#but consider: i live in a city with TERRIBLE traffic and little to no public transport to most locations

[bizaar]

New Kid On the Block

Pairings: Eddie Munson x Female Reader

Summary: You're new in town and not exactly fitting in at Hawkins High, and a certain misfit metal head is the only person to treat you with even a modicum of human kindness.

Word Count: 8k

Warnings: Fluff, bullying, swearing.

A.N.: I heavily debated whether this was even worth posting considering its BARELY implied fluffiness, but I figured we could all use a little platonic Eddie-fic. It's an end of season one timeline, Nov - Dec 1983.

Hawkins is not much like your old town, nestled in sporadic patches of woods and dotted with bodies of water of varying sizes.

It’s of those sleepy small towns in the shadow of a major metropolitan city that suffers from a devastating lack of traffic. People who don’t live there tend to drive right through on their way to Indianapolis, and people who do live in Hawkins… also tend to go to Indianapolis for things.

At least you assume, you haven’t lived here long enough to say for certain and you don’t have any friends to tell you otherwise. Hawkins, being the conservative little hamlet it is, has a small three-screen movie theatre, an arcade, a public library, there’s even a Radio Shack, but no mall, no major restaurants or recreation centers, not even a goddamn Taco Bell.

The thing you are most chagrined about is its lack of any kind of decent record store. If you want to go to a Sam Goody, you’re going to have to head into the city, and considering your lack of a license or car, you’re fairly certain that’s not going to happen any time soon, not unless you make some friends who drive.

Yet another thing you are certain won’t be happening any time soon.

1983 is not your year. You know this well before November, but as the year draws to a swift and terrible close, it seems hell-bent on making sure you know just how much it hates you.

Being the new kid in a town that seems predestined to dislike you is hard enough without missing the first three months of school.

The student body’s opinion of you has somehow been set in stone as wholly negative, and by your second week, you are only half surprised to find that you already have a bully.

Her name is Debbie Blake. You don’t know where she came from or what in the hell her problem with you could possibly be, but she apparently hates you well enough to go out of her way to torment you.

You have spent hours racking your brain, trying to recall if you’d said or done anything that could have possibly offended her over the very short time you have been enrolled in Hawkins High, and thus far you have come up empty.

All you can guess is that she’s a cheerleader, she’s pretty and semi-popular, and that’s about as deep as the well of her personality goes.

Girls like that are mean for sport.

You wish you had been thinking about all that as you arrived at school that morning.

The air is crisp with the full force of autumn and the first chill of a promised snowfall. As such, you’re bundled in a combination of a favorite white sweatshirt sporting the logo of a local radio station from back home beneath an oversized jean jacket. The walk across town to school is far, but you’ve come to appreciate the long solitude, just you and whoever happens to be keeping you company from the portable haven of your walkman.

This morning it is The Edge of Seventeen, and Stevie Nicks has lulled you into a false sense of security as you make your way through the student parking lot.

You don’t notice Debbie and her pleated skirt bedecked toadies closing in as you weave through the cars. You’re more preoccupied with avoiding being hit by the door of a particularly shitty panel van as it swings open in front of you, and the shaggy-haired metalhead who hops down from the cab, momentarily blocking your way.

“Hey, watch out!” You snap, more startled than actually put out.

You only briefly glance at him, dark eyes beneath long lashes regarding you curiously, before you brush the shoulder of his leather jacket as you push past.

“Hey yourself, New Girl.” He says after you, slamming the door with a heavy thud.

Stevie Nicks takes you across the grass and the last stretch of pavement, and before you can reach the double doors leading into the school’s front hallway, you think you hear someone calling your name.

You weren’t aware anyone at this school even knew your name.

You foolishly pull your headphones down and turn just in time to experience the agony of having a thick icy beverage thrown in your face.

You gasp and freeze, bracing yourself against the sensation as it washes over you in a sticky wave and immediately soaks through to your skin. The morning air immediately sinks its teeth in and whispers something to you about frostbite. When you look up, there stands Debbie Blake, holding the styrofoam 7/11 cup, laughing.

“Oh my god!” She cries, “Don’t you just hate it when that happens?”

Your face burns hot with shame. You clench your jaw to keep your lower lip from trembling as a lump begins to form in your throat.

Debbie is not oblivious of your emotional state and mimics you, pushing out her bubble gum pink lips and pinching her brows together as she contorts her face into a pouting mask of feigned pity, like she wasn’t the one who just bathed you in frozen blue raspberry hell.

“Aww, don’t cry Weirdo, I’m sure it will come right out.”

Like rubbing salt in the wound, she reaches out and makes a show of brushing the ice from where it has begun to freeze to your sweatshirt.

A crowd of onlookers has begun to form around you. Devastatingly, your body has betrayed you and refuses to move, it is all you can do but watch as she rubs the blue mess deeper into the fibers of your sweatshirt.

Debbie sucks her teeth then, taking her hand back and pulling a face.

She shrugs. “Then again, maybe not.”

Her shit-eating toadies erupt into high peals of laughter and Debbie knocks your shoulder hard as she pushes past you. Each of her nasty little friends has something smart to say as they follow and your classmates react with varying degrees of amusement as they all file into the building.

Still, you are stuck to the spot where she left you.

Anger simmers in the pit of your stomach and you imagine going after her, seizing her by that high bouncing ponytail and hitting her in the face until you’ve knocked out every single one of her perfect teeth, but the urge is gone as quickly as it comes.

The morning air burns your lungs as you force yourself to take deep steadying breaths. You know that while violence very often feels like the justifiable answer, there will be nothing to protect you if it comes out that you socked Debbie in the face just for spilling a drink on you.

All that kind of reaction will do is make you out to be a psycho. That is the last thing you need right now.

You are fighting angry tears as the morning bell erupts to life, a shrill ringing to signify the start of your classes for the day. With a heavy sigh, you turn and slowly file in with the last of the stragglers, making your way down the hall, though you are not headed for your first-period Biology class.

In the far southwestern corner of the school, there is a seldom used set of restrooms you’d discovered by accident whilst hopelessly lost on your first day. The mirrors and walls are covered in writing, the overhead lights have long since died, and you’re fairly certain based on the stale tang of cigarettes and something harsher that nobody actually uses this bathroom for its intended purpose.

You shove the door open and angrily throw your backpack down onto the cracked linoleum, shrugging out of your jacket and going to the mirror to assess the damage.

Your jeans and boots are flecked with ice, which is easily discarded despite how you can feel tiny pinpricks of cold where it has seeped into your socks.

The worst of it is the gigantic blue stain that has already started to dry across the front of your sweatshirt. You hope for a moment that maybe it looks worse than it actually is there in the dim bathroom, but somehow you know better.

Serves you for wearing white, you think.

You make quick work of stepping out of your boots and turning them over to discard any melted slush before peeling the sweatshirt up tentatively over your head to discard in one of the sinks. You are further dismayed to discover that the t-shirt you have on underneath is also stained in that evil electric blue, though you should have guessed that. You could feel the ice melting in your bra as you made your way down the hall, your boots squeaking obnoxiously against the tile.

You take another deep breath in through the nose and let it out slowly, already dreading the conversation you will have to have with your mother if you can’t get this stain out.

Suddenly, there is a sharp knock at the bathroom door and it startles you enough that you nearly slip, sock footed on the tile as you are.

A hollow silence fills the air.

You brace yourself for whatever is about to come next, imagining it is either a furious teacher who has come to read you the riot act for skipping class or worse, more cheerleaders to torment you. Regardless of whatever is waiting for you on the other side of the door, you know it can’t be good.

The door creaks open ever so slightly letting in a sliver of harsh fluorescent light. Much to your surprise, you hear an almost familiar voice speaking to you from the other side of the door.

“Hey, New Girl, you decent in there?” He calls, whoever he is.

It takes you a moment to process the question, you blink stupidly at your reflection in the mirror and consider the state of yourself before answering.

“…yes?”

“Great.”

The door swings open and in steps the metalhead from the student parking lot. You stare at him for a moment in stunned silence. Never in the furthest reaches of your mind did you think he would be on the other side of that door.

He’s very familiar to you, and you can’t think why except for the fact that you literally just saw him out front. You tell yourself that you must have seen him around school, in the halls and the lunchroom maybe. He’d be hard to miss, you haven’t seen many other metalheads so openly dressed in their creed here in Hawkins, if any.

You can’t imagine what he could possibly want as he puts his hands up like he means to put you at ease. You notice he’s got something black clutched in his left hand.

“I come in peace.” He says, dark eyes darting down to your ruined t-shirt.

You fight the instinct to cover yourself. You are not sure how to react to the statement, but somehow you believe he means no harm.

“Okay…”

“I’m Eddie.” He says, gesturing to himself.

In an instant, you know exactly who he is. Even without the luxury of having friends, you’ve heard the talk about Eddie Munson. His reputation precedes him, and you know for a fact that a lot of the underclassmen are scared of him.

It is a sentiment you don’t share.

You honestly don’t think he’s all that impressive in the flesh. Worn leather jacket held together by bits and bobs that don’t precisely belong stitched into a garment, denim vest decked out in patches and pins denoting the various bands he worships, nondescript band t-shirt, torn jeans.

The way people talk about him you’d half expected he’d have Devil horns, a forked tongue, maybe.

Eddie Munson looks just like every other metalhead you’ve ever met.

Still, you tell him your name, as is only polite. Your mother may have raised you with a stunning lack of social skills, but she’d made damn sure you knew when it was time to mind your manners.

“Yeah, uh… I know, I think we have a class together,” Eddie says.

You nod, suddenly remembering exactly where you’ve seen him, tucked away in the far corner of your fourth-period Algebra class, a lone senior among juniors. Your seat is not too far from his, now that you think about it.

“Oh! Right.” Some little voice inside of you pipes up rather unhelpfully with the other name you’ve heard people using to refer to him, Eddie the Freak, “Eddie from Math.” You say.

He smiles and breathes a quizzical laugh like he finds the new nickname highly amusing.

“Yeah. Eddie from Math.”

An awkward silence blossoms between you.

You clear your throat and cross your arms, suddenly a little self-conscious to be caught in what feels like an extremely vulnerable moment by someone you’ve only just officially met,

“Sorry, what did you want?”

The question seems to take him by surprise.

“Oh, uh… nothing. I just saw what happened out there just now–”

You roll your eyes and are powerless to stop the bitter snort of humorless laughter from tearing itself out of you,

“You and everybody else in school, I imagine,”

If you’re being rude, Eddie doesn’t seem bothered by it. His gaze is very direct, but it is not unkind. If anything it feels inquisitive, like he’s really looking at you for the first time and trying to decide what he thinks. The beginnings of a smile quirk up the sides of his mouth.

“Yeah. Debbie’s a bitch.” He says slowly, then shrugs his broad shoulders, “I’ve been there and much worse, trust me…”

Another awkward silence.

This time, it’s his turn to speak up.

“Anyway, you’re new here and I thought maybe you could use some of that good old-fashioned Hawkins hospitality. The real kind, not that shit Debbie and her minions are peddling.”

Eddie pushes the black mass clutched in his hand towards you. You hesitate a moment, looking from the object to him and back again like you don’t trust that this isn’t a trap and the thing isn’t going to be full of spiders or something worse.

You level him with an uneasy look, you really don’t think you can handle any more abuse for the day. Suddenly his voice grows very soft and reassuring.

“It’s okay,” He says, “You can take it. It’s just a t-shirt, it’s not gonna bite you.”

Slowly, you unfold your hands from their protective position over your chest and carefully reach for it. Your fingers brush his when they curl into the fabric and you hold your breath as you pull.

True to his word, he lets go, and nothing happens. No creepy crawlies come spilling out as the shirt unfolds, and no alarms go off to signify you’d fallen for some kind of bizarre joke.

It’s just a t-shirt, and you and Eddie from math class, standing across from each other in the dimly lit girl’s bathroom at the far southwest corner of Hawkins High.

You can’t help but feel a little stunned at this act of kindness as you stare down at the black fabric clutched in your hands.

In the three weeks you’ve spent struggling to keep your head above water in the quagmire of Indiana’s teenage social politics, he is the first person who has thought to treat you with an iota of human kindness.

“Thank you,” you say breathlessly, embarrassingly, your eyes have become wet.

Eddie stuffs his hands into his pockets and shrugs his shoulders again, casting his eyes to the floor like he is trying to afford you a little privacy in your emotions,

“Hey, everybody needs a little help sometimes, right?”

You wipe your eyes and do your best to smile at him, before slipping into one of the stalls and making quick work of stripping off your soiled t-shirt. You pull the new one over your head and are surprised to find the material is softer than you’d expected it to be.

The fit is a tad big, but not uncomfortably so, and it has an old smell like it’s been sitting in a cardboard box for an indeterminate amount of time. It’s strange if not entirely unpleasant.

When you emerge, you find you are oddly disappointed to see that Eddie is gone.

Of course, you didn’t expect him to hang around a half-derelict girl’s restroom and wait for you, you don’t know him, and you’re certain he’s got his own class he’d skipped out on to come and rescue you from further public humiliation.

Even so, you are sad to see him go. Somehow it feels like you’ve missed out on the opportunity to make a friend.

You turn back to the mirror to examine yourself and are caught staring at the front of your new shirt. Where you’d assumed it was a plain black tee, you see that there is a logo, a little demon-faced character applied to the middle of the shirt in a slapdash way.

The words “Hellfire Club” are written above him in a semi-indiscernible script.

You don’t know what it means, but you like it, despite the nagging feeling in the back of your mind telling you you might be subjected to further abuse for wearing demonic iconography in a public school sphere.

All the same, you push that from your mind and turn your attention back to your sweatshirt.

You spend the better part of an hour scrubbing and wetting and scrubbing and rewetting the stain, playing the morning’s interactions over and over in your head on an infinite loop.

It’s only the shrill ringing of the bell to signify the end of first period that causes you to rethink the whole endeavor. Just as you feared, all your efforts were for not, the blue stain splashed across the front is not any less vibrant than it was when you started.

You heave a dejected sigh, gather your belongings and take one final look at what up until this morning had been your favorite sweatshirt, then you wad it up and deposit it forlornly into the nearest trash can.

+++

The next few weeks go about as poorly as the first as you continue to fail to acclimate with the local population.

Hawkins High offers a plethora of intramural sports and extracurricular activities, none of which particularly appeal to you, which throws a bit of a wrench in your plans.

For the lack of any ability to make friends the good old-fashioned way, you had hoped you might be able to force it through team-building activities.

No such luck.

You don’t see much of Eddie, from what you understand he skips class about as often as he cares to attend, and when you do see him he doesn’t acknowledge you. You can’t muster the energy to let your feelings be too hurt over it, you’re far too busy with other pressing matters.

Debbie and her toadies have set about making your life a living hell like it pays their bills, and somehow, that is not even the worst development in your school year.

You have started to get pulled into regular meetings with the guidance counselor, Ms. Kim, who has taken a special interest in you after noticing your apparent lack of any kind of social group.

It is here you’d found yourself one rainy afternoon in late-December, the last day of school before the respite of the holiday break, unceremoniously pulled out of the hallway and into Ms. Kim’s office while you were attempting to make your way off campus to start the long trek home.

You didn’t hear most of what she’d had to say to you, consider the tiny, highly distracting animatronic Santa Claus sitting on her desk. You couldn’t stop yourself from staring at it while she droned on and on about the importance of making connections in your classes, wondering if the Santa ran on batteries or if maybe it was supposed to dance.

You had discreetly started looking for the “on” button, trying to decide whether or not you could get away with pushing it when Ms. Kim realized she was making no headway with you and sent you on your way. More the better for you, you have a long cold walk home ahead of you, one you should already have been well into.

The hallways are all but deserted as you make your way towards the foyer, your shoes make hard noises against the slick linoleum. You are distracted as you go, fumbling with changing the tape out of your walkman, having decided it is not a John Denver kind of afternoon and that you will need the dulcet themes of Dreamboat Annie to keep you company on your way home. You are woefully unaware of the sharks in the water.

You round the corner and are alerted to the sound of approaching voices, the sight of gold and green uniforms sending a spike of adrenaline surging through your body as you clap eyes on Debbie headed your way, flanked by two of the minions she has on regular rotation for your daily torment.

Thankfully, they have not noticed you, and you take the opportunity to turn on your heel and go right back around the corner from which you’d come. You stash your walkman and break into a run, not trusting that the psychotic pompom twirlers aren’t right at your heels, ready to seize you in their perfectly polished talons and drag you kicking and screaming off to some corner to devour your soul or whatever it is that cheerleaders do after practice.

For lack of any better option, you duck into the first room you come across and unintentionally slam the heavy door behind you, scaring the bejesus out of the person you didn’t realize would be inside.

It’s the drama room, set up in the style of a black box theatre, folding seating vaulting ever so slightly down to bottom out in an arena-like flooring that serves as what would be an elevated stage in a normal theatre setting.

Standing at the bottom is Eddie Munson, hand on his chest like he was recovering from the minor heart attack you’d just given him.

“Jesus Christ, man!” He half shouts when you arrive.

You press yourself against the door and shush him, listening hard for the sound of approaching cheerleaders.

Eddie is momentarily very put out to not only have been scared out of his wits but also summarily shushed by the strange girl who has just come crashing headlong into his sanctuary. Uninvited, no less. It takes him a moment, but he eventually recognizes you, and his tone steadily changes.

“Oh, hey, New Girl,” He says, “You scared the hell out of me…”

You’re too busy looking over your shoulder to answer. You can’t see much through the tiny inset glass in the heavy door, but to your knowledge, there are no pursuing bullies stalking the halls. You let yourself breathe a little and hope that maybe this time you got lucky enough to evade capture.

“Hey,” Eddie calls from the stage, “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

You turn your attention to the room then and really notice Eddie for the first time. He looks more or less the same as he always does, give or take a different band tee. You notice that today he has swapped his white sneakers for a pair of beat-up combat boots, due to the rain you assume. The toe of his left boot is held together by an alarming amount of silver duct tape, like the muzzled maw of a great beast.

“Hello?” Eddie calls, “Earth to New Girl.”

“Sorry,” you say breathlessly, “I was just… uh… sorry, is it okay if I hide in here for a little bit?”

“Hide?” He asks, looking around like he’s completely bewildered by the concept that someone would want to hide in this room. Still, he shrugs and nods, “Yeah, sure I guess.”

“Thanks,”

You stand and make your way down the steps to a middle row of the small theatre, where you park yourself in an aisle seat and breathe a sigh of relief.

Eddie eventually goes back to what he was doing, setting up folding chairs around what appears to be three card tables put together, though he’s decidedly distracted, peering over at you with obvious curiosity.

He eventually endeavors to break the silence.

“Cool shirt by the way,” Eddie says, clarifying when you give him a puzzled look, “Dark Side of the Moon?”

You look down at the prism logo splashed across your chest and feel just a little bit silly for not immediately understanding,

“Oh!” You say, “Thank you.”

“You like Pink Floyd?”

“I do.”

After a moment, he gestures vaguely to himself,

“I’m more partial to The Wall but Dark Side of the Moon rocks too…”

Somehow that information checks out, but you fail to say whether or not you agree.

Another one of those awkward pauses blooms between you as Eddie’s nervous attempt at filling the silence falls flat. You’re still a bit too frazzled to realize you are being a poor conversation partner.

After another long pause, he tries again.

“So,” he says, drawing the word out lyrically, “What are we hiding from?”

Now here is something you’re of a mind to talk about.

“Psychotic fucking cheerleaders,” You huff.

Eddie nods sagely like he knows precisely what you mean.

“Debbie Blake, right?”

You shake your head incredulously and run your hands over your face. You hadn’t realized just how stressed you were about it until this very moment.

“I swear to God she’s trying to kill me. I don’t know what I did to piss her off but she is bound and determined.”

Eddie straightens, abandoning his task downstage, and takes a tentative step towards you, and then another.

“You probably didn’t actually do anything to her. People around here just don’t like it when you’re different.”

That statement strikes you with a strange and bitter tang in the back of your throat.

You blow out a harsh, shaky breath to try and dissipate the bad feeling wheeling in the hollow of your chest. Frustratingly - embarrassingly- your eyes are wet again, though this time from the breaking dam of the state of constant stress you’ve existed in for the better part of a month rather than anything else.

You have to fight to keep your voice steady as you speak, throwing up your hands in defeat.

“I haven’t even been here long enough to be different.”

The silence that follows is deafening, and you feel warmth bleeding into your cheeks as you try to compose yourself, wiping your eyes and clearing your throat.

That's twice now you’ve become misty-eyed in front of Eddie, and you can’t shake the embarrassment you feel about it. You can’t imagine what he must think of you, the weepy-eyed new girl always in need of some kind of rescue. You imagine it must be getting very old rather quickly.

In spite of all that, Eddie climbs the stairs and settles into the seat in front of you, crossing his arms over the back of the chair and pulling a sympathetic face.

“You’re the new kid.” He says matter of factly, “It’s reason enough for them.”

It feels like a noose looping around your neck, the death sentence of “they just don’t like you”, and after all the time you’d spent trying to fit in, to be normal.

You can’t deny that you had taken a quiet solace in thinking that somehow your torment was justified, that you had committed some kind of invisible faux pas that had driven your classmates to hate you for good reason, but hearing something like that from someone like Eddie sends that hope sailing out of your grasp.

You find that you have to take a deep breath to steady yourself.

He is not unaware of the effect it has taken on you.

“You know,” He starts to say, slipping into that gentle tone again, “I’d love to give you some sage advice and tell you it gets easier the longer you’re here, but take it from me, one misfit to another … it’s probably always gonna suck this bad.”

In spite of yourself, you laugh.

“That doesn’t make me feel any better.”

Eddie smiles broadly at you in a way that warms your insides.

“Made you laugh though.” He says, “It’s like I said, I’ve been here and much worse. And I had to do this part all by myself, so you’re already doing better than I was.”

You sigh and wipe your eyes. “Sure feels like I’m by myself.”

Eddie pulls a face and feigns offense.

“First of all, how dare you? I’m sitting right here.”

It makes you laugh again. He’s got a wicked amount of charisma, you have to give him that.

“Hey, look at that, I’m on a roll,” Eddie says.

For the first time since you met him, a silence blossoms between you that isn’t awkward.

You sit in quiet awe at the comfort his presence brings you, and you start to let yourself think that maybe this is what it feels like to have a friend. It’s a dangerous game, but it’s all you have to cling to.

Despite what you’d previously said, you can’t deny that having someone to commiserate with you does make you feel better. Better enough to change the subject at least.

“So, what is all this? Drama club?” You ask, gesturing to the stage and the table set up behind him.

Since your first official meeting in the southwestern bathroom a few weeks back, you have had the pleasure of witnessing the full effect of Eddie Munson, standing on tables, sermonizing, antagonizing other students.

Drama would make some kind of sense to you if it weren’t for the face he pulls in response to the question, like he can’t even fathom the concept of joining the drama club.

“No way, man. This is Hellfire.”

You stare at Eddie, uncomprehending like that is supposed to mean something to you. Then you remember the words printed across the shirt he’d given you back in November.

“Oh!” You gasp, pulling open your bag and rummaging through it until books and pencils and paperwork give way to reveal the black material shoved all the way to the bottom. You’d been carrying it around for weeks.

You liberate it from its prison and offer it to Eddie,

“I’ve been meaning to give this back to you.”

“Keep it.” He says, dismissing you with a flippant wave of his ring-bedecked hand, “We’re getting new ones anyway. Consider yourself an honorary member.”

Slowly, you thank him and stuff it back into your backpack, secretly very pleased to get to keep the shirt you’d since grown very fond of.

You suddenly can’t help yourself from asking, the curiosity has been gnawing at you for weeks and with no outlet with which to learn, the question has all but consumed you.

“What is Hellfire anyway?” You ask,

“It’s a D&D club.” He says matter-of-factly, clarifying when you give him a quizzical look, “Dungeons and Dragons? Never heard of it?”

You feel yourself scrunching your features and bite the inside of your mouth. “I don’t think so, no.”

Eddie pushes up from his seat and starts back down to the table he’d been setting up when you arrived.

“Come see,” He says, waving you over.

You tuck your backpack into your seat and follow him down the few remaining steps.

When you reach the bottom, Eddie spreads his arms over the table theatrically, “This… is Hellfire,” he says.

Across the table is scattered the various accouterments of the game, books, stacks of dog-eared paper scribbled over across every inch, little plastic character maquettes, and one rather large drawstring bag that upon further investigation you discover is full of dice of various shapes and size.

You recognize the same demon-faced logo from the shirt drawn crudely on the front of a manila folder.

You pick up one of the folders and read the cover aloud.

“Advanced Dungeons and Dragons … dungeon master screen… who’s the Dungeon Master?”

Eddie gestures grandly to himself, “That would be me. I sort of run the whole thing.”

“And what exactly does a Dungeon Master do?”

“Runs the campaign,” he says, “Tells the story and guides the players through encounters. Every player’s got their own character with special abilities that build up a party, and that party goes on quests and adventures and junk,”

Suddenly, like a lightbulb being switched on, your brain delivers you a tiny sliver of context.

“Oh wait,” You say, “I think I have heard of this. It’s that game that nerds play in their mom’s basements, right? Like with wizards and monsters and shit?”

Once again, if you’re being rude Eddie doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he goes as far as to laugh at the statement. It’s a light, musical sound that puts you at ease.

“Harsh, but sure, I guess some people play in their mom’s basement.”

“But you play here.”

You look around the theatre and really take it in for the first time. It’s moody, atmospheric, perhaps even dungeon-like. You understand how it could help set the stage for the game.

Eddie is watching you closely when you look back at him.

“It’s as good a place as any.” He says.

“I didn’t think people made school clubs for that kind of thing.”

He suddenly levels you with a hard look, like the words don’t sit well with him.

“That kind of thing.” He echoes, and you think you detect a hint of bitterness, “You mean like devil worship and ritual sacrifice.”

His tone is enough to make you sheepish. Somehow you manage not to crawl into yourself.

“So there’s none of that, then?” You tease,

Eddie shakes his head.

“We’re a group of like-minded individuals who like to get together and talk about our interests, same as any other club, except instead of chess or something we’re playing a fantasy game,”

You get the sense that he’s worn this argument out. You can’t imagine having to defend your interests so stridently when it’s so publicly condemned—misunderstood as you now understand.

“How often do you guys play?” You ask, bending to examine the intricate figurines set out on the table.

Some are painted, most are not.

“A couple times a month. Planning the campaigns takes time. Tonight’s kind of a big one, though. We’re wrapping up our session before everybody goes on Winter break. Big boss fight, it should be pretty fun.”

You zero in on one of the larger figurines, a grotesque creature in the shape of a ball with dozens of tentacles protruding outward from one large eye and a gaping toothy maw, both of which take up most of the real estate of its body.

“I like this one.” You say, pointing to the cyclops creature and giving Eddie a sidelong glance.

“That’s the big boss himself.” He explains, “The Beholder.”

You pick the figurine up to better examine it, then present it to Eddie in a way you hope is grand.

“Behold.” You say.

He smiles and crosses his arms, hugging his biceps as he rocks back on his heels.

“You could come play with us, you know,” He posits, “After the break, I mean. We’re always looking for new members, and collecting little lost sheep is sort of our specialty.”

“Is that what I am?” You ask, leveling him with a sly look, “A lost sheep?”

“I mean, this is the second time I’ve found you hiding from predators in a disused corner of the school.”

You pull a face, but you can’t deny there is truth in that.

You return the Beholder to his position on the table and stuff your hands into your pockets,

“Thanks, but I think I’ll pass.” You say, despite how you feel you can hear Ms. Kim’s voice in the back of your mind, tiny, ever so slightly condescending, imploring you to take a chance at making friends. “I’ve never been much for roll play. Sorry.”

Eddie raises his hands to show he takes no offense to the rejection.

“It’s not for everybody. Offer stands if you change your mind, though.”

You smile, once again struck by the kindness he doesn’t have to think twice to extend to you and glance reflexively at your watch.

5:15.

Your heart leaps into your throat.

“Oh shit!” You gasp, “I gotta go!”

You turn on your heel and vault up the steps, grabbing your bag and heading for the door. You are halfway certain your mother has already put in a phone call to the Hawkins police department to report you as a missing person when you remember your manners.

You stop and turn to address Eddie one more time before you have to begin your mad dash home,

“Hey. Thanks for the sanctuary, this was … this was fun.” You say.

And you mean it, even if you didn’t share in his enthusiasm for the game, you enjoyed talking with Eddie. Evidently, enough that over an hour had flown by without your noticing.

The sentiment seems to take him by surprise and Eddie gestures vaguely, seemingly at a loss for words.

