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angelvyxen · 3 years ago

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“𝐈’𝐦 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐲, 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲.”

In which you’re Melo’s best friend & ex he’s not over

“What do you think of this?” You asked Melo as you turned around. He was laying back on your bed, scrolling through his phone. He moved his phone to the side and peeked over at you, “It’s straight.”

“It’s straight?”

“Yea, you look good.” He nodded.

You huffed and made your way towards your closet to rework your fit for the night again.

“C’mon bruh, I said you look straight! Why you changing again?”

“Because just looking ‘straight’ isn’t good enough. I need to look... I need to look..” you trailed off, looking for a word that encompasses just how much of a bad bitch you wanted to be tonight. "I need to look like City Girl meets Megan the Stallion."

"My nigga, what?"

"Just know I need to look good, Melo. Okay? Reef is going to be there tonight and I need to make sure I have every little bit of his attention."

Melo rolled his eyes from across the room when you mentioned Shareef.

"Man, fuck that nigga." You heard him grumble which made you laugh, asking,

"What do you have against Shareef?"

"I don't have anything against dude."

"Yes, you do. You've been on him since I mentioned I like him." You stepped out of your closet and leaned against the door frame to look him in the eyes.

"He's a bitch." He shrugged before looking back at his phone.

"What do you mean?"

"What I said. He's a bitch and you don't need to be associating with someone like that."

You rolled your eyes, "Negro, please," and stepped back into the closet. “You gotta chill on him.”

“How you Shaq’s son and still ain’t made it to the league yet?”

“He had health issues Melo, you know that. Please don’t go that low just because you don’t like him for no good reason.”

Melo sucked his teeth and leaned back on your bed, focusing back on his phone. “I got numerous good reasons.” He grumbled to himself.

“What was that?” You asked, poking your head out of the closet again.

“Nothing man! Finish getting ready, we late cause of you.”

“Uh huh, whatever.”

You settled for something basic, but cute. A pair of black jeans, your favorite color way of the Jordan 1s Melo had gotten you for Christmas last year and a matching graphic tee with some jewelry to bump up the outfit.

“You look good.” Melo remarked, his eyes following you as he opened the passenger door of his jet black Rolls-Royce Cullinan for you. You were happy you got to spend today with him. Both of your schedules never seemed to align anymore since the season started for him and you started a new job.

“Thank you best friend.” You grinned as you slid into the passenger seat of his car. He shut the door and walked around the car, opening his door and sliding into his own seat.

You held out your hand and he placed his phone in it before starting the car. As he was backing out of the driveway you unlocked his phone and went to his Apple Music. You scrolled through his playlists until you came to your favorite one, ‘Vibes 🥵🤞🏼💕’. You plugged in the aux cord before hitting shuffle and set his phone down. ‘Get you’ by Daniel Caesar started to play a few moments later. Melo raised his brows before a wide smile spread across his face and he said loudly, “Oh say less! Whatchu tryna do?”

“Boy, what are you talking about?” You giggled as you looked at the goofy expression on his face.

“You playing my grown folks music playlist, you tryna start something?” He looked over at you.

“Ew,” you scrunched up your face.

“Man don’t act like you don’t want this body.”

“Boy bye. I would never.”

“Oh word, so you wouldn’t kiss me right now?” He puckered his lips at you.

You shook your head and looked in the other direction, “Nope.”

“Girl stop playing and give me them lips.” He gently gripped your chin, forcing your head to turn and started to lean in close. This wouldn’t be the first time you kissed Melo. The nature of you two’s friendship was different than most. The two of you used to date but decided after a couple months that you’d be better as friends. Since you were already comfortable with one another, doing boyfriend-girlfriend things weren’t awkward. Long hugs, cuddling, and occasional kissing weren’t anything to you when it came to him.

Before both of your lips touched the car jerked to the side which made you realize he was still driving.

“Focus on the road!” You said sharply as the car jerked back to the opposite side, making it centered in the road again. Melo was laughing the entire time and you hit him in his chest, “That wasn’t fucking funny. I’m too young to die.”

“Relax, you still alive. Aren’t you? Always overreacting.”

You rolled your eyes and faced front, crossing your arms over one another.

“Aye,” he reached over and gently flicked your cheek, “Fix your face. The shit isn’t that serious for you to be catching an attitude over.”

You pushed his hand away, keeping your eyes in front of you.

“Cmon man, don’t start this. We were just having a good time.”

You kept quiet and you heard him sigh loudly. A second later you felt a hand on your thigh, rubbing up and down.

“You wanna get some food later?” He asked, knowing that that phrase alone would get your attitude in check.

“What kind?”

“Del Taco?”

You unfolded you arms and Melo laughed, “You so fucking fat.”

“Aht, don’t fuck up nigga. I’ll catch my attitude all over again.”

He nodded, “Heard you. I take it back.”

“As you should.” You said as you picked up your phone to play some games to pass the time. You settled on temple run, tapping your nails against the screen as you waiting for the game to load.

You squealed excitedly when you saw a text from Shareef pop up at the top of your screen. Melo glanced over at you confused as you typed up a response.

“Who you talking to?” He asked, trying to see what was happening on your phone screen.

“Shareef.” You answered and almost instantly heard him suck his teeth. You ignored his clear distaste for your crush and asked, “He asked if I’m sliding through, do you think ‘Yea, can’t wait to see you’ is good or does that make me sound too eager?”

“How about you just don’t text the nigga at all or you text him no and we just don’t go to the party at all.”

“Melo,” you whined, “I really like him, can you set aside the hate you have for him, please? For me?”

“Why do you even like him so much?”

“Well he’s kind,”

“Any one can be ‘kind’. Next.”

“He makes me laugh,”

“That’s not a valid reason. Clowns can do that. Then again, he is a clown ass nigga so,” Melo shrugged his shoulders and you rolled your eyes, deciding to ignore the statement.

“He’s cute,”

“He look like a big toe.”

“Melo! No he does not!”

“Yes he do. And his teeth all crooked. He need some braces. In fact, remind me to give dude my dentist’s number.”

You rolled your eyes and continued to list your reasons,

“He listens to me,”

Melo sucked his teeth, “So I don’t listen to you?”

“Where did you even get that from? See, now you’re just pulling shit out of thin air to be mad about. What is your problem?”

“Nothing. I just think it’s wild how this nigga come into the picture and all of a sudden I’m getting wiped out of it.”

“Melo what are you talking about?”

“So we just about to act like you haven’t been texting or calling me as much? And we finna act like you don’t want to come see me no more cause you’re always with him?”

“That is not true.”

“Yes it is. Wasn’t it just last week I offered to fly you out to Houston to see my game and you said no cause you and that nigga was supposed to be hanging out all weekend?”

“Oh my God, you still mad about that? Grow up.”

“Grow up? So it’s just fuck my feelings now cause he here?”

“How am I supposed to get to know him if I’m always with you?! I can have a life outside of you LaMelo!” You raised your voice slightly as you started to get heated. You didn’t understand why he wasn’t happy for you, he was supposed to be your friend.

“Why do you even want to get to know him! Ain’t shit to know! He don’t do shit, he don’t have shit but his daddy’s money and a fucked up hairline anyways!”

“Okay, now you’re about to get me mad.”

“Oh me talking about your lil boyfriend make you mad? Man fuck him! It’s not like he’s about to wife you no how! He’s probably trying to hit it and quit it, it’s not like you hard to get at.”

You stared at him for a second, wanting to believe that he didn’t just say what he said out of spite of all things.

“Fuck you! Don’t be mad at me because you’re too attached to me to get your own girlfriend!”

“Oh, I’m too attached now? That’s what we going with?”

“Nigga that’s what’s been happening! You’re so jealous you can’t even let me be happy!”

The two of you pulled up in front of the house party and he stopped the car, leaned back in his seat and looked down at you.

“Alright shut the fuck up. You about to get me hot.”

“Now you want to be a pussy when I tell you the truth. Typical.”

“I said shut the fuck up bruh. I’m not tryna get mad at you.”

You turned towards him in your seat, “You know what your problem is? You can’t get over that lil relationship we had. You need to build a bridge and leave that shit in the past, it was never that serious.” You said. Deep down you didn’t mean it but he already took the argument too far by calling you an easy fuck.

His jaw clenched as he ground his teeth behind his closed lips and his brows furrowed ever so slightly, leaving a small crease in his forehead.

“Oh, so now you don’t got shit to say no more?” You questioned, looking up at him.

He picked up his key and phone, opened the door and got out of the car, slamming the door behind him. You watched as he was walked into the party leaving you behind. You blew out some air to calm yourself down before grabbing your things and getting out.

When you walked into the house you couldn’t spot Melo anywhere but your attention was quickly taken away from trying to find him when you felt an arm snake around your waist. You looked up at Shareef, a smile spreading across your face.

“Hey!” You greeted.

“Hey. You look good.” He replied, pulling you into a quick side hug. “Those shoes are fire.”

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t think you were coming still. You read my text and didn’t reply.”

“Oh! My bad I just.. I got distracted on my way here.”

“Uh huh. You came with your boy?” He asked referring to Melo.

“Yeah.”

“He just walked in here looking mad at the world. Y’all had an argument or sum in the car?”

Shareef started to walk you around the house, away from the main party.

“Something like that. We just didn’t see eye to eye on something.. can we not talk about him, I’m here with you right now, I want to focus on you.” You looked up at Shareef, smiling.

For the next couple hours you hung out with Shareef in the backyard by the fire pit. There were a couple chairs set up in a circle around it so the both of you made yourselves welcome. The two of you talked about any and everything, only leaving to go refill your drinks a few times throughout the night.

“So that’s why I decided to do indisciplinary studies instead of just majoring in one thing.”

You nodded as Shareef finished telling you about his college plans. You liked that he was so goal focused and not all of his goals in life pertained to having a career in the nba like his dad.

“So-” you were cut off by the sound of a familiar voice.

“Yo!”

Both you and Shareef turned to be met with his friend Josh Christopher who you’ve only met a handful of times, another 2 friends you didn’t know and.. Melo.. with a girl under his arm. They all had girls with them but Melo stuck out to you the most.

“Y’all mind if we sit?” Josh asked, already picking a chair and sitting down.

“Go ahead.” Reef said and you just smiled politely watching all of them sit and pull the girls they were with into their laps since there weren’t enough chairs.

You crossed your ankles, feeling uncomfortable as Melo took a seat directly across from you. You still felt tense about the argument the two of you had earlier but he didn’t seem to care much anymore as he was feeling up the girl, who wouldn’t stop giggling, in front of you.

Everyone started to talk as a group and you said a few things here and there but mainly kept to yourself.

“So, Reef,” Josh said getting everyone’s attention, “I don’t mean to be nosy or nothing.. but imma be nosy, what’s going on with you and her?” He nodded his head towards you.

“Whatchu mean?” Shareef laughed

“You know what I mean. Is that your girl? Is future Mrs. O’Neil in our presence?”

Shareef looked over at you, “You wanna be future Mrs. O’Neil?” He asked, a wide smile on his face.

You returned the smile and shrugged, “Maybe, maybe not. We’ll see.” You laughed. You managed to catch Melo’s glare as you turned your head. He had completely stopped giving the girl in his lap attention and his eyes were dead set on you as he wore the same expression he did in the car before he stormed out earlier.

You ignored his dirty look and him, looking back at Shareef as the two of you got back into your own conversation.

“Did I already tell you you look good tonight?” He asked as he moved closer to you.

“I believe you did.” You grinned, also moving closer to him. You had already shut Melo out of your mind.

“Well, just to let you know, you look good tonight.” He commented and you responded with a giggle, “Nah, but for real, you look good. I like your makeup and that shiny stuff you got on your lips.”

“My lipgloss?” You questioned, cocking a brow at the fact he acted as though he didn’t know what lipgloss was.

“Mhm. It smells nice. Like strawberries.”

“It’s strawberry flavored. Fun fact.”

“Does it taste like strawberries too?” He was getting very close to your face, you could almost feel his breath against you.

You leaned in, further closing the small gap between you two and whispered, “Find out.”

You were caught of guard when instead of feeling Shareef’s lips against yours you felt yourself getting pulled back and stood up. You looked back as you were quickly being dragged away from the group and of course, Melo was the one pulling you away.

He was facing the house so you couldn’t see his face.

“Melo! Let me go!” You struggled out, trying to yank your arm out of his grip, which only made him hold on tighter.

“Aye!” You looked back at the group, seeing Shareef stand up while everyone else looked amongst themselves in confusion.

Shareef grabbed your free arm making Melo stop and look back at him.

“Whatchu doing bruh? Let her go.” Reef said as he tugged you towards him.

“Imma give you 2 seconds to let go of her before I punch you dead in your shit.”

“I don’t want to fight you. We in public bro, just chill out and let her go.”

“One.”

“I know you her friend and all but you’re overdoing this shit. I know you’re not about to hit me in front of all these-”

Before Shareef could finish his sentence, one of Melo’s fists went flying at his face. Luckily, he dodged it but that didn’t stop Melo from swinging again.

“Melo! Chill out!” You placed a hand on his chest and pushed him back.

“Yo, go talk to your boy. He wildin’.” Shareef had already let you go by now.

“I will. Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be back.” You told him as Melo had already started pulling you away again.

“You won’t.” You heard Melo grumble as he pulled out through the back door of the house.

“Slow down!” You said as he brought you upstairs before opening a door and pushing you inside the room. The door closed and you heard a click as the door locked. He flipped on the light and you could now see he brought you into a bathroom.

You looked back at him, an angry expression on your face. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” He didn’t respond as he backed you up into the counter behind you. He reached behind you and picked up a small towel and then grabbed your face. “What are you-”

“Shut the fuck up. Damn! You talk to much.” He cut you off harshly before starting to roughly wipe the lipgloss off of your lips.

“You got me all the way fucked up right now.” He continued to grumble as he flipped on the tap behind you and wet the towel before bringing it back to your lips and wiping again, “Do it taste like strawberries too? Find out,” he mocked, “I can’t believe your ass.” He grumbled as he continued to wipe.

You pushed his hand away from your mouth, “What is your issue?!”

“Don’t ask me no stupid shit like that. You know exactly what my issue is.”

“No, I don’t. I don’t see why you had to come and embarrass me in front of everyone like that.” You hit his chest which made him take a step back.

“I embarrassed you?” He said shocked, as if he wasn’t the one in the wrong.

“YES!” You said louder than you had intended for it to come out. You almost felt like crying thinking back on what had just taken place. “What is your issue today?! First you basically call me an easy hoe in the car and now this?! Did you even for a second stop to think about my feelings?!”

“No.” He shrugged, “Cause you never thought about mine. And don’t act like you didn’t say some foul shit too. Our relationship ‘was never that serious’ you remember that?”

“You can’t use that against me, you’re the one that started everything. I don’t understand why you can’t just be happy for me.”

“Be happy for you?” He made a face, “How do you expect me to be happy seeing the woman I love move on and rub that shit in my face? You want me to be happy about that? I tried to tolerate it but you want me to keep a straight face and act like it doesn’t bother me when you give another nigga attention the way you use to give me?” He stepped closer to you, now only a few centimeters separated both of your bodies, “You expect me to sit up here with a straight face as you’re about to kiss someone else? I admit, I was wrong for doing that in front of all those people but can you blame me?… I thought I could keep my shit together and be just friends with you but to be honest,”

He he cut himself off and picked you up and placed you on the counter, standing in between your legs and placed both his hands on either side of you before saying, “I didn’t want to break up to begin with. I’m greedy baby. Ion wanna share you with nobody.” His soft lips brushed against yours before capturing them in a warm kiss. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer as your arms snaked around his neck.

His lips moved down to your neck, you moaned as you felt his teeth gently bite down on your skin while he kissed and sucked around the area. You already knew he’d leave a hickey. One of his hands started to creep up your shirt, gently tracing your stomach before making its way to your back and unhooked your bra. He pulled away from your neck and pulled your shirt off of you from the bottom, up and discarded it behind him before sliding each of your bra straps off your shoulders and tossing the bra on the floor like he did your shirt.

He placed his lips back on yours as his both of his hands started to fondle your breasts. He lightly squeezed the left one and pinched your right nipple with his other hand which made you squeal. He chuckled into the kiss and did it again, this time pinching both nipples harder than he had before which evoked the same sound from you.

“Be gentle, they’re sensitive.” You mumbled.

“I know,” he mumbled back, repeating the same action again, smiling as he watched you pull away from the kiss, throwing your head back slightly with your eyes shut tightly, “That’s why I like doing it.”

He brought you back into the kiss, moving his hands from your breasts (to your relief) and placed them by your sides. A moment later his hands got busy again, with his right one unzipping your jeans while the left one spread your legs further. His right hand snaked into your pants. You were dripping in anticipation, waiting to feel his fingers stroke your sensitive skin but instead he touched you from outside your panties. You felt his index finger rub your clit through the thin fabric and whimpered out needily, “Melo please,” you said breathlessly, breaking the kiss.

“Please, what?”

“Touch me.” It was torture having his finger so close but feeling so far.

Instead of doing what you asked oh so kindly for he removed his hand and went back to undressing you. He stepped back and grabbed one of your feet, untying one of your sneakers and setting it down on the ground before moving to the other one, untying the laces painfully slow. Once your sneakers were off he grabbed the waistband of your jeans and started to pull the article of clothing off of your legs. Once half your thigh was exposed he bent down and pressed a kiss on one of your thighs. “This was always my favorite part of your body.” He said quietly as he continued to pull your jeans down your legs. He pulled them off the rest of the way and let them fall to the ground after he pulled them off your ankles.

He refocused his attention back on your thighs, pressing a few, scattered, soft kisses on them as he inched back up towards your pussy. He licked your inner thigh, making you shiver before saying, “This,” he took his index finger and pressed it directly against your clit, “Is my second favorite part of you.”

Your hands grabbed the hem of your panties and tried to pull them down but he stopped you, lightly smacking away your hands and stood up straight once more.

“Melo..” you whined as you watched his lips stray farther and farther away from your pussy.

“Uh uh, no whining, you fucked up yourself.” He leaned in close, “What’s my one rule when we making love?”

“Not to touch myself.” You replied quietly, “But you were teasing.”

“That don’t matter my love.” He pecked your lips, “A rule is a rule.”

He pulled away and took off his shirt. You watched as his tanned abs and then his number 1 tattoo on his chest were exposed. He dropped his shirt on the ground and you took in his appearance for a second. His gold chains were shining under the light. You watched as he slipped off his shoes and then took a step back before waving you over and then pointing a finger down on the ground. You slid off the counter and got your knees in front of him. No words needed to be said, you knew what he wanted. You slid his slim-fit sweatpants down his legs. He made it easier for you by kicking them off his ankles.

You reached up, your hands feeling the bulge in his underwear. You looked up into his eyes, putting on your most innocent look face as your lips pressed against his tip through the fabric before you lightly drug your tongue against it. You could feel his hard on strain against the fabric as you did so. You, wanting him in your mouth already and too eager to continue teasing, pulled his underwear down his legs. His dick sprung out, almost hitting his stomach.

Your mouth hung open slightly as your eyes focused on all maybe 8 or 9 inches of his length. It throbbed slightly, some precum leaking out of the tip and down the base. Melo grabbed the base of his dick and guided it towards your lips, only needing to say “Open,” before you parted your lips and let him push each inch into your mouth.

You bobbed your head, guiding your tongue all along his length, outlining each vein, before moving it back to the tip, swirling it around. “Fuck,” he rasped out as his hands tangled in your hair, giving him a good grip on your head. He tried to push more of himself into your mouth but you stopped him, pulling back. “It can’t fit all in my mouth,” you said, using the time his dick was out of your mouth to catch your breath. “We’ll make it fit down your throat then.” He said as he pushed his shaft back into your mouth. When you felt his tip hit the back of your throat you gagged loudly to which he instructed, “Relax. Relax your throat.”

You did as he said, relaxing the best you could as you felt the tip of his dick move past the back of your throat and downward. You watched as each inch disappeared and your nose pressed against his stomach. “Good girl,” you heard him remark in a breathy moan. He pulled back again to let you breath before pushing his entire length down your throat once more. He got into rhythm, fucking your throat and guiding your head. It got sloppy quick, saliva dripping off of his dick and onto the floor and onto the both of you in the process. He thrusted down your throat one last time before cumming with a loud moan. You nearly choked as he came ropes down your throat without warning but somehow survived it without one gag. He pulled his saliva coated dick out of your mouth with a satisfied sigh and you swallowed the left over cum and saliva in your mouth.

He scooped you up and you felt yourself being set back on the counter. To your surprise he kissed you, rolling his tongue against yours as he slipped off your panties. Your juices had leaked through them and were starting to come down your legs. Something about sucking dick made you so horny. Melo’s head dipped down but you grabbed it, saying, “Just fuck me.” You didn’t even want head anymore. He did as you wanted, pressing his tip against your entrance before pushing in each inch of his dick slowly. You let out a satisfied moan, enjoying the feeling of having him back inside you after so long. He placed his head in the crook of your neck as his dick bottomed out inside you and you gripped his shoulders. You felt his lips brush against your ear before hearing, “It feels so good to be in my pussy again,” before he pulled out and thrust back in roughly, “And no other nigga better have been in it.” You let out a moan in response while shaking your head.

He fucked you like a mad man, thrusting in out of you faster and harder than you could comprehend. Your eyes started to subconsciously roll to the back of your head and your mouth hung open as a trail of endless moans left your lips. “You feel so good,” he whispered in your ear which set you off. You cleaned around his shaft, your nails gripped his back tighter and you started to cum all over his dick to which he responded with a groan saying, “You don’t know how good that feels,”

He fucked you on the counter for a few more minutes before you felt yourself getting picked up. Without missing a beat, or pulling out of you he switched your position, having you now bent over the counter. He gave your head him towards the mirror, “I want you to watch while we make love.” He leaned in close, switching the pass or his thrusts. “How does it feel?” He asked as he placed a kiss on your neck.

“I-it feels..” you struggled to get out, trying to keep your head up like he wanted.

The kisses moved from your neck to your cheek, “How it feel baby, talk to me.”

“It feels good.” You moaned out, “It feels so good daddy.”

“There you go,” he said as his thrusts picked up again. You let out another embarrassingly loud moan when you felt his fingers rub your very sensitive clit and he asked, “You love me? Hm?” Before feeling a kiss on your shoulder blade.

“Yes baby, oh my god, I love you so muchhh.”

He chuckled before using his free hand to face your face towards him. He pressed his lips against yours, trying to give you a kiss but you were moaning too much to kiss him back. He faced your head back towards the mirror, “You not letting no nigga take my place again, right?”

“Noo, never again,” you replied breathlessly before letting out another loud moan as you came everywhere once again.

“Good.” He placed a small peck on your cheek and let go of your head and moved his other hand from your pussy. He then gripped both of your arms and held them behind your back as he stood up straight and fucked you mercilessly.

——————————

I didn’t think I’d finish this today, but here I am, hours later lmao. I hope you all enjoyed. People have been asking me to do an imagine where Melo likes his best friend and they have sex for so long lmao so I hope this satisfied those anons.

Side note: imagine Melo telling you he doesn’t want to share you with nobody else but himself 😩

Please excuse any errors. I’m tired lol.

#dipsangelss #meloimagine #everything #softmelo

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reidingandwriting · 4 years ago

Text

Chapter Two- “no body, no crime”

“No body, no crime. I wasn’t letting go until the day he died.”

Word Count: ~2300 words

Warnings: Drinking (legal), missing person, references to death & murder, mentions of an affair, mentions of guns and blood

Characters Mentioned: Neutral!Reader

Minor Original Characters Featured: Este, Lennox, Mark, Bella, Detective Hooper

A/N: I am soooo sorry for how long this chapter took to come out! Between college starting back up and spraining my wrist in a fall, it’s been impossible to write. But here is chapter two!! This chapter is where things really start to happen, and next chapter we’ll see some familiar faces again 😉 Anyways, I hope y’all enjoy the chapter!

Previous chapter

Next chapter

A few days later…

“I hope you don’t mind, but I might be pre-gaming for our dinner tomorrow.” You had said while on the phone with your friend Este the night before. “The last few days have been.. brutal.” You knew she could hear the shakiness in your voice, the remnants of the tears unshed as you tried to keep them at bay. But she didn’t say anything, and that’s why you loved her so much.

“Be safe and I’ll see you tomorrow. Drink one for me.” You let out a teary laugh and hummed in agreement as you took another sip from your wine glass. “Love you, Y/N.”

“Love you, too. Goodnight.” “Goodnight.”

You rushed into Olive Garden the next day, a jacket over your head in an attempt to shelter yourself from the rain that started the second you parked at the restaurant. The cherry on top of your day. You fixed your hair haphazardly before you looked around the dining room, and you smiled when your eyes landed on your friend, at your usual booth.

“Y/N, welcome back. You know your way to your spot now, I’ll be right there with your usual.” Lennox, a familiar waiter, said as they passed you, a bright smile on their lips.

“What would we do without you, Lennox?” You offered a smile as you walked over to Este.

“I’m a big fan of the rained-on look, Y/N. Not many can rock that like you.” You rolled your eyes as you sat down across from her, and you took in your friend’s appearance. Her eyes were tired, the concealer applied a little heavier under her eyes than usual. Her outfit looked flawless, but her nail polish on her thumb was chipped. Her hair held their curls beautifully, except for the one curl that had been messed with until it was nearly straight- her nervous habit.

“Oh, you know, nothing like a little rainstorm to spice up my outfit. Who needs to accessorize when you can get rained on?” You paused as your waiter came over with a glass of your favorite wine, and you thanked them before looking at Este. “You look tired.” You swirled your glass of wine before taking a sip, giving her a chance to speak.

“I hate profilers, you know that?” She sighed but confessed. “It’s Mark. He’s been… off lately. I think he’s cheating on me.” You raised a brow at Este, setting your glass down to speak.

“Why do you think that?”

“He comes home from work late with the taste of cheap merlot on his mouth, and I got the latest bank statement. I don’t know what he got at the jewelers, but it isn’t mine.” She took a sip of her wine before looking at you, her eyes filled with determination. “I think I’m gonna call him out.”

“Are you sure? You don’t have any solid evidence yet, and I don’t want you rushing into something you might regret.”

“Evidence? You’re making it sound like he committed a crime, Y/N. He may be a cheater, but he isn’t, like, a murderer.” Este drummed her fingers against the table. “And you’re right. I can’t prove it yet.” She paused as our food was set up at our table and didn’t speak again until the waiter walked off. “But I’ll catch him, and that’s a promise.”

You sat at your usual booth, and you took small sips from your glass of water as you scrolled through your phone. You were distracted though, and it was obvious. Your eyes flickered from your phone, back to the dining room, back to your phone. It had been nearly half an hour since you arrived at Olive Garden, and you hadn’t heard from Este. Este had an occasional habit of running late, but she’d always text or call you saying she was on her way. You checked your messages and voicemail once more and frowned when you saw you hadn’t missed anything. You took another sip of your water as you settled back into the booth. I’ll wait another half hour, you decided.

