#I SWEAR my forms are usually more precise and less sloppy

[parttime-creative]

Have some more

"Gideon does basic HEMA longsword moves and poses (Huten) with a horribly unbalanced sword"

But hey, at least she can show off her biceps that way!

[judylicious]

“I’m glad we both have found back to you.”

Alan Rubin x fem!Reader (chapter two)

Word Count: 1.850

Fandom: Blues Brothers

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Blues Brothers characters or movies.

Warnings: mentions of violence, abuse, death, murder, angst, swearing, age gap, fluff and slight smut

Summary: You met a handsome musician and his band, including a surprise form your past.

chapter 1

chapter 3

chapter 4

A couple days later Alan was meeting Kelsey for lunch at a cozy bistro at Blue Island Avenue. “So you’re not gonna ask me?”, she remarked before taking a big sip of her coffee and gave him a curious look over the rim of her cup. “About what precisely?” “My parents.” “It seemed like I blindsided you with that question before, didn’t want to push you…” “Still just as taken back as before I see.” She took a deep breath. 

“Mum’s dead, she passed away when I was 17, around Christmas.” “I’m… so sorry. What happened?”, he replied in a soft tone. “She fell down the stairs… You remember we had those big stairs made out of marble in the hall? Yep. She.. fell… according to the Police.” Alan raised an eyebrow. “Well, I saw my dad pushing her. Cops said he was trying to get a hold of her arm as she lost her balance but.. I saw it, you know? He often was violent with us, if he was home at all.” “I had no idea, I never noticed how troubled you were”, he admitted rather guilty. Without thinking he grabbed her hand that lied between her plate and the empty bread basket made from raffia, starting to softly caress the back of her hand with his thumb. “Oh it’s okay, really. You were hired for teaching me how play the horn, no more, no less.”, she gave him a reassuring smile. “C’mon don’t act like it was just that. We did get along pretty well. I remember one time you begged me for weeks to take you with me to that Miles Davis concert and although you had promised me to keep me awake during the ride back, as soon as your head hit the passengers seat you were knocked flat out.”, he shook his head but grinned widely. “I’m sorry but I had to prepare myself for sneaking back into the house at - what was it? 4am?” They both laughed and exchanged a look of familiarity. “Believe me, I fought desperately to stay awake. Kicked myself for missing out on a 3 hour ride alone with you in the car at night.” Kelsey suddenly blushed. “You didn't have the slightest idea how much I was into you, didn’t you?” Hold on what am I doing? Shut your big bazoo “Well…” Alan felt caught off guard and tried to ease the tension. “You were a teenager, don’t teenager have a crush on everything and everyone?” Kelsey put on a smile “Yeah, I guess so.” She took heart “But not me… I-“ “Can I get you anything else?” She was interrupted by the waitress. “Think we’re fine, thanks!”, the trumpet player gave her a nod. Kelsey checked her watch. “Damn, I’m late for the backshift, I’m so sorry Alan I totally lost track of time.” “No harm done, girl.”, he explained as he put some money on the table.” “Thanks for taking over the bill.” He smiled “Next time is on you then.”

When they stood outside the small bistro Kelsey couldn’t help herself but gave Alan a big tight hug. He seemed utterly surprised about this gesture but quickly put his arms around her.  “Thanks.”, she murmured, squeezing her eyes. The slightly older man had his eyes closed as well, inhaling her scent, feeling more secure than he had in a long time. Starting to feel embarrassed she got off of him and looked around for the nearest bus station, realising the next bus was already in sight. “I gotta catch that one!” “Is practise still on for Thursday? Your place?”,  he called after her. “Sure! 5pm, bring your horn.”, she waved at him and got onto the bus.

In preparation for Thursday Kelsey practised extra hard - on the other hand though she knew she shouldn’t take a heavy toll on her lip, that would only make things worse. I have to play decent tomorrow, at all costs. And even as her tones got real crappy, even more crappy than usual, she kept on playing, wanted to go over everything and every scale she had learned so far. However after 3 hours she was physically exhausted from trying to catch those high notes and her mouth piece left a dark, red circle around her lips.

And then finally - it was Thursday, just before 5pm. She checked herself in the mirror one last time before she changed her outfit for the 4th time that day. Perhaps I should go with the dress I wore first. But before she could get undressed another time there was a knock at the door. So she had no choice but to stay in her pleated skirt and red blouse. Alright, keep your head, relax, you got this. “Hi Alan, please come in.” The tensed girl was greeted by a big smile. “Nice to see ya.” The trumpet player stepped in and went into the living room, where everything was already set up. “How about we get right to it, hm?”