“Oh, yeah, it’s no problem. Sanctuary is what I do best.” He finally manages to say.

You turn to start up the steps again when Eddie calls out to you.

“Hey, uh… this might sound a little weird but, are you driving? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in the parking lot.”

You can’t stop yourself from smiling, “You mean besides when you almost took me out with your door?”

“Yeah, besides that.” He says, waving the thought away.

You giggle, which is odd because you’re not the giggling type, but suddenly you’re feeling an emotion you can only think to describe as giddy. You have to subtly pinch yourself to try and come back down to earth.

“Yeah, no I don’t - I don’t drive. I’m walking.”

“I mean… Do you want a ride home?” He asks, stuffing his hands in his pockets like he suddenly doesn’t know what to do with them.

The offer itself takes you by surprise and you find yourself declining on instinct.

“Oh! No, that’s okay. Thanks.”

Eddie raises his eyebrows like he genuinely didn’t expect you to refuse.

“You sure?” He asks, “It’s probably dark by now, and with the rain?”

A brief silence hangs between you like he’s holding the floor open for you to reconsider. Still, you decline.

“Yeah no, it’s only like a ten-minute walk.”

You kick yourself for saying that. You know very well that the walk home is much longer than ten minutes when made in broad daylight, and it is a truth universally known that all long walks are made that much longer under cover of darkness.

Almost as if somehow he knows you aren’t being honest about the distance, Eddie throws up his hands.

“Could be a five-minute drive?” He says, his voice lilting in a sing-song way.

In spite of yourself, you’re grinning again.

“I like walking,” You insist.

“I like driving.”

You find yourself briefly considering it before your eyes fall upon the figurines laid out on the table, “I don’t want to make you miss your club.”

“Nah, don’t worry.” He says, starting up the stairs like he’s already made up his mind to drive you, regardless of what you say. “I’m the boss, remember? They can’t start without me.”

“Really, Eddie, it’s okay.”

You surprise yourself by saying his name, and strangely enough, you like the way it feels on your tongue. You have to stop yourself from saying it again just to keep it there a little longer.

“No, come on. It’s dark, it’s raining. Come on, I insist.”

Suddenly, he’s standing on the step below you and you’re face to face. He’s looking expectantly at you in a way that is making your insides go squirmy for reasons you can’t quite comprehend and you feel the muscles in your face starting to ache for much you’ve been smiling over the past hour. You suddenly notice that he has the softest, prettiest eyes, like dark pools of satin. You bite the inside of your cheek and briefly consider turning him down once and for all, particularly considering the state of your insides and the butterflies that have begun to make residence there, but Eddie from math class is kind, despite what his reputation suggests, and the walk home is very long.

“Okay.” You finally say, slowly. Carefully.

His face lights up in another one of those big broad smiles and your insides twist in on themselves again, “Okay.” He says, “Great, let’s go then.”

It isn’t completely dark by the time you emerge from the school, but it is dark enough that Hawkins, in all its small-town glory, would have forced you to walk a long stretch of the way in pitch darkness due to an inexplicable lack of streetlights along your route. You’re suddenly very glad you’d let Eddie talk you into taking that ride.

The rain has stopped, the air is thick with the smell of creosote, and the pavement crunches underfoot as you follow him across the parking lot, angling towards his large, semi-shitty panel van sitting at the far end of the lot like a crouching beast. It is not the only car in the lot, much to your chagrin.

The cheerleaders have joined the basketball team, and they all stand gathered around their various expensive vehicles, probably each revealed with a bow waiting for them outside their houses on their sixteenth birthdays.

You’d gotten a crisp twenty-dollar bill for your sweet sixteen and a note explaining that your mother was working late and there were leftovers in the fridge, and you’d been happy to receive it. You’d put that money towards your precious walkman.

The social elite of Hawkins High grows strangely quiet as you pass them. You can feel them watching you with their eyes out on stalks like they can’t believe what they’re seeing.

Eddie Munson and the weird new girl. What could they possibly be doing together on this dark, Friday evening in mid-December? You can’t even begin to imagine what kind of rumors this will spark.

If he’s bothered by their staring, Eddie does an incredible job at not showing it, meanwhile, you are exhausting all of your willpower in fighting the urge to hide behind him just to try and escape being looked at with such severity.

“My adoring public,” Eddie explains with notable sarcasm.

Mine too, you want to say, but anxiety has wired your jaw shut.

It takes what feels like a very long time to reach the van, and when you do, Eddie makes the gentlemanly effort to open the passenger door for you and hold it while you climb up into the cab. The heavy door swings shut with a slam and you watch as he circles around to climb in on the driver’s side.

“Okay. So do we want music or quiet reflection?” Eddie asks, as he settles in.

He fishes his keys from his pocket and twists them in the ignition. The engine roars to life and his stereo blares an indistinct metal. Eddie quickly reaches out to turn down the volume, waiting for your answer.

“Music is good,” you say immediately, though you are struck by the sweetness of his thinking to ask.

He leans over and pops open the glove compartment at your knees, instructing you to “find something you like” as he shifts the van into drive and you begin to move towards the edge of the parking lot. You lean forward to try and better examine the mess of tapes he has piled up in the little drawer, squinting against the dark.

“Alright, my Lady,” Eddie says as you roll up to the stop sign, “Where am I taking you?”

“Gloucester and Cornwallis.” You say, absentmindedly thumbing through his cassettes.

Eddie stomps the brakes a little harder than you’d expected, your lack of a safety belt causing you to lurch forward in your seat. You catch yourself with a palm against the dashboard as Eddie swings his head around to level you with a very pointed look.

“What?” You ask, suddenly a little worried that you said something wrong.

“Gloucester and Cornwallis?” He echoes, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“What about it?”

He leans back a little like he needs to take a better look at you.

“That ain’t no ten-minute walk, Babe.” He says, and you feel warmth creeping into your face. He’d called you babe. Something in you is suddenly ravenous to hear him say it again. “That’s clear across town.”

Strident concern for your wellbeing oozes off of his tone and you can’t stop yourself from bleating out a peal of incredulous laughter. You’ve been a latchkey kid so long you might as well share the same creed with the postman, Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night…

“I told you you didn’t have to drive me!“ you insist, “If it’s too far I’ll get out and walk”.

You pull the handle of your door and start to push it open but Eddie is already shaking his head, his shaggy brown locks bouncing as he reaches across you to grab the door. His fingers curl over yours as he takes hold of the handle and you freeze as he pulls your door shut.

“No way. Absolutely not. I said I’m driving you, so I’m driving.” He insists, and then, “Put your seatbelt on.”

“You’re the boss.” You hum, pulling the belt across your midsection

Once it is clicked into place, Eddie puts his foot on the gas and pulls out onto Cherry Street, a straight-through town shot up to Gloucester.

You’re back to examining his collection of tapes, stifling a smile as you listen to him mutter angrily to himself about so-called ten-minute walks in the dark.

“You walk that far every day?”

You nod, “Every day, to and from.”

“Jesus,” he mumbles, “You do like walking.”

An easy silence falls over the cab after that, the sound of the radio is barely audible.

You’re not surprised to discover that Eddie’s collection is mostly generic metal. Bands you’ve heard of, bands you haven’t. You flip through his tapes until finally, you come across something that speaks to you.

“What about this?” You ask, retrieving it from the glovebox and holding it up for Eddie’s approval. He glances at you and immediately shakes his head,

“No, don’t show me,” He says excitedly, all thoughts of your daily commute forgotten. He punches a button on his stereo, ejecting the current tape from the cradle and tossing it carelessly over his shoulder. “Surprise me.”

You can’t deny that you are slightly horrified at how he treats his cassettes, thinking of your own pristine box of alphabetized tapes at home, but you feel a nervous trill of excitement in your chest as you push the tape into the cradle and let the machine take it. You sit back and tilt your head toward the stereo.

“You’re gonna want to crank it.” You say.

Eddie grins at you and obliges.

“Atta girl,” he says. You’re blushing again.

After a moment of mechanical whirring, the song starts up with a guitar riff you know very well. You’d spent hours and hours listening to your own copy of this cassette until tragically it had exploded into that dreaded ball of scrambled tape.

The excellence of your choice is not lost on Eddie, whose face splits into another one of those bright, broad smiles as Led Zeppelin’s Immigrant Song blares from the speakers.

“Oh yes,” He says, heeding your previous advice and further cranking the volume of the stereo, “Great choice!”

You fail to swallow the smile lighting up your face, happy to have received the Munson seal of approval and laughing when Eddie starts throwing his head back and forth in the sheer joy of rock music. It’s infectious, and before you realize it, you’re both shouting the lyrics, despite how you can barely hear yourself over the pounding music.

You can only imagine the picture you must paint to the innocent bystanders of Hawkins, milling about the main street as you come barreling down the road, music blaring. You half expect to get pulled over, and you are half as much surprised when it doesn’t happen.

The song goes on to its grand finish before cycling to the next track, and the sound on the stereo is dialed back to a reasonable volume. Your heart is pounding and you’re half way to giddy in a way that only singing along to very loud music can make you feel.

Eddie pushes his hair back out of his face, “So have you been pulled in to see Ms. Kim yet?” He asks.

“Yeah, today actually.” You say, “She’s worried I’m not acclimating to the local population.”

He hums thoughtfully, “It stresses them out when the new kids don’t conform right away. It’s like they think you’re more inclined to go postal or something. Don’t be surprised if she starts trying to get you to join a club after the holidays.”

You laugh humorlessly and think back on the exchange you’d had with Ms. Kim only a few hours before.

“She also wanted to know how that whole thing with that Byers kid was affecting me,”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, I guess she assumed I know his brother because we’re both…” you trail off as you try to think of a delicate way to put it.

“Social outcasts?” Eddie posits,

You breathe out hard through your nose, “I think the word she was angling towards was weirdos,”

He seems to find that endlessly amusing, “For the love of God, please, make my day and tell me that she actually called you a weirdo”

You scrunch your nose and try to let him down gently, “It was more implied than actually said,”

Eddie feigns disappointment and hits the steering wheel with the heel of his palm. “Damn,”

“Sorry.”

Before you know it, you’re rounding the corner onto Gloucester and pulling up to the front of your house. The lights are on and you can only just imagine your mother, chain smoking and wearing a groove into the carpet from all her frantic pacing.

Eddie throws the van into park and gestures grandly to your house.

“There you are, my lady, safe and sound, as promised.”

“Thank you, good sir, for the ride, the stimulating conversation, and the music.” You unbuckle your seatbelt and begin gathering your backpack and the rest of your belongings as you prepare to step out.

“Anytime.” He says, and you think he means it.

You smile at him and try to push down the warmth blossoming in your chest as you pull the door handle. The night air is cold and crisp with the leftovers of the rain. You are almost immediately shivering as you hop down from the van, but as you turn to shut the door behind you, Eddie stops you, same as he had on the stairs back at school.

“Hey,” He says in a way that almost reads as sheepish, “I feel like I should probably warn you, this…?” He gestures between himself and you, “…isn’t gonna make you popular with your friends. Hanging out with the freak kind of makes your a freak by default,”

You pretend to consider it, though only for the briefest of moments. “Everybody already thinks I’m a freak, and I don’t have any friends.” You say, throwing up your hands.

Eddie leans over the steering wheel and levels you with a pointed look.

“Oh come on,” He says, “What am I, chopped liver?”

Your heart leaps into your throat.

“Are we friends?” You ask, only half teasing.

The muscles in your face are starting to hurt again from how widely you are grinning.

“We could be, if you wanted to.”

Again, you are stunned by how effortless it is for Eddie to extend a little bit of kindness. It might not mean much to him, asking you to be friends, but to you it’s everything. You don’t think you could have spoken at that moment if your life depended on it, all you can do is nod emphatically and hope you don’t look too eager.

Eddie smiles another one of those big broad smiles at you and your insides go squirrely.

“Okay, Weirdo. I’ll see you at school.”

You shut the door and start up the grass towards your house, imagining you are glowing for how bright you feel.

Just as you’re about to reach the front porch, you hear Eddie shout your name. He revvs the engine as Immigrant Song kicks up again, cranked all the way up for the full effect.

You turn around once more and can’t stop yourself from laughing out loud when Eddie sticks out his tongue and throws up the horns, full rock and roll energy on display as he stomps the gas and roars off down the street. The familiar riff can be heard blasting through your neighborhood, even as the van whips around the corner and disappears from sight.

You watch him until he’s gone, then turn back to the house to find your mother standing in the doorway, a scandalized look on her face.

“What in the world was that?!” She demands, hands on her hips.

You stare at her for a long moment of silence, contemplating trying to explain yourself, before you smile and simply say “I made a friend.”

#eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson fic #reader insert #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson imagine #stranger things fic #eddie munson #stranger things

[lonelypond]

BETWEEN US

NicoMaki, Love Live, 3.6K, 1/1

Summary: Nishikino Maki and Yazawa Nico have many challenges ahead, but they get through them together.

Between Us

Is this what love is? Not a fire that bites painfully but two people laying so close to feel every breath, hands nearly touching, eyes on the brilliant stars opening themselves up suddenly, sure enough to share truths they speak into the night, this solitary space, this private moment between them.

Nishikino Maki spoke first, always the more impatient, curious about Yazawa Nico’s state of mind. “What do you want to do, Nico-chan?”

“Nico wants to show everyone that little and cute can be strong, sexy smart, talented, funny, hard working, successful….I’m tired of how the world treats cute girls like Nico. Nico is a star.” Nico flung her arms out, to encompass the sky. “They should be in awe.”

I am, Maki said to herself, and then thought, why not say it out loud. This was all new, why not be bolder.

“I am.”

Nico squeezed Maki’s hand, a reward for honesty. “What do you want to do, Maki-chan?”

No one said Maki’s name like Nico. It had been Maki’s anchor through the continuing craziness of Muse, Eli’s taskmaster torture, qualifying, Honoka’s collapse, then starting over, right as they discovered these new feelings, a gift from all they’d been through.

“I want to use the Nishikino fortune for new things, good things, to stop propping up out dated ways and awful people. I want to find new ways to help…” Maki was a person of specifics and she had a list. “Girls, gays, empaths, people fighting bigotry, neurodivergents, water protectors,” Maki thought of Rin and giggled, “furries, us, our friends, the world.”

“Maki-chan will do great things.”

“Once I’m 30.”

Nico Yazawa considered. This was so new and 14 years from now, when Maki was a doctor and her trust vested, seemed as distant as the nearest star Nico could see. But Nico knew naming goals was the first step to achieving them, even if it seemed a wild fantasy.

“Nico will be there.” Not flashy, just quiet determination.

Nico heard Maki gulp. She was probably tearing up and couldn’t speak. Nico didn’t really expect her too. Sharing was such a new trust. But Maki’s hand carefully kept precise palm to palm contact with Nico’s. That said everything.

“Marry Nico.”

Maki sighed. “No one can know.”

“Okay.”

YAZAWA NICO FINISHES FIRST INTERNATIONAL TOUR WITH SPRING SPLASH IN HONOLULU

NISHIKINO MAKI BEGINS RONIN YEAR SOLO WORLD TOUR SURFING IN MAUI

Sunrise. Quiet beach. Her own choices. Is this what contentment felt like, Maki wondered. Finally, moments of quiet to listen for the important things. Leaning against her duffle and board, dressed in a striped rash guard, bright lavender board shorts, and a faded denim “You Are On Native Land” cap, Maki stretched, watching the horizon as a lone speck appeared in the distance, jogging toward her, not actually growing much as the distance closed, Maki thought with a private grin. Nico, running in an oversized hoodie and bikini bottom, gasped dramatically, reaching a hand for the water bottle Maki held out as a lure.

“Still running 5Ks every morning?”

“10K when I don’t have a concert or rehearsal. Nico is a boss.”

“Umi would be proud.”

Nico dropped and did ten fast pushups in the sand next to Maki, “Not if Nico told her it was only to make girls swoon.”

“Girls?” Maki arched an eyebrow, hand sweeping through her hair.

“Girl.”

“Fiancee.”

Nico laughed, rolling toward Maki, pulling her down into a playful, sandy kiss. “Ready to upgrade to trophy wife?”

“Yes.”

But there was no hurry that morning. Both had put their other lives on multiple 15 plus hour flights and fallen briefly off the grid to sit side by side on this hidden beach, the tide surging, a rare treasured morning to share.

“Went to the symphony last night. Monica Mancini sang, Henry Mancini’s daughter,” Nico hummed the Pink Panther theme, “Nice voice, more your thing than Nico’s though. She sang a lot of Johnny Mercer. And some new stuff. Nico was taking notes.”

“You’re great on stage Nico-chan, but I guess you can always learn from other performers.”

“Nico is learning songwriting.”

Maki pushed against Nico, “Going to try to get me to put Nico Nico Ni to music again.”

Nico’s mood turned serious, “I miss watching you play.”

“I miss playing.”

“When Nico gets her penthouse, there will be a baby grand.” Nico let her hand settle on Maki’s, “Working with a portable keyboard now. And Umi’s giving me advice, so many books...I’m so busy reading, there’s no time to party.”

“Good.”

“Hey, do you have any plans tomorrow night?”

Nico stared at Maki for a moment, but there was only earnestness in the amethyst staring back, “Not since you got here.”

“I’ve been talking with some of the elders, volunteering on Maui, learning about healing plants, and aloha ‘āina.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s really cool. I’m going to get Papa to invite some of the teachers and doctors I’ve met to give seminars for us. Aloha ‘āina means so many things, but it’s mostly being determined to take care of each other by taking care of the land. It’s very land based and tradition based, here in Hawai’i,” Maki picked up a handful of sand, “but it’s caring and not soft...exactly...when you meet Kai, he’ll explain it better. We’ve been invited for dinner, his uncle plays the ohe hano ihu.”

“What’s that?”

“ A nose flute, not for big concerts, more personal...Kai says his uncle has so many stories about it being used in courting rituals.”

“Is Maki-chan taking notes?”

“Maybe.” Ah, Maki’s sexy, best musician in the world grin. Nico missed that one a lot on the road. A killer cute band was no replacement for the brilliant, lovely pianist who’d so boldly wrapped Nico’s heart in music.

They were in the teasing phase now. “Do you have to keep courting a cute girl after marriage?”

Maki shoved into Nico again, “Well, duh…”

Joint laughter, rolling out to meet the tide.

“We’re getting married.” Maki said quietly.

“Just need to take our passports to pick up the license and go to the shrine. We filled out everything else online.” Nico glanced at her bare legs, “And Nico brought a kimono. Although Maki-chan looks sporty cute just like she is.”

Maki had a far off look, not paying much attention to Nico. Happy to wait ‘til Maki drifted back to the beach, Nico was going to enjoy memorizing her favorite scenery, Maki’s beautifully expressive face, now relaxed and open, thoughts waves and clouds in constant motion. Nico knew the solitude here allowed Maki to relax, there was no family pressure, their phones were off, nothing on either of their schedules for at least the rest of the week. A rare moment to sit with each other, sharing this beauty.

NISHIKINO REAL ESTATE GROUP BUYS LARGE LUXURY TOWER NEAR NISHIKINO MEDICAL CENTER

SUPERSTAR REFUSES TO GIVE UP PENTHOUSE APARTMENT TO NISHIKINO HEIR

Fast food. School girls lingering from Otonokizaka. Two people shoved into the booth furthest from the door and windows, sitting on the same bench, hip to hip, back to the rest of the room.

“So many memories in this place.” Nico unwrapped her burger.

“So many french fries.” Maki dipped a sample french fry in her chocolate milkshake.

“Another meal Nico paid for. You got rich not paying for food.”

“Hey! You were too proud to let me pay.”

“Nico is still too proud.” Nico tapped her fingers on the table. This late afternoon, for this clandestine meeting, they’d allowed themselves the indulgence of wearing their braided gold and platinum wedding band, Maki added the simple diamond Nico had bought her for their engagement.

“Is this going to work? Us actually living this close together without rumors starting?” Maki had been worrying. So many comments in the press and on social media.

“Everyone already has us at war. Nico’s a selfish poser, Maki’s a spoiled brat. Enemies to lovers.”

“Not funny, Nico-chan.”

“Nico will throw a huge party before I leave on my next tour. My new landlord will threaten very publically to throw me out of the building. Everything will flare up, but Maki-chan will continue to do boring future doctor things and by the time Nico gets back, all anyone will be talking about is Nico’s new album.”

“They’re not boring future doctor things.”

“No, they’re smart, saving the world future doctor things and Nico is so proud.” A quick kiss on Maki’s palm.

“Meanwhile…”

“Meanwhile, Umi and Eli install a secret hatch above the decorative staircase centerpiece of your expensively designed main room.”

“I’m going to miss you, Nico-chan.” Sadness.

Time to change the mood. Nico dipped a french fry in her strawberry shake and fed it to Maki. “How’s studying going?”

Maki leaned, chin in hand, frowny. “I could be more motivated.”

“So B?”

“A minus.”

“Nerd.”

“ ‘s dull." Maki said, chewing slowly. "But have to stay on track with the family benchmarks.”

“Yeah.” Nico decided to talk about happier things, “ooohh, did I tell you Eli’s setting up a foundation for Nico as her graduation project. We’ve already donated tickets to queer youth groups in every city on the tour and Nozomi’s setting up mentor programs.”

“Expect a large anonymous donation.”

“Expect a large not so anonymous thank you.”

“I’m just proud that you’re doing things to actually help people. I want to do more.”

“You’re studying to be a doctor, Maki-chan. That’s hard. Nico’s got it easy. All Nico has to do is” Nico went into her signature gesture, “Nico Nico Ni and everything gets brighter.” Nico suddenly remembered she shouldn’t have let her catch phrase out full voice during what was supposed to be a secret meeting, but this was a low traffic period so no one seemed to notice.

“I couldn’t get that out of my head, the first time I saw you do it. It was annoying.”

“But you loved Nico.” Nico snuggled closer, enjoying a chance to feel Maki next to her.

“But I loved Nico, all of Nico, the bold, brash, terrible liar, the kind, caring sister, the determined ally and friend, the hard working and talented performer.”

“Nico wasn’t a liar, Nico was an optimist.”

“Private chef,” Maki cough giggled.

Nico grabbed the french fries as Maki reached for another one, “Confiscated for cheekiness.”

“Give me those.” Maki grabbed, Nico dodged, french fries flew loose and they giggled their way through the next few minutes until Nico leaned forward to whisper in Maki’s ear.

“So are your parents still in New York City?”

Gulping, suddenly completely flustered, Maki nodded.

Nico bounced up, offering a gallant hand, “Nico will walk you home.”

“Fancy.”

“Only the best for Mrs. Yazawa.”

“That would be Mrs. Nishikino.”

“We’ll wrestle. Nico will win.”

“Optimist.”

Nico’s hand on Maki’s waist was a gentle guide into the autumn night, two hats pulled down, two collars pulled up, Nico in a mask to protect her voice. “Wait and see.”

Maki leaned into Nico. This night, unlike too many others recently, felt just right.

HEAD OF THE NISHIKINO MEDICAL GROUP COLLAPSES, HOSPITALIZED

NICO NI NEW YEAR’S CHARITY CONCERT SELLS OUT IN MINUTES

Nico had never been so sick. She’d lost count of the medicines she was taking to sleep at night, and then the additional ones added to get her through tonight’s concert. Then she could rest. Go to her Mama’s house and get babied for a bit. Maki had been so sad at Christmas, with too many family obligations to fly to Los Angeles. Nico had gotten through their Christmas Eve quick chat and then collapsed, barely moving until yesterday’s rehearsal, which wiped her out.

Pounding on her hotel room door. What the hell? Phone pinged, the Maki-tone.

“Open your door, Nico--chan.” Maki sounded angry. Was she pounding? Nico felt even fuzzier, slumping to the door, opening it to fall against a tall, angry Maki, beanie over her hair, sunglasses, and a mask.

“Nico-chan?” Now Maki’s voice sounded tearful.

“Hi, Mrs. Yazawa.” Nico croaked out, hoping to make Maki at least giggle.

Strong arms swept her up, Maki striding across the room, putting Nico gently down on the bed, Maki immediately examining every bottle by Nico’s bedside, “What kind of quack put you on all this?”

“Don’t know.”

“Don’t know? You don’t know.”

“Trainer found ‘em…recommended.”

“You should be in a hospital.” Maki’s voice broke.

“Concert, charity, millions. Nico Nico Ni.” Nico had no idea if what she was saying made sense.

“Cancel. Refund. I’ll make a bigger donation.”

“Nico is a trooper.”

“Nico is a zombie. What the hell kind of irresponsible moron gave you all this?” Maki crashed all the bottles to the floor. “Did they inject you with anything?”

“It’s LA, Maki-chan, the beautiful people never stop.” Nico coughed. It hurt like 50 Umi arrows to the chest, “Nico is a beautiful people.”

“Nico-chan…” Maki was kneeling next to the bed, desperation and weariness lining her face. She’d never travelled well, Nico realized.

Nico managed to flip so she was on her side, managing to smile at Maki, “Hey pretty girl.”

“I am going to sue that quack into despair and destitution.”

Nico blinked, suddenly aware that Maki should be in Tokyo. “Why are you here, Maki-chan?.”

“Hanayo heard a rumor…”

“Did anyone see you?”

“I don’t care.” Maki’s head dropped to the bed, “Papa collapsed...and you’re like this and hiding it from me…and letting some greedy idiot try to kill you...if anything happens to you, Nico-chan…” And the tears, Nico could feel them as she reached for Maki, hot, heavy, rolling off pale cheeks.

“Nico will be fine.”

Maki shook her head.

“Look at me, Maki-chan.”

Maki raised her head. Her eyes were bright. She was always so bright, so caring, her native prickliness a fortification against all the emotions Maki didn’t know how to process.

“I will be fine.”

Maki surged up, her arms drawing in Nico, whose heart was really not rested enough for tackled into bed by the redhead of her dreams. “Maki-chan, you’re going to hug Nico to death.”

“Don’t say that.” Maki’s arm twitched for a minute like she was going to shove Nico away, but then Nico found herself pressed as closely as she’d ever been against a clothed Maki, which would have been amazing if she could breathe. So Nico let a cough out and Maki loosened her hold.

“Let Nico sleep.”

“Okay. But I’m not going anywhere.”

Nico had closed her eyes, muttering, “...love you.”

“I love you too, Nico-chan.”

A-RISE STEPS IN AT LAST MINUTE FOR NICO NI

NISHIKINO MAKI CHECKING OUT STANFORD RESEARCH FACILITIES, POSSIBLE PARTNERSHIP

Nico is officially spoiled. Another morning waking up to Maki curled up by her side...She’d shipped everyone else back to Japan, tour over, a solid break until Nico’s doctor cleared her for rehearsal. Nico sat up, teasing tumbles of red hair, Maki had been very clear that Nico had to clear the steroids out of her system first. But at least Maki hadn’t banned other forms of exercise.

“I’m not asleep, Nico-chan.” Maki mumbled, sounding totally still asleep.

“Thanks for coming to rescue Nico.”

“Don’t make me do it again. I might have to go back to school.”

“I thought you were joining the Board Of Directors ahead of schedule?”

Maki opened her eyes, stretching, “Order pancakes. And bacon. And orange juice. And muffins.”

“Brunch in bed.”

“I’m not leaving until I have to.”

Nico reached down to kiss Maki’s forehead, “It’s been nice having you here.”

“Then come home.”

“Nico is working on it.”

Maki raised an eyebrow. Nico sounded excited. “Is there something I don’t know about?”

“It was supposed to be your Christmas surprise, but Nico’s agent was still negotiating.”

What could Nico’s agent be negotiating that would be a Christmas surprise for Maki?

“I’m going be the main character in a TV drama, based in Tokyo.”

“Really?”

“Really. I didn’t get to be there when your Dad ended up in the hospital and I’m so sorry…I knew you needed me, but...this is our life...” Maki nodded as Nico gestured at the hotel suite, continuing, “And I knew you were going to be super busy with family stuff so I pitched an idea and two production companies jumped on board. Nico is taking a paycut and ownership, but all you’ll have to do is come upstairs and Nico will be right there, at least for six months.”

“Nico-chan…” Maki sat up.

Nico put her arm and pulled Maki in, Maki dropping her head to Nico’s shoulder, “We get through the tough stuff together, Maki-chan. We always have. I love you.”

“Love you.” Maki was falling asleep again. Nico would add coffee to their brunch order. Maki had to be awake enough to sneak out and catch a plane.

YAZAWA NICO TO STAR IN DOCTOR SMILE

DOCTOR NISHIKINO MAKI TAKES OVER FAMILY MEDICAL PRACTICE

If she didn’t have Nico, Maki would probably just live with a grand piano, a huge bathtub, and a couch to eat take out on, Nico thought as she sank into lavender scented steaming water.