Straight to voicemail. “Este. Call me back when you can, please. It’s been an hour, and I haven’t heard from you.”

Straight to voicemail. You dialed another number, panic beginning to rise in you. “Hi, Eleanor. Did Este come into work today? No? Okay, thank you. Bye.”

Straight to voicemail. “I hope you’re okay, but I’m so mad at you for scaring me like this. Let me know you’re okay, please? I’m calling Mark now. Love you.”

“The Fairfax City Police are asking for help regarding the disappearance of Este Williams. Mrs. Williams was reported to be seen last by her husband, Mark Williams, when she left due to an emergency call at work Monday evening. A friend of Mrs. Williams was supposed to meet with her on Tuesday evening, but Mrs. Williams never showed, leading to her husband reporting her missing that night. On screen is the most recent picture of Mrs. Williams and if anyone has any leads on her disappearance, please call the number listed below. An investigation has been opened and a local search and rescue will be organized.”

You couldn’t remember how long you had been in your car. You didn’t have a destination in mind when you left this morning, but you found yourself driving around Fairfax, around all of Este’s favorite spots. Sal’s Diner, the botanical garden, Wendy’s Coffee Shop. Everywhere you two frequented you had driven past that day, but there was no sign of Este anywhere. A week had passed since she was reported missing, and the local police department’s presence slowly faded into the usual patrols. Two weeks later, the search party had been called in and seemed to grow smaller and smaller with each passing day. Their discouragement was obvious due to the lack of findings regarding Este, whispers spreading through the streets that she had just left for bigger things. But you refused to believe your best friend had uprooted and disappeared without even a text. She had just been accepted into her doctorate program at Georgetown, she was supposed to attend her sister’s wedding. Something was off about this situation, and you spent your free time looking for anything that could result in finding your friend.

By the end of the night, you found yourself in her neighborhood. You drove past her house, slowing to a stop when you noticed an unfamiliar car in the driveway. You then noticed Mark’s truck beside the car, the usually dirty vehicle now cleaned to where it almost sparkled in the moonlight. You parked off to the side, and you strained to look into the windows of the home. You could see the brief silhouette of Mark standing, and a woman on the couch. The unanswered call and texts flashed through your mind, and you gripped the steering wheel, your knuckles turning white from the harshness of your grip. Deep breath, Y/N, relax. You took a deep breath and relaxed your fingers, turned your car off, and leaned back in your seat. Not your first stakeout, and it won’t be your last. You knew Mark was involved but you just couldn’t prove it. Yet. And when you can prove it, Mark better pray to every god above.

Days had passed since you first started watching Mark. Your days started to blend into a cycle: your new glamorous job cleaning houses, a quick trip home to change, then driving to Este and Mark’s house. There were moving trucks the other day, Mark’s mistress moving in. Into Este’s home, where she slept. The garden she grew was torn out and covered up, every sign of Este ever existing was disappearing day by day. Deep down, you knew you couldn’t do anything to Mark. You weren’t in the FBI anymore, you couldn’t touch him. But all rationality had flown out the window when your friend’s disappearance had reached a month. You had spent hours in your car, waiting for the perfect time to find any evidence that would prove what Mark had done. And finally, an opportunity jumped out at you.

You had a day off work and you found yourself on the front porch of Este and Mark’s house. There was Mark’s truck in the driveway, and as you knocked on the front door, you had to control your emotions. Feelings of rage coursed through your veins, and you shoved your hands into your pockets. Inhale, one two three, exhale. You are calm, cool, and collected. The door swung open and you plastered on a smile when you were greeted by Mark’s face.

“Mark, hi. How are you? May I come in?” Mark’s confused expression morphed into a nervous expression, but he nodded and stepped aside.

“Please, come in.” Mark smiled at you, but you quickly recognized the fake smile. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting company. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. Just want to talk.” You walked through the doorway, the weight of your gun tucked into its spot in your waistband, concealed by your jacket. “About Este.” You closed the door and locked it behind you.

“Bella?” You asked as Este’s sister answered the phone. “I need a massive favor.”

“Of course, anything. What is it?”

“If anyone asks, I was with you today. We spent the afternoon together. Boating.” A pause.

“Is everything okay, Y/N?”

“I promise I’m okay. Speaking of boating, the Potomac River is gorgeous this time of year. We should go soon. This weekend?”

“Sounds perfect. I’ll bring drinks, you sound like you could use a few.”

“Trust me, B. This is the best I’ve felt in a long time.”

A knock on the door interrupted you from your reading, and you walked to the door. You opened the door to reveal a police officer standing on your front step.

“May I help you, Officer?”

“Detective Hooper. May I come in?” Detective Hooper flashed his badge and you nodded, letting him in.

“Please, come in. Help yourself to a seat, can I offer you a drink?” You asked as you led him to the living room, where you sat on the couch. The detective took a seat on the opposite end, and you sat up straight, attentive.

“That won’t be necessary. Y/N Y/L/N, I was the detective assigned to the case of your friend, Este Williams. As you are likely aware, there’s been no new developments in her disappearance case. Until today.” Look shocked, you don’t know this. You looked at Detective Hooper with furrowed brows. “What was a disappearance case has now evolved into a murder case, and I believe Mrs. Williams was the first victim, Mr. Williams being the second.”

“What?” You let your head fall back against the couch and screwed your eyes shut. “She’s really- they’re really? They’re dead?”

“We still have yet to find Mrs. Williams, but we received a call that led to us recovering Mark Williams’s body in the Potomac River.” Detective Hooper looked at you with what you believed to be sympathy. The best he could show it with his job, at least. Okay, a little more sad. Your bottom lip trembled as you rubbed your eyes, taking a shaky breath.

“What are you going to do? To find my friend? And to get justice for her husband?”

“That’s what I’m here for. We have no leads in this case, and you’re the closest person to the Williams, except for Mrs. Williams’s sister. I have a couple of questions if that’s okay?”

“It’s okay.” You sat up. “Anything to help.” You answered a few questions about how you knew the Williams, emphasis on your background with Este, and questions that delved deep into the relationship of Mark and Este. Did they have any problems? Who were their friends? Their enemies? Then the questions turned to you. What had you done the day Mr. Williams was murdered?

“Well, I’d usually have work. Cleaning houses.” You thought back to earlier, where you washed the blood splatter off your face, then cleaned your car to perfection. “But I had a day off. So I went to the docks and got my boat, it was a beautiful day on the Potomac.”

“You have a boating license?”

“My dad made me get one when I was fifteen.” You smiled. “Birthday present.”

“Were you alone?” He asked and leveled you with a look, in an attempt to see if you’d crack.

“Este’s sister was with me.” You didn’t hesitate. “Ever since Este’s disappearance, I’ve been spending more time with her than I did before.” You admitted. Detective Hooper studied your face for a minute before he sighed.

“Thank you for answering all my questions. If you can think of anything else that could help us solve this case, please give me a call.” He handed you his card and you took it, and you tucked it into your pocket. “I’ll get out of your hair now. Thank you again for your time.” You and the detective stood and you walked with him to the door. As he let himself out, you paused to speak.

“Detective?” He turned around to face you again. “I don’t know if this is any help, but I’d check into Mark’s mistress.”

“An arrest has been made in the disappearance of Este Williams and the murder of Mark Williams of Fairfax, Virginia. Mrs. Williams has yet to be found, but Mr. Williams was found to be murdered. Investigations are still underway and if there are any clues on the location of Mrs. Williams, please call the number below to be directed to our hotline.”

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omg-imagine · 4 years ago

Text

Forget Me Not (Part 12/15)

Pairing: Keanu Reeves x Reader

Summary: After you wake up from a coma and realize that your memories from the last five years have been erased, Keanu works to bring back what you have lost.

Words: 4.7k

Warnings: Angst, language

A/N: Kinda nervous posting again since it’s been a while, but we’re winding down to the end of this story with only three more parts to go (2 chapters + an epilogue). As always, feedback is appreciated. Thanks for sticking around, and I hope you enjoy!

Part 11

Home.

You are home. It’s supposed to be home.

But it wasn’t. To you, it couldn’t be.

This place feels too far from home, too foreign. You had no memories of it, no recollection of the safety and security it offers. Not even the faintest remembrance of the laughter, smiles, and tears; the fondness and the sadness these four walls have witnessed over the years.

You can’t call it home. You don’t know where home is, and you’re not sure you have one anymore.

Not after leaving him behind.

It’s cold and dark when you first wake, sleep weighing heavily in your eyes. A pair of curtains block out the sun from filtering into the room, leaving you to wonder if you had slept through half the day. With a yawn, you stretch, the bed underneath creaking as your body fully rouses from yet another night of fitful slumber. Almost a month back in New York, and it doesn’t make sense to keep blaming your lack of energy on the time difference.

The ache is still ever-present. The pain caused by the void in your heart remains, sharply throbbing in your chest with its refusal to go away. Two heartbreaks, two betrayals, occurring five years apart, but it feels as though not much time has passed in-between.

It hurts to ponder about it, that evening when your seemingly perfect little world came crashing down. Hiding behind rose-tinted glasses, you were unknowingly tricked, fully caught up in a well-crafted illusion. His illusion. Love has blinded you to the sad reality, and in the end, it left you a shattered mess, a hollow shell of your former self.

You doubt you’ll ever be whole again.

Forcing yourself out from under the covers, you reach for your phone on the nightstand to check the time before scrolling through your notifications. Nothing was of interest to you, fortunately; you didn’t have the energy to respond to those you suddenly abandoned. Friends who cared about you but realized you were never close to them. Not in the way it used to be.

As you skimmed over the new texts and emails, you then came across his now unsaved number. The moment you stepped on the plane, you deleted his contact from your phone and blocked him. Yet the last messages he sent to you were still there and haven’t been read since, though you already knew what they could entail—

I’m sorry.

It was never my intention to hurt you.

Please give me another chance.

Let me fix this.

Just come back, Y/N. Come back home.

Home. There was that damn word again. You were beginning to loathe it, even more so knowing that whenever you think of home, you wind up thinking of him.

The last time you saw him was the morning after the storm. Booking a one-way ticket back to the east coast, you then spent the early hours packing as many clothes that would fit in a single suitcase. Tears had long since dried up, having none left as you headed down the stairs, ignoring the look he gave you from afar.

He was dressed in the outfit he had on the night prior; his hair disheveled, eyes bloodshot, and it was quite obvious he endured no sleep. Your resolve nearly crumbles as your gazes connect, bodies close enough that he could reach out the slightest bit, and he’d be holding your hand in the palm of his.

Fighting the urge, you didn’t cave in. You couldn’t allow yourself to fall for it—for him.

No, never again.

As expected, he followed you out of the house, remaining quiet as he watched the cab driver load your luggage in the trunk. You paid him no attention when he approached the vehicle once you climbed in, wanting nothing more than to escape this nightmare. With nowhere else to go and no one to turn to, you decided it was best to leave California, not that you belonged there anyway.

It played out like a scene from a movie—the taxi pulling out of the driveway slowly as the raindrops started to fall. Hearing him call out your name, his voice cracking with each syllable, made you hesitate for a beat. Perhaps you could forgive him, you had thought in that split-second. Forgive and forget; let what happened in the past stay in the past.

But even if you did, the pain’s still there, and it was overpowering. This pain resulting from his deception had been too consuming, too unbearable to move on.

You told the driver to hurry as you couldn’t afford to miss your flight.

The atmosphere in the car was fraught with grim silence. As the house sequestered in the hills vanishes in the rearview mirror, you knew you were running away from it all. You couldn’t stand being here in LA, where every turn, every corner, and every street reminds you of a life that wasn’t truly yours.

As idyllic it once was, you wanted no part of it anymore. Instead, you sought for familiarity, the life you used to have, the one you could only remember.

What you thought was your real home.

Unable to hold it in any longer, you had broken down in the backseat, never feeling more alone than you did at that moment.

You wish you could forget, but it’s not that easy. It’s never easy. Memories of him linger in your mind, still tragically fresh as they haunt you day in and day out. Closing your eyes, you could see him wearing this smile that used to make your stomach flutter. You came to love his smile the same way you had loved him wholly.

Now? Seeing it was a stab to the heart—a reminder of how he took advantage of your condition, your vulnerability. Of every lie you were fed. That smile, the one you previously hoped to wake up to for the rest of your life, had been an act, a facade.

Everything had been a facade.

A sudden knock on the door startles you, and you clicked off the phone screen before announcing to whoever that they could come in. Your mother Nancy enters soon after, her face displaying concern when she realizes you had just woken up. She’s silent as she walks towards the window and then pushes the curtains aside, the sunlight outside immediately washing over the room.

Briefly, you squint to adjust to the brightness, a confirmation that it was past noon already—another wasted day.

“Hey, darling,” she speaks softly as she moves to sit on the mattress beside you. “How are you doing?”

There’s no point in lying, but as much as you greatly appreciated her caringness, you didn’t want to burden her with your problems. They were yours to deal with and yours alone.

“Better.” And that, you were. Just a week ago, you finally stopped crying yourself to sleep. “I might even go out tomorrow and look for a job. Can’t keep freeloading under your roof, right?”

You release a half-chuckle, a small attempt to lighten up the mood. It was comforting when your mother cracks a smile in response.

“Oh, hush. You’re always welcome to stay as long as you need to,” she assures, a loving warmth radiating from her tone.

Lips pressing together, you sense that she has another thing to address. “What’s wrong?”

Nancy pauses to take a breath, shoulders rising and falling. For some reason, you’re on edge, finding yourself bracing for what was to come.

“Have you spoken to Keanu lately?”

Upon hearing his name, you swallowed away the lump in your throat. After telling your parents what had transpired, it stirred up various emotions—mainly anger from your father, sorrow from your mom. Their hearts sank as you recounted the story, tears blurring your eyes that you couldn’t see their faces. It was a good thing, however; you probably wouldn’t have reached the end.

Since then, they’ve refrained from speaking of him and to him. He’s called the house on a few occasions but could never get past the automated answering machine. Pictures of the two of you hanging on the walls were taken down shortly after the revelation, and you were unsure of who had done it.

Your parents still couldn’t believe he was capable of such a thing. He had played them the same way you were, twisting the truth and omitting facts. Painting himself in a way that made them think allowing you to stay with him was the best decision when just months before he treated you as if you didn’t matter.

As if he didn’t love you.

“No.” Curt, you had nothing else to say.

“He’s a persistent one, I’ll tell you that. Left another message last night,” Nancy comments, feeling her stare as you fiddled with the hands in your lap. The next time she speaks, it’s slow and controlled. She’s careful with her words, wary of how you would react to what she has to say. “Hon, the last time you were here, you told me something. Something that I probably should have mentioned the day you woke up in the hospital.”

You tense, eyes flickering up to hers. “What is it?”

She sighs deeply, her smile fleeting and replaced by a taut frown. “I knew you and Keanu were having… problems. Not the full story, but enough that told me you’ve been unhappy for a while.”

“W-Why didn’t you bring this up then?”

“Because the second I saw him in your hospital room, I could see how much he loves you. How scared he was at the thought of nearly losing you—”

“Pfft, sure he was,” you scoff at the statement in disbelief. “What he did—you don’t do that to someone you love. You don’t lie to them, betray them. Hell, if you had given me a heads up earlier, then it would have saved me all this trouble.”

“Y/N—”

“Don’t you get it? He’s an actor. Of course, he’s good at playing pretend. Got us all believing that things were all sunshine and rainbows. He fucked up and fucked up even more by lying. I’ve always had a bad track record in relationships, so I shouldn’t have been too surprised.”

Tension hangs thickly in the air, an apology murmured at the end of a passing second. You didn’t mean to snap at your mother, to let the anger and betrayal consume you that you began taking it out on others although unwillingly.

But you were just too goddamn hurt. Every day, the memories are suffocating you despite constantly wishing and pleading for them to disappear. That life, the one you had with Keanu, no longer exists, and yet you were still holding onto the frayed remains of it, not ready to move on—to let go.

You grieve. You grieve and mourn for the recent past, the happiness and love you experienced in the time you were left unaware. Never have you felt so complete, so content, and much at ease. You had turned a blind eye to the signs, to the small inklings of doubt brewing inside because you thought that there was no way you could get something else as close to this.

Perhaps you were both to blame after all.

“I thought he was different,” you whisper, sorrow flowing from your words. “I thought he was the one. The man I’d settle down with, marry, and then maybe someday, be the father of my kids. We’d build an entire life together, a family, a future. The kind of life where I could look back on it fifty years from now when we’re old and gray and not regret a single thing.”

Feeling your mother’s hand come on top of yours with a light squeeze, you fought off the tears forcing their way from your eyes. You swore you would never shed a tear for Keanu ever again, but you are crumbling from within. The weak walls you put up are now tumbling down, leaving you even more vulnerable than before.

“I want to hate him. I want him to feel my pain and suffer through it, knowing that he’s the reason why. But I can’t. Somehow, I just can’t.”

“It’s because you still love him. No matter how much it hurts, you’re still in love with him,” Nancy adds solemnly, and you nod shakily. “You’re healing, dear. So far, all you’ve done is put on a bandaid, but it doesn’t mean the wound closes up immediately. It’ll burn, it’ll bleed, and it’ll ache, and right now, that’s what you’re feeling; the pain of a fresh open wound.”

“Make the pain stop,” you mumbled incoherently as you lean against your mom’s side, wet cheeks pressed to her shoulder. “It has to stop.”

“And it will,” she promises, listening to your soft and tired cries. “It’ll take time for the wound to heal, but eventually, it will. Until then, life continues, and you would have to as well. You don’t have to go all-in right away, but don’t let this heartbreak hinder you from living, sweetie. You’re strong, and I believe you will feel that same happiness again, in one form or another. But you won’t find it unless you go out and look for it.”

For the first time in what seemed like a while, you felt something other than loss and despair. It creeps into you slowly, half-expecting a cold, crushing weight to fall heavily on your chest rather than the warmth and light it is. But as quickly as it came, the sensation subsides, a wave of loneliness, emptiness filling the vacant space surrounding your heart.

A shuddering breath released, you then reflect upon what your mother said about time and how time heals all wounds. You wonder how much time is needed until you can finally break free from the remnants of the past and breathe again. Could be days, weeks, or even months more, but it’s right there, waiting for you on the horizon.

You may not have a place to call home, but what you do have is time.

---

Seconds turn into minutes; minutes turn into hours. The sun sets, the moon rises; bright, blues skies bleed into a fiery red before dimming to an inky darkness. The world spins on its axis as people wake, move, then sleep, and the cycle begins all over again.

Two weeks have come and gone, and life pushes onward. You could tell by the scenery outside where the season of fall has taken charge of the Northeast. Days are shorter, with nights stretching out longer as the year fades into winter. Time was flying by at a brisk pace. Very soon, a blanket of snow will cover the ground you walk on, reminding you to take a step back and admire the natural beauty of mid-November.

The crispness of the late afternoon air is refreshing as it fills your lungs, a welcome change from the hazy summer heat. Leaves that were once lively shades of green are now painted in deep hues of amber and burgundy, and they crunch beneath your boots with each leisure step down the earthy path. The nearby lake is as pristine as ever, sparkling freely underneath the rays of the ochre sun as it waits for the impending frost.

Wandering about outdoors for hours now, you were lost in your stream of thoughts. You honestly felt better, not entirely mended, but just enough that you can step out of the house and explore the quaint little town. A picturesque place, it was a perfect settlement for your retired parents where everyone knew everybody; their faces, names, the street they lived on. Boilding down to more personal details such as knowing the pets they owned, which book club they’re a part of, and any recent travels.

When the townsfolk saw you, you sensed the feeling of familiarity. Those you passed by in the streets waved at you, and though you couldn’t exactly recall your relationship with them, it made you smile. Recently, old friends and family in the area had begun reaching out after hearing you were back. You never gave them the full explanation, only revealing that things in California did not work out, and you figured it was best to leave.

Was it a permanent decision? Most likely. Life here is simpler, quieter. You enjoyed the peacefulness, favoring the calm atmosphere of this town much over the hustle and bustle of Los Angeles. It gave you space to think, to focus, to breathe. To reacquaint with yourself, rebuild who you are as a person by taking this journey of self-discovery.

It’s the brand new start you desperately wanted, needed. An opportunity to find your place in this world without the past holding you back. Without the shadow of the woman you once were looming over you. And if your memories don’t ever return, which deep down, you hope they never would, you would be fine with it.

You were tired of being stuck searching pieces of the past. You had to live.

Trekking up the gravel road leading to your parents’ home, a black car sits on top of the hill, one that you did not recognize. Perplexed, you approached the house with hesitant steps, dragging your feet through the pile of dead and dry leaves. There was a moment of panic when you noticed a man sitting on the front porch steps, hands clasped on his knees as he hung his head low, a curtain of dark hair masking his identity.

But you don’t need to think twice, for you already know who it is.

“Keanu?”

His name slipping out of your mouth feels different now. Gone is the affectionate tone that it was usually spoken in. It held no meaning, void of any warmth or tenderness. Keanu, the name is bitter on your tongue, a poison that could cause you to spiral down yet again, and saying it out loud brought upon a rage that swirls through your veins.

How dare he show up here unannounced?

As you take your breaths, one… two… three... and out, Keanu straightens his posture and meets your stern glare. Slowly, he gets up, the expression on his face hard to read. But aside from that, he looked worse for wear. The bags underneath his eyes were dark and prominent, the beard on his chin was unruly and untamed. He appears gaunt and exhausted, as if he hasn’t slept a wink ever since you walked out of the door and out of his life.

“What the hell are you doing here?” You’re the first to break the thick silence, a testament of your bravery and strength of some sort. Brows furrowing and teeth gritting in anger, it contrasts with Keanu’s lax demeanor as he steps closer. “No, stay back. You have no right to be here right now.”

“Y/N, please...” He speaks calmly, each and every one of his movements measured. “I’m not here to fight—”

“I have nothing to say to you,” you seethed, shaking your head as you stormed past him and towards the door. Tears brew in your cloudy eyes, a sign of how much he still affected you. Seeing him again after all this time only proved that the wound he had inflicted bleeds to this day.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Keanu quickly trails from behind, his voice dripping with utter desperation. “Please, just… give me a chance to talk. All you have to do is listen, and I promise you won’t ever have to see me again.”

The seriousness in his timbre causes you to halt in your tracks. Swallowing dryly, you turn around, sad, tired eyes reaching his guilt-filled ones. Keanu stands before you with a face written in despair, making him barely recognizable. The way he’s staring at you as if he’s hopeless and in pure anguish is unsettling, and you almost pitied him for it.

“Y/N…” He pleads softly, defeatedly. “Hear me out, please.”

You wrestled between your options, half apathetic, half curious of what Keanu had to say. Unspoken words on the tip of his tongue, he mutely begs for you to relent, and if this is all it takes for him to leave you alone, leave you for good, then so be it.

“Ten minutes,” you muttered, low enough that he barely catches it at first. Crossing your arms against your chest, the gentle autumn wind rustling through the trees pierces the silent air as you observe Keanu staggering forward, a hand rubbing at the nape of his neck.

“I’m sorry,” he begins, gazing at you with his searching brown eyes. “I-I know saying it a thousand times won’t make a difference, but I really am sorry. What I did before and after the accident was inexcusable and selfish. I hurt you, and I will never forgive myself that. Don’t expect you to do so, either. You probably hate my guts right now, and flying out here might be a mistake, but I needed to talk to you in person. To say goodbye one last time.”

Brushing his hair back, Keanu then pads over to the trunk of the car, and all you can do is wait for him to come back. It doesn’t take long, but he makes two trips to unload two boxes, setting each of them down in the space separating you two. He instantly notices the confusion etched across your features, burying his hands in his coat pocket with an exhale.

“Are those—”

“All the things you left behind,” Keanu finishes feebly. “Thought you would want them back.”

Stunned, a mirthless chuckle escapes your throat. “You didn’t have to do this. Those aren’t my things anyway.”

“But they are—”

“They’re not mine,” you cut him off with a weary gaze. “Keanu, I’ve said this before; I’m not the woman you fell in love with. Not anymore. Look, throughout those months we spent together, I tried to fit into this life everyone told me I had. A life that’s far from what I was used to. God, it feels like a dream being her. So confident, happy, and successful. Waking up from the coma, of course, I would want that. I had just gotten out of a terrible relationship which left me broken and unworthy of anything and anyone. Then you showed me the love I thought I didn’t deserve, and it kept me from realizing that it was all too good to be true.”

Eyes faltering to the ground, your fingers fumbled with the hem of your sweater, ultimately distracting yourself from the tears threatening to fall. “The truth is, I didn’t know you. You were, are, a stranger to me. You had done things behind my back, hid details that would have been a deal-breaker, but you didn’t care. I’ve thought about it a lot lately; would I have stayed if you told me from the very beginning. I wasn’t sure if I was madder at you kissing someone else, knowing how much it would hurt me, or the fact that you lied to fix this—us.”

There is a moment of silence that weighs over everything. The wind stops blowing; the leaves are motionless. Time seems to slow around you and Keanu as he waits for your next words. Words that you are still searching for since you hadn’t prepared to voice those thoughts out loud. They all came rushing, flooding like a broken dam, too overwhelming to keep at bay.

“Which one is it?” Keanu probes delicately, equally afraid of which answer you’re going to give.

“Neither,” you revealed, surprisingly. “I’m angrier at myself for falling too fast; for being the naive little girl who let herself be fooled, who refused to listen to her instincts even though she knew they were usually right.”

You see Keanu open his mouth to speak, but you weren’t done. “I always believed this accident was a curse. It erased years worth of memories that, at this point, I’ll never get back. But now, I see the good that came out of it. Our fights, our arguments, they were all signs that our relationship was falling apart, but I couldn’t let go of it—of you. I held onto us thinking the bad will just phase out eventually when in reality, I couldn’t bear giving up on you and this life we shared.”

Another pause. “Huh, funny. Looking at it, the same thing happened all over again.”

With that said, you felt relieved, somewhat lighter. Despite previous inclinations, you didn’t shout or yell at Keanu. Nor did you discuss to the fullest extent of the suffering you’ve endured. Strangely, it was nearly therapeutic admitting all of that to him, to yourself. For months, you had been unable to let go and accept the truth, allowing fear and doubt to control your actions.

But that was then, and this is now.

And now, it was time for you to be free.

“Guess this is it,” Keanu sighs dejectedly. He didn’t come here to win you back, knowing there’s nothing that he could do or say to repair the damage. Like you, he’s letting go, letting this be the closure he needs, and you need as well. “I guess this is goodbye.”

“Yeah,” you agreed quietly, “Guess this is goodbye.”

Before you could leave his sight to spare Keanu the awkwardness, he holds up a finger, signaling you to wait a second. Swiftly, he goes to retrieve something that’s lying on the front seat, something that you’ve spent countless hours flipping through. He then reluctantly passes it over to you, and you’re unsure what to do with it.

