled, “Yes, I find the ratio of funds unacceptable.”

Seokjin rubbed his chin and inquired, “How do you mean, sir?”

Jinyoung took an outstretched paper from his attorney and scanned the page, finding the figures he was looking for and saying, “Of what I’m paying per month, she gets seventy percent. Your agency gets thirty.”

Seokjin bobbed his head and said, “Yes, that is our usual rate.”

Jinyoung frowned. “No, she gets ninety. You get ten.”

Your eyes widened.

Seokjin nearly choked and replied, “That is unheard of.”

Unfazed, Jinyoung cocked his head and smarted, “I’m hearing it now.”

Seokjin wavered in his seat, searching for a valid argument, and stammered, “Mr. Park, I can assure you that...”

Jinyoung shifted mercurially and threatened, “Keep talking and her share jumps to ninety-nine.”

“Ninety to ten is good, sir.”

Jinyoung plastered a victorious smile on his face and said, “Glad we understand each other.”

You still couldn’t comprehend who this man was at the end of the table, but you rather enjoyed the view. There were glimpses of the Jinyoung you knew - the boy who could literally talk his way out of anything. But the forceful, borderline aggressive man that appeared was an entirely new entity to you and you weren’t sure what the best approach was to dealing with him.

After the pair had finished jotting on their pages, Seokjin called your name and asked, “Do you have anything else to add?”

With a long exhale, you replied, “I want exclusivity.”

Exasperated, your boss whispered, “That is already in the contract.”

“No,” you spoke up, angling to Jinyoung and taking a deep breath. “I want him exclusive to me.”

Seokjin nearly choked again. He would have given you a swift kick under the table if you had been closer.

For the first time since this meeting began, Jinyoung met your eyes. A long glare of mutual defiance passed between you and him.

You didn’t falter under his unforgivable scowl and said, “If I am forbidden to so much as hold hands with another man, the same applies to him.”

Jinyoung chuckled and snapped, “Do I look like I’m gonna be holding hands with men anytime soon?”

You leaned in his direction, lacing your fingers over the table surface, and warned, “If you get close enough to another woman that she can catch a whiff of your cologne, I will walk.”

Jinyoung cocked his head, mouth twitching with annoyance, and seethed when he hissed, “Well, no one doubts you’re good at that.”

You narrowed your eyes at the retort, but felt your heart ache a little at his tone. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you asked, “Deal?”

Jinyoung studied you, letting a lull pass before he agreed, “Deal.”

“Mutual exclusivity,” said Seokjin, a certain edge to his voice that suggested he had finally noticed the tension between you and your client. His attention was piqued.

Youngjae nodded, smirking for a reason unbeknownst to you. “Added.”

As Seokjin and Youngjae chattered over filing the contract, Jinyoung rose and proceeded to button his suit coat. You scrambled to your feet, discreetly sliding back into your shoes, and approached him with caution.

“Gang leader extraordinaire, I see,” you murmured under your breath, careful to utter such bitter words lest anyone else hear them.

“Mm,” Jinyoung hummed as if it were of no consequence, glancing over his shoulder to see how dangerously close you came to him.

The scent of your ex-lover wafted into your nose at the proximity and you blinked through the threat of tears. His cologne was subtle and understated, but he smelled so good, so familiar. Voice quivering, you whispered, “What happened to you? What happened to the Jinyoung I knew?”

Jinyoung angled to face you and snarled, “He died when you left him.”

You stood there, shell-shocked as he stomped out of the conference room. For a moment, you merely wallowed in the silence and loneliness, grappling with the proper way to feel in this situation. You deserved the anger and resentment, but you also stood by the decisions you had made in the pursuit of a better life.

Then, you were reminded of what you just signed and realized that Jinyoung owned you now.

Eventually, Seokjin came to fetch you, saying, “His car is waiting outside. It will take you to his penthouse.”

Nerves bubbled in your throat. Jinyoung had paid the toll. Was it time to cross the bridge already?

Nodding an acknowledgement, you made your way toward the elevator, passing one of your co-workers on the way. She grabbed your sleeve, giving you a beaming, excited smile that comforted you in the midst of your conflicted reveries.

“What a catch,” Kyra sang quietly. “So many girls wanted a piece of that boy.”

The thought of another woman sharing a bed with Jinyoung made you bristle with jealousy. Discarding the idea, you flushed and groaned, “Thanks.”

Kyra clicked her tongue, adjusting a few loose strands of your hair, and whined playfully, “I wish I had your luck.”

You shrugged and began, “He wanted a virgin and I had just joined the second circle of hell, so....”

“Don’t be diluted, sweetie,” Kyra interjected with a scoff.

You tilted your head curiously, asking, “What do you mean?”

She giggled at you, surprised you didn’t know, and said, “He specifically asked for you.”

“What?” you exclaimed.

Kyra patted your arm, hushing you sweetly, and whispered, “I heard Lexi say that he inquired about you after one of his constituents took you to a gala.”

Your eyes were wide, but you quickly made the jump from shocked to annoyed. “Oh my god.”

“He waited for you to jump circles.,” Kyra teased, squeezing your shoulder in encouragement. “You must be exactly what he wants.”

Narrowing your eyes, you whispered scathingly, “That... bastard.”

Kyra gawked at you, confused.

Trudging outside, a black Range Rover lay in wait and Jinyoung perched by the back door, putting a cigarette to his lips and drawing a lighter out of his pocket.

“Are you kidding me?” you yelled, darting forward and snatching the cigarette from his mouth.

Jinyoung glared at you with a vengeance and hissed, “What? You’re the only one allowed to have self-destructive behaviors?”

“You inhale cancer on a regular basis now?” you asked scathingly.

“At least I don’t suck dick for a living,” Jinyoung returned, opening the door and motioning for you to get inside the car.

Glaring furiously, you passed in front of him, sliding into the seat and grumbling when he stole the cigarette from your hand, but didn’t smoke it.

Sitting in the car with Jinyoung was agonizing. Though he was within arm’s reach, he intentionally left a wide space between your bodies. You wanted to confront him for choosing you, but didn’t have the strength or energy for an argument.

You were starting to feel fortunate. Fortunate that your ex-boyfriend had bought you and not some old, entitled bastard. But you also knew the unresolved conflict between you and your first love would potentially leave you devastated all over again.

“Jinyoung?” you called shyly.

His eyes were on the window, as they had been for the entire drive. “We’ll talk when we get there,” he replied harshly, clocking his gaze at the lawyer and chauffeur in the front seats.

You wrinkled your nose, annoyed at being silenced by him for the second time that day, but saw where his attention had fallen and knew he wanted total privacy before such a personal conversation took place.

You were anticipating the moment you were alone for the first time with your ex-boyfriend. Despite Seokjin encouraging you to follow your new client’s cues to give him exactly what he wanted, you had no intention of kissing up to Jinyoung. If he wanted you to beg for mercy or forgiveness, he would be sorely disappointed.

Or so you thought.

The vehicle came to a stop outside of a luxury apartment building and you peered out of the car in awe. Jinyoung told you this was the back entrance and he had better never hear of you coming in through the front foyer. You wanted to sass him, but realized it was more than likely a security protocol.

You trailed at his side as Jinyoung led you to the service elevator in the back. He greeted an older man, an attendant by the name of Mr. Jung who wore a trimmed, burgundy blazer and sported a warm, round face with a bushy mustache.

“And who is this beautiful shadow you have, sir?” the attendant asked politely.

You returned his respectful bow and gave him your name.

“You will be seeing her rather often from now on, Mr. Jung,” Jinyoung explained, withdrawing a roll of cash from his pocket and handing the man a few large bills. His voice lowered to a stern murmur when he told him, “You never saw her. She was never here.”

“Saw who, sir?” Mr. Jung questioned, pocketing the money.

Jinyoung clapped the man on the shoulder and led you into the entry. Speechless, you gawked at the exchange and for a moment, felt like smuggled goods.

“This is my penthouse,” Jinyoung explained as you stood in the corner of the elevator, neither of you having spoken a single word to each other since the brief exchange in the car. The ebony box was cold and suffocating, and made you viscerally aware of your own vulnerability in these circumstances.

Your eyes were fixated on Jinyoung, every slight move he made just a few feet from where you stood. As the elevator ascended to the top floors, he would glance between the door and his feet, shifting his weight and letting out a long sigh of restlessness. You remembered Jinyoung never did have much patience.

The tension was palpable and you searched your brain for a way to cut through, but Jinyoung had made very clear his disposition toward you for now. You weren’t afraid of him, but given how badly you wanted his forgiveness - you tried your best to do what would make him happy. The idea of being wholly at his mercy was at the front and center of your mind.

The bell chimed the arrival at the top floor of the tower and you gripped the rails with anticipation.

