#i feel like a little cat in an ill fitting tuxedo...

[lowpawly]

feels a little silly to post about buuuuuut I have a little date with a very pretty older lady next week 👉👈

[stormcrow513]

First off hi welcome to my hoarder blog, glad to have you! 🌹

Alright buckle up,

So little background, back in ye olden times when I was a teenager, lol,

my ma took me over to the animal shelter to get a cat, there were three itty bitty baby kittens, ma was like 'how much for all three?'

this dude was shocked as he explained that they get sooo many cats that they don't charge for them, and then he goes 'you really want all three?'

me and this dude are looking at ma with heart eyes and she like yes we're taking all three these are our kittens,

Guy went 'ill get a box' and fucking sprints out of there, I pet the tiny paws coming out at me while we wait,

He gets back loads em up we sign some paperwork and off we went, two girls and a boy,

one girl gets a name before we even get home she's a what is it tuxedo cat, black with white paws and white chest, she's jamming her little white paws out the hole in the box 'let me out fiend' I go 'so she's Mittens I have to look at her itty bitty Mittens'

The other girl and boy are both black as night with a couple white hairs on their chests and belly's, lucky enough Ares was a bit bigger and their eyes were slightly different colors cause they were otherwise identical,

I name the boy Ares yep after the Greek god of war, he was a bit of a shit

and I named the other girl Shy as I wanted to name her after the comic character Hawk girl from the Justice League animated show but knew my sister be and ass so I chopped it to Shy, which ended up fitting her sweet demeanor well,

So fast forward in 2019 Ares passed,

Last year Shy developed a tumor on the side of her face, vet said 'I don't have a crystal ball but I think given the placement I wouldn't be able to get all of it, it's very likely to grow back, she seems weirdly comfortable and not in pain why don't you take her home and let her go when she's ready,'

She fought a good fight, but in the end Mittens suddenly became last girl standing,

Ma an I had been debating getting her a firends she'd never been alone, I thought if we do it needs to be young a kitten I was sure that'd be easier on her,

So after it became clear she wasn't doing well we began our search,

I said a prayer to the gods got on the internet and found The Kitten, she was 4 months old and looked utterly terrified in her picture, and they were calling her For,

Ma picked her up for me cause I couldn't go myself, and she tells me they kept telling me how she's just really really shy, and put her in a room with ma so they could meet Kitten was like "nope scared' the lady was shocked when ma was like yep she's just scared she's coming home with me,

I summarily named her Circe Bitter Of Foes

And slowly she started warming up to us,

We'd made her a kinda huge cage so she could feel secure while getting used to us the house Mittens and the dogs in the next room, a week into this a baby mouse stepped into her cage and did not step out,

Time goes on eventually Mittens warms up to her enough to start letting Circe run around during the day and at night we continued to put her in the bathroom,

Eventually that was no longer needed and we discovered to joys of true zoomies my other cats played around and sometimes ran around but they didn't do zoomies cause this Kitten she does zoomies,

She just bumper cars into shit and keeps going,

One night around 4am she wakes me up given I'm a night owl I'd only been asleep an hour and I'd been like damn it now I gotta pee, and then didn't get up for a bit, just listening to her bounce all up and down the hall,

I finally got up, went out it the hall, no light cause the light switch is at the end of the hall, people that did the lighting here weren't the brightest, lol pun, and I have to shut the door behind me so my two dork dogs don't wake everyone up screaming down the hall,

So I'm slowly going down the hall my foot hits the rug it's rucked over Kittens done that before, we have hard wood in the hall and dogs like to run it like dorks and had a few fall mishaps so rug,

I step over the rug and kick it back over,

I go to the bathroom and the cats require that the door stay open,

So I'm looking for Kitten cause she usually sprints into the bathroom for pets, and she didn't this time,

Then she comes past the bathroom real slow, and I'm like okay

I keep watching for her, that when I see it

The tiny lump moving under the rug down the hall,

I'd kicked the rug over a mouse,

It must've froze when I'd stepped into the hall and I must've stepped over it then kicked the rug onto it,

I'm like oh my god,

Circe starts pouncing trying to hold it down under the rug, the she pulls up a corner and I've got to lift my legs up because fucking Animals Planet is now happening in my bathroom under me, this mouse desperately trying to get away and Circe on it ass,

She loses it

she had it

I thought it was dead so I go 'drop it'

So I can get it away from her, she does

It runs

And she looks at me like you stupid bitch,

So off back to sleep I go,

Later I get up, go to the bathroom to flick the light on so I can let the dogs out

our bathroom has two doors you have to go through it to go to the backyard,

The light flicks on and the bathroom rugs all rucked around,

I'd forgotten the mouse but had a werid feeling,

So I carefully rolled the rug out, this dead bloated mouse corpse pops out at me,

Real proud that I didn't scream btw,

And I'm just like son of a bitch,

She had really clearly rolled that mouse into the fucking rug,

Last night around ten at night I hear her messing around ignore it, then again I go to let the dogs out and the bathroom rugs messed up,

Yep another murder,

Circe now uses rugs to smoother mice to death, and I only have myself to blame,

Here's a picture of my murder Kitten

Sorry for the super long post 😂

Edit: think I forgot to say, Circe thinks Mittens is the Best Thing Ever and follows her around and tries to imitate her, she's just like 'best friend, best friend'.

