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liaromancewriter · 1 year

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Valentine Memories

Premise: When Alan finds a box of childhood memorabilia, Cassie teases Ethan about his romantic past.

Book: Open Heart (post series) Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Cassie Valentine) Rating/Category: General. Fluff. Words: 1,625

A/N: This is based on an ask I received from @jerzwriter. Submission for @choicesmonthlychallenge To Be prompt "XOXO"; @choicesholidays Valentine's Day prompt "Be my valentine"; @choices-february2023, Day 14 prompt "Valentine's Day"; @choicesficwriterscreations Valentine's Day event.

It was a bright blue winter day with freshly fallen snow dotting the flat green landscape around Interstate 90. They left Boston late enough to avoid the weekend crowds heading off to ski lodges in the vicinity but early enough to make a day of it in Providence.

When the car turned toward I-95, the south-easterly sun’s harsh rays bounced off the windshield. Briefly blinded, Cassie Valentine pulled the visor down and silently cursed.

She meant to grab her sunglasses before leaving the apartment, but she’d overslept and had been in a rush. The last thing she wanted was for Ethan to give her a look that implied he hadn’t truly expected her to be ready on time.

The delectable Dr. Ramsey could be a real troll on occasion.

“Here.”

Cassie looked over to see Ethan holding out a pair of sunglasses with dark plastic lenses. His own were parked on the bridge of his nose, hiding his laser-blue eyes. So she wondered where these had come from. She arched one brow as she put them on, relieved when her eyes no longer squinted against the sun.

“You never seem to have a pair on you when you need them,” he explained, reading her thoughts perfectly. “I picked up a couple of cheap drugstore ones to keep in the car.”

Annoyed at his superior tone, Cassie harrumphed and folded her arms, only to unfold them seconds later as she chuckled at the implication. This wasn’t the first time she’d forgotten her glasses, so she really couldn’t blame Ethan.

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” She shook her head in amusement.

“Top of the class, Valentine,” he drawled.

Cassie rolled her eyes and turned up the volume instead, singing along to the chorus of The Black Keys’ Wild Child.

They drove in companionable silence towards his childhood home for Ethan’s monthly visit to see his father. Cassie had insisted on coming even though she had made plans to go couch shopping with Bryce. Her friend understood the last-minute notice.

The more their relationship progressed, the more she was determined to make Ethan stop compartmentalizing their lives. Visiting Alan was an important part, especially since Ethan was heartily welcomed into her own family.

As they neared Providence, Ethan exited the interstate and joined traffic winding through the city streets. The scenery outside gradually changed from gentrified neighborhoods to middle-class subdivisions until he turned down a familiar road.

This part of town was older, the streets lined with modest houses, all a bit worse for wear, snow covering pitched roofs and small yards. Cassie spied four young boys in a small park up ahead, throwing snowballs at each other, their laughter ringing through the air.

“Did you ever do that?” she asked, tilting her head to indicate the boys.

Ethan followed her gaze, and his face softened in nostalgia. “As much as possible. You can’t live in New England and not have snowball fights.”

As they neared his father’s house, he slowed the car and parked along the curb.

“My friends and I would pray for a snow day,” Ethan continued, switching off the ignition, his eyes still on the boys. “And when we got one, we spent all day outside building a snow fort and engaging in all-out war. We had complicated hand signals and code words, the whole shebang.”

“Max and I always save the first snowball fight for Tony. Team Double Trouble, you know.” She grinned wickedly. “If he can beat us, he can join a twin activity. Otherwise, it’s Twin Time, Butt Out.”

She laughed in recollection as they exited the car. “Tony hasn’t managed to beat us yet, much to his chagrin.”

Alan must have been watching out for them. Cassie saw him come outside on the porch, rubbing his arms against the cold temperatures. Ethan walked around the front of the car to join her on the sidewalk, taking her hand in his.

“Welcome, welcome,” Alan greeted as they walked up the short steps.

Father and son hugged briefly while Cassie took Alan’s outstretched hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Let’s get out of the cold,” Alan said, waving his hand to have her precede him, with Ethan bringing up the rear. “Had a feeling you’d be near, so I put on a fresh pot of coffee.”

Cassie and Ethan took off their winter boots inside the door, hung up their winter coats in the hallway closet and joined Alan in the living room.

The scent of brewed coffee and lemon furniture polish hung in the air, making Cassie’s nose twitch in appreciation. The furniture was old but well cared for, and there wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere.

She always liked how Ethan’s place was neat and tidy. It looked like this was another trait he had inherited from his father.

Soon they were enjoying their coffee and cookies. Alan caught them up on his happenings, and they did the same. When the talk turned to Ethan’s relatives, Cassie leaned her head on Ethan’s shoulder and settled in to enjoy this glimpse into his life.

A short while later, Alan got up from his seat, reached behind the armchair and lifted a cardboard box off the floor. Ethan’s name was scrawled on the outside in black marker.

“I was cleaning out the attic and came upon this box of your old stuff,” he said, setting the box down on the coffee table. “Thought you might want to go through it, son, and see if there’s anything you want to take back to Boston.”

Brows furrowed, Ethan lifted the flaps slowly. “I’m sure it’s nothing worth keeping.”

“Not so fast, babe,” Cassie cut in, reaching in to grab a thick folder. “Ethan’s report cards, grades one to three,” she read out loud. “Pay dirt.”

Ethan tried to grab the folder, but she simply moved her hand out of reach. She quickly scanned a couple of report cards and nodded in confirmation. She looked over the top of the folder, her green eyes sparkling with laughter.

“Gold stars? Not surprising,” she teased, sticking her tongue out at him. “But it says here, ‘Highly intelligent. Needs to think before speaking.’”

“It does not say that,” he protested, swallowing back the rest when she shoved the report card in front of his face, the words clearly written in red pen. “Oh.”

“Never had to worry about his grades,” Alan told Cassie, smiling as his eyes tracked between her and Ethan. “However, I can’t tell you how many parent-teacher meetings ended with, ‘Mr. Ramsey, your son is a gifted student, but he needs to learn to show more respect to his fellow classmates and teachers.’”

Alan mimicked the last, making Ethan utter “Christ!” under his breath and pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah…,” Cassie mused, tapping one finger against her lips as she watched Ethan with a considering look. “That sounds about right. He might be Chief Ramsey now, but his people skills haven’t improved.”

Alan winked conspiratorially at Cassie and picked up the tray with their used coffee cups and plates to carry into the kitchen.

Ethan snatched the file out of her hands and shoved it back inside the box a little too forcefully, causing a thick paper pink card to pop up from the folds. He groaned when Cassie’s eyes lit up, and she tugged the card out before he could stop her.

“Did you make this Valentine’s Day card in class?” Cassie teased, turning the card over, glitter shimmering on her fingertips. “How come you never made me one?”

“You don’t celebrate the thing, remember?” he said, shoving his fingers through his hair. “Certainly makes my life easier, having a girlfriend that doesn’t want the fuss or muss.”

“Au contraire, Dr. Ramsey,” Cassie scoffed, flipping the card open. “I expect both the fuss and muss, just not on the Day That Shall Remain Nameless. You have three hundred and sixty-four days—three sixty-five during a Leap Year—to spoil me rotten.”

She guffawed when she read the message inscribed in purple pen, more glittery hearts sprinkled inside. “Dear Ethan. Please be my valentine. I heart you. So much. XOXO. Melanie.”

Cassie looked up from the card and shared a teasing glance with Alan, who walked back into the room and sat down in the armchair.

She schooled her features and threw Ethan a disgruntled look. “You’ve been holding out on me, babe. Who’s this floozy Melanie? And why does she think she can put the moves on my man?”

“The hell if I know,” Ethan growled. “I don’t even know what grade this is from.”

Cassie examined the card. “Based on the style, glitter usage and mix of cursive and block writing, third or fourth grade would be my guess.”