They both took a seat and she flipped one of the exercise books open. “So last I’ve practised these eighth notes in 3/4 - time.” “Did you warm up before?”, Alan tried to test her. “Yes I have.”, she responded quickly. “Good, then give it a try, I’m curious!” Oooh boy, here we go. Kelsey started to play the étude but already messed up the first few notes. Nervously she put her instrument down and glanced at Alan who wasn’t showing any reaction. And so she tried again. She played the whole piece but some of the notes didn’t come out at first try, so she messed up with the beat as well. When she had finished, she sighed in annoyance and didn’t even give Alan a glance. “Alright, how about you listen to what it’s supposed to sound like, to give you an idea.” And with that the grabbed his own horn, cleared his throat and played the little practise piece. Needless to say he did a perfect job on it. Kelsey couldn’t help herself but watch the man at her side while he was playing and it made her smile. He makes it look so easy. I mean it is, it’s freakin easy and I’m nothing but a failure. “Now it’s your turn again. Perhaps using the metronome will help you.” He grabbed the little gadget and set the right beat and speed. Listening to the soft “tick tick tick” sound Kelsey tried started from the beginning. Again a few notes simply didn’t come out at first try but just an airy sound, so halfway through she stopped. “No, no, come on keep going!”, the professional bolstered her. And so she did. “Heck! This is a waste of time, I’m sorry.”, the girl snapped and got up, taking a few steps away from her chair. “C’mon it is not. It will take some time, that’s all. I know you probably don’t wanna hear this but you haven’t played for over 5 years, meaning you HAVE to consider yourself as beginner and that’s okay.” Alan tried to calm her. “Look that’s not it. I suck, okay? I. SUCK. S-U-C-K!”. She was fuming. Putting extra emphasis on every letter as she spelled it out when tears began to run down her cheek. Alan jumped to his feet. “Hey, hey, don’t cry hun! I know it’s tough but you will get there. Believe me, I didn’t sound any better when I started.” “I’m so fucking dumb…” Kelsey murmured under her breath and turned away from the man who placed his hand on her shoulder. “Why are you saying this?” She turned around but didn’t look at him. “Dumb. I mean for walking away from it in the first place. I could be playing so well by now if I hadn’t quit.” The musician gave her a sympathetic look. “You had just started college. It’s okay to think about other things than playing the horn at that age.” “You didn’t.”, she countered and felt the need to look at him. Alan chuckled “Yeah but I attended Juilliard School of Music at the age of just 17 to become a professional. You chose a different path and you keep telling me how much you love your job.” Kelsey turn her head away from the man, who softly grabbed her chin and lifted her head up forcing her to look at him. He carefully wiped away one of her tears on her cheek.  “Listen. The most important thing is that you have found your way back to it and the trumpet its way to you… To be honest I’m glad both of us have found back to you.” He cupped her face gently in his hands, staring into her green eyes. Her breath hitched as he leaned in to drop a soft kiss on her lips. As he slowly pulled away, she crushed her lips on his again. Eagerly and desiring for more, she forced him to stumble a few steps back until he hit the wall. The kiss deepened, his big hands wandered to the back of her thighs, exploring her skin while going all the way up to her ass. Realising she wore a thong he gave her bare butt cheeks a determinant squeeze. Thank God she skipped on her tights today. Uncontrolled she ran her hands through his dark, slightly wavy hair, which he thankfully hadn’t slicked back today, caressing the shorter hair at his neck with one hand. The kiss became sloppy when both started to explore the other one’s mouth with their tongue. He lifted her right leg, bringing her knee up to his hip, which allowed him to pull her in even closer. As she grabbed a big fistful of his gorgeous hair, a deep moan left his mouth which brought her back to reality, so all of the sudden she pulled away. “I’m - so sorry.”, she stammered, trying to catch her breath. Alan cleared his throat “No need to apologise.” He awkwardly looked around the room. And then there was this weird silence, neither of them knew what to say or do next, so they just stood there, avoiding the gaze of the other until Alan screw up his courage.” Soo.. tomorrow night we play at ‘The Hideout’. Perhaps you’d like to come by.” Tomorrow?! “Sounds good, I’ll try to make it.”, Kelsey smiled. “Nice” he said nervously while grabbing his jacket and horn. He looked at her once more, wondering if he should kiss her goodbye. He took half a step towards her but his alarm bells went off reminding him that the situation was already embarrassing enough. “Guess I’ll see you around then.” And with a few quick steps he reached the door of her flat and left, feeling like a fool. Not only like a fool but like a goofy teenager. Kelsey closed the door behind him. Tomorrow!? I agreed on meeting Elwood after the gig. We made plans to see the Sonny Boy Williamson act starting at midnight.

