#my landlady is actually so funny (in a good way don’t worry)

[strohller27]

.

[all-you-need-is-paul-mccartney]

The Couple Next Door VI (Roger Taylor x Female!Reader)

Find Part Five Here

A/N: Y’all, I know this was kinda filler and may not make a whole bunch of sense bc I was half asleep while writing this, so I apologize if this is shit. I legit thought I was going somewhere with this, but I think I’ll find some more inspiration after posting this part.

Again, I am so sorry.

Summary: Y/n comes down with a case of Baby Fever; She and Roger talk a little more about their “agreement”.

(Whichever Roger you want, real or Borhap. Whatever flies your kite.)

WARNINGS: Swearing most likely, Slow burn, mentions of sex, etc. I’m sorry if I forgot some.

This chapter will be brought back down to a T, but read at your own risk.

When you woke up from your deep sleep the following morning, you weren't expecting Roger to be by your side.

 And when you turned to glance over your shoulder, you were in no way shocked to find the space next to you empty. 

 "At least he didn't show me the door as soon as he woke up," you mumbled to yourself mid-yawn. You stretched your body out, and relaxed again. You nearly fell back to sleep, but you knew you had to get up. 

 The sun's rays flooded Roger's bedroom through the open window, making the off-white walls appear brighter than they actually were. 

 You were happy to see the clouds from the previous day dispersed and London was finally getting the sunshine it deserved. 

 Eventually, after a long while of you trying to convince yourself to get up, you tossed the blankets to the side to start the day, only to find, through your bleary eyes, that you were missing all of your clothes. 

 You had no problem with this, considering the previous night's circumstances, but you found it strange that you used to hate sleeping naked, though you had the most refreshing sleep in your entire life doing it.

 You didn't dwell on the thought much longer. You climbed out of bed and walked around the room, searching for your pyjamas, or underwear, or something to leave the bedroom in. 

 Then you stopped. 

 "I don't need fucking clothes." Roger was probably at practice. And even if he weren't, it's not like he hadn't seen all of you before, or was never gonna see all of you again. 

 You rolled your eyes at yourself, turned on your heel, and moved towards the bedroom door. 

 You caught sight of yourself in the mirror over Roger's dresser for a split second, and as soon as you reached for the doorknob, you rushed back to the mirror to actually get a good look at yourself. 

 From the jawline down to your hipbones, dark, painful-looking bruises and prominent bite marks were harshly pressed into the skin of your torso. 

 You had hickeys and marks on your neck, collarbone, breasts, navel, you name it.

 You hissed in pain as you tilted your head back and touched a particularly large blue-violet bruise at the side of your throat. Your flesh was tender, but, much like how you reacted when you woke up nude, you were okay with it. 

 You started thinking of the night before, and you squeezed your legs shut, though it was somewhat painful to do. 

You realized just then that the hickeys did, in fact, pass below your torso. 

 You shut your eyes and sighed heavily. 

You didn't even want to bother looking at the damage down there. 

 "As long as my foundation can cover the ones on my neck," you concluded to yourself before finally exiting the bedroom. 

 After showering and making your way downstairs to prepare a cup of coffee, you were pleased to see half a pot was already brewed and ready for you.

 You were very glad to see things between you and Roger hadn't changed a bit.

 After coffee, you decided to do some cleaning. It was your day off, though you really felt like you needed to be productive. 

 You started by doing laundry. This included yours and Roger's bedsheets, the throw blankets on your sofa and living room chair, and all of yours and Roger's dirty clothes. 

 While those were in the washer, you decided to hoover all the carpets and mats, and after that, dusting. 

 You switched the laundry over to the dryer, and started a new wash. You were basically done everything else, and it was only noon. 

 You wondered if there was something to do outside, so to pique your curiosity, out the door you went. 

 You noticed an unoccupied flowerbed by the front window, though gardening wasn't your thing. You continued on.

 Your yard's grass was constantly cut by your landlady's husband, you believed his name was Issac Welch; so you didn't have to worry about that. 

 You stood in your driveway completely defeated, and at a loss for something to do. 

 "Yoohoo, good afternoon, Y/n!" You heard a melodic call from a woman to your left. In your peripherals, you could see Bethany Lester, a young woman, maybe a little older than you, twiddle her fingers at you in excitement. 

 You didn't know whether to panic, or to roll your eyes. You were forced to meet seven more of your neighbours after having dinner with the Garrison's, and she just so happened to be one of them. 

She was kind, but a little too bubbly for your liking.

 Despite your annoyance, you thought it'd be more civil and appropriate to approach her and strike a conversation, rather than ignore her; even though you wanted so badly to just walk back inside and shut the door and not talk to anyone for the rest of the day. 

 You turned your head in Bethany's direction and smiled. "Hello, Beth!" You walked to her place, a few doors down, where she sat in a yellow sundress on the concrete with her little boy, Raymond. 

 He was playing with chalk and writing out letters and numbers, backwards and forwards, and in no exact order. 

“ Say hi to Y/n, sweetie," She requested from her son, who turned his head to you, smiled, and said, "Hello! I can draw a doggie! Wanna see?!" 

 "Sure!" You encouraged. Raymond excitedly got up from his spot and ran to the front door. He returned with a bucket containing many more pieces of chalk, most of which were different colours. 

 "How've you been, recently?" Bethany asked as she looked away from her son as he began drawing his masterpiece. 

"Still getting used to the new place?" 

 "Yeah, it's still a little weird. But kind people like you are helping me and Roger settle in quite nicely." 

Bethany smiled at your comment, and nodded her head. 

 "We like making newcomers feel welcome. We're all like one big happy family here, us neighbours," she laughed airily. 

 You smiled tightly, and laughed along with her. You found yourself slipping into a situation in which plans would probably be made before you ended the conversation, though you definitely did not want to make plans. 

 "Well, that's awfully nice of you." 

 Raymond shoved his hand into the chalk bucket, and violently moved his arm around until he pulled out, to your surprise, the exact colour he was looking for, before going back to drawing his dog. 

 Your brief interruption didn't stop Bethany from talking more, unfortunately. 

 "How are you and Roger, anyways? I always see you two out and about the complex. You two really do make a good couple." 

 You smiled warmly at Bethany's words, your face growing hot as you, once again, remembered last night. 

 "He was really great..." you paused for a second, and realized what you'd just said, eyes wide in horror. 

 "Is. He is really great. He's fine." You took a deep breath. "Sorry. I just... I get all nervous thinking about him."

 "Still in the 'Honeymoon Phase’?" Bethany guessed aloud. 

 "Been together five years. I think we're well past the ‘Honeymoon Phase’."

 Raymond stood to his feet again, and turned to look at you. You smiled at him as he approached you, and pulled on your sleeve. 

"I'm finished my doggie, Y/n!" 

 "Well, what are you waiting for?! Show me!" 

 You let Raymond pull you to the area of concrete he was working on, and he pointed to the round balloon-looking animal proudly. 

 You could tell it was a dog. He added some pretty identifiable features like a long tail, floppy ears, and a comedic tongue.

 You sat down cross legged in front of the drawing, and began complimenting it and going into full depth about how moving the drawing was to you, like how an art critic would speak about another's work.

 Raymond, although he probably had no idea what you were talking about, smiled and gushed and laughed about everything you were saying. 

 You found this utterly adorable, and told him that if you had a bajillion pounds, you would spend every single one of them on one of his drawings if he ever became an artist.

 Raymond thanked you endlessly for your kindness until he picked up another piece of chalk and gave it to you. 

"Can you draw, Y/n?" 

 "Well, I can certainly try, but I don't know if my skill will ever compare to yours!" 

You tried to draw a cat, as badly as you could, and afterwards tried to claim it as "the best doggie I can draw". Raymond just found this hilarious, and his little giggles were contagious. 

You found yourself in a laughing fit, as well. 

 "You're really good with kids, Y/n." 

 "I like to think I am," you answered with a smile as you drew a stick person with spiky hair. 

 "Have you and Roger thought about having kids?" You looked up from your drawing to Bethany. 

"Funny you say that. The Garrisons asked the same thing." She shrugged innocently. 

"You just... seem like good mother material. And he, good father material." You laughed out loud at that. 

You didn't see it for yourself. 

"Thanks, Beth, but I don't know if Roger even wants to have children. We're probably not even cut out for the job." 

 "... You've never spoken to him about it before?" 

 You shook your head. "No, not exactly." 

 Bethany frowned a little. "Cole and I had Raymond only two years after we started dating. I was fresh out of college. Your age, I bet." 

 You looked over at Raymond, who was sticking his tongue out in pure concentration as he tried to draw a perfect circle. You didn't know if you could imagine someone, especially a little kid, sharing your features. 

 "It's worth it, you know," You turned to look at your neighbour again. "Having kids, I mean. Believe me, it's tiring, and lots of hard work, but going to bed knowing you have someone else to love just..."

 Bethany sighed happily. 

"It'll make you feel really good about where you are in life." 

 The conversation you had over at the Garrisons' was more from a paternal point of view, so hearing this from an actual mother roughly your age was actually sort of... helpful. 

 "I... I think I may talk to him. Tonight, actually. About this whole... baby thing." 

"You should. I thought I wanted to wait until Cole and I were married, but things changed and now look at us: Engaged and with a three year old boy who means the world to us." 

 You smiled sadly at that. 

 It hurt because this was something you knew you may have wanted. 

 And it hurt even more because this was something you knew you were never going to have. 

 "Hey, Bird," you heard a familiar, startling voice behind you, and you turned to see, as you'd guessed, Roger, who held a hand out to pull you back to your feet. 

 "You're... You're back from practice early," you commented in a flustered tone, taking his hand anyways and letting him help you up. 

 "We figured we'd cut things short today, go home to our girlies." Your skin rose with goosebumps, and you blushed when Roger cupped your face and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. 

 "Hey, Beth, nice seeing you again," Roger said after pulling away from you, to which you puffed out a sigh of relief, though he slid an arm around your waist all too soon, and you felt your face burning again.

 "It's nice seeing you too, Roger."

 "Hi Roger!" Raymond waved enthusiastically to the drummer, and he returned the greeting by going over, getting down on his knees, and high-fiving the kid. 

 Raymond offered to show Roger the drawing of the dog he did, and you watched as Roger picked up a piece of chalk out of nowhere and started adding to the picture. 

 Your nervous stare melted away and transformed into one of admiration as you watched Roger bond with Raymond. 

 Bethany got to her feet, and approached you, her eyes on her son as he offered blue chalk to Roger, who took it gratefully and drew a flower. 

 ...

 At least you think it was a flower. 

 "Still having doubts about being parent material?" Bethany asked rhetorically, nodding towards the sight before you. 

 You knew all of this was a charade, but... 

 Watching Roger behave like this, with a child, had some sort of effect on you.

 And you knew you needed to talk to Roger about this problem sooner than later, because you really didn't want the whole neighbourhood waiting on you two for engagement news or pregnancy announcements that were clearly not coming. 

_____________________________

 You and Roger eventually returned home after saying good bye to Raymond and Bethany. The both of you stepped into the house, shut the door, and that's when the both of you noticed how quiet the atmosphere was. 

 Roger was looking at you in a shy manner, and your face warmed up as he mumbled a quiet "Hi, Y/n."

 "Hey, Rogie," you breathed back softly. He smiled a little, and toed his shoes off. You followed suit.

 "How uh... how were you this morning?" He asked, frowning a little afterwards. "... I'm sorry I didn't wake you up. I just... I didn't wanna bother you."

 "It's okay," you spoke as gently as he did. You didn't know why you were talking so quietly, but you both just silently agreed that it was necessary at that moment. 

 "I had a good sleep." 

 "Well... that's good. Um... I did too." 

 "Good." 

 "Yeah." 

 Silence took over again, and Roger, leaning against the front door, looked around the hallway to find something other than you to look at. He didn't like staring, but it's all he wanted to do when you were around. 