“It’s not funny, Rin. And I don’t need weekly updates about who Nico’s kissing on the show.” Maki sounded aggravated. Nico giggled. She’d come home early from a weekend meet the fans event and snuck into Maki’s luxury tub to recover. Candles were lit, Idol music popping.

“Wait a minute, Rin. I think…” Maki’s steps sounded hasty and she was suddenly in the door of the bathroom.

Nico winked. “Hi Maki!”

Maki made a grumbly noise and turned sideways, “No, I’m okay, Rin. There’s just a surprise in my bathtub…” Maki glanced at Nico, “Rin says hi. And you have to stop using my cases, Nico-chan.”

“Did Rin say that? And who says Nico does?”

Maki glared, “Where do you even get your information?”

Nico raised a finger to her lips and winked.

“And that red wig. It’s awful. People think you’re making fun of me.” Maki listened to her phone. “Shut up, Rin.” And the phone went in her coat pocket.

“What did Rin say?”

“Nvermind.” Maki muttered.

“Maki-chan…” Nico splashed at Maki.

“No one would ever call me Dr. Smile.”

Nico guffawed, slapping water everywhere. “I miss Rin.”

“If I had Umi’s bow, I wouldn’t.”

“You love her.” Nico leaned back, watching her wife, who had flopped on the nearby chaise. “So who thinks Nico is making fun of you?”

“Papa.”

“PFfffffff…who cares.”

Maki glared, ‘“We’re trying to keep his stress levels low.”

“Red headed doctors are the best.”

“But I like your hair; it looks like you.”

“But our daughter will look like Dr. Smile.”

That threw Maki’s train of thought completely askew. The closest she could get was imagining Cotaro when she first met him with bright red hair.

“I wonder if our children will look like you? All your siblings do.”

“And they’re cute. But our children will be NicoMaki cute. I’ve seen your baby pictures, you were adorable.” Nico leaned back, smiling up at Maki. “Nico can’t wait to have a family to come home to.”

“You have me.”

“And I love it.” Nico blew lavender scented bubbles at Maki, “But you, me, the cutest children ever in the universe, and Christmas morning.”

Maki couldn’t keep the huge grin back. “I can tell them all about Santa-san.”

“But we’re not spoiling them too much.”

Maki pouted at Nico.

Nico giggled, “That’s what our parents will do.”

Maki got up, taking off her coat, sliding out of her jacket, unbuttoning her shirt halfway and slipping out of her pants. Then she sat on the edge of the tub, feet in the water, toes teasing Nico’s legs. “You’re going to tour less, right.”

“Nico’s not touring now. You’re going to cut down your hours, right, Maki-chan.”

“Just started the search for an Executive Director. And put the LGBTQ+ Health Centers proposal on the fast track.”

Nico leaned over, her chin on Maki’s thigh, “We’ve worked really hard for this.”

“We have.”

“I think Mama knows.”

Maki laughed, “It was that morning she surprised us at breakfast, wasn’t it?”

For once, Nico was the one blushing. “Nico needs…” Nico’s arm slipped under Maki’s shirt, a casual touch on Maki’s back, “more elegant pajamas for entertaining company.”

“No you don’t.”

“You like it when Nico borrows your shirt.”

“No, I love it when Nico-chan borrows my shirt.”

“Nico loves your pajamas.” Nico’s fingers started tracing patterns.

“Ha!” Keeping her cool with Nico this close had always been impossible so Maki just lowered herself into the water, pausing for a messy, wet kiss, “Let’s skip dinner.”

NISHIKINO MAKI AND YAZAWA NICO: DETAILS OF THEIR WHIRLWIND COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE

The interviewer leaned forward as Maki ran a hand through her hair. She was relaxed in a light gray Tadashi Shoji corded lace sheath dress, and confidently answered her question, “It was a long day, my eyes were so tired everything was blurry and I got in the wrong elevator. Nico had just gotten pics of the Ayase twins and we started talking about high school.”

“Talking?” Nico snorted, standing behind Maki, hands in the pockets of bright pink Victoria Beckham trousers, the matching blazer falling open, “It was all Nico’s sex appeal. Nico is irresistible.”

Maki leaned her head back, a private smile for Nico, “Nico is irresistible.”

“Is it irresponsible to take so much time off from your responsibilities to take a world tour honeymoon and then start a family?”

Nico chuckled, her hands on Maki’s shoulder, “We’ve planned carefully. And they’re our businesses. Nico never understood people working themselves to death, not taking time for family. We want to change corporate culture.”

“You’ve always been ambitious, Nico. What’s your next project?”

Nico winked, “That’s just between us.”

“No hints for our viewers, Maki?”

Nico leaned down, arms around Maki’s shoulders, whispering something in her ear. Maki’s full, flaring blush could have been a picture from high school. The interviewer laughed.

“Nice to see you two worked out the Penthouse Wars.”

“Nico is a reasonable person.”

Maki threw back her head, laughing, “Sure, that’s why.”

“Well, Nico is certainly a top…”

“Nico-chan!”

“I love you, Maki-chan.” Giggling, Nico kissed her wife’s cheek.

Nico might have been the only one to hear Maki’s muttered, “I love you, Nico-chan.” But it had always been true.

A/N: Another AU Yeah August request, it started out as Married Rivals, but I was reading a Dolly Parton songwriting book and in the songs about love chapter there were these lyrics from "Between Us":

In our love let's share a friendship between us Always close enough to talk things out Let's be honest with ourselves and each other And our love will never know mistrust or doubt

So I just started writing conversations.

#NicoMaki #Nishikino Maki #Yazawa Nico #married #married life #fluff #minor illness and angst #au yeah august

[achaoticeternal]

You Still Know Me Too Well

RANSOM DRYSDALE X READER

masterlist    //   taglist

request from anon: 95,98,100 where the reader and Ransom are getting a divorce cause they both think that there is nothing left of their marriage and they think they don’t love each other anymore but one of them ( probably Ransom) can’t bring themselves to sign the papers and they end up realizing that their divorce is probably a mistake and don’t end up going through with it?

Summary: Divorce is hard, but we’re both of you that broken? Word Count: 2k A/N: Wow, I absolutely adored this prompt because weird fact, but getting a divorce is my biggest fear. Haha. I also twisted in the song “Ophelia” by The Lumineers because it just slaps so go LISTEN TO IT :)

95.  “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to see me, but I wanted to see you.” 98.  “I’ll follow you anywhere.” 100.  “Don’t you love me too?”

Ah, ah, when I was younger, ah, ah, should have known better And I can't feel no remorse, and you don't feel nothing back

Three years. You have been Mrs. Drysdale for the past three years, but looking down at the paper that now held your signature, that name would change soon.

It was moments like this when the penthouse felt cold and lonely. Moments like this when Ransom’s words seemed to each off the wall.

“I’ll follow you anywhere.”

 It was the last sentence of his vows. But now where was he? Vacant of the penthouse where only you and two cats remained. It felt like he was here though, his warm physical form wasn’t. The idea of Ransom lingered, the idea of having a possible family, the idea of settling down to be outside the presses, the idea of selling the penthouse and his home in Boston and buying a big family home in Virginia, the idea of sharing a fulfilled life together. 

But none of that was happening. Neither of you could escape the public eye while you remained a big-name actress in the New York Theatre community and rumors continuously spreading about his family and their way of living. It came to the point where you were both in orbit of each other, but never around each other long enough to matter.

You couldn’t regret this decision. You couldn’t live this was the rest of your days. You need your husband, but you never knew if he quite needed you.  

Oh, Ophelia, you've been on my mind girl since the flood Oh, Ophelia, heaven help a fool who falls in love

You requested the next week and a half off, having your understudy filling your role for the next five performances. It just happened that Ransom hadn’t been responding to the lawyers, so you needed to pay him a little visit down in Boston.

The drive to the house in the suburbs of Boston wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t the most pleasant either. Traffic was always crazy though. However, you didn’t expect the drive to feel like a visit down memory lane and everything the flooded your mind, like the day Ransom asked if you would move in with him. Or the time you both got snowed into the house and couldn’t even open the front door. Or the engagement party at your favorite Italian bistro in the downtown area.

You approached the front door and knocked. Then waited, for about 45 seconds. And knocked again. Then waited, for a full minute. You raised your fist again to reveal your husba- Ransom.

“Don’t you have anything better to do then throw stupid sales pitches at,” Ransom stopped his complaining when his eyes finally met yours, “(Y/N)- I... Shouldn’t you be at mic-check or doing some show preparation right now?”

“I took the weekend off, Ransom. I just needed a little weekend getaway. I wasn’t sure if you wanted to see me, but I wanted to see you.” You flustered, pulling your coat in a little tighter, “Can I come in?”

He opened the door a little wider and stepped back as to allow you in, “Of course, this is still your home.”

It had been months since you had stepped into this place, and longer since you stayed the night. Most of the meeting in regards to the divorce was either in New York or over Skype. But looking at the walls you knew so well, it felt like a breath of fresh air.

“You’re probably wondering while I’m here.”

“A little, but more shocked to you you without any lawyers involved or anyone trying to get our attention,” he walked over to his minibar and poured himself a bourbon, “You want anything? A red? I might have your favorite sitting he- ah yes. Merlot, aged 8 years.”

“You always knew me a little too well.”

“Of course, that’s why I know you're here in regards to the papers,” Ransom poured your glass and handed it to you.

“Thank you,” You relaxed a little bit, “Well yes, but I also- I needed to see you. I needed to know that you’ve been doing okay because I can never read you with other people around.”

“Well, I haven’t told the family.”

“And you completely don’t have to. That’s why we had two receptions.”

“Tomorrow is Harlan’s birthday. Eighty-five and still writing those damn novels. I’m sorry about the papers, I’ve been trying to get other things to fall into place that it just slips my mind.”

“Well, maybe with me here it won’t slip your mind. How about we visit your grandfather tomorrow? We don’t have to say or do anything to your family, but I feel Harlan should know, all things considered.”

Ransom let out a sigh, then shook his head, looking down chuckling, “as much as I disdain that cynical old man, you do have a point, as usual.”

Ah, Ah, got a little paycheck, you got big plans and you gotta move And I don't feel nothing at all And you can't feel nothing small

The night of Harlan’s party seemed to approach quickly. Honestly, you were terribly nervous because this would be your last interaction with the family as Mrs. Drysdale. This feeling wasn’t as freeing as you hoped it would be. Since Ranson and you started to divorce process, the whole thing seemed like a load of bricks on top of you instead of that feeling of freedom. 

Ransom and you had opted to take separate cars, yet arrive at the same time so that no one grew too suspicious. It would be the first time you had seen him after breakfast that morning where he couldn’t seem to touch you or look at you. 

You approached Ransom who wore a maroon cardigan, a white shirt tucked into black jeans, and high-end black ankle boots. You wore a white silk button-up blouse tucked into a pair of navy pants that flared out at the bottom with a brown belt around your waist. 

When Ransom caught a glimpse at you, you thought you saw a flash of endearment flash through his blue eyes. Maybe it was just de ja vu. 

“You could dress in rags and look better than anyone in this house, even this city, but you always have to take everyone’s breath away,” Ransom smirked as he held out his hand to you.

“You always had a way with your words, Ransom,” you took his hand and allowed him to lead you into the house.

Quickly both of you had a glass of champagne and interacted with friends and family of Harlan Thrombey whilst the birthday boy talked with his youngest son, Walt. Ransom held you close by his side, even keeping a hand on your hip as you talked with other authors who also wrote mystery novels. For a moment, it felt like you were back where you were supposed to be. You felt at home as you rested your head on the space between his shoulder and chest. 

Sometimes you both were so good at fooling others that you could fool yourselves. 

After a wonderful dinner, you and Ransom sat infront of Harlan and his desk within his office. Door shut. We didn’t need any other Thrombey’s or publicity attempting to get some good details.

“Happy Birthday, Harlan,” you took his hand in your own and smiled at the old man. It hurt to deliver this awful news.

“Thank you, my dear,” He smiled kindly back at him, “You’ve been good to my grandson, to my family. It hurts to feel like the pair of you need to put up a facade.”

“Well, Harlan,” Ransom sighed and shook his head, “I hate to bear bad news, again”

The air went cold and everything was silent. Neither you nor Ransom wanted to say it. It felt like you were waiting for a bomb to explode.

“The pair of you are on a break,” Harlan spoke, “It was easy for me to tell. But I ask both of you to consider where it began.”

You looked up into Harlan’s eyes, seeing if you could find some clarity or maybe forgiveness for hurting his heart. But you saw the same shade of blue that were Ransom’s eyes, asking for you to think through your decisions before it was too late.

“Might I speak to my grandson alone, Mrs. (Y’N)?”

“Of course, sir. I’ll be in the other room,” You made your way out of the office, turning back to meet Ransom’s eyes. They held to same hurt the night you said you weren’t coming home for Thanksgiving and were filing the papers but also held to same love he had for you on your honeymoon. 

You continued into the night with a glass of champagne and speaking with Joni about luxury cosmetics and skincare. She babbled about her “best-selling’ line of skincare tailored for women approaching their golden years. Somewhere along with the conversation though, you heard Ransom yelling and two doors slamming.

You made your way into the entrance hall promptly to find what the commotion was, but all you found is that you had been stranded by Ransom.

Honey, I love you, that's all she wrote

You opened the door of the house to find the clear image of Ransom on the couch with a bottle of brandy. As you approached the living, you head the music of the cellos echoing out of his vintage record player filling the house. On the coffee table in front of him were the divorce papers, lacking only his signature.

“I do this at least once a week,” Ransom spoke up, “I think about what I could’ve done better, how to be a better person for you, and all that sappy shit I’ve always hated. Because I hate losing you. Because it’s always you. Because I love you”

“Ransom, you’ve been drinking. I’ve been drinking. You’re still drinking,” you shook your head, wanting to end whatever he was going to start, “let’s just go to bed.”

“I haven’t been able to sleep in that bed. It’s too cold knowing that I have no one to hold on to or wait for anymore. Why did we buy such a big bed?”

“Because you hated the way my cold feet felt against your legs in the middle of the night,” you chuckled to yourself.

Silence fell over the two of you and just seemed to linger. An eternity passed before Ransom took another swig from the bottle.

“I’m sorry to hold out for so long. I really thought if I waited it out, I could get my way. I’ll sign them if you really want me too. But I just want one thing,” He looked into your eyes, “I just need you to answer one question. You don’t have to tell me the answer.”

He took in a shallow breath, looking quickly at the papers then back to you.

“Don’t you love me too?”

He set down the bottle on the coffee table, then proceed to slink upstairs to the bedroom. You watched him, letting his words weigh down on you more with each step.

You moved to sit on the couch yourself, looking over what was left of the evening; a bottle of brandy, the divorce papers, a black pen, and a notepad with ways Ransom could try and earn you back. You took a page out of the notepad and inscribed it with four words. Honey, I love you.

Oh, Ophelia, you've been on my mind girl like a drug Oh, Ophelia, heaven help a fool who falls in love

It’s been 4 months since the day Ransom and you decided to cancel the divorce. Sometimes, you have to evaluate what you want in life. For the pair of you, you needed each other. 

Ransom and you decided to stay in Boston till next summer when you both would move to England so that you could start your run on the West End Theatre Wing and he could get some new surroundings to begin his writing career, a little secret between the two of you.

As it turns out, Harlan’s advice to remember the beginning was exactly what you needed to remember a time where Ransom was your finishing puzzle piece. And everyday you both seemed to fall a little more in love with each other, like fools.

#mattie writes #ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale imagine #ransom drysdale x y/n #chris evans #chris evans x reader #chris evans in a sweater #chris evans imagine #chris evans x y/n #captain america #Steve Rogers #sweater wearing dork #knives out #ransom thrombey x reader #ransom thrombrey

[ericdeggans]

A Tale of Two Videos: Why the Images of George Floyd Dying Broke the Nation

Why is the footage of George Floyd dying beneath a policeman’s knee the video that finally broke the nation?

I actually think the story of our current public chaos stems from two videos, brought to the public at nearly the same time, that outline both ends of a system which elevates white, moneyed people at the expense of everyone else -- especially those of us who are darker than blue.

In one, a white woman threatens a black man by telling him she will call the police and lie about him threatening her life. In another, a black man is pinned down by several police officers, pleading for help to breathe, until he dies.

One video shows the nightmare of overpolicing black bodies; losing your life because a store clerk thought you tried to pay with a counterfeit bill. The other shows a white woman well aware of the power that such overpolicing gives people like her when she calls 9-1-1. She knows – and assumes the black man she’s threatening also knows – whose interests will be defended, possibly with lethal force, when officers arrive.

Amy Cooper’s confrontation with Christian Cooper and the death of George Floyd have revealed the full scope of white supremacy non-white people live with every day in America. We have been talking about it for a long time; I wrote a book about it in 2012. But it is a reality many other Americans will not believe, until someone grabs a cellphone at a fateful moment, records it, and shows it to them. Again and again.

Because we have seen these videos before. We saw Philando Castile, a black man filmed in his last moments by his girlfriend, shot by a police officer during a traffic stop. We saw John Crawford, a black man who was going to buy a pellet gun at WalMart, shot to death by police within seconds of their arrival at the store after a 9-1-1 call. We saw 12-year-old Tamir Rice, playing with a toy gun in a park, gunned down within seconds of a police car driving on the scene.  

We saw Levar Jones, a black man who survived being shot by a cop during a traffic stop at a gas station as he was retrieving his license (the reason the cop stopped him? He was driving without a seat belt just before turning into the gas station.)

Eric Garner. Darrien Hunt. Botham Jean. The list of black people hurt or killed by police under suspicious circumstances is long and infuriating. How can a white college student suspected in the murders of two people who inspired a nationwide manhunt get taken into custody without incident, while a black man accused of passing a bad $20 bill winds up dead on a street, killed in broad daylight while cellphone cameras captured it all?

Beyond the frustration of the rising body count, there is frustration at the high price America demands before it will believe there is a problem in the first place.

People of color constantly have to rip open their wounds to prove to white America that racism is killing us. The videos are a blur of bottomless tragedy; a parade of pain where victims are often left screaming at officers: What did I do? Why won’t you help me?

And every time a new video emerges, black America asks that same question of the nation.

The challenge we face is summed up in a statistic from my book. I quoted a September 2011 study which found 46 percent of Americans believe discrimination against white people had become as big a problem as discrimination against racial minorities.

A study published in November 2017 by NPR, the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation and Harvard University’s T.H. Chan School of Public Health came up with different numbers. In that study, 55 percent of white Americans said discrimination against white people exists and 63 percent of white Americans said local police were just as likely to use unnecessary force against white people as non-white people.

This is the question at the heart of so many political and social conflicts in America: The fight over the very existence of systemic racism and prejudice.

It’s one reason conservative-oriented Fox News Channel is often so tone deaf on issues of race. Many of the channel’s pundits resist the idea that systemic racism against people of color is a serious issue. Lots of conservatives have decried George Floyd’s death; but the question of whether that death is a result of a few bad cops acting out or a result of systemic overpolicing and overpunishing people of color is the real dividing line in this crisis.

When Fox News anchor Tucker Carlson interviewed Ted Cruz on the unrest in Minneapolis, both men were careful to note they were horrified by the actions of one officer, while extolling the bravery of most police officers. But what about the notion that police officers work inside a flawed system that can shield bad cops and make it tougher for good officers, regardless of their race, to stop something terrible as it is happening?

This “one bad apple” idea – a notion expertly dismantled by comedian Chris Rock years ago – was also advanced by White House National Security Advisor Robert O’Brien Sunday on Jake Tapper’s CNN show State of the Union.

“I don’t think there’s systemic racism,” O’Brien said during one exchange with Tapper, before praising “99.9 percent” of police officers. “But you know what, there are some bad apples in there.”

Given all the videos we all have seen of black people hurt or killed unfairly by law enforcement in recent years, that sure seems like a lot of bad apples. And again the question rises: How many videos do you need to see, before you consider another possibility? How much pain leads to contemplating another explanation?  

Of course, Donald Trump has only made a volatile situation worse. I think his actions are summed up by a phrase I read or heard someone else say about him years ago: He can’t help saying the quiet part out loud.

So when Trump tweeted about the unrest in Minneapolis on Friday, he called protestors “thugs” – a word sometimes used as demeaning code for unruly black people – and dropped the phrase “when the looting starts, the shooting starts.” That’s a saying traced back to a speech by 1960s-era Miami police chief Walter Headley, often accused of racist policing tactics during the civil rights era.

In another tweet, Trump promised protestors who came close to breaching the White House fence would be “greeted with the most vicious dogs, and most ominous weapons,” invoking another terrible image from the 1960s, when segregationist police would use attack dogs to break up civil rights marches.

The quiet part. Tweeted out loud.

As cable TV news was filled with reports on looting and unrest in cities across the country, I was struck by a tweet from celebrity comic Chelsea Handler, who posted “Something for all white people to think about. Reflect on our privilege and ask ourselves if we’ve ever had to protest for the lives of our white brothers and sisters.”

With all respect, I suggested something a little different. Perhaps white people should find one element in their lives that supports or reflects white supremacy: that Fox News-loving relative, the pal who posts terrible things on Facebook or the boss/coworker who says awful things about non-white people when he thinks they aren’t listening (guess what: we usually know, anyway).

Find one element and do something to address it. Do what you can to dismantle the system where you can.

Beyond that, governmental leaders of all stripes need to learn that platitudes and the “one bad apple” philosophy will not satisfy people who feel like an endangered species in their own country.

Don’t make us rip open another wound to prove something we have been telling you for a long time. Maybe this time, when black people say they need help, you could just listen. And then help.  

[flyandfamousblackgirls]

In 1982, Teddy Pendergrass, one of the hottest soul singers of the ‘80s, was paralyzed from the chest down in a car accident. In the wake of the accident, questions emerged about the mystery woman who was riding in the car with him. She was revealed to be Tenika Watson, a woman of trans experience who was a nightclub performer.

PGN: What was your worst job? Tenika Watson: Back in the day, I was a bar maid at a club on 13th Street — oh what was it called? Scabadoo’s? That was hard, trying to remember everyone’s drink orders! PGN: Best job? Tenika Watson: Working for Kingsley Six Modeling agency. Unfortunately, the accident happened just as my career was taking off. After that, it became impossible to work. I’d been doing impersonations at the New Forrest Lounge for a year and a half and had to leave there because the owner was trying to exploit the situation. PGN: Tell me a little about coming out or transitioning for you. Tenika Watson: I think I was born out. People could tell before I even knew about myself. I don’t think my parents or anyone else was shocked. Even as a kid playing house, I was always the girl, looking for someone to play my boyfriend! PGN: First crush? Tenika Watson: There was a boy named Sheldon that I liked in elementary school. [Laughs.] Bald-headed, brown-skinned and he was so mean! But I liked him! PGN: When did you start to transition? Tenika Watson: When I was 20. I don’t know why it was in my head, but I had the idea that at 20 I would be considered grown, so no one could say anything to me. PGN: What was the scariest thing about it? Tenika Watson: I didn’t have any fear about transitioning. Though I do remember walking down the street in D.C. one time with a girlfriend of mine and she suddenly said, “Be careful, that man has a knife!” I was so naive I didn’t understand that he wanted to attack us just because of who we were. Next thing I knew, he swung the knife at our heads and we were running down the street. It was my first understanding that people might want to hurt me just because of my life. PGN: You transitioned in a time when it wasn’t really heard of and certainly wasn’t accepted as much as it is now.

Tenika Watson: No, it wasn’t. This was in 1977 and it wasn’t heard of, though a lot of the girls were doing it. But back then, most girls transitioned with the thought that you would just live your life as a woman and never tell anybody. You weren’t supposed to be open about it. Once you had surgery, you never told anyone except your mate. That’s how it was back then. Once you were a woman, you put your past in a closet. I guess I’m part of that era. I have fought really hard to be respected as a woman. I don’t know if the girls nowadays really fight for the right to be totally respected as women after the surgery. You hear a lot of trans this and trans that and I don’t get it. Maybe I’m old-school, but once you have the surgery, you’re supposed to be a woman. Your birth certificate says female, your driver’s license says female and yet in articles I read, they still refer to you as a “transwoman.” And it’s like, what was it all for? Why did I go through all of this if I’m not going to be considered a woman? To me, transgender means transition. Moving from one gender to another, but once you’re there, that should be it if that’s what you want. I don’t know if girls today feel any kind of way about that, but I know I do. I don’t like the term.

PGN: So what would you like to say about Teddy?

Tenika Watson: I’m sorry that he’s not with us anymore. I wanted to go to the funeral, but I didn’t want to be disrespectful and I didn’t want to be disrespected. So I just had a little quiet prayer and a little quiet tear after he was gone. I met his mother in 2001. When he died [in 2010], my first thought was for her. He was her only child. I know she has grandkids, but it must be terrible to lose a child.

PGN: And the accident? Tenika Watson: We were on Lincoln Drive when the brakes went out. The car hit a guardrail, crossed into the opposite traffic lane and hit two trees. The one thing that always bothered me was that the news media got there before the ambulance did. It upset me to think that people were calling for publicity before they called for help. PGN: You’ve stated that the medical personnel were more worried about getting a urine sample from you than they were about your health. Tenika Watson: They were very sneaky: They said they needed a sample to make sure that there wasn’t any internal bleeding, but I knew what they were really trying to check for. After they didn’t find what they wanted, they weren’t interested in me anymore. It was reported that I was acting strange, but I was in shock. PGN: Reading about the accident, it seems that the media didn’t know at first about you being … what terminology would you like me to use? Were you frightened? Tenika Watson: No, they didn’t say anything because they didn’t know. [Laughs.] Yeah, I was scared. I thought, if anyone finds out, they’re going to lynch me! It was scary wondering if it was going to get out or when. Trying to figure out how to survive or explain it. I was never given a chance to explain. The only paper that gave me a break was the [Philadelphia] Tribune. PGN: I read a Jet article with the headline, “Teddy’s Transsexual Passenger,” in which they call you a “confessed transsexual.” It seems like it really tilted the trajectory of your life, your modeling career, etc. Tenika Watson: Tilted it? It destroyed it. I was told so by potential employers and it really made me doubt myself. It was a tough time. I had one reporter come to my house and try to force her way in the door. There were some very ugly things printed. I had to move out of the city. Which is sad because I love this city. I love the people, I love the neighborhoods … There are so many places to hide! PGN: Do you get recognized? Tenika Watson: Yes, I used to; not so much any more. It happened just the other day when I was walking down the street. But for the most part, nobody really sees me. I’m actually glad of it.

PGN: Did you ever have any contact with Teddy after the accident? Tenika Watson: I talked to him in 2002. That’s how my book starts out, with that conversation. PGN: Was it frustrating being in such a high-profile incident with someone and not being able to call and ask if he was OK or let him know how you were? How well did you know him? Tenika Watson: I didn’t know him at all! I’d met him once or twice before, but that was it. He’d simply offered me a ride home from a club that night. The media tried to make something out of it, but it was untrue. He was one of those people that had a kindness about him.

#Tenika Watson

[random-notes-and-jottings]

Welcome to the year 2030. Welcome to my city – or should I say, “our city.” I don’t own anything. I don’t own a car. I don’t own a house. I don’t own any appliances or any clothes.

It might seem odd to you, but it makes perfect sense for us in this city. Everything you considered a product, has now become a service. We have access to transportation, accommodation, food and all the things we need in our daily lives. One by one all these things became free, so it ended up not making sense for us to own much.

First communication became digitized and free to everyone. Then, when clean energy became free, things started to move quickly. Transportation dropped dramatically in price. It made no sense for us to own cars anymore, because we could call a driverless vehicle or a flying car for longer journeys within minutes. We started transporting ourselves in a much more organized and coordinated way when public transport became easier, quicker and more convenient than the car. Now I can hardly believe that we accepted congestion and traffic jams, not to mention the air pollution from combustion engines. What were we thinking?

Sometimes I use my bike when I go to see some of my friends. I enjoy the exercise and the ride. It kind of gets the soul to come along on the journey. Funny how some things seem never seem to lose their excitement: walking, biking, cooking, drawing and growing plants. It makes perfect sense and reminds us of how our culture emerged out of a close relationship with nature.

In our city we don’t pay any rent, because someone else is using our free space whenever we do not need it. My living room is used for business meetings when I am not there.

Once in a while, I will choose to cook for myself. It is easy – the necessary kitchen equipment is delivered at my door within minutes. Since transport became free, we stopped having all those things stuffed into our home. Why keep a pasta-maker and a crepe cooker crammed into our cupboards? We can just order them when we need them.