“Your pictures,” he points out, though you were already aware. “I’m not trying to be an asshole or anything by giving this, but this book is yours. Keep it, burn it, do whatever seems right to you. But I want you to know, to remember, that I did love you. I still do, and these photos are proof of it, even if you can’t bring yourself to believe that I’m telling the truth. You deserve love and to be loved, Y/N. More than anything in the universe. I fucked up my chance to be the one to tell you that every day, but it doesn’t mean the next person you fall for will.”

“Ke…” your voice suddenly breaks with emotion, uncertain of what to add after his statement. It’s because you still love him. No matter how much it hurts, you’re still in love with him, your mother’s earlier words echo in your mind, ringing true in your heart. Even after everything, a piece of you still loved Keanu, and saying goodbye to him more painful than you anticipated.

As you stand frozen, Keanu inches nearer until he’s by your feet, the palm of his hand coming to rest on your cheek. He strokes your face with a tender caress before tilting your chin upwards to meet his gaze, brushing his thumb along your lower lip gently. You allow him to have this moment, to hold you and study you for a final time, commit you to memory as this would be the last.

Eyes fluttering shut, you feel him press a soft kiss on your forehead, the warmth of it immediately spreading throughout your body before he slowly pulls away.

“Take care of yourself, Y/N,” Keanu says, opening the driver’s side door of his rental. You look at each other once more and see the subtle, hopeful smile he shoots your way. “And don’t be afraid to love again.”

You watch as he starts driving away, opting to wait until the car is finally out of view before releasing the breath you didn’t know you were holding.

In your hands is a keepsake of your memories. A collection of captured moments that you had cherished so dearly. But things are different now; mistakes were made, words were said, people have grown apart. You found no reason to linger in the past when there’s nothing left to salvage.

Nothing left to do but heal.

The warmth of Keanu’s kiss eventually disappears, the world around you unpausing, continuing as it was before. You stay standing in place, glancing back and forth between the book you clutched on tightly and the boxes laying on the ground.

Yet in the quietude, the wind still blows. The leaves still fall, and the earth still spins.

Time resumes, bit by bit; passing for life to move forward—

For you to move on.

Part 13

Tags: @penwieldingdreamer @fanficsrusz @toomanystoriessolittletime @awessomness @meetmeinthematinee @ringa-starr @ficsnroses @iworshipkeanureeves @keandrews @greenmanalishi @feminine-machinegun @thehumanistsdiary @lilyette @rdjloverxxx @flaminasteroid @danceoftwowolves @ravenpuff02 @wheretheriversrunintothesea @breakthenight @allie1804-fan @partypoison00

#keanu reeves x reader #keanu reeves fanfic #keanu reeves imagine #keanu reeves x you #keanu reeves

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obxsummer · 4 years ago

Text

Who You Are // JJ Maybank

word count: 2.2k

pairing: jj maybank x reader

warnings: insecurities about body image, mentions of anxiety and depression (*if anyone ever needs to talk about anything, please don’t hesitate to send me a message or anon. i promise i’m not here to judge. i’ll help as best as i can*)

summary: JJ finds you deep in your head on a particularly bad day but he has zero hesitation to let you know how much he loves you.

a/n: sorry, i had to bust this out because i’m really stuck in my head tonight and needed some comfort from jj. this is written based off my opinions on my weight and how i function with it, so i’m sorry if it’s not super relatable. it’s based off the song Who You Are covered by Anna Clendening. i hope you guys still enjoy :)

masterlist

ask me anything

JJ understood every little thing about you. He knew your pet peeves and your favorite things, anything that was subtle and almost invisible to anyone, JJ knew it. That was the outcome of years of friendship into a relationship, and he was just so in love with you that he needed to know these things about you.

The day started off okay. You had been woken up by the sound of birds outside, which wasn’t awful, but you couldn’t fall back asleep afterwards which meant you were a little tired. You ate a good breakfast, had a little bit of alone time until your friends called to head to the beach, but overall, it was reasonable.

The first issue came with getting ready. Since the whole group had crashed at John B’s house as usual, you didn’t pack a swimsuit to bring. Kiara had packed an extra one that you managed to wiggle into. The mirror was your enemy though.

You didn’t consider yourself skinny. Even as a younger kid, you were on the heavier side and as you grew up, your height helped, but you still weren’t in a single digit size. Honestly, depending on the day, you could pull off looking smaller depending on what you wore. You were curvy, but you certainly didn’t have Kiara’s small waist to narrow yourself out as you stared in the glass reflection. You still had stomach rolls when you sat down and you constantly tugged your clothes to make sure no skin was visible.

“She’s not stronger than me, she’s just fatter than me.”

Today just wasn’t the day to be wearing a bikini to the beach, especially with your boyfriend and close friends. You just weren’t feeling it. You tried adjusting the fabric to cover more skin since you usually hid in high-waisted bottoms, but Kiara’s low-cut cheeky style wasn’t giving you any help. With a sigh, you tugged an oversized shirt on to cover up for the time being and blinked away the tears that had formed before walking out with a smile.

“Hi, baby,” JJ greeted as you walked towards him, bag in hand with a towel in your other arm. You gave him a smile in greeting as you slid your sunglasses on, not wanting him to see the redness in your eyes from your small breakdown. “You okay?” He asked as you sat next to him.

You nodded. “I’m fine,” You tried to muster emotion into your voice so he wouldn’t notice a difference, but JJ always did. He always noticed. Leaving it alone, he wrapped an arm around your shoulder and pulled you into his side while you waited for the rest of your friends to join.

After a few brief minutes, you were walking down to the sandy beach with a cooler in tow while John B played music through Kiara’s speaker. You moved your towel so it was flat on the sand, knowing you would possibly look smaller if you laid completely down instead of sitting.

“Babe, do you want a chair?” JJ asked as he set the two he was carrying on the ground.

You shook your head. “No, I’m going to try and tan my back first.” Of course, it was a lie, but he accepted it as an answer, still watching you closely. As much as you wished you could keep your shirt on, you didn’t want the goofy tan lines or plethora of questions that would come with it. You waited until the rest of your friends piled into the ocean before pulling your shirt over your head, practically running towards your towel to lay down.

“She’s stronger and fatter than you.”

JJ watched you with curious eyes as you adjusted your suit again after laying down. He knew you were always insecure about the way your body looked and he always tried to remind you of how perfect you were, no matter what the number on the scale said or the size of the clothing you wore, but it was so much harder said than done.

“You’re beautiful,” He mumbled as he crouched down to kiss your forehead gently. “Please don’t forget that. I’ll be in the water if you need me.”

Tears burned your eyes as you watched him run away, part of you wishing he didn’t know you so well. Some days were just like this. Everything could be going perfect but one thing went wrong and you couldn’t get your head out of it.

Eventually, the sun was going down and the air was cool as Pope started up a fire for you guys. You had pulled your t-shirt back on and sat on your towel with your hands behind you to hold you up. Kiara was strumming on her ukelele while John B told some outrageous story about his surf adventures he had the other day.

JJ walked away from the cooler with two drinks in his hands. He didn’t hesitate to sit behind you on the towel, grabbing your arms so you leaned back against him as you sat in his lap. The second his arms went around your waist, however, you panicked and sucked your stomach in as far as you could.

“Your jeans look too small.”

The action didn’t go unnoticed by JJ, who instantly looked down at you in concern. He hugged you tightly, his lips pressing a kiss against your hair. He hated the fact that you were reacting this way to his touch, but he knew he couldn’t say anything until you were alone.

“I grabbed you a drink,” The blond boy mumbled as he moved to hand the alcoholic beverage to you.

You shook your head slightly, not taking it from him. Your mind had instantly switched to counting numbers: calories, sugar, carbs, any of it, all of it added up. “I’m good. Need to drink more water anyways. Thanks, bub.”

You continued to lay in JJ’s arms as you scrolled through your phone. You flew past the collection of pictures on Instagram from Sarah Cameron, only pausing to look at what Kiara had posted. JJ watched silently from your shoulder as you zoomed in on your body in the photo, analyzing every detail before looking at Kiara’s, no doubt comparing yourself silently. It only progressed when you switched to Pinterest, adding countless exercise routines and dieting ideas to a secret board once you grew bored.

“Alright, I’m going to call it a night.” You clicked your phone off and sat up. Whatever previous conversation had been going on quickly ended as your friend looked at you. You gave them a smile and grabbed the extra chairs, leaving JJ to man the towel by himself. “I’ll see you guys up there.”

“Are those new stretch marks?”

Goodbyes followed your statement as you disappeared up the sand. John B was turning to JJ in a split second once you were out of ear. “Is she okay?” He asked in concern.

JJ shook his head, wanting to go after you but knowing you would just tell him you needed some time alone. “No. No, I don’t think so, but I know whatever I say won’t make a difference. She’s so broken, you guys. It hurts me to watch her pick herself apart like this and compare herself to everyone else.”

“Is this about the swimsuit?” Kiara asked, to which JJ nodded. “I felt bad. I could tell when I handed it to her that she wasn’t down with the idea.” Kiara knew that you could pick out every single thing you thought was wrong once you were in the headspace for it. She hated the fact that you compare yourself to her, especially when she herself wished she was different. Nobody was perfect.

“I’m going to go check on her. Don’t wait up.”

Inside John B’s house, you had showered quickly before changing into your comfiest sweatpants and a giant t-shirt, wanting nothing more than to hide in your baggy clothes and try to sleep. It didn’t seem to work as the moment you climbed in bed, your mind got too loud and you couldn’t stop the tears from pouring from your eyes.

“You need a bigger size.”

“You have to stop eating.”

“It only gets worse from here.”

“What went wrong?”

“Guys don’t like girls that are fat.”

“It barely fits.”

“You’re never going to get married if you look like that.”

Not good enough.

Your fingers dug into your skin, your mind getting too far ahead of you as your hearing disappeared minus the sound of your ragged breathing. Your chest was tight but you could barely feel anything around you as you kicked at the sheets, digging your head into your pillow.

“Hey, hey, hey. Come on. Come here. You’re okay.” You knew it was JJ. His hands were gently as he shifted you into his lap, holding you tightly. He pressed your hand to his chest, cradling you softly. “Breathe with me. I’m right here. It’s just us. I’ve got you.”

JJ continued to count with you, waiting until you were breathing normally despite the heart-wrenching sobs escaping your throat. You shook your head as you calmed down. You loved him. You loved him more than anything, but he deserved someone so much better. Someone like Kiara who would look beautiful even when she was sick or hungover or just got out of bed. Someone like Sarah who could fit into anything you threw at her, who still looked skinny despite being in a giant sweatshirt. It wasn’t fair.

“Talk to me,” JJ whispered once you had regained enough control to slow your breathing down. “What’s going on in your head, baby?”

You clenched your eyes shut, not wanting to look at him as you explained. “It’s just really hard, you know? It’s hard to get up every day and hate my body and hate the way I look. It’s awful. I don’t have the motivation to fix it because I know I’ll never win. I look at people like Kiara and Sarah and just wonder where I went wrong? Why don’t I look like them?

“And I wonder why you’re still with me, even when I can’t fit in your clothes or-or you can’t pick me up and carry me? A-And there’s so many other girls out there that can look ways and do things that I can’t, and it-it’s not-”

JJ shushed you as you cried harder, clutching onto him like he would disappear if you let go. His own eyes burned with salty tears at your words. He hated that you felt this way. “Y/N, look at me.” You ignored his request until he moved your face to look at him. “You are absolutely beautiful. You’re perfect in your own way. You don’t have to have a tiny waist or small thighs to be pretty. You’re not Kiara, you’re not Sarah. You’re Y/N. That’s who you are, that’s the girl I fell in love with. You shouldn’t look like them. You should look like you. If you want to change any part of you, it should be on your own terms, not because you want to please the world around you.”

He kissed your forehead, holding you impossibly tighter as the two of you rocked back and forth. “Babygirl, I don’t want them. I want you. I want the girl who laughs at my stupid jokes and craves my attention. I want the girl who hugs me nonstop just to remind me that she loves me, or the girl who sends me morning text messages even if she’s laying right next to me. That’s you. That will always be you. No matter what. Although, if you stopped sharing your ice cream with me, we might have a problem.”

You laughed slightly as you leaned against his chest. Even when dealing with the darkest parts of your mind, he still knew how to make you laugh.

JJ pulled on the waistband of your sweatpants slightly before you lifted your hips, letting him pull the item from your body, leaving you in your underwear. His hands wandered to your t-shirt, sliding the fabric from your waist slightly. You froze instantly, sucking in your stomach like you did before. “Don’t do that,” JJ mumbled as he kissed you softly. “Don’t hide from me.” He didn’t push your limits though and left your shirt alone, simply tracing circles in the bare skin that was visible.

“And you’re wrong,” He said after a moment of silence. “You’re so wrong.”

You were confused as he moved to stand up and went over to the dresser in the spare room. He shuffled around for a bit before pulling out an orange hoodie. You let him pull it over your head and down your torso, the fabric warming you up. It wasn’t your clothing, it was his. His favorite sweatshirt to be exact and it smelled just like him.

Climbing into bed, JJ tugged you under the covers and pulled you to lay your head on his chest, legs intertwined as he rubbed your back. He wanted you to feel safe, and loved, and appreciated. “You’re my girl. Every inch, curve, scar, freckle of you, I love. Don’t forget that.”

“And if you ever need a reminder on how beautiful you are, I’ll make sure to tell you every single morning and every single night but even then, it wouldn’t be enough to show you how perfect you are to me.”

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royalcalum · 4 years ago

Text

Must Love Dogs

Featuring: Calum x reader

Warnings: language, mentions of being catfished I guess... it’s just straight up fluff tbh

Summary: As an up-and-coming Twitch streamer, you’re used to befriending people online. When you start getting cozy enough with one fan for them to ask for a ride from the airport, you find out who you’ve really been talking to for six months.

Author’s Note: I’m going to try to start rewriting some old fics (mainly Calum tbh) to make them more realistic (lol as if this is realistic) and better in general so this is a rewrite of “blurb request lol 4/4 where you're whole relationship has been on the internet like you met on twitter or something and you finally meet at the airport after like five months idk this would be really cute and it's like my dream :----(“ Not beta’d

It started as an innocent fan and creator friendship. You’d been streaming on twitch for a while and had gained a decent sized following, averaging about 500 viewers per stream. Needless to say, your comments section was a little difficult to keep up with. But even with the quick scrolling of new comments with each statement you made, you noticed one name in particular whose comments were always funny or sweet instead of crude and vulgar, like some of those your mods were frequently deleting.

When that same username followed you on Twitter not long after you took notice of them, you were quick to follow back. You’d followed a few of your “fans” before, so it wasn’t unusual. Hell, it wasn’t even odd for you to DM back and forth with some of your followers. What was out of character was becoming attached to one of those fans.

All you knew was his first name (Calum), his age (24), and his location (LA) before you started talking regularly. He had asked for your number at one point, but was understanding when you said you don’t give out that kind of information. For you, it was a relief to finally talk to a man who not only enjoyed your streams, but didn’t make you feel objectified and demeaned. For him, it was a relief to finally meet someone who liked him instead of his name or money.

Communicating with him grew difficult when he flew to Australia to visit family. The time difference still gave you time to DM every day, but staying up late wasn’t quite the same when it was just afternoon for him. You’d already spent five months talking to him and as much as you hated admitting it, you had started to care for this mystery man despite never seeing his face. That never stopped you before (Corpse, anyone?), but for all you knew, “Calum, 24, California” was actually “Craig, 42, Alabama.”

When it came time for him to fly back to LA, you were surprised when he asked if you wanted to meet up when he got back. Like, right when he got back. As in “my friend can’t pick me up and I don’t want to ask you of all people to suffer through LAX traffic so I can just get an Uber if I need to but it’d also be nice to finally meet if you could give me a ride from the airport,” back.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t apprehensive. He was technically still a stranger you met on the internet and you couldn’t guarantee he wasn’t going to overpower you, take your car, kidnap you, and murder you somewhere in the desert. But you took precautions and told your roommate and a couple other friends where you would be and when to expect you back. If things went well and you spent more time with Calum, you’d call them and tell them, no texting.

Two days later, you stood next to your car parked outside the baggage claim for his airline. You didn’t even know who to look for, but he knew what you looked like — obviously, since you met through your twitch stream.

As people started to flood out of the airport doors, you started to wonder if you had been duped. Would this be a story worthy of Nev and Max? Being led to an airport just to be stood up? More and more people left the terminal while you took up space with your car. You’d get a ticket if you didn’t leave soon — your car may be running but you were technically parked in the loading zone — and your anxiety just continued to grow. He wouldn’t lead you on for nearly six months and stand you up at LAX, of all places�� right?

Just as you looked down at your phone again to let your roommate know you might be back sooner than expected, you heard your name called from a few feet away.

And when you looked up, you were starstruck.

“You motherfucker,” you laughed as he got closer. “You knew I was a fan from my stream! That’s why you didn’t want to FaceTime!”

He laughed with you and didn’t hesitate to pull you into a hug.

“It was fun getting to just talk to you,” he defended. “I didn’t want you to unintentionally treat me differently just because you like my band.”

It felt nice to not only meet him, but feel him. He held you tight against his chest, his arms circling your shoulders with yours around his waist. And his thick sweater gave you a soft cushion to rest your head against as you just held each other. You pulled back from his hug but kept your hands on his ribcage, his resting on the sides of your neck as you asked, “How did you end up on my stream?”

“Someone tweeted a clip of you singing one of our songs from an older stream so I decided to check you out. I thought you were pretty and fun so I came back for more.”

For a second, you just stared up at him in multiple stages of shock. This was Calum Hood. From your favorite band. He just hugged you. And called you pretty. How could you handle this?!

But you could handle this. Because he was also the guy you had been talking to for the past six months. The guy you stayed up late talking to and who sent supportive messages when your chat got too aggressive and told you stories from his childhood. You knew him. You just had to let yourself realize the man you’d grown to care about personally was also the man you cared about as a fan.

Holy shit.

“Are you okay?” he asked, sliding his hands down your neck and over your shoulders to your upper arms as he looked down at you with concern etched on his face.

“What? Oh, yeah. Sorry, it’s just taking me a second to really let this all sink in,” you admitted.

“Yeah, now that we’re here, I’m realizing I probably should’ve broken the news in a less, uh, spontaneous way,” he laughed nervously, dropping his hands from you and shoving them in his pockets instead.

You should’ve just kept your mouth shut to keep those hands on you. Or if luck was on your side, he’d have his hands all over you later.

“I mean, I’m not mad about it,” you shrugged. “It’s just not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?” he asked with a smirk.

You let out a sigh. “Honestly? I was kind of expecting to either be stood-up or meet a 42-year-old balding man from Alabama with a beer belly named Craig.”

“Wait… his beer belly is named Craig?”

“No, he is named Craig, you doof!” you laughed, gently shoving Calum’s arm.

“Well I’m sorry to disappoint,” he said with that same smirk on his lips.

“Oh believe me, I’m anything but disappointed,” you replied with a quirk of your own lips. “So, am I taking you to your place then?”

Calum started loading his luggage into the backseat of your car as he spoke to you. With only two checked bags and a carry-on, he didn’t have much, but clearly wouldn’t let you help as he hoisted everything in.

“Yes, please,” he said as he shut the car door. “As excited as I am to finally meet you, I really miss my dog.”

You gasped and immediately perked up. “Duke?!”

“Yeah,” he laughed. “Do you want to meet him?”

“Oh my god, yes!” You ran around to the driver’s side and impatiently waited for Calum to get in and buckle his seatbelt before weaving through the waiting cars to get out of LAX. Fortunately, Calum got in on a late night flight so the traffic wasn’t as bad as you’ve seen before.

“I feel like you’re more excited to meet my dog than you are to meet me,” Calum pouted from the passenger’s seat.

“As excited as I am to finally meet you,” you started with a direct quote, “I really love dogs.”

#Calum x reader #Calum hood x reader #Calum hood fluff #calum hood one shot

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entitynumber5 · 4 years ago

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iceberg blues

this fic is basically one long jonmartin road trip but with depression and angst and yearning!!!!!! here’s the link to ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30788036. or you can read it below the line!!! <3

Content warnings: depressive episodes, disassociation, panic attacks, discussions of death and mortality, grief, emetophobia, economic anxiety, intrusive thoughts/images, very brief allusions to transphobia and xenophobia (in the context of UK politics), swearing, passive suicidal ideation, food, disordered eating, mention of hospitals, smoking, addiction, arguments, brief references to coercive relationships.

Martin has been sitting at his desk, shivering in his coat, for over half an hour. Still enough that the automatic lights have switched off for the night, one by one in an imploding cascade down the corridor he can see from his desk. Tim and Sasha left a while ago, and Martin had put his coat on and promised he would been right behind them, he was just going to check his emails one last time, when he’d seen Sasha had sent her part of the report on Naomi Hearne’s statement to him. He doesn’t know how to explain why he opened the document and scrolled through to Evan Lukas’s death certificate. But here he is. Stuck and staring.

He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to be staring at the death certificate of a man he doesn’t even know. Since Naomi Hearne’s statement two days ago, Martin has been—well, off. He wishes he had a better explanation, but his creativity has jumped ship, apparently, and either a wall springs up every time he reaches for a way to name what he’s feeling or it is energy he doesn’t have to waste, forcing his mind into forming words.

It feels like there’s a balloon inside his chest and no matter how much he expands his lungs, no matter how many deep breaths he takes, he can’t make it smaller. He’d vomited, when he got back to his flat on the day of the statement; yesterday, he had opened the cupboard and stared at the ingredients but been unable to make himself make anything. On the Tube to work, when a stranger looked at him, just in passing, Martin had wanted to cry, and that feeling lingered with him but nothing came of it except an odd sort of internal tension, like a headache.

Yet at the same time, there’s something so dull about it all. He can feel the boredom in his teeth. The blunt edge of a knife, never drawing blood. Why does it matter? Why does it need to be a big deal?

It isn’t, as far as Martin’s concerned. No one else has noticed, and sometimes he doesn’t either. Sometimes it just slips his mind that this isn’t how he feels all the time. Even now, staring at the computer screen, he almost forgets that he’s cold, that it will be dark outside. That it’s Friday, and he usually calls his mum on Friday because the care home gets fish and chips delivered, every week, a whole event, and it’s easier for them both if she has a proper excuse not to answer.

“Martin,” Jon says.

Martin jumps, but his movements are slower than he expects. His shoulders lift enough that the waterproof lining of his coat makes a high-pitched scraping noise, but he can’t move the hand that’s on the mouse to close the document in shame he knows distantly he should feel.

“Martin,” Jon continues, looking somewhat confused, as if he’d already said his name a number of times. There’s a hint of defensive disapproval in his expression. “You’re still here.”

Martin tries to talk, but his voice croaks as if from disuse. He clears his throat and tries again. “Yeah. Just, um… finishing up.”

“It’s after seven.”

“You’re also still here,” Martin points out.

Another time, he thinks he’d be embarrassed by the remark. He should be feeling that hot, sharp lance of fear that this might be the fireable offence. But there was nothing in his tone except the monotone stating of a fact, and the phantom embarrassment is so vague he doesn’t even feel guilty about its reason for existing.

There’s a short, soft huff of laughter. Martin drags his eyes to Jon’s face, just in time to see his expression of defeated amusement before it disappears.

“Yes, well, I have my reasons.” Jon averts his eyes and doesn’t elaborate.

Martin turns back to the computer. It should be simple, moving the mouse to the corner of the document, pressing the red cross, shutting down the computer for the weekend, off-off, at the wall and all, not standby or Rosie would moan about the Institute’s already-failing green initiative. But he just can’t do it.

Jon lingers.

“Is… something wrong?” Martin manages to ask.

“I need to lock up,” Jon replies, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He lifts the small ring of keys in his hand as if in justification, a supply of proof. “Unless you would like to spend the weekend in the Archives, I suggest you leave in the next five minutes.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah, I—I’ll just—let me just…” He moves the mouse to the corner of the document, hovering, but he can’t bring himself to click off it. Suddenly, he doesn’t want to go home. He desperately doesn’t want to go home.

“Sometime today, please, Martin,” Jon presses.

Martin forces himself to close the document. The balloon in his chest feels very big. In his mind’s eye, he can still see Evan Lukas’s death certificate. The clinical recital of the cause, the dates echoing around in his mind. He feels like he might, at any moment, abruptly blurt the words out loud.

“S-sorry.”

“Yes, well,” Jon bristles, “I do have somewhere to be.”

Martin wishes dully that Jon wasn’t here. He could just pull the computer plug out of the wall and be done with it, although his fingers feel numb and he’s not sure he has the strength. Or rather he does have it, it exists, just not within reach.

Martin goes through the motions of small talk, nonetheless. A kneejerk courtesy that reminds him of all the commutes home he can’t remember, the familiar going-through-the-motions, arriving at your destination unharmed, but having done so on muscle memory alone.

“You do?”

“I do.”

“Right.”

Jon lifts his eyes to the ceiling, as if he had considered rolling them and thought better of it. He takes a moment before he speaks again. “Actually, I had planned to drive to Wormshill this evening. There is a detail in Miss Hearne’s statement that I would like to check myself.”

“You’re going to Kent?”

“Yes,” Jon answers defensively. “It’s not far. A two-hour drive, at most.”

“But it’s—you just said it’s after seven.”

“Because I have an obligation to ensure my employees are not in the building after hours. What you do with the rest of your evening is none of my concern.”

Martin nods. The motion carries him away for a moment, and he gets lost in the gentle repetitiveness of it. He’s definitely nodding for longer than is acceptable—everything is taking longer than acceptable, today—and he should be embarrassed, but its vaguely soothing, a blip in the otherwise flat, linear trajectory of his mood.

Jon sighs. Loudly. “Is there anything unsaved on this computer?”

“No,” Martin replies, “Don’t think so.”

“Good,” Jon snaps, and then promptly switches it off at the wall.

Martin stares at the blank screen. He can just about make out his hollow reflection. “Oh.”

Jon is still standing there. “Martin…”

Martin hums in acknowledgement.

“There is—well, there’s the matter of the Institute’s health and safety guidelines, which stipulate that any employee conducting research in the field after seven p.m. must be accompanied by at least one other person,” Jon says, rushing but still somehow managing to keep the deep, unimpressed tone. “Ordinarily, I would disregard such bureaucratic nonsense, but I, uh, I rather suspect I’ll be receiving a complaint from Miss Hearne, and I’m—reluctant, I suppose, to attract any further attention from Elias.”

Martin doesn’t understand what Jon is trying to say.

“What I’m trying to say, Martin,” Jon continues, “Is that while I would much rather conduct my investigation alone, it might be pertinent to have company. If only to share the burden of driving.”

In the computer screen, Martin’s reflection doesn’t react to Jon’s statement. His eyes are cloudy, out of focus behind his glasses.

“Fine,” Jon huffs, “I’ll be direct, since nothing else seems to be getting through: Martin, will you come to Wormshill with me?”