 You, leaning against the wall adjacent to Roger, was looking around the room with the same intentions. 

 After finding nothing else to really look at, Roger just decided to interact with you. 

 He pushed himself off his spot against the door, and slowly moved towards you. His arms slid around your body in a warm, comforting manner. His embrace was welcoming, and you found yourself giving in to his affection. 

 His lips kindly pecked your forehead like how he did outside, and you smiled a little at the gesture. He kissed your forehead again, and then your cheek. 

 Roger knew if he didn't pull away, he would just end up taking you to bed like he did the night before, but he didn't want you to feel like he was just using you for sex. 

As much as he wanted to keep up with the physical affection, he knew he had to separate from you at some point. 

 You looked up at him, and as he pulled away, it was as if you were gravitating towards him. You wanted his touch to linger for as long as possible, so your body moved with his hands as they fell to his side. 

 You cleared your throat awkwardly when you took notice of how close you'd actually gotten to Roger, and you expanded the space between the both of you by stepping back. 

"... Are you hungry?" 

 Roger only nodded to your question, and you wordlessly moved to the kitchen to find something to make for lunch. 

 Roger followed along, and watched as you started searching the cupboards for something to eat. 

 You picked up and put down many cans, pretending to read them before setting them back on their rightful shelves. Your mind was too preoccupied with the societal expectations this complex had, and that the stress was finally catching up to you. 

 Eventually, after picking up the same can of vegetable soup for the seventh time in a row, Roger made his way over, put the can back for you, and closed the cupboard. 

 He waited silently for you to start talking, and you felt defeated. 

"Roger, they're expecting us to have a baby."

 "I know." 

 "And they want us to get married." 

 "I know." 

 You frowned.

You thought back to how you and Roger behaved with Raymond.

Like you thought then, it was everything you may have actually wanted, but you couldn't have. 

And it hurt the more you repeated that in your head. 

 "... What if this wasn't such a good idea?" You asked Roger, eyes casted down at the clean marble countertops you wish you'd grown so accustomed to the previous couple of weeks living there. 

 "Hey, hey," Roger's hand squeezed your shoulder, and you looked up at him with sad eyes. 

 "You wanted this place, Y/n, and we sacrificed so much to get it for you!" 

 "... But it wasn't my idea to pretend we're a couple just for a house, Roger." 

 The glimmer of hope in Roger's eyes, like a candlewick, burnt out when you said that. 

 Was it really his fault you two were in this situation? 

 You sighed. "We agreed at the very beginning of this arrangement that things weren't going to change. We were going to avoid the neighbours at all costs, and live here for as long as we could as nothing but friends." 

 The more you spoke, the more deflated Roger felt. 

 So that's how you felt about him. 

 Nothing more than a friend. 

 "We can keep this arrangement going, as well as the uh..." you cleared your throat. "You know..." 

You gestured between the both of you and Roger nodded slowly. 

 He was rather relieved that was still on. You had a rockin' body, and you definitely knew how to use it. 

 ".. But I don't know how much longer we will survive here if we don't shut up." 

 "Yeah." Roger tried to interrupt the silence between voices to make things a little less awkward, and suspenseful. "Yeah, no, okay. Okay, I got it. No more talking." He frowned. 

 "You need to stop talking too, y'know," he said quietly, in the kindest tone he could. "You tend to panic and say random shit and that may not be good for us, either." 

 You nodded. "Been trying to work on that. It's hard to avoid these people!" 

 "This morning, Charles was standing outside and immediately started a conversation with me. It was almost like he was waiting for me." 

 You shivered unpleasantly. "That's pretty creepy," you mumbled in a funny voice, all of a sudden. It was one you used in high school all the time when Roger was turned down by a girl; and, believe it or not, happened a lot more often than one would think. 

 "Tell me about it," Roger responded through a giggle, his eyes began to shine like they had been when you'd first walked into the kitchen, ecstatic you decided to lighten the mood with your little side comments. 

You offered him a pleasant smile, and reached up for the cupboard's handle again to properly search for something to cook, but Roger closed it again with the palm of his hand. 

 "... I really hope you know that... everything I said last night... about you, and how pretty you are..." 

 You looked from one blue eye to the other in wait. You would have hated how many times Roger paused during a conversation, but... it made your heart soar. 

 "Everything was true."

 And that is when your heart skipped a beat. 

 "I know, Rogie," was all you said in response, reaching up and kissing his cheek before moving past him to look into the other cupboards for lunch-potential foods.

 Roger was grinning from the innocent peck you gave him, though you were unaware of it because his back was turned to you. 

 But you had a feeling that's just what he was doing. 

 Though you were happy Roger was feeling a little better, you still had this dark feeling hanging over you.

 If you wanted a domestic life with a husband and children, you would have to leave Roger, and this house. 

 But on the other hand, this was your home; Roger was your home. And to stay with him, you would have to give up your dreams of being a caring mother, and a loving wife. 

 You leaned your head sadly against the cupboard door. 

 You silently wondered if there even was a way you could have everything you wanted.

_____________________________

A/A/N: After editing a little, I don’t think this part is horrible, but it’s not the best. Hopefully the next chapter will be good enough for us to forget about this one.

PERMENANT TAG LIST

@culturefiendtrashqueen​

FIC TAGLIST

@luvborhap

@amy-brooklyn99

@scarsout

@kimmietea​

@ohtheseboysilove​

@demo-wise​

@suavishowell​

@bohemianahoy​

@pippin248​

@maisielou

@hardyshoe​

[jimlingss]

Jungle Park [9]

Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10

➜ Words: 4.2k

➜ Genres: Fluff, Light Humour (?), Slice of Life, Workplace Romance!AU

➜ Summary: The equation is simple. Hoseok needs to hire someone. You need a job. Except like any actual equation, it’s not fucking simple at all! Not when you have to add the fact that he was forced to hire someone he doesn’t want in his office, he has little respect for your job in general, and oh yeah...once upon a time you might have—*CENSORED*.

It’s a crime scene.   There are no traces of blood, no signs of a break in, of thrown furniture or a deadly weapon next to a corpse. It’s much simpler and devastating than that. The lights are still on, shoes neatly put at the front door. There’s a white envelope on the small kitchen counter. It’s been ripped open with evidence of haste and panic. There are copper and silver keys that have fallen onto the tile floor, bag dropped beside it. And in your hand is a single piece of paper, the biggest crime of all.   One would take a look at the rent in your hand and find it ‘fucking astronomical’.   It’s an abomination.   And when you come to your senses, you discover yourself furiously knocking on the door of the perpetrator at ten at night.   The old woman swings the door open and it crashes against her pristine white wall. She’s clad in pajamas and a black robe, tea mug in her hand as she glares at you. “Do you know what time it is?!”   “I’m sorry.” The apology comes out automatically and you damn yourself. No, you’re not sorry. But instead of retracting, you simply lift up the bill and get to the reason why you’re here bare feet, standing in front of her door. “Can you please explain this to me? I’m confused.”   “What’s there to be confused about?”   “It’s almost double from last time.” You’re trying to calm down, but you’re still in hysterics, caught in between and you feel yourself going insane. Part of what you’re saying is shouted in anger and other parts you’re whispering in meekness. Your landlady looks at you like you’re a bizarre, yet sad clown. “It spiked like a lot.”   “I sent a notice to everyone in the complex,” she tells you impassively.   “I didn’t get one,” you attempt to reason with her and let the landlady see your perspective. But it’s futile and you’re only becoming increasingly frustrated.   “Well—” She takes a sip of her tea. “—I did send you one.”   “You can’t just change the lease agreement halfway through.” You’re on the verge of tears and you’re not sure you can make it through without breaking down like a pathetic fool. “That-...that’s illegal!”   “If you don’t like it, then you can find some place else,” she says with composure, fully knowing that it’ll affect you more than her. “I’m more than happy to let you break the lease. I’ll find another tenant.”   She knows and you know — you’re unable to leave this place. Not when it was one of the few locations that was close to work and anywhere near the city at this price range. You can’t afford to pack up your bags and go somewhere else. So you’re left defeated and pleading, as if the last whimper of your voice can convince her otherwise, “you can’t just increase the rent halfway through the lease.”   “I understand that,” she enunciates and punctures every syllable with a sharp tongue, tired of having to constantly repeat herself. “But I don’t think you understand how expensive taxes, insurance, and energy costs are getting. At this rate, I’ll be in debt, Y/N.”   When you drag your feet back home, you sit down and work to figure things out.   It’s entirely possible to get a rebate for your rent. You would have to go to a legal clinic and speak to someone, which works out perfectly since you work for a law firm. You have friends that are lawyers, Sunyi or Taehyung or Yoongi, the list is endless. Maybe they’re not knowledgeable in this specific kind of issue, but nonetheless in the general area and they could always recommend you to someone good. There’s also a chance that you would go to the tenant board and plead your case. But the problem you have are with the possible outcomes:

You will have no choice but to move out, even after getting the rebate.

There are changes in the property ownership. The landlady will lose the apartment complex. But as much as you think this ordeal is unfair, you’re not spiteful enough to make her lose her livelihood.

Best case scenario: the rent is forced to return to normal and the landlady keeps her property and you get to stay. But then she would have it out for you and you’re not sure you can handle such tense living conditions.