And Mittens well at first I was pretty sure she was planning on using Circe as a sacrifice in a necromantic rite to resurrect her siblings, but now I'm pretty sure that Circe's utter devotion and adoration of Mittens has charmed her enough that Mittens is like fine you get to live, but now I have to keep living so I can be the oldest cat ever!

Here's a picture of them together

I ever tell y'all how I accidentally taught The Kitten how suffocation works?

[stedes-black-bonnet]

My Baby Does Me: Chapter 17

POV: John Deacon x reader

Notes: ongoing fic; we try to update twice a week, more depending. Tag list? We have one. Hi friends! Requests?

Warnings: Lots of Roger-esque swearing

Abstract: Roger wants to make the speed of light out of this place; Deacy and reader share a hot space.

Roger Taylor knew what was going on here. During his thirty-some years, he had discovered the hard way just how easy it was to underestimate a man with an insanely high emotional intelligence; underestimating him tended to occur more often than he’d like to admit. He frequently wondered if it was his appearance, his high-pitched voice, or his talent that made people think he was just another pretty face, some blond model with no brain. That couldn’t be farther from the truth, and he had fought his entire life so far against that ill-assuming tide. He was shrewd. A multi-instrumental musician, songwriter, fashion icon (he’d like to think, anyway) should be well-respected among his peers. Maybe it was his temper? He was in touch with his emotions more than anyone else he knew; Freddie frequently said he was the emotional equivalent of a night at the opera. Roger couldn’t dispute this. He was proud of his emotional range and stubbornly believed his emotional prowess linked strongly to his emotional empowerment and vulnerability. For his emotional transparency was vulnerability of a very specific sort: even if he wasn’t sharing it with anyone in particular or sharing it with everyone in particular, it was still targeted, specific, and intentional openness.

For a man so deeply in tune with the emotions of the people around him and his own emotions, it was a new experience for him to find himself not united with his own current desires and his self-imposed limitations. This was causing him serious problems. Everything related to an emotional state for him. It was his core. Emotions were the road map he used to understand his own existence. Right now, he had either lost the map or torn it up in a fit of anger. His carefully created veneer of denial was crumbling. And try as he might to glue the delicate pieces back together, he was failing at every turn. Denial, an emotion like any other, was his shield. Denial protected him from what he was not ready to feel, confront, and process. As anyone who knows what it’s like to live a predominantly emotional life, it is exhausting, and safety measures, escape routes, and panic rooms must be utilized to keep the peace.

The ability to hide emotions until the appropriate time to deal with them was part of having a high emotional intelligence. Some people couldn’t read other people’s emotions to save their lives; you put a gun to Roger’s head, and he’d be able to identify the emotional ranges and feelings of anyone around him; he’d make a great foreign agent, he thought. The FBI, maybe; he could profile a bitch faster than most people took to tie their shoes; this was because of his perceptions and emotional intelligence; sure, Brain was just brilliant, but could he read a room’s emotions and play everyone in it? Probably not, Rog figured. The ability to recognize when certain emotions were right for certain situations was his wheelhouse. This didn’t mean he paid any attention to what he knew was appropriate, however. Having knowledge and using it were two vastly different things. Half of the fun was to be found in reading a room full of people, knowing what they wanted or expected, and giving them the exact opposite, giving them what they didn’t even know they wanted, and changing their minds with the swagger of his emotional charm: this was power. And it was better than any drug, and almost better than sex.

Right now, however, Roger had little control over himself and his own emotions. Reading the interior of his mind and heart, every alarm was going off in unison: FLY AWAY RUN AWAY.

This was Lydia’s fault, he angrily thought. Sure, being in touch with his emotions didn’t mean he was always honest about what he was feeling. Especially regarding love, falling in love, being in love…. No—

That’s not what’s happening here. Fuck that, he thought very loudly, trying to convince himself. Focus. But not on her—not on Lydia. Fuck. Bloody fucking fuck. Focus on Deacy and Y/N.

He placed his hands on either side of the door frame. One up higher, one down lower. He wore his too-fancy-for-the-occasion black tuxedo stripe pants, his too-dressed-down-for-the-occasion white classic tee shirt, a pair of over-worn high-tops, and what could only be a black fur coat of Lydia’s. It smelled like her, and he savored--NO NO savoring fucking nothing here. He peered at you and Deacy from behind his sepia circular prescription sunglasses. He was, essentially, too cool to be allowed. Roger Meddows Taylor was synonymous with illegal behavior. His blue eyes popped out from his tinted glasses as he surveyed the scene before him.