The doors whooshed apart and Jinyoung motioned with his arm, singing, “Ladies first.”

You were tempted to roll your eyes, but fought back the urge as you strode forward, your heels clicking loudly on the hardwood floors.

“Wow,” you gasped aloud, taking in the sight of the expansive residence.

The apartment could have been an identical copy of those opulent homes seen in upscale magazines and interior design journals. The place was spotless with an open floor concept, decked with chrome accents in a predominantly white and black theme.

But it was glacially cold and seemed a grey shell with no life to be found in it. There were no pictures. No splashes of color. You immediately wanted to gather as many flowers as you could to stick in a vase and put on the table for a semblance of light in such a dark place.

“You won’t live here,” Jinyoung explained rather sternly, protective over his home. “It’s my personal space. But you’ll come here often to stay the night. There will be times I’ll have one of my boys bring you here to wait for me.”

You barely heard him and certainly didn’t register his words. You were running your hand across the granite countertop in the kitchen. You were reminded of the tiny, old houses you and Jinyoung used to call home. Memories of sleeping in his arms on a worn out narrow mattress came to mind.

The damn thing squeaked as loud as possible whenever the two of you fooled around. You always made Jinyoung sweep the entire house to make sure no one was home before you had sex. Even now you could hear the thing creaking rhythmically in your ears, followed by your laughter in the distance because Jinyoung never failed to accuse the mattress of breaking his concentration and interfering with his stroke game.

You quickly snapped out of the memory, clearing your throat. Jinyoung trailed behind you slowly, watching your every reaction as you meandered through the penthouse. When you came to the first closed door you had encountered thus far, you turned to face him and asked, “What’s behind here?”

“Bedroom,” he replied flatly, without missing a beat.

You shifted your weight nervously, feeling all of the blood in your body rush to your cheeks. Given the new nature of your relationship with your client, you assumed the bedroom would be the destination regardless. Turning the knob, you stepped inside.

“Holy…” you trailed, eyes wide at the floor to ceiling windows covering the entire east wall. You approached them like a jubilant kid, planting your palms on the tinted glass and peering out at the vast city below you.

The hues of Seoul reflected in your eyes, every color possible splashing across your vision. You imagined the sight from this window would be breathtaking when night fell. For a moment in the silence, you turned somber, reminded you were such a small person in such a gigantic universe.

But this was your reality and it was time you faced the music.

Pivoting around to put your back to the rest of the world, you dropped your purse loudly on the floor and began unfastening your coat.

Jinyoung furrowed his brow, his hands buried in his pockets, and asked sharply, “What are you…”

“How do you wanna do this?” you asked, emotionless as you pulled off your coat and tossed it on to the nearby dresser.

Disapproving, Jinyoung shook his head briefly and deadpanned, “That didn’t take long.”

Shaking your hair loose, you interjected, “Should I keep the heels on? I know a lot of guys are into that.”

Jinyoung glanced down at your shoes and ran a hand through his slicked-back hair, snapping, “Hold on.”

You stopped, putting your hands on your hips.

His voice cut sharper than any razor when he countered, “You think I brought you here to fuck you?”

You looked around and snapped, “Why the hell else am I here?”

“The house is getting ready for you,” Jinyoung explained, taking your words in stride. “My driver is going to take you there in an hour or so.”

Settling your eyes on the massive bed, you trailed, “But I’m supposed to…”

Waving you away with disinterest, Jinyoung interrupted, “I’m not in the mood for sex right now. Sorry to disappoint you.”

Taking a step toward him, you argued, “You bought me for sex, but you don’t want to have sex with me?”

His rage boiled over when he whispered, “I bought you so no one else would.”

You flinched.

Jinyoung shifted, rounding on you and raising his voice slightly to yell, “Imagine that - having to pay for the love of my life.”

Stiffening, you could feel the atmosphere devolving into exactly what you had been expecting. Trying to retain some semblance of control, you breathed, “Jinyoung…”

“Do you know what it cost me, sweetheart?” Jinyoung cut in, his tone shifting to something patronizing and resentful. “Do you know the price I paid to let you keep your soul?”

“I don’t want free money. I work for what I earn. You’re paying me to sleep with you,” you defended, almost shouting.

Jinyoung snorted. “Not just that.”

“Right, you’re paying me to ‘date’ you,” you sassed, scoffing with disgust.

Fire flashed in Jinyoung’s eyes and he quickly sneered, “I’m paying for you to do what I want - whenever, wherever, however I want it.”

You folded your arms in contempt and reminded, “I still have to give consent.”

“Of course, I’ll have your consent.”

You rolled your eyes.

Jinyoung smirked almost menacingly, running his tongue across his teeth to tease, “You don’t think I can see you, darling? Do you think I’m fucking blind?”

You blinked in surprise.

“Every time I get too close to you, you hold your breath and stare at my damn mouth.”

Feeling yourself spiraling out of composure, you barked, “Whatever.”

Jinyoung was back to the game you had lost the night before and his sinful words rushed back into your mind. Noting the indecision evident on your face, Jinyoung persisted, “Your body is screaming for me to touch you.”

“I don’t hear anything,” you retorted, brushing past him to avoid the impending confrontation.

Jinyoung grabbed your arm and spun you back around to face him, hissing, “I’m not going to fuck you until you beg me for it. Until you swear you’re going mad without me. You won’t feel me inside you until you scream for me to take you.”

Shivering, you whispered, “I’ll never beg, Jinyoung. You won’t break me.”

“I will break you. I will make you know what I felt. I want you to know how it feels to have the person you love break the fucking soul out of you.”

Tears were already festering in your eyes and your first instinct was to flee. This was what you dreaded most . You couldn't face the pain you had inflicted on him. You couldn’t be reminded what a cruel animal you were for abandoning him the way you did. Nearly defeated, you whimpered, “Jinyoung, please…”

Jinyoung was only getting warmed up. You could hear his strong voice quivering with emotion when he told you, “Because that’s what happened to me. You tore my goddamn heart out.”

“I…”

“You,” he yelled, releasing your arm and pacing away. “The one person who was always there for me, who swore on her life to never leave me, left me to die so she could save herself!”

You shook your head vehemently and cried, “It wasn’t like that.”

Indignant, Jinyoung hissed your name with a snarl like poison had filled his mouth. “I don’t want to fucking hear it. Make yourself comfortable,” Jinyoung snapped coldly, discarding his suit coat and draping it on the bed.

Down to his dress shirt, he loosened his tie and began unbuttoning the cuffs of his sleeves. As he did so, he dropped heavily onto the mattress, letting out a prolonged, strained breath.

For a moment, you merely stared at him. This had nothing to do with money; this had everything to do with the sweet boy you betrayed years ago. The wounds had yet to heal. You realized you were the creator of this monster. You had made him what he was.

Perhaps that meant you were the only one to coax him back to the surface.

Approaching with caution, you touched his arms gently, feeling the tight muscles beneath the white fabric of his shirt. He bristled at your touch, surprised you would take this route after all that was said and done, but settled down just as quickly.

Skimming your palm across his chest, you whispered, “Jinyoung?”

“Hm?” he huffed, resorting to hiding his face behind his fingers.

You kneeled down before him, forcing your way between his legs and resting your arms on his thighs. He had no choice but to lower his hands and look at you.

“Kiss me,” you murmured, staring up at him with the most innocent look you could muster. Making yourself appear demure and submissive, you hoped and prayed he would take the bait.

Jinyoung tilted his head, clasping your chin between his fingers and surveying your face. “Are you giving me orders, baby girl?”

You blinked and softened your voice, beseeching in a whisper, “Please, kiss me. Please.”

Jinyoung sighed, his breath warming your skin.

Impatient and desperate for a mere fragment of forgiveness, you placed your hands on his thighs, rubbing softly, and pressed, “I’m begging you to kiss me. Jinyoung, I need you to kiss me. Please?”

Truly, you thought he wouldn’t discard enough of his pride to indulge you, but then you felt his muscles flex under your fingertips a split-second before he leaned forward and captured your lips with his own.

Every memory of every kiss you had shared with this man flooded into your mind. The love you once shared together filled you with warmth and energy, enticing you to fight for what was once yours.

Time slowed, but at the same time passed much too fast for you to keep a grasp of the world around you. Jinyoung kissed you for what felt like days. You were lost in everything he made you feel, hyper aware of every part of him before you.

You soaked up the smell of him, knowing the taste of him would linger on your tongue for hours to come. His body felt firm and unmovable against yours. His hands were rough yet tender as they came to hold your face. He took the lead with his kisses, breathing softly into your mouth, and rendering you suspended in some otherworldly place you used to exist with him by your side alone.

Jinyoung teased his tongue over your bottom lip and you opened your mouth with a soft moan to grant him access, but he didn’t take it. He merely wanted to know if you were inclined to give it to him so easily.