“Another thing Ethan was never short of,” Alan added, nodding sagely, chin propped on the heel of his hand. “The stories I could tell you about girls dropping by the house, calling at all hours, trying to get his attention. There are probably a few Valentine’s Day cards tucked inside that box. ”

“Not helping, Dad.” Agitated, Ethan shoved off the couch and towered over her, hands on his hips. “And what the hell, Cassie? I didn’t even know you then!”

Ethan knew he’d just been had when Cassie and his dad shared a look and then burst into laughter. She clutched her belly and doubled over, her body shaking with mirth, gasping for air with tears forming at the corners of her eyes.

Ethan did the only thing he could think of to shut her up. He tugged her off the couch and into his arms, framed her face between his hands, and kissed the laughter away.

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

All Fics & Edits: @a-crepusculo @annfg8 @bluebelle08 @coffeeheartaddict2 @crazy-loca-blog @doriopenheart @genevievemd @headoverheelsforramsey @lucy-268 @jamespotterthefirst @jerzwriter @lady-calypso @mainstreetreader @takemyopenheart @potionsprefect @queencarb @quixoticdreamer16 @rookiemartin @socalwriterbee @tessa-liam @trappedinfanfiction

Submissions: @openheartfanfics

Ethan & Cassie only: @cariantha @custaroonie @hopelessromantic1352 @mrs-ramsey

#ethan ramsey #open heart #choices open heart #ethan ramsey x mc #writers on tumblr #choices fic writers creations #cfwc valentines 2023 #open heart fanfics #choices fanfics #open heart fanfiction #choices fanfiction #ethan ramsey x cassie valentine #choicesfebruary2023

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midnightraine131 · 8 months

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Read on AO3

Fall of 2007

Echoes of whispers, blurred faces, sly smiles, and judging eyes looked down on her. Her petite figure sat in a small space on the steel bench along the long, dark hallway, waiting for two enormous doors to open and swallow her whole.

She closed her eyes, recalling the last moment, the last time she traced her fingers along the lines of his palm. She never begged; she never asked him to stay. She felt the tip of his fingers when she let go of his hand. No one ever guessed that would be the last time she felt his warmth.

Red lights,

Heavy pouring rain,

Angry fires devouring her love,

Screams in agony,

A body hitting the windshield of her car.

That was the end of the long, unforgettable summer night.

A nightmare happened a year ago.

Her eyes snapped open when she felt the presence of a man sitting beside her. He loosened the button of his well-pressed grey suit so he could sit comfortably. His blond hair was neatly swept back, with a thick mustache covering his upper lip. He didn’t start a conversation; he didn’t even look at her.

Silence covered the gloomy hallway; it was almost suffocating.

She wished the clock would stop ticking so she could run away as fast as she could. Her tired eyes focused on the wrist of the man beside her, watching as the third hand of the watch ticked, nearly approaching twelve. Would it stop if she glared at it? No, what foolish wishful thinking.

She scoffed at herself. Does this sound like desperation? Anyway, she's meeting her own end now. This day will dictate her future, and she already knows the answer.

It’s a losing battle; why does she need to fight more? Why does she still need to go through these painful trials over and over again? She doesn’t know anymore.

"Is something the matter?" the man finally spoke. A pair of big blue eyes stared back at her, kind and genuinely concerned.

She looked down at her shoe; it was black, flat, and the string was loose. Not the kind of shoe she would walk in every day. "Your watch, it's a Patek Philippe."

The man sighed and stretched his arm, his sleeves folding, revealing the watch wrapped around his wrist. He glanced at the watch in question.

"Do you reward yourself every time you win a case? Or do your clients give it to you as tokens?" she continued—no idea why she didn't answer his question.

His eyes widened in surprise, but he still proceeded to answer her question. "My work wasn't easy. If I win, I reward myself. If I lose, I give something away. And sometimes, some people give me things I never asked for."

"Fair enough. But I doubt you lose more than you win. I heard you keep beating those prosecutors' asses."

"I win, huh?" The man shifted his position so he could face her. He clasped his hands together, fidgeting with his thumbs as if one was wrestling the other in a match. "I would call it winning if my son doesn't condemn me more for taking over this case."

Annie scoffed again, placing her hand on her forehead to push a curtain of locks away from her face. Even people outside of the court could see the truth. She's tired of these people wearing neckties making her believe their lies.

The man smiled faintly, looking down at his fingers. "This morning, I had a talk with my son. He's almost the same age as you— you're probably a year or two older than him, and that spoiled brat is becoming a little troublesome too." He snorted before he continued, "He asked me why I must defend bad people. I told him everybody deserves a fair trial, and the defendant should be presumed innocent unless— she or he is proven guilty."

But I was. Am I?

Annie looked up at the man for the first time. Since this new attorney took over her case, she stopped looking at everyone's faces, she stopped looking at their clothes and their features. She lost her interest in everything. She then lost her faith.

The man cleared his throat. "You know I'm risking everything for this battle, and so is your father. He's spending every single dime of his fortune to save his only girl. Just in case you haven't heard, your father's company is on the brink of filing for bankruptcy so he could provide you a normal life after this case."

Annie observed his profile. She noticed his eyes; just by looking at him, she could tell he was a kind man. Deep blue eyes displayed genuine concern towards people like her. She had never seen that kind of eyes that can speak words in silence. Not everyone has that, even her father. Why does this kind man defend bad people like her?

"When your father came to my office and handed me an envelope, I was in awe. I had never seen a handwritten check for such a substantial amount. That sum was more than enough to cover my divorce settlement and provide my son and his older brother with a better life. I couldn't believe it." His mouth tugged upward slightly, though this time, it was a fake smile.

"Why are you saying these things to me?" she finally confronted.

"I'm just saying that being a father is more than it sounds like. Our wives might call us assholes on a daily basis, but when it comes to our children, we'll make sure to give everything, risk everything, and if we are privileged, we can buy one's dignity just to provide what's best for our children, even if they messed up. We'll fix the problem for them, like when you were young and had a broken toy. Sure, even if we're dead tired from work, we'll drive to the hardware store to buy glue and pull an all-nighter to fix it, so when you wake up, your toy is as good as new again."

He paused, searching for words on the tip of his tongue. They both spent a brief moment in silence before he continued again. "Your dad's doing this for you. This is how much he loves you."

"I don't deserve it."

The man shook his head disapprovingly, but he knew there was no way he could change her perspective. "You may think of it that way. Yes, you were wrong. Yes, you made a mistake. Indeed, it cost one man's life. But you—" He pointed at her chest where her heart is. "You lost someone you loved that night, too, and you can't bring him back anymore. But your dad thinks he still has a little time to save you. So he could keep you. That's how much he loves you."

He looked up at the ceiling, pausing in that position as if dreaming of a different reality. Then he spoke, "As for me, this will be my last case before I retire. Whether I win or lose, it doesn't matter. I have nothing to lose anymore. Although, I'm giving up the chance for my son to forgive me."

Annie heard footsteps clicking on the marbled floor of the hall, and the legal approached them, grabbing their attention. " The gods of guilt have spoken."

"Right, let's go. The jury is back." He tapped her back as he stood up and buttoned his coat. Annie stood up after a few heartbeats, her legs trembling as if they were walking her to the guillotine.

The man opened the door for her, and the bright lights and scrutinizing eyes welcomed her into the room. The more she thought about it, the more she wanted to throw up and pretend to pass out, so she wouldn't have to witness the end of it.

She sat down at the defense panel, beside the man she had been talking to on the bench. Silence fell in the room, and she felt like the room was becoming smaller and smaller, with the walls closing in and faces becoming more recognizable. She couldn't tolerate it anymore.

"The defendant may stand."

She complied, along with the man beside her, pouring all her energy into her wobbling legs. Though her mouth was dry, she tried her best to swallow the lump in her throat.

"You may read the verdict."

Her eyes drifted to her left, watching as the foreperson stood among the jurors. Not a single soul moved, and the foreperson cleared his throat before beginning.

"In the matter of the State of New York vs..."

Annie wanted to scream.

"...on the charge of Second-Degree Felony Vehicular Homicide causing the death of..."

Her hands balled up the orange fabric on her legs, and she watched as her knuckles turned white.

"...we find the defendant..."

How could she live her life after this?!