It feels like you’re being shoved in a corner. Part of you wishes you didn’t care about the landlady’s well being and you would go through with one of the options and bring justice to your own life. But you can’t do it. Either way, guilt would gnaw at you like mites eating at your skin.   Someone once told you that you care too much for people when you shouldn’t. He’s right.   With a sigh, you think of only two things. It’s the only way you can afford to pay your bills and sustain your life — ask for a raise and take on more shifts.   “Where are we off to this evening?”   You shuffle back into the driver’s seat after guiding the passenger into the back seat and greeting them. The female passenger mumbles a destination and you pull away from the curb, knowing what streets and turns to take.   One after another.   You take young and old to the airport, to their homes, to clubs or late-night events, anyone and everywhere in between. Every night without break, you drive and cut down your sleeping time by doubling your caffeine intake. It’s unhealthy, but you’re still waiting for the right time to ask for a raise from both Jimin and Hoseok. Every time you linger outside their office, they end up exiting themselves and telling you to talk later since they have somewhere to be.   It seems like timing has always been your worst enemy.   “Where are we off to?”   The man in the backseat of the taxi glances behind him and then out the window before meeting your eyes in the rear-view mirror. His pupils flicker back and forth, shaking, and as strange as he is, you most definitely would’ve never guessed what his destination is— “the border.”   “Pardon?” You twist your body fully around, afraid that your ears are finally failing you.   But the man repeats himself. “The border, please.”   “That’s a four-hour ride,” you explain to him, unable to believe what he’s saying. Four hours to and from is eight hours in total. You’d be driving out of the city, far into the deserted countryside and you would have to go straight to work afterwards. It’s not like you can afford to call in for an unpaid sick-day. Though you have one bigger worry. “This...this isn’t illegal, right? Because I’ve had my fair share of driving people to illegal activities and I’m not doing that again.”   “No! No,” he spits out hastily and looks behind him again before whirling around. He’s sweating and you’re beginning to as well. The black backpack beside him is suspicious and you pray he doesn’t have any kind of weapon. “Just please bring me to the border. I promise it’s nothing bad and you won’t be harmed. I...I can give you an additional four hundred dollars.”   Four hundred tip?   The debate fires in your head and sadly, it doesn’t last long for you to make a decision.   “I hope you’re ready to pay up when the time comes.” You signal and pull away from the curb, destination already in the navigation system. From the rear-view mirror, the stranger gives you a big smile with swelling cheeks.   The trip is long and tedious. When it’s empty highways and one straight road, it’s easy to get lost in thoughts or to become sleepy. But you have strategies of keeping yourself awake, like downing the cup of coffee you always have in your thermostat mug or quietly humming a song or trying to keep from blinking for a long time. It helps that the stranger in the backseat of the car starts up a conversation too. He’s just been looking out the window, resting in the seat and you guess he might be too anxious to take a short nap.   “You’re not a fugitive, are you?”   “No.” He laughs and reassures you, “I’m not. The reason I’m going to the border...it’s a secret.”   You hum, knowing better than prying into people’s activities. When people are willing to tell you, then you’re happy to hear. When they’re not, the last thing you want is for them to pull you out the vehicle and point a gun at your head and tell you that it’s a shame you know too much now.   Maybe you just watch too many action movies.   Though for some reason, your intuition tells you the stranger in the backseat is more friendly and doesn’t mind you chatting and asking. “I just would like to know what the crimes of my passenger is if I happened to be arrested on those charges as well.”   He chuckles. “Then you’ll find out when you get arrested.”   “Ooh, keeping it a surprise.” You glance into the rear-view. “I like it.”   “You’re a funny one,” he muses. “Got any boyfriend or husband or wife?”   “If you’re asking for yourself then I gotta say sorry.” You smile. “I’ve taken a celibacy oath for the rest of my life.”   “What a shame.” He laughs again. “Do you always drive? I should make you my permanent taxi driver.”   “If you’re always going to pay me a four hundred tip, you got it. But unfortunately, this is only my night job, so only if you have any rendezvous after five.”   He leans his head on the cool glass, watching the headlights from the opposite highway road and the lights of the truck up ahead. “What’s your day job?”   “It’s a secret.” You don’t want to say in case you get found and killed. Safety was regarded above all. “You’ll find out when I get arrested and we share the same cell.”   “Okay, fair enough.” He grins. “That’s tough though. A day and night job? How do you find the time to sleep?”   “You don’t.” Another symphony of internal sighs ring inside your head and you decide that you might as well ramble your infinite problems to a stranger since it’s not like you had anyone else to talk to. “I wouldn’t have to do this if my landlady didn’t suddenly spike up my rent like crazy.”   “Does your day job not pay enough?” He asks not to invade your privacy, but out of genuine curiosity.   “...It pays well,” you reply. “Just not enough.”   He makes a sound of understanding and the conversations dim down for the next ten minutes. There’s more small talk made, but nothing significant. You learn he’s not a dangerous criminal (for now) so it puts you at ease. And when the border comes into sight, he asks to be let off before you can drive up to the booth. He expresses his gratitude for driving him this far out and follows through with his tip, giving you the right amount of a carefully counted stack of bills from his backpack. You don’t ask him any questions, only bidding him good luck on whatever journey he’s on and he smiles, hoping that you have a safe drive back.   You hope for the same thing.   //   The drive back is exhausting and endless. By the time you’ve arrived back home, your butt is aching, your eyes are burning, and your back is sore. You can’t believe you’ve been driving for a straight eight hours, but your full pocket of cash thanks you for your effort, even if you have to lug your legs inside. The sad part is that you can’t even roll on your comfortable mattress and get some shut-eye. Time is ticking and you rip yourself away from the bedroom into the bathroom to get ready for your day job.   And you try your hardest, even when you’ve been awake for more than twenty-four hours.   You slap water onto your face before dousing your poor skin in thick makeup to hide the purple eye bags. Then you force breakfast down your throat while changing clothes before you’re out the door again.   You try your hardest — not to fall asleep while you’re on the platform, waiting for the subway.   You try your hardest — to keep from stumbling when you’re standing in the crowded cart like you’re in a can of sardines, forced to hold onto one of the hanging straps.   You try your hardest — running through puddles in heels, sweat clinging onto your dirty body, late again.   “Is she not with you?”   Hoseok stops by Jimin’s office, glancing at his watch quickly before looking up towards the main foyer. His frustration and impatience increase, causing a frown to permanently attach on his face, giving the male wrinkles in places that shouldn’t belong there before he’s turned forty.   “Y/N?” Jimin sips on his coffee, surprised at the sudden question. “No. Do you need her?”   “I don’t,” he huffs out. “But haven’t you noticed that she’s been arriving late to work every day this week?”   Jimin hums a light note before he looks off and muses, “No, actually. I didn’t notice.”   “We don’t pay our employees to arrive late and slack off.”   “Y/N doesn’t slack off.”   “But her tardiness shows a bad work ethic.”   Speaking of the devil, Hoseok detects a figure jogging from the corner of his eye. He turns and you’re there, chest rising and falling, hyperventilating, a strand of hair fallen in the front of your face. At the same time as Hoseok outright gawks at you, you’re cringing, having hoped you could’ve slipped past. But now that he’s in front of you, there’s no choice but to dip your head slightly and divert your eyes. “Good...good morning.”   You’re about to be on your way, but his smooth voice stops you. “Can we speak in my office?”   “O-of course.”   The atmosphere is tense. All signs of the happy-go-lucky man that you’re the most familiar with is absent and a stern leader is in his place instead, controlling the air around you and making you shift on your feet.   He sits in his chair and glares. Sometimes it gives you whiplash how different Hoseok can be, how many sides he has, from being a ball of sunshine that wouldn’t hurt a fly to having a serious and rigid demeanour. He wears an impassive expression while looking at you, and remains stern. You guess that this is what it means to be professional and deep down, you know he has a hard time conducting himself like this, but he does such a good job. He’s a natural.   It’s intimidating.   “Sit down,” he says and you follow his orders. You’re tense, hands in your lap, and he clears his throat, making you finally meet his eyes again. “You’ve been late every morning.”   “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”   There’s a beat of silence, like he’s giving you a chance to explain yourself. But when you don’t, he’s forced to continue, “is there a reason...?” His voice trails off, becoming softer and he searches your expression for some sort of answer.   “No,” you lie. “There isn’t. I’m sorry.”   His frown returns and it’s deeper than before. “This is not your usual behaviour. There has to be a reason, Y/N. Tell me.” It’s not a demand, sort of gentle and deprived out of concern.   You wonder what he would say if he knew you were having financial problems, if he would help you sort it out, or maybe give you that raise that you’ve been meaning to ask for a long time now. If you told him that you held two jobs on top of each other, there’s a chance he would be sympathetic. He could help you out, pardon your mistakes and your late mornings. But—   But...there’s no reason for him to know.   He’s your boss. Is there really any sense in telling him what’s going on in your personal life? Hoseok is your boss. Nothing more. Nothing less. Maybe you’ve been forgetting this. Maybe you’ve been too reckless lately. But you need to keep it this way. If not for his sake, then yours.   “There’s no reason,” you repeat yourself, keeping the barrier up, not allowing him in. “I’m sorry.”   There’s a long held silence.   “You won’t tell me?” he asks you, aware of the lies that you feed him and the disappointment is all too evident in his voice and written across his features. You look away with a thick lump forming in your throat.   “There’s isn’t anything to tell. I’m sorry.”   If you want a raise, you’ll receive it by your own merit, not through pity.   Jung Hoseok leans back in his seat, accepting that you won’t give him a truthful answer. He gave you a chance and won’t force it out of you. “I expect everyone to be here at nine.” He shuffles a few papers, having written down details as evidence. “But you’ve been here half an hour to an hour later consistently for the past week. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and today. It’s unacceptable.”   “I’m sorry.”   “Just because you’re the only one who works in the HR department does not mean you get to come in late and do whatever you want. You get paid here like everyone else and they work just as hard. They come in and give their best effort and I expect you to do the same. I did not hire you to take it easy or to slack off. This is a job. You are to be here at nine in the morning and leave at five. You are not to be here at nine thirty or ten or ten thirty.”   “I understand.” Your head remains downcasted. “I’m sorry.”   He is loud and firm, making the warning clear. “If there is not an improvement made immediately, I will dock your pay. And if you can’t handle arriving on time, then maybe this job isn’t suitable for you.”   “I’m sorry.”   To say you were humiliated was barely scratching the surface. Not only were your bones and muscles fatigued, but you were barely holding yourself together emotionally. All you could do was feel the burning of your eyes and hold your head down as he continued to reprimand you.   “Don’t apologize. Make the improvement.”   You nod, fully aware that you won’t even be able to mention the idea of a raise.   Hoseok watches as you leave. There’s something uncomfortable that settles down inside of him and he turns to the window when you’ve disappeared. For a few minutes, he rests until his partner comes through the doorway. “Well, that was unusually harsh. “   Hoseok shifts his and exhales. “You heard?”   “Everything. And everyone did.”   “God…” He leans his head back and shuts his eyes tight, the oncoming of a headache beginning to pulsate at his temples.   “Why was it so excessive?” Jimin spills the honest question, brows raised and arms crossed as he leans on his partner’s doorway. “You know we both don’t care if someone’s late as long as they perform well and complete their duties. Why the hell were you being so unreasonable?”   “I don’t know.” And Hoseok genuinely means it. “I got frustrated.”   “Did she say why she was late?”   “She didn’t tell me.”   “I’m not surprised.” Jimin scoffs and gives him an incredulous look, still unable to believe that he gave a scolding to one of the best workers of the firm. “You’re kind of a massive asshole, dude.”   //   During your lunch break, you begin to search up for bank loans, seeing if you’re eligible for any and how big of a hole you’re digging for yourself in if you got a loan with high interest rates. You also slap and pinch yourself several times to stay awake, drinking more and more coffee to stay alert. The last thing you want is to accidentally fall asleep at your desk and have Hoseok walk by and catch you in the act. Little did you know that same man was already standing outside your door, pacing back and forth without letting you see him lingering outside.   “What the hell is he doing?” Seulgi whispers to Namjoon, hunched over by their table and flickering their pupils over.   He mutters back, “You tell me.”   “Is he going to fire Y/N?!” Seokjin is naturally louder and the two have to shush him, cowering together, especially afraid of their boss today because of his flaring temper. Everyone in the office was on edge.   “He better not,” Seulgi spits out harshly, baffled by the mere idea of it.   “No, he wouldn’t do that…..Unless….” Namjoon’s brows knit together.   “What?” The female legal assistant pokes him. “Unless what, Namjoon? Goddammit, don’t leave me hanging! Namjoon! Speak, you idiot!”   “Do you think he feels…..guilty?” The male in the glasses asks and quirks his head to the side, a sharp inhale stolen from the seams of his lips. He spins to look at his colleagues. “I mean he reprimanded her pretty hard. Maybe he feels bad.”   “Hoseok? Feeling bad?” Jin scoffs. “Yeah right.”   At the exact same time as the paralegals having their conversation, there’s a knock at your door. Your head whips up, eyes widening at who it is. The person at your doorway clears his throat and leans back with arms behind him. His black hair seems ruffled like he’s ran his hand through it several times. You haven’t seen Hoseok so disoriented in a long time. “Hey, I’m going downstairs for a coffee. Do you want one?”   “No, thank you. I’m fine.”   Seokjin shakes his head, oblivious to what’s transpiring. “Do you really think Hoseok’s the type to feel guilty over something like that?”   “Do you need me?” Hoseok’s appeared again at your doorway less than five minutes later and you’re bewildered, blinking twice before your mouth draws open to respond.   “What? Oh, no. I’m fine.”   “Okay.” The lawyer nods. “I’m busy anyways.”   “Okay.”   Less than ten minutes later, Hoseok’s swung by your little office once again. “About earlier….”   You frown. “Earlier?”   “Turns out the office machine downstairs is under repair,” he explains himself.   “Oh.” You don’t know what to say to him. “I see.”   “So I couldn’t get coffee for you...or me...anyways.” Hoseok clears his throat, aware of the stiff tension in the room and how bizarre he’s acting. “If you ever need me, just call Lisa or Dahyun.”   “Alright.”   Twenty minutes later, he’s once again stopped by your door. But this time, he has a coat slung over his arm, probably leaving to court or going out to meet a client. Your suspicions are confirmed when he says to you, “I’ll be out for the rest of the day. Taehyung’s coming with me.”   “Okay…?” But you’re still confused as to why he’s telling you these things. He leaves all the time without saying a single word to anyone in the office.   As if he can read your thoughts, the lawyer scrambles and elaborates, “I just thought you’d want to know. In case you were looking for me.”   “Yeah...umm....” There’s no way he would come to work intoxicated, so that possibility is ruled out. But you still don’t know what it is that’s making him act so strange. The lawyer keeps stopping by like he’s not drowning in work. And while this is the last time, that doesn’t give you much comfort as to why he’s speaking so gently and he looks so sad. “Thanks.”   He clears his throat awkwardly. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to say, by the way.”   “What is it?” You blink. “Do you need to come in?”   “No, it’ll be quick.” Hoseok hesitates and then a slight smile appears on his face, the corner of his mouth tugging. “Thanks. For that time on the mountain. You helped me from slipping.”   “Oh, yeah.” You’re reminded of the little event and you return his smile. “That was a given.”   His grin becomes sheepish. Jung Hoseok slips his hands out of his pockets and nods. “You’re right. I was scared. I’m scared of a lot of things,” he admits quietly. “So thanks for helping me.”   “It’s nothing.” The smile you have is more for yourself than to display to the world. And you finally know what it is. You know why he’s being so bizarre and being such an oddball.   Hoseok is the type to feel guilty after he’s gotten angry. He’s the type to want to shower people in kisses and apologies, squeeze them in a hug and beg for forgiveness in a squeaky voice. But he is sadly unable to do so with his position in this firm. He is unable to do what he wants most when he’s painted a serious and stern picture of himself in this office.   Jung Hoseok is the type who wants nothing more than to spread happiness.   He ends up leaving your office and walking down the hall with his hand out in front of him, palm facing towards the ceiling. After a moment of wistful gazing, he crumples his fingers until it forms into a fist. He can still remember when your fingers were slotted by his, when your palms clasped his, when he held you. Yes — Hoseok is scared and afraid of a lot of things.   One of those things just happened to be you.