When he pulled away, you swayed between his legs, opening your eyes slowly and letting your vision focus on him. Jinyoung still held your jaw, searching your face for something to make him feel even a shred of mercy.

Finding nothing, Jinyoung lowered his hands and harshened his eyes.

And after a pause, he said, “That’s all you get from me for now.”

← previous chapter | next chapter →

a/n : this story was previously Lacuna on my old blog, minheoney. I’m really excited to finally finish it! This fic was my baby for so long and I’m ridiculously happy to give it a new home :)

Hey there, beautiful! If you enjoyed this, please leave a like or reblog or follow me! Or maybe buy me a coffee so I can keep writing? Or check out my masterlist here for more stories! Thanks for reading :) - Katya

This work is fictional and for entertainment purposes only, but is licensed and protected under a creative commons attribution-noncommercial-noderivatives 4.0 international license. Any instances of plagiarism will be dealt with accordingly. Do not re-post or translate without my permission.

#got7 fanfiction #got7 #park jinyoung #got7 smut #jinyoung smut #got7 fanfic #got7 fic #jinyoung fic #park jinyoung smut #jinyoung fanfic #got7 scenario #got7 reaction #got7 imagine #jinyoung imagine #jinyoung scenario #jinyoung reaction

449 notes · View notes

invisiblerambler · 4 years

Text

I've had some thoughts swirling around in my brain about BA once again in relation to Alex's statement last night.

There's a lot about that statement I didn't care for, but the transparency of pay was an important aspect. I'm not that familiar with what a liveable salary is in NYC, from what I've read and what I understand $70-80k is not an excessive amount to live on.

@/joe_rosenthal did some dissection of the statement on his Instagram story, but here's my commentary based on what he said and from what I understand about the industry.

So Delany started appearing in videos in 2017 and according to his statement he wasn't paid until October of 2019 for those videos above and beyond his normal salary.

No matter what you think about Delany as a personality, it's pretty clear to me that CNE was exploiting him without extra pay for video.

This is overall well-known that this happens. Claire has hinted at this when discussing the fact that

1. she became the host of GM because it would be easier for her to host it than finding outside chefs.

2. when GM started she was doing that in addition to her full-time position as a senior editor so that's why she looks so tired in the early episodes.

She was not being compensated extra for her video appearances until she left and renegotiated her contract. This has never been explicitly stated by her, but reading between the lines this is not a stretch.

The concept of video personalities specifically not being paid fairly is a big issue across the industry since many former Buzzfeed contributors have discussed this. It is very easy for companies to roll video into a job description and not give an accompanying pay bump or promotion as we have seen play out. Truly people that are in this type of work should be unionized like any of the other entertainment industry/media unions, but most companies are not ready to have that conversation.

The way that BIPOC employees were exploited for video appearances is despicable, but we have to recognize that those who were being paid could have still not been compensated fairly. It seems that the genesis of the personality-driven content was exploitation, so obviously the most marginalized employees would be the most marginalized in being involved in video. As is true of capitalism as a whole.

To that point, there is a chance that outside of solidarity Molly realized through conversations with her coworkers, or the pay spreadsheet, or whatever it was that she was also not being compensated fairly for videos based on either what she thought she was worth, or because of what other video hosts were being paid.

Obviously, considering the situation this would not be her public facing reason for walking away from her CNE video contract, but that could be another reason. In general, this still sends a message that employees should be paid what they are worth for the work that they do.

From what Delany said there is a strong culture at BA and in US corporate culture that doing more work is beneficial to advancement when in reality it’s just about the company getting more work for less pay.

There is also a strong likelihood that CN and CNE is just being racist and not wanting to pay video personalities what they are worth. But there is also a world in which the YouTube channel doesn’t make enough money to pay everyone what they are worth. This does not make them not being able to pay fairly any less disgusting or despicable, but it does kind of explain their eagerness to blow up the brand over pay disputes. If they can get away with paying people less for a little while longer it keeps the magazine alive, although with the mass cancellations and unsubscribing when this all started who knows for how long.

If this part of the issue, then it works in tandem with all the other ones including dealing with people who don’t understand why people watch the YouTube channel in the first place.

Print is a dying industry and the production values for most BA videos is pretty high. On the whole Test Kitchen Talks is obviously the cheapest, but they lease in one of the most famous and probably expensive buildings in Manhattan, and have a decent sized production crew.

I have no doubt the channel is very lucrative simply from its ad revenue, but when you factor in all those costs and the idea that the videos are supposed to support both the magazine and the channel sustaining itself it becomes harder to imagine it’s that lucrative.

I know they’ve done sponsored content here and there, but definitely not to the level of advertisers that are seen in more traditional print settings.

It’s a well known fact that the channel saved the magazine, but with the channel going the way it is, I’m not sure that there is enough there to save either one.

As always this is some commentary and some speculation, so take most of what I say with a grain of salt.

#ba test kitchen #bon appetit test kitchen #molly baz #claire saffitz #alex delany #christina chaey #brad leone #andy baraghani #sohla el waylly

61 notes · View notes

cinaja · 3 years

Text

Before the Wall part 41

Masterlist

----

Getting the Autumn Court into the Alliance is easier than expected. If it had been a Continental country that sold out an emissary to the enemy, it would have taken centuries for any other country to even consider associating with them again. But the Autumn Court is from Prythian, and Prythian has always been an outsider in Continental politics, so Miryam only received a few odd looks for championing its case.

It certainly helped that most of the Alliance members had more important things than a Prythian court changing sides to consider lately. In the past months, they managed to win more and more ground, pushing the Loyalists back further and further and advancing into their territory step by step. Each mile they win is bought in blood, and the Loyalists seem to become more brutal the more desperate they become. Still, the Alliance is moving towards complete victory quickly enough that most of the Fae members deem the time right for the first discussions about what to do after they have won.

Like most humans, Miryam desperately wishes they’d postpone their discussions until after they have actually won. Their new unity is fragile enough as it is, and the last thing Miryam wants is to watch it shatter over another useless argument. Besides, the Fae seem interested only in possible new territory, money and trading rights for them, and Miryam couldn’t care less about that as long as there are still millions of humans living in slavery.

“I believe we are taking the fifth step before the first,” Miryam says not for the first time. “Before we argue about what to do with our defeated enemies or their land, shouldn’t we finish defeating them first? Or we could figure out a way to safely free the humans from slavery.”

She looks around the table, hoping for nods of agreement, but except for Drakon, Zeku and two or three other Fae, most of them seem doubtful. Miryam pushes her disappointment down. The human side of the Alliance has been more unified than ever, but the Fae have been causing trouble lately, pushing back against Miryam’s suggestions more than they ever did. If she could only make them understand that this war isn’t just about power or land or politics, but about ending slavery.

“Treaties take time,” Emperor Shey says. He’s the ruler of one of the northern territories and is in the comfortable position of having his country remain mostly untouched by the fighting. “It is best for us to at least begin discussing now so that we can all agree on the terms of surrender we’ll offer the Loyalists.” He nods to Miryam. “And as for the human slaves, their liberation will of course be included in our terms.”

As if it would ever be so easy. No one here seems inclined to discuss what they will do if the Loyalists decide to use their slaves as hostages. She hasn’t heard anyone bring up where they will go after the war, either. Maybe they don’t care. Miryam knows for a fact that Shey doesn’t.

Drakon taps his pencil on the table. He’s been attending more Alliance meetings since discussion shifted towards what would happen after the war. He usually stays out of the political disagreements, but the actual machinations of creating a stable new system are right up his alley. He’s certainly better at it than Miryam, and, as it turns out, also better than several of the other rulers who seem to mostly rely on their advisors for these things.

“Perhaps we should try to centre our efforts around the humans, though,” he says. “We are talking about several million slaves who will get freed. That’s far too many for them to simply disperse into the pre-existing human countries, and I doubt they’ll want to live under Fae rule. Territory lines will need to be redrawn, new countries created. This is what we ought to be discussing first if we truly want to talk about what will happen after the war.”

Miryam could have kissed him. The other human councilmembers seem pleased as well. Drakon is well-liked with them, if only for being one of the few Fae to treat them as equals and actually care about ending slavery. And having a Fae agree with them just makes everything so much easier.

“We can’t simply create new territories,” Shey scoffs.

Nakia rolls her eyes, muttering something to Andromache. Her obvious disgust probably isn’t helpful, but certainly understandable. If Miryam wasn’t being watched so closely, she would have spent most of the meeting rolling her eyes.

“Which is why Drakon said that we should start discussing it now,” she says pleasantly. “Do you disagree, Your Excellency?”

Shey clearly does, but he can’t disagree without saying that he doesn’t care what happens to the freed humans after the war. And that would not go over well with the council. For all that many Fae don’t actually care, they certainly like to pretend they do.