[falling-pages]

I’m just protective: Hikaru x reader (and a little bit of Kaoru) 1/2

Welcome to some Hikaru angst! This is part 1 of 2, part 2 posted right here! It’s a bit messy and jumbled, but still angsty all the same. Little warning: there is a slight mention of date rape-type drugs whenever they talk about Kaoru. Nothing explicit or too mature, but there is definitely context about it if you read in between the lines. I got the idea for what happened to Kaoru from @startingtodayyouareahost from this story they posted. Go give them a read and be sure to see that post for context! *Send me a prompt or idea! My ask box is open!*

Dating Hikaru Hitachiin was a constant journey of surprises, good and bad. When you first met, you fell in love with his playful demeanor. The glint in his eyes that some people called evil you thought was charming. The daring smile when he had a trick up his sleeve still sends butterflies to your stomach. And whenever he touches you, giving you little shoves or digging his hands into your waist, it still feels like the first time you ever brushed fingers. 

Though mischievous, he had his mature moments. You loved it when you two sat outside on a sunny day, your head in his lap while he sketched the gardens on campus. The way he furrowed his brow when he concentrated showed his dedication to his work. He even knew when to give you your personal space, doing little chores around the house until you were ready to be social again.

It was nice to be in love with such a versatile person.

Sometimes, though, it felt like you were dating a two-year-old rather than a 21-year-old.

Like right now, when you walk into the bathroom to see his whole left foot stuck in the toilet. All thoughts of your exam the next day fled your mind as you stood there for a moment, frozen in awe, watching the boy you love shake his whole body in an escape attempt.

“What the heck, Hikaru?”

He turns at your voice, a grin splitting his face. “(Y/N)!” he said, waving you over. “You’re home! I’m so glad! I missed you!”

He opens his arms, but you spurn them, more interested in whatever situation he has caused. “What’s going on here?”

“Oh, this.” Something’s off about his phrasing. He held the “s” much longer than normal. “I, uh...I dropped something, and I needed to get it back.”

“What did you drop?” you ask, taking a closer look. His left foot is completely wedged in the hole the water gets suctioned out of, the (thankfully) clean water staining the hem of his pants. 

“I don’t remember,” he mumbles. 

You frown. That’s suspicious. He sloshes the bowl as he struggles. His sneaker remains on his right foot. Does that mean his shoe is clogging the toilet?

“Oh, Hikaru...” You reach up and steady your boyfriend as he loses his balance. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Ideally, help me get unstuck,” he replies, “and then we can go to bed. I’ll help you relax if you wash off my foot...”

He tips up your chin, but you dodge him, your fingers digging into his side. Your shoulders burn from the added weight. You couldn’t believe that after the day you’ve had, thirteen hours locked up in the library, you had to come home and take care of a child.

“You couldn’t have been here for very long,” you say as he shifts his weight. “How could you forget what you dropped?”

Hikaru laughs. He sounds different. That laugh was sloppy and breathy, not precise and clean like normal. And getting his foot stuck in a toilet? He had always been a clumsy prankster, but they were always situations where he had complete control over, times he could provide the only outcome. How could he be so careless?

“My prince, are you sure this wasn’t just an accident?” you ask suddenly.

This time, Hikaru succeeds in grabbing your chin. Lowering his eyes to rest on yours, he drops his tone. For a moment, as unromantic as being stuck in a toilet is, it’s nice to be alone with him.

“Our time together is never an accident,” he replies.

As he brings your mouth to his, you close your eyes, only to be startled by the smell of tequila on his breath. You jump back out of his grasp and grab his face. His eyes are red, and you suddenly understand how his foot got stuck.

“You’re drunk!” you yell, pushing him away from you. You cross your arms, feeling the betrayal settle in your stomach like molten lead. “You went out to a party,” you say, swallowing thickly, “when I had specifically asked you not to, and got drunk.” You throw your hands up. “You know I can’t handle taking care of your drunk ass and my exam tomorrow!”

You turn on your heel to leave the bathroom, sick from the smell of his drinks. It was everywhere now, infusing the air and crawling up your nose, down your throat. It suffocated you, blinded you.

Hikaru’s fingers grabbed the back of your blouse, pulling you back in. Maybe it was your imagination or your anger, but the stench was stronger and your vision blurrier. Usually his touch calmed you down or excited you, depending on the situation. But now the very thought of his drunken hand caressing your spine nauseated you.

“(Y/N),” he whines, tugging on your shirt, “please. I’m sorry.”

That damn whining voice. Whenever he wanted something, he always raised his voice an octave and folds his tongue in a way to make the tone smoother. You don’t know how he does it or why it works so well, but it’s the voice that instantly makes you want to take off your pants.

Except for tonight. You turn to your boyfriend, shaking off his clinging hand. Leaning against the wall across from him, you smile smugly at his vain attempts to free himself. This could be good blackmail.

“I should just leave you here,” you say, heading back to the doorway.