[johnwatsonblog-co-uk]

A Study in Pink

7th February

I've blacked out a few names and places because of legal matters but, other than that, this is what happened on the night I moved in with Sherlock Holmes.

When I first met Sherlock, he told me my life story. He could tell so much about me from my limp, my tan and my mobile phone. And that's the thing with him.

It's no use trying to hide what you are because Sherlock sees right through everyone and everything in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.

This morning, for example, he asked me who the Prime Minister was. Last week he seemed to genuinely not know the Earth goes round the Sun. Seriously. He didn't know. He didn't think the Sun went round the Earth or anything. He just didn't care. I still can't quite believe it. In so many ways, he's the cleverest person I've ever met but there are these blank spots that are almost terrifying. At least I've got used to him now. Well, I say that, I suspect I'll never really get used to him. It's just, on that first night, I literally had no idea of what was to come. I mean, how could I?

I was looking at the flat, surprised at the state it was already in, when DI █████████ from Scotland Yard burst in. Sherlock, of course, already knew why he was there. There'd been another death - this time, in ████████. Sherlock asked me to join him and I went along, intrigued. In the taxi, he explained how he'd deduced everything about me the previous day - how he'd picked up on every word I said, every action, tiny little things about my phone. It was extraordinary. I'd try to explain it here but I don't think I'd be able to do him justice. Go to his site, The Science of Deduction and see for yourself how his mind works.

I was still surprised that, even being the genius he clearly is, the police would come to him for help. He said he was a 'consulting detective'. Naturally, being the arrogant so-and-so he is, he'd had to give himself his own unique job title.

We arrived in ██████████ where, to my surprise, he introduced me as his colleague. The police seemed surprised by this as well I get the impression he'd not had 'colleagues' before. It was a body of a woman, dressed in pink. And she'd been poisoned. Again, Sherlock just looked at her and he knew everything about her. The way she was dressed. Splatters of mud on her leg. What was there and, more importantly, what was missing. Her suitcase. And it was that which excited him. The missing pink suitcase.

He left the body and ran outside to searched for it, naturally leaving me behind. I spoke to a policewoman and she summed Sherlock up. She said 'he gets off on it.' And he does. He didn't care about the dead woman or any of the other victims. I suspect if he came back and found me and our landlady lying here with our throats cut, he'd just see it as an intellectual exercise. 'Fantastic' he'd exclaim, rubbing his hands together. 'But the door was locked so how did they kill each other?' The policewoman, she called him a psychopath. That seems harsh and it was hardly a professional diagnosis but I look back at what I wrote about him when I first met him. I called him the madman.

So I went back to Baker Street and Sherlock asked me to send a text message. He'd found her suitcase and discovered that the victim's phone was missing. He knew the killer would have it, so there I was, texting a serial killer.

He'd found the woman's missing suitcase because he'd known it would be pink, like the woman's clothes. It hadn't even crossed my mind and when I said this, he told me I was an idiot. He didn't mean to be offensive, he just said what he thought. I've been called worse things but his bluntness was still a bit of a surprise. He just didn't care about being polite or anything like that. I was starting to understand why he didn't seem to have many 'colleagues'.

After that, we went on a stakeout. We waited in a restaurant to see if the killer would visit the address I'd texted him. Across the road, we saw a taxi pull up. We ran out, but it drove off. Sherlock insisted on chasing it and luckily he seemed to have an intimate knowledge of London's backstreets. Of course, as I realised afterwards, he's probably memorised the London A-Z. We ran down street after street and we managed to catch up with the taxi - only to discover that the passenger wasn't our killer. He'd only just arrived in the UK. It was the most ridiculous night of my life - I mean, an actual chase through London. People don't do that, not really. But we did.

And, of course, by doing this, Sherlock proved my limp was psychosomatic. Did I mention he's clever?

We returned to the flat to discover that ██████████ and the police were there, examining the suitcase. It was actually pretty funny seeing how offended Sherlock was by this. I genuinely think he believes himself to be above the law. And he couldn't stand the fact that █████████ had got one over him. ██████████ described Sherlock as a child and, in many ways, that's what he is. I said that he doesn't care about what others think and that he's arrogant because of this but it's not really that. It's not that he doesn't care, it's that he genuinely doesn't understand that it's normal to care. It's normal to worry about what other people think. Like a child, he just doesn't understand the rules of society - which, of course, is probably why he's so good at working the rest of us out.

Sherlock thinks everyone else is stupid so he's like a kid at Christmas when it turns out that one of us have done something clever. I'm not talking about me but our murder victim. She hadn't lost her phone. She hadn't left it behind. She knew she was going to die so she'd left her phone in the taxi - And, like all modern phones, it had a GPS system so you could locate it. That brilliant woman had led us to her killer.

And he was outside. He was outside our flat - in his taxi! We'd chased him halfway across London, thinking he'd been driving the killer - but he was the killer himself. That was how he'd manage to get to his victims - just by picking them up in his cab. Of course, Sherlock being completely and utterly mad, got into the taxi so he could talk to him. Again, he wasn't interested in the 'rules'. He wasn't interested in how the driver had done all this. I don't think he was particularly interested in stopping him and it didn't even cross his mind to let the police know that the man they were looking for was outside. All Sherlock Holmes was interested in was discovering why the killer had done it. He wanted to be alone with the killer so he could question him. That was more important than anything else - despite the obvious threat to his own life.

The taxi driver drove him to a college of further education so they could both educate each other on - well, on how their minds worked, I guess. It's not something I'll ever really understand and, to be honest, I'm not sure I ever want to understand it. To be that much of a psychopath. To be that above the rest of us. To be that dangerous. It's pretty terrifying.

Afterwards, Sherlock told me what happened. The taxi driver had a brain aneurism. He was dying. He'd pick up his victims and take them somewhere. Then he'd give them a choice. Take one of two pills - one of which was harmless and one of which would kill them. Their only other choice was that he would shoot them. It makes me furious to think about those poor people who got into his taxi - one of them was just a kid! They must have gone through hell. But Sherlock, mad old Sherlock, he understood him. As far the taxi driver was concerned, he was outliving people. He was giving himself the power of life and death. And I do, I genuinely think Sherlock understood this.

Myself and the police had managed to work out where they'd gone so we'd driven after them. But it was too late. By the time we got there, I could see that Sherlock was going to take one of the pills. It wasn't because he had to but because it was a game of wits. He wasn't going to let this other arrogant, pompous psychopath win. Which is when someone shot the taxi driver. Someone like that's bound to have enemies so it shouldn't have been a surprise but I hadn't seen anyone shot since Afghanistan. It's something you never really get used to. That someone could have the power of life and death over someone else - but I'm glad whoever it was did it, because they undoubtedly saved Sherlock's life. And, frankly, after everything that man had done to those innocent people who got into his car, a quick death like that was better than he deserved.

And after all that? Well, me and my flatmate went for a Chinese. Like I say, he really does know some great restaurants.

There was one other thing though. Before the taxi driver died, he said a name. A name of someone or something that had helped him. Moriarty. I've never heard of it and neither has Sherlock. Of course, he loves it. He thinks he's found himself an arch-enemy. He's a strange child.

And since that night? It hasn't stopped. Oh, there's so much more I've got to tell you.

20 Comments

*Comment deleted*

Harry Watson 07 February 14:32

Yeah, kids might be reading this Harry.

John Watson 07 February 14:46

Okay, but really? Is this really what flipping happened? Cos that's flipping mental!

Harry Watson 07 February 14:49

It's all true.

John Watson 07 February 15:00

This is exciting. I am writing this on Mrs Turner's computer. One of her lodgers is trying to get me to join Facebook but I have told him I don't want to poke people. I am writing this to you from next door.

Marie Turner 07 February 15:08

Ha! Thanks. Mrs H. Don't suppose you could bring some biscuits back with you?

John Watson 07 February 15:09

I'm your landlady not your housekeeper.

Marie Turner 07 February 15:11

That's amazing!! You deserve a medal! Another one!!

Bill Murray 07 February 15:14

of course if i was sherlock's colleague we would have solved the case much earlier. how could you not realise the suitcase would be pink?

theimprobableone 07 February 15:26

Who the hell are you!??! And what kind of name is that!?!

Harry Watson 07 February 15:30

i'm an expert on sherlock holmes. i understand him which is something someone like you would never do.

theimprobableone 07 February 15:32

At least I understand how to use CAPITAL LETTERS!!!!

Harry Watson 07 February 15:43

capital letters are just one of society's conventions that I choose to ignore. you've just been programmed to be one of society. you're a sheep.

theimprobableone 07 February 15:46

*Comment deleted*

Harry Watson 07 February 15:48

Language. Harry!

John Watson 07 February 15:50

Bravo, John! Knew you had it in you!

Mike Stamford 07 February 15:54

Sherlock's amazing, isn't he. He's just so brilliant!!!

Molly Hooper 07 February 16:06

Oh he's a genius. I do hope we'll meet one day

Anonymous 07 February 16:09

Freak.

Sally Donovan 07 February 16:36

John, I've only just found this post. I've glanced over it and honestly, words fail me. What I do is an exact science and should be treated as such. You've made the whole experience seem like some kind of romantic adventure. You should have focussed on my analytical reasoning and nothing more.

Sherlock Holmes 28 March 17:46

It's your turn to buy the milk, Sherlock.

John Watson 28 March 18:12

[kur0kvmi]

The Menacing Mind of Felix Lombardi- Act 1 (Revised)

“The world isn’t a fun place. Don’t let the crappy movies and comic books about superheroes saving the day fool you. The world we live in isn’t anywhere near as cool or happy as the ones we read about inside the pages of Fantastic Four, or the one we see in the confines of our favorite TV Shows. The world sucks, and we’ve single handedly manufactured so many ways to distract ourselves from that fact that the ones who put more effort into these distractions are the highest praised and most celebrated people on the planet. Artists? What does that even mean anymore? It’s just some pithy catch all  for ‘person who doesn’t want a real job, and wants to play around with writing useless fluff all day’ and-”

    “Will you shut the fuck up already?” Hi I’m the actual main character of this little short story, pardon my language but you have to admit. That jackass wasted a whole paragraph with that bullshit. Oh, where’s my manners, there’s more story to get to:

    “WILL YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP”The hero bellow- just kidding. I said.