This also made the breakthrough of the circular economy easier. When products are turned into services, no one has an interest in things with a short life span. Everything is designed for durability, repairability and recyclability. The materials are flowing more quickly in our economy and can be transformed to new products pretty easily. Environmental problems seem far away, since we only use clean energy and clean production methods. The air is clean, the water is clean and nobody would dare to touch the protected areas of nature because they constitute such value to our well-being. In the cities we have plenty of green space and plants and trees all over. I still do not understand why in the past we filled all free spots in the city with concrete.

Shopping? I can’t really remember what that is. For most of us, it has been turned into choosing things to use. Sometimes I find this fun, and sometimes I just want the algorithm to do it for me. It knows my taste better than I do by now.

When AI and robots took over so much of our work, we suddenly had time to eat well, sleep well and spend time with other people. The concept of rush hour makes no sense anymore, since the work that we do can be done at any time. I don’t really know if I would call it work anymore. It is more like thinking-time, creation-time and development-time.

For a while, everything was turned into entertainment and people did not want to bother themselves with difficult issues. It was only at the last minute that we found out how to use all these new technologies for better purposes than just killing time.

My biggest concern is all the people who do not live in our city. Those we lost on the way. Those who decided that it became too much, all this technology. Those who felt obsolete and useless when robots and AI took over big parts of our jobs. Those who got upset with the political system and turned against it. They live different kind of lives outside of the city. Some have formed little self-supplying communities. Others just stayed in the empty and abandoned houses in small 19th century villages.

Once in a while I get annoyed about the fact that I have no real privacy. Nowhere I can go and not be registered. I know that, somewhere, everything I do, think and dream of is recorded. I just hope that nobody will use it against me.

All in all, it is a good life. Much better than the path we were on, where it became so clear that we could not continue with the same model of growth. We had all these terrible things happening: lifestyle diseases, climate change, the refugee crisis, environmental degradation, completely congested cities, water pollution, air pollution, social unrest and unemployment. We lost way too many people before we realized that we could do things differently.

This blog was written ahead of the World Economic Forum Annual Meeting of the Global Future Councils.

Ida Auken is a Young Global Leader and Member of the Global Future Council on Cities and Urbanization of the World Economic Forum,

[kingdmhrts]

PAIRING. kim taehyung & unnamed female. GENRE. fluff, long distance boyfriend, established relationship. WORD COUNT. 1,224. WARNINGS. cursing, language. RATING. pg-13.

His hotel room is thirty-three stories and, if he looks out of his window, the yellow cabs look like toy cars and the people look like ants marching up and down the sidewalks. They look insignificant. Thirty-three stories up in a fancy hotel room with a nice shower and a nice everything, Taehyung feels like a giant towering up above them, like a god looking down at all of creation. But he doesn’t feel powerful or delighted and, instead, the childish elation he felt when the plane first touched down is replaced by a melancholic feeling weighing him down in the back of his mind.

It turns out that thirty-three stories up, whilst alone, can makes someone feel both tiny and like the hero of Olympus. It’s a dizzying effect. He’s in the city that never sleeps, but New York does slow down at three in the morning and he almost missed the sounds of traffic. It’s this kind of quiet that leaves him with way too much time for thinking. Eleven hours earlier, he had been in Times Square, swearing up and down that there is no place he’d rather live in than New York and he didn’t even mind the fact that a total of eleven strangers brushed against him– the busy atmosphere was filled with enough hustle and bustle that left very little room for the dreaded downward existential crisis spiral he’s experiencing right now. His forehead is pressed against the cold window pane and he can see his breath fog up the glass. A part of him wishes that the windowsill was wide enough to fit his huddled figure, but this wasn’t one of the more expensive suites in the hotel and he certainly wasn’t in a cliche movie with the rain dripping down and a tear-worthy piano piece playing in the background. There is no empty, quite bar with some wise mentor figure waiting in the corner for him to offer him a beer and some advice once he gives up trying to force sleep. But there is Namjoon five stories up (and he can thank the fantastic last minute booking for that), probably busy dreaming and wrapped under the safety of unfamiliar hotel covers. In theory, Taehyung could call him, but he’s not exactly in the mood and he’s more interested in how much it’ll cost for him to make and international call. She’s thirteen hours away and they’re over six thousand miles apart. It’ll be a little before four in the afternoon and she’ll probably be taking a nap, but she’s a fairly light sleeper and more than used to having Taehyung wake her up at odd hours, especially in the middle of a proper night’s sleep. But, then again, this arrangement is just for a few nights, this one being the first, and, surely, him being a twenty something grown man ought to be able to handle sleeping alone in a strange city. He feels pathetic. Two years ago, Taehyung had wanted to scream from the rooftops because, holy shit, girls like her don’t happen to guys like him, especially after only brief interactions filled with shameless flirting and tentative approaches, she was finally his. But he’s not really the broadcasting type, as weird and contradictory as that sound, and he’d very much like to keep the late night conversations and good morning kisses a secret. So he’s left with vague liveshow indications of that special someone in his life (that, of course, everyone speculates is something else) and cryptic tweets that were oh-so public– a story of sorts with details pulled out. It’s not that Taehyung can’t sleep without her slow, measured breathing against his chest (he thinks it’s cute how she inhales through her nose and exhales through her mouth) and her arm around his waist, mindlessly rubbing circles into his skin. He’ll fall asleep eventually, catching a few hours of sleep, if he’s lucky. But Taehyung doesn’t want to curl up in bed cuddling his metaphorical demons shooting his brain into overdrive. He wants to stay awake late into the night with quiet whispers and her laying flush against him, acting like a shield for things like this. And, really, he can handle some time away from her– hell, he’s been doing it for years before they met– but it’s like the time he broke his wrist when he was riding his bike. The broken wrist wasn’t unbearable, but it did make things harder. The dull pain nagged him for weeks and the cast was a major hindrance and he lost a good six-ish weeks of piano playing. But it wasn’t unbearable, and life went on even thought it was a little harder. And that’s kind of what it’s like, being six thousand nine hundred sixty one miles away from her. It won’t last forever. Taehyung functions. Taehyung copes. It’s just a little harder. He’s well aware that this is just the night time winding its way around his thoughts and he knows that when he wakes up tomorrow and he and Jimin will go out for breakfast in the morning to eat pancakes that are twenty times larger than the pancakes he’s used to, he’ll feel better again. But right now, he’s anything but, so he ignores the nagging thought of his cellphone bill and he picks up the phone and calls her anyway. She picks up after four rings and he almost feels guilty when he hears her voice, laced with sleep. “Hmm?” His voice is breathy and shallow. “Hey. It’s me.” “Yeah, I kinda figured.” “Sorry.” “Don’t be.” He can hear the smile in her voice and they both fall silent, listening to each other breathe. “How did I ever manage without you?” The line sounds cheesy and cliche and if it were any other time, he’d cringe at himself, but he’s genuinely curious now. He can remember the first time they met and the time when he properly asked her out and Skype calls before and after and he even remembers their terribly embarrassing attempts at phone sex but he doesn’t really remember the night before her. Not when she’s become a regular fixture in his life. “You tell me. I, for one, was waiting all my life for a big dork to sweep me off my feet.” “Glad I could be of service, m'lady.” He laughs quietly, before whispering, “I love you,” and holding his breath, waiting for a response. “I know. Now will you please stop doing that thing where you worry way too much for one person? I love you and I will love you for a long ass time. Now get your pretty ass to bed and get some sleep, will you?” A pause. “Taehyung?” “Yeah?” “I miss you. And I want you back home soon, okay?” She briefly considers actually spelling it out for him because she knows Taehyung and she knows he thinks that he’s being too clingy for calling her one night into the trip. “I love you.” “I know. Same.” It takes him eight minutes to get comfortable in bed after handing up. Another two to fit one of the pillows up against his chest just right. If he closes his eyes and pretends, it’s almost like she’s there with him. He falls asleep infinity better than he would have before.

#bts fanfic #kim taehyung fanfic #taehyung fic #kim taehyung fic #bts fic #fic: thirteen hours.

[jeaniegreysummers]

phoenix three || jean, scott & erik

SUMMARY: jean uses the phoenix to bring scott back. she freaks out thinking how to explain this to the others. she finds herself on erik’s doorstep. the three plot a revolution. that’s the jist.

WHEN: the day jean brought scott back from the dead (happy valentine’s day, go visit your father in law)

TRIGGER WARNINGS: grief, death, murder mention, violence

FEATURING: scott summers, erik lehnsherr

JEAN: Emma said Jean lacked control. She said she was bitter, and immature, and that she lacked a true understanding of what was needed to preserve the lives of their people and to push them into the future. Jean agreed with most of that. She died. She missed out on years of her life, spent months in a room filled with nothing but white fire that wasn’t hot to the touch because she was the nuclear bomb in the room, and came back to a world divided and a family split. But Emma was wrong about one thing.

No one had any idea how much Jean kept control.

They would begin to understand, she knew. The truth of what occurred on the Raft would come out, and they would know what she was capable of. They would know that Jean lost it for a single fraction of a moment, and that a wave of her hand extinguished dozens of lives. They would know she allowed them to slap cuffs around her wrists so she would be brought right to the place where she could suffer, and then failed to stay in her self imposed punishment.

They would know, the second they saw Scott by her side, exactly what she did to bring him back. Everyone knew the bird was still there, everyone but Jean. Everyone knew she’d never be rid of it. Now, she knew it too. She knew it, and she still passed it on to one of the people she loved most in the world despite her best intentions to push that affection down so far she couldn’t feel it anymore.

The second Scott slipped on his shades, the moment they caught their breath, she thought about the man she’d fought against, the man she trained with down by the Hudson, the man who came for her when she didn’t even realise she wanted him to come — and Scott knew. He had to. . Jean’s hand shook as she raised it to knock on Erik’s door. Once the sound rang out, she moved back to hold onto Scott’s arm, her other hand already clasping his. The door opened, and Jean could feel the rush of energy, the low simmering threatening to boil over, as they stood.

“I did something,” she said, voice thick but strong, stronger than it had been in over two weeks. She pulled lightly on Scott’s arm, bringing him into the doorframe. “I asked for a favor, Erik, and I …”

How did she start with this? How did she even pretend to be sheepish about the consequences that were sure to follow?

“We need your help.”

ERIK: Ever since he'd realized there were other people like him, other people with gifts, Erik had been terrified of telepaths. His whole life, he'd been trying to get out from the control of others, restraining parts of himself to keep himself alive and sane. The idea of a telepath, of someone getting inside his head, influencing his thoughts, controlling his actions--that was the stuff of nightmares, compliance forced from the inside.

It'd been a relief to find himself resistant to that particular gift, though not immune--certainly not to telepaths of the calibre of Charles and Jean. He'd grown to enjoy their presence in his head, after he finally stopped throwing walls up when it became apparent that they had no desire to be in his head without permission, to do anything but understand.

The Phoenix was different. It wanted control, wanted Erik to lose his own, to yield to those dangerous whispers that had always been in his mind but that the bird amplified and twisted. It was already inside his head, and intent on keeping people he'd found a comfort in, like Charles, out. He could feel things changing, when he'd wake up in the morning, would have the distant sensation that his brain was being quietly shuffled around, searched through, edited oh so quietly.

Like the fear. He couldn't bring himself to be terribly concerned about the Phoenix, now, couldn't hold any thought like that without it slipping away like water through a sieve. Jean had said it was fine. That he'd be safe. He trusted Jean.

They were fine. Him and the bird. If he couldn't quite draw the dividing line, well. No one was asking him to. His apartment had changed, since the Raft--the curtains were drawn constantly, and where paintings had once hung, the wall space was increasingly occupied by various schematics.

The New York City power grid. The United Nations building floor plans--hand drawn on top of what was publically available, thanks to a painstaking day of using the bolts in the walls and the flow of bioelectric traffic to form an accurate mental schematic. A map of all the ways into and out of the island of Manhattan.

War was like chess. He would see that mutantkind did not squander their next move. There was a way to checkmate, and he was getting there. Slowly. Lots of pieces from the other side would be lost, but that was the game.

( They took his kids, his family, his freedom, time and time again, and they would pay in blood. )

He's got a fresh cup of tea steaming on the coffee table in front of him as he regards the images pinned to the opposite wall when the knock comes. The familiar warmth from the other side of the door, the other piece of the same stuff that runs in his veins, now, calls to him and tells him he needn't worry before he even opens it.

But then he sees her face, and concern wells. And then she's tugging something from behind the doorframe, something likewise warm and alive, and Erik feels the world tilt briefly on its axis.

Jean had brought Scott back. The Phoenix had brought Scott back. ( What else could it do? Who else, he thinks selfishly? )

Jean looks like she's worried, but Erik is stepping forward to wrap his arms around both of them in the next moment, squeezing as if he can keep them here, safe, alive, through sheer force of will.

( Can he? )

"I-- anything. You know that. Anything for you. Both of you."

SCOTT: He was alive. The word repeated in his mind over and over again, echoing with each beat of his heart. Alive, alive, alive. It sounded more and more foreign every time, made nonsensical with the repetition. It shouldn’t have felt as strange as it did. He’d done this before, after all, come back from the dead into a world that felt infinitely different than the one he’d left behind, but… this was more distinct. This fire burning in his chest, this strange power that mingled with that familiar anger… It hadn’t been here last time.

And neither had she. Coming back to a world with Jean Grey in it was much better than coming back to one without her, Scott thought. He’d prefer it this way every time, want this more than anything. His hand gripped hers like a lifeline, fingers intertwined with hers as if she was doing what gravity couldn’t and keeping his feet on the ground. He didn’t have to ask her where they were going when she lead him out the door. He didn’t know if it was their psylink, the Phoenix, or simply the fact that he knew her better than he’d ever known anyone, but he knew where they were headed. Part of him wondered if he ought to be surprised by it, but… He wasn’t. Standing outside of Erik’s door after dying in the war Magneto had always warned them was coming… It made sense.

He was quiet as Jean spoke, uncertain as he stood just out of sight. Jean wouldn’t have brought him here if she didn't want Erik to know he was alive, but Scott was still hesitant. There was a lot of explaining to do with his resurrection, a lot of things he wasn’t sure he was allowed to say. But Erik would understand. He could feel the power burning in Erik, matching that fire in his own chest. Jean had said a piece of the bird went into him, too, and that probably made Magneto one of the only two people alive who knew what was in Scott’s head now. That scared him less than he’d thought it might. . Scott ducked his head as Jean pulled him into view, looking almost sheepish at Erik’s wide eyes. Scott opened his mouth, ready to say something (and the only thing that came to mind was hi, which was, all things considered, incredibly anticlimactic), but he didn’t get the words out before Erik’s arms were around them both. Scott relaxed into his grip, feeling suddenly less tense, like something had been unwound, like a screw had been untightened allowing him to loosen up just a little. “It’s good to see you, Erik,” he offered quietly. He wanted to say more, wanted to say you were right, wanted to say I’m sorry I wasted so much time fighting you, wanted to say I understand it now, but he couldn’t quite find the words for it.

Glancing to Jean, he nodded. “They don’t know yet,” he said, and he didn’t have to say who they were. The people who’d shot him down in that park, the ones who’d gone on television to frame him as the villain of the story, the one who used his death as an inciting incident to prove just how violent mutants truly were, they didn’t know he was back. He didn’t have to say just how bad things would be when they found out. “When they do…” He trailed off, letting the implication hang. When they knew, things would get worse, for all of them.

JEAN: Growing up, Jean never had a shortage of safe places. Her parents, her siblings, her school and her best friend. Charles and Erik. Scott, when she sat down beside him on that park bench. Warren and Bobby and Hank, always pulling her from the fire when she needed it, watching her back. The older she got, though, the more experience she had with losing that stability. John and Elaine would speak to her only if she pretended to be a different person. Her sister was dead. Jean ripped her old middle school from its foundations, causing damages they were still paying for years later. Annie was hit by that car. Charles, Scott, everyone couldn’t stop Jean from falling on that battlefield, and even as she was lying in Scott’s arms bleeding out she felt entirely, achingly alone.

And Erik had left. The memory of it was still bitter, sharper in her mind than she would ever admit to. Scott knew, of course. The link between them meant that they couldn’t keep secrets if they wanted to, and they never had. Erik had left, and every day since Jean had tried to maintain the initial anger she felt at going downstairs and realising the Institute would be going on without its lifeblood.

They’d found a way to cope, her and Charles and the team they formed, but it would never be the same. Jean said she would never forgive him for that, for changing things from how they were supposed to be, for altering destiny because of his dedication to one never-ending cause.

Sometimes, though, forgiveness came from the strangest places. The fire brought Scott back from the ground, and immediately the only person Jean wanted to tell about it was the man standing in front of her now, the man putting his arms around both of them. Jean found herself buried easily between them, one hand clutching to the back of each of their shirts, breathing in the feeling and wishing that it would never end. . But things always ended. It was what you did between the beginning and the final page that mattered. She knew that now.

Scott’s voice came low beside her, and Jean turned her head only for a moment so she could wipe at her eyes with the heel of her hand. When she met Scott’s gaze through his shades, she was solid once more, or at least could appear that way.

“No one knows,” she continued, turning to meet Erik’s eyes. “I don’t know how to … We’re going to need to explain it. All of this.”

Charles would know before long. He would feel the Phoenix splitting the first time he went to search for Jean’s mind, and he was doing that more often than ever before after Scott’s death. The three of them were tied in this secret now, but there was only so long before the fire burned through the self deception like it always said it would.

She swallowed thickly, one hand going for Scott’s, the other reaching for Erik’s. “Whether Scott is alive or dead, they’re going to come for us,” Jean said. “This is what you were talking about, wasn’t it?” Erik had been claiming humans would come to fight them for years. He had a plan. Jean knew that. She knew she needed that.

ERIK: Scott and Jean were in his arms, and a bit of the world repaired itself. He wondered distantly if Scott had checked his voicemail. If he'd heard the apology that would never be enough, even now that the man is back.

It doesn't matter. Here, in this moment now, the three of them and the shared fire between them are one. They're all in the same boat, now, and Erik had meant his promise to the ghost on the other end of the phone. He would not fail again to keep his people safe. They would not fail.

Erik's hand tightened around Jean's, and his other hand wrapped around Scott's shoulder. "Yes." He'd long ago learned to prepare for the worst when it came to humans. He could say that he told them so, told the world so, but there was no point to that, now.  So instead, he smiled, and there was something angry and cold in that baring of teeth, even as warmth towards the two of them is practically shining from him.

It would be unsettling to him, too, if he could think about it. . "Let me show you. I just finished putting on a kettle."

He opened the door, released his hold on the two of them, and stepped aside to let them come in. Two metal teacups and saucers flew across the room to join his on the coffee table, the kettle lifting to fill each. At the same time, Erik melted the metal edging of the doorframe down over the door, sealing it far more securely than a deadbolt ever would.

The Phoenix made splitting his powers to focus on different tasks child's play.

"The things on the wall are for... later. We can talk about that. But we need to plan for breaking the news about Scott. About us." He settled into one of his armchairs, stretched his legs out in front of him, and waved a hand to turn down the music drifting through the apartment.

"The humans used your death to inspire fear. Your resurrection should terrify them. Mutants are holding their breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop, one way or the other. You've always been well-liked, Scott. Those who've found me too militaristic still respected you. I've been warning of war for years. You have the ground to tell them that it is here and that we must fight it."

They needed to break news about the Phoenix, too, at least to certain people, but that was going to be a far trickier conversation. Jean didn't know about the... difficultly reached equilibrium he and the bird were slowly coming to.

He didn't especially want to talk about it.

SCOTT: When he’d died, he’d died angry. Rage had flowed through him like fire through his veins, ignited at the sight of children with guns pointed in their faces, unquenchable even as the blood filled his lungs and drowned him on solid ground. The anger had not died when he had, hadn’t left him during his brief exit from the mortal plane. Scott was still angry. There was still fire in his veins, even if that fire was a little more literal than it had been when he was sputtering and wheezing in the grass, begging Logan to kill him.

The people standing with him now, they understood that fire. They understood him, maybe better than anyone else ever had. Scott had tried all his life to be like Charles, had fought to be optimistic, to believe in a resolution that would find humans and mutants living side by side in peace. He’d tried, but he’d never succeeded. Not really. Deep down, he’d always been a little too much like Erik. He’d always been a little too angry, a little too ready for a war. Nathaniel Essex had seen that. So had Jack Winters. So had Erik himself. And maybe Charles had, too. Maybe the only one who was only just now realizing the inevitability of this partnership was Scott.

His eyes darted from Jean to Erik, and the discussion of his recent death didn’t bother him the way it probably should have. It felt senseless mourning a death that had already been undone. (Or, he told himself it did. If his heart continued to pound, if his chest ached with wounds already healed, no one had to know it but Scott. He was allowed to be senseless in the privacy of his own mind.) What mattered now was what came next. That was where his focus needed to be, what he needed to keep his eyes on as they moved forward. They needed to come up with a plan. They needed to find a way to keep what had happened to Scott from happening to anyone else.

They needed to save their people. . Nodding as Erik spoke, Scott trailed behind the older man, following him into the entryway. He felt the door shift behind him, knew that Erik had locked it in the way only he could. Not long ago, that might have made him nervous. Now, it was a comfort. Erik was not his enemy --- he never had been.

His eyes settled on Erik’s, and that familiar anger burned in his chest. The people who’d killed him had used his death. They weren’t hiding what they’d done --- they wanted people to know. They wanted people to be afraid.

Scott could make people afraid, too.

That was what Erik was asking of him, he knew. And it was a good plan. Their people were already angry. Their people already wanted to fight. All they needed to do was organize them. Good people would fight where they were needed, would do what was necessary. All they had to give them was a little direction. “I’ll make a statement,” Scott said, speaking for the first time since the discussion of the plan began. “In the Bugle. They’ll publish anything that sells papers and…” He trailed off, smiling tightly. “This will sell.”

JEAN: She walked into the apartment slowly, sticking close to Scott’s side until, paradoxically, the door was bolted closed and Jean felt some of the tension loosen itself from between her shoulder blades. Logically, she knew trusting Erik was a mistake. He’d burned her once before — but did that compare, she wondered, to the hundreds of times he had the opportunity to but hadn’t. At any stage down the line, especially in the early days when they were teenagers going against a man who had refined his powers for decades, they could’ve been knocked out of commission. Jean and Scott in particular were tested by Magneto, but never significantly harmed.

Now, she couldn’t help but wonder if their faces had ever been tacked to a board like this, if that overwhelming focus from one of the most feared mutants in the world was less about tactics and more about him knowing that one day, they would arrive on his doorstep and they would be having this conversation. Was that manipulation, or foresight? At this point, Jean wasn’t even sure if she cared.

Erik moved the kettle to pour out some tea, and it was only then that Jean realised she’d never been in this place before. It didn’t feel that way, not with Scott and Erik talking, not with the easy familiarity of a cat she’d never seen jumping up onto the arm of the couch to rub its head against Jean’s hand. She scratched behind its ears, whispering, “Hi,” softly to it as Erik and Scott spoke, before turning her attention back to the board.

He said not to worry now. He said to think of it later. But Jean’s eyes narrowed nonetheless, her attention flickering from photo to schematic, piecing it together. It was easy, relatively speaking — she’d always had a special understanding with Erik, and under the fire and anger she knew she was intelligent. She also knew this was something she had to expect. . “You think telling people about us is a good idea?” Jean asked, turning from the board to look back at Erik, a frown remaining on her face. “In my experience, people don’t react particularly well. They never … they thought it made me angry. They thought it turned me into something else. We bring the flames out into the open, and we’re allowing everyone to start shooting at us instead of the enemy.” Calling them revolutionaries, doubting their sanity, thinking their emotions were taking over when they should be impartial. Jean had seen it all before, and she doubted it would be any different for Erik and Scott than it was for her.

It was selfish to be grateful for the fact she was no longer alone in this. It was selfish, but this past month had proven Jean was pretty firmly in that camp already.

Fifteen years ago, Jean finally managed to pin down why, exactly, she loved Scott Summers, why she admired him, why she wanted him to look at her more than she wanted anything else in the world. That list of reasons had only grown over the past decade, but in the beginning, one of the main reasons was that he didn’t speak unless he had something to say. He weighed up his options. He spent most of the time in the safety of his own mind, ticking things over until he was ready to put his thoughts out into the world.

When he agreed with Erik, Jean looked over at him, keeping his gaze for a long moment. Her heart was pounding loud in her chest, there was a creeping dread in her gut, but there was no other option. There was no turning back.

She lifted her hand, causing one of the cups of tea to come towards her. As soon as it was in her hand, she settled down in one of the chairs, crossing her legs as she settled back. “Glad you two are getting along,” she commented, taking a sip. “I don’t think everyone else will be so easy to convince.”

ERIK: Erik was a selfish man.

His entire life, he'd wanted only one thing: safety. For himself, for his family, for his people. He was infamous for his singular focus on his goals, and there was no denying that he would--that he had--run over the desires of those very same people he wanted to protect in that pursuit.

Charles' peace. Jean's stability. Lorna's family.

Each had been sacrificed at the altar of his own goals. And despite the pain of doing so, he didn't regret it. He was sorry for the damage caused, but he would not apologize for the things he'd done, would do them again in a heartbeat.

When he'd left, he'd hoped that Jean would come after him. He knew she shouldn't, knew that she was better off with Charles, with a man who could give her all of the attention she deserved without reserve, who could teach her how to navigate her powers in a way that Erik couldn't. He knew that she was safer in the Institute.

He also knew she wasn't content to stay inside the bubble of safety, which meant that he needed to make the requisite arrangements. His fights with the X-Men had always been carefully considered, a mental calculus of how far he could push the children, how much damage he could do without putting them in true danger but still get them to push their powers. It was manipulation, put simply.

But one day, they would be facing people who didn't hold back like he did. . And perhaps he'd hoped that on that day, they would know what side they belonged on. Who was right. Despite the reasoning, despite what had brought them there, Erik was selfishly pleased that finally, they were here in his apartment, here and safe at his side and ready to fight the war he'd seen coming for decades.

Jean got what she needed from Charles. Now was the time for Erik to give her what Charles never could.

Her question earned a wry twist to his lips. "Schätzen, they already think I'm angry. Unstable. A warmonger. Growing aware that I have the Phoenix won't make them call me anything different: but it will make the humans as afraid as they ought to have been from the beginning. You're right, it will paint a target on our backs--but we can take it, where others cannot."

Scott agreed with him, and something made Erik certain that in the aftermath of the Park, Scott would find himself agreeing with far more of Erik's ideas than he would have before. ( And if he felt grateful for that, too: well, he was a selfish man. )

Erik took a sip of his tea, watched Mischa stalk over to settle on Scott's lap with a small meow.

"The Brotherhood has had hundreds of mutants coming to the meeting places I indicated in the radio show in the time since the Park. A spike after the Raft, as well--even if the government hasn't released details about what happened, the mutants we freed have been talking about it. Sure, there will be some who refuse to wage the war for survival that has been thrust upon us, but most simply need organization. And they need to see that even those who once advocated peace have realized the futility of peace through words. They need to see that we can form a united front against a common enemy."

He glanced between Scott and Jean, raising a brow. "I'm certainly open if you have any suggestions as to other ways to ensure this united front. The X-Men trust you more than they trust me. If you talk to them..."

SCOTT: They were safe. It was an odd realization to come to, for a number of reasons. Primarily, if you had told Scott years ago that he’d one day find safety in the home of the man he’d spent the better part of his teenage years actively fighting against, there was no part of him that might have believed you. Magneto had been more concept than man back then, too big to be considered a person in any sense. Things had changed over the years. Scott hardly ever even thought of him as Magneto anymore, not even in a fight. No, more often, he was simply Erik. Erik, who Jean loved like a father. Erik, who Scott trusted with the safety of his people even when he didn’t trust him with much else. Erik, who was the only person he’d ever feel confident coming to with something like this.

It wasn’t only the person he’d found safety with who was surprising, of course. Feeling any semblance of safety after something like what had happened in Central Park was laughable. When he’d been laying in that grass, his life bleeding away into his fingertips, Scott had been sure he’d never feel safe again. Safety, he’d thought, tore out the barrel of a gun and ripped through his chest cavity. Safety bubbled up in his throat and pooled into his lungs with every beat of his heart. Safety died when he did.

But he was alive now. And maybe, maybe that safety had been resurrected with him.