“(Y/N)! Baby! Please, you gotta help me out!”

The moment of endearment evaporates, the frustration and anger rushing back in. The tips of your ears burn, and you face him. He’s looking at you pleadingly, but your heart has hardened against it.

Hikaru loses the look the moment you meet his eyes. For a moment, he plays with his long, slender fingers and bows his head. The bright fluorescent lights make his skin paler than normal and accent the faint veins in his face. He is...drooping, like a wildflower in a hurricane. Usually he only pulled that look with Kaoru when they were feigning innocence after pulling a prank. But right now it’s just you two. He’s not innocent.

“Hikaru, look at me.” You force your voice to be harsh to cover the strain of tears in the back of your throat. 

He looks up immediately, locking eyes. You allow yourself to get lost in them for one second, feeling yourself fall into his gaze, all while holding on to your anger like an anchor.

“Tell me what happened.”

He hears the strain in your voice and starts to reach for you. “Baby--”

“Tell me what happened.”

He combs his fingers through his ginger hair. It looked so soft, and you knew it smelled good. You wanted to bury your face into it, but you were too angry.

“You’ve been so busy for so long, studying for medical school,” he starts. You frown as he pins the blame on you, but let him continue. “And I know you need to study for that exam. It’s the most important exam of your life. I didn’t want to bother you.”

“So you broke your promise?”

“I--” he hangs his head. “An old friend from first year invited me to a party. he always throws keggers and I didn’t have plans, and I knew you would be at the library all day and I was bored.” He drags out the word, fiddling with his fingers again. “Everything got out of control. I didn’t plan on getting drunk, but I’m sober now, I swear!”

He continues pleading, and you take a step closer. His eyes aren’t bloodshot anymore, and his speech is less slurred. Even his escape attempts are less jagged than before.

“How did you get home?” You ask solemnly. “You didn’t drive, did you? If you did, I swear to God--”

“NO! I took an Uber,” he says, spreading his hands in alarm. “You know I’d never put you through that again.”

You let out a breath. “That’s why I say never go to a party without me, the thing with my dad and what happened to Kaoru that one time--”

“I know.”

“And you went without me anyways!” you yell.

Hikaru jerks back. He’s used to you yelling--you’re both pretty loud people--but this is a hot topic with you, something he should have expected.

“We made a promise,” you start, your voice shaking, “that neither of us would go to a party without the other.” You shove your finger in his face, watching his shoulders start to twitch. “And just because I was busy, and you were bored, you broke that promise! You’re such an asshole!”

You step back, your whole body shaking with rage, as you felt your fingertips go numb. The study stress and exhaustion and hunger formed one hell of a cocktail of emotions.

Hikaru reaches for your shoulder, but you angle yourself away. You can’t look at him, not after the danger he put himself in tonight.

“(Y/N),” he says gently, “I’m okay. My driver was sober, and I watched my drinks the entire time. No one messed with me, I promise. I’m sorry.”

In his eyes you see a deep reflection of sadness. Of course he’s sorry. You don’t doubt that. He hates seeing you angry, hates it even more when you cry. Though you haven’t shed a single tear yet, you feel them burning in your eye sockets, choking down your throat.

“Get yourself out of this mess,” you spit out, wiping your nose clean from the smell. “And don’t come to bed. I don’t want to see you for the rest of the night.”

You walk out of the bathroom and straight into your bedroom, needing to shower the day off but unwilling to be around Hikaru. As you laid down in bed, unconsciously stroking the seam of the sheet, you let your mind wander. A single tear escapes your eye.

Maybe you overreacted. Then again, he broke a promise very near to your heart. He knew that meant a lot to you, knew that you had nightmares about what happened to Kaoru happening to one of you. He knew you still hated your dad for driving drunk and killing your mom. He knew all of this and did it anyways.

You turn over to the spot where your boyfriend usually sleeps. Although you miss him beside you, the extra space is nice. You just need time for your anger to burn away. And a good night’s sleep. The last thing you need is a distraction for your exam.

[wetwellie]

Back to the Future AU (Ye be warned this is a pretty long one):

The Samwell Hockey team has become used to finding their eccentric alumnus, Dr. Justin Oluransi, hiding out in their attic quite often. He is an 84 year old man, you can’t really scold him for busting out of the nearby retirement home to tinker with experiments and inventions that never work. He never bothered anyone, and no one bothered him. Then Shitty moved in and was freakin stoked for their guest.

“Hey pops, what did they call you on the team?” “…Ransom” “Awesome. Hey. You’re super good at science right? Could you help me brew up something in the tub?”

Dr Ransom was then initiated as the grandpa of the team. He helped with the recipe for tub juice, and they dragged out a bed for him to sleep on when he’s running from the Home. 