“No, of course not.” He inclines his head at Drakon. “Please, go on.”

As Drakon begins to outline the challenge they will be facing once the war is over – enormous, so much bigger than anything Miryam could have imagined – she keeps watching Emperor Shey. Sometimes, she wonders if he remembers her from before the war started. She certainly remembers him.

When Miryam was fourteen, Shey visited the Black Land on a diplomatic mission. She doesn’t remember the exact reason – some trade agreement if she isn’t mistaken – but she does remember Shey, blond-haired and tall, with eyes like shards of ice. She remembers standing behind the high table together with Liki, the newest of Ravenia’s personal slaves. Liki had been Miryam’s age, but he’d seemed endlessly younger and it had been clear from his first day that he wouldn’t last long. (Not that anyone ever did.) Miryam had made sure he would tend to their guests that night, leaving her to Ravenia, hoping he would at least survive the day if she kept him away from the queen who had been in a foul mood that day. She had been wrong.

It had just been a drop of wine spilled on the Emperor’s sleeve. A minor mistake, yet a death warrant for any slave of Ravenia’s. But the queen hadn’t noticed Liki’s mistake, had been busy with her own food. And she wouldn’t have needed to see. If Shey had just let it slide. He had to own hundreds of coats, with money enough for thousands more; the stain should have been nothing to him, but he’d still made a fuss. And so Liki had died.

Miryam remembers how he screamed, how he kept looking at her as he died, like he expected her to save him. She remembers kneeling in the blood, ordered to wipe it away. And she remembers Shey’s cold eyes watching her, not a hint of sympathy or guilt to be found in them.

She looks into those eyes now, power whispering alive inside her, and she is sure that he doesn’t remember that day, doesn’t remember Liki or her. And she despises him for it. Shey meets her gaze and for a moment, Miryam hopes he sees the disgust in her eyes even when her face doesn’t betray anything.

She allows the memory to linger for a moment longer before pushing it away again. She always does it this way – carefully dips her feet into the memories like a child testing the temperature of water, allows herself to feel the anger for a few moments before pushing it away again. She doesn’t want that anger, doesn’t want these memories. They come with a roaring fury, and Miryam doesn’t know what to do with that, can’t reconcile it with the person she wants to be.

Shey is still watching at her, so Miryam gives him a small smile, forcing any coldness out of her eyes. Then, she turns a back to Drakon and starts listening to what he’s telling the council.

After another hour of discussions, they decide that they won’t be able to solve this problem in one sitting and that they’ll bring experts in on the issue. Miryam thanks everyone for their time and gets up. Drakon follows after her.

“Thank you for the help,” Miryam says.

“Sure.” Drakon tugs at his clothes. “Their priorities are really messed up. Discussing what will happen after the war is important, but they focus on all the wrong things.” Miryam nods and Drakon continues, “I’ve been working on a proposal. For what to do after the war, borders and such. I thought we might use it as a starting ground, but I’m not sure if it’s good enough. Would you read over it for me?”

“Of course,” Miryam says.

Why he asks for her help with this is beyond her. She read over a few of his ethical essays already, which did make sense with most of the texts being about slavery. But this isn’t another essay that will be published and spread around the soldiers. This is a proposal for the council outlining a possible way to deal with the aftermath of the war, and Miryam, who never spent a day of her life in school and doesn’t know anything about laws or treaties, is probably the least qualified person to comment on it. He should ask Andromache or Nakia. But if Drakon is nervous about the council’s reaction and having Miryam read the text first, she’ll do it.

Drakon snaps his fingers and a folder with at least fifty pages appears in his hands. Miryam gapes at it.

“When did you write all that?” She asks.

He shrugs. “It was clear from the beginning that the war would end eventually and we’d need a strategy. I started early.”

Miryam shakes her head and takes the papers. “You’re brilliant,” she says lightly. Flips through the pages. “I’ll read this as soon as possible.”

“Thank you.”

Miryam would have liked to talk more about the contents of that proposal, but now, the other councilmembers are beginning to leave the room and Miryam doesn’t really feel like talking to any of them. She hugs Drakon goodbye and makes towards her rooms.

Once there, Miryam closes the door to her office behind herself and leans her back against it, pressing her head against the cool wood. Tasia, who is sitting behind Miryam’s desk, grins at her.

“From the look on your face, I take it the meeting went well?”

Miryam groans and pulls one of the chairs over to sit down on. “If they could at least pretend to care about anything other than themselves.”

Tasia nods to a half-eaten plate that’s carefully balanced on top of a huge stack of papers. On it, a light dinner has been laid out, already half-eaten. “Want some?” They ask, snatching an olive up from the plate. “Food doesn’t exactly solve any problems, but it usually makes them more bearable.” They grin at Miryam. “Unless it’s poisoned. Then, it actually can solve problems.”

Miryam blinks at them, then laughs and takes up a slice of garlic bread. “Remind me to never get on your bad side. I’d never be able to eat again.” She leans against the edge of the table and nods at the paperwork. “Anything important today?”

“Isn’t there always?” Tasia leans back in the chair. “But most of it can wait until tomorrow if you aren’t up to it today.”

“Yes, I think that would be for the best.”

It has less to do with feeling up for it and more with the proposal Drakon prepared for the council. Reading over it will take a while, especially since Miryam rarely understands proposals like this on the first try.

“Smart,” Tasia says. “I think I’ll call it a day soon, too, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.” Miryam smiles. “And remind your brother to take his medication, yes? His cough won’t get better if he doesn’t.”

“I will.” Tasia gets up, but then, their gaze falls on three envelopes lying on the edge of the table. Thick, expensive paper. “Oh,” they say, picking up the envelopes. “I think these might be important, actually. I haven’t opened them, but they seem to be directly from the respective royal families.”

“Then I better take a look,” Miryam says, frowning down at the letters. She occasionally gets letters from Continental royals. One a day is normal. Two is unusual. Three means trouble.

“Have a nice evening,” she says, managing a smile at Tasia, and slips into her chambers.

Miryam’s room is uncomfortably cold and she kneels down before her stove, trying to light a fire. There is an entire host of servants working in the palace, but Miryam outright refused to let any of them work for her. She spent too long working in a palace and even though she knows all of the servants work here of their own free will and get paid for the jobs, she still couldn’t stomach having any of them look after her room.

As soon as the fire is burning, Miryam sits down on the sofa and pulls a blanket up to her chest. She lights a candle and rips open the first letter. With each word she reads, the knot in her stomach tightens. With numb fingers she opens the next letter. And the next. The same messages, just with slightly different words.

Miryam’s power stirs. Instead of slamming it back down, she tries to sooth it. Gently talks it down until it settles again. Then, she jumps to her feet and stalks over to the door. Four guards are posted outside, and all of them incline their heads when she opens the door.

“Good evening,” Miryam says. “Could one of you please send a messenger to Grand Duke Zeku to tell him that I need to talk to him?”

Zeku arrives quickly. Because of propriety, Miryam waits until he has taken his seat and they both have a cup of tea standing before them before bursting out, “Why did I find official requests to be allowed to court me from three separate Fae royals on my desk today?”

Zeku takes a sip from his tea and leans back in his chair. “I’m surprised that you’re surprised,” he says. “Surely you are aware that should we win this war – which becomes more and more likely with each day – you will be a very profitable match. You’ll hold quite a bit of political power.”

Political power and arrogant Fae be damned. Miryam can’t believe what she is hearing. “And they honestly expect that I would marry them to – what? Advance their political standing?”

Shrugging, Zeku takes another sip of his tea. He seems completely unfazed by the situation, which just agitates Miryam more. “But you can’t ignore the fact that such a match would be beneficial for you as well,” he says, “You are in an extremely difficult situation politically, without an army or any close political alliances. Marrying into one of the Continent’s more influential royal families would give you what you have been lacking: A security net for when this war ends.”

Rationally, Miryam knows that Zeku has a point, but this idea is just completely absurd. She takes a deep breath and forces herself to calm down. She can’t be freaking out like this in front of him.

“But I don’t want to marry any of them,” she says as reasonably as possible, “I barely even know them.” And what she knows, she doesn’t like.

“It’s not like there is a shortage of candidates for you to pick from. I’m sure any Continental family would be happy to have one of their members marry you. Cauldron, I would marry you if you agreed.”

Miryam gapes at him. “I can’t marry you,” she says. It’s completely impossible. For about a million reasons, the least of which being – “You are over five hundred years older than me.” She shakes her head. “That’s…” Disgusting, she wants to say, but she catches herself just in time. There are rules and protocols for these situations and none of them allow for her to be impolite about her refusal. “I am honoured by the offer,” she says carefully. “But you’ll forgive me if a marriage to anyone who is this much older than I am is out of question for me.”