And maybe it would not remain alive much longer. (Maybe he wouldn’t, either.) . Jean was right, of course. If Central Park had proven one thing, it was that the Accords had never been designed to protect people like them. The enforcers there had been willing to aim guns at children whose only crimes were anomalies in their DNA they hadn’t chosen, had killed Scott for daring to stand up for them with a flicker of too much anger in his eyes. To them, mutants were threats long before they were people. They were little more than vague concepts, ideas to be squashed. That, Scott thought, was where they had royally fucked up.

People could be killed. It was an easy thing to do, a simple goal to achieve. A bullet here, a blade there, a blunt object swung at the right angle towards a head. People were easy to kill. It was more work keeping them alive, harder to make sure they didn’t die. If the government treated the X-Men as people, they would have made their jobs far easier on themselves, but they didn’t. No, instead, they saw mutantkind as an idea. And an idea was the one thing you could never kill.

“They’ll find out eventually either way,” he pointed out, reaching down to pet Erik’s cat absently as it climbed into his lap. “You might have been able to hide it on the Raft, but now…” He trailed off, shifting in his seat. People might not question how two powerful mutants destroyed a portion of the Raft. That was the kind of thing they could explain away, the sort of thing they could easily pretend was normal. But a man returning from what had been a very public execution? That was a bit harder to smooth over with logic. Unless Scott spent the rest of his life in hiding, people would realize something was up. Those with any sort of knowledge of the Phoenix and its relationship with Jean could make the jump to the correct conclusion with little effort. . Scott’s eyes flickered up to meet Erik’s, and he shifted in his seat. “I won’t ask anyone to fight who isn’t comfortable doing so,” he said. “People who want peace can choose peace, and I’ll fight for them, too. They all deserve to make that decision for themselves. But…” He trailed off, looking to Jean and Erik and back again. “I don’t think we can avoid a fight any longer. They want a war. I don’t see a lot of options that don’t involve giving it to them.”

Talking to the X-Men wasn’t something that would be easy. Just telling them he was alive would be painful, but adding in the fact that he’d joined forces with Erik and the Brotherhood? It complicated and already complex situation. But, just like they deserved the chance to choose peace… They deserved the choice to fight, if they wanted. “I’ll try to broach the topic with some of them,” Scott said, glancing to Jean, “if you think it’s a good idea.”

JEAN: They were talking amongst themselves, and in what was a rather uncharacteristic move, Jean was sitting on the sofa in silence, a cup of tea going cold in her hands and Mischa using her as a stepping stone to move onto Scott’s lap. It was rare that she didn’t attempt to become the centre of attention, even subconsciously. It was something she’d grown used to as the youngest of the Greys, then as the girl that ripped the school from its foundations, as an Omega level telepath at fourteen, as the woman who died and died and died and kept on coming back. There was a reason she clashed so vividly with Emma, after all, why she found herself immediately falling into step with the man beside her who wanted nothing more than to fade into the shadows when he wasn’t leading an army into battle.

She always had something she needed (something she wanted) to say. Jean thought best when she was thinking out loud, even if her domain was within the minds of others, sorting through their memories and working out where they stood, what experiences they were coming from. At this point, though, Jean was just watching the two men in the room beside her and in front of her, eyes flickering between them and back to that board on the wall, and then to the cat stretching out leisurely as if they weren’t discussing war (and how would the cat know? All Mischa knew of this world was that Erik would take care of things, and that was what Jean relied on when she showed up on his doorstep, too).

Taking it all in, turning it over, finally lifting the cool cup of tea to her lips only to find that the flavor was just as potent as it would’ve been boiling. It was the first time she’d had something proper to drink in the past two weeks. Her stomach began to curl as she realised she’d barely eaten in that time, either. . She’d changed, since Scott went down in Central Park. She’d changed since Erik came to her on the Raft, since they worked together to take lives and break collars and free their people, people that Lorna (a child, Erik’s child) had ferried across the border because she refused to step down when something mattered as much as this did.

She’d changed since she was a bitter, lonely little girl desperate for a place with the X-Men, desperate to prove herself, desperate for a father who loved her for what she was instead of what she could’ve been if she just missed out on that one little gene. She’d changed since Scott first met her on that park bench.

She wasn’t sure she liked the change.

Scott shifted beside her, and although her mind was still a thousand miles away, Jean’s hand still went instinctively to his leg, resting there for a moment as if her touch would be enough to ground him in a world void of anchors, void of meaning, void of justice. Jean chewed on the corner of her lip, trying to imagine how Logan would look at her when she said Scott was back, when she told Rogue how she dipped into that power that terrified all of them purely so she could have Scott under her hand again, could feel him breathe deeply beside her in contemplation, could feel as if her feet were on ground again no matter how unstable.

It was only when the room shifted into silence (she wasn’t sure how long they must’ve stood there, both of them, looking at her and looking at each other) that Jean realised Scott asked her a question. She searched his mind and the answer came easily. Talking to the X-Men. Asking them to join her in a war. Taking what Charles said about starting a fight or ending one on her own terms because she wasn’t a child anymore and turning it into a reality. . This was when she made her choice. This was her defining moment. She had no doubt that Erik would do what he thought necessary, knew he’d been doing that all along, but Scott …

Scott was asking what she thought. One word from her and they would leave. One word from her, and the allegiance would be sealed.

She set the cup to the side, pushing herself up off the sofa, hand brushing lightly against Scott’s as she moved. Her hand went to Erik’s shoulder as he sat in one of the chairs, squeezing gently on her way past to stand in front of the board. The plans stretched out before her, and she could touch them. She could feel the electricity under the city, how it called to Erik’s blood. She knew without looking back at Scott that this was something he needed.

War was never comfortable. That explained the feeling deep down in her gut, the feeling that she’d started them all on a path they’d never get off again -- but then again, wasn’t it better than death? Wasn’t anything, anything at all, better than the expanse of darkness or bright, blinding light, better than knowing you were never coming back to make another mistake?

“We’ll talk to them,” she decided, her voice stronger now, pulling from both men’s resolve to steel her own. “They can make their own choices, but we will give them the information.” Jean turned, slowly, and with the distance from the seats she could see both Erik and Scott without turning her head. “The humans won’t get the same luxury. We can’t keep going in circles. It’s time-”

Jean took a breath, and right on cue, she felt the flames in her veins, warmth curling in the palms of her hands that tightened into fists at her sides.

“It’s time to make a change. All of us, together. And those who don’t want to fight … we’ll change things for them, too.”

#char: scott summers #char: erik lehnsherr #discord

[theevangelion]

THE NEED: SUPERCORP HALF-CHAPTER

Alpha Lena/Omega Kara — Kara has just had a baby and their first heat postpartum is coming fast and hot. Creative problems require creative solutions for the couple, and Lena is anything but gentle with her woman of steel. (Anal, lactation, knotting, biting.)

The sun was high in the sky and dazzling the road, and the highway was inundated with people. The traffic pulled slowly, chugging for a bit, then stalling to a halt. It would be like this for at least seven miles if the woman on the radio announcing the collision ahead was to be trusted. The passengers in the rear cab of the sleek town car had plenty to do to fill the time. There were phone screens in hand, computers on laps, communications and official statements underway. The boss just sighed and stared out of the window, flustered and only growing all the more flustered by the state of things.

“Cancelled your four o’clock,” Jeanie peered over her seat and handed a tablet with something on the screen that needed a digital signature. “The press team is asking if you want to make a personal statement to reporters this evening or if they should quietly release the news on the website?”

“You know, my brother once said there was no such thing as bad press.” Lena forced a small smile as she signed the screen and passed it back. “But now that L-Corp stock is plummeting, I’m inclined to disagree.”

“It will blow over,” the analyst sat in the front seat spoke up, she took the tablet from Jeanie and sighed. “I’m running the numbers and the share price is already starting to plateau. Most of the damage was the Russians short-selling the majority of their stock. Luckily, an investor just bought a billion dollars worth of L-Corp shares. The market price is stabilising.”

“Who was it?” Lena furrowed her brow.

“You.” The analyst smiled and turned the tablet back around. “Thanks for your signature.”

The headache intensified with immediacy. Lena reached up and rubbed where her temples and prestinely tied back hair met, inhaling deeply. This broke at least three financial trading regulations that she could think of off the top of her head, and to compound the stress, her brother and mother had managed to release a joint-manifesto from their separate top security prisons outlining their political ambitions upon release. On top of all of that Lena was coming into rut, which meant Kara was coming into heat, alone, in pain, and with a newborn to take care of for good measure.

The inability to make any of it instantaneously better was infuriating.

“Lena, urgent call for you.” Jeanie reached over the headrest again to pass the phone to the grumbler.

Lena dismissively waved her hand and peered out the window in thought. “Tell them I’m too busy.” Today was not a good day to be the CEO, although there were rarely good days if truth be told. Manageable was at the top end of the mean average.

Jeanie pulled a face. “Far be it from me to tell you what to do… but I really think you’re going to want to take this call…”

Lena rolled her eyes and snatched the phone, bristling and immediately suspicious that one of her immediate relatives had obtained a satellite phone purely to gloat. She brought the phone to her ear and her voice became tight.

“This better be damn important—”

“Your daughter is smiling.” Kara interrupted the bad mood with abundant chirpiness. “Are you smiling, little girl? Are you smiling for Momma?” She singsonged at their tiny one.

“Oh goodness!” Lena relaxed instantaneously and juggled the phone between her ear and shoulder, lifting the lid of her laptop so the inevitable pictures in their iMessage conversation could be cooed over. “Is it a big smile or a little smile?” She grinned in anticipation, clicking and scrolling.

“A big one, she’s in a good mood. I saw the news bulletin and I thought you might need a pick-me-up.”

“Yeah, about that.” Lena closed her eyes and sighed. “Apparently there’s at least one mole in the lab. How Lilian received copies of the research I’m still not sure but she knows L-Corp has the power to chemically suspend non-human abilities and it’s splashed all over every screen I’m looking at. Just in case you haven’t unmuted the news, there’s your recap of my day.”

“The news was unmuted,” Kara assured.

“It wasn’t the way I wanted the public to find out, to say the least.”

“Well, you’re a genius and people were bound to find that out sooner rather than later.” Kara remained a force of calm. “The technology has the potential to do lots of good. Just look at us, at little Ellis. You’re going to save and change lives with it.”

“The Alien Rights Coalition doesn’t see it that way.” Lena worried to the only person she felt capable of talking her worries through with. “They’re saying it’s the first step towards a genetic holocaust and I don’t think my last name helps matters...” The headache intensified.

“The technology could be dubious in the wrong hands, but—luckily for all of us—it’s in yours. And your application of the technology will help alien moms have full-term pregnancies, Lena!” Kara trailed with the sheer amazement of it. “Sunlight makes my body invulnerable to change, Ellis never would have been able to grow to full-term if you didn’t figure out a way to suspend my powers, just for a little while.” She heard Kara smile. “Thank you for that by the way, our little girl is the best gift you’ve ever given me and that’s taking into account the signed Spice Girls world tour poster you got me for my birthday.”

“Well thank you for giving her to me, too.” Lena smiled.

“So, in other news.” There was a small, thoughtful pause. “I’m getting moody which means I might need the chickento come home to roostsooner rather than later… I know you’re having a terrible day but maybe that’s all the more reason for you to sneak home early?” It was said with an air of optimism.

“Is that codeword for what I think it’s codeword for?”

“Leen, I don’t want to talk about what we do in the bedroom in front of our sweet, innocent, adorable, tiny little—”

“Understood.” Lena cleared her throat and shifted her eyes toward the staffers who were pretending not to eavesdrop. The Alpha rubbed her temple and looked up with pursed crimson lips, sighing and a little foggy from the current warfare of her own hormones. “I don’t know if we’re ready for that yet. You remember what the doctors said, Baby…” If the doctors weren’t direct enough about the whole thing, the stitches that were still holding things together down there were pretty clear on the matter. “I can take a suppressant?” Lena offered as an afterthought.

“I don’t want you to take a suppressant.”

“The nausea only lasts for an hour, I don’t mind.” Lena reasoned, tucking the phone deeper between her chin and shoulder as the forward motion of the car picked up with a bit more consistency.

“I don’twant you to take a suppressant.” Kara emphasised it, her voice low and stern, her intention to make the big boss shut up and listen successful in execution. “It’s our first cycle since my body has been mine again and I want us to enjoy it. Can this be our good thing that we look forward to today? Please?”

The big boss did need a good thing to look forward to.

“Let me think about it?” Lena waned slightly.

“Love you, honey.” Kara’s voice scaled upwards again back into the happy range, crisis averted. “You love Momma too, little girl? You wanna say bye to Momma?” Lena smiled at the way Kara sounded when she cooed.

“Give her a kiss from me, I love you too.” Lena smiled and ended the call.

Confused and slightly horny, Lena followed through on her word. The journey back to the National City, the brief jaunt from the car up the steps of the L-Corp building, dodging photographers and thrusted out microphones the entire short distance, all the way up to the top floor executive suite where a roundtable of important stakeholders was already underway, the only thing Lena found time to muse on was what making love to her wife sans pregnancy would look like. From a logistical standpoint, difficult and bumpy with newness considering Kara was still healing and rendered chemically human. From a personal standpoint, exciting and all the more delicious because of it.

“Lena?” The chief economist, Charles, cleared his throat midway through the presentation. “Are you following?” His eyes darted back to the forecast charts on the board.

The boss realised, despite her best efforts, that she was not presently a boss at all. She was a lovesick teenager, chewing the lid of her pen, tapping her Louboutin heel incessantly against the floor, thinking more about the newness of her wife’s changed body than the pressing matter of the PR shitstorm that could unseat her executive position before sundown. Lena swallowed and inhaled sharply, glancing at the forecast points, her quick mind for numbers doing the rest.

“I’m following, I’m just not trusting the current predictions.”

“You don’t?” Charles scoffed a bit. “Lena you headhunted me straight out of Washington because I’m very good at what I do.”

Lena smiled slightly and lifted her brow. “I remember,” she agreed.

“Then I would love to know where your concern stems from?” His hand found his hip.

“The data is still so new that we won’t be able to tell between the qualitative and anomalous points for a while yet.” Lena shrugged and pulled it out of her ass. “It feels reductive basing an economic forecast for the next two years mostly on twelve hours worth of events.”

“The numbers don’t lie,” Charles insisted.

“You’re right and they don’t, but people do. The Russians dumped their stock to destabilise our market position, every news outlet from here to Al Jazeera is running with nothing but rumour-fuel about our corporate direction, and I know it feels safer to sit in this room and worry over numbers from last year, over what numbers might look like next year, but there is a blazing inferno outside and we’re the firefighters who need to put it out.” The chief reclaimed her air of authority. “I think we should move the product launch up to Monday and get out ahead of this thing. Thoughts?”

Charles sighed and nodded a bit. “Getting out ahead might work… with a delicate hand.”

“You don’t think I should take up too much spotlight?” Lena became hopeful that it might give her some spare time to get other things done.

The Head of PR chipped in, a decisive expression only growing all the more fervent as she considered things. “I think getting an alien face out there to talk on the moral and ethical points of the technology presents a better opportunity to turn this around.”

“I agree.” Lena nodded and tried not to seem too pleased. “There’s at least a hundred reporters outside hoping to catch a glimpse of me. It might be best if I go home for the weekend and stay out of the way. I don’t think footage of me declining comment for the next few days is going to score any points.”

“It’s your call, nobody wants to force you out of the picture.” Jeanie reassured.

“I can work from home. The world is tired of Luthors, let’s give them a few days respite.” Lena nodded decisively.

If the world anticipated one thing it was that the ever-manicured, coiffed, pristinely dressed, most powerful woman in National City, would not be making a quick get away from the underground garage in a dinged Honda Accord. The baseball cap and sunglasses helped matters, Lena was certain of it as she pulled onto the freeway without the slightest hint of a pursuit.

The office had been left in a strange sense of coordinated mayhem, the staffers aware of what needed doing, the interns darting out on a coffee run for what was about to be the latest all-nighter in L-Corp history, the executives all bustling in and out of meeting rooms ready to demonstrate their weight in salt. It was a sight that didn’t leave Lena with much concern at all, frankly, the opposite was true. And the intern who bore the most resemblance to her, new and fresh out of engineering school with the tuition loans to show for it, was more than happy to switch clothes to aid the escape plan and get a new dress and a pair of Louboutins out of the deal.

Lena couldn’t remember the last time she wore jeans and a plain cotton t-shirt, but the lack of Spanx was doing wonders for her personal comfort. She shifted in her seat and cranked down the window, another first for a long time, and the cool breeze helped soothe the slick sheen of sweat that formed over her skin. Lena turned up the radio and drove like a bat out of Hell down the freeway.

The phone rang.

“Well hello, love of my life.” Lena tucked it between her shoulder and jaw, a slackened grin forming in the corners of her mouth. “You need me to pick something up?”

“You see the seatbelt next to you?” Kara’s tone was stern.

“I do?” The grin tapered.

“That. Use it please.”

“I am?” It was a white lie, her body was starting to sting a bit.

“I’m watching you on Fox 61. No, you’re not.”

“What do you—” Lena stopped and looked out the window. She sighed and cursed beneath her breath. “Ah, the news helicopter. Well… that’s certainly an unanticipated development.” She winced.

“If I could fly more than six feet I would come and pick you up,” Kara almost apologised for it. “Your driving leaves a lot to be desired.”

“Mhm,” Lena couldn’t help but chuckle slightly. “I guess it’s been a while. Who knew Shayla drove stick?” Her eyebrows wiggled in amusement.

“I’m glad you’re coming home early.” She could almost hear Kara biting her lip. “I was worried you might leave me here all alone… finding creative ways to fill the time…”

“Ellis?” Lena swallowed, hard.

“She just went down. I’d say we’ve got a few hours, maybe three if you’re lucky… she didn’t nap this afternoon.”

“I’ll be home soon.” Lena instinctively put her foot on the accelerator.

“The seatbelt, use it.”

…

She did well to hide how ravenous she felt, did well to hide the frustration that came with not having the vocabulary to describe those feelings. There was something delicious about bruises, the way they ached but not in an entirely unpleasant way, the way they ached but slightly tingled too, as if to remind her how precious and fragile this body was for the time being.

There was one earned from bumping her elbow against the cabinet a few short days ago, and Kara couldn’t help but press it with more frequency as her heat drew in thicker. That, plus the scratch on the back of her hand. She rubbed her thumb against the change in texture, over the thin jaggedness of it, over the state that had never existed prior to nine months ago. According to the Lena she had another few more months of this before things returned to normal. Kara was determined to make the most of each lovely moment it.

The tiny one was asleep upstairs, producing nothing but breathy snores and the occasional deep, sleepy furrow of her brow on the baby monitor as if she were dreaming of only the most important things. She got it from the other mother, Kara was full of nothing but fondness over the thought.

The interim between watching Lena drive home on the news network and Lena making her arrival was spent busying herself with a need for distraction, preening and checking for any baby spit she might have missed since showering, lighting candles, blowing the candles out incase it was too much, double-checking on their baby no less than once every ten minutes. A helicopter parent she would become yet, no doubt in anyone’s mind.

When the two succinct beeps signalled the gates at the bottom of the property were opening, Kara darted inside the powder room and checked herself over one last time. The slight sallow beneath her eyes made her look tired, but it wasn’t a sight that made her feel less any beautiful. There was something worth cherishing about these fleeting days of fragility, something worth enjoying because it gave contrast to her life. She tucked her curled blonde hair behind her ears and wiped away the tiny gleam of sweat from the apples of her cheeks. An anticipatory smile turned into a beaming grin as car wheels crunched over the white pebbled drive outside, announcing the clever one’s arrival.

It wasn't that the sex was terrible during the second and third trimester, it was just different, it was just soft, half-hearted, careful, thrumming with fear on Lena’s part that she would do something to hurt one of them. To compound the difficultness of it, as Kara’s body changed with pregnancy, becoming something that was both powerful and fragile, her desires shifted too; she yearned for bruises and bitemarks and other tiny precious wounds that Lena would have shrivelled into dust over had she merely heard a whispering of it. Kara inhaled deeply as she walked back into the living room, hopeful that today would be different, hopeful that today would be full of wonderful discoveries.

It was a sunny day outside. The bay windows were almost blinding to look at from the refraction of light. Kara looked out to the front drive with narrowed eyes and didn’t recognise her for a moment. She watched Lena clamber out of the rusty Accord, utterly gobsmacked once she realised the big boss was dressed down. And she was. She was completely dressed down. And not in the Lena Luthor definition of the phrase either; which roughly meant swapping a tailored suit and Prada heels for tailored slacks and leather loafers — an outfit choice that she insisted for the entire fourteen hour duration of the home water birth was homely, dressed down attire. This, the woman outside in a baseball cap, pushing sunglasses up her nose, pushing up the sleeve of her loose t-shirt up her bicep as she grabbed things out of the trunk, was a fantasy that Kara never knew she had and was only now stumbling across on a moment to moment basis.

Unsure and deeply out of her element, aroused and embarrassed about it, the soft one sat down and rubbed her mouth. The blurred glass of the front door was darkened with movement and shadow, the wood bumped open with a hip as things were juggled between both arms and a water flask hung off the pinky for good measure.

“Hello to you too,” Lena puffed and smiled as the door was kicked closed. “Busy day?”

“Mhm. Oh! but not as busy as yours!” Kara caught herself.

“Well, nobody said being the boss was without its stresses.” Lena wiggled her brows and dumped things on the side table. “I’m one McQueen dress and a pair of Christian Louboutins light but I’ll live to fight another day. The disguise probably needed a bit more work.” She took a swig of water.

“Well it’s doing wonders for me.” Kara craned her neck and rubbed the side of it, astounded that a flannel shirt tied around the waist could be such an immense turn on. “You, er, you look good.” Kara smiled and nodded, embarrassed by the sudden wetness.

“I look good, huh?” Lena piqued a manicured brow and took a few gaited steps closer, showing off the new attire as if she were the butchest thing this side of province. “Does my girl have a thing for big tough Alpha types?” Lena narrowed her eyes slightly and pushed the short sleeves of her t-shirt up her arms, grinning and loving the attention.

“Hmm,” Kara pouted in thought. “I did marry the toughest one I could find. So sure, you might be onto something.” It earned an impressed smirk.

“Is that so?” Lena bit her bottom lip.

“Nobody said you were a wallflower.”

“You’re quite the catch yourself, Supergirl.”

“Ah ah,” Kara lifted her finger. “Maternity leave. I’m not Super if I can’t crash through walls or swoop down from the sky, or, you know, breastfeed and make a smoothie simultaneously.” The last part was said with slightly more exasperation.

“Well you’re Super to me,” Lena beamed and plonked herself down in the armchair a little less poised than usual. “A few months and you will be breastfeeding, making smoothies, and halting bank robberies for good measure.” She nodded reassuringly.

“Simultaneously? That sounds like it could get messy,” Kara chuckled.

“I told you I would support you going back to work when you’re ready, I meant it.”

“Strong, tough, and also very sweet.” Kara closed her eyes and sighed happily. “They were right, you are a catch.”

“How are you feeling? Have your hormones been wreaking havoc?”

“Do you want the truth or something a bit easier on your…” Kara glanced down to the large bulge in her wife’s jeans, cheeks pushed out, eyes darting back up to something other than the erection. “I can do either?”

“The truth. Unabridged, please.” Lena fluttered her long eyelashes.

“Well, my breasts are leaking, there’s stretch marks in places I didn’t even know possible, there are eight stitches holding my labia together, my womb is currently screaming at me to make another baby, my brain is screaming at my womb that it’s a trap.” Kara sighed and watched Lena’s expression fidget with confliction. “And on top of all of that, I masturbated three times today between mom-duties and it feels like I’m trying to put out an inferno with a watering can that has a hole in the bottom. I have never been more turned on than I am right now and my body is still a construction site. I could be better, I could be worse.”

“Okay, baby, first thing, your body is not a construction site. It’s a place of worship. It’s the Vatican.” Lena reminded with a deep, serious look. “Second, I knew this would be too much too soon. I’ll drive to the clinic and get a suppressant shot, it’s no problem—”

“You’re already in rut, plus, I reallydon’t want you to do that.” Kara became antsy and overwhelmed. “I’m just trying to warn you about what’s underneath all of this. That’s all...” The light grey cardigan was fiddled with.

“You remember that I was down the business-end when you gave birth, right?” Lena lifted an amused brow. “We shower together in the morning, sometimes you even let me kiss you on places other than your mouth when I’ve been extra well-behaved. I’m very aware of what’s under that cardigan, and the thought of it alone is doing a lot for me right now.” It was said with dopiest, softest, most loving, tender-eyed expression.

Kara chewed her lip guiltily for a moment. “I shower before you wake up. I put concealer under my eyes and make sure everything is neat and tidy before you see me naked.” It was a guilt that Kara wanted removing from her conscious, that she needed to be absolved of before Lena got a rude awakening of the present state of things. “It’s not that I think you won’t think I’m beautiful, it’s not that. I love this body, I love that it made a perfect little baby. I love that it aches, that it gets sore, that I finally understand what people mean when they say their muscles feel tired. I love knowing what it feels like to be human. But… this is our first cycle since Ellis and I just… want you to be in the picture.” She closed her eyes, aware that none of it sound as erotic as she hoped to be in the moments preceding intimacy.

“Baby, c’mere,” Lena became soft and empathetic, a small pout working into her mouth as she opened her arms wider.

The soft one stood up, frustrated and only growing more frustrated with the inability to express what she meant. There was still so much of it underneath the surface, so much of it steeped between the things she felt capable of saying. Half of her frustrations were because of her heat, because of the undulating, pulsating, hungry feeling in her belly that wanted for nothing but tired muscles and her wife’s knot. The other half was maybe the fear that Lena wouldn’t reciprocate the desire for something a bit more passionate than the usual order of things.

She clambered into Lena’s lap and took some small comfort in the closeness of it.

The bare arms around her spine were warm and smooth. Shoulders rising, forearms tight, chest exhaling weighted sighs, Lena became the safe thing to make it all go away. The soft one burrowed her nose and found a spot on Lena’s neck that smelled of relief. She stayed there, quiet, smiling a bit when she felt the taut jaw tuck itself over her head.

“Your body is so beautiful and powerful.” She felt the wisps of baby hair above her forehead move with the tender admittance. “I’m in the picture, my head is in the game, and it’s you a thousand times, Kara Danvers,” Lena crooned.

Kara smirked as her forehead was pecked with kisses. “Using my maiden surname now?” She craned her brow.

“Only so you remember I replaced it with mine.”

“Your boner is pushing in my butt.”

“Sorry, I get reallyexcited when I remember you have my last name.” They both giggled, and Lena shuffled the piled Superhero on top of her lap to make a bit more room. “Kara Danvers, I am going to take you upstairs and we’re going to sixty-nine until the sun hides behind the clouds in embarrassment. Anything else you want to talk to me about before I do just that?”

“Baby,” Kara pulled back and lightly pressed her thumbs into the hollows of Lena’s cheekbones. “I didn’t say I didn’t like your boner pushing in my butt…” It was exhaled with a bite of the bottom lip, with a tinge of naughtiness to her voice.

“Baby!” Lena blurted and blushed, as if she were avoiding a clear trap. “That is… no… we’re… just no.” She shook her head.

“Excuse me?”

“That is. That is barelyscooting around the medical advice we were given, Kara.” Lena closed her eyes, pink cheeked, flustered, aroused beyond words and trying to dampen her growing interest. “I want to do that more than anything but without your powers I could hurt you…”

“So if I was human you would never fuck me like you do when I’m Super? You wouldn’t want to experiment and try new things?” Kara lifted a slightly accusing brow. “This is the only time in my life when I will ever be physically weaker than you and I want to enjoy it, baby.” She rubbed Lena’s shoulders and felt her start to wane. “Don’t you want to enjoy me?” She knew there could only be one answer, the correct one.

“I do, believe me… if only you knew how many times I’ve fantasized about having you sore and whimpering underneath me…” Lena closed her eyes and let the sentence hang. “It’s just your life experience is that of an indestructible woman, Kara. And that doesn’t intimidate me in the slightest. It just worries me that if I get too rough with you while you’re without powers… it could be overwhelming? I guess?” Her green eyes appeared again from behind her fluttering lids.

“I want it to be overwhelming.” Kara pressed forward and kissed her lips. “I want it to hurt, to ache, to make me sore, to make me so tired I can barely crawl. I want you to bite me and mean it. I want you to tell me you love me and mean it more. I want to get primal. I wantto be overwhelmed.” She emphasised with warm palms growing tight around the tautness of her wife’s jaw. “You’re the kind of woman who makes the thought of being overwhelmed by you very, very appealing.”

“It’s the flannel, isn’t it?” Lena chewed a weak grin. “Is that why my pretty girl is on me like a bruise today?” Her eyebrow piqued.