Dr Ransom also helped with homework from time to time in exchange for said person becoming Ransom’s personal assistant for half an hour or so. 

(“Bro why do you have 17 hickeys all over your back?” “Doc put a lot of suction cup things on me last night in exchange for his graphing calculator.”)

Of course, there was a man who never indulged in speaking with the man who even thought about spending time with their Attic friend, and that was Jack Zimmermann. They were sort of pushed into each other’s acquaintance during an epikegster in Jack’s second year. Jack had locked himself upstairs for the night. He hadn’t had the best game performance and kept thinking about everything he could have done better--should have done better. It was overwhelming him and every noise, every movement, every thought had been pretty daunting. He had been curled up on his bed when he noticed that the tapping he’d heard wasn’t from the party. It was from an elderly old man in a labcoat knocking on his window. 

It was nearly 10 below (Celsius), so he couldn’t just let him out. Jack unlocked his window and helped Ransom in. 

“Sorry about that, pal.” Ransom had said as he plopped himself onto Jack’s bed “Two cats were already...pretty ocupado in the attic when I went to work for tonight. Remind me to wash those sheets thoroughly.” “Is there anything I can do to help you out?” 

“Unless you’re comfortable with kicking those people out of my attic. I’m afraid I can only ask for company.”

“I don’t think I would be very good company” Jack said, trying his best to politely refuse. 

“I’m sure you’ll do just fine, once you’re comfortable. What’s your name again?” “Jack” “Nice to meet you man! I’ve seen you around, but you always seemed to be focused on one thing or another. I haven’t made it out to any of your games, but I’ve heard from the others that you are very dedicated to hockey” “Well...isn’t everyone on the team?” “I suppose you’re right. But everyone on the team isn’t a hardass captain.” “They called me a hardass?” 

“Only during the preseason” Ransom chirped. Jack didn’t laugh. 

“I suppose I could’ve been more of a hardass when I was captain of the team.” “You were captain?” Jack asked, trying his hardest to sound like he was interested.

“Co-captain, actually.” Ransom said, with an expression that was unreadable. 

“Wait!” Jack threw up his hand and pulled open his laptop. In the google search bar he googled “Google” and THEN started typing a phrase he knew familiar, clicked on a purple link to a bare bones site with barely any bells and whistles. There were only links to years.  “What year did you graduate?” “Undergrad?” “Of course.” “1955″

Jack scrolled down to that number and hit click. The page that loaded was filled with scanned articles, and paragraphs of stats and commentary. Ransom only looked at him. 

“The coaches wanted someone to go through all of the old stuff and digitize it. The manager who had been working on it before graduated last year, and I volunteered in their place” He then made a noise and clicked at the screen a couple more times. He turned it to face Ransom and pointed at an old photograph from the newspaper. The clipping had removed all of the article below it. In the photo was two young men in their hockey uniforms on the ice. They were holding each other close and raising a large jug in the air that had the words “SIN BIN” written in big red letters. 

Jack pointed to one of them “Is this you?” 

Ransom didn’t answer. His attention was fully on the photograph being projected on that blue-white screen. If Jack had been paying more attention, he might have seen Ransom’s throat hitch as he gulped, or tears starting to form and just barely being held back. But sadly, his attention wasn’t so focused. He did, however, notice when the doctor let out a howling laugh and pointed at the jug. 

“The sin bin! God that takes me back. Do you still have one of those?” “No” “Get one! Every captain needs one.” Ransom explained. “We used that money to buy cheap booze and pricey butter.” “Butter?” “It’s a long story.” Ransom said “But that’s not the point. You put money in the sin bin, and the whole team benefits from it. Your hardassery will have some sort of benefit.”

The two then melt into a conversation about hockey, captaining,the past, and even science for a bit. Albeit, Jack only wanted to know how legit “Breaking Bad” was.  “I’ve never made any drugs, believe it or not. But I’m sure the science checks out”

Every once in a while, when talking about the past, Ransom would quickly change the subject. Jack would do the same. They danced around the things they didn’t want to speak of, and usually fell back on chirping each other about their technological ineptness. 

It was 4am when Jack heard the party start to die down. Jack was discussing the merits of having the Internet as a research tool as a student. Ransom shook his head.  “I know from this side that it is helpful, but it would have been awful during my studies. There would have been so many outlets and so many distractions. I had enough panic attacks as it is, that would have surely worsened it.” 