...

Don't

...

Say

"...not guilty."

Annie's sight blurred as warm tears streamed down her cheeks.

Unfair.

It's unfair.

It's really unfair!

She should have been punished!

Silhouettes began to swarm around her. Some were tugging at her, pulling her into a hug, and others were tapping her shoulders. Then she recognized Pieck pushing other people aside to get closer to her. Annie could see a similar puffiness in the brunette's eyes. Pieck raised her hands and used her slender fingers to wipe Annie's tears from her cheeks. She muttered something, but Annie couldn't discern it since her eyes were fixed on the papers being shoved into a black leather bag—her case files.

That's right! My case files!

“My case files!” she slurred.

She felt the weight on top of her, golden blond strands tickling her cheeks. She could smell his shampoo. Shit.

He grunted, "Annie, you're sleep talking." He shifted his head to the opposite side, away from her face. "What case files? I want to sleep more." he talked, half asleep.

"Armin?"

"Hmm?"

"Your hard-on. It's poking my legs." She pretended to suppress a laugh, masking the worry creeping inside her. "Don't tell me you're asking for another round?"

He buried his face deeper in her sheets, ears turning a bright shade of red. "Annie! Stop teasing me! It's natural for guys to have a standing ovation in the morning." He muffled.

Contented with her teasing, she brushed his hair with her fingers, kissing the sensitive skin of his shoulder. She noticed bite marks on his skin. Seems like they really went rough this morning. Who knows? She's too tipsy to remember.

"You should worry if it doesn't poke you anymore." He struck back.

"If it doesn't poke me anymore, I would assume it's poking someone else already." She sang in playful tease.

His head rose from hiding from the sheets, and his face was embarrassingly flustered. "I'm not that kind of guy!"

"I know, I know." She rained him with pecks of kisses across his cheeks to his mouth when suddenly his phone rings.

He retrieved his phone from the pool of white sheets. As his hand emerged from beneath her thick comforter, Connie’s name illuminated on the screen. He tapped to answer on speaker.

Jean’s voice greeted him, “Armin, I swear if you're still in bed—”

“We're on our way to pick you up,” Connie interrupted.

“Okay, I’ll be ready in a minute. Connie, can you—”

“Let me guess, two Advils,” Connie finished his sentence like an automatic answering machine.

Annie continued to peck him with kisses. Armin tried to stop her by covering her mouth with his palm. She took his wrist to pull his hands away from her mouth and laughed softly. Armin bit his lower lip as he tried to hold back his chuckle, revealing his pristine white teeth, and mouthed “Stop.”

"Hey, do you think we can't hear you two?" Jean confronted them over the phone.

Armin gestured, putting his index finger in front of his mouth, and whispered, "Shhh," before talking on the phone. "Also, can you get me a Gatorade?"

Jean clicked his tongue and talked to Connie, making sure Armin and Annie could hear him. "Connie, could you schedule Armin to go to church this Sunday? Your boss needs Jesus sometimes."

Armin put his phone in front of his mouth and playfully said, "Bye Jean, Bye Connie."

"What– we're picking you up right now-"

Armin hung up the phone and playfully glared at Annie before he forced himself to stand up and run towards the bathroom. "I need to hurry, or Jean will kill me."

Annie watched his back disappear into her bathroom. She listened as he turned on the shower. Her hands involuntarily picked up her laptop from the side table to check her emails. She had received three from Eren, and Annie swore she needed to extensively rewrite his entire articles. He wasn't bad; Eren was quite a good writer, but instead of focusing on the facts, he forced his personal opinions into his topics. Annie sighed and dragged Eren’s articles to a separate folder to edit later.

Then she logged into Teams.

Annie Leonhart: Good morning, Hitch.

Hitch Dreyse: …

Hitch Dreyse: Hi boss, what do you want?

Annie Leonhart: Can you drive to the bakery shop on Broadway?

Hitch Dreyse: Why? No time to make breakfast at home this time?

Annie Leonhart: ...

Hitch Dreyse: Let me guess, you’re probably naked on your bed after an intense night with your little prosecutor?

Annie Leonhart: Shut up, I’ll send you my orders, and you can grab something for yourself and the rest too. I think only you, me, Pieck, and Eren will be at the office today. Everyone’s deployed to cover the press conference.

Hitch Dreyse: Noted.

Annie could imagine Hitch’s grunts and complaints over a single word. She then proceeded to type down all her orders. The usual sugary, diabetic set of caramel flans, chia pudding, and raspberry pistachio cups. Annie also ordered banana pudding and Belgian chocolate-covered strawberries for Adeline just in case she became difficult in the office later. Annie could at least bribe her with some sweets.

Annie could hear Armin emerging from her bathroom. As soon as he opened the door, Annie slowly closed her laptop and looked up at him. But as soon as her eyes fell on him, her jaw dropped.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, noticing her reaction.

“Armin, are you seriously wearing that?” Annie shook her head, looking at him from head to toe. He’s back with his yellow cardigan and black skinny slacks. His hair is down flat, still damp from the morning shower. “I can’t believe you're best friends with Jaeger, and he hasn’t influenced you with some sense of style.”

“What?” he chuckled, “I'm just giving a speech, not trying to look like Ashton Kutcher on a Netflix series.” He started to button his sleeves when Annie scooted to the foot of the bed so she could reach him, leaving the comforter crumpled in one corner. Her toned body was now exposed in the morning light, and Armin's eyes drifted to her white bra and panties, then to her face. He blushed at how pretty she looked in the morning.

“Armin,” she called, “Take my hairdryer and hairspray from my vanity. Let me help you with your hair.”

He gave her a confused look but still complied. Once he came back, Annie tapped the sheets beside her, signaling him to sit beside her, and he followed suit. She kneeled on the bed so she could see the crown of his head. Armin curved his back, lowering his head and using his elbow to support his weight on his knee, making it easier for Annie to reach the top of his head.

His eyes wandered back and forth over her abs, her belly button piercing, and her white underwear as she worked on drying his hair. He closed his eyes and bit his lower lip to resist the temptation.

When his hair was completely dry, Annie turned off the hairdryer and took the hairspray with her left hand, while the other worked on brushing up the golden blonde locks.

Armin moved his head toward her, “I don't want my hair too neatly swept up. I'd look like my dad.”

“I'd be scared if you didn't look like your dad,” she said, continuing to work on his hair, spraying, brushing, and blowing on it, and spraying again.

“Hey, calm down there. These things release chlorine atoms!” He struggled to break free from her and took the spray bottle from her to check its contents, his eyebrows narrowing. “I don't want to risk damaging the ozone layer just to look good on TV for one day.”

Annie chuckled, “The whole of America will be watching you today, you nerd. Next time, I'll buy CFC-free hairspray for you so you don't need to worry about Mother Earth. Anyway, I'm done.”

He looked back at her and put his index finger just below his nostrils, mimicking a mustache. Then he pouted and ballooned his cheeks. “Do I look like my dad now?”

She chuckled, took his hand, and led him towards her vanity. She tiptoed to rest her chin on his shoulder as they both looked in the mirror at his appearance.

His bangs were brushed up to the right, exposing his left thick eyebrow and forehead, accentuating the beautiful features of his face and making him look more mature.

“You look too good to wear just a cardigan,” she commented, tapping his arm. He turned to her as her hands traveled to the collar of his polo, trapping the yellow fabric between her fingers and slowly sliding it down his arms. Armin tugged the sleeves to free his hands from the cardigan, and he did the same with the other hand. Their eyes locked as Annie reached out to snatch the cardigan from his hand and disregard it on the floor. “Come on, suit up,” she whispered.

She held his hand and led him to her walk-in closet, where a garment bag was hanging in one of the cabinets. The garment bag Jean had brought for him yesterday. She unzipped the bag, revealing well-tailored Hall Madden suits. There were three suits inside the bag, but Annie chose the one made of Herringbone in grey with a raven-black gabardine collar.

She carefully took it out of the bag and helped him put it on. She admired her masterpiece, looking up at him. She couldn't believe the man standing in front of her looked like a prince. “Now I believe the suit is the lawyer’s best armor.”