He effortlessly read the emotions on both of your faces. Every glance you and Deacy sent each other, every hesitant touch, every “accidentally” intentional touch, every unspoken word was a clue for Roger, and he was a bloodhound. There was a dreamy quality to your olive eyes that smacked of infatuation and confusion—no not confusion, Roger thought. It was more of an ignorance is bliss kind of emotional vacuousness he associated with early, blind love. He tried to not roll his eyes and tried desperately to not think of Lydia, with whom he was having his own blind feelings—STOP that bloody well right now. Deacy has this hopeful dewy glow that had nothing to do with sex and sweat. Pure joy, Roger thought. Pure fucking undivided, maybe even not fully registered, joy. Ah, to be young and in love—Roger banged a fist on the door frame, suddenly. His smile still stays on, whatever happens pain and fury would fuel his waning denial.

Roger saw your flushed face spark a look of concern at the quick eruption of his fist speaking what he would not give voice to yet. He continued to take in your haphazard dress and twisted tights, and Deacy’s barely zipped pants, and felt a keen sense of deja vu. We’ve already been here tonight. Get a room, he thought, he’d like to get a room with Lydia. Maybe every room. WHAT the fuck is wrong with me? He hated himself more than he hated the idea of Deacy’s new Queen record. He smashed his fist into the door frame again. Fuck. Focus. Fuck.

These details, NOT HIS EMOTIONAL DETAILS, he reminded himself, your clothing and glancing details, HOWEVER, told him a lot about you and your night. He hadn’t even had to witness it first hand, and he knew the landscape of your night like he knew every wink, every breath and beat of every time signature.

It was clear to Roger you both hadn’t actually had full on sex yet. Sure, you had experimented, licked and touched, kissed and felt, but he’d put serious money on the fact you hadn’t been penetrated and Deacy hadn’t cum. Fascinating and boring simultaneously. That’s got Deacy all over it.

He and Deacy liked games, similar flavors but completely different goals and power structures. Deacy’s was inherently equal with delaying of certain actions, while Roger favored a flat out war of equals where everyone got precisely what they wanted assuming, of course, they could negotiate it. Both had a hard time finding compatible partners because of this. It was easy to settle, especially for Roger, for a night of climaxing fun with a beauty just to feel close to somebody. Yet, it was never as fulfilling as sex with someone who wanted what you wanted too.

Lydia could negotiate her way around a room full of cats, or room full of blind people without breaking a sweat or running into anyone or setting anyone or any cat off course. She was good. Fantastic. Challenging. Formidable. Roger was a sauntering sapient, a fucking loudmouthed, dirty disaster. The denial kept slipping away from his talented grasp. God, I know we don’t talk, you tend to mess things up, but fucking help me, he thought. FOCUS.

If you and Deacy had actually had sex, he figured, you two wouldn’t be pawing at each other whenever anyone turned around or left you alone for more than a few minutes. Your and Deacy’s emotions were spilling out of your hands; he had seen it before. Fuck, he was going through it himself. Right now. In front of you and Deacy. Fuck, he thought.

“What—No self-control, mates?” He said, shaking his head at the two of you, while his own voice slightly shook, higher than normal.

“Coming from you that’s a laugh.” Deacy retorted.

Roger grinned, walking up to you. He sweetly and shamelessly planted a chaste kiss on your cheek. He turned to Deacy and mock-begrudgingly placed a kiss on his cheek. “Do try to get some sleep, children.” Leaving between to you both, he flashed a peace sign (best case scenario, worst case he was telling himself to fuck off) behind him as he walked down the stairs. Instead of his rainbow-sequin blazer, he had acquisitioned a fur coat, you recognized as Lydia’s; it was high summer, yet here he was, fur coat and all. Roger Taylor was the anomaly of a sudden blizzard smack dab in the middle of June.

The Blond God would try to control even the seasons, you thought. Maybe he already did. You couldn’t tell if his behavior had been erratic or normal, so you weren’t particularly concerned, and Deacy didn’t look worried, so you decided to let it slide and ignore it.

“I live with Lydia.” You explained to Deacy, satisfying the floating, unspoken question in the air. “And if I thought when I woke up this morning Roger Taylor and John Deacon would be in our apartment, I definitely would have done the dishes.”

Deacon laughed, kissing your cheek, “dishes are overrated.”

“Did you just claim my cheek back from Roger?”

“I did, yes.”

“Jealous?”

“I prefer possessively keen.”

“Is it okay if we do a tour later?” You asked, entering your apartment with a laugh. “I’m exhausted.”

“I’m more interested in your bedroom.” Deacy confided. “I can't stop now that we’ve started the whole thinking out loud confiding in each other thing.”

“It’s like I’m living in my own sitcom.” You said, swerving Deacy past several room towards the very back of the apartment.

You paused at the door to your bedroom, your sanctuary. Sharing this space had always been excessively private for you. You were about to let a man into the most secret areas of your life. He’d be free to explore and witness all the hidden dreams and trinkets to which your entire existence amounted. It would make you an open book, in a sense. This was a big step. And it was happening the same night you met.

Deacy, sensing some of this on your face, said “Before I owned my own home, my bedroom was all I had. Letting someone into that space took time for me. We don’t have to go in there if you’re not ready. The sofa would be accommodating, I’m sure.”

“I’m ready. It means a lot to me, this space. Sharing it with you will be my honor. I'm just trying to remember if I tidied up before leaving for the party…”

“Well, m’lady, when you see my home I’m sure you’ll understand just how little I care about neatness.” Deacy had affected a bow and brandished the door open for you.