There was a rather pregnant pause before Jack tentatively said “Panic Attacks?” “Yeah. There was a lot of stuff to panic about back then.” he said. He looked at Jack, fiddlling with the loose strings on his shirt, and added “I guess there’s a lot to panic about right now, too. Life can be a bitch.” Jack let out a hollow laugh. The silence never really ended, however. Instead, Ransom took that as his cue. “I should check to see if the lovebirds are post-coital by now. But remembering college, I doubt it.” Jack stared at Ransom dubiously. “And I shouldn’t have said that. Don’t want to scar you with any mental images! Anyways. I should get going”

He ended up walking to the door before being compelled to add “And if you ever need to talk, you can always see me when I’m in the attic. I’ve got a lot of life experience and surprisingly good ears for my age.”

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

Jack should have been more surprised at how often he found himself with Ransom for the rest of the semester. Whenever he wasn’t practicing or studying or keeping up with Shitty, he was in the attic. Mostly he helped lift heavy things that Ransom needed to tinker with, while the Doctor chattered on and on about “Important Shit!” that he’s learned in his life that will help Jack.

“Is there anything that has stayed more or less consistent over the past 60 years?” Jack asked one day.

“Hockey Butts are still as toned as ever.” He replied without missing a beat. “And they take years to erode. They are truly God’s gift”

Jack actually laughed at that and said “Amen”. 

In the months that came to pass, Jack would grow to call Ransom a friend as well as mentor. However, he couldn’t help the feeling that he never truly knew him. Jack had confessed many things to him: about his pressure to always be better, about the overdose, about Parse. And while Ransom didn’t have the magical words to make those hurts all better, he listened without judgement. That was all he needed. 

Winter turned to Spring without much of a struggle that year. Ransom spent most of his time searching online for the best places to purchase rare ores that he simply has to have, while he mumbles something about a gigawatt. Jack usually spent his time talking about Hockey or the new thing he had seen on this documentary a couple nights before, or Shitty being Shitty. He found himself a lot more empty-handed in the attic in the months before. Jack heard a lot less  “fill this cylinder up with exactly 5.74 ml of hydrochloric acid” and a lot more “carry this new clock and hang it up in the attic. Mamrie Cartwright is having an estate sale and this was 2 dollars”. 

Soon he found himself packing up his room for the summer, and popping up to check on Ransom before seeing him off. A few days before, the graduating members of the team had given him a “World’s best Grandpa” T-Shirt, with a “dr” scribbled in between the lines in sloppy marker. Ransom had given them all a bottle of Tub Juice to remember the Haus by.

Jack was surprised to open the door to the attic to see Ransom packing a suitcase.

“Headed somewhere?” “You think I don’t deserve a vacation too?” “I never said you didn’t. Where are you headed?” “I’ve met an old friend up at Niagra falls every summer for 60 years, so I’m gonna do that. And then I have to visit a science convention or two” “Sounds like a busy summer. You take care of yourself.” “I should say the same! If I come back and any of you cats have flat asses, I swear I’ll die on you. So eat some protein for my sake.”

“Will do”

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

It’s July 4th when Jack recieved a call from an unknown number. “Allo?” he answered.

“Jack! You brilliant bastard! It’s me.” “Ransom?” “The one and only. Listen. I don’t have a lot of time. Do you know where the mall called “Le Boulevard” is?”

“I don’t know, it sounds kind of familiar?”

“That’s good enough. Would you be kind enough to meet up with me on the 7th at precisely 3:15am?”

“What? Why?” “I can’t tell you right now, but it’s a matter of great importance. And I know that you will understand when I explain, but I can’t explain now.” “I don’t know how I’ll get there” “Please, Jack! I can’t lone this one.” Jack paused for a long while before saying “I’ll think about it” and hanging up the phone. 

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

Jack’s mother came into the room the moment that the call ended. She asked who it was, and Jack answered. Explaining the whole deal about the man who had been hiding in their attic for the better part of two years. She seemed very worried until he mentioned how he was the captain back in the fifties.

“In the fifties? Do you think he knows about the fire?” “Fire?”

“Yeah. When I was going there, one of my English professors mentioned it. The old hockey house, before yours and that sorority. It burned to the ground. 2 people died.”

“Ransom never mentioned a fire”  “It might have been after his time then” said Alicia. “It still seems like such a shame”

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

It’s 2:45am and Jack has gotten no sleep whatsoever. His group text is blowing up with pictures and videos of ongoing celebrations in the states. It’s times like these that he truly wished he knew how to turn off notifications. He scrolled through the chat and stopped at canadian teammates responses. It’s a picture of him wearing the flag as a cape and eating what seemed to be really old timbits. It’s captioned “Happy 3 days after Canada day”. Jack laughed, so he responded “haha”.  Immideately after the response, Jack’s phone starts vibrating like crazy. Ransom is calling him. 

“Jackie my man! Are you ready???” “Ready for what?”

[victorian-flavour-blog]

So, does Miss actually exist?