Zeku inclines his head. “Of course,” he says, “And I apologize, I should not have phrased my offer so carelessly. I realize how it may have been misinterpreted, but I can assure you that I have no romantic or sexual interest in you.” He smiles. “I, too, prefer romantic partners who are closer to my own age. But I think your view of political marriages is slightly off.”

“Oh.” Miryam relaxes a little. Zeku accepted her refusal easily enough, he isn’t trying to push her. And he isn’t actually interested in her, it was just politics.

“I’m not sure if you know this,” Zeku says, “but it is common for political marriages to be sealed with a contract defining the terms.” He drains his cup of tea, then refills it. “Now, on the entirely theoretic assumption that you and I decided to marry.”

He pauses to look at Miryam, as if to check how she will take the comment. She nods at him to go on. Now, she’s more curious than upset.

“Well, in that theoretic case, the contract would probably include a clause forbidding any sexual interaction unless explicitly agreed upon by both parties. It would also allow both of us to have as many lovers as we wish. You and any children would be barred from inheriting the throne, although agreements could be made to provide for your children, should you want them.” He says all of that in a completely cool, analytical tone. This truly isn’t about feelings for him. It’s just another contract, another way to seal an alliance. “On the political side, I assume you would receive a certain amount of political power in Sangravah, although you would not have equal power to me. That would be theoretically possible, but you are a bit too inexperienced for me to be comfortable with putting you in charge of my country. You’d be required to spend a certain amount of time in Sangravah for administrative purposes and I’d require you to join me for foreign politics, as I’m sure you guessed, but you could spend the rest of your time wherever you want.”

Miryam nods slowly and takes a sip from her tea. “That’s rather impressive,” she says slowly.

Zeku shrugs. “Honestly, these types of marriages are more like close alliances than romantic unions. Usually, they also include some political benefits for the countries – trading rights, military alliances, something like this.” He taps his fingers against his cup. “I’m surprised Drakon never mentioned it to you.”

Now that Zeku mentions it, it does seem strange to her that she never heard of it. But of course, they don’t talk a lot about his engagement with Ravenia. She knows that he and Jurian discussed it a few times, but there seems to be an unspoken agreement not to mention Ravenia in Miryam’s presence if not absolutely necessary.

“I still don’t want to get married, though,” Miryam says.

Zeku sighs. “I don’t want to be push you on this,” he says, “but I’d still ask you to reconsider. You don’t seem to realize how precarious your situation is. It doesn’t have to be me, but marrying into any Continental royal family is your best shot at getting out of this.”

Miryam wraps her arms around herself and doesn’t answer. The entire discussion makes her skin crawl. Even with a contract protecting her, she hates the idea of such a union.

“You’d have every protection,” Zeku says. “Nearly every freedom.

But that doesn’t matter, none of it does. Because Miryam looks at the Continent’s elaborate marriage contracts, and all she can see is that they look a whole lot like purchase contracts. What Miryam needs is protection, a security net for her political games, and in return for that, she is selling herself.

And she hasn’t come this far just to end up selling herself to another owner.

Maybe it’s stupid, but she doesn’t want to marry any of the people who proposed to her. Not even Zeku. As close as they are as allies, the thought of marrying him terrifies her. Maybe it would be different if it was someone she could imagine spending the rest of her life with, maybe someone she actually loved – if it was Drakon, she doesn’t think she would mind. But it isn’t, and if what her political survival requires is for her to sell herself, then that isn’t worth it.

“If I’m lucky, this war will be over soon and none of this will ever concern me again,” she says, trying to convince herself as much as Zeku. As soon as her people are free, she will disappear from politics. Then, these Fae nobles can go find someone else to marry. If not… She’ll deal with it then. “Either way, I’m going to refuse. Would you read over the letters for me?”

Zeku’s mouth tightens with displeasure, his blue skin seems do darken a few shades, going from the light blue of a cloudless summer sky to the deep, angry colour of a stormy sea. Miryam can’t tell if he’s actually worried on her behalf, or just annoyed at the missed opportunity. She doesn’t doubt that Zeku cares about her in a way – otherwise, she’d never go to him for advice – but she isn’t stupid enough to believe that he has no ulterior motive in helping her. He benefits from their closeness as much as she does, for while his backing gives her some small level of security, being her ally brings him as close to the leadership of the Alliance as he can get in the current political situation. It is entirely possible he had hoped to advance even further by marrying her.

“Of course,” Zeku says. “As you wish.”

----

“I can’t stay long,” Drakon says as the door closes behind him.

“What a pleasant greeting.” Ghost appears before him. He’s wearing his Black-Land-human look again. Ever since he met Miryam, that seems to be his favoured look.

“Sorry.”

Drakon sits down on the ground and unwraps the lunch he brought along. He is near-certain that having lunch in a sacred cave counts as a direct insult to the Mother, but he can’t quite bring himself to care. If she minds, she can come over here and tell him herself. Maybe blasphemy will do what countless prayers didn’t and get his goddess to care about what’s going on here.

Now that he thinks about it, his frequent meetings with Ghost might have a negative influence on his relationship to his goddess.

“What has you so stressed this time?” Ghost asks.

“There was another attack last night,” Drakon says. Over the past months, he’s grown so used to talking to Ghost that any awkwardness vanished long ago. “Three hundred dead.” He rubs a hand over his face and looks down at his food. He’s been up since two in the morning and hasn’t had anything to eat yet, but he finds he isn’t hungry at all. “And I have to be in Telique for an Alliance meeting in less than an hour. It’s about that proposal I told you about.”

And once he’s done with the council, he’ll probably get an earful from Sinna for slipping his guards again. They’ve gotten into arguments over that several times already. Sinna thinks him reckless for continuously going out without guards, and Drakon can’t explain to her where he’s going.

“You go to Alliance meetings?” Ghost asks.

Drakon makes a face at him. “Funny,” he mutters.

But he has to admit that he probably went to more council meetings in the last month than the entire rest of the war. Now that they are discussing subjects he’s comfortable with, the meetings are far more bearable. A few of the other royals actually seem to respect him. At least a little bit.

“How is Miryam?” Ghost asks.

“Well.” Drakon grins. “Arguing around with the council, but what’s new? She’s getting better at dealing with her powers, though.”

“Good to hear.” Ghost disappears and reappears in a sitting position facing Drakon. “And the two of you? Still as close?”

“Yes,” Drakon says and feels his face heat. For some reason, Ghost is fascinated with both Miryam and their relationship. The interest in Miryam, he understands, but it makes Drakon somewhat uncomfortable that he keeps asking after their relationship.

Especially because Drakon has a hard time answering. Something has changed between Miryam and him in the last months, but he can’t quite explain what it is. They’ve certainly grown closer, but there is also something different, something new between them. He hasn’t dared to mention it to Miryam out of fear that she doesn’t feel the same way, but he is sure that there is something.

It’s just so confusing. He knows he loves her, but he isn’t entirely sure if he’s also in love with her. Either way, he’d never dare to talk to her about it.

“Don’t worry,” Ghost says, “I won’t ask.” He grins. “Besides, I’m probably the last person who should try to meddle in anyone’s relationships.”

“What do you mean?” Drakon asks, frowning. Ghost keeps making hints at what can only be his life, but he never says anything concrete.

“Just that my track record when it comes to falling in love isn’t the best,” Ghost says in a tone that makes it clear he won’t talk further on it.

Drakon nods and looks down at his uneaten food. He won’t have time to eat it now, he has to be off to the council. The other members are only just beginning to accept him, and he doesn’t want to squander that by turning up late. Sighing, he gets up, but Ghost calls him back.

“Before you go,” he says, “There’s something you should know about.”

Drakon doesn’t think he can take any more bad news today. “What is it?” He asks.

“There has been trouble with the wards lately,” Ghost says. “I haven’t been able to truly look into it since I’m stuck in this cave, but it doesn’t look good.”

“Are you going to elaborate on that, or do I need to guess?”

Ghost doesn’t seem to care about the dire circumstances and grins at him. “Actually, hearing your guesses might be fun. But no.” He gives one of his shrugs. It’s no longer quite as jerky as it was in the beginning, like the motion becomes smoother with practice. “I can’t really tell what’s the problem with the wards, though, or which ones are affected” he says. “They might simply be old. After several millennia without being checked, even the best wards are bound to give out eventually.”

Shit. The wards are all that’s protecting Cretea, keeping the sword save. There are several layers, but if just one of them falls, there will be serious trouble. At worst, anyone could winnow on the island or get on via boat. But even if those wards remained intact, Cretea might still become visible or trackable. This is a nightmare.

“Almost ten millennia,” Drakon says softly. “These wards have held for almost ten millennia and they have to break in the middle of the most violent war of the past three centuries?”