Turning on the light, the first noticeable piece of furniture was your upright piano. Tried and true it had been your friend through many sleepless nights, more than you could count. There for you when no could understand you, when words failed you, there was always this: you could return to the music, and it would save you. You had a makeshift desk, a rather large dining room table in a corner. It was strewn with sheet music, text books, and a rotary phone. You had an enormous blackboard hanging on the wall behind your large bed. Musical notations were scribbled on it in half-asleep hurried handwriting. To the right of it on the wall was an even larger bulletin board with more stable notations pinned to it. You had a deep plum-colored armchair next to a window with a high stool next to it serving as an end table. A old cup of tea was resting on it from earlier in the day; several tabloid magazine rested under the cup. A record player was in the corner by the door, several albums rested in a very wide floor-to-ceiling shelf next to it. It was the tallest, largest piece in the room. A collection built over careful years of curating your tastes and passions. A bench in front of the bed had a rustic conifer-colored throw on it. The bedding was deep maroons and rusty oranges. Several dresses were layered on the bed, some inside out some discarded. The window was open, and slight breeze made the gauzy curtains twirl in the very late night, or exceptionally early morning. The floors were a dark-colored hardwood, with a simple beige area rug to finish it off. The closet was insignificant compared to the colorful and varied clothes covering the floor of it, obscuring several pairs of shoes while doing so. It was your favorite room in the apartment, besides the kitchen, and the bathroom’s fantastic antique claw-foot tub.

Deacy hadn’t said anything yet. “I know it’s not much,” you said, “but it’s mine and—“

“I love everything about it. It’s everything you love and are perfectly condensed into one space. I’m not sure what I expected, but this is you; it’s flawless. If you find me in the middle of the night looking at your record collection, you can’t blame me; it’s better than my own.”

“I get that a lot.” You laughed. Deacy gave you a look, one eyebrow raised, all innocent curiosity. “Oh, not from men I’m sleeping with, just people who know my interests and have heard of my collection.”

“Your collection is quite prodigious…” His hands fluttered past a row of plastic sleeve covers, making that all too specific soft clicking sound.

“You were gonna add for someone my age, weren’t you?” You asked playfully.

“I was and thought better of it; ten years isn’t too much.” He added, softly touching a few keys on your piano.

“Not to obsess over, no; and, I’ve decided it doesn’t matter to me.” You smiled at him, putting an end to that topic hopefully for the duration. “I don’t really have any pajamas for you to wear. Turn around while I change into mine?”

Deacy looked at you like maybe you were joking; his eyes squinted and his face angled as if trying to detect your humor through his chin. He put his hands over his eyes, then peeped through them slyly yet obviously.

“Really! Deacy! We haven’t seen each other naked. Close your eyes!” You were laughing as you said it, though you were quite serious. There was something sacred to preserve here, you thought. Some innocence to be stolen away if he saw you naked now and not during intercourse. It would be so anticlimactic for the first time you see someone naked was when they were struggling to put on their flannel bottoms, and not during some all out sexual to-do. He obeyed this time, to the letter, and kept his eyes shut until you had finished changing. “Okay, you can look now.”

He opened his eyes and smiled at you in the same way he had been smiling at you the first time he saw you: he was captivated. You were wearing a matching flannel set. Nondescript and routine. Yet he couldn’t take his eyes off you.

Was that love, he thought?

He began undoing his necktie, making sultry eye contact the entire time. He placed it on the armchair. He methodically unbuttoned each button of his blue shirt, removed it, and placed it on the armchair. He had a white tank top on under it, and that he kept on. He removed his black oxfords and red jeans next. His polka-dot boxers where sufficient pjs, you thought. Decorum was satisfied this night, though for how much longer, you weren’t sure. It would be hard enough to sleep in a bed next to Deacy without trying something. You had little hope you’d make it through the night.

You began removing the clothes from the bed, tossing them in your closet. You turned down the bed together and climbed in together.

Deacy reached out and took one of your hands in his, and happily held it, waiting to see if you had anything else to say besides your sleepy good-nights. You turned to him, moving in close, draping a leg across his, and laying your head on his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around your waist, breathing in the scent of your hair, and twirling a strand in his nimble fingers. Your soft snores were the only music he needed.

Tag List: @obsessedwithrogertaylor @triggeredpossum @groupiie-love @richiethotzierz @phantom-fangirl-stuff @partydulce @sophierobisonartfoundationblr @psychostarkid @teathymewithben @smittyjaws @just-ladyme @botinstqueen @mydogisthebest @little-welsh-wonder @maxjesty @deakysdiscos @yourealegendroger @marvellouspengwing @molethemollie @deakysgirl @arrowswithwifi

[deardazaiblog]

Chapter One: Suitable Attire for Thievery

Beatrice Lord was an unremarkable person.

And, at this moment, draped in a ballgown in the British Museum Library, she was an extremely screwed person unless she managed to find ‘The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes’.  

The constant threat of being housed at the expense of Queen and country was terrifying, but it was nothing compared to what might happen should the book not get to its intended recipient. Holmes was a scary bastard on a good day. The seriousness with which he’d insisted she retrieve the book for him was enough to make Beatrice focused in her task.