He turned to the mirror, his mouth agape. He couldn't believe how good he looked after the makeover.

"I wouldn't be surprised if some Hollywood journalists throw their panties on the podium," she commented.

He chuckled, "Impossible. I only have my eyes on one journalist I know."

She smiled, "You're an expert in flirting now?"

"I learned from you." He held her waist, pulling her body close to him. His eyes studied her neck, his fingers tracing her collarbone. It would be nice if she wore jewelry around her neck, he thought.

Then he took her hand and kissed the tip of her fingers before he caught her ring finger. Staring at it as if remembering every detail of it. Then he proceeds to lower his head and Annie meets him halfway, but before their lips meet, Annie licks his lips playfully. Armin was surprised but opened his mouth to welcome Annie's tongue to explore. He tugged at the strap of her bra and pulled it down to her shoulder. She just started deepening their kiss when a loud honking echoed in their ears. Pulling them back to their reality.

"That should be Jean!" he exclaimed, pulling away from their kiss, leaving her swollen lips exposed to the air. He retrieved the shirt he had worn the night before and threw it at her. She quickly put it on.

Then he stumbled to his suitcase, opened it, took out a brown LV watch case, and swiftly unbuckled the lock, revealing three high-end wristwatches. Annie's eyes locked onto the one in the middle, a rose gold Nautilus, a watch reminiscent of her dreams—she remembered the Patek Philippe her lawyer wore in court.

He noticed her frozen, standing like a statue, and walked back to her while putting on the chronograph Breguet Tradition on his wrist. Her eyes were still fixed on the watch case.

"Annie, is something wrong?" he observed.

"Armin, I have something to ask you." She clenched her fists. "Yesterday, you mentioned the death of your friend—"

Armin's eyes focused on her, and Annie noticed his pupils dilating slightly. She couldn't tell if it was due to the poor lighting in her walk-in closet or if he was growing tense.

She dropped her gaze and stared at her toes. "How did you know that the killer was driving a McLaren?"

Armin clenched his jaw. "What's with this question?"

"Just answer me, God damn it." Annie's eyes began to burn, but she didn't let him see it.

Armin sighed, narrowing his eyebrows. "My dad took over the case, as much as I hate to admit it. He counseled the defense."

"What did you know about the killer? Have you seen the case files?"

Armin shook his head. "No, knowing my dad, he will keep all his case files until his grave." He paused and gathered his courage. "All I know is that the defendant was a blonde, rich girl named Tiffany."

In just a few seconds, Annie's hands grew cold as she was transported back in time. Memories rushed back to her like scenes from a film reel.

She found herself back in the dark, gloomy hallway of the courthouse.

Standing before her was a man with neatly combed golden-blond hair and a mustache, his kind ocean-blue eyes fixed on her.

The man, Attorney George Arlert, turned to her and said, "You can do me a favor—"

Live a new life as a new person,

Love the person you will soon meet on the streets,

Laugh when people ask you about your history because— you don't have a reason to answer.

Desert your past life

...Because you are not Tiffany; you are—

Annie Leonhart

#aruani fanfic #aruani fic #aruani fanfiction #aruannie #aruani #armin arlert #annie leonhart #annie leonhardt #armin arlelt #annieleonhardt #arminarlert #shingeki no kyojin #attack on titan #hidinginplainsight

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cdlhunter · 1 year

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1967 The Ferves Ranger – A Mighty Little Italian Off-Roader Designed By Carlo Ferrari. The Ferves Ranger is a fascinating little Italian microcar associated with the Ferrari name that has great light-off-road ability for farm or vineyard use, and good manners on-road at lower urban speeds. The 1966 Turin Motor Show saw the unveiling of the Ferves Ranger, two models were offered – a two wheel drive variant and a four wheel drive variant. Both offered independent front and rear suspension, an 18 bhp, 499cc air-cooled two-cylinder engine, and a four-speed manual transmission. Under the skin, the Ferves Ranger features a variety of Fiat parts from both the Fiat 500 and the Fiat 600, the rear mounted engine comes from the 500, and the all-independent suspension from the Fiat 600D. The Ranger was designed by Carlo Ferrari to offer the Italians an off-road answer to vehicles like the Fiat 500 and the later Fiat Panda. He wanted to create an affordable and simple car that was perfect for both the tight, twisting streets of Italian cities but still be able to traverse farmland and off-road terrain when needed. The Ferves Ranger is constructed from a combination of steel and riveted aluminum, with simple flat sides, a flat fold-down windshield, a simple folding roof system, a minimalist interior, and seating for four adults. Although he has a famous name, no other information is readily available on Carlo Ferrari. He obviously has one of the most famous surnames in the global motoring industry, the name “Ferves” is a combination of FERrari VEicoli Speciali (Ferrari Special Vehicles) – he clearly didn’t have the option of using his surname as the marque name. Just 600 or so examples of the Ferves Ranger were ever built, and it’s thought approximately 50 have survived to the modern day. Unlike with many low production volume vehicles the Ranger makes use of easy to obtain Fiat parts, making maintenance a breeze for a Fiat-trained mechanic. Source: Silodrome.com #cdljob #cdljobs #cdlhunter #whatami #guessthetruck #whatyearami #guesswhat #diesel #scootover #bigrig #truckin #trucknation #truckdaily #guess #trucklife #whatthe #whathappened #tellmewhithouttellingme https://www.instagram.com/p/CnX9uOeplB4/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

#cdljob #cdljobs #cdlhunter #whatami #guessthetruck #whatyearami #guesswhat #diesel #scootover #bigrig #truckin #trucknation #truckdaily #guess #trucklife #whatthe #whathappened #tellmewhithouttellingme

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diabolus1exmachina · 1 year

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Porsche 959 Convertible

Porsche never built a drop-top version of its first supercar, the legendary 959, but as the saying goes, where there's a will and a wrecked Porsche, there's a way. One German shop decided to turn a crunched 1987 959 into a cabriolet. German race driver Jürgen Lässig owned the car up until he had an accident on the Autobahn. From there it was bought by a company called Auto Becker, which chopped the roof off and fit a folding soft-top in its place while restoring the car. Hilariously, the original roof comes in a (hilariously huge) box and can apparently be installed, should you desire, and the sale includes two windshields—a regular one, and a lower, "speedster" version.Other than the roof modification, this 959 appears to be entirely stock, and in great condition. That means it has the original 2.9-liter twin-turbo flat-six making 450 horsepower, and a wildly complex all-wheel-drive system.

While this is certainly an interesting car, it's sort of a shame to see this treatment applied to a 959, of which fewer than 300 were built. The conversion appears to be high quality, and it might very well be the only 959 cabriolet in the world, as the listing claims. But it's hard to imagine a collector wanting this over a regular 959.

#Porsche 959 #Jürgen Lässig

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paperstorm · 1 year

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Tagged by @beautifulhigh thanks love <3

Rules: Post the first lines of your last 10 fics posted to ao3. if you have less than 10 fics posted, post the first lines of all your fics.

80% of these are Missing Moments because that's all I've been writing lately haha but I am working on something else.

No feeling in the firelight

The plume of smoke lessens, as they stand on wet pavement with blankets draped over their shoulders and watch the 129 douse the smoldering wreckage of what was their home. Walls crumble, the ceiling collapses, everything turns black and wet and the acrid scent of it becomes so overwhelming that TK almost can’t smell it anymore.

Ritual

TK holds up the bottle of Windex as he moves toward the kitchen, when Carlos’s eyebrows raise expectantly at him. He puts the bottle under the sink, slightly making a show of it even though that particular bottle actually belongs upstairs in the bathroom, because he wants Carlos to be assured he was cleaning like he was instructed while Carlos was down here panicking that he’d put a single grain of salt too many into the sauce that he’s already remade a second time.

Lost and found

“You can’t all stay,” the empathetic but tired-sounding nurse tells them. “I can send down for one cot. One.” She’s holding a folded sheet in her hand. Her hair is auburn. It’s pulled back into a ponytail but there are wayward pieces of it framing her face, as if they’d migrated away during a long shift. TK gets stuck for a moment on the details, the voices in the room fading into the background like he’s listening to them from underwater.