Like I said in the last paragraph, this guy is nothing but some sad dropout who’s angry at everything trying to explain to me in his infinite wisdom why art doesn’t mean anything. I apologize again, you’re probably extremely confused. “Why did this story start with a paragraph long intro that turned out to be a pointless diatribe?” “Who’s this guy who keeps stopping the story and speaking directly to me, doesn’t he know he’s a character in a story?” Answers to those questions are A: our wonderful author is stalling for time, and B: I’m not entirely of sound mind, that’s what my therapist, most of my childhood friends and my big brother have told me at least. However before we continue I’m going to use the next paragraph to tell you a bit about who I am.

    My name is Felix Lombardi. My parents were Italian immigrants who ran a bread shop. Two years ago they were murdered in cold blood by the mob. After that my brother Lou mysteriously came into half a million dollars, which he turned into a small fortune with pretty sound investments and now he’s helping pay my way through college. Happy ending, happy story, my life is great, except it would be if this motherfucking social reject wasn’t wasting my time at this gas station telling me how unfair the world is. Speaking of that I still need to respond to him.

    “The world isn’t fair, but that doesn’t make it a bad place. You’re just mad because life hasn’t given you everything you wanted. Try working for a change” I said in a subdued cool manner, much like a teacher in a school full of slow children would if one kid in the class began eating paint.

    “That’s easy for you to say, you’re probably some spoiled brat coasting through life on daddy’s paycheck.” Said the moron, completely oblivious to the fact that I was tacitly ignoring him and going about my business.

    I told him to back off, and I went over to the cashier and paid for the cigarettes and M&Ms I was buying. Took an exit, sat in my car and- You know what? This is getting boring and procedural. So I’m in my car, and I call my brother. He’s a nice guy, used to be a cop for a while, then he got really rich and he’s actually flipped his allegiances and turned into a bit of a crime boss. He’s a smart guy though, so he makes sure not to actively butt heads with any of the other families around, but this isn’t a Mafioso story, no no no, I apologize, this isn’t that exciting of a tale. This is a story about me, my thoughts, and how I relay them to you.

“Sup little bro”

“Hey Lou, did you get my text?”

“I was busy, couldn’t respond, still kinda busy. Something about needing money for that comic convention?” Lou said. He sounded like he was doing something physically taxing.

“You at the Gym?”

“Nope, I’m at work”

“Why do you sound out of breath”

“Information gathering is very tiresome”

Oh he’s beating up a dude for an interrogation.

“Oh you’re beating up a dude for an interrogation”

“What have I told you about talking about the job over the phone”

“Mi Scuso fratello Louis” (I’m sorry brother Louis)

“That’s Don Lombardi to you buster”

“Fat chance wise guy, so when can you send the money for the tickets?”

“I’ll see what I can do. Now if you’ll excuse me I have work to do”

[2 days later]

    My apartment is in the upper east side of Manhattan New York. It’s one of those places that looks like it was ripped straight out of a trendy sitcom that features a bunch of close knit friends getting into wacky hijinks. Fortunately for me though, I hate people, and Louie gives me enough of an Allowance to be able to survive alone and pay rent while being able to go to school. I go to a private Art School, I study Animation and I minor in sequential art, my hobbies include playing video games, posting my thoughts on the internet, watching anime, and reading Japanese firearm magazines. My favorite movie is Kill Bill Vol 1 (whoever tells you Vol 2 is better doesn’t understand film making and should kill themselves), and the kind of girl I’m looking for is one who’ll bully me and make me feel really crappy about myse- wait, sorry got lost in the sauce for a moment, I thought I was filling out a dating profile.

    Living by myself affords me the unparalleled privilege of being able to walk around my apartment in minimal clothing, and since I don’t like people, it’s very uncommon for me to have anybody over. The only people who come over are my 63 year old Landlady Ms Fujinami, and her granddaughter Ami who’s about my age. I know what you’re thinking ‘Oh, here comes the part where Felix talks about how much he likes Ami, since she’s the first female character of appropriate age to be mentioned, of course she’s the love interest’. Sorry to disappoint you fair reader, but it’s not that kind of story. You see, we’re not leaving my head. This is between you and me, I don’t need any bullshit like an “emotional arc” or “narrative depth” in my fucking story, I’m doing good being the person I’ve been all my life.

    So I’m lazing about my apartment like the sterling example of a productive citizen that I am when I get a phone call from Don Lombardi.

    “Felix you there?”

    “I wouldn’t have picked up if I wasn’t. What is it?”

    “Funny. I wonder how many jokes you’ll be making when you’re forced to shack up with a bunch of hideous college students in a prison dorm”

    “Wake up, eat, listen to Lou threaten me with student housing, go to class, come home, repeat”

    “I’m a man of habit what can I say”

    “To what do I owe this call, did you send the ticket money?”

    “I need you to make some friends Felix”

    “I need you to stop caring.”

    “You’re always couped up in the apartment, the only time you see sunlight is when you go out to buy Cigarettes, or when you have class, you don’t even talk to Ami anymore, weren’t you two friends?” I hate it when he gets like this. I don’t know why he cares about my social life. He doesn’t listen to me tell him how to do… whatever it is he does.

    “if you’re worried about my skin don’t bother, that sicilian melanin is doing me just fine” I said, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, puckering. Who said nerds can’t be sexy.

    “Calm down Ricky Martin, this is about more than sunlight. It’s about your life. Mama would cry if she saw what you are on some days” Lou said, in his bro voice.

    “Papa would cry if you knew what you did for a living” I retorted

“Would he cry or would he just break off into sicilian” Lou responded, letting out a chortle.

“PUTO RAGGAZINO” we both shouted, memories of pa and ma rushing, and bringing a silence for a good moment.

“How would I even go about making friends?” I asked, half jokingly.

    “Glad you asked. That’s why I bought you 3 day tickets to that comic book convention.” Lou boasted triumphantly.

    “How do you know I won’t just go there without talking to anybody?” I shot back with a sneer.

    “You know, when you’re in my line of business, you learn to have contingency plans. This is the part of the movie where the villain tells the hero ‘I’m glad you asked’”.

    Just at that moment, I heard three knocks at my door.

    “That should be my contingency plans”

    I  peek through my door lens just to see who’s there.

    Ami, motherfucking Fujinami.

    “The convention is this weekend right?” Lou continued. “Have fun lil bro”

    I hate my brother. I hate this. I hate you.

**End of Act 1**

[niall-is-my-dream]

The Bucket List - Chapter Eleven

You woke the next morning, your bodies still wrapped around each other, your hands on his chest. You felt complete with him, but you knew the next ten days would be long while he was away. You could do it though, you were determined not to wallow about in self pity whilst he was gone. If the last 15 months had taught you anything then it was to be strong, focussed and to live for the day. You didn't want to scare him off by being clingy or by telling him that you knew you loved him.

You gazed up at him, listening to him breath, looking at every freckle he had, trying to memorize it for when you were apart. You don't know how long you laid like that but when he woke he smiled when he realised you'd been watching him sleep. 

"Like what you see?" He said kissing you. 

"Mmmm I do, you look cute when you sleep." You replied.

You looked over at the clock 9:35am. 

"Fancy some breakfast babe?" You asked. 

"Mmmmm breakfast sounds good." He said as he pulled at the covers and brought his body to hover over yours. He leaned down and kissed you softly, moving his tongue to part your lips wanting the kiss to be deeper.

"That wasn't what I meant Niall!" You replied chuckling as his lips trailed down your neck leaving kisses along your jaw. 

"We have to leave in like an hour, and we haven't eaten or got dressed. You don't even have your golf stuff sorted!"

He let out a sigh knowing you were right. You couldn't believe you'd turned down sex with Niall, but you didn't fancy explaining to your Pops about why you were late picking him and your Mam up!

"When we get back later after lunch you can do whatever you like with me." You whispered in his ear.

"Oh god that will be all I'll be thinking about now for the rest of the day!" He said laughing.

You laughed to as you kissed him again deep and hard desperately trying to show him how much you wanted him. You pulled away from the kiss gasping, your hands laying on his chest as he still hovered over you staring into your eyes.

"Come on big boy lets go make toast." You said, easing yourself from under him and getting out of bed. You walked over to your drawer getting out some knickers and a top. Niall got out of bed to put on some boxers, you snuck a cheeky look at his peachy bum and smiled.

You made the coffee and toast and sat down at the dining table together. Niall was strangely quiet. 

"You ok babe?" You asked.

"Yeah, just going to miss this." He said looking at you.

"It's only ten days and you'll be so busy and having a great time to worry about me!" You said trying to soothe him.

Just then Niall's phone bleeped. He looked at the message and sighed.

"A Newspaper has contacted management about us, obviously got a good picture of us both last night." He said. "They are not going to comment, leave it up to me in interviews to confirm it if I'm asked. That ok with you or shall I say we are friends?"

"Baby, I'm not offended if you want to say we are just friends and that you were holding my hand to protect me from the photographers in case I fell or something. You don't have to say anything in interviews about us. I won't be upset." You said leaning over and taking his hand in yours.

"If I get asked I don't want to lie about you, I don't want you to be a secret unless you'd prefer I didn't say anything?" He asked.

"This is your career Niall and if you'd prefer I was kept out of it I really don't mind but if you want to tell people we are seeing each other then that's ok with me to. I don't want you to feel any pressure. I don't want to ruin this. I'm having way too much fun!" You said smiling.

"Annie, I've never felt like this before about anyone, I'm actually questioning myself as to whether I've ever been in love before. This has been such a crazy couple of weeks."

Fuck did he say love?! Don't say anything about love to him, you'll freak him out you said to yourself.

"I feel the same. Look, if you get asked in an interview then tell them what you think is best, you'll know at the time what that is."

He smiled at you. "You're perfect you know that?"

"I try." You say smiling back and laughing. "Come on lets gets showered and dressed." You gathered up the plates and loaded them into the dishwasher. 

"Shower together?"

"Yeah, but no funny business! No time!"

"Ok, but later you are so getting it!" He said smirking.

You pulled up at your Mam and Pops house just before 11, you both jumped out of the car and walked towards the back gate. You opened it and walked down the passage way to the kitchen door. 

"Mam! Pops!" You called out as you entered their house.

"Hey baby girl!" Your Mam said in her strong Irish accent as she walked in the kitchen, walking over to you and kissing your cheek. "Niall's joining us if that's ok?" You asked.

"Of course sweetheart! Nice to see you again." She said giving him a kiss to.

"Pops is just finishing a phone call, he won't be a minute. How are you both then?" She asked smiling.

"Good thanks, you had a good couple of days Mam?" You asked back.

"Not too bad, went shopping with Sarah from next door yesterday and had lunch out, it was ok but she's always gloating about her kids so I obviously boasted about you and Michael! Silly woman she can't compete with my kids!" She said laughing. "You know her son cheated on that nice wife of his! Dirty boy! And with his secretary, oh the irony!" 

"Jesus feckin Christ Mam, how did you find that out? Did she blurt it out over lunch?!"

"No Mandy and Len were in the pub over the weekend and told me so when she started gloating about how great her son is and how successful he was I told her about how fabulous Michael and Claire were and how amazing the wedding was. And how my girl had got herself a lovely my boy to. Didn't mention your name my darling boy as I didn't think you'd appreciate that." She said gesturing to Niall. "I like hearing the gossip, but I don't let on I know or spread it, don't you worry. Part of being a pub landlady." She said. "You have to be discreet!"

"Mam, you just told us the gossip that's hardly discreet!" You said as both you and Niall laughed.

"Well you're my family, you're not going to spread it around are you?!"