Tonight was supposed to be all about Shakespeare. One of Beatrice’s constant loves. The British Museum was hosting a gala to simultaneously celebrate the opening of their new Shakespearean exhibit and honour the man 400 years after his death. It was a once in a lifetime event. Populated by people, who could politely be described as rabid Shakespeareans. Beatrice could be at the gala, discussing Shakespeare, drinking champagne or talking to Jack.

Instead, here she was trying to find this damned book. ‘Vindictive arsehole,’ Beatrice muttered to the spectre of Holmes that had loomed over her this evening.

Holmes’ spectre judged her every move, as she despaired at the futility of trying to be inconspicuous and quiet in a dress that was too large and too heavy to ever be either of those things. It also judged her for unwillingness to part with the tickets. For being a useless thief.

Figment of her imagination or not, the sense of disapproval was strong enough to make her shudder.

For weeks, she had tried her best to learn to be a successful pickpocket. She had shaken all the way through it. The idea of failure was not something she had ever tolerated in herself. In contrast, this led to a rising anxiety to perfectly execute a task that she was ill-equipped for. But raw determination had led her to obsess over it until she could do it to the absolute best of her ability. Which wasn’t anywhere near as capable as she hoped it would be.

Tonight, she had successfully managed to get a key card to the library and she was proud of herself. So what if she’d chosen the most lecherous and drunk member of staff? She had been instructed to use any means necessary. Holmes had even stated that her ‘womanly wiles’ should be put to good use. Beatrice was tempted to hit him over the head with a fry pan in a vain attempt to convince him that she didn’t possess any such thing.  

CREAK

Beatrice turned around suddenly, four inch heels being no hinderance to her balance. Many years of dancing lessons as a child and a bizarre need to walk around on the tip of her toes had allowed for near perfect balance in all situations. She glanced around the room, but there was nothing else but the shadows and the annoying spectre of Holmes, who was currently blowing bubbles in the corner.

Her breathing hitched a little. This was ridiculous. The worst that would happen would be that she’d end up accommodated at Her Majesty’s expense. Bring shame on her family. End up as the bitch for some overly aggressive woman, who…

She was getting ahead of herself.

Beatrice had never liked hide and seek as a child. The prospect of being caught and found had scared her witless. Tonight was that just amped up to a thousand. Her heart was thumping out of her chest, the sound so deafening that she was convinced anyone in the atrium should have been able to hear it.

thumpthumpthumpthump

She closed her eyes, breathed in deeply and concentrated. Opening her eyes, more determined than before, she made her way to the row of shelves where Holmes had assured her the book would be.

‘Bastard,’ she cursed.  

Looking up along the row of books, Beatrice knew exactly where the book was. On the mezzanine. Because according to Holmes and his spectre, who was looking remarkably pleased with himself while standing on his head, that was easy to access. In all other circumstances Beatrice would have agreed, had she not been wearing a ballgown.

Never in the history of the invention of full skirts had anyone ever considered the possibility of the person wearing them to have to abscond up a ladder. Beauty and practicality were on tenuous terms at the best of times. A long held dispute in which neither was prepared to give ground. Tonight making her expedition impossible.

Beatrice took quick stock of the situation.

She needed that book.

She couldn’t leave here without it.

She couldn’t get it.

sigh

She reached for the ladder, freezing as a hand came out of the darkness and covered her mouth.

Beatrice fought against the panic that erupted within. Her breathing was short and shallow and the thump of her heart was now all she could hear.

thumpthumpthumpthump

Why hadn’t she let Holmes do this? She should have. She really should have. She could have given him the tickets. Could have come and seen this exhibit on another day. She could be home with a cat on her lap and a cup of tea in hand, instead of being here and now.

The closeness of her captor was claustrophobic. They were too warm. Too rough. Too musky. She breathed hard, trying to find something to hold ground in the storm that was raging around her.   Leaning down, her captor’s breath was hot on her neck as they spoke.    

‘Care to explain Princess?’ the voice whispered in her ear.

Beatrice had two choices now, to panic or to be relieved. Neither appealed. The absolute last person she had wanted to find out about her little and highly illegal sojourn tonight was Jack. Leaving his side about 15 minutes ago, she had hoped that she wouldn’t be missed. She had deployed the ‘hot blonde’ for that purpose. Beatrice should have known that wouldn’t work. Jack, for all his interesting and charming faults, couldn’t be easily distracted by a ‘hot blonde’.  

‘mmmfghmmm,’she failed to articulate against his hand.

‘What was that?’ he asked.

Jack removed his hand from Beatrice’s mouth and she turned around to look at him.

She was wondering what demon had possessed her to insist that he wear a three piece tuxedo. Because now, here she was, literally caught in the act, and the only thought that was running through her mind was how despicably gorgeous he looked.

Jack assessed the situation before him. The same situation where he had just found his reluctant date in the British Museum Library. He’d been suspicious when Beatrice had deployed the ‘hot blonde’. The last time she’d pulled that one him, she’d come back from a tea shop in Paris with a small country’s worth of tea.