Music made in love

“Wanna fuck me?” Carlos jumps. He hadn’t heard TK coming, and the sudden appearance of his voice has Carlos’s heart leaping into his throat.

A decade in a moment

TK’s first day back at work after medical leave is on a Thursday. Carlos has the day off, so he gets up early to make TK breakfast and drive him to the 126. TK lingers in the car, his head tipped back against the headrest, eyeing the door through the windshield with a disappointed look on his expressive face. Carlos frowns, reaching over to squeeze TK’s shoulder in question.

A light in the dark

Carlos sits for a long time in his car in the parking lot. He stares at the concrete wall in front of him, the flat grey of it blurring in his vision and the perfect blank canvas upon which to project everything that’s swimming frantically in his mind. He blinks, and a tear slides down his cheek. It’s only one, and it maybe is the result of him accidentally keeping his eyes open for longer than he should have as he stewed in misery, but Carlos despises it anyway.

Knots to pull apart

Carlos stands and begins to clear their plates. He’d made a stir fry with chicken and water chestnuts, one of TK’s favorites of his many made-up recipes, but TK had been uncharacteristically quiet over dinner. Carlos is sure he knows why, so he’s been avoiding bringing it up, because TK will come to him when he’s ready. He always does.

Under the surface

Nancy has her arms crossed and looks highly annoyed, as they watch Tommy jog into the Dojang, and TK can’t understand why. He did something good for their captain, something nice. She was upset about having to miss her daughter’s ceremony and TK fixed that. Nancy’s irritation doesn’t make any sense and it’s making all sorts of alarm bells go off in his head.

Back to the remedy

“Can you please say something?” TK blinks slowly. The room around him seems to dissolve, the edges of his vision blurring until he can’t see the things that are in front of him clearly – the couch, the lamp, his manically grinning parents. Smiling at him eagerly, expectantly, like they think he should leap up and start cheering like he might have if this conversation had happened 20 years ago.

Side A, Side B

TK’s thumb hovers over the little arrow that would send the text he’s typed. It’s all still relatively new, this thing. The thing with Carlos in general, but also this. Cautiously approached and carefully negotiated because Carlos didn’t like it the first time they’d tried, and TK hated that look on his face like he thought he’d done something wrong.

tagging @theghostofashton @chaotictarlos @carlos-in-glasses @welcometololaland

#paperstorm writes #tag game #lola's probably already done this but just in case

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zmediaoutlet · 1 year

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happy wincest wednesday z! I’m turning your question around on you: give me a heartcanon and a junkcanon and a spleencanon for the post season seven and pre season eight era

o eve, o buddest of buds, happy wincest whatever! I am feeling a little spleened so now's a good time, lol, let's go:

heartcanon: Sam repaired what he could of the Impala and got the windshield replaced and, when it was fixed and pretty and his again (he thought), he'd take it for long drives around Kermit and the Texas flat all around and he'd listen to a tape from the box, all the way through, side one and side two, and he'd maybe sing along or maybe drum along or maybe just feel the road, listening, and it made him feel -- maybe not "better" exactly but it made him feel less lonely.

junkcanon: Dean got Benny to fuck him about a month after they started really working together. Benny wasn't actually angling for it but Dean kind of goaded him into it and, hell, it'd been a long couple of decades of afterlife, and it's not like Dean was hard on the eyes and why not. The first time, Dean folded his arms against the treetrunk and closed his eyes very tight and imagined it was Sam. [Benny figured he was replacing someone else and didn't mind. In later encounters, Dean relaxed and didn't pretend as much, and that was -- still painful, but probably better.]

spleencanon: Sam 'loved' Amelia, sure, but he loved the idea of finding a kind of stable place more, and she and the house and the dog all just filled the hours that he'd have to live in, however long he'd have to live the life where Dean was gone. He was bummed when they broke up but he wasn't all that bummed about her specifically; his upset in s8 was a lot more about Dean freaking out and being a dick, and the guilt that he'd 'failed' Dean. Don't exactly see him pining for her later on, do we. (The horrible noodles may have scarred him.)

#happy wincest wednesday #answers #i go back and forth on dean pursuing benny #or benny having the idea first #but dean kind of pulling a mickey-from-shameless move #wanting to feel someone's hips slamming into his #that's a lil bit delish

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paramcur · 1 year

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haste: for our muses to get intimate with little time available. (tedsami 🤭)

cw: limo s*x, cu.nnilingus

they didn't have much time before the award ceremony started, but teddy could tell asami was anxious. she was nominated for one of the big awards tonight, and had been fidgeting in her seat as well as with her outfit nonstop. he feels bad about it, and wishes she could just enjoy the night without any hangups. an idea occurs to him then, and he places a possessive palm on her knee, raising his eyebrows suggestively. "i know a good way to get you to relax," he murmurs, glancing at the tinted windshields of the limouisine as if to confirm something before he kneels down in front of her seat. he bites his bottom lip before peering up at her with a mischievous grin. "this way, even if you lose the category you're nominated for, you'll still feel like a princess." in his mind, teddy's logic was infallible. asami certainly didn't seem put off by the idea, allowing him to roll up the skirt of her dress until it was bunched up around her waistline.

he puts his hands on her knees, forcing her to part her legs wide enough for him to lean in close enough to press plush lips against the fabric of her panties, wanting to tease her a bit first before he gives her his actual tongue and fingers. teddy drags the flat of his tongue along the seam of her folds through the fabric, repeating the motion until there was a blooming wet spot. satisfied with the fact that he couldn't tell where asami's arousal began and his saliva ended, he tugged the panties down far enough to put his mouth on her directly. teddy closes his eyes, moving his hands to spread her open slightly before lapping at her folds with eager, insatiable drags of the flat of his tongue. he moans when he feels encouraging fingers tangle in his hair, and teddy takes the hint, pulling back for a moment with plush lips coated in her arousal before he dives back in to press his tongue inside of her. he's fucking her on his tongue, cataloguing every pitchy moan or keening sound inside his head for later, moving a hand to start rubbing her clit to quickly get her to climax. teddy strokes her clit, thrusting his tongue in and out of her in earnest until she starts to shudder and contract around his tongue. he pulls out, takes a moment to catch his breath and simply breathes, "fucking delicious."

#hypesboy #🥀 ⠀ ⠀ * ⠀ ⠀𝐢𝐧𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬.⠀ ／ ⠀maybe there is no answer.#🥀 ⠀ ⠀ * ⠀ ⠀𝐭𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐲. ⠀ ／ ⠀ replies.#🥀 ⠀ ⠀ * ⠀ ⠀ 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧. ⠀ ／ ⠀ let us take a knife & cut the world in two & see what worms are at the rind.#❤️ ⠀ ⠀ * ⠀𝐭𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐲 & 𝐚𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐢.⠀ ／ ⠀ you drew up some good faith treaties. i drew curtains closed & drank my poison all alone.#nsfw.

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teethrotter · 2 years

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pay the man.

Shimura dreams of Hatori. Takahashi is unable to help him.

CW: death, vomit / vomiting, car accident, gore ( relatively tame description ), angst, general sad boy shit

Paper pages fluttering together within the well-maintained, hardcover body of a book. The scent of mahogany and cedar and hickory. Clipped, warm laughter. Suit jacket sleeves brushing up against one another. Brewing coffee in a Syphon. Flashes of teeth in a wide grin. Lips fitting around silent words, arched with fondness. Leather Bergere chairs. Half empty beer glasses. Gently ravenous brown eyes. A mole placed just underneath a full lower lip. Crunching autumn leaves. A cartoonish black cat punctuated with an exaggerated frown: a sad cat.

More pages, this time bearing coiled, pretty penmanship rather than typed print. Hints of those same pages, through smell, sight, or audio, omnipresent throughout the brief snapshots. Shimura can taste the combined scents on the back of his tongue, threatening to choke him with either comfort or malice; he is no longer certain of which is prevalent. Regardless, they are overpowering, rendering him helplessly flat on his back and accompanying a one-word mantra: Hatori, Hatori, Hatori, Hatori, Hatori, Hatori.