Martin must say yes, because the next thing he knows, he’s still shivering in his coat but he’s outside, standing next to Jon on the steps of the Institute while they wait for the taxi that’s going to take them across the river to the car hire place in Croydon, apparently the only one willing to loan a vehicle on such short notice and at this time on a Friday. In his own coat, jaw set against his own shivers, Jon keeps stealing sideways glances at Martin as if expecting him to bow out of the bizarre excursion at any moment.

It occurs to Martin that maybe he should give Jon an out. A reason to go alone, since that’s what he seems to want. Now that Martin’s outside, at least, he thinks he can make it home. He can drift through the weekend, try to sleep off the feeling sitting heavy beneath his skin so that he can plaster on a smile again for Monday.

“Jon,” Martin says, “I can’t drive.”

Jon’s face snaps fully to Martin’s. “What do you mean, you can’t drive?”

“I mean I—I never learned how?”

The car was one of the first things they’d sold, when they could no longer afford to top up the meter, and when he’d turned seventeen, it had been too much money and too much time away from his mum to take lessons, even though so many jobs stipulated—illegally, he’d been told by one disgruntled employee at the Job Centre—that he needed a licence to apply. He knew his mum resented the lack of transport. She would complain about the tins getting dented or the fruit bruising on the bus journey back from the supermarket. Martin would take on extra shifts to cover the taxi costs to and from hospital appointments. But otherwise, they were stuck. There was no way around it.

Moving into London had helped with getting around, but not so much with money, and it had been a sort of comfort to Martin that mostly no one expected you to own a car or even drive here. Until now.

“Why didn’t you say something—?” Jon begins, but at that moment, the lights of the taxi slice through the darkness and a white Prius jolts to a stop in front of them, the driver giving an impatient toot of the horn to get their attention.

“I—I’m sorry,” Martin says. “I thought you knew.”

“How on earth would I—?” Another blare of the car horn. Jon makes a disgruntled sound and starts off down the steps. “Just get in the taxi.”

Martin stares down at him. “What—but I—are you sure?”

Jon, with his hand around the door handle, looks expectantly back at Martin. “Yes, Martin, just—come on.”

In the taxi, Martin sits on his hands as his mind lists restlessly between the vivid, intrusive image of opening the car door for no reason and the worry that he should be making conversation, before settling back into familiar numbness. Jon doesn’t make conversation either, which Martin supposes is a relief. The driver fields a number of calls during the journey and ends up doing enough talking for the both of them.

Jon pays the taxi driver with the Institute credit card when they reach Croydon. Martin stands on the pavement and watches the back lights of the Prius fade into the distance, the way you might watch to check someone gets into their house safely after you walk them home, because he can’t really think of what else to do until Jon demands, “Are you coming?”

Martin jogs after Jon, catching him up just as they reach the car park of the hire place. Jon tells Martin to wait outside, so he waits outside with his hands tucked into his pockets and wonders idly if Jon has picked up on his quietness. And if Jon has noticed, does he think it’s a relief, not having to suffer Martin’s small talk, his stammering inquiries and useless observations?

About ten minutes later, Jon emerges with a set of keys and a collection of paperwork. He barely glances at Martin, making a beeline for the car parked nearest the door, a yellow Citroën.

When Martin stops beside the car, waiting for Jon to unlock it, Jon snaps, “It’s all I could get on short notice.”

Martin stares over the roof of the car at Jon. Is Jon embarrassed because the car is yellow? Because it’s a Citroën? Martin feels like he’s missing something. “I didn’t say anything.”

Jon just huffs and climbs into the car. After a moment, Martin follows, ducking inside and settling into the passenger seat. Jon hands him the paperwork, somewhat unceremoniously, and Martin takes it and places it in his lap and doesn’t say anything about the fact that Jon has given the hire company a false name. Which likely means he has a fake ID. Which is a can of worms that Martin isn’t sure he’s ready to open.

They drive for a while in complete silence. Jon’s driving is a little shaky, at first. He stalls three times in the space of five minutes, and at one point gets flipped off by a teenager hauling Deliveroo via bike. Martin laughs, despite himself, a small huff of air through his nose—it’s a start, he supposes.

“Would you prefer to take the wheel?” Jon snaps and when Martin’s face drops, he adds. “I thought as much.”

Martin sinks back into his seat, the laughter forgotten. He stares out of the window at the other cars and wonders where their occupants are travelling—back to their families for the weekend? When Jon has to merge onto the M25, he clings to the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turn white, and Martin wishes he hadn’t laughed earlier.

On the motorway, at least, Jon seems to settle into the familiar motions of driving and eventually reaches for the radio, tuning into Radio 4. They’re broadcasting a political debate, and Martin tries to watch without being caught as Jon’s face twists or he snorts at a particularly egregious comment from one of the participants.

“Who’s that?” Martin asks, surprising himself, when Jon rolls his eyes for the fifth time—he’s counting—at the same voice.

Jon blinks, turning momentarily from the road before returning to his eyes-ahead vigil of the motorway. He rolls his lips, like he’s pushing down a retort about Martin’s ignorance of politics. After a while, and a sixth eye roll, he says: “That’s Ann Widdecombe.”

“Oh,” Martin says, “She was on Strictly.”

Jon once again looks like he wants to launch into a lecture about Martin’s witlessness. Instead, he says, in that dry voice of his: “Yes. She has also been a particularly insidious member of the Conservative Party for forty years.”

“Right. Of course. I know that.”

“I should hope so.”

“I didn’t vote for her,” Martin tells him, “On Strictly.”

Jon doesn’t say anything.

“Or in the general election,” Martin adds.

“Not least of all because you don’t live in her constituency.”

“I mean I didn’t vote for the—”

“Yes, Martin, I understood what you meant.” Jon pauses. “And for the record, neither did I.”

There’s a very long stretch of silence after that. Martin wants to point out that he used to watch Question Time with his mum, before she moved into the care home, plus he’s trans and what little family he has left are Polish, so it’s not like he can be ignorant about the UK’s political climate, and just because he’s not some Oxford-educated prick who listens to Radio 4—but what’s he trying to prove, really? It’s a waste of energy, and the lull of the car and the cold pressure in his chest quickly extinguish the flare of indignation.

A radio drama about wartime Britain replaces the debate, and Martin tips his head against the window. He can make out the sound of the words, but not what they mean, and the inside of his mind feels like the road ahead: a blur of sharp asphalt and red-white light, the kind of place where it’s not safe to stop. He feels vaguely sick.

Martin thinks about the weekend again. He wishes he could sleep through and wake up feeling better, feeling real. He wants so badly to pause this feeling and pick it up when he’s ready to deal with it. A break. He just wants a fucking break, so badly that the tight-throat tension of tears he knows he can’t shed is back. He closes his eyes, in case Jon notices, and plays with the paperclip holding the contract for the hire car together.

He doesn’t know if he falls asleep fully or just drifts, but the next thing he’s really aware of is the slam of a car door as Jon climbs back inside. Inside? Martin squints at him through the sickly light of the streetlamp outside the car as Jon manoeuvrers his way back into the driver’s seat while holding a cardboard tray of drinks and two greasy paper bags. He hands one of the bags to Martin. It’s warm in his hands, almost burning, but he doesn’t think to let go.

“Where are we?” Martin asks, detached from the question, uncaring of the answer.

“Just outside of Maidstone,” Jon replies, balancing the drinks tray on top of the clutch with meticulous precision before gesturing with far less accuracy in the general direction of the service station. There’s a glowing sign indicating the presence of a Costa and a number of other chains. “Do feel free to use the, uh, the facilities.”

“I’m fine,” Martin mumbles, “But thanks.”

Martin realises he can’t remember the last time he used the facilities, as Jon so delicately put it, even back at the Institute. It should be embarrassing, but even this is hard to care about. There were plenty of opportunities, at work, to get up and make a cup of tea, or to reach into his rucksack and pull out the water bottle he’d bought with the markers specifically to remind him to drink at regular intervals. But he just… didn’t. And he’s dehydrated, clearly. And he doesn’t care.

“Right,” Jon says, looking like he would rather be anywhere else, “If you’re sure.”

Martin has no idea what to say to that. Jon saves him the effort by clicking the radio back on without starting the engine, and the midnight news drifts from the speakers in a deep, sombre voice that makes Martin feel intensely tired.

Jon clears his throat. “I hope you like cheese and tomato.”

Martin blinks Jon’s shadowed face back into focus. The lights are strange, transient—the orange glow of the streetlights interspersed with violent flickers of white as new arrivals pull into the car park.

“Cheese and tomato toasties, that is,” Jon adds, “That’s what’s in the bag.”

“Oh. Oh.” Martin blinks again, almost dizzy. “Thanks. I—I do. Like cheese and tomato toasties. What do I—how much were—?”

“You really don’t need—”

“I insist.”

“It’s fine, Martin.”

“But—”

“I bought it with the Institute credit card,” Jon interrupts, blunt. “If you would like to thank Elias for the cheese and tomato toastie on Monday, be my guest.”

It’s not really funny, but Martin finds himself giving one of those pathetic, half-formed laughs again. Jon looks momentarily surprised before he smiles and turns away.

Martin eats by rote because what else is he supposed to do? There’s an odd safety to mirroring Jon, following his lead. And so Martin does just that. He doesn’t taste the cheese and tomato toastie, and he can’t even tell if there’s sugar in the tea Jon hands him from the cardboard drinks tray, but it sits warm in his stomach, reminding him he hasn’t eaten anything other than crackers for nearly two days.

When Jon begins to drive again, the radio is playing a reading of a book about a Spanish painter Martin has never heard of. He feels like he owes Jon, in some way, for the cheese and tomato toastie, no matter who actually paid for it, and so he decides to remedy his previous disregard for Radio 4��s programming.

“This book sounds interesting,” Martin announces. There’s not much in his voice—no confidence, no real presence—but at least he’s saying something. “I can’t believe I’ve never heard of this Velázquez guy.”

“It’s Velázquez,” Jon corrects, although his pronunciation sounds no different to Martin’s.

“It’s a shame it’s the final episode,” Martin presses on, even though it’s painful. “Would have been nice to have a bit of context, you know?”

Jon hums in disinterest. “I suppose.”

This brief attempt at conversation is uninspiring, to say the least, so Martin instead resorts to an even more ridiculous line of inquiry. “Did we just pass a sign for Leeds Castle?”

“Yes,” Jon says, although he seems somewhat more engaged this time.

“But we’re in Kent.”

“Well-observed.”

“So why is it called Leeds Castle?”

“Well, there’s actually some debate as to why. In the Doomsday Book…”

Martin’s not watching the clock, but if he was, he would know Jon talks for a full twenty-three minutes about the etymology of Leeds Castle. It’s oddly soothing. Like a repeat of the emulsifiers at the ice cream parlour, except they’re not sitting across from each other, they physically can’t make eye contact, and there’s distance and darkness enough between them that they can both drop the performance. Martin doesn’t want to be looked at, to be seen, but he feels grounded by Jon’s voice. And Jon doesn’t stop every few minutes to make sure he isn’t being a nuisance, that he isn’t stealing time that others will resent the loss of.

They’ve made it to the Kent Downs. Martin supposes he should ask what it is they’re here to investigate. He manages it, and watches with something adjacent to despair as Jon’s open, almost excited expression falls away.

“Miss Hearne mentioned a chapel in her statement,” Jon says. His voice has dropped down an octave again, into the tone he uses in the Archives. “I can’t find any record of its existence, but I would like to be sure.”

Martin feels suddenly, impossibly cold. Like he will never be warm again. He shivers, and Jon turns up the car’s heaters. “I remember.”

Jon’s hands tighten around the steering wheel again. “You listened to the statement?”

“You—you asked me to transcribe it.”

“No, I asked Tim to transcribe it.”

“But Tim—well, he has an ear infection, he’s on antibiotics and everything, and Sasha’s the only one with access to the hospital records so she was cross-checking those, and I—I thought it was only fair if I transcribed it instead,” Martin says, the words falling out of his mouth in a blurred rush.

Jon deflates, just slightly, with a tired sigh. “Of course. I must have—I didn’t—I’ll apologise to Tim on Monday.”

Martin sits on his hands again. If he was feeling better, he might wonder if Jon has ever considered apologising to him. But perhaps he’s more truthful, when he’s in this place; perhaps he’s right when he thinks he doesn’t deserve it.

Jon sighs again. “So you heard…?”

“Yeah.”

“Brilliant,” Jon mutters, clearly meaning the opposite.

“Do you really think she’s making it up?”

“Of course I don’t—‘making it up’ would imply some kind of fault or, or blame, which is not at all what I was suggesting.” Jon’s jaw is set, tense, even as he spits out the words. “There is nothing made up about trauma and the very real impact it can have on a person’s life. I think Miss Hearne’s experience was significant and, as I told her, she should certainly seek out help from someone more qualified to address the grief of her fiancé’s death. As for empty cemeteries and chapels hidden in fog, well, I’ve read enough statements to know that the point at which they start to sound like an overdone ghost story is the time to deploy a reasonable amount of scepticism.”

Martin stares at the dashboard. The car’s heating is on its highest setting, the warm air blasting from the vents drying out Martin’s eyes, but he’s still shivering. Still so deeply, immovably cold.

“He was…” Martin whispers, but he can’t finish the sentence.

“He was very young, yes, and his loss was unspeakably tragic. That is not what I am seeking proof of, and that is far from Institute’s area of expertise in any case, but—”

“No,” Martin interrupts. His voice still so quiet, but Jon stops to listen nonetheless. “That’s not what I… I was going to say that she sounded lonely.”

Jon’s mouth opens, but he doesn’t seem able to form words. His teeth click as he shuts his mouth and turns back to the road, driving on in silence as the radio idly broadcasts the shipping forecast.

“I—I don’t mean the part with the empty cemeteries and chapels hidden in fog, although I believe her. I do.” Martin pauses, letting himself linger in that realisation. “The loneliest part was when she spoke about him.”

Jon takes a deep breath. He frowns, as if he wants to say something, but he keeps quiet.

The tightness is sitting in Martin’s throat and behind his eyes again, and he wishes he could cry. Maybe if he cried, it would leave him be, he’d be emptied but in the right way.

“They only got two years,” Martin whispers.

“They were…” Jon says, his voice a feeble imitation of comfort. And when his voice fails, his jaw tightens and the defensiveness flashes back across his expression. “Does it matter how long they got?”

“Yes, it matters. Of course it matters,” Martin snaps. He surprises himself with the vitriol behind his words.

“The length of their acquaintance doesn’t change the extent—”

“Their acquaintance? They were in love.”

“I’m aware.”

“They were going to get married.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Martin,” Jon hisses. “I’m not unfamiliar with grief.”

“Then why?”

“What do you mean, why?”

“Why didn’t you tell her what to—how to—to move on, or—I don’t know, couldn’t you just have humoured her? Couldn’t you have dropped the act for one day to help someone experiencing the worst thing that’s ever happened to them?”

Jon stares at the road ahead, exhaustion sitting in the lines of his shoulders, the twitch of his jaw. He hardly moves, aside from occasionally checking the mirrors, and Martin doesn’t expect an answer. The silence is cloying and choking and Martin lets it fester.

“If I knew how to move on,” Jon says, very quietly, after an indeterminable amount of time, “Well, let’s just say that’s not information I would withhold. And as for humouring Miss Hearne’s experience, what would you have me say?”

“You could have told her you believed her,” Martin presses.

“That would be a lie.”

“It would be a comfort.”

Jon’s lips twist humourlessly. “Aren’t those synonymous?”

“Then why are we here? Why drive around the Kent Downs in the middle of the night if you think it was all just a trick of the mind?”

“Because I need proof.”

“Of what?”

Jon doesn’t answer the question. Instead, he snaps: “I shouldn’t have bought you.”

“Probably,” Martin agrees, falling back into his seat.

“I’m pulling over,” Jon announces without preamble, as if this is a natural continuation of their argument. “I need to check my notes. I’m sure we’ve passed that sign for Bredgar at least twice already.”

Martin doesn’t say anything. Jon pulls the car into a cramped passing place on the side of the road and then takes his phone out of his pocket. The radio drones, and Martin stares out of the window at the darkness of the stretching rural road, the few specks of light in the distance where the sparse houses state their presence. He thinks about the process of lighting torches in order to send a warning. Smoke signals.

“No signal,” Jon mutters in frustration, and then he opens the driver’s door, climbs out and slams it behind him with enough force that the body of the car shakes.

Martin curls into his coat. His face is wet, he realises, and when he lifts his hand to his left cheeks, it’s cold with tears. Jon is a silhouette caught in the car’s headlights, shoulders up, body tensed. To Martin’s surprise, he seems to have abandoned his phone in favour of lighting a cigarette. Martin recalls Tim mentioning that Jon had quit, a while ago. He considers getting out of the car, too, and trying to convince Jon not to lift the cigarette to his lips. But he can’t move. He’s frozen in place, shaking with a chill that doesn’t belong to him.

In the silvery-grey plume of cigarette smoke, Martin thinks he sees the outline of the chapel they’ll never find.

Leaning against the car hood, outside a service station near Preston, Jon sneaks a cigarette while he waits for Martin. His hands are restless, twitching, and if he’s being honest, he has played hard and fast with the meaning of ‘quit’ ever since—well, ever since he started working in the Archives. And he needs a distraction because, for the first time since they left the Lonely the day before, Martin is out of his line of sight.

It hasn’t been long. Five minutes, at most. But Martin had insisted on going alone, had told Jon he was feeling car sick and needed a moment to himself to get cleaned up. To brush his teeth, which he had said with an odd smile, like this was a novelty. So Jon had let him go, and regretted it almost immediately, and began smoking soon after to take the edge off his gnawing anxiety.

Now that he’s alone, Jon finds himself thinking about the journey beyond the heart-pounding panic of getting out of London and the slower-burning worry over Martin’s drawn silence.

His lips curl into a humourless smile around another drag of the cigarette, and he huffs a small laugh. When Jon had turned on the radio after they’d finally made it onto the M6, it was already tuned in to Radio 4. He didn’t have the heart to change it, not least of all because he would have to explain to Martin, after all this time, that he doesn’t particularly like Radio 4. It’s not his station of choice by a longshot. The last time they’d been in a car together—a lifetime ago, it feels like—Jon had still been trying very hard to appear older than he was and, in a moment of panic, decided the only way to do this was to listen to a radio station that didn’t even play music, for god’s sake.

Ironically, he has been listening to Radio 4 recently, if only because Daisy insists they both stay appraised of The Archers. Insisted. Jon’s smile falls. Only a few weeks ago, while Jon had been attempting to organise his office while Daisy complained at the latest pastoral plot point, he had found an old, half-folded Post-it note. A jumbled collection of words in Jon’s handwriting: Martin Secret Santa. Velázquez - The Vanishing Man??

“What’s that?” Daisy had asked him. “I can’t read your handwriting.”

Jon had slipped the Post-it back into the drawer, although this time with his rib rather than the jumbled collection of paperwork it had been coexisting with before. “Then I’m not going to tell you.”

“Oh, come on, Sims.”

“It’s nothing important.”

“I don’t think I believe you.”

The Eye had informed Jon that The Vanishing Man was the name of the book reviewed on Radio 4 on January 16th 2016, in the early hours of the morning, when Jon had been driving with Martin around the Kent Downs. Jon had written the name of the book down so that he’d know what to get Martin, if he drew his name for Secret Santa.

In the car park, Jon’s throat tightens with grief. There was never another Secret Santa after Prentiss. It seemed a silly thing, with everything that had happened, to care about. They’d never been a normal workplace, not really. And yet Jon still craves that brief glimpse of ordinariness, of a pointless tradition everyone rolls their eyes at and complains about but which is still repeated every year.

Jon is just about to walk to the bin and put his cigarette out in the tray resting on top when he notices Martin’s slow, almost unsteady approach. He quickly disposes of the spent cigarette and tries to look as nonchalant as possible, like he is perfectly capable of spending five minutes away from Martin without falling apart.

Except that as soon as Martin’s face catches the light and his expression became visible, Jon has no hope of maintaining the act.

“Martin,” Jon says, stumbling forward to meet Martin before he reaches the car fully.

“Jon.” Martin recognises him. It should be a relief, but there’s a dull echo to his voice that reminds Jon far too much of the Lonely.

Jon can see that Martin shivering, even in the too-big knitted jumper Jon had guided him into when they’d woken up sometime after midday, after sitting together on the sofa all night, Jon crying softly against Martin’s shoulder while Martin slept. He remembers the way Martin’s curls had sprung out of the jumper and how Jon had felt like crying again with how much love he felt in that moment, staring at the crown of Martin’s head, wondering what it might be like to kiss him there.

When Jon takes Martin’s hand, it’s so cold Jon feels a bolt of ice shoot up his own spine.

“You’re freezing,” Jon murmurs, pulling gently on Martin’s hand. “Come on.”

Jon places his other hand on Martin’s back, making small, soothing motions as he opens the passenger door as wide as possible and gently encourages Martin back into the seat. He pulls up the fleece blanket in the footwell up so that it covers Martin’s legs, where the worst of the shivering seems to be concentrated, and squeezes Martin’s hand until Martin’s eyes move to his.

“I’m just going to walk around to the other side of the car and get in, alright?”

Martin nods. Jon squeezes his hand again, one last time, before standing up and jogging around the car to the driver’s side. He climbs in quickly, kicks on the engine so that he can start up the heaters, and then re-takes Martin’s hand. Martin stares straight ahead, his eyes cloudy and fixed on a faraway point Jon can’t identify.

“Martin,” Jon ventures, trying to keep his voice as soft as possible. “What happened?”

“N-nothing.” Martin shudders violently. “It was nothing.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing.”

“Jon,” Martin sighs.

“We don’t have to talk about it now,” Jon agrees, trying to keep the reluctance from his words. “But it might… maybe it would help?”

“To see what we’re up against?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the Lonely, it…” Martin laughs, a hollow, humourless sound. “It’s not just going to let me go, is it?”

Jon doesn’t know what to say. They sit for a while in silence, the only sound the rumble of the engine and the whir of the heaters. In a moment of desperation, Jon almost considers turning Radio 4 back on, and he nearly laughs at his own ridiculousness.

“I—I was in Costa,” Martin says, at last, disrupting the quiet. “I was going to get you some coffee, since you’d been driving all evening. I’m sorry. That I can’t—that I don’t have a—”

“Martin, it’s fine.” They’ve already had this conversation. Jon brushes his thumb over Martin’s knuckles and tries not to well up because Martin thought to get him coffee, when he knows for a fact that Martin despises coffee as a point of pride and refuses to even keep it in his flat.

“I always wanted to learn. To drive, that is.”

Jon smiles, but it fades quickly. “Maybe you can. When we get to…”

Martin hums. “I ordered the coffee, that was… it was fine. A bit awkward, I guess. Haven’t talked to strangers in a while, you know? Or anyone, really. But I got through it. It’s just that when—when the barista called my name, she just—she looked through me, like I wasn’t there.” A brief, bitter twitch of Martin’s lips. “Maybe I wasn’t.”

“Martin.”

“It’s fine. It’s—it has to be—I’m fine.”

“Martin.”

“I just stood there, while she was calling my name. Looking at me, but not,” Martin continues, still staring out of the window. “In the end, she gave the coffee to the person who was cleaning the forecourt.”

“Oh.” Jon tips his head back against the seat. “I can—did you order anything else? Are you hungry? I can go back inside. Or we can go… t-together.”

Martin shakes his head minutely.

“We’ll eat when we get to the house,” Jon says, like it’s already decided. “I can make soup.”

“What kind?” Martin asks, so quietly Jon almost misses it.

“Whatever kind you like.”

“I don’t know. Is that something I—should I know?”

“We can find out.”

Martin doesn’t say anything else.

“Are you ready to move on?” Jon ventures.

At Martin’s minute nod, Jon reluctantly untangles their hands and retakes the wheel. He pulls out of the service station, and once they’ve navigated the helter-skelter of roundabouts and made it back onto the motorway, Jon lets his hand drift towards the radio. Would it be so earth-shattering, to listen to something other than Radio 4? Surely it wouldn’t shake the foundation of their relationship more than everything else that’s happened in the last two years. And yet he feels an extraordinary amount of pressure, like he’s about to expose some vulnerable part of himself to Martin by revealing what sort of music he enjoys.

“Jon?” Martin murmurs.

Jon retracts his hand. It’s ridiculous, it really is, but he’s not ready. “Sorry. Just, uh, just checking I know where the—the hazard lights are in this car.”

Martin doesn’t seem to be in any position to question him. Jon returns his hand to the wheel and stares at the straight, sparse road ahead of them. There’s not a lot of traffic, late at night and mid-week, and Jon loses himself quickly in the motions of driving. It’s strange, he thinks, the way skills stay with you after so much time dormant and unpractised. He wonders if he could remember the cords he used to play on his grandmother’s piano, if he sat down in front of one now, or the lyrics of the song Georgie taught him, his voice matching the gentle strum of her guitar. He wonders if the Eye would let him be bad at it, let him rediscover these half-realised skills or supply him with the unearned knowledge of how to perfect them.

Instead, he thinks about teaching Matin to drive. If the Eye is going to insist on perfection, Jon might as well share it with the person he cares about most. The Scottish Highlands aren’t the easiest place to learn, and they probably shouldn’t attract the attention of anyone nearby by hiring an instructor, but it would be something to do. A reason to spend time together. They’d argue, almost certainly. He can hear it: yes, Jon, I know the highway code and Martin, you’ve missed the turning again and well, maybe your instructions should have been clearer and I resent your tone and I resent your directions and—he smiles. Petty arguments, of course, the kind that don’t hurt, not really. They would laugh about it when they got home.

He turns to Martin, as if this is already a joke between them, already spoke out loud, only to find him fast asleep against the window.

The suspended moment of surprise lasts far longer than Jon would admit to anyone, even himself, and he has to force his eyes back to the road just in time to avoid a large lorry with smiling cartoon produce on its flank. He takes a moment to breath around his pounding heart as he settles back into the speed limit. And then he can’t stop stealing glances at Martin’s sleeping form.

Martin’s head is tucked between the headrest and the window, a position that will likely give him an aching neck later, but Jon can’t bear to wake him. The fleece blanket—yellow with white flowers, Jon remembers, although he can’t see it in the monochrome lights of the motorway—rests atop Martin’s gently rising and falling belly. One of Martin’s hands is hidden beneath the blanket, curled around his knee; the other lies half-up in his lap, fingers twitching every so often. His mouth is open slightly, top teeth just visible. During one stolen look, Jon notices Martin’s nose curling slightly in sleep, his eyelashes twitching. It’s so endearing that Jon has to smothers the urge to cry.

Once again, Jon thinks about the last time they shared an unfamiliar car to traverse unfamiliar terrain. Martin had seemed to sleep then, too, although looking at Martin now, Jon isn’t sure it was actual rest. More just closing his eyes, because there was no real difference between that and keeping them open, staring absently at the road ahead.