This has got to be some kind of sick joke. He must have done something to offend some kind of higher power, causing it to try making his life as terrible as possible.

Drakon doesn’t allow himself to contemplate what it might mean if the wards are truly eroding. He isn’t a witcher and has no affinity towards spells, he won’t even be able to find out what’s wrong with the wards, much less fix any problems. He can only wait and pray – although the latter hasn’t helped with any of his other problems yet, so he doubts it will work this time.

----

Lying on her back on her couch, head in Mor’s lap, Andromache looks up at the ceiling of her room in Telique. She just spent the past three hours sitting through another council meeting and her head hurts.

“How was the meeting?” Mor asks. She wasn’t allowed to join since her uncle chose to participate himself.

Andromache shrugs. “Endless discussions, as always. Drakon’s proposal was good, though.”

Mor nods. “Yeah, I read it. I doubt the Loyalists will like giving up parts of their territories to form new human countries.”

Andromache shrugs. On the list of her priorities, the Loyalits’ emotions aren’t exactly high up. She turns to Miryam, who sits in one of the armchairs with her knees drawn up to her chest. “You were unusually quiet during the discussions, though. Is everything alright?”

She still feels bad for not asking that more often before the wall spell, and she certainly isn’t about to make the same mistake again.

Miryam shrugs. “Sure.”

It doesn’t sound convincing. “You never stay out of discussions,” she says.

“The subject isn’t really my strong suit,” Miryam says lightly. Andromache and Mor both frown at her and Miryam shrugs. “If you must know, most of these discussions require some kind of prior education. Which I don’t have. And I don’t really want to embarrass myself in front of the entire Continental leadership, so I thought it would be smarter to stay out of it.”

Oh. Andromache bites her lip. She never really considered that, and from the look on her face, Mor didn’t, either. Miryam seems so at ease amongst all these royals that it is easy to forget that she wasn’t raised as nobility.

Miryam shrugs again. “Doesn’t really matter,” she says. “Drakon is good enough at this that no one will notice if I’m not as long as I manage to cover the political part without making any big mistakes.”

Andromache frowns. That strategy seems a bit too risky to her and she’s about to say as much, but Mor already jumped on to a completely different line of thought.

“What’s up with you and Drakon, anyways?” she asks.

“The same as in the last five years,” Miryam says a bit too quickly. “We’re friends.”

Andromache looks up at Mor, who grins back at her, and sits up. “Really?” She asks, leaning forward.

Mor brought up the idea that Miryam and Drakon could get together months ago already. At first, Andromache laughed it off, but lately, it seemed far more likely. Her and Mor aren’t the only ones to have noticed, either. If she isn’t mistaken, there is quite a bit of money to be had with betting on if (or when) the two of them will get together.

“It’s complicated,” Miryam says, but she refuses to look at either of them.

Mor throws her hands up in the air, shaking her head. “How is this complicated, Miryam? I know your life has a tendency to be difficult by definition, but Cauldron damnit, you are in the comfortable situation where both of the options you have are good. All you need to do is choose.”

Miryam tugs at her hair and looks away. Andromache grins. Teasing Miryam about her possible feelings for Drakon is probably the most normal conversation they’ve had in weeks.

“Mor’s right,” Andromache says. “Drakon seems perfectly content to be your best friend if that’s what you want. So at this point, it really boils down to you deciding if you are interested in a relationship or not.”

Miryam tugs her knees closer to her chest. She turns to Mor. “Did you hear from your friends lately?” She asks with exaggerated innocence. “I haven’t heard from Rhys or any of the others in a while.”

Andromache and Mor exchange a look – and both of them burst out laughing. “Really?” Andromache asks, grinning. “That’s the best you could come up with?”

Miryam grins back. “Does it work?” She asks.

“Yep.” Mor jumps to her feet and takes a bottle of wine out of a cupboard. Plopping back down on the couch. “I ran into Az two weeks ago and he says the others are fine,” she says and jumps straight into a summary of the latest news she got from Azriel.

A servant brings them dinner and Andromache and Mor slowly work their way through the wine. As the evening goes on, the mood relaxes further and further. It is almost midnight when Miryam suddenly tenses in her seat, fingers gripping the edges of her chair. She obviously tries to keep her focus on Mor and Andromache, but her eyes keep flickering to something behind them. Andromache doesn’t think Mor notices anything except for Miryam being a little skittery, but Andromache knows enough to suspect what’s going on. She knows for sure when Miryam yawns a few times, then excuses herself claiming to be tired.

Andromache jumps to her feet. “I’ll walk you to your room,” she says. “There’s still something we need to discuss about the meeting, anyways.”

“Right.” Mor leans back into her cushions. “I, for one, had quite enough of politics for the day, so I’ll be staying here.” She grins over at Andromache and waves a wine bottle at her. “If you still want some of that wine, you better hurry.”

Andromache smiles at her over her shoulder and follows Miryam out of the room. As soon as the door has closed behind them, her smile fades. Still, she waits until they are in Miryam’s room, door safely closed between them and any listeners, before saying a word.

“You okay?” She asks.

“Sure,” Miryam says, but there’s a hint of tightness in her voice.

“Oh yeah?” Andromache crosses her arms and glares at her. “Back to that shit again, are we?”

Miryam glares right back. “I’ve got it under control.”

“You said that once already. Remember how it ended?”

Andromache certainly remembers. She still has nightmares about it sometimes. Miryam thrashing on the ground, screaming at horrors of her own imagination, is not something she ever wants to see again.

“Yes, I do.” Miryam pulls of her shoes and neatly puts them into the corner. “And do you think it was pleasant for me? Or that I want it to happen again?”

Andromache sighs and stops glaring. Being angry at Miryam simply because she is worried about her is the opposite of helpful. From personal experience, Andromache can tell that it never helps to push another person into a corner. Especially with Miryam, who isn’t the most open person on a good day.

“Sorry,” she says, even though she doesn’t really think she needs to apologize. “But tensions in the Alliance are running higher again, and if you are having trouble, I need you to tell me.”

“It’s the first time in six weeks.”

The only problem is, Andromache can’t tell if she’s telling the truth or not. With Miryam, it’s hard to tell. It’s not that she wants to die – quite the contrary, if Andromache isn’t mistaken – but she wouldn’t hesitate to choose the war over her life.

“I’m careful,” Miryam says. “What happened after I cast that spell won’t happen again.”

And if it does happen again, I’ll tell the council. And if they think you’re going insane, you’ll be out of your position and none of your excuses will be able to help you. Andromache doesn’t say that, though, if only because it would be the surest way to keep Miryam from ever telling her anything again. And if she’s being honest, also because it’s an empty threat. She wouldn’t have Miryam kicked out of the council, not in this precarious situation and not without having a replacement for her.

Maybe she should stop blaming Miryam for being willing to sacrifice herself for this. After all, she would do the same.

“Alright,” she says. “I’d still like to get some of that wine, so I’ll be going back to Mor.”

----

Miryam spent the entire night lying awake in bed, considering what Andromache, Mor and her talked about. Close to the morning, she finally made her choice.

“I think we should talk,” she says.

Drakon and her are sitting on a flat stone by a lake’s edge somewhere in central Erithia, dipping their toes into the water. A swarm of rainbow-colored fishes is swimming around Miryam’s feet, occasionally dipping their noses against her feet.

“Sounds serious,” Drakon says. He leans forward to run his fingers through the water.

“Kind of.” She shrugs awkwardly. “Not really. It’s just…” She stumbles over the words, then decides on the direct approach. “Are you in love with me?”

Drakon freezes, which really is answer enough for the question. It also makes it beyond clear that she should not have been this direct about it. She opens her mouth to say something else, somehow soften her words and make it clear that there isn’t a problem, but Drakon is quicker.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “That’s… Ah, Cauldron damnit.” He starts drumming a hectic rhythm on his leg. “I didn’t mean to…”

No, Miryam really shouldn’t have approached it like this. “No no, it’s alright. I wasn’t trying to, well.”

Damnit. She really dug that grave herself, didn’t she? Maybe she should have tried thinking about how to approach that conversation with Drakon instead of just focusing of if she was going to approach him about it.

Either way, her words seem to calm Drakon. At least a little bit. “I’m not even sure if I’m actually… Fuck.” He sighs. “I enjoy spending time with you. I miss you when you’re not around, there’s no one better to talk to. I love you, I really do. I’m just not entirely sure if I love you that way.” He changes the rhythm to something that’s a bit slower. “Kiko brought up the idea, but I’m not entirely sure. It’s difficult to tell, you know?”

Yes, she understands that all too well. “How did you know with Kiko?” She asks.

“Oh.” Drakon smiles. “That was completely different. I actually got a crush on him before we became friends.” He shrugs. “He was… easy to fall in love with. A year older than me, and far more outgoing. We were both in our first year in university and I thought he’d never notice me.”