“Well, I was kinda hoping you might find the time to put some bruises on me…” Kara kissed the corner of her mouth, the cupid’s bow of her top lip, pecked her way around the outskirts of town until the big boss weakly growled because of it.

“Fuck,” Lena hissed.

READ THE REST RIGHT HERE OR HOLD ON TIGHT FOR THE PUBLIC RELEASE!

#supercorp #kara x lena #lena x kara #abo #alpha lena #omega kara #supergirl lesbian #supergirl fanfiction #supergirl smut #smut #wlw smut #lesbian fanfiction #wlw fanfiction #femslash smut #femslash supercorp

[karijnbreannekm82insurance-blog]

cheap fast cars to insure for young drivers

cheap fast cars to insure for young drivers

cheap fast cars to insure for young drivers

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[ravens-crimecollection]

The Croydon Cat Killer

A/N: Now this lovely piece of work here is probably my fifth attempt. Tumble deleted my first draft and its neater version. Then Microsoft crashed on me and took another report which I had re-written twice. Needless to say this report is actually killing me.

 Trigger Warnings: Now as you could probably tell from the title this report focuses on the death of animals. What this guy has done to his targets is pretty gruesome in all aspects. I’ve tried to include in the tags all trigger warnings involving animal harm and death, however, if you want any other warnings included please contact me as soon as possible. I understand that whilst there may be some aspects of true crime that you are ok with, there are others that may trigger you.

 So now, lets be on with the strange and unusual case of the animal killer known as:

 The Croydon Cat Killer.

It was Easter 2017 when I first heard about the Croydon cat killer.

 I was back home from university for the holidays along with all my siblings so the house had been chaotic to say the least. I ended up retreating to my phone when the Twins began fighting again, unwilling to deal with their bickering so soon.

 I know, terrible elder sibling - but they argue all the time.

 Anyway, it was whilst I was on Facebook that I first mention of the Croydon Cat Killer.

 Again, I know what you’re thinking.

 “Raven, a Facebook post? Those things are usually full of shit.”

 And yes I do realise this, however this friend was trustworthy, factual, someone not likely to share fake posts seeking to incite panic.

 Also it was a link to a report written by a reputable newspaper.

 No not the Daily Mail

 Anyway, it was from this report that birthed my interest in the case, in is sheer absurdity and the audacity of the Cat Killer.

 And its really what began this blog, on the stranger lesser known crimes around the world, for this is undoubtedly an unknown case by many, but those who do know of it all share the same fear.

 That one day this Cat Killer will turn his attention to Humans.

  The Initial Suspicion:

 The rise in Cat mutilations and deaths was first noticed by Co-Founders Tony Jenkins and Boudicca Rising of the South Norwood Animal Rescue Liberty Charity, or SNARL for short.

 (Remember them, they’ll come up a lot.)

 More and more calls were coming in from the South London areas concerning strange cat deaths which often shared the same characteristics.

 FINAL WARNING FOR DETAILS OF ANIMAL DEATH

 These cats, discovered in increasing numbers in the South London areas, were mostly found in public areas.

 Public streets, high traffic grassy areas, and a few times in people’s own gardens, and even on the front steps of their owners’ homes. A most notable case was when a cats paw was left on her owners front step.

 These cats were found without their heads and tails, and later other body parts, but alarmingly there was often an absence of blood at the scenes, and any blood found was minimal and congealed. They were often laid out, displayed.

 Later forensic tests done by forensic specialists and veterinarians would show bruising consisted with death by bludgeoning. It is believed by many that the decapitation and mutilation occurred afterwards, though some disagree.

 Most shockingly however, was the fact that several of these cats were found with raw chicken in their stomachs, obviously eaten a little while before their deaths. The owners were insistent that none of them fed their cats anything of the sort before hand.

 A clear sign of luring? Of malicious intent?

 At the time of the initial reports however only the mutilation was known about, and the rising numbers of reports and the way the bodies appeared immediately raised suspicion in Boudicca and Tony. They began collecting reports, and even brought the bodies personally to their vets and third party vets to understand what could have occurred.

 They also began to heavily petition the police for investigation.

 With the families and SNARL working together to raise awareness about the Cat Killer, even reporting the incidents on Facebook, the case soon garnered attention across the country.

 Pets are undoubtedly important members of families. Any sane human being that owns a pet loves them unconditionally.

 Not one of you who own a pet can deny use of the baby voice when talking to whatever animal you own. I once watched a friend coo over their pet snake whilst rubbing its head.

 Pet owners are a weird lot, but our pets are our family, and unfortunately vulnerable members of our family at that.

 Animals have their advantages against humans. But smaller ones like cats, especially those trusting of humans, are always at risk of cruelty and harm.

 Serial killers, and I will count this man as a serial killer of a kind for ease despite the fact his victims are only animals, have always been cowardly by nature. They have always gone for the easier targets, ones that won’t cause too much trouble, too frightened or scared to attack a man or woman that could beat them. They relied on tricks, the good nature of others, and the fact their targets were often smaller and less confrontational than them. Blitzing them, or surprising them so they were incapable of fighting back.

 It is probably why the Croydon Cat Killer selected cats as their main targets. Much smaller than most dogs, less able to fight back, an easier target.

 It is his targets that also brought out such an outrage as well, and led to the quick creation of Operation Takahe.

 Operation Takahe:

 The investigation into the Croydon Cat Killer began almost astonishingly quickly considering the victims were cats, but the sheer number of animals beginning to be attributed to this Cat Killer, in the hundreds already, the mutilation that occurred and the attention the case was receiving meant the Police were quick to establish an investigation.

 This investigation was codenamed Operation Takahe. Boudicca and Tony’s initial suspicions about the reports began in January 2015, and by the summer of the same year Police investigation was already underway.

 The Investigation would last three years, until the August of 2018, and in that time multiple facts became known about the Cat Killer.

 1.       The fact the cats were bludgeoned to death and several were fed raw chicken shortly before death became known through forensic testing and study.

2.       It was shown, and is mostly believed, that the decapitation of the head and tail occurred after death.

3.       The initial victim, the apparent first cat killed by the cat killer, was discovered. It is still believed, though with some uncertainty, that a cat killed in Croydon in early 2014 was one of the killers first victims, maybe even the first. This and the fact he worked mostly in the South of London gave him the name the Croydon Cat killer.

4.       The cats missing body parts mostly remained missing, but horrifyingly a few were returned in other areas  at a later date. Causing the owners further distress to say the least.

 Later facts would show just how expansive the killers range was.

 5.       Reports of similar mutilations began to come in from as far south as the Isle of Wight and possibly as far North as Brighton. Many attacks seem to occur in areas near a motorway known as the M25, a road which circles London and connects the city to other major roads leading out all over the country. This lead him to be known by a new name – The M25 (Cat) Killer.

6.       Foxes and rabbits were also starting to be discovered, in the same conditions as the cats killed previously. This lead SNARL and others to refer to the killer as the UK Animal Killer.

7.       The kills were also shown to happen in under-surveilled rural areas, and urban areas with little traffic.

 Whilst this all occurred the case garnered more and more attention, the Cat killer became a mystery figure. Profiles of the killer were made, and descriptions of his appearance.

 He was described as a white male in his 40’s, with short brown hair, dark clothing, and acne scaring on his face based on sparse witness reports as he was never caught on camera. They also declared he could be wearing a headlamp.

 His personality profile was as such:

 1. He often travelled, possibly for work.

 2. It was eventually believed he lived in Addiscombe, considering the amount of attacks occurring there.

 3. Profilers and psychologists also theorised his hated for cats in particular could have stemmed from a hated or fear of women, and the mutilation of the animals after, and the distinct need to leave these animals in the open and for their owners to find, was for sexual gratification.

  Celebrities and politicians alike were drawn to the case, tweeting descriptions and drawing attention to the case in hopes of an arrest.

 All the information together seemed to present the idea of a prolific sadist, a human one.

 A suspect was arrested but released.

 A man who was on the sexual offenders list for raping an older woman had his home searched.

 Which is why it is so shocking that in September 2018, the Police shut down Project Takahe with news that the killer had been found.

 The common Fox.

  The End?

 Police revealed that they had seen a few images of foxes carrying the missing cat parts away from scenes. They also found fox DNA on the corpses as well.

Stephen Harris, a retired professor of environmental sciences at the University of Bristol who had studied fox behaviour for fifty years, asserted that there was no killer.

 He asserted the lack of blood or its congealing, as well as the lack of heads and tails, and other body parts was absolutely due to car collisions. Other say it was a moral panic.

 He does not go on to explain how the cars could have put a cat paw print on their owners front porch.

 He also explains that foxes commonly chew of the head and tails of their prey as well. Nd yes he was called in on a case prior involving the death of cats in the late 1990’s in London, and confirmed they were Foxes.

 SNARL and many other could only react in disbelief. I myself included.

 Cats laid out, obviously dissected, and they call it the work of cars and foxes.

 Cats in accidents leave massive amounts of blood in the road, of which I have been unfortunate witness to, and the foxes scavenger nature (especially London) which could easily explain why foxes were seen with cat parts.

 This theory leaves many things unexplained:

 1.       The display of the animals in open areas, the repeat of pattern, the openness these cats were found in.

 2.       The sudden increase of cat death as a whole, enough to make those who recorded such things suspicious.

 3.       The animal parts returning at a later date, especially the paw that appeared on their owner’s door step.

 There is also the fact that shortly before the closing down of the investigation a man was arrested for arson AND cat mutilation and gave up his fellows as well, claiming there was still someone who was out there committing crimes.

 It is the opinion of many that this is a vast oversight by police, nearly negligent in fact.

 I myself have, as you do, spoken with several of my friends on this topic. Some who work in civil service and are of the heavy opinion that this closing of the investigation was due to budgeting by the higher ups who probably withdrew funds due to the cases length and the victimology.

 Many believe that this may be another group, a single man with possible copy-cats, or simply one man.

 Very few appear to believe it is a fox.

 The believe not looking to catch this killer now is a grave mistake, and not just for animals.

 Because there is one main worry that still persists amongst people who worked on or who have looked into this case.

 That this man, whomever he is, will one day turn his attentions to people.

 Animal killing and mutilation are a precursor to killers after all, most notably serial killers.

 But here’s hoping it’s a fox, I hate to think what would happen otherwise.

 And please, have a lovely night.

#tw: animal death #tw: animal abuse #tw: animal cruelty #tw: animal injury #tw: rape #True Crime #Croydon Cat Killer #M25 Killer #UK Animal Killer #The Strange case of

[honey-tea-and-lemon-trees]

Hey there!!! Congratulations on the followers!! 💕💕 Can you do 13 and 19 (separate or together your choice) please? Love your writing! ❤❤

Thank you, lovely! 💕 I am apparently incapable of writing short drabbles because both of these got quite long… hope you like!

13. “I could kiss you right now!”

Jughead is pretty sure that sometimes Betty doesn’t realise the full extent of the effect her words have on him.

Not the words like the ones in her college essays that she asks him to proofread for her - although, admittedly, her arrangement of words in that context can create a pretty powerful argument - but more like the unfamiliar (and slightly unwelcome) ripples in his insides when she says things that she hasn’t even thought about.

For instance, when he walks into their (too early) morning seminar armed with his own black coffee he picked up on the way and then places a vanilla latte on the desk in front of Betty, beside the laptop that she’s already typing away on. When she finally looks up from her computer - it’s a fair few minutes because Jughead has managed to pull out his own laptop and actually logged in, which takes time because at this time of morning he certainly does not move with impressive speed - and her eyes land on the coffee cup, she sighs in relief before she grabs it quickly.

“You sir, are a godsend,” she says after a few long sips, giving him this warm and beautiful smile that manages to wake him up more than the coffee has. When she turns back to her keyboard, there’s a strange surge of smugness spreading through him and a smile that no one’s ever seen before 11am.

Then, there’s the time that he’s been dragged to some loud, heinous college party by Archie that becomes a lot less unbearable once he realises Betty’s come with Veronica. She also happens to be wearing a very nice skirt and happens to show off a lot of her very nice legs, so he spends most of the night pretending he’s not staring at them while Archie laughs at him and claps him on the back.

Then when Betty’s thrown back too many cups of lukewarm beer to even stand, let alone keep dancing the way she was, Jughead gently pulls her into the kitchen and props her up on one of the stools by the kitchen island.

“You’re so good to me, Juggie,” she hiccups, a dreamy haze of alcohol coating her voice. “What did I do to deserve a friend like you, huh?” she continues. He hates the casual reminder that she will only ever think of him as a friend, but the rest of the sentence is enough to bring the weird flutters back.

“Think you’ve got that backwards, Betts,” he says with a small smile, handing her a glass of water - which she gasps at the sight of and drinks while she hums gratefully.

Archie literally bounds into the room and slams into Jughead’s side for what was probably meant to be a hug but feels more like a tackle.

“Arch, what the fuck?” Jughead rasps, feeling a little winded because drunk Archie doesn’t know his own strength, Betty’s giggling at him in his peripheral vision

“Me and Ronnie are gonna get burgers, you lovebirds wanna join?” Archie babbles enthusiastically, his arms still wrapped around Jughead’s torso. Jughead resists the urge to punch his friend for the lovebirds comment because he looks like he’s already forgotten he’s said it and Betty has jumped up from the stool and is gushing about burgers.

In the split second that Archie lets go of him and dashes out into the hallway to find his girlfriend, Betty’s latched on, dainty fingers wrapped around his arm and trying to drag him into the hallway.

“Jughead!” she whines, looking up at him with an exaggerated pout and wide, pleading eyes. “I need a burger right now or I’m going to die!”

Jughead chuckles, muttering, “Been there,” under his breath before slinging his arm over her shoulder and guiding her out of the kitchen. He enjoys the way she sighs and nestles further into his side far, far too much.

After walking around the city for far too long and after Jughead has stopped Archie from running out into oncoming traffic, twice, they finally end up at a crappy fast food joint that all four of them would have turned their nose up while sober - but the hunger has gotten the best of them and they head inside.

Jughead orders and pays with Veronica’s credit card, which she threw at him before she proceeded to start making out with Archie in one of the booths that have definitely seen worse than this. He throws their burgers down on the table in front of them, but decides he doesn’t want to risk the consequences of separating them - he’s been on the receiving end of Veronica’s glare more times than he count and he’d rather not fear for his life.

Betty has settled in the next both over, seemingly trying to look anywhere but at the barely PG public display of affection in 10 foot in front of her eyes. Jughead walks to join her, handing her the burger and before debating whether he should sit beside her or opposite her in the both - which ultimately results in him lingering awkwardly at the end of the table, not that anyone notices because Betty’s engrossed in eating his burger and Archie and Veronica are still busy eating each other.

“Oh my god, Jughead,” Betty hums as she swallows another bit of food. “I could kiss you right now,” she says flippantly, but Jughead’s reaction isn’t quite so casual. If the other stuff had caused flutters than this was close to cardiac-arrest.

He just stood there silently, eyes wide and wondering how the hell the was supposed to respond to that but apparently he didn’t have to because Betty’s declaration seemed to have piqued the interests of Archie and Veronica enough for them to tear their lips away from each other. “Do it, Betty!” Archie called, laughing mischievously. “I dare you!”

“Go on, B! Lay one on him!” Veronica chimed in, throwing her head back as she laughed.

Betty pouted at them for a moment but then narrowed her eyes like she might be thinking it over. “Okay!” she chirps, sliding herself out of the booth and skipping the few paces between them until she’s practically nose to nose with Jughead. He can’t find the words to speak because his heart is pounding erratically, bouncing around and crashing into the walls of his rib cage.

She looks more sober than she was, but she’s obviously still a long way away because sober Betty would still be sitting in that booth and would probably be scolding Archie and Veronica for being so childish.

She gives him a devilish smirk as she throws her arms around his neck, leaning her body closer to him where he can’t find the strength to move a muscle.

“You look nervous, Juggie,” she says, her voice is teasing but she’s speaking in a low enough tone that it’s pooling a dark feeling low in the depths of his stomach.

His lips part to tell her he’s not (which is a blatant lie) but in a split second her lips are pressed lightly against his and suddenly he’s forgotten how to speak.

It’s been a few seconds and he knows he should probably pull away; she’s had too much to drink and he’s had a few beers himself - this could also be considered two much, relative to his own typical alcohol consumption. But without thinking his hands are moving to her waist and his lips move against hers in the softest touch.

This turn of events is surprising enough before, miraculously, Betty starts kissing him back, pulling him closer with her hands on his neck. He can’t help but smile against her lips, which earns him a slap on the shoulder from Betty even though she exhales a breath of laughter between kisses.

What they can’t see is Archie and Veronica still watching them from the next both over her jaw is slack from shock and he’s got a smug smile like his work was done.

“When the hell did this all start?” Veronica hisses, jabbing a finger in their direction with wide eyes.

Archie chuckles and slings an arm across the back of the cheap vinyl seat, muttering, “It’s been a long time coming.”

19. “I could kill you right now!”

There’s a loud crash from the living room, the result of several items clattering to the floor and possibly glass shattering. Jughead winces preemptively in anticipation of what he knows what is about to happen next.

“What the fuck was that?” Archie asks, wide eyed and startled as his gaze flickers between Jughead and the doorway.

The terror on his face seems to increase tenfold when the screech pierces through the walls. “JUGHEAD!”

“Run away, save yourself,” Jughead whispers, mostly sarcastic but it’s not actually terrible advice.

Archie looks confused for a second, until the kitchen door swings open to see Betty. She’s wearing a soft, pastel yellow dress and pink rubber gloves that completely juxtapose the murderous look in her eyes.

“Hi, sweetie. You called?” Jughead chirps innocently, immediately wishing that he had an off switch to stop him from saying dumb shit because Betty does not look like she appreciates the joke.

“I could kill you right now,” she says, with absolute sincerity as she points a finger at his face threateningly.

“Everything okay, Betty?” Archie murmurs meekly, apparently only just announcing his presence to Betty, who snaps her head in his direction and looks surprised to see him.

“Hello, Arch! Nice to see you! Can you bear with me a second? I’m actually dealing with something right now,” she rambles in one breath, with a smile that’s obviously forced and looks a little manic when coupled with her tone. Archie just nods and doesn’t say anything - a wise choice.

Betty turns back to Jughead and the smile fades. Somehow he hadn’t noticed her take the few steps across the threshold of the kitchen but she’s very close to his face now.

“How many times have I told you to fix it?” she says in a low, threatening voice that’s more terrifying than when she shouts.

“A lot of times,” Jughead says obediently, a voice looping in his head that says sarcastic responses are not his friends right now

“Then why the hell haven’t you fixed it?!” she yells.

“I was gonna get Archie to fix it!” he says as he waves his hands in Archie’s direction , raising his voice to match hers but with a thousand percent less fury. “I don’t have a tool kit, Betts!” he elaborates, daring to breathe a laugh.

“Fix what?” Archie says innocently but looks like he immediately regrets it when Betty shoots him a look that says he was told to stay out of it.

“The coffee table,” Jughead says anyway, looking away from Betty’s piercing glare - though he can still feel her trying to burn holes into his skin. “The leg keeps collapsing,” he explains to his friend.

“Yeah, okay… I’ve got some tools in the truck downstairs,” Archie says warily, his eyes flicking between Jughead and his girlfriend who’s still staring at him with steam coming out her ears. “Jug, you wanna help me get them?” he says raising his eyebrows quickly and jutting his head towards the door.

“Yeah!” Jughead says, standing up quickly and shimmying himself around Betty. “That alright, Betts? Why don’t you make yourself a cup of tea or something and put your feet up?” he said in as soothing a tone as he could muster before rushing out of the apartment after Archie.

“What the hell was that?!” Archie yells as soon as they had cleared the first set of stairs down towards the lobby, a safe distance away from Betty’s bad mood. “Because it sure as hell wasn’t the Betty I recognise!” he pants, his eyes wide with his arms waving over-dramatically

“Her mom is coming to stay with us in the apartment for a week,” Jughead says, completely deadpan. “So we’re all a little on edge.”

Archie took a moment to absorb that information before giving a quick nod and murmuring, “Okay, I get it.” Then he turns and starts walking down the stairs without another word.

Jughead chuckles and follows closely behind him. “She’ll be fine in a little while but she just needs some time to cool off.”

“Want me to call in reinforcements?” Archie says with a mischievous grin and Jughead laughs at what he assumes is a joke. He learns later that it was not when he opens the apartment door swings open and Veronica Lodge sweeps into his apartment.

“Hello, Archiekins!” she sings, giving him a quick him a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Hello to you to, Veronica,” Jughead drones under his breath, pushing himself up from the couch where he’s been pretending to follow what Archie was doing to fix the coffee table.

“A pleasure as always, Jughead,” she says in a thicket of sarcasm, but counteracts it with a genuine laugh and steps forward to hug him. This says to him that she thinks they’re friends so it would probably be rude to flinch away like his natural instinct tells him to.

Betty must have heard Veronica from the kitchen where she was trying to let off steam by scrubbing literally inch of the counters, because she is suddenly in the doorway with eyebrows knitted together.

“V? What are you doing here?” she asks, sounding decidedly less pissed off than earlier - much to the relief of the rest of the room.

“I’ve come to sweep you off your feet and take you on a tour of Manhattan’s finest cocktail bars!” she says, wiggling her eyebrows.

Betty looks baffled by the suggestion and almost rolls her eyes before she catches herself and puts on a polite smile instead. “Sorry, maybe not this time… I’ve got so much to do. I’ve still gotta finish the kitchen, then do the bathroom, and a load of laundry and-”

“The boys are gonna do it for you,” Veronica shrugs as she interjects, surprising both Archie and Jughead to look up at her from where they’d turned their attention back to the table. “This was their suggestion,” - Jughead makes a face because it most certainly was not his - “they just want you to relax a little. Right?” She turns her back to Betty so she can make a face at the two of them.

Archie is apparently familiar with this face because he pipes up immediately, playing along. “Of course! You just seem really stressed and we thought you could do with some fun,” he says coolly, and as it turns out he’s a fairly convincing liar. Jughead keeps his mouth shut, because he is not so he just nods.

Betty looks torn and nibbles the corner of her lip before she sighs and apparently gives in, because she’s nodding her head.

Veronica squeals in her victory and rushes over to her. “Okay, go get yourself in something sexy and let’s go day-drinking!” she yells enthusiastically, even stirring a small giggle in Betty - which proves that Veronica is magic.

“Remember that she has a boyfriend, Ronnie. As do you,” Archie chuckles as he uses something that Jughead is pretty sure is a screwdriver, but wouldn’t place any bets on.

“Please, you know that Betty barely even men who aren’t Jughead.” Archie narrows his eyes at the fact that there was no similar statement about herself. She smiles when she notices and adds in a sickly sweet voice, “And I’m too in love with my Archiekins.” Judging by the blush on his cheeks, this seems to satisfy him.

“I’ll return her to you in the early morning, Jughead,” Veronica says, winking at him. “Don’t wait up,” she chuckles as she exits the living room and pulls the door closed behind her.

–

When Jughead stirs, it’s definitely dark outside but he’s not sure what time it is. He smiles when he sees Betty slipping between the covers beside him. She shuffles closer and wraps her arm around his torso, nuzzling her head into his chest with a satisfied hum. He can already smell the alcohol on her breath.

“Sorry I was a monster,” she mutters sulkily into his t-shirt, there’s a drawl to her vice that is distinctly drunk Betty.

“You weren’t a monster,” Jughead chuckles, his voice still thick with sleep. He places a kiss on top of her head before falling back into the pillows.

“Veronica said I was,” she mumbles bitterly, snuggling closer to him again.

“Yeah, well… you’re my monster,” Jughead murmurs sleepily and he thinks he hears Betty laugh quietly.

#prompt fills #bughead fanfiction #beth's 1k thing

[hahanoiwont]

superhero au!

Superhero au.

Virgil is a supervillain a la that post about grad school villains. He started out doing it for extra credit but he also needed the cash for student loans...that shit aint cheap yo

so he’s a small-scale “”””supervillain””” mostly making a nuisance of himself by stopping traffic, doing minor vandalism in costume, and sometimes kidnapping notables for like an hour before realizing he can’t keep a plant alive and should not be in charge of a person (’you’ve captured me!! what are you going to do???’ ‘eh i mean you’ll probably get rescued soon, my powers aren’t really meant for long-term kidnapping and I don’t wanna have to take care of you. you think i want another mouth to feed? nah. hey wanna see a meme?’).

(if Sleep exists in this au he’s a common kidnapping victim. son of the mayor or smth. Virgil has learned to hold up a starbucks before kidnapping him tho. not worth it if he can’t bribe him with sweet sweet caffeine. they p much chill for a couple hours until the hostage negotiators come)

basically, Virgil’s not a big enough deal to get shut down permanently. regular cops usually take care of him well enough without superhero involvement. he gets his extra credit for villainry and sometimes some cash from a shadowy organization via crow or some shit. he’s not sure how they know where he lives or what exactly they’re paying him for but hey, more ramen money. whatever gets food on the table.

On the other hand, Patton is a hard-working police officer who really should be in any other job. He’s just too nice for it. But he gets a lot of the suicide calls or emotional trauma stuff because he’s just so damn good at making people feel safe, and no one else wants to do those calls, so he stays on the force. He used to be an EMT, too, which is really helpful. He rooms with Virgil and Logan and Virgil’s weird cousin.

He pretends to be unaware of Virgil’s extracurriculars because he can see that Virgil needs the money and is too proud to ask for help. He does help him patch himself up when necessary and sometimes thinks about going back to his own ‘night job.’

(he used to be a superhero but quit that and EMTing after he realized how much it was draining him physically and emotionally and how deeply unhealthy the whole thing was. credit to Logan for that) He thinks he’d feel better knowing Virgil’s already spoken for as an archnemesis by a hero who won’t seriously try to hurt him. He seriously worries that Virgil will catch the attention of an edgy ‘shoot first and angst about it but make no attempts to fix the mess you’ve made later’ heroes, and he’ll end up in the hospital or worse.

but also, Patton needs that work/life balance and he just can’t maintain it while hero-ing. and Virgil knows what he’s doing, right? he’s a cautious guy. So Patton just tries to be on call when he notices Virgil’s got the first aid kit out or when he talks about ‘evening plans’ (fuck’s sake dude we all know you don’t go out for fun).

For his part, Logan wanted to be a biochemical engineer, but right now he’s taking some time off school. His powers are probably some sort of sensory (?) and he doesn’t fully understand them himself, mostly bc he likes to pretend they don’t exist. but he was getting splitting headaches at school and he just couldn’t go on. He does online courses when he can but he feels really ashamed that he couldn’t do grad school/college, which he was supposed to be good at. He was planning on staying with Patton and Virgil until the end of the lease and he doesn’t know what he’ll do after that.

But then one day Virgil came home freaking the fuck out about something and asked to talk to him, and guess what, he’s got this crazy ‘supervillain for extra credit’ idea. Someone’s got to make sure this fool doesn’t get himself killed. And Patton’s got into police work, and Logan doesn’t want him to go through compassion exhaustion again, and really none of his dumb housemates can take care of themselves (he loves them tho). So he does mad science in the broom closet to try to give Virgil something of an edge over any hero whose attention he might catch and helps him hide his villain-ing from Patton and tries to figure out what he’s gonna do with his life on the side.

He comes up with this crazy graph that shows the optimal balance of super heroes to villains in a healthy society (not enough villains=not enough active heroes when something really bad goes down, as it does every few years, somehow; not enough heroes=obviously bad). He keeps an eye on superpowered activity in the city.

Sometimes he thinks about getting active himself, both to preserve order and balance (if you’re the villain [ie Virgil] you can control the collateral damage to your plots, but if you’re the hero and your roommate is the villain you can both work together to provide for both of your needs [extra credit, enough good hero/villain balance, and safety of roommate] without actually harming anyone...but for either he would need to be able to use his powers effectively and he’s still kind of in denial), and to keep Virgil from getting his fool ass killed, and to keep an eye on Patton while Patton insists on running right into every single superpowered crime scene. In the meantime, he frets over numbers and helps Virgil write coded emails to his grad board about his ‘’’extensive’’’ villainry.

It’s basically like a resume except you have to convince the people involved that you’re super evil.

Logan is good at resumes.

All three of them are plugging right along and Virgil’s actually getting his student loans paid on time with enough money for food and rent besides (one day he even takes them out to eat and they Do Not Talk about how he got the money to do that), and they all think maybe he can do the villain thing for a few more years and then get out of the game forever, when Virgil’s weird cousin gets caught doing some shady-ass stuff.