New year, new room, good old question. After these winter months, my thoughts seem to be up again on the issue, and this time they are suggesting a new answer. That is to say, I'm changing my mind. I used to think that my failure to find Miss or Misses is because we lack ways of getting in touch. But now, I start seriously doubting that any such Miss actually exists. 

It is a gut feeling, mainly due to a very simple fact. See, I used to wonder how to tell if someone might be Miss. That is, how I could spot the interest and traits that are necessary for this kind of relationship. I then realised the answer is very simple: if we ever come across each other, we will know. I, for certain, will spot the personality from her face and demeanour, and Miss will do the same. I will notice her poise and her dignity, and she will see I notice. Just by looking at each other we will know if there is liking and interest. 

So the simple fact is: I have never met such young lady. Let me be more precise. 

First of all, elegance. There really are soo few elegant young ladies out there. Blue jeans reign supreme, along with hoodies, foul language and slouching. If the XVIII and XIX centuries might well be dubbed the age of elegance, ours is no doubt the age of sloppiness. It's an age when people no longer know what dignity and self-respect is, along with respect for others. The idea of beauty now entails lips that resemble a hot dog, tattered jeans that an Indian street child would be ashamed to wear, and the unmissable trainers. 

Of course, fashion is the outer expression of a mentality that considers not just acceptable, but even desirable, to swear and reject any poise as boring and inappropriate. This was openly shared with me by the daughter of one of my former landlords: a 20 year old lady who studies at Cambridge and is convinced that swearing shows that one has character and is "cool". It's not only her opinion, it's what all her friends believe. To them, the crisp, elegant received pronounciation is a sort of stigma. She even got to the point to believe that Victorian houses must be bad by association, because the Victorian times were an age of oppression, colonialism, and so forth. Reality and logic hold no place in the thoughts of these privileged Cambridge students, it's all about the simple: "new is cool, old is boo". No wonder you then have students from rich families who take drugs and behave and dress like ghetto scoundrels. 

This is apparent in the school where I work too. Being it a highschool, most students mercifully wear a uniform. But the sixth formers don't. When I bring them lunch, I usually find them slouching on the coach with their feet in the air, often swearing or listening to loud rap music. Other times they are slouching directly on the floor, in a sort of hippy camping, always in their hoodies and tracksuits. This is it: and that's the daugthers of the privileged families who can afford one of the most exclusive private schools in London. To be honest, whenever I have to climb up there I wonder whether it's worth keeping that job. On one occasion, the students were being taught some martial art by a young man. Now, leaving aside any thoughts on how feminity and grace can be possibly enhanced by kicking and punching, my point is that the young man was teaching them to shout the "f" word to give a move more momentum. "Three, two, one, f***! Three, two, one, f***!" That was it, the whole 6th Form in unison. Until the gods took pity and sent a teacher to ask the young man to keep it proper -suggestion that the young man seemed to take somewhat scornfully. 

Now, could the students be blamed for the amount of televised trash they have absorbed since birth, for the myriads of messages that continously target them and tell them to be vulgar, and for attending a school where even the occasional contract teacher instructs them to swear? Obviously not. Today's youth are just what they are meant to be: the honest mirror of an age where elegance is not just forgotten, it's actively destroyed and prevented. With this in mind, I must admit it would be surprising, to say the least, to come across a young lady who retains ladylike manners and outlook. To achieve that, one would have to go against the stream on purpose, while overcoming a tremendous peer pressure and any inevitable feeling of enstrangement and inadequacy. It would truly require a great deal of understanding and self determination, which clearly one cannot expect to find very often, or to find at all. In fact, in this light my own love for elegance is truly surprising, and I don't have an explanation for it. Granted, I love elegance but I'm not elegant myself. Still, I must admit that I've never slouched on my school's floor with my feet in the air.

So, elegance is a rare occurrence nowadays, and among the under 25s it becomes a trace element. Things get worse when you consider that the lack of elegance is strictly correlated to the fantastic belief that we are all equal. And hey, in a way today we really are. Sure bank accounts may feature much more or much less figures, but in the end we all wear hoodies, listen to the same songs and speak in the same way. The refined ways of the upper class have been flattened to Cockney level, or rather Congo level. 

Which takes us to the second point: the mindset that can conceive or even desire a Miss/servant dynamic. If what is taught and instilled today is that we are all supposed to be equal, and that anyone can become more important by robbing accumulating money, is there any space left for the feeling of belonging to a different class, which is the basis for a Miss/servant dynamic? Clearly not. The distinction between rich and poor is not a class distinction. It's merely an accident, one that is furthermore to be concealed, mitigated, played down to avoid any feeling of unfairness and resentment and carry on with the pretence that we are all equal. To place an accent on or to be proud of one's privilege is now an extremely unpopular thing to do, one that would be straight into face of the hypocritical political correctness of our times. 