The smells collapse to the bitter taste of fear, the same fear that enacted Hatori’s death sentence. Concern for his own well-being. Concern for the well-being of his wife and children. The nausea chasing the realization that it is not mere numbers being added together, it is not concrete, lifeless statistics, but actual people with lives beyond their occupations being murdered. The stifling reality of rejection that had been with him since his earliest memories. Simple impulsivity. The sheer depth of Hatori’s mortal terror following the moments before his outburst until his death hours later would never be truly known by anyone but himself, alone in that as he had been alone in every other crisis.

The taste is once again odor. A portion of the stench is permanently embedded into the fabric of Shimura’s couch, where Hatori spent his last conscious moments. He remembers the man’s incessant trembling well, his gasps and hitches of breath, his eyes, typically so clear and telling, red and clouded with swollen tears. He remembers the wet of those tears seeping into the shoulder of his shirt, his own endless stream of apologies just barely damming the flood. He remembers Hatori’s forced speechlessness, his trachea too overrun with strangled hiccups to allow any semblance of air to pass. He remembers being thankful for his inability to see Hatori’s face; his bleeding heart would have been entirely unable to bear the brunt of his misery.

Now, Shimura’s heart aches, and aches, and aches, worse than it ever could have that evening.

Next comes the image of Hatori’s car, a small, royal blue thing of monetary value less than his status would otherwise indicate. The image presented to Shimura’s internal eye, however, does not depict a vehicle - he only knows that is what the mangled mess of metal, glass, and rubber once was. It had been thoroughly decimated by a large semi engaged in a wayward, rapid left turn, crushing the artificial extension of Hatori’s body nearly on impact. The precious core never had any semblance of chance.

While expected, Shimura never could have properly prepared for his coworker’s scripted death, written into play by Higuchi’s damning hand just as easily as Hatori’s own crafted calligraphy. He glimpsed the horrific wreckage on the local news later that night, the photograph forever embedding itself into his visual memory as the victim’s name was announced. A pit formed deep in his stomach as he grotesquely observed the front end practically folding in on itself, the vehicle compacted into something half its original size. The glass of the windshield had been largely thrown inwards and Shimura can’t help but pray that Hatori was killed immediately, before the glass was able to impale him. The possibility that he died in debilitating agony, sobbing and bleeding and alone, is too much for Shimura to bear.

Abruptly, the flashback ends, and the driver’s side of Hatori’s disfigured little car comes into view. Glass from the windows is scattered throughout the street, leaving them open for viewing save for sparse clumps of material clinging to their now misshapen borders. Shimura, totally disembodied as he is, as if observing through a camera lens, begins to drift involuntarily forward to peer inside.

As he gradually nears the wreckage, panic and nausea bloom in his distant stomach. The gaping, crooked mouths of the crushed windows draw him ever closer and he knows that they will swallow him alive if presented with the opportunity. He loses the privilege of coherent thought as their individual glass teeth become stark against the car’s interior.

Within the mutilated corpse of the vehicle, pinned to the driver’s seat with needles of windshield glass, lies Hatori’s shell of a body. His clothing is unspeakably disheveled and pierced through in places. Superficial lacerations are gored into the expanse of his visible skin, most with glass embedded within / nearby. His head is dipped forward, hair shaggy enough from months without trim to conceal all but the tip of his nose. There is rusty, crusted blood threaded through the stark white and gray.

Hatori’s lips cannot be seen, but they begin to move. There is no other reasonable explanation, despite his horrible stillness, to explain why his voice can now be heard.

“You didn’t ask me to stay. I know how much you wanted to. You know I wouldn’t have fought you. You knew all along.” There is no hum of incoming traffic, no noise whatsoever. “You never even tried to save me. You knew how. You could have prevented this. At your house, it would have taken two words. At my last meeting, it would have taken a few sentences, a minuscule amount of discussion. You just didn’t care enough to pursue it.” A beat. “Your cowardice killed me. You killed me. You are the reason I will never see thirty-five. You are the reason my children will grow up without a father. You are the reason I will never see them become teenagers. You are the reason my father will pretend to grieve at my funeral. You are the reason…” The statements become a non sequitur, endless and merciless, penetrating to the core of Shimura’s being. “I hate you. I hate you. Murderer. Murderer. Murderer, murderer, murderer, murderer, murderer –- "

Shimura wakes with a jolt, a hiccup catching in his throat, tears coursing down his face, cold sweat sheeting his body, and bile exploding up his throat.

He bolts from the bed and into the adjoining bathroom. Falling heavily to his knees, he jerks the toilet seat up, hardly managing to duck his head quickly enough for yesterday’s chymified meals to plummet into the bowl. Retches wrack his frame as he sobs wetly, attempting to choke on his noises to prevent waking Eiichi or ( God forbid ) Haru. His hands, palms slick with sweat and freezing to the touch, shakily clutch the rim of the toilet bowl, lungs drawing in unstable breaths as he forces his body to partially calm. The stifled sobbing does not cease, his shoulders hunching and his esophagus aflame, face all but oozing with an unflattering mixture of sweat, mucus, and tears.

Suddenly, there is a tentative hand upon his tense shoulder, and Shimura knows that he has failed.

Takahashi smooths Shimura’s clumped bangs back from his damp forehead on a reflex born from repeating the same motion for his daughter countless times. The hand placed previously over his shoulder dips to rub gentle circles into the small of his back and Takahashi’s soft hip bumps up Shimura’s arm.

The man heaves pathetically, simultaneously plummeting deeper into his personal pit of self-loathing and struggling to refrain from allowing Eiichi to simply take him into his arms and set everything right ( as if anything could ever truly be right for them ever again ). Bile drips from his lips into the clouded water. He rasps for breath, haggard and pale and frigid, as his body finally appears to still.

“Bad dream?” Takahashi inquires softly, as if he has not yet tired of parroting the same question over and over on numerous nights just like this one. The hand previously pinning Shimura’s bangs snakes down to rest lightly over his belly, encircling his midsection.

Shimura merely nods - Takahashi is thoroughly acquainted with the regular subject of his nightmares by now, or at least the only one that consistently pushes him to tears and vomit. He edges marginally closer to the other man’s thigh, placing their bodies side by side.

“Mm.” Takahashi goes up briefly onto his knees to tenderly set the toilet seat down, flushing the bowl’s contents. He wastes no time in settling back beside Shimura, returning his arms to their loose, secure configuration. “Want some mouthwash? Water?”

“Y-Yes. Thank you.” Shimura’s words are croaked and cracked, his throat caustic with bile and emotion. Fresh tears drop to his chin, his sniffling undoubtedly obnoxious and wet and his chest fluttering shallowly with breaths he cannot yet control, but the unmanageable sobbing has quieted.

Takahashi guides the other carefully to his feet, bodily supporting him by draping an arm over his waist. Shimura’s fingers grip the fabric of his shirt, tremulous and unthinking. He simply pads along with Takahashi to the nearby sink, hands falling from their place as Takahashi administers a cap full of mouthwash. He gargles and spits, focusing on slowing his breathing, before he is given a small cup tap water. Nodding his thanks, he swallows before returning the cup to its place upon the rim of the sink. Exhaling shakily, he reaches to switch the faucet on, splashing distractedly at his already clammy face before toweling himself dry. Once he feels that he has sufficiently washed up, he finally shifts his attention fully to Takahashi, whose features are all but alight with anxiety and concern. The vestibules of shame encapsulating Shimura’s heart threaten to crawl up his raw throat.

“Do you need anything else?” Takahashi’s tone is soft, pliable, almost apprehensive, as if he is afraid of misspeaking. Shimura merely shakes his head, swallowing the palpable lump in his throat. Even though he has startled and woken the man an inexcusable number of times with the violent reactions to his mental torment, Takahashi is always in fear of somehow upsetting him further, as if he isn’t the one saving grace he has on nights such as these.