Turns out he’s in way over his head with some sketchy folks, owes a lot of people money, and used Virgil’s name for half of it. Virgil is in sudden desperate need of more money than he can get through legal means and, of course, Refuses to tell anyone about/ask for help with his predicament. It is strongly recommended to him by his academic adviser that he step up his supervillain game or show up at the bottom of a river south of Manhattan.

Virgil freaks the fuck out and proceeds to dig himself into an even deeper hole, suddenly going for much larger schemes, robbing banks, being less obsessively careful about collateral damage with each plot because he just doesn’t have time to and he’s too desperate.

Cue Roman.

Roman was literally just going to the bank, innocent of all wrongdoing and Not Picking a Fight because he swears this new move is gonna work out, he’s not gonna get arrested to aggravated assault or unauthorized use of an unregistered superhuman ability (it was self-defense! and defense of others! he was rescuing people!).

He happens to be at the bank when Virgil is robbing it. And, well, Virgil isn’t gonna hurt anyone, but Roman doesn’t know that. He ties his shirt over his face to hide his identity and superheros it up, saves the day; Virgil runs away pretty significantly battered but not permanently injured or caught. And now there’s a new superhero in town and Virgil suddenly has an archnemesis. Just what he was avoiding. Great.

Meanwhile, Roman is shocked to learn that he’s being applauded for saving people for once (as opposed to like. arrested) and graciously accepts his new title. Hey, being a superhero could work! He said he was gonna try something new in this town and he will! He’s gonna save the day!

The two of them happily counter each other day after day: Virgil’s getting enough publicity as a villain that his grad board is happy even without him doing any genuine harm, he’s staying one step ahead of the shady figures that come looking for him by name, Patton has made contact once or twice with the new hero and used his office reputation to become Roman’s primary police contact, Logan thinks Virgil is bonkers for all the new levels of villainy he’s doing but he has to admit this is the most alive he’s ever seen him; Roman is enjoying the fame and adoration of being a hero and he’s been cast in a musical and life is looking up for everyone.

But Roman also works in a coffee shop to pay the bills (three jobs. so tired.) and there’s this stressed-looking student who keeps coming in with bruises and sprains and one time he broke his arm in what Roman is absolutely certain wasn’t an accident, and he talks on the phone with people sometimes that really seem to distress him, and he seems like a genuinely nice guy, right? A little guarded, sure, but he’s polite and he tips well and what kind of hero would Roman be if he didn’t at least try to make friends with this troubled but charming young man?

So Roman introduces himself to Virgil in their civilian identities and the two of them are friendly! free coffee here, book recommendation there, on slow days Roman will sit with Virgil and they’ll just chill for a while. Each of them quietly considers the other his friend, but Roman is Concerned about how Virgil is so fucking jumpy, keeps getting these calls that he claims are from his academic adviser but honestly what kind of adviser would be so terrible to talk to, he has all these bruises that show up continuously and his excuses are all plausible, realistic, and backed by evidence provided by Virgil himself, but something just doesn’t seem right.

So when Virgil mentions that his cousin suddenly moved out in the middle of the lease and he needs to find a new roommate and can he post a flyer in the coffee shop? Roman jumps at the opportunity. He’s been renting one room by the month in a shitty part of town and this is a hell of an upgrade, and also, maybe that nagging in the back of his head when Virgil shows up battered will go away. (maybe if he’s there no one will hurt Virgil. what monster would bring deliberate harm onto such a genuinely nice, snarky guy, wonders the superhero who brawls him on the regular)

He’ll have to keep his superhero-ing on the DL from his new roommates (though he’s thinking about telling Virgil, because Virgil seems like he can keep a secret and Roman really wants to have someone to talk to about this), but unlike Virgil, Roman knows how to use strategic stage makeup to hide bruises and minor imperfections. Also, his villain must be kind of weak, because he never seems to do too much damage? Sometimes Roman thinks he doesn’t really want to be a villain, he’s just kind of sad and lonely, like Megamind. Thoughts for another time.

So now, in one apartment, we have:

Patton, former EMT; former superhero of respectable fame; currently a cop assigned to Roman’s superhero persona and also any calls involving emotional competence; knows Virgil is a supervillain but pretends not to; responds immediately to all calls involving superpowers in case it’s his deeply misguided roommate and he needs help;

Logan, one accident away from becoming a super-something if only he could figure out what; provider of Virgil’s biochemical defenses for when superpowers alone are not enough; helping to cover both logistics and material needs for supervillainy (also created Virgil’s outfit because you can’t do crime in a hoodie you heathen, no one will take you seriously, Virgil had to talk him down from including a necktie); searching for his place in life; not entirely certain why Virgil is stepping up his illegal activities but not happy about it; currently househusband to all of his roommates;

Virgil, extremely stressed grad student; villain for fun and profit and mostly because he needs the money to not get murdered; a bit of an adrenaline junkie; really staring to get into this villain thing but he sometimes wishes he didn’t have to be the bad guy; definitely feeling hunted by shadowy entities and organizations and trying desperately not to bring anyone down with him;

and Roman, the hero. who is beginning to think he and his villain might have been friends, in another life.

It is both a sitcom and a shitshow of epic proportions while everyone tries to hide each other’s secrets without letting ppl know what they know, Roman comes clean to Virgil and Virgil freaks the fuck out about it, Patton frets about everyone and everything until he’s stressing himself sick, Logan makes chemical explosions in the broom closet and the whole block is evacuated every other Tuesday and they all have to pretend not to know about it, Roman wants to get a dog and also for Virgil to get out of whatever abusive relationship he’s Clearly In, Virgil wants a nap, Patton wants a nap, they all want a nap.

What I’m saying is: Superhero au.

@stella-scriptor another one for you, buddy

#virgil sanders #sanders sides virgil #roman sanders #patton sanders #logan sanders #i really wanna write this but it would be so damn long if i did #seriously do tell me about any and all superhero au's though i love them #please i need more superheroes #play with me in this spaaaaace

[omgkatsudonplease]

church by fall out boy for victuuri pls

Yuuri is quiet most of the way back to the spaceport.

They’d missed their crew’s hovercraft, so Viktor decides to take them in his own transport. The sleek royal vehicle cuts through traffic like a dream, screens all around the city blaring the news of the Armistice Ball attack and pointing fingers everywhere in a desperate bid to find the perpetrator. 

Viktor clutches the fragments of metal in the bag. He’ll give them to the guards to turn in to law enforcement later, but in the meantime he tries to figure out what he can from the metal. Sometimes, if he concentrates just right, he’s able to garner the emotions of the last person who had held the object. 

It’s not really helpful investigatively, but it makes him feel like he’s doing something, and that’s important, too.

Anger. Panic. Confusion. It could be from a victim, it could be from the perpetrator. Viktor examines the carvings on some of the scraps, tries to discern their make, their style. It’s nothing he’s ever seen before – but then he’s never made it a point in his career as Crown Prince to see a lot of bomb sites and pieces. 

The hovercraft reaches the launchpoint to the spaceport, where clusters of sleek hotels and budget pods lurk at the periphery of the launchpoint buildings. Most hovercraft must deposit their passengers here so they can embark on shuttles that will take them out to the spaceport, but the royal crafts can withstand the pressures of escape velocity just fine. They only have to get in line behind the commercial shuttles, one of which Yuuri’s crew may be on now – if they haven’t stayed behind for the Mandalan.

Would they have? They were separated back in the ballroom. But the other Terran – probably the future murder victim Phichit – had seemed insistent on staying with him. Even the Alpha Allegrian, Christophe, managed to resist Viktor’s emotional prodding for a bit out of some Terran-inspired stubborn loyalty. 

Stubborn loyalty. Viktor looks over at Yuuri, who has emerged from the craft’s onboard refresher. They’re dressed in more modest garments now – a simple blue tunic and slate grey leggings, and Viktor would be lying if he said he didn’t stop to appreciate the way the gauzy material clings to the Terran’s form. Now that they’re away from danger, the urge to touch the Terran resurfaces again. 

“I’m sorry,” he manages after a moment. “I wanted you to be safe.”

Yuuri closes their eyes. Viktor tries to feel the atmosphere around them, but doesn’t get much more than stubborn static. It seems that once they’d realised the true extent of Viktor’s powers, they’d thrown up defenses almost as impenetrable as a Mandalan’s. Viktor’s honestly impressed. 

“I didn’t know a Terran could be so good at resisting… you know.”

“Is that how you do it?” asks Yuuri suddenly. 

“Do what?”

Yuuri’s about to answer, but then a warning chime comes on, telling them to buckle in for liftoff. The harnesses comes down, and Viktor braces himself for escape velocity. 

It’s only when they’ve cleared Neva’s atmosphere when Yuuri speaks up again, looking a little more green than pink. “Convince people to… fraternise with you.”

Viktor raises an eyebrow. “You think I emotionally… make them do it?” he asks.

“You are able to compel people,” Yuuri points out drily. “How do I know you weren’t doing that back out on the balcony?”

Viktor knows that by all means he should be deeply offended at such an accusation, and yet… nothing. The frustration that rolls through the static, though, he soaks in that a little. “I don’t usually project,” he says after a moment. “I’m a lot better at simply absorbing and redirecting. Emotions that run through me I simply rechannel into better ones. Anger into joy, sadness into warmth, things like that. Projection requires you to be able to regularly generate feelings to project, and I haven’t felt anything completely by myself for a long time.”

Yuuri’s gaze falls to their hands, fiddling with the hem of their tunic. “I don’t know if I trust that, no offense,” they say after a moment.

“None taken,” says Viktor. “Again, I’ve never seen a Terran be able to resist the projection so easily.”

Yuuri chuckles darkly. “You’d be surprised. If I could do it, a lot of Terrans could do it.”

“Not necessarily,” Viktor points out. “It takes mental fortitude.”

“I have dealt with enough monsters in my own head,” replies Yuuri. “I don’t need you poking around in there, too.”

“But would you want me on your mind?” Viktor asks, with a wink, because he clearly has no sense of self preservation. That causes Yuuri’s defences to slip a little, beaming over some flustered embarrassment. On Viktor’s behalf. 

“I’d like the record to state that my translator said ‘on your brain’,” Yuuri says, smirking. “Not quite the same.”

“No, I’d imagine not.” Viktor shakes his head. “Translators are so terrible sometimes.”

“But they’re so necessary,” Yuuri says, sighing. “I wish I had the patience to properly learn every language out there, but it’d take me centuries just to master all the Terran ones alone.”

“Does Terra not have a standard tongue?” wonders Viktor.

“Terran Standard,” says Yuuri, though their expression twists a little. “Controversial renaming, though; it used to be something called ‘English’, which took over the entire globe through wars of conquest and economic domination. Basic Terran history, blah blah.”

“And you’re speaking that to me, right now?” Viktor knows that’s how it fundamentally works, but it’s interesting to hear it confirmed anyway. Yuuri nods.

“And you’re speaking Nevan, I know. I’d like to hear it for itself, though, sometime.”

“You could turn your translator off for a moment,” Viktor says. Yuuri considers it, before nodding and tapping at the side of their head. A flesh-coloured earpiece falls off.

“Go ahead,” they say. Viktor swallows. 

“Are you sure?” he asks. Yuuri nods.

“I don’t know what you’re saying right now.”

Viktor takes a breath. “Okay.” He smiles, looking down at the translator in Yuuri’s hands. “The moment I first saw you, the world became still. So quiet. Like we were made to exist in one another’s space. You drowned everything out, and nothing else mattered. Even now, I am strangely at peace, and I finally have the quiet I need to be able to figure out my own heart.”

Yuuri’s eyes are wide, their mouth slightly agape. Viktor turns towards them, earnestness seeping through him in a tide he cannot control. It snaps out of him; Yuuri flinches; Viktor shakes his head.

“I’m so sorry about that,” he pleads, pressing his hands together in what he hopes is a good approximation of apology. Yuuri nods. “I didn’t mean to, I just – you make me feel something, you know, and I’ve never really experienced this before, not at this level. I just wish I knew how to find it in me to tell you in a way you understand, instead of just talking and hoping you don’t.”

A moment passes, quiet, strangely tender. Yuuri’s cheeks are pink; his fingers tremble a little as they reach up and puts their translator back in. “Am I allowed to know what you said?” they ask.

Viktor smiles. “I just told you a story about my old pet, Makkachin. Have you ever met a Bergian?”

“Bergian?” echoes Yuuri.

“They look kind of like… what’s the word… dogs, from Terra. Makkachin is very fluffy and brown.” Viktor presses a hand to the armrest, pulls up a picture of the Bergian. His fluffy brown fur shines even in the holo projection.

Yuuri gasps. “He looks like a poodle!”

“Is that a kind of Terran dog?” asks Viktor. Yuuri nods.

“Yeah, I used to have a small version. I named her Venus, but we all called her Vicchan. She died of old age a while back.” They pause for a moment. “I couldn’t make it back to Earth in time to see her off. I’ve been running from there ever since.”

“Bergians are long-lived,” replies Viktor. “Makkachin has been with me since I was very young. He helped me with my training, actually.”

Yuuri’s expression falls again. “Right.” They look down at their fingers, flexes them against the armrest of the chair. Viktor feels their defenses rising back up again, and mourns at the loss. 

“You know exactly how a projection feels like now,” he says after a moment. “Did you feel anything like that when we were on the balcony?”

Yuuri purses their lips. “No,” they admit. 

“There you have it.” Viktor sighs. “I wish I could say I never use it for frivolous things, but I certainly don’t use it for my… connections. It taints the exchange.”

“The exchange,” echoes Yuuri.

“I don’t usually feel much of anything myself,” replies Viktor. A chime on the screen announces the arrival of the spaceport in less than five minutes. “I know I should, but I just – it’s easier to mimic the feelings of the people around me and pretend those are mine, too.”

“Is that why you end up with all sorts of non-Nevan beings?” asks Yuuri, tilting their head and looking at him curiously. Their topaz eyes shine with that same curiosity from earlier. “You want to ride their emotions for a bit?”

“Basically,” agrees Viktor. “It does do terrible things for my public image, though.” He laughs drily, remembering the latest tabloid gossip surrounding him and an intensely flamboyant Gilletese. “But I’d rather they think that instead of, you know. The idea that there’s a black hole where my heart should be, or something.”

“I doubt that,” Yuuri says immediately. Viktor raises an eyebrow. 

“Doubt what?”

“That your heart is a black hole,” replies Yuuri. “You’re honestly quite Terran, I think.”

Viktor realises then, with a start, that Yuuri had moved a little closer during that, their gaze darting to Viktor’s chest with undeniable curiosity. Viktor reaches out, placing Yuuri’s hand lightly over where his heart currently flutters wildly. 

“You don’t need –” Yuuri begins, and then bows their head, flushing. Viktor raises an eyebrow, before slipping off a glove and pressing his fingers lightly to the back of Yuuri’s hand.

Almost immediately, Yuuri swoons. 

#yoi #viktuuri #victuuri #yoiroyaltyweek #lily's dabbles #rewrite the stars #day 2 #anonymous #ask

[enananas1980]

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[throughthefumes]

no flame burns forever

Grantaire was okay.

Really, he was okay.

He’d lost count of how long it had been since he and Enjolras had last spoken and that meant he was okay.

He’d lost count too of how many days it had been since his last drink - he just knew it had been that awful night before that awful morning - and everyone at the AA meetings he’d been attending every week said that meant he was doing okay.

Étienne said he was doing good.

He knew Enjolras wasn’t in Paris anymore and that hurt but that was okay - it had to be okay. What was the choice otherwise? Agonise over the worry of him being out there alone, cry himself to sleep over the way he hadn’t called, hadn’t even sent a text, a postcard, drink himself to death aching and aching and aching for him.

No. He was okay. Enjolras was off exploring the world and Grantaire was not with him and that was that. Grantaire had to be okay, left behind.

Work was going well, as was university. It was funny how much time you suddenly had when you weren’t drunk half the time and spending the other half hiding the fact that you were drunk. He’d been promised an exhibition at the gallery early next summer, around the time he was due to graduate, around the time Combeferre was due to be married. He wasn’t yet sure if he’d take up the invitation - for the exhibition or the wedding - but he had a few pieces he thought he could develop into a cohesive series for it if he did. He thought Combeferre might actually murder him if he said no to either.

After a break from everything, after the tears had dried up and tomorrow didn’t seem quite so dark, he’d gone back to fencing and kickboxing, all those old hobbies that were easier to relish now, those few hours a week he could spend focusing on nothing but the physical, nothing but the tangible.

He couldn’t really face any of Les Amis. He saw Jehan, as he always had, and he stayed in touch with Combeferre (engaged Combeferre!) and Joly and Bossuet, but he supposed they’d all drifted apart since their leader had left. He didn’t suppose there were any meetings he was missing.

That was okay. Things changed, for better or for worse. Most days, he was convinced for better.

He was making new friends. Friends who only knew him now, who hadn’t and wouldn’t ever see him at his worse. Friends he met at the gallery, at university, at kickboxing and fencing classes, out and about on his ever longer walks around Paris. Friends who didn’t know Enjolras’ name or Grantaire’s pain at the mention of it.

Friends like Étienne. Étienne who was always warm where Enjolras could freeze up or burn too hot. Étienne who was four years sober and sat next to him at AA meetings and walked him home after. Étienne who stopped by the gallery with lunch and remembered Ant’s birthday and called him in the evenings, just to catch up. Étienne who made him cry laughing with stories of the kids he was teaching at the schools at which he was training. Étienne who, when he kissed him, couldn’t blame it on the alcohol either. Étienne, with whom he stayed sober and calm and, dare he say it, hopeful. It seemed that life did indeed go on. For everyone.

He wasn’t even worried about New Year’s Eve. He hadn’t - couldn’t, wouldn’t ever - forget what had happened on New Year’s Eve before, but this was now, and he was going to meet Étienne at his brother’s house party, where they both knew they could enjoy the night and the atmosphere without worrying about alcohol - they had his brother looking out for them and they would look out for each other, just like they always did. It would be good. It would be easy.

Enjolras not okay.

Not right now, anyway, not stumbling drunk out of a packed club and onto the snowy streets of a foreign city.

Munich, he remembered. Munich, Germany, where the language was harsh and the beer was considered a German delicacy, though he didn’t know why because it tasted like piss.

He’d been okay for a while. Traveling exhausted him and exploring distracted him and every day went by a little easier than the last. He had bad days. Days he couldn’t get out of bed, days he cried in ancient ruins or on public transportation, days where it really hit him that he was alone and jobless and homeless and directionless.

New Year’s Eve happened to be one of those days. Right now, he couldn’t quite remember how he’d gotten from the hotel restaurant to the club, but he did remember contemplating how long it would take to freeze to death. He thought about that now, leaning back against the cold brick of the side of the building, pulling his coat tighter around him and trying to breathe away the nausea and wishing he was home.

He didn’t know where home was. He didn’t even know where his hotel was.

He slid to sit down even though the sidewalk was cold and wet, and he dug into his pocket to find his phone, dialing Grantaire’s number without second thought.

Grantaire’s only thought, in all the chatter and music and laughter at the party, was that the only person calling him could be Étienne, to let him know he was running late but was on his way. He answered his phone without a second thought, pressing a finger to his other ear and heading out of the main room to try to find a quieter spot.

“Hey!” he shouted, half-laughing. “Where are you, ah?”

Enjolras’ heart shot into his throat, smiling helplessly at the sound of his voice.

“Ah… Munich,” he said. “Where are you?”

Grantaire froze. His stomach plummeted, then leapt into his throat. His mouth went dry. He felt, strangely, for a few seconds, that everything around him had frozen too, that the party was silent, that the world had stopped.

He pushed his way out of the main room, out into the quieter hallway.

“Enjolras?” he whispered, then swallowed and tried again. “Enjolras?”

“Hi,” Enjolras said, frowning. “You’re quiet, why are you quiet?”

“I…” Grantaire didn’t know if he was about to start laughing or crying. He didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t feel his hands. “I… ah… I don’t know. Munich? You’re in Munich?”

“I told you I’m in Munich,” Enjolras said, focusing hard to get every syllable out. “It’s snowing, has it snowed in Paris?”

“Non… Non, not yet,” Grantaire said. He was blinking helplessly, in the middle of this house full of strangers and here Enjolras was, suddenly, out of nowhere. There was no one to turn to, no one who knew, no Jehan beside him. “It’s cold though.”

Enjolras hummed, shifting to hold his head in his hand. “It’s so cold,” he murmured. “I hate the cold. I should go somewhere warm next, ah?”

Grantaire nodded. “Ah...oui,” he agreed. “Are you… You're outside? Why don't you get somewhere warm, ah?”

“Non non non, it’s hot in there,” Enjolras said, his words beginning to stick together. “It was too hot.”

Grantaire suddenly felt very cold himself. Was this what it had felt like, all those times Enjolras had smelled it on his breath or noticed him slurring his words?

“Are you… Enjolras, have you been drinking?”

“A bit, yeah,” Enjolras said, not even thinking that maybe he should hide it or lie. “It’s… it is not fun, R. It tastes so bad.”

“Oui, je sais,” Grantaire said, looking down, his eyebrows knitting together. “Are you on your own?”

“Right now?” Enjolras glanced up, looking up and down the street. “Ah.. there is no one out, it is very cold.”

Grantaire nodded, trying to swallow. He was sad, suddenly. So, so incredibly sad, that this was what it had come to.

“And generally?” he asked. “You’re travelling alone? You haven’t met up with anyone?”

“I had a group earlier,” Enjolras said, frowning as his tried to dig through clouded memories. “I don’t know where they are.”

Grantaire swallowed again, pressing his thumb and fingertips over his eyes. “Oui, that’s… It happens. Listen, can you do something for me?”

Enjolras hummed again. “Do I have to get up? I don’t think I can get up.”

“Ah, oui, you’d have to get up… Maybe in a minute, ah?”

“The ground moves, it just… shifts under your feet. It’s like walking in space.”

“Oui, je sais,” Grantaire said quietly, moving out of the way of a couple of people who’d just arrived.

He didn’t catch sight of Étienne behind them until he was right in front of him, bringing the cold from outside in with him as he kissed Grantaire’s cheek.

“Hey, buddy, sorry I’m so late, the traffic- Oh- Sorry!” he said as he realised Grantaire was on the phone.

Grantaire managed to smile, squeezing Étienne’s hand before gesturing that he just needed a minute. Étienne nodded and mouthed back that he’d go say hello to his brother. Grantaire waited until he was gone before leaning back against the wall.

“I don’t suppose you have a taxi number or anything, do you?” he asked. “We need to get you back to… Are you staying in a hotel?”

Enjolras frowned. “Who was that?”

“Huh?” Grantaire said, frowning too. “Enjolras, taxi? Hotel?”

“I’m fine,” Enjolras murmured, coming to realize he’d called his ex on New Year’s Eve and he didn’t have a part in his life anymore. “I’m fine. You’re busy, ah? That’s good. You should be busy.”

“Hey…” Grantaire said softly, but he didn’t know how to argue with that. “I… It’s just a party. Someone from…” He swallowed, looking down. Enjolras didn’t know about any of it, and his own drinking wasn’t something he wanted to get into with him now. He felt guilty, he realised, as though he actually still owed something to this man on the other end of the phone who’d broken his heart and promised to still be here for him and then vanished. “T’sais.” Actively trying to get Enjolras somewhere warm and safe clearly wasn’t working anyway. “So, Munich, ah? Been there long?”

“A week, maybe,” Enjolras said, his voice softer now. “Je ne sais pas, I don’t remember.”

He sniffed, rubbing his hand over his raw nose. He thought he could probably freeze to death out here; it would be better than living with the terrible ache in his chest and the sickening churning in his stomach and the heavy thudding in his head.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call.”

Grantaire swallowed again, his eyes stinging. “Water under the bridge,” he said, as lightly as he could. “I didn’t call either.”

Enjolras groaned, tilting his head back against the brick. “I don’t deserve it,” he murmured. “I wouldn’t call me either.”

“That’s just the alcohol talking,” Grantaire said gently. “Trust me. You should get some food in you, chéri. You’ll feel better for it.”

Enjolras breathed a laugh. “Nothing is going to make me feel better.”

“Food will,” Grantaire insisted. “Sleep will. You’ll probably have a headache in the morning, but you’ll feel your normal self by the afternoon. Promise.”

Enjolras shook his head. “You don’t get it,” he said. “You don’t… I’m not me, tu sais? I’m not me.”

Étienne had popped his head round the door, looking concerned. Grantaire couldn’t even pretend to smile now and he approached him hesitantly. Grantaire pulled a face - there was nothing he could do to help. He didn’t even know Enjolras existed.

“A lot’s changed, I know,” he said gently. “It’s all going to take some getting used to. When are you coming back to Paris, ah?”

“Je ne sais pas, je ne sais pas,” Enjolras said, his head slumping forward again. “What is there to go back to?”

“Everything,” Grantaire said insistently. “Everyone. We’re all here, Enjolras.”

“But I’m not,” Enjolras pressed, frustrated he couldn’t figure out how to explain his thoughts. “I’m not. I’m not there.”

“So come back,” Grantaire said. Étienne’s hand was on his shoulder, the only thing stopping him from growing frustrated.

Enjolras sighed, pushing his hand through his hair, wet from melted snow.

“You won’t be there,” he said. “I just left. No one is there. I quit. I don’t have a job to do.”

Grantaire went cold again. He clasped Étienne’s hand on his shoulder, closing his eyes. He should have called. He should have just called.

“One thing at a time, ah?” he said. “I’m here, ca va? I am right here. You’ll come back and Combeferre will be there. He’s right here too. We’re all here for you, Enjolras. There’s nothing that can’t be fixed.”

Enjolras went quiet for a long moment, breathing heavily through his nose to stop his head spinning too fast, but he couldn’t stop the tears forming in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry, this is so stupid. I’m so stupid. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Grantaire hushed him. “It’s okay,” he said softly. “Everything’s okay, Enjolras. It’s all going to be okay. But I wish you’d get inside somewhere warm. You need water and food and sleep. Isn’t there someone I can call for you?”

Enjolras shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’m sorry. I should go. You should go.”

“Non,” Grantaire said hastily. “Non, stay on the phone with me, ca va? Stay with me ‘til you’re back at your hotel, at least.”

Enjolras sighed, pushing himself onto his feet. The spinning just got worst.

“I don’t know where I am.”

“That’s okay,” Grantaire said. “Hang on, one second.” He lowered his phone so he could switch it to speakerphone, then he could pull up maps on his phone. Étienne, recognising this wasn’t something that was best dealt with in the middle of a party, caught hold of Grantaire’s free hand and tugged him toward his brother’s bedroom, where they’d have some privacy. “Alors,” Grantaire said, “what’s around you? Any street signs? Restaurant names?”

Enjolras took off walking without bothering to check which direction he should go.

“This is the worst idea I have ever had,” he said. “I’ve had some really bad ideas, but I think this one tops it. Remember when I went to that protest when you were gone and broke my ribs? This is worse. Worse than fighting a cop.”

Grantaire breathed a laugh, though he didn’t really find it funny.

“I’ll be out there, ca va? Come find me,” Étienne said, squeezing Grantaire’s hand.

“Merci,” Grantaire murmured back, watching him go with sad eyes. He turned back to the phone. “Fortunately, a hangover will wear off faster than broken ribs. Any indication of where you are yet?”

“I didn’t think about the hangover,” Enjolras said with a groan. “She just said, ‘you can’t be sad on New Year’s Eve,’ so I drank but now I am sad and drunk.”

“It’s a vicious cycle,” Grantaire said, as lightly as he could. Étienne’s brother’s room was dark and it was very hard not to just flop back onto the bed and close his eyes. “Both wear off, with enough time.”

Enjolras spotted a bench not too far away and made a beeline for it, struggling to keep himself upright.

“Are you okay?”

Grantaire was a little taken aback by the sudden change of topic. He looked down at his phone as though he could see Enjolras.

“Me? I… Oui, I’m okay. Any street signs yet?”

“Listen, this is… I’m sorry,” Enjolras said again. “I’ll be fine, I’ll just use maps to get back. I’m fine, I just.. I should’ve called and I didn’t and it’s New Year’s and I fucked up. This won’t happen again.”

“Don’t,” Grantaire said softly. “I don’t care. I’m really glad you called. Stay ‘til you get back to your hotel, ca va?”

“Don’t.” Enjolras drew a shaky breath, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “Don’t be nice to me. I don’t deserve it, I don’t. I don’t… this is all my fault. I hurt you in the worst way, I broke every promise I made you, I left and now I’m.. I’m doing that stupid thing where I just self-destruct when I feel sorry for myself and I’ve called you and you don’t have to make me feel better. You don’t owe me anything, and it r-really isn’t fair to you. This isn’t fair. I’m sorry.”