When Jon had dropped the hire car off in Croydon around eight a.m. that Saturday morning, Martin bid him goodbye with a hollow smile, assured Jon he could would be fine getting home, and walked—purposelessly, somehow, even though he had a destination—towards the nearest station. Jon had gotten another taxi back to the Institute, weekend be damned, he needed to write up his notes, and picked up his phone at obsessive fifteen-minute intervals, beset with the need to text Martin to ensure he’d gotten home safely.

He never did text. And he still regretted it, even when Martin came in on Monday—still pale, still withdrawn—and assured Jon his weekend had been fine. Even now, two years later.

Worse still, he knew something wasn’t quite right with Martin that week. Tim and Sasha had been worried about Martin, and had come into Jon’s office before leaving for the night and asked that he ensure Martin wasn’t still there when he locked up. Jon had no real issue letting Tim or Sasha stay in the Archives after-hours; he trusted them, and they were experienced researchers, and they both worked best in their own time. Martin, not so much.

But he had noticed that Martin’s quietness in the days since Naomi Hearne’s statement, the way he drifted distracted through the Archives and sometimes seemed to be somewhere else entirely. Perhaps that’s what compelled Jon to invite Martin with him to Kent. To this day, he’s still not sure why he extended the offer. Why he made that decision over and over again, even when opportunities to turn back presented.

He does know how different he feels now. How sorry he is, that he tried so hard to avoid this. How angry he is, that it took him so long to discover this feeling. And he knows exactly why he invited Martin with him to Scotland.

He supposes it’s good, if Martin didn’t—couldn’t—sleep back then, that he is managing to rest now. Jon makes himself focus very closely on the road, on driving gently so as not to disturb the sleep Martin so clearly needs.

It’s not until they’re about half an hour away from the Scottish border that Martin begins to stir, a deep sigh followed by a more discontented murmur. Jon tries to keep his eyes on the road ahead, tries not to think it’s only been an hour, please let him rest just a little longer, but his gaze keeps wandering to where Martin is curling in on himself against the window, beginning to shudder again.

The car’s heating system is already on its highest setting, which Jon discovers when he reaches to turn it up. Perhaps he’s also running cold from their encounter with the Lonely, and the shivery anxiety still gripping him after their escape from London. Jon thinks about reaching across, waking Martin, but just as he wills his hand away from the steering wheel again, Martin sits up with a noise of confusion, the rasping outline of Jon’s name.

Martin stares at the darkness in front of the car, cut through with the white glare of the headlights. He’s stock still, the only movement the rise and fall of his shoulders at pace with his frantic breathing, and the small quivers running through him at merciless intervals. It’s almost reminiscent, Jon thinks, of the time they drove to Kent, except there is something visibly uncalm about Martin’s posture this time.

“Martin?”

Martin just keeps staring.

Jon reaches across the car towards him. “Martin?”

Martin draws a sharp breath, flinching away from Jon’s outstretched hand so quickly he thumps his head against the window. The impact seems to wake him fully, but his breathing gets quicker, if anything, and he hides both his shaking hands beneath the blanket, gathering it up to his chin as he attempts to stop his teeth from chattering.

“S-sorry,” Martin murmurs, “I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Jon replies, trying to match Martin’s voice for gentleness, although his does not shake or warp with almost-tears. “Bad dream?”

Martin hums, but says nothing more.

“Would you like to stop? I think we’ll be coming up to another service—”

“No,” Martin interrupts, a new sharpness to his voice. He takes another breath, slower but still unsteady. “No, thank you. I’m—I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

Jon tries to smile, as soothingly as his can, but Martin won’t return eye contact when Jon glances his way. “Alright. We’re not far from the border now.”

Jon drives, trying very hard to focus on the road rather than Martin in the passenger seat. Every time Jon looks Martin’s way, the shivering seems to get worse, accompanied by a blurring at the edges of his figure that Jon attributes, at first, to the late hour, to the fuzziness of the light and the growing exhaustion behind Jon’s eyes. When he tries to focus on it, it gives him an odd, momentary headache—not dissimilar to when he attempts to Know something too big or too abstract.

It’s then that Jon realises this is the Lonely, clinging to Martin like heat haze to the road, except there’s something distinctly sinister and chilling about it. A claws-out, cloying presence in the car with them.

“Martin…”

“I’m fine,” Martin replies, voice as tense as his jaw as he fights down another teeth-chattering chill. “It’s—it will pass.”

Jon swallows around the ache in his throat. “Can I help?”

“It’s fine.”

“Martin—”

“Jon, I’m—”

“You’re not,” Jon snaps, not meaning to sound so harsh, but the worry explodes out of him sounding closer to anger. “You’re not fine, Martin, and I—I can’t just sit here and watch—”

“Then don’t watch,” Martin hisses back. “Would that be so hard? To just. Not watch. For once in your life just stop—stop looking, stop asking to know things that will—that will—”

“That will what?”

“That will destroy you, okay? Stop throwing yourself into—into the eldritch version of staring directly at the sun!”

“Already been there and done that, I’m afraid,” Jon mutters, with no small amount of bitterness.

“Oh, great! And how did that turn out? I’m not some—you can’t—I didn’t ask for this. I’m not a statement, I’m not—you can’t just Know me, Jon, that’s not—not fair. It’s not—” Martin is gasping now, almost gagging on his words, on the tears threatening to implode his facade of distance. “It’s not fair. It’s not fair.”

When Jon turns to look at him, there is still something blurred and unspecific about Martin, like he is both here and somewhere else. Like half of his image is being left behind by each forward movement of the car. But he is crying, fully crying. And by some cruel twist of fate, Jon can see this more clearly than everything else around them.

“I know what you’re going to say. I know nothing’s fair. I know that’s the—it’s the way our world is now, right? Nothing’s fair, and nothing’s safe, and everything…” Martin coughs miserably, his voice stolen momentarily by the tears. “Everything ends.”

“Martin—”

“Don’t, Jon. Don’t say my name like that.”

“What would you have me say instead?”

“I don’t—I can’t. Not yet.”

So Jon says nothing. He drives. He tries very hard not to look at Martin, who curls against the door, crying in such a quiet, self-contained way that Jon wants to weep with the intensity of grief Martin seems to be denying himself.

By the time they’re nearing the border, Martin is even quieter. Jon risks a glance at him and finds that he is still crying, but sporadically, just tears now, falling silently onto the blanket he’s still holding beneath his chin. His face shimmers when it catches the headlights leeching across the road from the southbound side. The glassy look has returned to his eyes, and Jon wonders if he even knows that he’s still crying.

Up ahead, Jon spots a sign for Gretna Green. It twists a wretched, tearful laugh from his throat.

“What is it?” Martin rasps.

Jon turns to him, not caring if he misses the moment they cross the border—which before had seemed such an important milestone to him, a prerequisite of the journey. Martin is still crying those silent, ignored tears, but his gaze has moved from that absent nothingness to Jon’s face instead.

“I was just—Gretna Green,” Jon says uselessly. “We’re near Gretna Green.”

Martin takes a shuddering breath. It sounds like it could have been a laugh, too, if they were somewhere else, someone else—a perfect twin to Jon’s. “Oh?”

“Did you know that you can no longer get married at Gretna Green without at least twenty-nine days’ notice? In 1856, a law was passed requiring one member of the couple to have resided in the local parish for at least twenty-one days in order to be eligible to marry there. That has since been repealed, but the longer notice period maintained.” Jon didn’t know this until just a moment ago, when the Eye supplied it to him. “The tradition of Gretna Green marriages dates back to at least 1754, although the practice didn’t become commonplace until a toll road made it a more accessible location to those travelling from England. At the time, Scottish law was guided more by Celtic rather than Catholic tradition, and so allowed a couple to be married by anyone so long as there were witnesses, which gave rise to so-called anvil priests—local blacksmiths willing to perform wedding ceremonies.”

Martin swipes at his cheek with the back of his hand. He seems sturdier, more present. “I didn’t know any of that, actually.”

“The most famous anvil priest is Richard Rennison, who was recorded as having performed five-thousand, one-hundred and forty-seven wedding ceremonies before ‘irregular marriages’ were outlawed by the Scottish government in 1939.”

“That’s—that’s a lot of weddings,” Martin murmurs, a hint of humour in his voice. “He must have seen a lot.”

Jon frowns. “Of what?”

“Well, love, I guess. But it can’t all have been good.”

“Perhaps.”

“I mean, I’ve read Pride and Prejudice, for a start.”

“Yes, but Mr Wickham is not a particularly helpful example of a potential husband. Would you hold his entire character against the integrity of Gretna Green?”

“I guess they never actually went to Gretna Green, in the end. But I bet there’s a lot of real-life examples of people manipulating their partners into a shotgun wedding across the border and then—”

“Goodbye happily ever after.”

“I never had you down for a hopeless romantic.”

“I was agreeing with your last point.”

“Yeah, but none of the points before that.”

“Yes, I was.”

Martin makes that noise again, something adject to a laugh that warms Jon’s heart. “No, you weren’t.”

“Yes, I was.”

“No, you—” Martin stops, shakes his head. “This is ridiculous.”

“Fine,” Jon says, lifting his hands momentarily from the steering wheel in a gesture of surrender. “I wouldn’t go so far as to call myself a hopeless romantic, thank you very much. But is it so terrible to imagine that some of those marriages were—well, happy or exciting or—or fairer? Than somewhere else? That there was a great deal of love here for a great deal of time, and that makes this place—unique. You’re right: not all of it could have been happy, or good, or honest. But—”

“But you’re a little bit in love with the idea of this place,” Matin says, and it takes Jon a moment to realise he’s teasing.

Jon feels heat rush to his cheeks, and he’s glad that it’s dark inside the car, that they’re between streetlights and passing vehicles. I’m a little bit in love with you, too, Jon thinks, and feels his blush deepen even further. The thought is so vivid that for a moment, he’s convinced he actually said it out loud. But Martin is just looking at him, his expression still somewhat distant, but there’s something like a smile sitting on his lips. No hint that Jon might have just confessed his love.

“Yes, well.” Jon clears his throat. “Sometimes it’s nice to…”

“Have a little hope?”

Jon nods, just once. When he looks at Martin, his smile has disappeared and there are tears in his eyes again.

“I’m sorry,” Jon whispers.

“For what?”

“For everything. For—”

“Jon, you can’t be sorry for everything,” Martin cuts in. “It will eat you alive. God, you—you don’t have to be sorry. Not for anything you think you’ve done to me.”

“Martin, I—”

“No, Jon, I’m the one who should be sorry.”

“What an earth for? You haven’t—”

“I have. We’ve both—we’ve both made a lot of mistakes. And that’s… probably why we’re here.” Martin sniffs, curls his hands tighter around the blanket. “But I…”

Jon waits. He thinks they must have crossed the border into Scotland now, with little fanfare. Too absorbed in each other’s words to notice the transition.

“Can we stop soon?” Martin asks at last, breaking the silence.

It’s not what Jon is expecting, but he nods nonetheless. “Of course. We’ll stop at the next service station.”

True to his word, Jon stops at the next service station—which just so happens to be Gretna Green. He asks Martin if he wants to keep going, to bypass this service station for another, but Martin simply shakes his head and doesn’t say anything as Jon finds them an empty space.

They walk inside together, only splitting off into separate cubicles when they reach the toilets. Martin says very little, but allows himself to be guided by Jon through Waitrose, which is open despite the late hour. They’ll have to sacrifice affordability for practicality this time, since they’re only two hours away from Daisy’s safehouse and it seems like a bad idea to risk stopping again. Jon fills their basket with tea bags, powdered milk, custard creams, bread, bananas, baked beans and pre-grated cheese. None of it particularly glamourous, but it will tide them over, and he’s not sure either of them is in a state to do more than microwave what they have available.

Just before they reach the check-out, Jon notices the chocolate Martin likes. He remembers, because Tim had once returned from his lunch break having bought the entire box from the nearby supermarket when Martin had been staying in the Archives. Caramel Cadbury, the contrasting purple and yellow wrapper always showing up in the bins after that, and Jon feeling an odd sense of jealousy that Tim had so effortlessly, it seemed, made Martin’s unexpected stay more pleasant.

Jon places two bars into the basket with the rest of their goods. With the hand not holding the basket, Jon reaches for Martin. Martin closes the distance, taking Jon’s hand, and they cling to each other through the transaction and the return to the car.

“Are you hungry?” Jon asks Martin.

Martin shakes his head. Jon adds this to the list of things to address later, when he isn’t so sleep-deprived he’s sure to say the wrong thing, push the wrong buttons. He places their shopping bags in the boot of the car and reluctantly relinquishes Martin’s hand so they can both climb back in.

Jon doesn’t start the engine.

“I can’t stop thinking about Naomi Hearne,” Martin announces, after a long stretch of silence. “I had a dream about her statement. Earlier. It was… different, though. I think it might have been—I think maybe I was—I belonged to that house.”

Jon doesn’t know what to say. His own silence is choking him, and he knows now is not the time to cry, but it’s a difficult thing to wrestle down the onslaught.

“I was so stupid,” Martin hisses. He’s crying again, so suddenly Jon feels like he must have missed something. “I should never have gotten involved with the Lonely. I’m—this is—it’s all my fault. I did this.”

Jon swallows his own tears. “Martin, I don’t understand.”

“The Lonely won’t let me go.”

“It will. It has,” Jon says, quick, desperate.

“No.” Martin shakes his head with a mirthless laugh. “No, it hasn’t, Jon. You remember Evan Lukas.”

“Of course,” Jon replies, although it wasn’t a question.

“He escaped. He escaped, and it took him back in the end.”

“No.” Jon leans back, as if struck. This is—why has he never thought about this? But no, it can’t be true, it can’t be a possibility. “No, that’s—Martin, you aren’t like him. Evan Lukas was—he was born into it. The Lonely was with him for longer than it ever was you.”

“I think the Lonely always had me.”

“Don’t say that. Not again. Not now.”

“But it’s true, Jon! When I listened to Naomi Hearne’s statement—”

“I should never have let you—”

“You didn’t let me. I chose to.”

“It wasn’t a choice.”

“It was.”

“No, it—it compelled you, somehow. The statements, they can do that, they can—”

“I wanted to read it.”

“Exactly!”

“No, I wanted to read it because I was doing my job, because I was helping Tim and Sasha. I didn’t know it would—it just seemed like a normal statement. Until I listened,” Martin continues, voice growing in strength. “It called to something inside of me. I recognised so much of myself—”

“No, Martin.”

“My life is—was—it was just like—”

“Stop,” Jon snaps, “Stop. Please.”

Martin stops, but only momentarily. “We have to talk about this at some point. I know I’ve been putting it off, too, but… we have to.”

Jon drags a hand over his face, suddenly so exhausted he could fall asleep. But his heart is pounding and his hands, he realises as he’s lowering them from his face, are shaking. There’s no rest to be had yet. “Alright.”

“Being cut off from the Lonely might kill me,” Martin says, “Like it killed Evan Lukas.”

“I’ll be cut off from the Eye, too. I’ll—”

“Basira is sending you statements,” Martin interrupts, “And you’re going to read them, okay? You have to read them.”

“Then you’ll have to—to find a way to feed the Lonely, too.”

“I won’t do that.”

“That’s the only deal I’m going to make.”

“I won’t sacrifice anyone to that place,” Martin spits. “You saw it, Jon. You were there. How can you think I would ever send anyone there just to save myself?”

“Oh, and you think feeding the Eye is without its sacrifices?” Jon demands, fury rising to meet his grief in a perfect storm. “Is it okay to subject people to nightmares, to reliving their trauma again and again with me drinking it all in, just so I can survive?”

“At least they’d be alive!”

“Martin, this is ridiculous. You can’t—”

“Stop trying to find a way out of this.”

“Stop acting as if this is the only way!” Jon shouts, loudly enough that Martin flinches back.

With a shuddering breath, Jon tries to contain his anger, to hide it until it’s not so raw. He thinks about the last time they were in the car together. The argument then, and how he had pulled over and gotten out and smoked to avoid finishing the confrontation, to avoid letting his true feelings show.

He won’t do that again. He can’t. Not this time.

“Evan Lukas didn’t—it might not have been the Lonely that killed him. We don’t know for certain that it was,” Jon continues. “And if it was the Lonely… did Naomi Hearne’s statement give any indication that he lived his life differently because he knew it might happen? No. He got a job that he cared about. He surrounded himself with friends. He fell in love. You can have all of those things. You deserve all of those things.”

Martin’s tears drop faster and faster, an unstoppable flood, and Jon wants nothing more than to reach across and wipe them away with his thumb. He would, except that Martin is holding himself so tightly, curled with his back against the car door, and he looks so devastated, so far away, so unwilling to be reached.

“He died,” Martin sobs. “He died, and he left the person he loved behind.”

“Oh, Martin.”

“No, Jon, I—I know what that feels like.”

“Martin,” Jon murmurs. Afraid of what’s coming next. But he knows he has to say it. He has to keep going. “Can I ask you something?”

Martin hesitates, wiping at his eyes, digging his fingers into his sockets. After a protracted moment, he nods.

“Do you think Naomi Hearne wishes she never met Evan Lukas?” Jon asks.

Martin stares at him, still crying. “I don’t know.”

“I think you do.”

“I don’t…” Martin takes a shuddering breath. “No. I don’t think Naomi Hearne wishes she never met Evan Lukas.”

Jon almost smiles. “Neither do I.”

“But she was lonely again, afterwards.”

“Maybe she wasn’t. Maybe she reached out to Evan’s friends. Maybe she realised they were her friends, too.”

Martin stares at him with red-rimmed eyes. “Do you know that?”

“No.” Jon sighs. “No, but I—I can Look.”

“No, that’s not fair.”

Jon steadies himself. Across the car park, he watches a young father bounce a little baby, pacing the length of his sedan as he does so. In the car, the faint silhouette of his partner is just visible; they look peaceful, at rest. Jon’s heart aches.

“Can I ask you one more thing, Martin?” Jon whispers.

“Yes,” Martin rasps, reluctance replaced with resignation.

“Do you wish you had never met me?”

Silence. Jon forces himself to keep watching the father, murmuring now to the fussing baby, giving Martin time to consider the question, all of its sharp angles, its gentle core. He wishes, more than anything, that he could reach for Martin’s hand and hold it. Hold it tight, kiss his knuckles.

“Jon?”

At last, Jon turns to look at Martin. Their eyes meet and then, in a blur of movement, Martin reaches for him, his hands pausing on Jon’s shoulders for just a moment, giving him time to pull away, but Jon reciprocates in full, grabs hold of Martin’s jumper and pulls until they’re a tangled mess, holding each other, crying and clinging and trying to move closer than the small car will allow.

“No,” Martin says into Jon’s shoulder. “I don’t—of course I don’t regret meeting you. God, Jon, I—please don’t—never think that, okay? I don’t want you to ever think that.”

Jon lifts his hand to Martin’s hair, runs his fingers through the tussled curls where they’re fuzzy from sleeping against the door. “Martin, meeting you—it was a gift. It’s always been a gift.”

Martin sobs, his face wet against the seam of Jon’s jumper. “I wish I’d never agreed to Peter’s plan.”

“I understand why you did. And I forgive you, if you need to hear it.”

“But I’ve ruined everything.”

“Nothing is ruined beyond repair, Martin.”

“What if the Lonely calls me back?”

Jon holds tighter, as if the Lonely is already at their backs, creeping closer. “We’ll deal with it.”

“You said yourself…” Martin sobs again. “You said—when we went to Kent—you said—”

“I said it didn’t matter how long Naomi and Evan had. I remember.”

Martin is shaking against him. “Did you…?”

“I meant it. Not because—it’s not because I didn’t care, although I know I was trying very hard to give that impression, at the time. I meant it because no amount of time would have been enough. Love is… it’s outlasting. It makes its own time.”

“Jon—”

“No, please, Martin, I—I need to say this. No matter how long we get, whether it’s days or—or years. It won’t be enough. I’ll always…” Jon laughs, a small, fragile thing. “Well, I’ll always want more. Perhaps you don’t believe me, or you—you can’t, right now. But you, Martin, you are enough. Always. I will spend every moment we get together ensuring you believe that. If you’ll have me, of course. There’s—of course, there’s no obligation, and I would—I’d understand if—but it’s true. It’s all true.” Jon laughs again, feeling giddy. “I want to spend all of my time with you, Martin. For as long as you’ll have me.”

Slowly, they pull away from each other, but not far. Jon moves his hands up Martin’s arms, over his shoulders, until they rest on his cheeks, and he finally allows himself the privilege of wiping away Martin’s tears with his thumb.

“I wish it hadn’t taken—well, all of this—” Martin makes a vague gesture with his hand, which still somehow encompasses everything: tea stains on statements, worms at the door and shoulder-to-shoulder against the wall, trips to the café heavy with paranoia, quiet goodbyes, missed moments. “To get here.”

Jon rubs his thumb against Martin’s cheek. “We can’t go back.”

“I know.”

“Will you…?” Jon takes a steadying breath. There are so many questions, but only one matters, in this moment. The rest will follow, one day. “Martin, will you take it day by day with me? And if that doesn’t work—hour by hour, minute by minute. Together.”

There’s a breathless pause. And then Martin laughs, a genuine smile splitting his face for the first time in—well, Jon can’t remember how long. It’s small and tentative, but it’s there. And it means everything to Jon.

“Yes,” Martin tells him.

Jon smiles, too.

“I’m scared,” Martin murmurs, smile wavering slightly.

“Me too.”

“But I—I want to try.”

Jon feels his smile grow. “That’s enough. Always.”

Martin’s smile finds its feet again.

“Are you ready to keep going?” Jon asks.

Martin lifts his hands to Jon’s and squeezes. “I’m ready.”

In the silvery-grey headlights on the tarmac ahead, Jon thinks he sees the outline of the words he is still looking for the strength to share.

I love you.

Soon. He’ll say it soon. He has time.

The sun is just rising when they reach the safehouse. It welcomes them like an old friend, worn stone bathed in newborn sunlight as if to say hello, as if to smile at their arrival. Jon insists they are safe here, though his heart is unsure. Martin can’t shake the feeling that this is won’t be forever, though his heart wants to hope this might be it.

Maybe they will have a lifetime here. Maybe not.

Love makes its own time, Martin thinks. And Jon smiles and leads them both towards home.

#cw depressive episode #cw panic attack #cw death #cw grief #cw suicidal ideation #cw disordered eating #cw food #cw emetophobia #cw smoking #cw intrusive thoughts #naomi hearne's statement HAUNTS me to this day #i don't even know what to say about the radio 4 discourse #if i could do as much research for uni #as i did looking at the january 2016 radio 4 schedule for this fic #i might just be unstoppable #alas it is not to be 🤣#love and hugs to all who want and need it #have a wonderful day or night or whatever time it is where you are #<3

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little-igit · 4 years ago

Text

Crimson Roses

A/N: This is based on a dream I had. No matter how hard we try some things just won't make sense. Feel free to ask questions about me, the dream, or the book. constructive criticism is always welcome as well as tips and ideas!

Here is a little key you might need before you start!

Y/N - Your name

S/N - Little Sisters Name(If you are an only child make one up!)

H/C - Your Hair Color

Summary: You make a last minute decision to let your sister go alone to a summer camp. After a week of no contact from her you decide to go on a rescue missing and bring your sister home.

Warnings Of The Chapter: Anxiety

Three pale figures: One with green hair, one with blonde, and the last with red and white stand in a darkly lit room talking about something in hushed voices. As if they are afraid that the wind will carry their words somewhere they do not want them to be.

“So she's supposed to be coming, right?” Green curls bounce against each other as a head tilts to the side giving the peppermint haired one a questioning glance, accusing him of a lie he has not yet told.

“Of course you damn nerd!” Spikey blond hair is thrown in front of the green-haired figure and yells.

Emerald eyes roll in their sockets, a sigh soon following, more sassy than angry, “Shut up Kacchan…”

“Stop arguing and don’t worry, she's supposed to arrive at some point this evening.” The one that had kept his silence up until now finally speaks his mind. His voice was smooth and quiet, he doesn’t seem to be a very expressive person.

“Are you absolutely sure? There’s no possible way something could keep her from being here? We need her, you know. If something keeps her from coming we can’t waste time we need her…to live. We might not be able to keep ourselves together if she arrives too late. We would be too hung-” His rant of worries and woes is cut short by someone else.

“Just, shut up already!” Kacchan takes a threatening step towards the greenette with furrowed brows which seems to effectively quiet him.

“What did I just say, Bakugou?” The calmer figure scolded.

“Whatever half and half!” ‘Kacchan’, now known as Bakugou, screamed at him.

The figure with green hair spoke in a monotone voice, “Todoroki, are you positive she's coming?”

“Yes Midoriya, I am as certain as ever,” Todoroki states as if it’s set in stone.

It might as well be with all of the thought and effort they put into this.

---

H/C hairs wisp around under the gust of the cool air coming from the air conditioning system of the airport. A girl looks out upon a sea of small heads, all of them hugging and saying their goodbyes to their mothers and families. That is if they happen to be lucky enough to have them all there. The pace of her heartbeat quickens as she starts to realize she would be the only one her age going to this camp. The feeling of her heartbeat trying to beat out of her chest isn't new to her. She's felt like that a lot lately, not to mention having anxiety doesn't help either.

Tears spring to her eyes and she turns around to cling to her mother in one last goodbye. Something about this summer camp seems wrong, the whole thing gives her the creeps. She can't tell if she's being rational, though she's never liked being in an unfamiliar place for more than a night or two, this is meant to last all summer. Not to mention that this is Japan that she would be going to. It's not like she could just drive home.

She feels tears spring into her eyes, but before she starts to cry in front of the entire plane she pulls away. She holds onto the sleeve of her mother's arm, and with a quivering voice she speaks, “I don't want to go anymore!” An unstable breath trails behind the words that leave her lips. It feels like a weight has been lifted from her with just a simple sentence.

Her mother simply looks at her for a moment, and for that short time, she is afraid of what her mom will say. She's always been quick to call out her daughter when she's being irrational or dumb, even when she isn't. Though, this time, it seems as though she understands the girl. “But you were so excited. Did something happen?” She was questioning her. Of course, she was questioning her but her voice was softer than it usually would be, maybe she sensed how uncomfortable her child was.

Y/N shakes her head, “No. I don't know what it is. I just don't think I should go.”

Her mother is confused, but at least she's trying to understand. “I won't make you go,” She said,” but what about S/N? Won't she be on her own?” The woman’s eyes flicker over to a small girl, barely eleven, with long brown hair sitting in one of the chairs, waiting for the flight. She had already said her goodbyes.

She feels heavy guilt again for leaving her sister alone. “She'll be alright…She's a little social butterfly compared to me. She'll make friends, I'm sure of that. She has her phone, she'll be able to call us if she needs to. If she doesn't I'll be sure to kick her butt when she gets back.” She softly smiles at her last statement. She had always been very passive-aggressive towards her little sister but would claim to fight anyone who would dare be even half as mean as she was to the girl. She cared about her a lot.