"Oh dear God woman you're not gossiping again are you?" Your Pops said as he strolled into the kitchen. 

"Baby girl." He said as he gave you a hug. "Niall son how are you?" He asked holding out his hand. 

"Good thanks." Niall replied shaking his hand "Tagging along today if that's ok?"

"Of course." Said Pops. "Come on lets get going before she spills anymore gossip!"

The drive to the golf club was only 30 minutes outside of the city and you drove while your Mam sat in the front, at Niall's insistence. He was totally sucking up to them and it was sweet although you were worried your Pops might ask him the boyfriend/father awkward questions but he didn't. They talked about Niall's travels and about golf. 

You pulled up to the club and parked before all climbing out and grabbing your clubs, your Mam had her knitting with her like she always did. You walked up to the desk and confirmed your booking before heading out to the driving range area, your mum making herself comfy on one of the seats behind your Pop's. Once you'd collected your balls you were ready to go and now you were nervous.

"Go on then Annie! Show us what you got!" Said Niall.

"I'm nervous you're watching me! Stop staring!"

You heard your Pops laugh next to you.

You pulled out your driver and positioned yourself taking a long hard swing. It went perfectly straight exactly where you wanted, your arms had stayed in position well.

"Ooohhh very nice!" Niall said.

"Come on then Mr Golf Management Company your turn!" You said.

He smirked as he took his swing and hit it perfectly to.

"Ooohhh very nice!" You mimicked.

You each carried on taking your shots in your own area, chatting and laughing as you went before Niall headed off to the loo.

"Hi Annie! How are you?" It was David one of the private golf tutors who you knew from the club.

"Hi David, I'm good thanks, how have you been?"

"Great, been busy up here the last few weeks, haven't seen you for ages."

"Well Pops and I have been a few times. Must have been on your days off."

Just then Niall joined you placing his hand on the small of your back.

"Hey you." You said "This is David a tutor here."

"Hi." He said. "I'm Niall, Annie's boyfriend." Stretching his hand out, David shaking it in return.

"Hi, nice to meet you." He said looking shocked, clearly knowing who he was considering how involved Niall was within golf. He counted Rory McIIroy and Justin Rose as friends.

"Right I best get on." He said. "See you soon Annie and nice to meet you Niall."

"You to." Niall said.

As David walked away you turned to Niall. "You're so funny when you're jealous!" You said.

"Not jealous, just making him aware you had a boyfriend!" He said smirking.

"I liked that you called yourself that to him." You said in a whisper so that your Pops couldn't hear. 

"Well you said I'd know what to say and what felt best at the time and that did." He said smiling. 

Niall was amazing at golf, you were watching him closely as he took his shots. His drive was incredibly. He chatted with your Pops easily and you knew he had charmed your Mam especially over lunch.

You dropped your Mam and Pops home and made your way back to yours. Niall moving into the front with you and placing his hand on your thigh. You felt such a rush at his touch. Apart from him placing his hand on your back when you were talking to David he'd not touched you at all, probably because you'd been with your Mam and Pops. Right now you couldn't wait to get home and get him naked for some afternoon play time.

Chapter Twelve

https://niall-is-my-dream.tumblr.com/post/168218489873/the-bucket-list-chapter-twelve

[itsbenedict]

No Driver’s License: Omakes 15.1-15.4, and... one more.

[adventure log- read from the beginning]

[session 15]

Last time on No Driver’s License, well... Sakura had a really bad time. And... inflicted a really really bad time on everyone else, because wow her witch barrier was a step further in terms of OH GOD NO than what we’ve seen so far. As a result of inflicting said witch barrier on their easily angered landlady, the girls- but not their families- got kicked out of their magically hidden underground bunker.

Then they did some side session stuff!

In 15.1, Sakura and Makoto attempt to comfort each other after the whole Warhead thing. In 15.2, Yukari tries to leverage their hostage to set up mutually assured destruction in response to attempted hostage scenarios- and meanwhile, Ibara tries to get her delinquent buddies to safety. In 15.3, Rikimaru Reiko has a chance(?) encounter with something dangerous. In 15.4, Sakura tries to get reassurance from her aunt, with mixed results.

Also, there was something blatantly noncanonical that happened, which I won’t get too into because I got into it enough when it was happening.

15.1 (Sakura and Makoto)

A fairly short one- Makoto’s worried that she’s just burdening everyone. She feels useless on her own, and feels like she needs to be supported by the team, and is unable to do it the other way around. Sakura tries to tell her that these are distorted thoughts, and that she’s a valuable member of the team who helps in all kinds of ways.

A complicating factor is that familiars in Warhead’s twisted candyland mocked her for her speech (or lack thereof), and generally targeted her due to her closeness to Sakura. The two eventually come close to making up, and hug, but come session 16, we’ll see that Makoto’s issues here haven’t exactly been resolved.

15.2 (Basically everyone)

Yukari forms a groupchat! The team needs to be able to stay in touch when they don’t have an incubator around to handle telepathy, especially when someone needs to be on Yoshe-guarding duty.

Yukari doesn’t intend to negotiate with terrorists- protecting their loved ones to prevent the enemy from holding them hostage is pointless, if the cannibals can accomplish the same by threatening random bystanders.

Sakura isn’t happy about this, but is mainly inclined to sort-of-agree while dodging the issue by suggesting they go on the offensive. The cannibals can’t take hostages if they’re completely defeated!

Ibara is even less happy about this. The idea of not saving people because of abstract negotiation shit doesn’t fly with her- how is this being a hero?!

Yukari tries to explain more effectively, pointing out that giving into their demands wouldn’t actually save more people in the long run.

(...fuck the church, here’s 95 reasons why.)

Yukari, meanwhile, turns her attention to Yoshe- Yukari thinks she can head the whole thing off by just communicating to the cannibals- one of whose phone number she has- that if they try any hostage shit, they kill Yoshe. Yoshe has opinions about this plan:

Yukari reiterates that this is the point of telling them first, so they both avoid this lose-lose outcome. She heads off to pick up some letter-writing supplies, both so Yoshe can sign a note to prove that she’s alive and in custody, and so that Yukari can try some bullshit misdirection about where they are by stealing stationery from a hotel across town.

Meanwhile, Ibara’s left with Yukari’s phone, so she can use the groupchat. The other members of the team discuss plans for dealing with the cannibals- including making sure that the team at least tries to save hostages instead of writing them off. And, while Ibara’s talking with the team on Yukari’s phone, she gets a text message from...

They eventually deduce the identity of the mysterious texter, arrived at the park to hunker down in the bunker.

Sakura, thinking quickly, tells Ibara to ask them for a selfie, to prove it’s them and not a cannibal trap.

Ibara gets ready to go out and meet them- and conveniently, Yukari gets back to guard Yoshe just in time. And- hey! She’s finally got Ibara a cell phone!

Ibara meets her friends at the park, and Nails forces her to drink the horrible juice blend she got from the juice stand. Apparently recreationally mixing horrendous beverages is a thing, with her?

After several hilarious misunderstandings, they come to an agreement.

They get ready to go down to the bunker, but Ibara warns them about their landlord first. Ibara really doesn’t like Reiko- thinks she’s a callous asshole. After all the shit-talking, Shibu asks why Reiko’s even letting them stay there.

So, Shibu’s thinking something about her fabulously rich benefactor. Meanwhile, Ibara uses her new phone to text her sister Nano. She asks about whether Reiko’s been in contact with them, and Nano says that Rikimaru-sama hasn’t really talked to them. Ibara takes issue with the honorific.

Ibara finally takes her friends downstairs to the bunker, transforming to take advantage of her magical strength and carry her friends’ luggage. On seeing her costume, they break out in a laughing fit.

Nails and Shibu get settled in- and notice Kazuya conspicuously ignoring them. Apparently, Kazuya’s been giving Nails funny looks at school? After a little high school gossip, Ibara says hi and bye to her parents (who barely notice) and promises Nails and Shibu that she’ll beat the shit out of the cannibals keeping them all trapped there.

15.3 (Reiko and Kimiko)

This one was a solo omake, between two of my own NPCs. I’ll just cover it quick-like.

Reiko’s at the supermarket, buying groceries and supplies for her new tenants, as part of the agreement. She’s not happy about it, but the money’s worth it.

While she’s checking out, an annoying classmate shows up behind her and starts making small talk. Reiko restrains her anger and pretends to be polite, promising her “friend” from the student council that she’ll be at the next meeting. She’s doing her best to keep that nosy transfer student Midarezaki Honoka from making her blow up with rage.

Honoka insists on helping Reiko load her car with groceries, and then apparently leaves. Reiko starts driving home- and then passes a Real check. In her rearview mirror, she spots Honoka following her home on a bike. She’s furious about this- not because the players told Reiko about Honoka, but because Reiko just plain doesn’t want people snooping. One car chase later, Reiko pulls into her stealthed garage, disappearing from Honoka’s sight.

15.4 (Sakura and Olivia)

Sakura calls up her aunt, intent on apologizing for her witch incident. Olivia seems noticeably distracted and nervous about the conversation.

Eventually, Sakura gets Olivia to tell her everything she saw about Warhead. It’s pretty clear that Olivia’s genuinely afraid of what happened, and is uncomfortable discussing it. Eventually, she tries to reassure both Sakura and herself:

Sakura isn’t sure- and proceeds to dump all the exposition on Olivia, including about becoming Purified and becoming an Incubator. Olivia is... pretty overwhelmed, and isn’t sure what to say.

Eventually, Sakura tries to lighten the mood by asking about Olivia’s girlfriend.

Sakura kind of panics about this a little, while Olivia tries to reassure her that Eguchi is a common family name, don’t worry about it! Because, y’know, the GM would totally introduce a character with the same name and have her be totally unrelated and not worth worrying about! Sakura’s a little more genre-savvy than this, though, and makes Olivia promise to ask Emiri about Emiko just in case.

15.??? (Yukari, Ibara, and Sakura)

Lastly... well. The party was wondering “who would win in a fight?”

So, Zero decided to GM a non-canon omake session, where he, Farn, and Thera would duke it out with their respective characters. I won’t be going into much detail, here, because it went on forever and involved a lot of me adjudicating rules and edge cases with a self-insert GM avatar (”that blue guy” on the sidelines, aka “ref”). Fun, but not relevant to the story.

In terms of who won: initially, it seemed like Yukari had an overwhelming advantage. She could teleport, which let her stay out of range of Ibara’s punishing melee abilities. And her DPS was mostly ranged, which meant that Sakura’s immobilizing taffy was barely an inconvenience for her. Meanwhile, Sakura’s taffy completely locked down Ibara- if only she hadn’t dumped her “attempts to restrain her don’t work good” ability! It was looking like Yukari > Sakura > Ibara, since I hadn’t balanced for PVP. Ibara spent the whole fight stuck in taffy, mostly.

So, it was pretty much a slugfest between Yukari’s ranged DPS, and Sakura’s ability to armor and heal herself. Sakura would’ve had a hard time doing damage to Yukari, what with the teleportation, but...

Well, Yukari’s overpowered ranged abilities are expensive. Her minmaxed Magic stat meant that she was scoring crits more often than not, and her multiple actions per round and use of Teleport meant that she could accrue a full Trauma’s worth of OC in a single combat round. And at the beginning, we’d decided that 2 Trauma meant a character was out, in this simulation. She knocked herself out in record time, managing to barely soften up Sakura. Rather than let Sakura get the finishing blow, she Teleported at 11OC and essentially forfeited.

Which left Sakura, who could essentially lock down Ibara’s melee for free. Shoud’ve been no contest, with that armor and healing and stunlock.

Then Ibara- who’d be idly reading manga and declining to participate, since she couldn’t move, declared she was bored with her manga, and proved that even without her signature special melee moves, she could still fucking oneshot Sakura with a ranged attack.