To sum it up, not only could Miss only be someone who pursues elegance in spite of all modern trends, but she would even be aware and proud of her class privilege in spite of modern hypocrisy. No doubt a truly remarkable personality, of clear understanding and strong will. How likely? You decide for yourself. And it's not finished. On top of such traits, Miss and I could obviously connect only if we liked each other. No doubt you see why my thoughts have taken a pessimistic turn. 

As I said, I have never met such young lady. The elegant ones I see tend to be over 25, and probably dress relatively smart only because they have to adhere to business dresscode. A better opportunity to see people's true fashion sense is at weekends, during their shopping or dining trips. Even better in summertime, when T-shirts make it so easy to look cheap. In fact I've done the experiment by walking on King's Road in July, and the results were, well, dismal. Let's face it: elegance is dead. But even on the rare occasions when I have seen a classy young lady, somehow I could tell she wasn't Miss. I haven't seen the poise, the glance, the demeanour of Miss. Perhaps not by chance, those rare young ladies have never noticed me. I can tell their thoughts are far away, they have no interest in a servant. It cannot click.

My thought now goes to the young lady I met in San Francisco's Nob Hill years ago on my American adventure. I had arrived at the guesthouse where I was supposed to help the landlady keep the place clean. The young lady was the only guest at the moment, a 23 year design student from Colorado. It was her to open the door, and my heart throbbed. Gosh, how pretty she was. Red hair and cute face, like in my dreams. And yes she was privileged. Spoilt, used to getting her way and impatient to wait, according to the landlady. She even liked the beautiful arpeggios of Chopin's music. Something that I found terribly sweet, she was pretty unable to look after herself for food and daily necessities. What a darling. One evening I even made dinner for her in the best way I could, with the food she liked and the table set in the grandest way. She was pleasantly surprised. I guess I don't need to tell you what I made of her offer to wash the dishes. Because, yes, she sadly offered to help. She was so sweet and friendly. In fact, in the few weeks I spent there it became apparent to me she couldn't be Miss. Her mindset was so far from having a servant. And her deportment, well, a bit American. But it was a nice try, and I should probably regret not having stayed longer. See, I was 18, and still had a magical view of my dream. I wasn't ready to content myself with the crumbs.

Anyway you get the gist: even when you do find a bit of elegance, the mindset is not there, and the personality is not there.

So, how about my last endeavour on planet Lolita? Well, the same conclusion hold true: apart from the fact that Lolita fashion and elegance are rarely synonims, and that at best it's usually a sporadic kind of elegance that doesn't invest daily life, the mindset of most Lolitas seem to be up to date with modern trends, and their personality far from Miss's. That explains why my posts on groups of thousands of Lolitas haven't got any interest: there isn't any. They are not Misses. It cannot click. 

The mysterious author of the blog I quoted on my previous post, as expected, didn't reply to any of my emails. If she received them, any comment is redundant. If not, it's pointless for her to post contact details on her website. This is precisely why I no longer waste my time writing to this or that online user. Besides, a friend of mine who is a world authority on Tumblr, as she spends inordinate amounts of time on it, tells me that she's never come across any elegant bloggers. No surprise, of course. And another friend of mine who knows many Lolitas tells a similar story.

So, no elegant young ladies on Tumblr, not on Kings Road, not at my school, not in Lolita groups... seems like there aren't that many anywhere. With elegance, the quintessential trait of Miss, being so incredibly rare, to assume that there is somewhere a young lady who is not only elegant but also has no problem with inequality and would like to have a servant, is like betting on the existence of aliens. Sure aliens might exist somewhere in the universe, but to expect to come across any would be a tad far-fetched.

So this is it: after all my attempts, my encounters, my investigations, I've come to the conclusion that Miss most probably doesn't exist. It matters little that there might be one, two, or a dozen in the whole world: I will never meet them anyway. It is of course a very hard bite to swallow; nonetheless there's nothing else I can do. Sure the door for Miss will be kept open, but I won't be checking every other minute. There is no room in modern world for things like class, poetry, discreet feelings. Everything must be debased and vulgar. Today's girls are after smartphone chats, torn jeans, martial arts, monkey dances... they sure have no time for servants, nor can they remotely see the appeal of such dynamics. Playing the piano, reading classical literature? Ha! Marijuana socials replaced all that long ago. Pride in their heritage and education? You must be kidding -going rough in East End clubs is the cool thing now. And it's no consolation that modern society will soon crash, as any falling plane is bound to do.

It seems like the only thing I'm left with is to wonder why I was born in this century, or why I was given an inclination that I have no way of fulfilling. And I guess the answer is simply: shit happens. But, you know what? I won't ditch my dream. You keep your ragged jeans and marijuana, you cool girls. And I'll keep my feelings.