Her mom smiles too, giving a nod. Something still doesn't sit right with her when she thinks about the fact that she's letting her sister go alone. Especially when she suckered her way out of things because she has a bad feeling. Her sister is strong though, she has faith that she'll be alright.

She lets out an emotionally frustrated puff of air, some of her immediate distress and anxiety leaving her. At least it does for the moment. At least she wouldn't be the only eighteen-year-old on the trip anymore. She would have been the oldest going by far.

She looks at her mom again, letting go of her sleeve now, “I'm gonna go let S/N know I won't be joining her…” It takes a second of bracing herself before she walks over to her sister, seating herself in the chair next to her. “Hey…”

S/N looks up at her, “Hey??” She was puzzled, that is obvious enough. Probably because Y/N is speaking to her instead of waiting with their mom until the absolute last minute as she does at any social event. “Is there something wrong?”

She shakes her head, “No, not really…I'm not gonna be able to come with you though…I'm not feeling too great about all this.”

For some reason, whatever it is, S/N doesn't seem surprised at all. “Oh…Alright. Is there a particular reason?”

She shakes her head again, there wasn't, at least not that she could figure out.

Their conversation was cut short by the echoing ding from the speakers above them, “Flight number N571A now ready for boarding.”

The two give brief comforting smiles to each other as S/N stands, grabbing her carry on bag, and walks away into the never to be a straight line of other passengers. Her worries remain ever-present in her mind, she tries to ignore them for now burry them away, and be happy for her sister. She is happy for her, just worried.

She must be sitting there for a while watching the line because the next thing she knows, her mom is placing a hand on her shoulder, and motioning for her to get up. Calming circles are rubbed into her back as her mom seems to sense her nerves still. She knows her mom must feel nervous as well, she's never liked crowds at all.

The two wait until they are sure S/N had to have gotten on the plane safely. Her mom's voice, calm, but not comforting as it was before rings out to break the comfortable silence between the two, “Ready to go?”

Y/N nods before standing, sticking close to her mom as she starts to guide her away. The children had been told that they wouldn't need more than a carry on bag, everything that they couldn't fit would be provided for them. She didn't need to worry about needing to retrieve a suitcase thanks to that. Her mom would have made her go if losing her luggage was a part of backing out. As they walk she starts to notice how unnaturally dark the airport seems to be. She writes off though, it's probably just her imagination.

She exits the building right behind her mom thanks to the automatic doors, they hadn't had to go through security twice thank god. That was a relief at least. She covers her eyes from the burning bright sun of early morning as the pair make their way to the parking garage in which they had parked. The only reason Y/N was even awake at this time was due to the early hour of the flight. She could sleep till noon and beyond if given the chance.

The garage was close and luckily they had been on the lowest floor. No one was really up this early. Neither she nor her mom says a word as they hop in the car. It's a silence they're used to. Y/N plugs her white earbuds into her phone, opening Spotify. Not wanting to listen to anything specific she chooses to listen to her liked songs playlist. She knew full well she was going to try and fall asleep during the drive anyways so what she listened to didn't matter as long as it wasn't screaming in her ear.

She reflects a little as she tries to fall asleep. Her mom letting her come home like this isn't normal. She thought she would have to put up a fight. Especially since travel isn't cheap, though, Y/N has a close friend whose mom was able to get them deals on their tickets. Maybe that's why she didn't complain about the cost.

She hums deciding that was enough overthinking for now.

---

The week passes by slowly. Much slower what she ever would have imagined. The bad feelings she had stuffed away about the flight grew. They festered inside of her since the very first day.

Two days passed without contact from her sister. She and her mom sat in the living room eating their dinner. Her dad was at work, he worked nights frequently ever since she was little. Thankfully he gets to choose his schedule.

Y/N scrolls through Tiktok on her phone, checking her messages every few minutes. Her mom is watching some dumb movie on the hallmark channel. She's praying she gets a message from S/N soon. It's been two days of silence since she left. That isn't normal, not for S/N.

Maybe she doesn't get service where she's at but there should be wifi. It doesn't make sense for her to just not answer.

Y/N knows her mom is worried by now too, S/N usually messages her first and she hasn't done that either. She hasn't shown any nerves though.

---

By the third day, Y/N has panicked. She called her friend and asked her to get another deal on tickets. She hadn't seemed too surprised. After she had made sure the tickets were taken care of and that she would have a flight-ready she started to pack. She didn't plan to stay for long so she didn't pack much other than necessities. She stuffed it with anything else that she could.

She was going to bring S/N home with her. That's the plan, she should have made her stay back with her in the first place but she would have felt bad if she did.

One week after the original departure she found herself driving back to the airport. She was alone this time, her mom hadn't been able to take another day off of work and her dad was asleep from his late night. Her phone was connected to the stereo of the car instead of her earbuds, which were tucked away into her carry on bag. She let her liked songs playlist play again, she couldn’t pick and choose now as it would be too risky to do while she's driving. She didn't want to wreck the only car she has, not to mention how angry her parents would be with her.

It takes around an hour for her to get to the airport. She parks at the same garage her mom had parked in one of the upper floors this time. Her flight wasn't as early as it was last time so the bottom-most floors were filled. She disconnected her phone from the car before turning the key and taking it out.

The trunk pops open with the click of a button. She drags the suitcase with her items out of the car, throwing her carry on over her shoulder. She reaches up, pulling the trunk shut. There's a moment of her fumbling around with her keys before she locks the car.

It took an unusually long time to pass security, granted everything was taking unusually long this week. It takes her a good while to find the desk to check in her bags, the process itself was a normal time. She walks and wanders, making sure she knows where her boarding area is beforehand. She was looking through a nearby store when the echoing ding from before rings out again, “Flight N295EV ready to board.”

Next Chapter

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wildlyminiaturesandwich · 5 years ago

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It’s time we talk about SimsDom again.

Most of you probably already know who and what Simsdom is but for those that don’t, Simsdom (or SimsDomination) claim to essentially be a CC finds website, which in essence I suppose they are... But don’t get your hopes up for a Lana replacement because they are SO much more than that. And not in a good way.

I know this is an old subject, and most people probably thought it was all over and done with, but Simsdom is still around and what’s worse is that I’ve noticed a growing trend among my fellow Game Changers who create content for Youtuber and Twitch/Mixer of promoting the site by using it to do CC shopping haul videos and streams, which is encouraging their viewers to use Simsdom. I’m not going to name names or point fingers but it made me realise that maybe some people don’t understand just how bad Simsdom is for the community in general, but especially for the amazingly dedicated CC creators of Simblr. And it’s just so disappointing to see people that some many in the community, including myself, look up to promoting this garbage site!

If you’re curious to know why this is a problem, I’ll explain under the cut. If not, keep scrolling... But don’t say I didn’t warn you.

If you visit the Simsdom website (which I’ve purposely not provided a link to because you absolutely shouldn’t visit it) you’ll notice a whole bunch of custom content is available there, more than likely you’ll even find quite a bit from some of your faves like @peacemaker-ic, @nolan-sims, @storylegacysims, @crypticsim, @renorasims, @savvysweet and MANY more. My stuff is even on there as well and if you’re a creator, the chances are high your stuff is too; whether you want it to be or not.

But don’t be fooled, myself and most of the other creators whose content appears on their site did not give permission for our content to be shared on there. In fact, most of us have specifically asked Simsdom to remove our content from their site. I say “most” because there are some people who willing uploading their content there (god knows why). The easiest way to the tell the difference is to look at who posted the content. If you see this:

That content has been shared by a bot, without the creator’s permission and more than likely against their many requests that Simsdom NOT share their content. If it says the name of the actual creator instead of “Exchange”, that creator uploaded it themselves.

You might also ask why anyone would care if their content was shared on a CC finds blog, after all, it means more traffic to our blogs and content, right? First of all, whether it brings in more traffic or not, is beside point. These creators have specifically requested Simsdom not share their content and they have been ignored, disrespected, threatened, and harassed. Simsdom claims that their users make up 30-90% of Tumblr creators traffic, but I call bullshit. I check my Google analytics every single month for traffic coming in to both my Tumblr and Blogger from Simsdom and I can tell you that LESS THAN 1% of the COMBINED TOTAL traffic from BOTH BLOGS comes from there. And when you understand how they operate, you’ll understand why that is.

- UPDATE -

In reference to Simsdom’s response to this post, they linked 5 creators that they claim meet their crazy statement that their site provides creators with 30-90% of their traffic. So I just thought I’d point out some interesting facts I noticed while looking at those sites.

One of those sites is dead; literally, it doesn’t exist anymore, if it ever even did. Another, @simiracle, is a fellow Game Changer who reblogged this post, so I’m guessing they don’t have support there. And the other 3 are alpha CC creators, none of whom have ever uploaded any of their CC to Simdom, nor have they ever mentioned Simsdom on their sites in any way. However, all three earn money on their own content via either adfly, adsense, patreon, or some combination of the three; my guess would be they wouldn’t be too happy to find out Simsdom is making money off them too.

You see, Simsdom might sometimes link back to the original creators site, but often times they don’t. I’ve noticed quite a bit of the content of my own on their site directly links to the file on SimFileShare, completely bypassing both my Tumblr and my Blogger. This might not seem like a big problem, but what about if the creator has put specific instructions, requirements, or notes on the original download page that if the downloader doesn’t read could result in broken/unusable CC, or worse, a broken game?

- UPDATE -

In reference to Simsdom’s response to this post, they linked to SimFileShare’s page on SimilarWeb and claimed that I was lying about direct-linking to my files there because their site does not appear in the list of referring sites. What they failed to mention is that that list only shows the TOP 5 sites that link to SimFileShare regularly. There are still 385 other sites that aren’t shown and can’t be seen without having an account with SimilarWeb. Convenient, huh?

I also said they only direct-linked SOME content. With my content it was only about 4 or 5 things out of the 15 or so they have on their site and I didn’t check anyone else’s stuff but I have heard other creators say the same thing. So of course they’re not going to show up in the top 5 if it’s only SOME links.

But wait, there’s more.

Anyone downloading from their website without an adblocker is forced to wade through potentially harmful ads as well. Notice the blue button that says “download” at the top? That’s not a real download button and if you click it, it will instantly begin shoving pop ups in your face claiming you have a system error or that your local law enforcement agency has detected illegal activity from your IP. Yes, I clicked it. There is nothing of importance left on my HDD (it’s all stored safely on an external drive that isn’t connected to the PC at all) because this drive has been slowly dying for weeks and I’m destroying it tomorrow and replacing it with a brand new one, so I decided to take a chance.

These ads, which are on pretty much every page of Simsdom, are what’s called “Ransomware”, and it’s whole purpose is to distract you with fake pop up “warnings” when you click on it so that you don’t realise it’s actually downloading a very harmful file to your computer in the background. It’s designed to be next to impossible to close the pop ups, so that even if you somehow became aware of the download happening, you couldn’t get past the pop ups to stop it before it’s had time to finish downloading and automatically begin running it’s payload when it’s done.

What payload? That’s the scariest part, you won’t know until it’s too late. It could be something as simple as a trojan that will force your PC to mine bitcoins, which is still harmful because these mining trojans are resource hogs and put a massive strain on your CPU. Or a trojan designed to target and encrypt specific files on your computer (usually sensitive ones) and demand you pay a literal ransom (usually either in bitcoin or pre-paid cash) and if you don’t, your files will either be complete erased or leaked.

Or worse still, it could be something even more sinister such as a key-logger; a piece of spyware that is designed to track and log EVERY. SINGLE. KEY. you touch on your keyboard. So every password you use, every online banking key code you enter, all the conversations you have via Discord, Twitter, Tumblr, or any other form of instant messaging, that fanfiction you’ve been working on that you are too scared to show anyone in case they think you’re a pervert, your credit card and bank account number you use to shop online, what porn you look for, even your Google search history (regardless of if you’re incognito); all of it will be no longer private and in the hands of someone who could use it to steal your identity, empty out your bank accounts, charge thousands of dollars worth of goods to your credit card, or expose every little strange thing you do on your computer that you thought no one would ever find out about, unless you pay their ransom.

Scary huh?

Also notice that those Get Famous recolours I made don’t say that they actually require Get Famous? Why is that a problem, you say? For most people it’s not, you see “Get Famous Recolours” and you automatically know you need Get Famous to use them, but what about people who are new to using CC and don’t know that for my recolours to work you need the pack they came from? Yeh, that’s a problem, because that particular download is one of those ones that leads straight to SimFileShare:

It leads directly to the merged file, which is NOT the only file available for download in that set, just the largest. But no one who finds my content on Simsdom will ever know that will they? Nor will they read the part of the download page that clearly states Get Famous is required to use the recolours.

I hear you saying “But adblockers are a thing”. Yes they are, but that doesn’t solve the issue of them linking straight to the file. And also, here’s what happens when you try to download something from Simsdom with an adblocker enabled:

You’re forced to wait 180 seconds before the download button appears. THREE WHOLE MINUTES in which you cannot move from that page or the counter will stop, and it will only restart when you go back to that page and stay there for the entire three minutes. Even Adfly isn’t that gross.

So, all of that isn’t enough to discourage you from using this vile site you say? Well, let me introduce you to the person/people who run the site. There are plenty of examples floating around Tumblr of how disrespectful, arrogant, immature, and disturbing the owner/s are (just search for “Simsdom” and you’ll see) but here’s just a few posts showing “receipts” of what happened to creators when they ask for their content to be removed from the site: Here, here, and here.

They have threatened to doxx several creators, tried to blackmail others, threatened to shut down some people’s sites, and even actually refused to remove people’s content unless they say “please”; as though these creators are six year old children who need to learn a lesson for not wanting THEIR content on someone else’s website!

All of this was said AFTER they made a post on their Tumblr saying they would respect creators wishes to not have their content on their site. I myself had a run-in with them as well but I don’t have the receipts because as soon as they finally agreed to remove my content (after almost 4 days of arguing with them and being threatened several times) they blocked me... and they continue to share my content to this day. That’s part of the reason why my motivation to create has been so low lately; I know its just going to end up over there, locked behind a paywall making money for these disgusting people and tricking simmers into thinking they have to pay to access my stuff.

But back to the story! Once they realised 99% of Tumblr creators — the people they get most of their content from — were going to ask to have their creations removed however, they changed their mind and instead started refusing to remove content. In fact, if you go to their website and use the contact form and choose the option “Remove my Content” they literally ask if you are Tumblr creator or not, and if you say you are, this is what you get:

And that “Our Rights here” link? That leads to this nonsense that literally contradicts itself with almost every single sentence:

“Creations can’t be uploaded without the creators permission... but we do not need permission to share your creations” “Feel free to contact us to ask to remove your content... but actually don’t bother contacting us asking to remove your content because we won’t” “SimsDomination is a free website... We don’t steal any content... *literally has other people’s free content locked behind a paywall and charges people membership fees to remove said paywall*”

And as for the EA terms part... I have news for you Simsdom, YOU are the only one breaking EA’s terms of use by putting content behind paywalls. I’m an EA Game Changer, I have actually read the terms of use AND spoken at length on the topics of earning revenue from CC, and why paywalls/memberships/exclusives are against EA’s terms of use with the Sim Gurus, have you? Didn’t think so.

If you had, you’d realise that we are allowed to earn revenue from our CC by having ads on our blogs/sites provided they aren’t deceptive — you know, like that ad with the big blue button you have that shows up on every single page of your site — and don’t lead to anything malicious, which yours do. I clicked several of the ads on your site and they all either lead to disgusting 18+ websites, started producing ransomware pop ups like I described earlier, or tried to download a mysterious file called setup.exe to my computer (which was most likely a trojan as well). We are also allowed to earn revenue via donations and Patreon early access systems provided the content is also made available for free to the general public within 14 days.

We are not, however, allowed to lock content behind Patreon exclusives, memberships and paywalls such as Adfly; which is exactly what you are doing. Like Adfly, you are not only potentially exposing underage children to 18+ content and risking the safety of people’s PCs, but you are also forcing them to wait to click a link and charging membership fees to avoid having to wait to download said content that isn’t even yours; content that you have been asked REPEATEDLY to remove. That is the very definition of a paywall. It is NOT the same as Pinterest or Facebook AT ALL, they might have ads but they aren’t malicious and they do not force people to wait to view content.

- UPDATE -

In reference to Simsdom’s response to this post, this is probably one of my most favourite Simsdom lies, because it never changes but it’s so easy to prove false! “Users don’t need to pay to download any content and don’t need to wait to download them” Oh really? Shall we take a look at your site on the old SimilarWeb that you love so much?

How strange. If you don’t make people wait, then why do you need adfly? And if no one has to pay, then why do you need premium memberships to get rid of the ads and wait time you don’t have? Odd.

Also, lets talk Adsense. I never said I had a problem with you having ads on your site; I said I had a problem with the TYPE of ads on your site. If you seriously don’t think your ads are in any way harmful, I’d suggest you take another look at your Adsense, because either it’s been hacked or you seriously don’t know what you’re doing. Oh, but that’s right, “Google will never display suspicious ADs“... Mmm hmm, you just go right on believe that. Yeh, it’s definitely not possible for Google to be hacked... Nope, definitely not.

Also, if you use your Adsense revenue to pay for your site.... what happens to the extra? Because based on your SimilarWeb page I can take a rough guess at how much you earn every month through Adsense alone and there’s no way your site costs that much to run. For that matter, where does all the extra revenue from Adfly, Short.st and this mysterious “other” go? And all the revenue you get from your premium subscriptions that you totally don’t charge people money for?...

Is that fish I smell?

You are not doing anyone any favours here, so stop pretending that you’re in this for anything other than money. Stop sharing content you’ve been asked REPEATEDLY to remove/not share and breaking EA’s and many creators TOUs!

If you’ve managed to make it this far, congrats lol I know this has been long and probably boring but thank you for taking the time to read the whole thing. All this post was meant to do was explain why people should not support Simsdom, and why I’m so disappointed in other Game Changers for promoting it, but it kind of got away from me a little.

Oh well, now you know what Simsdom is and why I will NEVER support them or willingly allow my content to be shared on their site. And if you do decide to still use their site, just... please be careful. My content will always be free and safe to download, just like the majority or CC creators here on Tumblr. Don’t pay for something you can get for free from the original source.

Also, if you’re looking for a Lana replacement (aka a good CC finds blogs that isn’t shady af like Simsdom) check out @maxismatchccworld!

- UPDATE -

This isn’t in relation to anything specific, just the situation as a whole. It seems Simsdom has just removed the search box from their website completely:

I’m sure it was totally legit reasons and not at all because they didn’t want anyone searching for their own content on the Simsdom website. Just like it wasn’t for that reason the last time too...

#VERY IMPORTANT #DownWithSimsdom #Boycott Simsdom

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write-like-you-mean-it · 4 years ago

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A Perfect View: Haikyuu Coffee Shop AU

This is a Choose Your Own Character. This is part 2 to Oikawa’s story. Go to part 1 to read the beginning of the story.

My hands fidgeted with my phone which caused my lock screen to pop up more times than not. Even with all the games, I hadn’t traveled to this part of town in awhile. A few of the sports fans were pushing each other to see one of the games.

I felt like a miniature version of myself as I stood outside the grand area. I checked my phone once again to see the same message. “Make sure to talk to the front gate. See you after the game~.” Even the messages he sends are cute.

A sigh escapes my lips as I walk to the front gate. Was I really going through with this? Could I really go through with this?

“Ticket please?” called the ticket taker. I shook away my thoughts.

“Oh, uh, I am here for Toru,” I say. The fast beat deep within my chest wasn’t going away. I must’ve seemed like a scared puppy to this person. The gate manager radioed over the intercom “Did Oikawa leave any tickets?”

A small female voice echoed a “yes. Tell them to go to the information desk.” The burly man turned to look at me. “It’s down the main hall and to the left.” I nod my head before following his directions.

Cheering shook the foundation of the room. The game must’ve already started. I race to counter before sensibility takes over my mind. “I have a ticket from Toru Oikawa,” I state the person standing behind the desk. I’ve said his name so many times at this point; however, it felt like I was saying his name for the first time. The shimmering wink permeated my mind every time I said it.

“Here is your ticket,” said the lady. She must’ve been the one that was over the radio earlier. Her voice was the same. She handed me my ticket with a typical customer service smile. “Your seat will be through those doors, up about mid-way, and in the middle. “

“Thank you,” I call. I stare back at my ticket. I, now, had another fidget in my hand. I turned the ticket over to see a note written on the back. ‘I’ll find you afterwards.’ I shake my head while entering the door. He could’ve texted me that; yet, his action was sweet.

The seats were cramped pull down ones that always seemed to have too little space to place one’s arms. What was even more awkward was my placement in relation to the game. I was on the opposite side as Oikawa’s team where I could face him. The arena was pretty full as many more people were climbing up the stairs.

I’d never gone to a volleyball game before. I had no clue what was happening the majority of the match. I did, however, watch the most powerful serves I’d ever seen. The sound of the ball hitting the arms of each player gave me chills that coursed throughout my body.

Soon, it was Oikawa’s time to serve. I may have dreamed it but he and I locked eyes for a split second. A smirk crosses his face before bouncing the ball a few more times. His face was blown up on the jumbo screen.

The cocky grin sends butterflies straight to my stomach. The flutter deep within only made my heart race. It was the same smirk he’d given me when asking for my number. If he wasn’t so pretty, it wouldn’t have worked. Lucky for him that he was graced with good genes.

After a while, I became enthralled with the game. It helped that a parent was explaining to their child what was happening in the game near me. Otherwise, I may have never known what had happened until the final blow of the whistle. Oikawa’s team must’ve won. The cheers and shouting from the stands shook the poor stadium.

I watched his team celebrate the win. Even in professional games, there was a drive to be the winner. It was a calling only a few star teams ever got to claim. His team must’ve moved up in the ranking.

Some of the spectators started to get out of their seats. The two teams escaped back to their locker room. I was left with two choices: leave my seat or stay put and wait. One left a hint of mystery while baited eagerness. I decided for the latter.

I find myself messing with my phone in the hopes of getting a message about his location. People were leaving all around me. Crowds started to gather at the exit of the court. Some of the players had come out of the locker room and were signing shirts and posters. I stuck to my lifeline of the phone.

Only a few minutes had passed. It felt like an eternity as I scrolled through the endless nothingness behind my screen. 5 minutes turned into 10 which turned into 15. At the 20, minute mark, I was going to leave.

Suddenly, a “hey, I’m glad you came,” said a higher pitched, cocky voice. “I thought you might not show when the game started.”

I look up to see he’d changed from his uniform and into a comfortable pair of sweatpants and a tee-shirt. His hair was still a little wet from a shower that must’ve been taken in the time I’d seen him last. “Work ran a little late,” I say. “Congratulations on winning. I can’t say that I knew a lot of what was going on but I knew that you won.”

I locked my eyes on his, and my feet suddenly felt like I hadn’t stood in years; I was an unsteady mess. If Toru had noticed, he didn’t mention it. “I know of a bar close to here,” he said while turning to look at the emptying place. “Unless you’d rather do something else. I didn’t think I’d make it this far with my barista when I asked for your number earlier today.”

“Oh,” I said while following the brunette towards the stairs. “The bar is fine. I haven’t gotten a drink out in awhile.”

Toru scoffs. “I thought guys would try to pick you up every day. Who wouldn’t want to fall for the coffee shop girl?” His typical smirk came back. It was his calling card for knowing that he made your insides melt. I could feel my own face warming up.

“I doubt you’d want some middle-aged men hitting on you. You’re just lucky enough to be attractive.”

“So you’re saying I’m attractive,” he called back before racing down the stairs.

My breath caught in my throat. “T-that’s not,” I stutter.

Toru gets to the bottom of the stairs first before turning back and reaching out his hand to help me. “It’s alright. You can just say it. You find me irresistibly attractive.”

I grab onto his hand as he leads me down the last few steps. My eyes rolled before landing back on his own. “Now you’re not going to hear me say it.” He let go of my hands which felt cold without his touch.

The volleyball player shrugs his shoulders before escorting me out of the arena. “We all have our fatal flaw. Hubris is mine. I’ll gladly wait until I find yours.”

“Even if it takes a hundred years,” I smirk.

“Even if it takes a hundred years,” Oikawa promises. “You’ll have to keep me around until then.”

Our conversation turns to one of silence as we walk down the street. Each of our thoughts swim to find the correct words to string together. “Thank you for the ticket. The seat was a great view.”

“You’re welcome,” he commented. “I picked that seat just for you.”

“Oh why?”

“I wanted someone good-looking to be in my view while I served.” Again, his voice held the same cocky tone. The butterflies reoccurred deep within my stomach as I turned to look away from him.

“So you were looking at me?” I ask .

“Of course. How could anyone not?” Toru’s tone changed. This time, his teasing was mixed with hint sincerity I had yet to know. He was being serious in every compliment and cocky statement he had said before; however, this one was different.

Before I could respond, Oikawa pointed his finger towards a sign across the street. “There it is,” he called. “Let’s get inside before it gets too chilly.” He takes my hand once again to cross the bustling street. His hand was calloused from all the extra practice he’d put into his sport. All the hard work and dedication could be found all over his body. Each muscle was born from a drive to be the best.

Once inside, we grabbed one of the open tables. “Should we start off with ‘tell me about yourself’ or get into the deep stuff?” the brunette asked. “Or would you rather order a drink to start off the night? This is all my treat, of course.”

“How about you tell me about yourself, Toru?” I said while picking up the drink menu. I decided to use it as a camping mechanism instead of my phone. I already knew what drink I’d want. It was the same I’d always get at the bar. “What made you choose volleyball?”

“Now that’s a long story,” Oikawa says. “Hope you don’t have to work tomorrow, darling because I want you to have the best first date of your life.” His promise was a bold one; yet, I knew he would deliver.

A waitress took our drink orders before Toru starts on his story and the beginning of the best date of my life. "If I’m being honest, Volleyball was all I ever wanted to do my entire life…”

Haikyuu Masterlist

(This series is a choose your own adventure. Pick your favorite man or all of them. I will try to make as many of them as possible with continuations. So far, there is Oikawa, Sugawara, Tuskishima, Kageyama, and Hinata. If you have a suggestion or comment, please message me!!)

#oikawa #oikawa x reader #hq oikawa #haikyuu #haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader #COFFEE SHOP AU #no doze cafe

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azrielsribbon · 5 years ago

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Quarantining with the Crows!

well two of the crows.

——————————————————————————

“...The Governor’s office has stated that they will be having a live conference, held around five-thirty tonight, addressing the frequently asked questions pertaining—”

The TV correspondent’s voice cut off eruptly as Kaz switched back to his Netflix home screen. This stupid virus was driving him insane. He had been cooped up, in his shared apartment for the past two weeks except for when he went out for groceries.

Beside him, his phone lit up. His brother didn’t know what to do with his time other than annoy him. Begrudgingly, Kaz picked it up to see what he wanted this time.