“No. I… It’s alright. Let’s go back to bed.” The statement tilts at its tail end, as if in question, but Shimura’s fingers dart decisively to Takahashi’s palm. The other man seems to hesitate, his eyes near frantically scanning over Shimura’s torso, but he nods unneeded assent. This time, he allows Shimura to lead him back into the bedroom, his fingertips lightly embedded into his palm.

They settle underneath the recently disturbed comforter, Shimura pressing his shoulders back to Takahashi’s chest as the man curls around him. Large arms gently wrap over his stomach. The nape of his neck is timidly nuzzled. He begins to physically relax for the first time in what feels to be hours.

Minutes composed solely of silence drift lazily by as Shimura wills himself thoughtless and Takahashi struggles not to fidget, mentally debating the best course of action. The last thing he wishes to do is prod inappropriately; he knows all too well the only subject capable of reducing his housemate to such hysterics.

“Do you want to talk about… him? H-Hatori or the dream? I don’t mind listening. Or trying to help.” It had taken him an eternity to rediscover his voice since the events that stole it from him, and yet how easy it is to relapse into muteness each time his nerves threaten to overtake him.

Shimura is silent for several seconds, but remains still; Takahashi does not panic, as he has not propelled him into another fit.

He inhales, the area between his shoulder blades nudging into Takahashi’s sternum. “I appreciate it, I really do. But it’s alright. Whenever I… dream about him, it tends to be the same thing, over and over again. This one was nothing new. Don’t worry.” He is thankful for Takahashi’s inability to see his face, for his inability to see the depth of his lie.

On every occasion such as this, Takahashi tries to coax Shimura to talk, even just a phrase or two, but his efforts consistently prove fruitless.

Simply put, Shimura does not deserve to talk, not after the role his hand played in Hatori’s death. He does not deserve any form of relief, does not deserve to have another to help bear the brunt of his cross, does not deserve Takahashi’s selflessness. Nothing Takahashi offers is his to take, nor should it be; his exclusive purpose was to provide Takahashi and his daughter with a life better than the one that was stripped from them. His sole obligation is to contribute to maintaining Takahashi’s hold on his indecisive voice and provide Haru with everything her weary, solicitous heart could ever desire. He no longer deserves to live for himself, not with the lost life he would be debasing by doing so. Hatori deserves better.

Takahashi’s cautious doubt is thick because he knows, knows that he is being lied to and that Shimura is not telling him something, but he has never been one for prying into matters that he is clearly intended to keep away from. His voice fails him just as it had all those months ago, reduced to holding the other man close to his chest and pressing his forehead into his dark hair in a meaningless ( desperate ) endeavor to ward off any more thoughts of Hatori from his brain. He does not deserve to be haunted as he was by his ghost.

Shimura yawns, careless and unbothered, something that Takahashi knows he is not.

“Let’s go back to sleep. I’m sorry for waking you up.” He longs to be able to honestly say that this will not happen again. “Haru has school tomorrow.”

“Right. You’re right.”

Takahashi’s heart aches, and aches, and aches.

#death note #fanfiction #the yotsuba group #eiichi takahashi #suguru shimura #takamura #writing tag #original date: 12 / 18 #more context on ao3 under the same username + title blah blah

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marionrav · 2 years

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Writing information about strong glasses

So, for the record, I’m legally blind without my glasses. You’re talking “one eye thinks the focal point is 20 feet behind my head” levels of not seeing for crud. So, what have I seen writers do?

1) Fumbling to get your glasses to read fine text / read the phone.

I literally need to be two inches from the screen to read the text of this post. The only time my glasses go off is when I’m asleep or if I’m dozing.

2) I’ll just get a new pair of glasses!

Sure, there’s all sorts of online sources for glasses now, but in the 80′s in the US you were looking at about a month to get a new pair unless your optometrist made the lenses in house (which basically stopped by the 90′s.) Even now, you’re looking at 2 weeks or so to get a new pair of glasses.

An optometrist, for a high index (that means thinner lenses, less chance of rainbows and a lighter pair of glasses) lens, will often charge about $500 dollars for the lenses. An online place will often be closer to 120$ or so for a complete pair with frames.

3) She was wearing cokebottle frameless glasses.

Actually, no. Most frameless glasses can’t handle very strong lenses, and a lot of people that I know with strong prescriptions prefer half rim glasses at a minimum to keep your lenses falling out of the frames. Similarly, if you’re wearing your glasses full time, a lot of people prefer spring hinges (so they stretch out away from your face as well as fold up flat) to give a little more strength to your glasses.

4) She tripped on the chair in the night and fumbled around blind.

You can actually test this yourself. Cover up your eyes, and check if you can reach a light source from your bed without falling flat on your face. Even if you put on your glasses to get up in the night, a dark room is a dark room. Having a night light / a bedside lamp / a flashlight / or a clear path to a light switch makes sense.

I can get up without my glasses and work my way over to a light switch, but I’ve deliberately set up my room to have minimal things in my way.

5) She ran outside screaming and waving her hands in the blizzard.

Or, more accurately, her warm glasses immediately fogged up and she flailed around unable to see. Similarly, running around in the rain can leave you with water spots on your glasses, and wearing your glasses in the shower can be an exercise in futility. Think of a car windshield. If the weather conditions are messing it up, someone with glasses might have to wear a protective hat, or wipe their glasses off.

Similarly, you either have prescription swimming goggles, or swim blind, since chlorine / sea water tends to not be nice on glasses and the water spots / losing them in the pool or sea isn’t great. Many pools ban glasses / sunglasses in the water.

6) Without her glasses, she couldn’t recognize where she was.

Simply testable. Squint your eyes and look around a familiar area, or during a familiar ride. You can probably pick out landmarks, familiar objects, or patches of color. Yes, you can’t read house numbers or street signs, but you can probably figure out where the sidewalk is, and if you’re near something familiar.

#writing #research

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wildrolli · 2 years

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Virden freedom chevrolet

VIRDEN FREEDOM CHEVROLET FULL

VIRDEN FREEDOM CHEVROLET PROFESSIONAL

You can drop by to check out the inventory of the all-new Chevrolet Tahoe at our Springfield, IL showroom! We let the statistics speak for itself when it comes to this model as it has been America's best-selling full-size SUV year after year. Virden New Car Dealers Freedom Chevrolet Chrysler Dodge Jeep (217) 965-3327 Visit Website Map & Directions 625 S Springfield St Virden, IL 62690 Write a Review. Our dealership offers this vehicle and others on its lot. You can call our Sales, Service, or Parts department at 217-965. Add to this an unmatched towing capacity and latest infotainment and navigation technology on the dash, and you have got a perfect mix of brawn, brains and style in the new Chevrolet Tahoe, featured on our lot in Springfield, IL. Freedom Chevrolet Chrysler Dodge Jeep RAM is located at 625 S. The power-release second-row and power fold-flat third-row seat make this vehicle versatile and spacious. At the same time, the interior of the new Chevrolet Tahoe, available at our Springfield, IL, is classy and serene, as a result of an acoustic-laminated windshield and inlaid doors with triple seals, and soft-touch leather-appointed upholstery. Please provide the exact content of the review that you feel is inappropriate.Meet one of the bestselling SUV's in America, the new Chevrolet Tahoe in Springfield, IL! This vehicle has a rugged, solid exterior and an overall athletic stance that commands attention on the road. Which dealership do you believe this review was meant for, and what leads you to believe the review was posted to the incorrect page? Please let us know what leads you to believe that this review should be removed from the page. Freedom Chevrolet Inc, 625 S Springfield St (Rte 4), Virden, IL, (217) 965-3327. leading dealership in VIRDEN, Illinois where you can easily shop for New, Used or certified pre-owned auto cars, SUVs, hybrids. Please let us know what leads you to believe that this review was posted fraudulently.