He was somewhat impressed to find her here. There was something exciting about the fact that her obsession of all things literary had driven her to a life of crime. Or one of some serious mischief. The possible ramifications of it seemed almost too good to be true.

‘If you’d removed that filthy hand of yours...,’ Beatrice grumbled, shaking herself off and looking at him, she asked, ‘What the hell are you doing in here?’

‘My date left me, you see and I was feeling a little lonesome.’

‘Right, of course you were.’

Jack leant in close and took Beatrice by the waist. His breath lingered on her neck again, but this time it was more than welcome.

‘Terribly lonesome,’ he whispered into her ear.

She breathed him in deeply, thinking of the three piece suit. Remembering where they were, she pushed him away sharply.

‘Jack! Neither of us are meant to be here and I’m not about to be caught for public indecency.’

‘Who said anything about public indecency? It’s only the two of us.’

Jack smiled. Beatrice simply looked back at him, with an appropriately withering expression.

‘How did you get in here?’ she asked.

‘How did you?’ he countered.

Beatrice bit her lip and very determinedly didn’t look at him. The sapphire ring on her finger became of endless interest to her in this moment. Jack sidled up to her, putting his hands on her waist, pulling her close.

‘Come on Princess, I’ll show you mine...’ Jack purred.

‘I sweet talked the most lecherous employee I could find, so I could swipe his I.D. And then I put my womanly wiles to good use to get passed the guard at the door.’  

Jack raised his eyebrows.

‘No seriously Princess, how did you do it?’

Beatrice simply smiled. Jack furrowed his brow. Beatrice continued smiling.

‘Okay,’ Jack replied, hands up, ‘I won’t ask. I must admit I had wondered how long it would be before your literary exploits led you to a life a crime.’

‘You had?’ Beatrice asked.

‘I’m easily bored. As I’m sure your expenditure on books is far more than your income. It seemed the next logical step.’

Beatrice nodded at that.

Looking back up at the shelf. A plan was forming in her head. She couldn’t complete the task at hand and rather than being concerned about the legalities, Jack was quite relaxed about the whole affair. So it only made sense to put him to good use. After all, it was a task Jack could complete much more easily than she could. It certainly didn’t have anything to do with admiring his rather nice arse as he climbed up a ladder in particularly well fitting pants.

‘Jack, can you do me a favour?’

‘Anything, Princess.’

‘I need the copy of ‘The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes’ that’s up on the mezzanine. Could you get it? Please?’

Jack looked up the ladder towards the mezzanine and then back to Beatrice in her ballgown. Raising his eyebrows, he wondered how she’d been planning to do that before he got there. No wonder he’d managed to catch her unawares, he was fairly sure Beatrice had been working very hard at overcoming the laws of physics to achieve that. Jack knew it was futile, that dress and that ladder were never going to be compatible. Beautiful and all as the dress was, it screamed impracticality. ‘Sure,’ he replied.

He had no issue with stealing the book. To Jack, the law was really just a suggestion. Lines marked in the sand, that were easily mutable with the right motivation. Beatrice’s reason for wanting it were intriguing but enough champagne and a sense of adventure were enough to leave his concerns for a later time.

Quickly and impossibly quietly, Jack climbed the ladder. Making sure to exaggerate the swing of his hips as he went. He wasn’t stupid and knew very well when Beatrice was looking at his arse. With a wink in her direction, Jack scanned the shelves for the book. Running his finger along the titles, he came across the faded green spine of ‘The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes’. Tucking the smaller than expected book into his jacket, and turning with a flourish, he slid back down to Beatrice.

Jack’s absence, despite the nice distraction he made, was enough to put Beatrice back on edge. Her breathing was shallower than she would have liked and her heart had started its dance beat again. She smiled tentatively, to which, Jack patted his coat and smiled at her.

Beatrice returned the smile, brighter this time. They had the book. That was the only thing that mattered. Breathing and heart rates could be fixed at a later time with an abundance of champagne and some serious discussion about Shakespeare.

Also the absence of Homes’ spectre which was now making origami elephants on the shelf next to her.

‘Sorted,’ he said.

‘Great can we get out of here now?’

‘Just a moment Princess.’

Jack grabbed her round the waist, paused smiling devilishly at her. Then proceeded to dip her low for a kiss. A damn fine kiss. A kiss to end all kisses.

Then he had the nerve to stop kissing her. Beatrice narrowed her eyes at him.

‘Do you mind?’ she griped.

‘Just selling our cover.’

‘Not what I meant.’

‘Sorry? What was that?’

Beatrice rolled her eyes.

‘What cover?’ she asked.

‘What else would two young, very attractive, limber...’

‘Modest?’

‘Not so much,’ Jack replied, winking, ‘people be doing in a dimly lit room?’

Beatrice shrugged, agreeing.

An illicit tryst in a darkened room was believable. Running her fingers through her hair, making sure to mess it up a little. This was their cover and she was going to sell it to the best of her ability.

Looking at Jack, she bit her lip. Then walking over to him, brought him in for another kiss. It wasn’t as fiery as the one before, but there was a slow burn that made her toes curl. His too.

‘What was that for?’ he asked, eyes glazed a little. ‘Just selling our cover.’