[Jordie]: I was just thinking. How is that you’ve been inside for two weeks and still haven’t made a single move on your roommate? 3:10 pm

[Kaz]: Because not all of us need to live up to some playboy rule book. 3:11 pm

Jordie is typing...

Read 3:11 pm

Smirking, Kaz went onto his social media. If it hadn’t been for Zenik’s persistence, he wouldn’t have even bothered but he couldn’t get her to shut up about it. But it was mostly the threat she had made about mentioning some things about him to Inej.

Her excuse behind forming a groupchat on literally everything had been something about needing another platform to send them memes. Whatever it was.

The muted Crows groupchat was blowing up, with Nina and Jesper arguing, per usual. Seemingly, the more they stayed inside the more chaotic the chat got.

[talldarkandhandsome_]: look im just sayin nutella crossiants arent that good when you dip em into ur tea

[waffleenthusiastic_]: fahey what would you know about taste?

[talldarkandhandsome_]: just because u got lucky with matty doesn’t mean u can overuse that statement, zenik. i have lots of taste.

[matthiashelvar]: lucky?

[wylanvansunshine]: i s thise ninas way of callings me uglie

[talldarkandhandsome_]: babe did u turn on voiceover again

[waffleenthusiastic_]: wyLan nO. jes is just mad i have proper tastebuds, he still thinks lime green ontop of dark green is a fashion statement.

[talldarkandhandsome_]: kaz stop lurking we have read notif on

[matthiashelvar]: demjin is here?

Rolling his eyes, Kaz left the chat and moved onto his twitter. While he was mindlessly scrolling, someone put a mug on the coffee table. Hot chocolate. No whip cream. His favorite from when he was a child.

He didn’t have to look up to know the person who smelled like fresh spring bottled up. Jasmine and Lavender. Her signature shampoo, the smell of it still fresh in their apartment from her post workout shower.

He wouldn’t admit it out loud but the smell of her soaps and odd candles always put him at ease, especially during the depth of their exam seasons and the odd jobs they took. It was a reminder of how she was always there, present.

“How many episodes did you binge without me?” Inej said as she sat down on the other side of the couch. He glanced up. She was in one of his old shirts that came down to her knees, her leggings underneath them.

“The whole season.” A lie, and she probably knew that too, from the unwatched episodes and the abandoned remote. He never could watch their shows without her around.

She hummed as she took a sip from her mug and swiped the remote from beside him, scrolling around a bit for a show to watch.

He discreetly continued to watch her from the corner of his eye. He was a thief, not just of material but of opportunity. He had never been caught to this day and certainly didn’t plan on it anytime soon.

“Why is the groupchat blowing up?”

“Something about Jesper not liking nutella crossiants in his tea.” He replied, keeping his eyes on her.

“Leave it to them to discuss food preferences when they’re out of things to do.” She mused, finally clicking on a show. “Do you want to order out or attempt to make something without burning the house down?”

“Order out. Mediterranean or Thai?”

“Definitely mediterranean. Your regular?”

“Yeah, I’ll get the number.” He moved to get up but she beat him to it him.

“My wallet’s on the counter.”

She waved him off. “I’ll cover it this time. You got the last couple orders.”

“Use my card, Ghafa, or I won’t eat the food. I will check my account.”

“What a big baby.” She shook her head. “Then I’ll get groceries when we’re out.”

Kaz didn’t bother to reply. He knew that when it came time for a run to the store, he’d still end up paying.

It’s not that Inej couldn’t pay for things, he just didn’t want her to.

His phone buzzed.

[Jordie]: Don’t get defensive. These playboy rules got me a girl. 3:21 pm

[Kaz]: Let’s hope they help you keep her. I am jealous of Kate, she can get rid of your ugly face anytime. 3:22pm

[Jordie]: Keep saying that, ungrateful brat. You should be praising the looks you didn’t win in the genetic lottery. I’m sure Inej would think the same. What are you waiting for anyways? Some guy to come in and take her away? She’s got looks. 3:24pm

He knew that too. Inej wasn’t ugly. She was far from it, and he wasn’t dumb enough to not notice the looks from guys—and girls, when they were out together.

He just couldn’t do it. He couldn’t bring himself to admitting that he did like her. He wasn’t ready for that.

Inej came back into the room after a couple of minutes, letting her hair out of its braid. He liked it when she let it loose around the apartment. Ebony waves glossed and complimented her beautiful complexion.

She caught the sight of him. “Have you heard from your brother?”

Kaz groaned. “When haven’t I heard from the bastard? You’d think he’d spend his time trying to seduce Kate.”

Inej let out a laugh. There’s the laugh, he thought.

“I’m sure Kate’s tired of him. When does he plan on finally proposing?”

“Sometime after the virus ends. If it ends. His original plan got postponed.”

Inej opened her mouth to reply but was cut off by the doorbell. “I’ll get it, you rest the leg.”

He watched her until she went out of his view. Nothing could change the way he’d feel for her. But he also knew nothing would change when it came to Inej liking him. He knew that he pressed her buttons very often. She didn’t see him more than a friend.

A friend who you borrow shirts from, a friend you spend your Friday nights with, a friend—

He was ok with friends. The very least, he could love her from afar and not hold her back from anything she deserved. Inej deserved someone who knew how to love. She survived too much to just end up with someone like him.

...

But what he didn’t know was that she was holding back on him as well. Every feeling, every ounce of adoration he harbored was returned.

#kanej #kaz brekker #inej ghafa #kaz x inej #six of crows #crooked kingdom #leigh bardugo #jesper fahey #wylan van eck #nina zenik #wesper #helnik

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cashapphelpbook · 3 years ago

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How to Check Cash App Card Balance on Desktop or Mobile - 3 Unique Ways

Looking for a way to check Cash App card balance? In this article, we will discuss 3 unique ways to do this.

Cash App currently has 30 million monthly active users, of which seven million are Cash Card owners. Cash App allows you to transfer or receive money from friends, family and vendors directly from your Cash App account.

Cash App introduced its own physical debit card for Cash App users. The Cash Card can be used at all eligible retailers, and can be withdrawn from ATMs across the United States.

So, if you are a frequent user of Cash App, you can order Cash Card and use Cash App card balance.

If you already have a card or have chosen to apply for it, chances are you would like to check the Cash App card balance from time to time.

What is Cash App Card?

Cash App Card is a debit card issued by Sutton Banks, designed primarily to be used with Cash App. Cash Card is designed to work like any other debit card stored in the Wallet app for use with Cash App. You can use it for in-store and online purchases.

It is linked directly to your account. Currently, it is only available in the United States.

Cash App Card is nothing more than an extension of the Cash App account itself and acts simply as a debit card to your account.

Like all debit cards, you only use the money or available funds in your Cash App account. There’s no credit allowed.

How to Check Cash App Card Balance?

How to check Cash App Card balance

Launch Cash App on your Phone

·Click the $ sign on the right side displayed on opening the Cash App.

The Cash App balance will be displayed on the main page

Visit the dashboard of the app next to a United States Dollar ($) sign to view your Cash App card balance.

Balance can also be seen in the top center of the app’s screen.

Click to return to homepage after viewing your Cash App balance.

I’am sure you already know this that your Cash App card is connected to your Cash App Account and they both have the same balance. Your balance is also shown every time you try to send or add money using the Cash app.

So, knowing the balance of your Cash App account is the same as the account balance of your Cash App Card.

How to Check Cash App Card Balance through the Website?

For some reason if you don’t have the Cash App mobile application (which you can easily download from Google Play Store (Android) or App Store (iOS)) you can still check balance of Cash App card through Cash App official website.

Visit the Cash App official website and sign in using your login credentials

Your Account Balance will be displayed on the main page or dashboard of your Cash App account.

This way you can check the main balance of your Cash App Card without using your mobile phone Cash app application.

How to Check Balance on Cash App Card Using Cash App Customer Support?

I mean why bother this way when you can use the above simpler methods. But this method can be helpful if the above methods don’t work.

To speak to the Cash Team, you can request contact through the Cash App or cash.app/help.

Request contact through cash.app/help:

Scroll down the page and click on the Contact Support

Navigate to your issue

Click on Contact Support

Request contact through the Cash App:

Launch the Cash App on your device

Tap on the profile icon from your Cash App home screen

Scroll down and click on Cash Support

Click on Something Else

Navigate to your issue

Tap on Contact Support

Either way you choose, once connected with the Customer Support Team, simply ask them that you want to know your Cash Card balance.

They will ask for some details about your account for verification and after verifying some information relevant to your Cash App account, they will give you your current Cash Card balance.

Apart from the balance, you can also request for 24 months transaction history of your Cash App account which you can also manually download the account statement from your cash app account.

How to Check my Cash App Balance by Phone?

Without logging into any account or accessing their website or app, you can know your balance by directly calling them.

Note: Beware that the representatives of Cash App will never ask for your sign-in code over the phone, on social media, or through any other medium. So keep out for that.

How to Order Cash App Card?

I’m guessing that if you are reading this article, you already have a Cash Card. But if you haven’t, you can order a new card for free of charge.

There are a few requirements to fulfill. User must be 18 or older to order a new Cash Card and it can take around 10 days to arrive at you.

If you have not applied, Here’s how to order a new Cash Card:

Step 1- Launch the Cash App and log in to your account.

Step 2- Click on the Card icon from the bottom of the home screen. Tap on the “Order” option.

Step 3- Choose your desired Cash Card color from the two options – black or white.

Step 4- Next, choose if you want your $cashtag printed on your card or not.

Step 5- Enter your address id where your Cash Card info to be delivered. So, make sure to provide a valid id.

Step 6- On the next page, fill up the required details such as your name, last four digits of your social security number, Date of Birth. etc.

Step 7- On the next page, click on “Continue” for the confirmation message.

Step 8- Once that is completed, you will be redirected to the “Add Funds” page to add money to your Cash App account.

Once your application is approved, it can take for around 10 days to reach your mail depending on your location. Once you hav receive the Cash card, you will need to activate it and assign a new PIN for the card, which you can change at any time.

After your card is activated, you will be able to add the card to your Google Pay or Apple Pay to conduct online transactions

Another important thing to note is that if you purchased something using your Cash Card and end up returning the item, refunds can actually take about 10 days to reflect back the balance on your account.

Conclusion:

As you can see, It is indeed very simple and easy to check your Cash App Card Balance. As mentioned before, the Cash App account balance is linked with your Cash App Card, so both their balance are the same.

#cash app #cashapp #cash app card balance #check cash app card balance #cash app balance #how to check cash app card balance #finance #money #business

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marithlizard · 4 years ago

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Ace Attorney: Rise From the Ashes (Day Two, Trial Latter) (part 3)

Wherein I attempt to liveblog a mostly text-based videogame. The trial continues! Lunch is over and yet we’re still being fed indigestible statements.

Court has recessed briefly for information-gathering. The clock says it's not even noon, but I feel like we've heard hours’ worth of (mostly untrue) testimony.

Lana has been called to the judge's chambers for reasons unknown. Ema is realizing just how much of a, what's the polite word, “freewheeler” she's chosen to represent her sister. But Phoenix is still flailing about when any other defense attorney in this world would have given up, so she'd best appreciate him.

It's the cowboy! Who pointedly mentions Lana's scarf, which he saw her wearing on the day of the murder. Since she wasn't wearing it in the photograph taken afterward, presumably the missing muffler is...in the car muffler? Was she trying to hide something, or give Edgeworth carbon monoxide poisoning? And just why is Marshall dropping us this helpful hint?

Court resumes with Edgeworth on the verge of some kind of conniption fit. The judge lists off his symptoms concernedly - oh NO surely you didn't eat one of the lunchboxes, Edgeworth! I've already been wondering how Angel Starr resisted the urge to give you food poisoning for two years, and that was before you verbally eviscerated her on the witness stand.

...Hello, who's this?

Peach suit, white hair, pink glasses and an avuncular folksy charm. You. I don't like you.

"Udgey?" Is that the judge's name, or some sort of twee pig-latin nickname for Judge? And "Wrighto" and "Worthy". And he can get away with calling people slightly demeaning and offbeat nicknames, because apparently he's the district chief of police, Damon Gant. Phoenix is chastised for not recognizing him, which is probably fair.

Okay, that technique of taking away the dialogue box for several seconds while Gant cocks his head and blinks at us is quite effective. This, we're silently being told, is a character so powerful they can interrupt the flow of the game itself.

The judge notes that it's been "over two years" since Gant was in the courtroom. That matches when Angel was fired. This is all about one case, isn't it? The case Lana and the victim worked on, the case that got Marshall demoted.

Gant has brought some false sympathy for Edgeworth and also Lana's missing scarf, which was indeed found stuffed in the car muffler. (So the lunchlady was telling the truth about at least something.) The scarf was wrapped around a switchblade with a tag on it. So, not a personal possession like Edgeworth's knife, but...an exhibit? Something from storage? Like, evidence storage?

Edgeworth is justifiably upset that the police investigation didn't notice a scrap of red cloth hanging out of the car muffler inches away from the body. Gant's initial sheepish admission that "this is embarrassing, even for us" suddenly turns into that blinking Look again. I feel like a trap is about to be sprung.

It's the envelope from yesterday, the one delivered by the hapless mailman! Who told Edgeworth it wasn't related to the case, so he refused to take it. Ouch. It is Edgeworth's error, but there's something gleefully malicious about the way Gant just set him up and then sucker-punched him. There was no need for this to be a public humiliation. In fact, it could've been discreetly sorted out before Gant got on the stand. Or before trial started this morning.

(Why IS he on the stand? He's not a testifying witness. He just kinda...strolled in and took over. )

The judge asks Phoenix to examine the switchblade. The knife tip is broken off and the blade and handle have bloodstains. The tag, when I zoom in focus to max, says "S-L 9 2". As for the envelope, it appears to be an autopsy report on Goodman, and doesn't mention the muffler or switchblade at all. It also has a much vaguer timeframe than 5:15.

Edgeworth tries to regain face by demanding an explanation about the missed evidence. This is a bad, bad idea. I could've told you that even before Gant delightedly agrees to testify.

Gant says the knife is special, but that he can't say how unless a "connection is proven between the knife and Goodman." Um. Doesn't the very presence of the knife, deliberately concealed at the crime scene, in itself mean it's not only connected but vital to understanding what happened? I don't think you should get to withhold that information.

Nor do I think "we were having a bad day" is an acceptable excuse for not investigating the crime scene properly. Cops get aggressively motivated when one of their own is attacked, everybody knows that. Or was Goodman some kind of pariah?

...wait. What??? What Gant's saying is so bizarre I misread it. There was a SECOND murder, at precisely the same time (and that's an awfully precise time), at the police department? "Not officially linked to this case" my aunt Fanny.

And Phoenix isn't supposed to ask about it in cross-examination? I predict that will last about five seconds, because we're going to press every one of these statements hard enough to extract olive oil.

Starting with the knife. Both Phoenix and Edgeworth push for more, but Gant refuses. Can I make a connection that will impress the judge? My inventory contains a phone, a shoe...and a note found in the trunk of the car that says "6-75 12/2". Which looks a lot like "2/21 SL-9" if you turn it upside down.

Gant is acting as though this is a circus and he's never seen a clown before, delighted at everything Phoenix and the judge say. This conveys an impression of total contempt behind a fig leaf of friendliness that can't be questioned. It's a passive-aggressive masterpiece. Somewhere in the audience Himemiya Anthy is probably taking notes.

And his facade barely flickers when faced with the memo. The knife was evidence in a case (duh). Stolen from the evidence room...and that's it? That's all we get?

Oh, this guy is skilled. Edgeworth quite reasonably asks why he wasn't told about this impossibly coincidental murder, and Gant promptly insinuates that he's incompetent because he didn't proactively ask. As though a proper prosecutor would have called the department every day with a checklist of possible events. Why, I bet you didn't even consider a Godzilla attack contingency, did you? Tsk tsk.

Gant continues to playfully refuse to give information on this second murder (except that a suspect has been arrested). He offers to give Phoenix one data point of his choice: where, how or when. Apparently this trial has turned into a game show.

We already know when, so I choose where. And Gant makes a curious distinction. The crime took place in the evidence room (where the knife came from), but he won't say where the corpse was found. Was the body moved? As they say, he is playing a game and it is called silly buggers. I'm absolutely assuming he is behind both murders (though sadly he can't have committed both, unless something paranormal or very complicated is going on).

Phoenix points out that a knife being stolen from the evidence room and then found at crime A, precisely when crime B is committed in the evidence room, is a pretty "duh" link. Edgeworth supports by mentioning the note. Whoever wrote it (Goodman, the murderer, or Lana) presumably either stole the knife or was investigating its theft. Even the judge agrees this has to count. Gant just does his blink thing again.

And says his men took two days to assemble that logic. In other words, he knew. And he STILL wants to play games. He'll talk "unofficially", but not reveal the name of the victim. (Why is that so important?) When pressed, he offers another one-data-point choice. I choose ID number which should be easy to link to a name...although apparently Gant doesn't think so.

Victim ID number: 5842189. The judge looks expectant. I have a horrible idea, and check the court record.

Yep. It's Goodman's ID number.

Simultaneous murders of the same victim in different locations? That's an impressive level of silly buggers, chief. And you didn't want this to come out in the trial? If I didn't already know Lana was innocent by video-game rules, I'd know it now.

Even this doesn't faze Gant. (I really wanted to see him look thwarted. Damnit.)

Edgeworth keeps on asking "Why didn't I hear about this?" even though the answer is always "Because Gant has it in for you, and you just gave him another opening to attack." It's as though he can't quite believe what is happening.

Yep, there's that trap-springing look again. With the first honest expression I think we've seen on Gant's face so far! Just for one frame, a flicker of anger and malice. This time he claims the police department sent Edgeworth all the information in that envelope delivered by Hapless Mailman Meekins, which Edgeworth didn't look at.

Hang on. That's not even true. We have that envelope in the court record, and...*scrolls up*...it's an autopsy report on Goodman. It doesn't say which. Even if Edgeworth had read it, he would have had no reason to think there was a second crime and victim. Moreover, Gant already raked him over the coals for not reading it, in this same trial session! No...as the trap unfolds, Gant seems to be claiming this is an entirely different envelope also delivered by Meekins(?) It doesn't make sense.

But truth isn't going to matter here. This is a career-destroying maneuver, and it's uncomfortable to watch. Edgeworth is helpless under the crushing accusations, protesting vainly that Gant could have submitted all this evidence when the trial started. Well, yes, that's what anyone but your enemy would have done... The flicker of malice is back as Gant rubs it all in with a technicality about evidence law.

(Ah, this detail might be relevant: Edgeworth apparently submitted a list of evidence to be used in the trial, which of course did not include things he didn't know existed. That flies in the face of all Phoenix Wright games past and present, in which new evidence is produced about every five minutes during trial, this one included.)

This morning's Public Career Assassination, I mean trial, comes to an end with Gant mentioning the rumors about Edgeworth, and even using his own brief status as a defendant against him. Edgeworth can do nothing but formally grovel. He begs for one more day of trial to investigate all this new information. The judge grants it,of course, but joins in condemning him.

I don't know why Gant wants to get rid of Edgeworth, but it's obvious the plan is to fire him after tomorrow's trial no matter what happens. The only way to save Edgeworth (and oh yeah, our actual client who's barely been mentioned lately) is to bring Gant down. I am on board with this. He's a mean lying stinkyhead and he's smug about it. Get him, Phoenix!

(Rereading my notes from last time, I'm remembering the moment when Angel Starr told Edgeworth "I might be able to save you". Did she know this was coming down? )

#aa #ace attorney #ace attorney spoilers

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bangtanoneshotsx · 5 years ago

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I Do-Yoongi

“BTS’ Suga reveals he’s been dating for years, with marriage in the picture.” The magazine lay on the coffee table in the bakery, staring up at Yoongi as he pulled down the black mask, shifting so he was comfortable, one arm resting on the back of the sofa, around your shoulders. “You okay?” You asked, looking up at him, your attention being pulled away from where the display cakes were. The occasional sound of cutlery coming from the kitchen as the baker prepared the samples. Yoongi sighed, nodding his head. “It’s just...I’ve been avoiding the comments. I mean I don’t care what they think, I just don’t want to hear I’ve disappointed them.” Raising an eyebrow, you turned to face him more. “By having a life? By not just staying in your studio? Yoongi, they don’t own you, you deserve to be happy.” “I am.” Yoongi gave a warm smile, pulling you into him, placing a soft kiss on your lips. Just as you were about to respond, the baker returned, a tray of frosting and cake samples in her hands. As you greeted her with a smile, intently listening, Yoongi’s mind raced, worry and excitement flooding his mind. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The words seemed to be spread across every newspaper as soon as BigHit released the statement. He was too scared to read the full articles, always just judging how he was perceived by the article headline. He had been at home with you, when the news broke. Holding your hand tightly as he refreshed Twitter, waiting for any hashtag that showed people knew. “It’ll be okay.” You spoke for the first time in a while, your eyes still focused on your phone as you did the same as Yoongi. “They can’t hate you for being human.” Yoongi let out a sigh, muttering out a ‘I suppose.’ Then the first hashtag appeared. #Sugaengaged was the first one to appear. A seemingly normal one, yet Yoongi knew what that carried. It showed he wasn’t owned by the band, it showed he had kept secrets from the fans. It showed that he wasn’t as attainable as some might think. He didn’t dare click it. He didn’t want to know what they thought. As much as he appreciated his fans, he didn’t want them in this part of his life. He didn’t want fear and doubts to creep in. The article had mentioned your first name, the only information Yoongi was willing to release. “It’s out.” He whispered, almost in awe at how everything had changed but still somehow felt the same. You hummed, already scrolling through the posts under the hashtag. “They’re nice Yoongi. All they want is for you to be happy.” A shaky smile appeared on the rapper’s face as he picked up his phone once more. Quickly finding the silhouette picture of his proposal, taken by Taehyung, Yoongi added it to a Tweet, writing, ‘I’m happy.’ Posting it, he watched as the numbers grew faster than he could imagine. A gasp left you as a grin appeared on your face, happy tears threatening to spill. “Look!” You exclaimed, practically shoving your phone in Yoongi’s face. A new hashtag had joined trending, “CongratulationsYoongiandY/N.” A sigh of relief escaped from Yoongi as he held you tighter against him, placing his lips on yours. Tears filling the brim of his eyes as relief rushed over him. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Yoongi let out a laugh as Jin chased after Jungkook, a yell of annoyance leaving the eldest. The youngest still had to have his hair done, his shirt was only half tucked in, despite the stylist’s protests. Yoongi’s knee bounced up and down as he sent another text to you. “Nervous?” Namjoon asked, joining the leader on the leather sofa that sat in the dressing room of the television studio. Shrugging, Yoongi sighed. “I guess. I just don’t know what he’s going to ask.” “Anything you feel uncomfortable answering, tap me, I’ll try and move on.” Nodding, Yoongi thanked the leader before looking in the direction of the door. Jimin stood in the doorway, letting them know it was time. ~~~~~~ Yoongi knew the time was coming. As the questions started to move from their latest album, to their personal life, Yoongi knew it was only a matter of time before the topic turned to him and his latest news. And it did. The interviewer turned slightly in his chair to face Yoongi who sat at the back. “Suga, first of all congratulations.” Yoongi gave a small smile, his breath caught in his throat as his heart raced at all the possibilities of what he could be asked. Muttering a small ‘thank you’ into the microphone, he anxiously waited. “So, how did you propose.” He could see the leader in front of him, tense up, almost prepared to redirect the interview. However, Yoongi lifted the microphone, a grin spreading across his face as he excitedly described the moment his life changed forever. The other boys could only listen, grins appearing on their faces as they listened to their eldest rapper talk with much more passion than they’ve heard before at interviews. Realising how much he was rambling, Yoongi felt heat rushing to his cheeks as he quickly lowered his head, mumbling the last words of his sentence. The interviewer nodded, looking back at his cards, before looking back to the rapper. Yoongi couldn’t read his face. Couldn’t figure out whether he would like the next question. “Is there anything you’d like to say to your fans following your statement? Some fans are hurt that you kept this a secret for so long.” Namjoon didn’t even need to feel the tap on his shoulder to know it was best if he answered the question. “I think the fans will understand that we didn’t try to hurt them by keeping this part of our life secret. We also hope that they wish Yoongi and Y/N happiness. I think that’s all we’ll say.” Thankfully, the interviewer didn’t push, simply nodding his head, already gauging by the look on Yoongi’s face he wouldn’t answer even if he tried. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ His heart was racing as he came out of the bathroom to find Jin placing his newly polished black shoes against the wall. Yoongi’s white shirt was just tucked in, his hands too shaky to properly do it just now. Breathing a sigh of relief, Yoongi found the seven ties lying across the back of the chair found in the corner of the hotel room. Taking his, he wrapped it around his neck, groaning out in frustration as he shakily tried to tie it, only to find it coming out too long. “I’ll help.” Namjoon spoke. The leader’s shirt was only buttoned up halfway, the result of Namjoon’s panic over the missing rings, only to find them in his pocket. Sighing, Yoongi reluctantly agreed, standing still so Namjoon could take the tie. “Nervous?” Namjoon asked, chuckling as he received a glare as an answer, before Yoongi sighed, nodding. “There, all done.” Stepping away, the leader allowed Yoongi to walk to the mirror, checking the younger’s work. Giving a nod in approval, Yoongi thanked him. Somehow the loud chatter of the other seven men in the room calmed Yoongi. Allowing him to escape his mind as Jimin suddenly shouted, trying to find his left sock, Hoseok helped Taehyung with his tie, Namjoon and Jungkook fixing their shirts and Jin was talking to Yoongi’s brother. Letting out a breath, Yoongi fell onto the bed, a small smile gracing his lips as excitement bubbled up inside of him. ~~~~~~~~~~~ Yoongi could feel how sweaty his palms were as he stood at the alter. Anxiously looking back at the door you would come through, every so often, his hands clenched together tightly. The whispers of the audience was blocked out as he waited for the music to play. Hoseok chuckled at the sight of the rapper, the nervous man ignoring every smile sent in his direction, instead choosing to focus on the floor after giving up on you arriving any time soon. “I didn’t think he’d be this nervous.” Taehyung spoke, gaining the attention of the members that sat beside him. “He just wants everything to go right. He’s waited for this day since he met her.” Jin laughed, remembering Yoongi’s prediction after his first date with you. Before Jungkook could add to the conversation, the music began to play. Standing up, the boys watched as Yoongi turned to face the big wooden doors, his breath hitching as the bridesmaids entered. Finally, you arrived, your arm linked with your father’s. Yoongi let out a breath, his mouth gaped open in awe as tears quickly rushed to his eyes, soon rolling down his cheeks. Grinning, Jungkook nudged Taehyung, focusing the elder’s attention on Yoongi. Taehyung could only grin, a small laugh leaving him as he quickly took a photo of the lovestruck rapper. Yoongi could only allow the tears to fall as you took his hand, carefully walking up the steps to join him. His heart swelled with love as you wiped away is tears with your thumb. A smile on your face, tears welling up in your eyes, as you whispered out, “I love you.”