Miryam nods. She doesn’t think she could fall in love with someone without truly knowing them first. She certainly never felt any kind of attraction towards a stranger.

“I know I should have told you,” Drakon says softly, “But I didn’t want to make things awkward. I’m perfectly happy to be your friend.”

Yes, Miryam really started this conversation the wrong way. Apparently, her talent for handling situations doesn’t extend to her private life.

“I wasn’t trying to blame you for this,” she says softly. “Quite the contrary, actually.”

Drakon looks somewhat relived. The rhythm he’s drumming slows further.

“But things between us have changed in the last months,” Miryam continues. “Wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes,” Drakon says carefully. Now, it seems it’s up to Miryam to takes the next step.

“Well, what I was trying and failing to say earlier,” she says with an awkward smile, “is that I think I might also be in love with you.”

Drakon freezes. “What?” He asks softly.

Miryam bites her lower lip. No wonder that he’s surprised. She is, too. It’s been less than half a year since she broke up with Jurian, and here she is, already in love with another.

“I’m not sure if it will work, of course,” she says, thinking of Jurian. “But I thought we should at least talk about it. Decide if we want to give it a try.”

“You’d like to give it a try?” Drakon echoes. He still sounds stunned, but then, he seems to catch himself. He buries his face in his hands. “Right. Please pretend that I said something charming or at least remotely intelligent instead.”

Miryam laughs nervously. “For what it’s worth, I believe my opening question was what started the entire problem.”

Drakon looks up and grins. “You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

“Sorry.” Miryam grins back. She wonders if they should kiss now, but neither of them makes a move. She hesitates. “If it doesn’t work out between us, we’ll still be friends, right?”

“Of course,” Drakon says without hesitation. “You’re my best friend, I wouldn’t ever want to lose that.”

Miryam smiles. Slowly, she reaches for his hand and intertwines their fingers. Drakon squeezes her hand.

“So we’re together now?” He asks.

“Yes.” Miryam grins. She pauses, thinking of the public reaction this might cause. “Would you mind if we didn’t make it public for the moment, though? You can tell Sinna and Nephelle, of course, but if we could keep this out of the public for a while…”

“Of course,” Drakon says, sobering up. “Everything is terrible enough for Jurian already. If he finds out that we’re together now, that will just make it worse.”

Miryam nods, feeling a stab of guilt at the thought. Especially because her first concern hadn’t been Jurian, but rather the public. She already had one relationship where the entire world watched and every little detail fuelled camp gossip all around the Continent. If she announced a relationship with Drakon now, the public interest would be at least as big, if not bigger, and adding that pressure to their relationship from the beginning is the last thing Miryam wants.

What they have is so precious, and it seems so fragile. And it belongs solely to the two of them, no one else. And Miryam will be damned if she allows the world to ruin this for her.

----

Tags: @croissantcitysucks

#before the wall #miryam #jurian #drakon #andromache

15 notes · View notes

adulttrio-imagines · 4 years

Text

Yandere!Illumi x Reader Pt 1

A/N: This is going to be a 2-part series since I git a little carried away and didn’t want it to be too long. I’ll post part 2 soon. It’s also fairly dark, so please proceed with caution.

EDIT: I originally posted this answering an ask I was sent sometime back, but tumblr kept messing things up so I’m just going to re-post this

EDIT 2: Part 2 HERE

Prompt: “I would give up everything for the chance to see your laugh again.”

The man in the suit is beautiful.

He’s beautiful in a raw, delicate way that mirrors the unbridled strength his long lashes frame. It’s an uncommon beauty, unique to strange lands far beyond the clutches of York New. Some might even call him odd, with his arrogant face and brittle nose, hunched over the small booth his weak chin and long neck gave him the appearance of an overgrown crane. But as you continued to push your legs to the limit, stretching them wider and wider as you contort your back around the smooth exterior of your pole, you couldn’t help but to tear your eyes away from your adoring fans and observe his demeanor.

This isn’t the first time he’s been to your shows, and based on the regularity he’s appeared at the past few months, you doubt it’ll be his last. He stares at you with impossibly large eyes that never blink (their starvation is pronounced, you feel their hunger even from here), lazily swirling a glass of whisky in one hand as he rests his chin in the other. You can’t see his legs from underneath the table at this distance, but from his posture you can tell they’re long and just as impossibly slender as the rest of his body. As you saunter around the stage, entertaining the roaring crowd that shower you with dollar bills, you note the silky texture of his suit (it’s expensive), the glint of his heavy-looking watch (possibly adorned with gold), and from the way he so effortlessly balances his glass in a well-manicured hand, you can tell he’s well-bred, wealthy, and sticks out like a sore thumb amongst the other noisy hooligans at the bar.

The room spins in gaudy shades of pink and neon green as you twirl around some more, the rush of wind cooling your face. You make your way up the pole, taking extra effort to stretch your legs out and angling them just right to display the soft curves of your thigh, the heat from the room coloring your cheeks as you sneak another glance at the man. More than the money, you like the way his cheekbones arch and the pronounced slopes they produce, the way they shape his fine features when he curls his lips in pleasure and expose a set of perfectly straight teeth that makes your heart pound just a little too fast for it to be normal.

You wink at the crowd before you, making sure to tilt of your waist just right to sneak a peak of your ass, teasingly arching your leg forward as you slowly hitched your already short skirt up just a little more, relishing in their excitement. You reward their charity with a flourish of your own, flashing your brightest smile when their thunderous cheers applaud your performance.

Your eyes snap back at the man in the suit, who’s gaze has remained transfixed on you this whole time. He claps politely, but the amusement that your dance draws from your crowd isn’t reflected in his face as he returns your stare with an empty look of his own.

He’s beautiful yes, in a way that makes you want to twirl your fingers in his silky locks and tug then hard while you kiss into the early hours of the morning. A delicious shiver crawls its way up your spine and you blow a kiss to him. Groping hands reach out from underneath you, desperately reaching for your attention, but you keep your eyes on the strange man, who accepts your kiss with a curled fist.

You lick your lips, unsure if the tremors you felt were from the rush of excitement, the heat of the room, the swirling pools of intent in his eyes, or a combination of all three.

But you do know this.

You’re making him yours.

.....

Your darling’s name is Illumi, and he doesn’t speak much.

It's not as if you aren’t trying. But he’s still as a statue and unmoving as stone, his face kept carefully blank as you dance around him like butterflies, slowly trying to coax him our his shell, whispering sweet words that drip with honey as you brush a hand against cheek (his skin is ice, and the tips of your skin freeze upon contact). He holds your eyes with his pair of dark abysses, directing your attention towards his mouth as you continue to wrap yourself around him, all but crawling into his lap, the hard wood of the booth creaking under your weight when you plant feather-soft kisses all around his face, paying special care to tease the corner of his lips as you press your hips hard against his throbbing groin.

He doesn’t return your steaming confessions, preferring to grunt one syllable answers in response to your questions, but he receives your affection with barely restraint lust, grabbing your thighs with spider-like hands as he nudges them open, letting out a low groan when you stop rubbing yourself against him and made movement to unbuckle his belt.

“Let me-“ He tells you between breathless kisses, “Let me take you home.”

You can barely contain your own pleasure as he slides a hand against the dip of your hips, struggling to nod.

“Sure.” You feel him smile, and a faint prick nicks the back of your neck.

The room goes dark.

And everything you know changes.

......

The cellar Illumi keeps you in is better than most. There’s proper heating, a small equipped bathroom in the corner, and a warm nest of blankets for you to curl into whenever the coolness of the stone floor after a fit of misguided rage becomes too much and form sores on your delicate ankles.

There’re no windows here, so you make a game of counting the scratches on the wall, bathed in the comfort of the dark, to make time go faster, adding a collection of your own on the wall beside your bedding when the days slowly stretch into weeks, even when your nails are filed down to blunt tips and your fingers are raw and inflamed.

Sometimes the boredom of it all drives the final nail into your head and snaps your existence in half, and you would brokenly hum songs of distance past, following the buried memories of times long forgotten, dancing around the small room on delicate toes and graceful arches, so different from the bold movements you made from your stage at the bar, before the old pain from your left knee would force you crumpling to the ground and bury your screams into the blankets.

“Why won’t you eat the food I give you? Would you rather starve?” Illumi asks you calmly. You eye him warily and drop your gaze to the neatly arranged fruits that lined the plate. He visits twice a week, dressed in strange clothes dotted with circular yellow nubs of what you can only guess to be buttons, often bringing with him baskets filled with peace offerings of sweets and little trinkets, as if they will make you happy.

You nibble at a slice of apple, careful to keep your gaze on the ground as you fight down the urge to empty what little contents you had in your stomach, one part out of hunger, ninety-nine parts from the ache in your head when he slapped you into the stone wall and bashed your face into it with extra vigor for refusing to take a bite of the bread he brought down the week before.