‘It wasn’t sold before?’

‘Not enough.’

Trying to look appropriately ravished, Beatrice followed as they made the way back to the atrium. It wasn’t at all an excuse to check him out yet again. Next time she’d suggest he wear tails.

Jack paused and motioned at Beatrice as they got towards the door.

‘Gotta keep up Princess.’

Beatrice rolled her eyes at him and poked out her tongue. She knew that the hammering in her chest had subsided because he was here and she was grateful for it. But she wasn’t about to tell him that.

She played her part as she was taken under his arm. Appropriately messing her hair up a bit more, she thought that after tonight she might have to rethink her position on womanly wiles. In this moment, she’d never felt sexier.

She raised an eyebrow when Jack handed over the I.D. to the guard near the main entrance to the museum. The exact I.D. she’d lifted to get into the room. Jack told the guard that they’d found it on the floor and to ensure that it made its way back to its rightful owner. The guard grateful for Jack’s honesty, told him he’d happily do it. Beatrice merely smiled politely, trying not to laugh at the situation.

‘What are you laughing about?’ Jack asked as they walked back to the atrium.

Beatrice threw her head back, and looked at him.

‘Does everyone you meet take you at your word?’

‘It’s a gift.’

‘One hell of a gift.’

‘You’ve never complained.’

She turned to face him. Leaning in, she spoke.

‘Maybe I’ll have to start…’

‘Please do.’

She spun around on her heels.

‘Not now though, because I have Shakespeare to get back to and he’s been so neglected this evening by me. I feel quite guilty.’

Jack looked at her. He was expecting more nerves. More panic but that had seemed to disappear as it was never there. He wondered what other tricks she had up her sleeves that he’d failed to notice before.

He caught up to her and wrapped his arm around her waist.

‘You know, I had prepared this whole speech about not being too conspicuous in your guilt once we left the room, but you’ve gone and ruined it.’

‘What do I have to feel guilty about?’

‘Nothing at all.’

‘Out of curiosity what would you have suggested?’ she asked.

‘Oh, you know. The act of two obviously in love people canoodling in dark corridors, rather than sneaking off for anything nefarious. Just in case someone makes the connection with the missing book and this evening.’

‘Good advice. How do you know such things?’

Jack smiled, winking.

‘I had a misspent youth.’

‘Robbing museums?’

‘Watching television.’

Beatrice laughed.

As they entered the atrium again, she swiped a glass of champagne as it went passed. The best thing about events like this, was the certainty that the alcohol would be up to standard. She revelled in the sensation of the bubbles on her tongue, and let the taste of blackberries linger at the back of her mouth before she swallowed.

She thought about the book safely tucked away in Jack’s coat. Fingering the glass of champagne, she felt a flush rise in her cheeks. The idea of being surrounded by a bunch of people, who had no idea what they’d just done was both terrifying and exhilarating.

‘Jesus Princess, remind me to play poker with you more often.’

‘Hmmm?’

‘You need some serious tutelage on what constitutes a good poker face. Or really any poker face at all.’

Beatrice sighed. Acting had never been her strong suit. Drama teachers had despaired at her ability to be read like a book. She cringed at the memory.

‘Come on. Let’s be good little Shakespeareans and mingle with the rest of the community shall we,’ Jack commented.

Beatrice lost sight of him quickly as they reentered the party. Jack was only an honorary Shakespearean and Beatrice was in it for the genuine article tonight. This was a once in a lifetime event and illegal sojourn notwithstanding she was going to make the most of it.

Tonight’s tickets had been purchased for a range of illicit and probably illegal sexual favours, and a case of Cristal that she’d had to mortgage her apartment to afford. This meant she had no intention to do nothing other than be the fangirl she very much was. She sought out discussions about Shakespeare’s effect modern language, his rampant neologism, his timeless characters and anything else that the people here were eager to discuss.

Nothing in the world could beat the sensation of the idea of being a complete nerd about something, with others that felt exactly the same way that you did.

Still, she hadn’t managed to break away to see the exhibit itself. Continually getting sidetracked by some conversation she’d overhear and interject herself into.

In a brief lull, determined not to be deterred she made her way towards the round room in the middle of the atrium. She heard a whisper about the commonality between Puck and Anansi, and was tempted to enter, purely to interject some Neil Gaiman into the discussion but she thought better of it. There was Shakespeare in that room and she would get there.

The exhibit room was a start contrast to the atrium. Where the atrium was brightly lit, with sharp lines and geometric patterns, this room was soft. Soft floors, soft light, soft everything. Cushioning for the treasures it held.

She wandered, completely enthralled by the exhibit. Each little scrap of paper and each folio that she came across more spectacular than the last and she knew there were tears welling in the corner of her eyes. She went to wipe them away, until she remembered that it had taken her three attempts not to look like a vampire when she’d done her eye make up and wasn’t prepared to ruin the effort now.

Then she came to Othello. It had been a favourite of hers, always in her opinion, a greater tragedy than Romeo and Juliet. Though as she’d grown older, she had considered it a great tragedy in that Othello could lose so much faith in Desdemona so easily. That nothing Desdemona could say could change the course of his actions. It made Othello quite the villain in her eyes, rather than the tragic hero many considered him to be.  