^Her upgraded Avert Thine Eyes ability, after sacrificing Don’t Stop Me Now from Tarantella. She used that, both Sorceress Boosts, and a critical Ranged Attack to just instantly blow through all of Sakura’s HP and armor with an 11 damage thrown comic book. Holy shit.

Next time on No Driver’s License: the party attempts to retrieve Hayashi Kazumi from the hospital, so she can’t be used as a hostage. This does not go as expected.

[queenofcats17]

The Intern

Audio logs from Cordelia Bell, music department intern and devoted fan of Sammy Lawrence. 

The assface part comes from here

Voice of Cordelia Bell

I can’t believe it! I’m really working at Joey Drew Studios! I’ve been dreaming about this day since I was a little kid, and it’s finally here! I know it’s going to be a lot of hard work, but I’m ready to roll up my sleeves and do what I have to. Mr. Lawrence is nicer than everyone says he is. Mr. Drew says I’ll be working under him since none of the other interns want to. Mr. Drew was really surprised when I said I wanted to work with Mr. Lawrence, but he seemed kind of glad too. Mr. Lawrence is very demanding, so I guess I can understand why a lot of the other interns are scared. But I’ve been writing him for years. I came here to work for him. I’m not going to give up on my dream now. Mr. Lawrence says he’s not going to give me special treatment just because we’ve been writing each other for awhile. I told him I never expected anything different from him and he smiled. Miss Campbell is really nice too, and I love hearing her do lines and sing. Oh! And Mr. Ross said I had a good work ethic! Mostly I’ve just been getting coffee for everyone, filling up the ink wells, getting Mr. Lawrence or Mr. Ross or the other animators paper, but he says I’ve been working real hard and he appreciates that. I think I’m really going to like it here.

.

.

Voice of Cordelia Bell

So, it’s been a couple of months, and things are still going pretty well. Mr. Drew’s been acting a little strange though. I...I’m not sure how to explain it. Nothing’s wrong, it’s just....Something’s a little off. Of course, something’s always a little off when it comes to Mr. Drew, so I guess I shouldn’t be all that worried. Everyone is really nice here. When I have anxiety attacks, Mr. Polk lets me sit in the corner in the band room and just listen to the band. It helps a lot. And Miss Campbell, sorry, Miss Susie has been giving me voice lessons when we have free time. She says I could really go places someday! I’m happy here for now, though. Someday I’ll go back to school, finish college, but for now I’m happy where I am. We need the money, after all. Roy’s surgeries won’t pay for themselves. N-Not that I’m resentful of him or anything! I’m really not. It’s just tough sometimes. Anyway, Mr. Lawrence has been a good boss so far, if a bit strict. Nothing I can’t handle though. Oh! Want to know something funny? Sometimes he just writes Assface on the paper instead of a song, and then I have to deliver it to the band! I always feel bad for the poor musicians. They always look so confused.

.

.

Voice of Cordelia Bell

Mr. Ross got drafted, and Mr. Drew got really mad about it. I don’t know why he got so angry, it’s not like Mr. Ross can get out of it. I’ll keep that to myself, though. Everyone in the studio heard the two of them yelling at each other. I didn’t even want to go upstairs in case I ran into them. Then Mr. Ross stormed out. I don’t think he’s going to be coming back. I’m scared. I’ve never seen Mr. Drew this angry before. Mr. Lawrence says it’ll pass, that everything will be fine, but I don’t know if he actually believes that. I think he’s scared too. Then, when I went upstairs to give Mr. Drew his coffee, he said something really weird. He said, ‘You aren’t going to leave me, are you Cordelia?’ There was this....This look in his eyes. I’ve never seen him look like that before. He had a book open on his desk, and I swear I saw some kind of....sigil in there. Like a daemonic sigil or something. I think something is about to go very wrong.

.

.

Voice of Cordelia Bell

Mr. Drew brought in this...ink machine from a man named Murray Hill. I don’t know what exactly it’s supposed to do. It’s big and ugly and the pipes keep bursting. The music department’s flooded at least three times in the past week alone. Mr. Lawrence is getting fed up with it and he’s gone to complain more than once. Mr. Drew keeps brushing it off though. I’ve been going up to deliver the complaints lately since Mr. Lawrence might lose his job if he says some of his complaints to Mr. Drew’s face. I’m expendable, Mr. Lawrence isn’t. Miss Susie says I shouldn’t worry so much, but I can’t help it. These people are like family to me. I don’t want any of them to suffer. The smell of ink here is getting to be overpowering. I don’t know how much longer I can stand it.

.

.

Voice of Cordelia Bell

I’m starting to get really scared now. People have been leaving the studio faster than they can get hired. The studio has been flooding even more, and I think Mr. Lawrence is on his way to a complete mental breakdown. Wally got fired last week for forgetting his keys for the millionth time. That’s probably the most normal thing that’s happened in the past few weeks, but I wish he hadn’t left. I need someone else to confide in. Mr. Lawrence has been so on edge that I don’t want to burden him any more than he already is, and Miss Susie is always busy. At least I can hide in the music room if things get really bad. Mr. Polk has been really nice about everything. Honestly, I don’t know how much longer I can do this. I don’t look forward to coming to work anymore. I dread every day I have to wake up and come here. Something bad is happening. I have to get out. But how am I supposed to tell Mr. Drew? He’ll go crazy if I try to leave, I just know it! I have to find some way out.

.

.

Voice of Cordelia Bell

I tried to commit suicide yesterday. It was a mistake, I know, but I was just so scared. I don’t know why I’m even recording this. I just want to talk it out, I guess. Everyone from the studio came and visited. Roy called them and told them what happened. They were all really worried. Mr. Drew didn’t come though. I’m glad he didn’t, even though saying that makes me feel bad. I’m afraid of what he might have done if he’d shown up. There’s something wrong with him now. Before...Before I left yesterday, I saw him painting a pentagram on the floor of his office. I can’t go back there. Roy says I need help. I know I do. He says he’ll call Mr. Drew and inform him of my resignation. That makes me feel a little better, but I’m still scared. Not for myself, but for everyone who works in the studio. Especially Mr. Lawrence. Miss Susie says she might quit soon, but I think this job is all Mr. Lawrence has. I’m...I’m scared. -The recording devolves into quiet sobbing.-

.

.

Voice of Cordelia Bell

My therapist says that recording my thoughts might make me feel better. I am feeling better, just being out of that environment. I’ve been writing Mr. Lawrence and he seems to be doing okay too. Mr. Drew’s been devolving though. Mr. Lawrence says Mr. Drew never leaves his office anymore, and the ink leaks have been happening more and more. I’m kind of worried for him. Working in that environment can’t be healthy for him, at the very least because of all the ink. I wouldn’t be surprised if we all got ink poisoning. The other reason is Mr. Drew himself. I think I said before that there’s always something a little off about him. The way he is now...That’s different. The way Mr. Lawrence talks about him, he sounds unhinged. I just hope everyone will be okay.

.

.

Voice of Cordelia Bell

Mr. Lawrence stopped writing back. I went to his apartment and his landlady said he hadn’t been back in a couple days. Roy says I shouldn’t go back to the studio, but I’m starting to get really worried. Miss Susie left about a week back, so she doesn’t know what’s going on either. I tried to hitchhike to the studio earlier, but Roy found me and took me home. He threatened to send me to a mental hospital. I know he’s just scared something bad will happen to me. Mr. Drew’s behavior scared him too. But Mr. Lawrence might be in danger. I can’t just let that go.

.

.

Voice of Cordelia Bell

I went back. I know I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help myself. Oh God. I wish I hadn’t. Something horrible happened there. There were no cars when I showed up. The door was unlocked and the studio was a mess. There was ink everywhere, everything was boarded up. I couldn’t find Mr. Drew anywhere. Couldn’t find anyone. No, that’s not true. I found Mr. Lawrence, didn’t I? God. Poor Mr. Lawrence. I don’t know what happened to him. He...It looked like he was covered in ink. Like his body was made of ink. He was wearing these ratty overalls and a Bendy mask and...and...He tried to sacrifice me. He kept talking about sheep and Bendy being his savior. I don’t know what happened to him. That thing...it was barely Mr. Lawrence. I don’t know if he even recognized me anymore. He said I looked familiar. Familiar! He tied me up in the music department, but his fingers were too thick to tie the ropes properly, so I got out pretty easy. I didn’t wait around to see what happened. I ran as fast as I could until I was home. I think Roy knows what I did. He didn’t say anything, but he knows. I’m sure of it. I don’t know what Mr. Drew did....But something awful happened in that studio. I’m sorry Mr. Lawrence. I can’t go back there.

[paulinedorchester]

Putting Two and Two Together: excerpt from a work in progress

It’s not yet sunrise. The first transports from the airbase to Hastings – for those with chits for the day – won’t leave until daybreak, but there’s already a longish queue which Andrew joins at the back.

Three lorries pull up, all open to the oddly mild weather.

‘No coaches for the likes of us, eh, sir?’ the flight sergeant standing in front of him remarks over his shoulder. The queue advances by fits and starts. The first lorry fills up with personnel and departs, then the second. The sergeant is the last to climb into the third before the Transport Officer pronounces it filled to capacity.

‘Don’t worry, sir – back before you know it!’ the driver calls out to Andrew.

‘Want the paper, sir?’ the sergeant asks him, holding it up. It’s the Evening Telegram, and Andrew’s first impulse is to refuse: what use does he have for yesterday’s news from Brighton? Then he sees the phrases HASTINGS DETECTIVE and LOCAL MECHANIC in the upper right-hand corner.

‘Yes, thanks!’

Andrew reads the lead article as he waits, wondering towards the end of it whether he ought to leave the queue and try to telephone his father before going home, just possibly to an empty house.  

Don’t be an idiot – you’d have been contacted by this time if... if anything had happened, he thinks. And indeed, it seems that all is well.

The lorries return; Andrew is the first in. On the way to Hastings he reads the piece over again. It occurs to him that there is one bit of the investigation that the Telegram’s correspondent hasn’t explained.

Andrew’s father emerges from the kitchen with his shirtsleeves rolled up to wish his son a happy Christmas and to apologise for having snapped at him on Wednesday night.

‘Hardly matters, Dad – happy Christmas to you as well.’ Andrew holds up the newspaper. ‘Are you – um, are you all right?’

‘Much better now that I’ve got the press out of my hair – though that’s probably temporary,’ his father remarks. ‘But yeah, Andrew, I’m fine. Not the first time I’ve been in that sort of tight spot.’

‘I don’t think I find that very comforting, to be honest. Well then, all right,’ Andrew goes on, setting the subject aside. ‘When shall I fetch Sam?’

‘Ah. There’s been a change in the day’s schedule. Sam’s had a windfall.’ Foyle tells his son about the black-market turkey. The story makes Andrew laugh, chasing away the anxious shadow that his father can see in his eyes. ‘So she’ll be joining us for tea and then supper,’ he explains.

Having hung his cap and greatcoat in the hall and deposited his tunic and kit bag in his room, Andrew joins his father in the kitchen. He has another question to ask but forgets it for a moment when he sees the array of objects, edible or not, sitting on the table.

‘Can I do anything to help?’ he offers.

‘Yes – you can stir these together,’ his father says, handing him a filled bowl and a mixing spoon.

‘Dad, there’s something I don’t understand,’ Andrew remarks after a bit.

‘Good heavens, and what might that be?’

‘How did you know where to go looking for this Osborne character?’

Andrew sees his father’s posture stiffen slightly.

‘Just good luck,’ Dad says.

After supper – it’s all quite splendid in Sam’s opinion – she tells the men about her Christmas three years previously: the first Christmas of the war, her first away from Lyminster and the last before rationing began.

Andrew has heard this story before, or parts of it at least, but settles contentedly next to her on the sofa and listens: a long working day on the 23rd of December – a Saturday, no less – spent driving a Mr Nicholson of the Ministry of Production the length and breadth of Sussex while he inspected seemingly every factory in the county, and then on to London.