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xsparklingravenx · 5 years ago

Text

the broken mirror

Title: the broken mirror

Fandom: Persona 5 Royal

Characters: Goro Akechi, Akira Kurusu

Rating: T

Word Count: 5,582

Summary: “Get to the point, Akira,” Akechi said, his name dripping from his mouth like poison. “We both know that you didn’t blow up my phone with notifications for a simple outing.”

“No, I didn’t,” Akira replied, so slow to speak. It reminded him a little of himself, selecting words for the best possible outcome, wearing a thousand different masks to hide his true self. “But what I want to discuss, it’s not something we should do over text. Or phone.”

Major spoilers for the entirety of the third semester. Akechi and Akira, and the truth of the world through one set of eyes.

AO3

The first time Akechi’s phone rang that evening, he ignored it.

It buzzed through the wood on the table, shifting as it vibrated and lit up, casting a light on the cracked ceiling of his shitty rented apartment. The pi-pi-pi noise of its incessant ringtone made him wrinkle his nose in disgust, but it was an easy thing to forget. The laptop in front of him, containing all his notes on their current situation, commandeered the majority of his attention.

Reality was a mess. He was back from the dead through unknown means. A paltry conversation with a paltry human being was the last thing on his mind.

The second time his phone rang, he spared a careless glance its way. Careless, because he knew who was calling, and careless, because he knew it would destroy any of his focus. There was only one person who had his number who would actively call him, and unsurprisingly, it was his name that had flashed up.

KURUSU AKIRA.

Akechi stared at the phone until it stopped ringing again, the screen fading back to its usual, factory-set background image. Most other teenagers his age had images set there. Takamaki, he knew, had a picture of herself and that girl who had been involved in the Kamoshida case. Sakura had a group shot of the entire cast of Featherman R. Even Akira himself had a photo set there, a ridiculous picture of Morgana gorging himself on the largest plate of fatty tuna that Akechi had ever seen in all eighteen years of his life.

In the silence he tapped away at his keyboard, connecting theories and cross-checking intel. Takuto Maruki’s name was scattered about like a constellation across his document. As his phone screen switched off, he was left mostly in the darkness, only the light of his laptop screen left to illuminate the room.

The third time his phone rang, he blocked the number.

It was an easy thing to do. He reached over, unlocked the screen, and with a few taps Akira Kurusu was barred from contacting him. It wasn’t the first time he’d done it, and it wouldn’t be the last. Sometimes, when he left too many messages on read in the Phantom Thieves’ group chat, the members would individually leak into his private messages. Never Sakura or Okumura, but sometimes Takamaki, or Yoshizawa, and always, always Akira.

It went in cycles. They’d contact him and he’d block them. Then he’d require them, and he’d unblock them, enter their group chat, and lurk in the shadows. They were not friends. They were not even teammates. They were colleagues at best, their relationship one based out of a mutual need to solve their current predicament, and nothing more.

That meant he didn’t need unnecessary distractions.

He returned to his work. Websites, tabs. The Phan-site’s question was stark against his backlit screen. WOULD YOU JOIN THE PHANTOM THIEVES?

He scoffed, scrolled down, and then slammed his laptop lid shut. In the darkness, he grabbed his phone, unlocking the screen again to stare at Akira’s name.

“Who’s more pathetic?” he asked. “You for continuing this ridiculous charade, or me for letting you?”

No answer, because Akira wasn’t a mind reader, as much as he seemed like one.

No answer, because Akechi had blocked his number.

No answer, because Akechi didn’t want to give him the opportunity to give one anyway.

Akechi didn’t have fond memories. Tolerable memories, yes, but fond memories pushed it. Fond memories suggested that he’d formed an attachment to them, which was an impossibility. He made sure to keep a healthy distance away from anything that might have tampered with his mission, or, anything that might have twisted his view of the world. He achieved that through cool detachment, masked by his cheery, ace-detective persona, his flawless disguise.

One of those tolerable memories happened to involve Akira Kurusu and a jazz bar, the songstress’s dulcet tones melting into the air as they both tended to their non-alcoholic beverages of choice. Akechi’s was sweet. It wasn’t that he favoured that particular taste over anything else on the menu, but multiple people at school had mentioned the flavour. He jumped on the trend like he did all others; quickly, and without thinking.

“Is it good?” Akira said. “Your drink, I mean.”

“I can certainly see why it’s popular,” Akechi lied. “All these flavours, exploding on my tongue…truly, a delectable experience. I suppose that’s what is needed to appeal to the masses, though. Something that is universal, that can be really enjoyed.”

“You’re funny, you know,” Akira said, swishing the little cocktail umbrella that the waiter had put in his drink. He had that smirk on his face, the one that screamed that he was trouble. Hell in a handbasket. A devil wearing human skin.

“Oh? Certainly the people who chat about me online seem to think so.”

“No, not like that.” Akira leant back in his chair, sipping his drink slowly, savouring each drop. “It’s the way you use words. You fire them off like they’re infinite ammo in a video game.”

It was easy to figure out a response for something like that. Inwardly, Akechi thought that Akira was a fool. Outwardly, he grinned, several blocks of laughter falling from his lips. To the trained ear, it might have sounded artificial, but Akechi could blame that on the TV studios, on the fact that he needed that laugh to appeal to the millions who watched him from afar. “Are you trying to tell me that I’m babbling, Kurusu-kun?”

Akira watched him over the top of that tiny umbrella, the low-light of the jazz bar reflected off his glasses. Fake, of course, much like his honest high-schooler act, but then, who was Akechi to judge based on appearances? “No, I’m just saying that maybe you could do with being more honest.”

It was more difficult to formulate a response for a statement like that. In the half-second he had to think one up, Akechi ran through a thousand potential reactions. More laughter? Stare in shock? A question in response? A joking answer? There was no way that Akira could know the truth behind him, behind his actions or his words or his façade. There was no need to be worried, but selecting the perfect comeback was vital. He needed to keep him in his pocket, or everything would be over.

In the end, joking answer won out. With a grin, Akechi said, “Why, I don’t know what you mean. What would make you think I’m lying?”

“Just something I was thinking,” Akira said, giving the most subtle of shrugs. “All those words just makes what you’re saying difficult to follow, like you’re diverting. That, and you’re wrinkling your nose every time you take a sip. If you hate it that much, don’t drink it.”

Akechi put the glass down, his own paper umbrella bobbing in the liquid. Hate was too strong a word for such an innocuous thing. Hate was a word reserved for Shido, for the foster families who had made his life living hell, for the people who dared try and stand in his way as he did all he could to make his world manifest.

Hatred was what he felt towards Akira Kurusu. The drink? That had done nothing wrong other than being a little off for his tastes. Akira? Oh. He’d done everything.

“It would be a waste,” Akechi said. “And I’m certain that there must be something to like about it. My classmates often speak of this flavour.”

Akira laughed then, a genuine brand unlike Akechi’s bootlegged version. “And if your classmates said that the fall from Skytree was amazing, would you still take the leap?”

Akechi nearly scowled then, only just covering it up at the last moment. “Are you suggesting that I’d endanger my own life for the whims of others? I’m afraid not, Kurusu-kun. Still, what a drastic change in conversation, all over a simple drink. Tell me then, is yours any better?”

Leaning close, Akira offered his drink to Akechi, pressing the glass into his gloved hand as he snatched the sweet drink off the table. It was a simple exchange, one beverage for another, and yet Akira remained close. “Try it for yourself.”

He downed the rest of Akechi’s drink in one go. All of that sickly-sweet fizz, gone in a moment. Akechi looked at the drink he’d been handed, the one he hadn’t chosen for himself, and simply shook his head in an exasperated show. “Well, I never have been one to turn down a challenge.”

Putting the glass to his lips, he tipped his head back. The fruity mix washed away the saccharine flavour of what he’d had before, a refreshing, yet unexpected taste. When he was finished, he put the glass down on the table, meeting Akira’s expectant gaze.

“So,” Akira said. “What did you think of that one?”

Akechi leant his elbow on the table and rested his head in his hand. With his left hand, he plucked the umbrella from the now-empty glass, regarding it with disinterest as he said, “It was good.”

He couldn’t see Akira past his focus on the tiny, paper accessory. That meant he definitely didn’t see the self-assured smirk on his face.

It took him half an hour to unblock the number. Half an hour of opening and closing the lid of his laptop. Half an hour of getting up to check the window and then sitting back down. Half an hour of locking and unlocking his phone, checking social media idly instead of doing the work he knew should be taking priority.

It took another fifteen minutes for the first text to show up.

KURUSU AKIRA 9:33

Have you unblocked me yet?

Perceptive, but not a mind reader, Akechi reminded himself. He sat at the table, staring at the screen a while before finally resigning himself to a begrudging answer.

AKECHI GORO 9:37

I’d congratulate you on your clever insight, but we both know that’s bullshit. Regrettably, you’re just good at figuring out patterns. What were you doing for the last half hour? Sending that text every time I crossed your mind?

He set the phone on the table and tried to ignore it. There was no immediate reply. Back when he’d been a part of the Phantom Thieves the first time, there were often long swaths of time before anyone would get back to him when he offered up information in the group chat. Now he knew that they likely had a second one to scheme against him, to laugh at how he was such a fool for falling into their well laid trap. It wasn’t something that stung. He’d been the one who had set out to betray them, after all.

When his phone vibrated again, he sighed. There was Akira’s name once again, because he didn’t know how to leave things well alone. A blight on the background-less screen that Akechi was so used to.

KURUSU AKIRA 9:38

Something like that.

His responses were always infuriatingly short. It wasn’t something he reserved for Akechi, he seemingly treated everyone that way, group chat or not. Akechi deliberated on whether or not to send a follow-up, which turned out to be a mistake. In the time he spent trying to figure out what on earth to say, his phone started ringing again, buzzing through the wood.

He hit the busy button immediately.

AKECHI GORO 9:40

I’m not picking up. Stop wasting your time.

Responding to him was defeating the point entirely, but Akechi was already a lost cause in that regard. He chuckled, low and bitter, his right hand brushing through his hair to grip at it as he leant over the phone, the little bubble indicating that Akira was typing popping up instantly. It felt like a game. An illicit game that he should have had no interest in playing.

KURUSU AKIRA 9:41

So you want to talk over text only?

AKECHI GORO 9:41

I’d rather not speak to you at all.

KURUSU AKIRA 9:42

Says the one who came to me when the world went to hell.

Akechi’s fingers ghosted over the keyboard, but he didn’t actually type anything. He wanted to snap at Akira, to tell him that he'd gone to him because he was the only one who’d retained his sanity. He didn’t, because raging at someone didn’t have quite the same effect when it was done via toneless messaging.

His fingers itched for his sword. How he wanted to call upon Loki and fight like a beast in the confines of the Meta-verse. He’d spent years venting that way. Blood spilled in his quest to feel like a human being, only it never worked. He only ever felt like more of a monster, a monster he enjoyed being.

The phone buzzed again. Akechi gazed at the message with resentment gnawing in his gut, at himself, at Akira, he wasn’t entirely sure. Discerning his true feelings wasn’t as easy as it used to be. Once, it had been clear-cut. Once, it had been the world against him, and there had only been one way to survive that; detach, shut-down, hate everything.

Morgana, in his whiny little voice, played on repeat in his ears. You don’t really hate Joker, do you?

He switched screens, finger hovering over the block button again. In the end, he switched back, the message still on the screen, plain-as-day.

KURUSU AKIRA 9:45

This is because of what happened today, isn’t it?

In movies, in shows, in fiction, the heroic sacrifice was big. It was showy. In the old reruns of Featherman, often out of order, it still managed to be righteous, to be tragic, to be justified.

For Goro Akechi, it was lonely.

Back to the wall, the one he’d just dropped to stop the Phantom Thieves getting in his way. Shadows and his own cognitive puppet ready to rip him apart, just before him. His own darkened garb a shroud around him, not a shield anymore, but just a shame. A testament to his true, undesirable self.

A toast, to Masayoshi Shido for having a child every bit as ugly as him. Both of them, murderers. Both of them, scum of the earth. Shido might have put the gun in Akechi’s hand, but Akechi had done the deeds. He’d been used, but oh, hadn’t he put himself in that position?

The truth was so; in those final moments, he wondered if he’d been wrong. To decry the Phantom Thieves for believing so strongly in their bonds, to turn on them as savagely as he had. All along, Akechi had hid his jealousy and envy of Akira behind sugared smiles and soft words. He was everything he wanted to be. He had everything he’d ever wanted.

Taking the bullet for them, letting them run, it was no selfless act. It was one last ditch attempt to be the hero in a story that he’d chosen to play the villain in, and even then, karma had to be a bitch about it. What was supposed to be a magnificent death in a blaze of glory was instead a lonely, bitter end for the ace-detective who had given his all to revenge.

(It was not, and never had been for Akira. Morgana’s words rang hollow. Crow and Joker, Akechi and Akira, they were each other’s antithesis, that was how it was supposed to be. To give his life for his after everything would have been laughable.)

Or at least, that was what he remembered. When he came to, it was Christmas Eve and Shido had been taken down. Sae Nijima was talking about getting Akira to turn himself in across the street, and Akechi, with no memory of how he’d gotten there or how he’d even survived the cruise ship, had marched straight over and taken the metaphorical bullet for him a second time.

It was what he thought about all those nights later, after he’d sought out Akira and Maruki had taken Yoshizawa hostage. As he laid in bed, phone on his pillow at his side, he knew it was that which had tipped him off that something was wrong.

His version of sacrifice meant that he was destined to be lonely, forgotten, discarded. And yet, in turning himself into Sae, he’d found a sense of satisfaction, like finally, finally, he’d done something right.

He’d turned himself in not for his own sick sense of righteousness, but he’d done it for Akira—and there was no way that life would be so kind as to grant him the opportunity to save him. Not in a way that would save them both.

His phone was ringing again.

The ringtone was an annoyance, something he needed to change before it grated too badly on his nerves and he threw the entire thing at the wall. Akira’s name flashed up once more like a curse. The block button was nearby. A single tap of it, and he could open his laptop and stare at the Phan-site’s question for another twenty minutes instead of working.

He answered the call.

“I didn’t expect you to pick up,” came Akira’s voice, crystal clear on the other end.

“Yeah, well,” Akechi said. “I didn’t expect you to try calling again. You’re a fool, Joker. It’s quite tiring.”

No energy to it. He didn’t have much to inject in his voice anymore, not unless they were in the midst of fighting Shadows, anyway. That kind of mania he couldn’t hope to reclaim in his day-to-day. There wasn’t any point in it anyway.

He heard Morgana’s voice in the background, asking if Akira was talking to Akechi, asking after him like he was part of their ridiculous little team, like his well-being mattered. Akira’s voice broke away from the receiver for a moment as he answered the first question, and then came close instead of answering the second.

“Don’t call me that when we’re not on a mission,” Akira said. Akechi laughed humourlessly. “We’re not Joker and Crow when we’re here.”

“Would you prefer Kurusu-kun then? Or, perhaps Akira, seeing as we’re on such amicable terms now? Why, I’ll even let you refer to me as my given name, if that’s what you wish.”

“Akechi—” Akira cut himself off, and Akechi felt him wince down the line. “Call me whatever you want, as long as it isn’t Joker.”

“The same to you,” Akechi replied, drumming his fingers against the table. It felt so real beneath his touch. Or was it that he felt real against it? “Come now, Akira. You didn’t call me up to make small talk. Get to the point.”

A hesitant moment. How odd. Akira wasn’t the type to think twice. “Are you free tonight?”

He had a date with the Phan-site, but that wasn’t going all that well. Lots of staring on his end, and no answers for it when it asked him questions. His document on Maruki was a lost cause. “That depends on what you’re about to ask me.”

“Penguin Sniper. There’s a billiards table with our name on it.”

His offer sounded too good to be true. There was a moment when he wondered, maybe it is. Maruki was offering them the world on a silver platter. But no. It wasn’t perfect just yet. There were still flaws in Akira’s reality, still flaws in his own. Akira hadn’t called him up with billiards in mind. There was something going unspoken in this simple back and forth.

“Get to the point, Akira,” Akechi said, his name dripping from his mouth like poison. “We both know that you didn’t blow up my phone with notifications for a simple outing.”

Akechi should have left the number blocked. He should never have turned to Akira for help. He should have died in the halls of the cruise ship, lonely and forgotten.

Gritting his teeth, he said, “You just don’t know when to give up, do you?”

“I can be there in half an hour. What about you?”

Back to the wall, only this time, it was Akira instead of the Shadows. There was a certain species of delight to be had in this game of cat and mouse. He could escape. He could run. All it would take would be a single tap of a button. End the call. Move on.

“I’ll be there,” Akechi said. “Don’t make me regret this, Akira.”

Tokyo felt distinctly unreal as he travelled through it. It was like he was passing through a bubble, everything distorted and swimmy, a film over Shibuya and the people within it. His head had felt much the same lately, his emotions filtered through that lens, Akira through that odd sheen.

The trains were bustling, yet not packed. Akechi tucked himself into the corner, arms crossed tight against his chest, and switched stations whenever needed. When the announcer’s voice rang out, telling the passengers that they’d arrived in Kichijoji, he got off and prayed he wouldn’t run into Akira until they’d both arrived at Penguin Sniper.

Fate was not so kind. As he headed up the steps and got his phone out to pass through the barriers, he saw a familiar head of black hair waiting on the other side, head dipped down towards his bag. No doubt speaking with Morgana. Of course the cat would be here, he never went more than three feet away from him.

Akechi considered turning around and just heading home. Akira lifted his head and locked eyes with him, and Akechi slammed his phone down harder than necessary on the barrier. There was a cut on his cheek, easily mistaken for a small nick, not quite healed even after all the spells his teammates had poured into him. Earlier, it had been a gash that had exposed the cheekbone.

The gate popped open with a ping.

Akira didn’t approach him. No, he kept his distance, but he didn’t look away. Akechi took his time approaching, arms crossed back against his chest, his teeth grinding together. He felt very much like a puppet on strings being marched to certain death, only death looked a lot like Akira Kurusu and his gleaming glasses.

“You actually came,” Akira said.

“I told you I’d be here.”

“We thought you might have just said that to get us off your back.” Akira led him out of the station. As soon as they were out in the night air, Morgana hopped out of the bag, stretching himself out. Akira said, “You’re heading off?”

“Yeah, just make sure you’re back before too late! And you,” Morgana steeled Akechi with those bright blue eyes of his, giving his tail an indignant shake. “You better not try anything. You hear me!”

“Your request has been duly noted.” Akechi said. He watched as the cat disappeared into the night. “Well, now we’re alone, you may as well say your piece. Though I don’t understand why I had to come all the way out here to hear it.”

“No, not yet.” Akira pushed his glasses up his nose and turned. “Penguin Sniper, like I said. I wasn’t joking about the billiards table.”

Akechi grimaced. Penguin Sniper was filled with tolerable memories, as was the majority of the joints here, but that made it all the worse. Beating Akira, being beaten by Akira, touches stolen here and there, a trading of drinks, a duel not quite to the death, an exchange of gloves—the last time they’d played nice before Akechi had betrayed them all, stormed into his interrogation room, and pressed the muzzle of a gun to Akira’s head.

Twisted by the thought of revenge, distorted by his hatred for his dear rival, Akechi had not regretted pulling that trigger. He hadn’t even hesitated. All that mattered was Shido’s downfall, and Akira’s blood was to paint the path that Akechi needed to take to get there.

What was one more death when Akechi’s hands were already so dirty? What was one more death when it was the only person Akechi had ever given a damn about other than Shido? It might have been hate, but hate was just a simple way to describe someone that appealed to your emotions in some form. Positive or not, Akira did just that.

Still, he followed Akira up the stairs to Penguin Sniper, and he didn’t fight back when Akira handed over the 800¥ fee to access the tables. In the end they stood at either end of the table, pool cues in hand, the balls all lined up perfectly, ready to be struck.

“Should I go first?” Akira said.

“Be my guest,” Akechi said. “I didn’t want to play anyway.”

Akira’s grip tightened on the cue. He leant over the table, the curve of his body a perfect silhouette, and Akechi hated himself a little more than Akira for thinking that.

A sharp strike against the ball. They struck one another and scattered across the table, a veritable destruction, and behind Akechi’s eyes, a memory flitted. Earlier that day, Shadows on every side, an ambush they’d been sloppy in the face of. Joker’s Wild Card failing him in the worst way possible, leaving him open to a weakness that he’d not accounted for when taking on that particular Persona. A strike of thunder sending him down like a house of cards in the wind.

“Something on your mind?” Akira said.

Akechi scowled. “Not in the slightest.”

“Same way you like sweet drinks, yeah?”

He could have snapped the pool cue in two. He restrained himself, barely. “If you want to talk about honesty, Akira, how about you start? Take off those glasses and look at me. No more masks, no more distractions. Me and you. Here. Now.”

Akira reached up and removed them. He was sharper without them, blazing, unmasked and brutal edged. His lips quirked upwards, the tiny cut pulling at the movement, and a single word came to mind. Trickster.

“I’m putting my cards on the table,” Akira said. “Your turn, Goro.”

Oh, how sick Akechi was, for his stomach to flip at his name on Akira’s lips. He leant over the table himself, picking the angle, striking the ball once more. Joker had gotten to his feet, swaying. The Shadow had swung its scythe and there wasn’t time to dodge it. Oracle screamed his name from her safe space within Al Azif, and Akechi, despite all his frenzy in a fight, couldn’t get there fast enough to stop it.

The ball hit the others. The Phantom Thieves lost themselves in the blood, panic running through their collective veins as the scythe struck more than once. Skull’s Persona rising above on its ship, Fox’s throwing ice while Queen and Mona’s tore through one healing spell after another. Fire blazed through the ice as Panther charged up, gunfire as Noir held off the ones fast approaching. Violet threw out spell after spell, bless magic crashing down through the Palace, and Akechi felt it sear his skin, felt Loki react.

Akira regarded the scattered balls. Akechi had downed a couple. “Your move, Akira.”

“Earlier,” Akira said. “What happened?”

It still hadn’t been enough. Surrounded as they were, even all those spells couldn’t get them the upper hand, and the one with the scythe was laughing, swinging its weapon like a toy. It was the kind of fight that Akechi lived for. It was the kind of fight Akechi would die for. Joker was on the floor, bleeding despite the magic that was being desperately thrown his way. He could see the flash of white at his cheek through all the red. His shirt was drenched with blood where it had gouged into his chest.

It wasn’t excitement. It wasn’t fun. Anger had flooded him, rage and fury and the desire to kill. That wasn’t unusual. His way of fighting scared the others, the way he took joy in spilling the blood of Shadows disturbed them, but in that moment, it had been different. It wasn’t his spells he called upon in that moment, even as Loki manifested above him.

“I got angry,” Akechi told him, putting the cue down.

His power had taken hundreds of lives, directly, indirectly. Never had it been used to save someone. His own ragged voice had screamed for Loki above the din of the Phantom Thieves’ panicked battle, and without a word, Loki changed his heart for him. Turning himself psychotic, it was a small price to pay. He tore through the scythe-wielding Shadow with a deranged cackle, throwing himself into the firing line of not only their enemies, but their allies also.

Fire and ice, lightning and wind, psychokinetics and nukes. All of it he took in his stride as he slashed and tore and cut, bladed edge erasing Shadows the second it touched them. For Joker? Loki laughed. Akechi laughed. What a joke. What a joke.

So lost in the rage, he took the blows like they were penance. They were not his friends, they were Joker’s friends. It didn’t hurt. It didn’t hurt.

Violet screamed, “Crow!”

He ran into the bless spell before he realised what he’d done. The blow of light struck him to the core, making even Loki screech. The world blacked out as the force of it took all of his energy, shaking up his ribcage and his lungs. He went down in an instant, all of the rage swept out of him in one moment.

It only made sense. Life wasn’t kind. There was no way for him to save Joker.

“That was more than anger,” Akira said, stalking across the floor towards him. The billiards had been a ploy, Akechi realised, just a catalyst. “You’re still lying to me.”

“Not lying,” Akechi said. “Do you hear any unnecessary words? Am I talking you in circles, Akira?”

Akira grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket. “You blocked my number, and yet here you are.”

Akechi had awoken in a safe room, sat against the wall with the Panther’s face peering curiously down at him. He looked up at her, watching her expression morph into shock. “You’re awake! Yeesh, you moron! Do you know what you did?”

He pressed a hand to his mask as he cackled. It was a low, broken sound. “Is he dead?” he asked.

“Do I look dead to you?”

Akechi looked up. Joker stood over him with his hands in his pockets, his mouth turned downwards, his gaze icy behind his mask. His cheek was still bleeding a fraction.

“You’re a fine looking ghost, Joker.”

Akira was a different creature in Joker’s skin. He moved like a cat, his emotions more pronounced. It wouldn’t have been incorrect to call the expression coating his face a type of fury with how his lips peeled back. “So are you. Why did you do that?”

For you, Akechi didn’t say. “Because I wanted to run wild.”

Akira said now, “I know that it was a lie, in the Palace.”

Nobody interrupted them. To the rest of Penguin Sniper, they may as well have not existed. Akira’s hands tightened in Akechi’s coat, their distorted reality theirs and theirs alone.

“Tell me something, Akira,” Akechi whispered. “What is it you truly wanted from the world? A companion who would play detective with you? Someone who would play hot-and-cold in this thing we call a friendship? Did you want someone who would give their life for you time and time again?”

“No—” Akira began.

“Someone who would deny it, because you don’t want to admit you’re that selfish?” Akechi grabbed Akira’s jacket in turn. “You have so many friends. So many talented, incredible friends. And yet here I am, back from the dead, not a memory of how I survived in sight.”

Akira, for once, had nothing to say, and Akechi, who was doubting his own memories, who was doubting his own feelings, who was doubting his own actions, knew he’d struck gold.

Wakaba Isshiki, Kunikazu Okumura, Makoto Nijima’s father. Was it any surprise he doubted his own existence too?

Reality pulsed and squirmed beneath them, a broken mirror of an existence, reflecting their cognition the way they wanted to see it. Akechi pulled Akira close, a brush of lips. Love and hate, two sides of the same coin, just like they were. It was what Akira had wanted all along. Maybe it had been what Akechi had wanted at some point, when he’d been real.

“I refuse to be a slave to a false world,” Akechi whispered in his ear. “I hope you feel the same, Akira.”

“I know,” Akira replied. “But, when all this is over, I just—you don’t have to leave. You can stay with us.”

Akechi laughed, genuine—or fake, depending on the perspective. Maruki really did have the right idea. Trap someone in despair and they’d do anything to escape. Trap them in their happiness, and they were putty to be played with, never wanting to leave.

“Tell me that again when we’re done,” Akechi said, picking up the pool cue. “Then we’ll see.”

#Persona 5 #Akechi Goro #Kurusu Akira #Amamiya Ren #Akeshu #P5R #My Writing

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