“Je sais,” Grantaire said simply. “And I'm telling you I don't care, not right now. I just want you to be safe and okay, ca va?”

“I’m fine,” Enjolras said quickly as he could. “Really, I’m fine. I’ll let you go.”

“You wouldn't let me go, if I called you in the situation you're in now,” Grantaire said.

“Non,” Enjolras agreed softly. “But everything is different now.”

“You still wouldn’t let me go.”

“You wouldn’t have called.”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire said softly.

Enjolras made a soft noise in the back of his throat. “I missed hearing you say my name. I almost forgot what you sound like.”

Grantaire swallowed. “Well, then, you should have called,” he tried to joke. He took a deep breath. “Come on, where are you?” he prompted.

“You didn’t want me to call,” Enjolras pointed out. “I told you I found a park bench.”

“I need a street name or a restaurant or a shop or something,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras looked around and groaned. “I can’t speak German. I hate German, it’s such a harsh language. It sounds like everyone is yelling.”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire prompted wearily.

Enjolras sighed, standing again. “Ca va, are you ready? I am going to find a street name,” he said, heading down the sidewalk again. “I see.. Ah, dieu, I found a statue of a man and a horse. Let me see… ah, it’s Neptune. There is a naked statue of Neptune, isn’t that nice?”

Grantaire snorted a laugh. “Ca va, hang on… I’m looking it up on my phone,” he said. He paused for a moment. “Neptunbrunnen?”

“That must be him,” Enjolras said, taking a few steps closer. “He must be a fountain, but there’s no water. Are there pictures? Can you see where I am?”

“Oui, I can see,” Grantaire said. “It’s winter, there won’t be water; it’d freeze in the pipes. What’s the name of your hotel?”

“It must be nice out here in the summer,” Enjolras said. “With the trees and the water. I think you would like Munich. I don’t really remember the club, but there are a lot of them and you like clubs.”

Grantaire sighed. “Your hotel?”

“Ah… it is someone’s name,” Enjolras said, waving his hand. “It is by some farmer’s market.. ah… Louis. Louis Hotel.”

“Got it,” Grantaire said. “Alors, you’re not too far. A twenty-minute walk, ca va?”

That sounded incredibly far to Enjolras, with his mind still foggy and vision unfocused and limbs feeling strangely too long for his body. But he could hear how exasperated Grantaire was with him, and guilt mingled heavily with sickness in his stomach.

“Ca va,” he said softly.

“Head out of the gardens,” Grantaire instructed, zooming in on the map on his phone. “You want to go past the bank, ca va?”

“Ca va,” Enjolras said, holding his head up to watch where he was going as he followed Grantaire’s instructions. “A bank?”

“Oui, a bank. See it?” Grantaire said.

“Ah… oui,” Enjolras said, slowing slightly. “Now what?”

“Keep heading straight down that road. Neu...hauser? Until you see a parfumerie, ca va? Then you want to turn right.”

“Do you think I will smell it before I see it?”

“I will be disappointed if you don’t.”

“My nose is not all that great right now,” Enjolras said. “I will probably disappoint you.”

“Ah, disappointment is a part of life,” Grantaire said. There was a slightly uncomfortable pause. “So, where else have you been?”

“Where haven’t I been?” Enjolras said, breathing a laugh. “I started in Barcelona, I came here from Lucerne. Switzerland. Ah… Italy. I did a few stops there, you would love Italy.”

“Oui?” Grantaire prompted softly, closing his eyes to listen to him talk.

“Oui,” Enjolras said, a smile sliding onto his face. “It is beautiful, all the old buildings and the water and the art. I don’t know anything about art, but I went in the museums, you would have appreciated it more than I would. But you cannot take a bad picture in Italy, the city just won’t let you. And, dieu, the pastries. Chéri, you have not lived until you have had a cannoli in Italy. Oh - what was I looking for?”

“The perfumerie,” Grantaire murmured, opening his eyes again to look down at his phone. He had to wipe his eyes.

“Ca va, I am here - left or right?”

“Right, and then left, and then you just follow that long road all the way to the hotel,” Grantaire said.

“Ca va,” Enjolras said, taking a right turn. “What have you been up to?”

“Ah, t’sais,” Grantaire said. “Same old.”

“Oh,” Enjolras said softly, feeling slighted. He supposed he didn’t have the right to know.

Grantaire exhaled softly, struggling to find something he could tell him, something that wasn’t boring or embarrassing or just plain stupid.

“I’m doing okay at university,” he said finally. “I’ll probably graduate this year.”

Enjolras’ smile returned. “Really?” he asked. “That’s great, R. That’s… I’m… I’m so proud of you.”

“About time, ah?” Grantaire said self-consciously. “I graduated, I mean.”

“Time is relative,” Enjolras said, waving his hand. “You got there, that’s all that matters.”

Grantaire nodded, then jumped a little as Étienne knocked on the door to check on him.

“One sec,” he said to Enjolras before looking up. “Oui, I’m okay. No worries, ca va?” he said to Étienne, even managing to smile. “Go enjoy the party - I’ll catch up with you in a bit. Oh, your lesson observation - it was okay, oui? It was good?”

Étienne grinned at him. “Oui, it was really good,” he said. “The fingerpainting idea of yours - genius.”

Grantaire laughed a little. “I knew you’d pull it off.”

Étienne winked at him before ducking out of the room. Grantaire picked up his phone again.

“Sorry,” he said softly. “Doing okay?”

Enjolras strained to hear the voice Grantaire was speaking to, but he didn’t recognize it as one of their friends.

“Who was that?”

Grantaire swallowed, chewing on the inside of his bottom lip for a moment before answering. He hated that it felt guilty for this, like he was somehow betraying Enjolras. Enjolras had been the one who’d left him.

“His name’s Étienne,” he said carefully. “I don’t think you know each other.”

Enjolras was quiet for a short moment, thoughtful. “Non, I don’t think so,” he said. “Is he in your classes?”

That was an easy out, but it was also a lie. Grantaire looked down.

“Ah, non,” he said. He exhaled softly, slowly. “We go to AA meetings together. That’s where we met, a couple of months ago.”

“Oh,” Enjolras said softly. “So you’re… are you…” He took a steadying breath. “How’s that going?”

“Oui, it’s… t’sais,” Grantaire said self-consciously. “It is what it is. It helps, having someone else there, doing the same thing.”

Enjolras had stopped walking. He didn’t connect the dots between Étienne and Grantaire that he subtly laid out for him; he could only focus on the fact that Grantaire was going to AA meetings, Grantaire was getting help for his drinking, Grantaire was getting on better without him.

“That’s good,” he said softly. “That’s great.”

“Thanks to you, really,” Grantaire mumbled. “In a really awful way. If you hadn’t…”

Enjolras covered a sob with a laugh. “Yeah, I… uh. It’s good. That’s good. I’m glad for you.”

Grantaire didn’t tell him that he’d trade it if he could, to keep going on as he had been, but to have Enjolras here with him.

“I shaved too,” he tried to joke. “But you’ll have to come back to see that.”

Enjolras closed his eyes, counted his breaths and gathered himself back together as best he could. How could he come back when Grantaire was doing so much better without him?

“I’ll be back for the wedding.”

“What?” Grantaire said, all his breath leaving him. “That's… Enjolras, that's months away…”

“You won’t even notice,” Enjolras said, lightly as he could.

“What?” Grantaire breathed.

“You’re busy graduating, and… getting better and meeting new people, tu sais? You won’t miss me.”

“Enjolras, come on,” Grantaire said, finding himself growing angry. It wasn't fair. He couldn't leave and vanish and then turn around and blame Grantaire for trying to pick himself up again without him. It wasn't fair.

“What?” Enjolras asked, surprised. “That is the truth, non?”

“Non, it's not,” Grantaire said, angry with himself now for the thickness in his voice. “How can you even think that? You think this has been easy without you?”

“I… I don’t know,” Enjolras said, his stomach dropping. “You wanted space.”

Grantaire laughed humorlessly. “There’s space and then there's disappearing for a year.”

“It hasn’t been a year,” Enjolras protested. “It’s been, quoi, two months? You didn’t want to see me, Grantaire.”

“You're talking about not coming back until May! That's nearly a year!”

Enjolras sighed, stepping out of the way of a group of people heading in his direction and leaning back against a stone building. He could feel himself beginning to sober, but he certainly didn’t feel any less sick.

“I don’t know who I am anymore,” he said, slow and thoughtful. “I wake up in the morning and I look in the mirror, and I don’t recognize myself. I don’t know who I am without my work, without Paris, without… without you. And that scares me, R. It scares the hell out of me. I used to be so sure of who I was and where I was going and now there’s just… nothing. I have to find something. I can’t come back with nothing to… nothing.”

Grantaire wiped his eyes. “It’s nice to know we’re nothing to you now,” he said fiercely.

“That’s not what I mean, R,” Enjolras said, soft where Grantaire was fierce. “You all mean so much to me, you mean so much to me. You’re… my whole heart. But I’m so lost right now, I’m not who you need me to be. I can’t be a good leader or friend or partner. I left you. I left. You don’t need me when I’m not strong enough to stay.”

“We don’t need you to be anything,” Grantaire said. “We just need you to be here.”

Enjolras shook his head. “I need me to be something.”

Grantaire exhaled shakily. They wouldn’t get anywhere with this, not now.

“Are you nearly back at your hotel?” he asked. “Étienne invited me to this thing and I’ve spent the whole evening holed up in his brother’s room. It’s nearly midnight.”

“Yeah, go on,” Enjolras said, though he had no idea how far from the hotel he really was. “Don’t miss the countdown.”

“I wish you were here,” Grantaire said, his voice breaking.

Enjolras dipped his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “So do I, chéri,” he admitted. “I wish I’d never left.”

“Come back soon, ca va?” Grantaire said.

“Rémi, come on!” Étienne called from the hallway. “You’re going to miss the countdown!”

“Coming! Call again soon, at least,” Grantaire added hastily to Enjolras. “And text me when you get to your hotel.”

Enjolras nodded, wiping tears from his face with his coat sleeve.

“Happy New Year, R.”

Grantaire exhaled softly, lingering as long as he could. “Happy New Year,” he said finally.

He could hear the countdown out in the main room before he'd even hung up the phone. He shoved it deep into the pocket of his jeans as he got to his feet, fiercely wiping his eyes. It hurt. It all hurt all over again. He couldn't breathe with it.

He pushed himself out of the bedroom and through the unfamiliar voices chanting down from ten, until he spotted Étienne, waiting for him alone in the corner. Grantaire shoved his way past a group of guys he didn't know and, as Étienne turned, greeting him with a warm smile and worried eyes, he reached out for him, pulling him close and throwing his arms around his neck and kissing him, hard as he could, as the fireworks started going off outside.

Enjolras held the phone to his ear long after Grantaire had hung up, leaning there against the side of a building because he didn’t trust his legs to hold him up. He didn’t know if Grantaire meant what he said, if he really wanted him home or if he was just trying to talk him down while he was drunk, but he missed him more than ever. He missed him so much his entire body ached with it.

He groaned, a wave of nausea hitting him. He drew a deep breath of cold air but it didn’t help much and when he looked up to see if he recognized where he was, his vision swam. He wanted to stay where he was. It would be easier to just sit down and wait it out, but the night was getting colder and Grantaire wanted him safe and Enjolras couldn’t give him much anymore, but he could give him that.

He didn’t know how he managed to get himself onto his feet and walk the next few blocks to his hotel or how he remembered his room number and how to use the key to get inside. But he found himself some time later slumped against the bathroom wall, a bad taste in his mouth and sweat beading across his forehead, Grantaire’s voice in his mind.

He fell asleep there. He didn’t text Grantaire.

Grantaire didn’t wake up until midday on New Year’s Day. He sat up, still unused to waking up groggy only from sleep, not from a hangover settling in, and looked around him. Wherever he was - his newly rented basement flat down the street from Jehan’s, on Jehan’s sofa, or here, now, in Étienne’s bed in Étienne’s bedroom in Étienne’s apartment - it always took him a few moments to place himself, to realise all over again that this wasn’t his and Enjolras’ bed in their home on the Rue des Bernardins.

But, until today, his stomach had stopped sinking at remembering. It sank now at the recollection of Enjolras’ voice, how he’d cried over the phone, how he’d called him drunk on New Year’s Eve.

Étienne was already up and about - Grantaire could hear music playing from the kitchen - so he reached for his phone.

Nothing. No text, no missed call, no voicemail.

Grantaire swore.

[Text] Did you make it back to your hotel last night? - R

After a moment’s hesitance, he added a kiss after his initial, and very deliberately didn’t look at the last texts they’d sent each other, entirely innocuous messages before everything that had happened had happened. He locked his phone and headed into the bathroom to shower.

Enjolras woke up several times throughout the rest of the night, to shift into a more comfortable position on the bathroom floor or empty more of his stomach into the toilet. He’d never felt more ill in his life, and he couldn’t imagine why Grantaire always went back to the drink.

Eventually, Enjolras got himself up off the floor and a glass of water down his throat and stumbled fully dressed into the bed.

He slept deeply, and when he woke up sometime in the afternoon, he didn’t feel much better than when he’d fallen asleep. Pounding headache, aching body, dry mouth. He groaned, turning his head away from the sun streaming in from the window.

He continued to doze until he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, and tried to ignore it until it went off again, and he dug it out to make it stop.

His heart dropped when he saw the text from Grantaire. He’d forgotten to text him.

“Merde,” he breathed, shifting to sit up and groaning when the movement proved too fast.

[Text] I’m here, sorry. - E

[Text] I’m sorry about last night. Thanks for picking up. - E x

By the time he received Enjolras’ texts back, Grantaire was in the kitchen with Étienne, picking at some leftover pasta from the week. He liked the way Étienne liked to have the radio playing; it made the buzz of his phone less violent.

He couldn’t decide if the texts had a sense of finality about them, or if he was supposed to text back. He did want to know how Enjolras was, though he didn’t know if that was a good thing or not. Finally, he washed up before responding.

[Text] No worries. How’re you feeling? - R x

Enjolras had kicked off his shoes and jeans and pulled off his coat to get under the blankets, sinking into bed with his back turned to the window. He thought a shower would feel nice but he couldn’t gather the strength to get up.

He’d just begun to doze off when his phone buzzed again.

[Text] Like shit. - E

[Text] I’m sorry again. - E

[Text] Don’t be. - R x

[Text] Drink a ton of water and get some food in you, even if you feel sick - you’ll feel better after. - R x

[Text] Merci. - E x

[Text] German food is gross. They put beer in everything. - E

Grantaire smiled at that - it was almost like an old text he might have received from Enjolras.

[Text] Even the pizza? That was always my favourite hangover food. - R x

[Text] I think they use the yeast from the beer in the pizza crust? - E

[Text] I am not in the right place to nurse a hangover. I do not know how you did it. - E

To be fair, there had been a point when Grantaire had been constantly drunk, or at least a little tipsy, and hadn’t had to deal with hangovers at all. He didn’t think it was a good idea to remind Enjolras of that.

[Text] Practise. - R x

[Text] Chinese? Another good option. - R x

Enjolras didn’t know what it meant that Grantaire added a kiss to every text. He didn’t think it was a bad thing, but he didn’t want to get any of his hopes up.

[Text] Is it offensive to order Chinese food when you’re visiting another country? - E x

[Text] I won’t tell anyone. - R x

[Text] You are too kind. - E

[Text] How was your party? - E

Grantaire glanced up at Étienne, who was absorbed in lesson planning - he was tutoring over the holidays for the extra experience while the school he was training at was broken up for Christmas. He couldn’t tell Enjolras. He just couldn’t.

[Text] It was a party. - R x

Even last night, Enjolras noticed Grantaire didn’t want to talk about where he was or what he was doing, and he didn’t really know how to take it. Maybe Grantaire was just being nice to him. Maybe he’d really just texted to make sure Enjolras was alive and wouldn’t try something else self-destructive and he didn’t care beyond that.

[Text] Thanks again for picking up. I’ll let you go. - E x

Grantaire’s expression fell. So it really had just been a stupid, drunk phone call. It hadn’t changed anything; it hadn’t made Enjolras suddenly want to stay in touch.

Well, good. Good. He was okay without him. They were both okay without each other and Enjolras had Combeferre and Courfeyrac and everyone. He didn’t need him.

Grantaire turned his phone off without replying and settled down at the kitchen table with Étienne instead, making him laugh by illustrating his lesson plans with stupid little doodles of him as his kids.

Enjolras sighed, pushing himself slowly out of bed so as not to set his head off spinning. He got up and gingerly made his way for the bathroom, where he brushed his teeth and took a long, hot shower.

He took Grantaire’s advice and ordered Chinese to be delivered to the room. He drank a few more glasses of water. He checked his phone again and again and still no text from Grantaire and, dieu, that hurt. He didn’t want to be right that Grantaire didn’t want to speak to him.

After Enjolras ate and dozed again and scrolled through the news on his phone, he decided to try one more time.

[Text] Don’t be a stranger. - E x

By the time Grantaire turned his phone back on, he was back in his own flat that evening. It was one of those nights when everything felt unsettled and uneasy and wrong and there wasn’t drink to turn too and he was too tired from last night to get any work done. He curled up on the sofa with Ant on his chest and stared and stared and stared at the text from Enjolras, at that little kiss after his initial, and could remember more clearly his mouth on his skin than Étienne’s.

He called Enjolras.

Enjolras stayed in bed the rest of the day, his empty takeout containers with him and the television on for noise. He felt better as the day went on, but he was still exhausted, and he kept checking his phone every so often to see if he’d missed a text from Grantaire. His heart sunk a little further every time he saw nothing.

He didn’t know he’d dozed off until his phone started ringing and woke him, and he answered without looking.

“Hello?” he answered groggily.

“Hey,” Grantaire replied softly, his heart already beating too fast.

“Oh,” Enjolras breathed, sitting up quickly. “R, hey. Hi. Ca va?”

“Ca va,” Grantaire said. He couldn’t tell if he was happy to hear from him. He realised suddenly just how different it was talking to someone sober. “Just… not being a stranger. How’re you feeling?”

Enjolras felt a swell of relief. “Better,” he said. Better that Grantaire had called. “The Chinese helped, merci. How are you, ah?”

“Oui, I’m okay,” Grantaire said, realising now that he really had nothing to say. “I slept in today.”

Enjolras breathed a laugh. “I’ve slept all day,” he said. “It’s been awful.”

“You’ll be back to normal tomorrow,” Grantaire reassured him. He couldn’t help smiling, just a little. “What did you drink?”

“Ah… it started with beer,” Enjolras said, laughing softly. His cheeks burned with embarrassment. “A lot of beer. Maybe shots? I don’t know what of.”

“Ah, that’s why you felt so awful,” Grantaire said sympathetically. “You’re not supposed to mix drinks like that.”

“I think I would have felt awful no matter what,” Enjolras said. “Lesson learned.”

“Better to learn it sooner rather than later,” Grantaire said, lying back on the sofa. Ant mewed in protest until she got settled again. “Ant says hi, by the way.”

Enjolras felt his heart grow at least two sizes. “Tell her I say hi,” he said softly. “And pet under her chin. How is she?”

“Did you hear that?” Grantaire murmured to the cat, scratching under her chin. “Enj says hi. She’s purring,” he said, raising his voice a little again to speak to Enjolras. “And shedding as much as ever. It’s a nightmare.”

Enjolras laughed. “You wanted a longhair cat, that’s what you get,” he said. “Are you still with Jehan?”

“Oh, ah, non. I haven’t been for a little while, actually,” Grantaire said. It was so, so strange that Enjolras didn’t know any of this, that they just weren’t part of each other’s lives anymore. “I’m just round the corner from him though. I found a little studio flat. Well, I say flat. It’s a closet, basically. Pull-out sofa bed. Living the student life.”

“Oh.” Their separation felt terribly permanent now that Enjolras knew Grantaire had found a place of his own. “Well, that’s…”

He paused again, rubbing at his tingling nose. He wouldn’t cry. He refused to cry. He’d done this, he asked Grantaire to leave.

“Good. That’s good.”

“Ah, well, it’s not permanent,” Grantaire said thoughtfully. “I’ll stick it out until I graduate and then hopefully switch to working full-time at the gallery, if they’ll have me. Then I can look for someplace nicer. You’ve spoiled me,” he said, trying to tease. “I just can’t settle for a place without original exposed beams.”

Enjolras breathed a laugh. Moved out was still moved out.

“You can always stay at the flat,” he said. “It’s yours, too.”

Grantaire swallowed. No, he couldn’t. There was no way he could do that. Especially not while Enjolras wasn’t there. Even more so when he was.

“Merci,” he said simply, finally. “So, ah, tell me about all your adventures so far. You were saying Italy was good?”

Enjolras frowned slightly. “Was I?”

Grantaire breathed a laugh. “Oui,” he said. “I think you might have liked it there.”

“Ah, I did,” Enjolras said, laughing too. “They have amazing coffee, and everything is old and charming and the streets are small and it’s just.. it is very different from Paris.”

“Sounds like just what you needed, ah?”

“Ah, oui, I suppose,” Enjolras said thoughtfully. “I didn’t think I did, mais. It’s nice. New perspective, and all.”

“Oui, exactement,” Grantaire said lightly.

“So, ah… AA meetings?” Enjolras asked gently.

Grantaire swallowed, slightly thrown by the sudden change in topic. He scratched behind Ant’s ears, concentrating on her purring.

“Ah, oui,” he said. “A couple of months now. Once a week.”

“That’s great, R,” Enjolras said, lightly as he could. “Really. How’re you feeling?”

“Oui, not bad,” he said, which was the truth, most of the time. “I'm keeping busy. And like I said last night, it helps having someone else doing the same thing, t’sais?”

Enjolras chewed on his lip. He’d never been in that position with Grantaire, he’d never known what it was like to have an addiction and to learn to cope and manage and struggle with it. He’d only ever been a looming figure in Grantaire’s life, someone he was afraid to disappoint.

“Yeah, I bet it does.”

“So, oui…” Grantaire said.

Enjolras breathed an uncomfortable laugh. “Sorry,” he said. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

“Non, it’s okay,” Grantaire said, meaning it. “I just don’t really know what to say about it.”

“It’s okay,” Enjolras said. “I’m just… I’m glad you’re getting help. That’s all.”

“You should meet Étienne sometime,” Grantaire said, without quite meaning to; he was just desperately searching for something to say. “When you’re back. He’s… ah… Je ne sais pas. He’s training to be a teacher.”

“Who’s Étienne?”

“Oh,” Grantaire said. “You don’t remember.”

“Non, sorry,” Enjolras said, his laughter tinted with embarrassment. “Is he the one that’s going through the meetings with you?”

“Oui,” Grantaire said, wishing he hadn’t mentioned him at all. “It was his brother’s party last night.”

“Oh,” Enjolras said, frowning slightly. He couldn’t figure out what he was missing. “So you hang out outside of meetings?”

“Oui, sometimes,” Grantaire said. “I crashed at his place last night, actually.”

“Is his place bigger than yours?”

“A little, oui,” Grantaire said, laughing uncertainly. “It’s closer to his brother’s than my place.”

“Well, that makes sense,” Enjolras said, still confused about why Grantaire was telling him this at all. It wasn’t that Enjolras didn’t care where Grantaire was, he just knew he had a habit of couch surfing.

Grantaire sighed softly. “Anyway, you’d like him, I think,” he said. “So, when you’re back in Paris… Which will be soon, oui?”

“Ah, je ne sais pas,” Enjolras told him honestly. “I’m still trying out this… rootlessness.”

“But before May?” Grantaire pressed.

Enjolras frowned. “I mean, I have to be there to help Ferre get ready.”

Grantaire swallowed and closed his eyes. He didn’t quite know how he’d made it through the past couple of months alone, let alone how to face the next five months like this.

“Oui,” he said quietly.

“Grantaire, listen to me,” Enjolras said softly. “It’s not that I don’t want to be there, I just need time for myself. It has nothing to do with you, or not wanting to be with you. We just… I don’t have to tell you where we were. I was just too close to the situation to make any progress.”

“Oui, I get it, don’t worry,” Grantaire said, as lightly as he could.

Enjolras’ stomach sank. “Talk to me, chéri.”

Grantaire squeezed his eyes shut tighter, trying to hold in tears.

“Where are you off to next?” he asked. “D’you have a plan or are you just heading where you feel like going?”

“R…” Enjolras swallowed, a hard lump rising in his throat. He didn’t know how to say what he wanted to say.

“No plan, really,” he said. “I think I’m going to make my way over to Amsterdam, though.”

“Oui?” Grantaire said, trying to keep his voice light. “Why Amsterdam?”

Enjolras shrugged, until he realized Grantaire couldn’t see him.

“The canals would be nice to see,” he said. “Everyone seems to like Amsterdam.”

“Ah, oui?”

“Oui,” Enjolras said lamely. “Anne Frank. The tulips. It might be the wrong time of year.”

“Write and complain if it is,” Grantaire joked.

Enjolras breathed a laugh. “I do write really good complaints.”

“You do,” Grantaire said, relieved he’d made him laugh.

“Remember when Ant’s cat tree came, and the top piece was broken off and I sent them an email and they sent a new one plus a box of toys?”

Grantaire was laughing now too. “How could I forget?”

“She liked the box more than the cat tree and her toys,” Enjolras said, his stomach swooping at the sound of Grantaire’s laughter.

“That’s always how it is, isn’t it?”

“Oui, it is,” Enjolras said, his voice soft again. “I miss her.”

“Then come back to Paris and see her,” Grantaire said, already knowing that wasn’t the answer.

Enjolras sighed softly. “R, the last time I saw you, you said you couldn’t see me anymore.”

Grantaire took a quick breath, panic rising up in him again. Before he could speak, the doorbell buzzed.

“One sec,” he said to Enjolras, hastily wiping his eyes as he nudged Ant off him so he could get up. He kept hold of his phone as he answered the door.

“There you are!” Montparnasse cried. “What happened to drinks at seven, huh? Come on, grab your coat and let’s get going, before we lose our table.”

“Ah, merde,” Grantaire said. He took a deep breath. Getting out of the flat seemed like a good option right now, when his other choice was staying put after Enjolras hung up. “Give me two minutes, alright? I’ll meet you outside.”

Montparnasse rolled his eyes at him, but took a step back away from the door so Grantaire could close it.

“Two minutes, R! I mean it.”

Grantaire shut the door and leant back against it, pressing his phone to his ear again as he glanced around the flat, looking for his shoes.

“Still there?” he said.

Enjolras’ stomach dropped. He hasn’t heard that voice in a long time, and even with the shoddy phone connection, he could still recognize it. And understand what it said.

He sat up, feeling sick all over again but in an entirely new way. Was Grantaire really getting help? Had he been lying this entire time?

“Yeah.”

“I forgot I said I’d hang out with a few friends tonight,” he said, not bothering to hide the weariness in his voice. Everything had been going so well, until Enjolras had called last night.

“Montparnasse?”

Grantaire sighed. “Oui, Montparnasse. That lot,” he said. “Look, I know what you’re thinking, but…”

Enjolras took a deep breath, struggling to keep his calm. “But it’s just a few drinks, ah? It doesn’t have to be all or nothing.”

“What?”

“You don’t remember that wonderful advice from your good friend Montparnasse?”

Grantaire closed his eyes. “I’m not drinking alcohol, Enjolras,” he said coolly. “What, you think I’ve been lying to you this whole time?”

“Je ne sais pas,” Enjolras said, his jaw tight. “You tell me.”

“That hurts,” Grantaire said, unable to keep his voice steady. “More than anything. More than you leaving, more than you not staying in touch, more than you not coming back until next year.”

Enjolras sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I’m sorry, R, I just… Montparnasse?”

“Forget it,” Grantaire said, relieved at least that he sounded angry more than he sounded like he was about to burst into tears, both of which were equally true. “I have to go. Enjoy Amsterdam.”

He hung up and threw his phone onto the sofa, grabbing his coat and his shoes on his way out the door.

“Grantaire, come on,” Enjolras said, but the click of the phone cut him off and he didn’t even know what he would say to him. He had no right to say anything about what Grantaire did or who he spent his time with or what he spent his time doing.

He wanted to call him back and apologize. Wanted to call him back and make him laugh again and just forget all of the bad that happened between them. He just wanted to go back to how they were, but Enjolras still couldn’t see a way back.

He just had to try, right? Grantaire said he didn’t want to see him, but he kept asking him to come up. He texted him back, he answered his calls. There was still something there. Enjolras just had to make the effort.

[Text] I’m sorry. Stay safe. - E x

#marbleloverofliberty #no flame