“Good job!” And he’s empty, empty, empty. The hollowness in his joy almost scares you as much as when he leans down to pay the top of your head patronizingly, as if you were nothing more than a badly misbehaving puppy who finally learned to obey. His fingers dig into your scalp when he feels you flinch under them, and he rams you headfirst into the ground as you helplessly choke for air when he carefully applies pressure to your trachea, all but strangling you while staring down with sinking eyes that drown out everything else.

And you realize three things.

He’s neither human nor beast.

He’s a beautiful doll who carved his name into your flesh for no reason other than because he could do it.

And there’s nothing you can do to escape.

.....

“Dance for me.” Illumi demands one day during one of his many visits. You look up your cup of tea, and stare at the man sitting cross legged across from you on top of a checkered blanket, like some sort of demented underground picnic. Under the flickering light from his kerosene lamp, his skin looks especially pale, and the gaping holes that represent his eyes are especially haunting. His visits range in frequency, and you can’t tell if you like it more since his absence is peaceful, or hate it for how unpredictable he gets when he does see you.

Hesitantly, you get to your feet and walk into the center of the room where a lone pillar stands. You place a hand of it, inwardly grimacing from its roughness, and forcing your body to contort around it. But just as you start, he raises a hand and shakes his head.

“No, no, no, not that.” He says, hair shimmering like black waves out in the sea, as formless as his tone, “I want to see your other dance, the one you perform when I’m not here.” You blink, not surprised to learn that he keeps track of your movements frequently enough to see you dance on those rare occasions. Instead, you kneel down to his level and take a sip from your cup, smacking your lips loudly as you smile widely and say, “No.” He strikes you across the face, and breaks an arm for good measure. You can tell from how easily it crunches in his grasp that your nerves are destroyed, especially when it flop helpless next to you in the ground. It is the first time he inflicts permanent damage on you.. But it’s not the last.

.....

You learn that your Illumi’s last name is Zoldyck. It’s hard to miss since it’s painted and hung high in every room he brings you in.

His change in mood is astounding and you’re cautious not too upset him. You’re unsure what flipped the switch, but suddenly your above ground for the first time in months and the sun that shines through the large French windows that span from ceiling to floor hurts your eyes, but it feels painfully good to feel the warmth of natural light grace your face.

You look wistfully out into the garden, where acres of woods stretched endlessly before your eyes, and a range of mountain lines dot the far edges of your vision. And wonder if you would even be so lucky to feel grass press against the soles of your feet again.

The Zoldyck mansion is huge, lined with riches and elegance that screams of old money, and it’s easy to lose yourself in the passage of time as you wonder aimlessly through the elaborate halls, admiring each ancient artefact that tastefully decorates each room. But even its size and grandeur pales in comparison to the aura Illumi exudes that makes you feel so insignificant and small, as if the universe itself would split and swallow you whole. You dance around the mansion, often in the dead of night on weeks where Illumi disappears into the shadows that cut unnaturally into the walls, your feet guiding you through both the lavishly decorated rooms to the empty halls. It’s easy to pretend that you were in a haunted mansion as you sang from door to door; you never see anyone else, but the continuous presence of following eyes that track each leap you take reminds you of old ghosts lurking behind corners. “Where’s your favorite part of your house?” You ask Illumi one sunny afternoon, when you’re both lounging in his sunroom and lapping up what limited time you had left with the sun before autumn arrived and brought the chill with it.

He is surprised by your question, as if no one has ever asked for his opinion in his life, and blinks impossibly slow in response. Placing a finger to his lip, he quirks his head and hums. “Hmmm. I don’t know. I don’t really care much for this house.”

And just like almost everything else he does, it’s horribly empty, and succeeds in shutting out your efforts and extension of friendship.

You return to starring listlessly at the lush gardens below, and make a mental note to ask Illumi if you could one day explore those grounds as well. There were only so many halls you could pass before turning into one of the many ghosts that haunt the mansion.

.....

Zeno Zoldyck is the first and only family member you ever meet. How you ran into him was mere coincidence. You’ve never left Illumi’s wing of the house. But by sheer coincidence do you run into the old patriarch on one of his rare ventures into the family library.

“It’s not easy playing chess alone. You don’t grow at all as a player if you’re only exposed to techniques you are familiar with.” He slams a pawn over your queen, ignoring the shriek of shock you return over his sudden appearance, and takes a sit across you. Despite yourself, you calm what nerves you had left and nervously prod your own pawn forward. He spares you fleeting glance and switches your rook out for his bishop.

And just like that, in the gaping hole that was Illumi Zoldyck’s home, you made a friend.

Zeno is a peculiar old man. He drinks only jasmine tea and likes it so hot it scalds the skin of his lips (you eye the scars that travel down his neck, self-inflicted and not from battle); like Illumi is gaze is piercingly empty, but unlike Illumi he can talk for hours on end and never fails to brighten your mood on days you felt as if your head was full of cotton and your eyes only saw the deaths of stars. You decide you like his straightforward ways and cheeky words, and you can only guess he likes how you’re the only person willing to entertain him in this lonely home on the most boring of days. He’s sprightly for an old geezer, and his wit tempt the corners of your lips ever so slightly.

And so you both meet once a week for a game of chess.

You’ll drink poison and burn your tongue if it meant filling up the empty spaces of time that suffocated you whole.

“What was he like as a child?” You decide to ask one day. Zeno doesn’t take his eyes away from the board (you tried switching the pieces once, and now he knows better than to trust you).

“Stupid. And ugly, if you ask me. Who knows what his mother ate.” He moves his king away from your bishop.

“Like an ugly duckling.” You hum in agreement and move your knight over to his king instead. Grumbling incoherently, he retreats his king further.

“Nothing like that. He’s was never really there,” tapping his forehead, he gives you a pitying grin, “I’m sure you understand.” You shrug in response.

“He couldn’t have helped it.” His king narrowly misses your pawn, and you click your tongue in irritation. A comfortable silence draws on as you both analyzed the board.

“Why do you defend him?” Zeno finally speaks after he slides his knight over to your king, and you bring your knees up to your seat, hiding the lower half of your face behind them before finally shrugging.

“He was a child, there wasn’t much he could have done.” It’s difficult to ignore the bitter taste those words form, and you push them all away as you bring your surrounding pawn to his knight. Zeno frowns.

“But he is now a man, and you are his prisoner.”

You can’t help but sigh when his bishop finally corners your king,

“I know.”

.....

On the nights where Illumi was home, he would occasionally demand you perform for him. Creeping hands dragging you from corner you curled into on the bed you unwillingly shared with him, not caring that the force of his careless throws injures your back further and colors your body with more bruises than you could possibly care to count.

“Why won’t you dance for me?” He demands you once again. It’s different this time though, you realize from watering eyes, choking on the cloud of poison that radiates from him, weighing you down to the floor as you feel your feet slowly turn to stone and merge with the tiles. You do not understand this sudden burst of anger (you think it’s anger; grief, rage and bitterness all swirl around you in endless clouds that it becomes very hard to differentiate one from the next) and you cannot stop yourself from begging for relief as the temperature in the room plummets to dangerously low levels.

“I can’t.” Dark circles creep dangerous close to the edges of your vision. He drives his foot further into your stomach.

“You can.” He nudges you hard, and the blood you cough out stains his foot.

“I can’t.” You want to scream in his face, and somehow he hears the resistance in your voice and digs his foot deeper.

“Why can’t you do this, for me?” He lifts you by your hair, forcing you to look right at him. “Is it because you can’t? Or is it because you won’t?” The last syllable rolls off his tongue with such harshness you never thought him possible of.

“Please,” You plead instead, grabbing at his legs, “let me go.”

It’s only for a fraction of a second, but you see his eyes widen and the pure, unadulterated rage he spews strangles you, and it is so, so bitter that your heart stops and the world fades. He backhands you, and the stinging slap he gives hurts less than the searing pain that sets your chest aflame as holds your down and carves his name into your skin, right at where your collarbones dip and met, slowly and carefully etching something with needles he pulls seemingly out of his shirt. You put up a struggle, desperately screaming for someone, anyone to save you, but he just as easily pins you down and continues his task as if your screams were nothing (they probably weren’t).

“You are mine.” He says, after a long eternity, and your throat his hoarse and raw from all the begging. You can only stare at the name he forcefully carved into your skin with abject horror, shaking furiously, half from fear and half from grief, at how you would now be forever reminded of him.

He licks the blood off his needle, and whispers, “never forget that.”

#hunter x hunter #hxh #illumi #illumi x reader #yandere #angst #zeno zoldyck #zoldyck family #illumi is not a good bean in this #my writings #tumblr has been a real b lately

209 notes · View notes