Gazing through the glass, she wished she could trace her fingers along the yellow pages, flipping through them gently. Inhaling the scent of the hundreds of years that they had accumulated. She could imagine the intense vanilla smell, mixed in with the woody scent of the parchment and she closed her eyes, breathing the imaginary scent in. ‘It is rather magnificent isn’t it?’ the person next to her asked.

Beatrice glanced up at the man who had come to stand next to her. He was of average height, average build, average everything really. If he hadn’t spoken to her, Beatrice wondered if she even would have noticed him. He may have only been less than a foot away but nothing gave away his presence. There was nothing about him that was worth noting.

‘It is indeed,’ she replied, looking back at Othello.

‘Language really is a magical thing. That it can convey so much with the right combination of words,’ he spoke again, ‘It really does have the power to shape the world.’

‘I agree. I always wished I could be a weaver of words, but sadly I lack any meaningful skill when it comes to writing prose,’ she responded.

‘I find that hard to believe, after all you are a rather remarkable character, Miss Lord.’

The hair on her neck immediately stood up. She could feel her heart begin to thump again, but she looked at Othello willing it to calm her before she spoke. ‘Do I know you?’ Beatrice asked, voice level.

The man chuckled. It wasn’t like Jack’s chuckle, which was warm and sincere, and made you feel good inside, this chuckle was cold, fake and made you feel exposed. It felt like twigs snapping under foot in the middle of winter. Shards of ice splintering off them as you brought your foot down. The temperature of the room seemed to have lowered significantly in that moment.  

Beatrice involuntarily folded her arms across herself. To warm herself up a little and to put up the barrier she needed. The unassuming air that had initially surrounded the man had disappeared and now, Beatrice saw him as the predator that he so obviously was.

‘We have a mutual acquaintance,’ he answered, looking at her, all coldness gone from his tone. His voice now friendly and affable and Beatrice second guessed her initial response to him.  

‘Really?’ she asked.

‘Indeed, a Mr. Holmes.’

Despite her resolve, the man intimidated her. She felt shivers run up and down her spine and closed her eyes again, willing them away.

‘Do I frighten you Miss Lord? It is not my intention to do so.’

‘No.’

‘Lying is not a talent of yours, but I am sorry, as mentioned I do not intend to frighten you. I simply worry about your wellbeing. Mr. Holmes has a tendency to be less than considerate of his compatriots,’he said, concern thick in his tone, and for an instant Beatrice wanted to believe him.

‘Thank you for your concern,’she answered, drily.  

‘It’s nothing,’ he said, smiling.  

Beatrice moved to leave, when she felt his hand on her arm. It was unexpectedly warm, and gentle, but she wasn’t about to be restrained no matter how polite her antagonist might be.

‘Remove yourself now,’ she snarled, attempting to remove her arm from his grip. Niceties completely foregone with given his invasion of her space.   ‘Give me the book, please,’ it sounded like a request but there was no doubt it was a demand.

‘What book?’

‘You know which book,’ the man said, smiling wider.  

‘I don’t have any book. Where would I put it?’ she said, looking directly at him, determined to meet his gaze.  

He narrowed his eyes at her and her bravado wavered a bit. She shuddered as he looked her over. It wasn’t lecherous but calculated and the sense of being exposed returned. As his eyes raked over her, she fought against the shiver he invoked and glared at him harder. She pulled on her arm, trying to break free without causing a commotion. He looked at her again, exhaled and loosened his grip a little.

Taking the opportunity, Beatrice quickly pulled her arm free and walked back out into the atrium, not looking back. She hoped that he wasn’t following but refused to look to see. She felt violated and didn’t want to encourage anymore interaction from him.

‘Do send my regards to Mr. Holmes,’ he called after her.  

Still ignoring him, she made her way back through the crowd. She spotted Jack talking to a woman that Beatrice didn’t have the time to be jealous of.

Interrupting the two of them, she came to stand next to Jack.

‘I think we ought to be leaving,’ was all she said.  

Jack looked at her and nodded. Turning back to the woman he was talking to, he made his apologies.

‘It’s been lovely, but we really should be off.’

Taking Beatrice’s hand in his, they made their way towards the front gates of the British Museum. It was a chilly evening, but Beatrice barely noticed. She had a purpose and that was to leave here as soon as possible. Her earlier excitement once again abated by the situation.

‘Back to your’s Princess?’ Jack asked.

Beatrice nodded.

Jack put two fingers in his mouth, whistling to hail a cab. As they got in, Jack gave her street address and they were off into the night. The lights of the British Museum disappearing as they turned the corner.

The ride back was silent. Beatrice looked at the window as London passed them by and wished that she’d opted for a weekend in Stratford-Upon Avon instead. She ignored the pointed looks that Jack was giving her.

Finally, when the key was turned in the lock and the door shut to Beatrice’s apartment, Jack asked the question. The question both of them knew was coming, but wasn’t about to be discussed in polite company where just anyone could hear.

‘So I stole ‘The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes’ from the British Museum’, you want to tell me why?’

©2018 Lindsay Watson