VIRDEN FREEDOM CHEVROLET FULL

Please provide any identifying information that you have regarding the former employee that you believe wrote the review – full name, email, social media links, anything that will help us research a connection between the review and that person. Which review do you believe this to be a duplicate of? Please provide the screen name, date, etc. This Chevrolet Silverado 1500 LS, with a 8 Cylinder Engine engine, features a 4-SPEED A/T transmission, and generates 18 highway/15 city MPG. This is a measure put in place to help identify fraudulent posts on the site, and in some cases we may determine that the review is not subject to removal even when the reviewer has not read your response. New Car Dealers Auto Oil & Lube Used Car Dealers Website (217) 916-4292 625 S Springfield St Virden, IL 62690 3. Freedom Chevrolet Chrysler Dodge Jeep Ram a preferred dealer serving Virden. Our dealership carries a wide range of used cars, used trucks, and used SUVs here in Virden, IL including popular models like the RAM 1500. Get reviews, hours, directions, coupons and more for Freedom Chevy CDJR. I drove all the way out to Virden to take a look at a used car that was what I thought I wanted. 39 Reviews of Freedom Chevrolet Chrysler Dodge Jeep Ram - Chevrolet, Chrysler, Dodge, Jeep, Ram, Service Center Car Dealer Reviews & Helpful.

VIRDEN FREEDOM CHEVROLET PROFESSIONAL

We ask that reviewers read your private response within 5 days. Shopping for a used car can be a stressful experience, but here at United Freedom Chevrolet, our friendly and professional staff is here to help you find the perfect used car for you and your family. 4 reviews of Freedom Chevy CDJR So heres the deal. Please state your concerns regarding this review. Find reviews, opening hours, photos & videos for Freedom Chevrolet Chrysler Dodge Jeep Ram - Car Agents, Dealers And Dealerships in Virden.

#Virden freedom chevrolet

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lomofun · 2 years

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2010 jeep commander

#2010 JEEP COMMANDER DRIVER#

#2010 JEEP COMMANDER TV#

The driver's seat offers eight power settings, while the passenger seat provides four. The second and third rows of seats also fold down to provide significant flat cargo space when required. Each row of seating is slightly higher than the one in front of it for better visibility for back passengers. The first Jeep to feature three rows of seating, the Jeep Commander easily accommodates up to seven people. The 2010 model year, with rear-wheel drive, provides off-road capability with family-friendly options. Both rear and four-wheel drive options were available for the 2010 Jeep Commander, with all seating rows featuring side curtain airbags. Standard on the Jeep Commander is electronic stability, traction control, antilock brakes and Smart Key to prevent theft by immobilizing the engine. The classic angular Jeep look is powered by a 210-horsepower, 3.7-litre V-6 engine and a five-speed automatic transmission. It was produced from 2006 through to 2010, with two trim options available for the 2010 model, Sport and Limited. The Jeep Commander is a great example of a full-size, reliable SUV that won't have you breaking the bank.

357-hp, 5.If the ability to go exploring is what you're looking for in your next vehicle, take a look at the wide array of options an SUV offers.

210-horsepower, 3.7-liter V-6 with 235 pounds-feet of torque.

The 5.7-liter engine has a multi-displacement system that alternates between four-cylinder and V-8 mode for higher fuel efficiency. Hill start assist is also optional it keeps the Commander from rolling backward on an incline. Hill descent control, which is designed to keep the SUV’s speed to a crawl when traversing difficult terrain, is optional. In ascending order of ruggedness, Jeep calls its four-wheel-drive systems Quadra-Trac I, Quadra-Trac II and Quadra-Drive II. Three full-time four-wheel-drive systems and two transfer cases are available.

#2010 JEEP COMMANDER TV#

Optional second-row overhead TV monitor and satellite television.

#2010 JEEP COMMANDER DRIVER#

Standard eight-way power driver seat and optional four-way power passenger seat.Standard steering-wheel-mounted cruise control.Optional dual-zone automatic climate control.Wood-grain and leather-wrapped center console.Cloth, leather or perforated leather upholstery.A stepped roof provides headroom for rear occupants. The second- and third-row seats fold forward to create a flat load floor. Each row is slightly higher than the one ahead of it, enhancing forward visibility for rear occupants. The SUV holds up to seven occupants on two or three rows of seats. Standard body-colored door handles and front/rear bumpers.Its angular sheet metal and vertical side glass give it a classic Jeep profile and a rugged, upright, military look. The Commander features an upright windshield and rear window. The Commander’s competitors include the Toyota 4Runner, Nissan Pathfinder and Ford Explorer.įor 2010, the Commander dropped its 4.7-liter V-8 engine and the Overland trim. Sport and Limited trim levels are available, as are three four-wheel-drive systems. The Jeep Commander is the first Jeep to have three rows of seats it seats up to seven people.

#2010 jeep commander

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frontoffline · 2 years

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115 mercury motor

Crestliner has taken advantage of the space below the helm with more cargo netting storage. You can store your phone and wallet in the slash pocket on the front of the dash located just below the switches. The rocker switches are at your fingertips along with a 12volt socket for portable equipment or to charge you cell phone. The standard Crestliner dash has a three-spoke wheel with a cup holder over on the left side and analog gauges above the wheel for a clear view, while some of the smaller gauges are mounted behind the wheel and a little harder to see, and to the right is a standard Lowrance X50-DS depth finder.

At the Wheel The raised helm allows the driver plenty of leg room. The companion dash has a large divided glove box in the top and cargo netting underneath for added storage. Rods up to 10' feel long can fit into the six rod rack on the port side of the cockpit. In fact, when it gets sloppy, flip on the raw water wash-down mounted at the back of the cockpit and give her a quick rinse. The vinyl flooring has aggressive grip, so you don't have to walk around gingerly when the floor gets wet. The cockpit is another great place to work fish, nets and pots from the cockpit with its high 27" depth walls. In the Cockpit Moving to from the bow to the cockpit the high, protective framed windshield has a large center walk-through. A handy flip-down cup holder is mounted on the front of the companion dash for the person fishing from the front deck. The center locker has two lids separated by a powder-coated seat base for one of the custom Concept DX casting pedestal chairs. The large platform offers good working space with four large lockers for gear and batteries for the trolling motor. The bow light stores in clips in a bow storage space located behind a snap cover in the peak. Over on the port side, the 1850 has a folding stern light stored behind the cargo netting in clips so you know exactly where to find it. Under the gunwales in front, this model has cargo netting to keep the rain gear and life jackets handy. Equipped with the optional bow and cockpit railings that are popular with families and crabbing crews. This coating also makes clean-up fast and simple. Features The entire interior of the Canadian 1850 is coated with Crestliner's special vinyl-coating that helps to insulate the boat and dampen noise. Please call 262-269-OO8lThis boat can be seen in our heated showroom by appointment, and stored there for 90-days with full payment until your ready for it this spring. Additional photos and video are available at CategoryĬheck out The price will also go up to $21990 3/1/16. For more information, please call toll free 86. Price is plus sales tax/fees and is subject to change without notice. Leaders Marine is one of the largest marine and motorsports dealers in the Midwest with over 70,000 sq ft of showroom, parts, and service under one roof located in Kalamazoo, MI. Competitive financing rates and terms are also available. Trades will be considered and delivery is available.

It has been inspected by our factory-trained technicians and is mechanically sound. There are minor cosmetic scuffs on the exterior (see pics/video). This boat is in very good overall condition with minimal wear and fading. Also included is an E-Z Loader bunk trailer including 13” wheels, composite fenders w/steps, spare tire w/cover, tie down straps, bearing buddies, and swivel jack. Features include: convertible top, Aquatronics AM/FM stereo w/weather guard, gauges including speedometer, tachometer, fuel, and voltmeter bilge pump, electric horn, navigation/anchor lights, bow seating w/under storage, full walk-thru windshield, passenger console glove box, in-floor ski/board storage compartment, driver and passenger back-to-back seats (lay flat to make sunloungers-see pics), port and starboard cockpit storage, (2) stern jump seats, beverage holders, passenger safety handles, integrated swim platform w/boarding ladder, stainless ski pylon, (3) stainless mooring cleats, fire extinguisher, and 6 person carrying capacity. 1999 STARCRAFT 1700 BR! A 115 hp Mercury outboard engine with power trim powers this fiberglass bowrider.

#115 mercury motor

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