‘I was meant to deliver him to his Ministry, in Westminster,’ Sam recalls. ‘He was quite a long time at the last stop, though – it was nearly four o’clock by the time he was ready to leave, and the sun was going down, so he told me to drive him home instead. I asked him if that wouldn’t get him into trouble at work, but he said that they were unlikely to keep the office open so long after the blackout on a Saturday, especially just before Christmas, but that he would telephone when he arrived at home, just to be certain.

‘I suppose that I was still rather... green at the time, sir,’ she offers, noting that Mr Foyle is trying not to smile. ‘He thought it was funny, as well. In any event, I had imagined that a civil servant would live in the Home Counties – but the address he gave me was in Westminster as well! It had never occurred to me that anyone would actually live there! It was a mansion block, and when we got there he told me that I should come inside and wait in the lobby.

‘I did that, and after a while the lift door opened and a woman got out and asked whether I was Miss Stewart, and said that she was Mrs Nicholson. She told me that they were going out for the evening – she was quite exquisitely dressed – or she’d have asked me to come upstairs to supper. As it was, she gave me a sandwich to eat – awfully good roast beef with tomato and pickle and horseradish sauce – and some Jaffa cakes as well. She was worried that I was going to have to drive all the way back to Hastings that night.’

‘Had you planned to do that, Sam?’ Mr Foyle queries.

‘Mrs Bradley wanted me to,’ Sam explains, ‘but headquarters in London objected, and arranged for me to stay at the MTC dormitory and drive back the next morning. My parents wouldn’t have been best pleased if they’d known that I was staying overnight in London, although I suppose they wouldn’t have liked the thought of me on the open road all alone during the blackout either,’ she continues. ‘But London was really quite calm then, you know �� rather on edge, I suppose, but calm.’

‘The phoney war.’ Mr Foyle nods.

‘Precisely, sir. In any event, when I got to the dormitory there was a message waiting for me – from Mrs Nicholson! She had telephoned from the nightclub where they’d gone and said that if I was still in town on Christmas day I was welcome to come to dinner at midday! And that’s exactly what happened,’ Sam continues. ‘The next morning, first thing, Commander Mrs Buckley – she’s the London Area Commandant – told me that they were short of vehicles and needed the one that I had driven up the day before.’

‘Christmas Eve, and they needed an extra car?’

‘Someone from the Supply Ministry needing to be driven to Birmingham,’ Sam explains with a shrug. ‘I offered to drive, but I’d put in so much time and mileage on the day before that I was refused. I went to Victoria Station and tried to book a railway ticket back to Hastings, but it was no good at all – I couldn’t book for any time before half past four in the afternoon on Christmas Day. So I telephoned Mrs Nicholson and accepted her invitation, and then I telephoned the dormitory and told them I’d need a place for the night – and asked them to contact my landlady in Hastings and tell her that I was delayed, as it was rather the MTC’s fault.’

‘Wasn’t this when the MTC were trying to recruit drivers who could, um, more or less hand over their own cars?’ Andrew asks.

‘Yes, that’s right!’ Sam exclaims. ‘And if you did provide a car, you weren’t always given that one to drive, I remember, and one’s own car might be driven by somebody else, and might end up hundreds of miles away. Some of the girls weren’t terribly happy about that!’

‘What sort of car was it, Sam?’ Foyle queries. The police use Wolseleys because they are reliable and safe.  

‘Oh, that was another fantastic thing, sir! It was an MG Magnette two-seater, painted in two shades of green. I’d never driven such a small car before. That did take a bit of getting used to!’

‘An MG!’ Andrew interjects. ‘Honestly, Sam, I can’t picture you driving anything other than a huge black saloon car.’

‘I drove all sorts of cars, you know, before I went to work for the police. It’s true, though – I am used to the big Wolseley now. I didn’t do too badly in the ten-forty yesterday, though, did I, sir?’ Sam goes on. ‘Just braked a bit too hard once or twice, probably. So we ought to be quite all right, really, until we can get the regular car back from the garage.’

The rest of Sam’s story – lunch in a hotel restaurant (the first time she’d ever eaten in a restaurant by herself, a milestone so exciting that she no longer recalls what she ate); the Christmas Eve service at Westminster Abbey; the Nicholsons’ palatial flat and the glorious meal they served – passes over Andrew like an echo. He feels as though he has suddenly found the last clue to a double-crostic (Why a double-crostic? When have I ever tried to work a double-crostic?) and discovered that the quotation is LOCAL MECHANIC ARRESTED IN THAT, TWO OTHER DEATHS.

For a moment he feels faintly sick.

[hermionously-blog]

Changing Fate: a Hamilton Retelling, Chapter 2

Chapter 1

Chapter 2: You’re reading it :)

Conversation buzzed around them, as men in velvet and silk coats talked quietly about business and horse-racing, and women in satin dressed with long, large skirts chatted merrily about local gossip. Mulligan threw dinner parties often, and they were always well-attended with the local gentry who loved nothing more than an evening of light conversation and pleasantries. Today, though, and for the last few weeks—though Alexander didn’t know it, being a newcomer—the atmosphere had been different, like the cheerful exchange of formalities and the discussion of who was marrying who was a veneer over the quieter conversations that had begun taking place in the corners of the rooms and in the shadows of doorways. These conversations always seemed to lag as strangers passed by, and then start as soon as they were out of earshot. So Alexander did not hear any.

If he had, he would have been disturbed. Revolution is usually bad for business.

“Ah, monsieur. So pleased to meet you,” a voice purred behind Alexander, and he turned, wineglass in hand, from the conversation he’d been having with Hercules to greet the owner of the voice. It was a tall, lanky man, dressed fancily, almost foppishly, and with an easy smile.

“I don’t believe I yet have the pleasure of knowing your name, sir,” Alexander said smoothly.

Hercules grinned as he introduced them. “Lafayette, this is my new business partner, Aexander Hamilton. He’s from the Caribbean up here on business. Alex, this is my half-brother, Lafs. He moved to France with my mother a few years back when she found out that America didn’t have as many dress shops as she’d hoped. He’s back here on vacation. And still refusing to drop the accent, I guess.”

“Vhat Ahck-zent?” Lafayette asked, eyes wide in puzzlement.

“Lafs, that’s not even a French accent,” Hercules chuckled.

Alexander chuckled, too. “I didn’t know you had a brother, Hercules,” he said.

“Then you’re in for another surprise,” a young man with curly hair and freckles said as he joined them. “My name’s John Laurens, and I’m also Herc’s brother. Laf’s, too, for that matter.” He shook hands with Alex.

Alex withdrew his hand quickly, and after a brief smile and greeting he turned to ask Lafayette how the weather was in France.

It absolutely would not do to fall in love---no, not love, don’t be ridiculous, Alexander, you’ve never fallen in love at first sight before and you’re not going to start now---would not do to be attracted to his new business partner’s brother. That would just be messy, like Laurens hair which was pulled back in a low ponytail from his face, which was a very good one, all warm eyes and dimples and freckles covering smiling cheeks---

“So Alex, how’s the weather down in the Caribbean?” Lafayette asked, interrupting Alexander’s thoughts.

“Oh, it’s nice in my opinion, but I am admittedly rather biased since I did grow up there. And, never having been off of the islands before, I don’t have much idea how it compares to the weather in the rest of the world,” Alex answered with a laugh.

“I hear there are a lot of hurricanes, you ever get any?” Hercules asked.

“A few, yes.”

“They ever do any damage?”

Conscious of Lauren’s soft brown eyes on him, and Hercules’s gaze fixed on him as he waited for an answer to his conversational, innocently posed question, and Lafayette looking steadily at him from behind his raised wineglass, Alexander thought it rather funny how often he seemed to be having to change the topic tonight.

  Outside, under the light of a streetlamp, Maria Reynolds adjusted her hair. It was getting dark quickly, and soon the dinner party that Peggy had said Hamilton would be at would be letting out.

She stepped out of the light and looked up at the sky, just a quick glance, then stopped and stared. It was one of those nights when the stars seem to clutter the sky, more numerous than the glints of moonlight on the waves in the harbor. There was no breeze, and the street was almost silent except for the muffled sounds of merriment inside the nearby building, which, under the cloudless night sky, seemed to take on a dreamlike quality, as if the world was just muffled sounds drifting on the wind to where she stood, still and small and quiet, looking up at the incomprehensible vastness of galaxies farther away than the human mind could reach, shining down on the tiny city where humans lived and died and fought wars and fell in love in less time than it takes the light of the nearest star to shine down from where it lies.

Then the door of Mulligan’s house opened, and a figure stood silhouetted against the sudden wash of light and noise for a moment, then closed the door and hurried down the steps.

Maria hurried forward, figuring that the first guest to depart from the party would be the trader from the Caribbean, since Peggy had said Mulligan rarely invited business partners to dinner and would likely ask the trader to leave early so he could relax with his brothers and friends.

“May I help you?” the man said with a friendly smile, as she walked up to him.

 She didn’t recognize him as one of the men who had flirted with her before, and every man in town had flirted with her before, often to her annoyance. It must be the newcomer, Hamilton.

“Oh, if you could. My friend was supposed to pick me up here in her carriage ages ago, but she must have forgotten, and now I have no way at all to get home, and my home is absolutely on the other side of town!” Maria said, eyes pleading.

“You could borrow my horse, if you like. I don’t live far, and I don’t mind walking. Then you can give me your address and I’ll pick the horse up tomorrow, or you can bring it here tomorrow and Hercules will stable it until I come get it,” he said helpfully.

“But I’d be so scared to ride home after dark all alone. It’s not safe anymore with all those nasty English soldiers lurking about. Just the other day one tied a bottle to my little dog’s tail and chased her down the street, laughing! I had to rescue the poor dear, she was so scared.”

“Given what they do to humans, I’m not surprised,” the man said angrily, then looked at Maria. “Alright. I’ll take you home on my horse.”

He led her over to one of the tethered horses, and she swung onto the saddle behind him and clasped her arms around his waist for balance. This was going well.

As they set off down the street, the horses hooves striking a sharp staccato on the cobblestone that set a dog nearby barking in the cool night air, she smiled.

“Oh, but I haven’t even been introduced, have we?” she said. “My name is Maria Reynolds.”

“Mine is John Laurens. Maria’s a lovely name,” he replied, eyes on the road as the horse trotted along, turning a street corner.

It wasn’t Hamilton. Damn.

Still, she could salvage the situation. After all, this man was presumably wealthy and well-connected, too.

“Thank you,” she said, and reached up and softly touched his arm, brushing his coat sleeve with her fingertips. He didn’t respond, so she leaned the side of her head against his shoulder and sighed, a wistful and carefully-practiced sound.

“I love the nighttime, don’t you?” she asked, her voice soft and barely audible over the striking of the horse’s hooves and the wingbeats of birds that flew away disturbed as the stillness of the night was broken by their journey. “It’s so peaceful. It reminds me of when I was a girl, and would sleep outdoors with my cousins sometimes on fresh spring nights, and listen to the crickets chirping. It was so lovely. Of course, I never hear the crickets these days…” she trailed off, and waited for the expected question.

“Why not?” Laurens asked.

“Oh, it’s….it’s too loud in my house. My husband, he….he shouts a lot, and gets so angry, and doesn’t leave me alone until I’m too tired from having insults heard at me to stay awake and listen to the crickets, like I used to.”

“He sounds like a jerk. You should shoot him, and claim you thought he was an intruder,” came the reply.

She blinked in surprise, but quickly recovered. “But then I’d be all alone, with no one to protect me. And,” she continued, her breath barely a whisper as she played her winning hand, “no one to love me.”

She slid her hand up and brushed his cheek, with its light coating of peach fuzz, then traced her fingers along his curly hair…

And he laughed.

“Are you flirting with me?” he asked, his voice incredulous.

Damn the little bastard. He wasn’t even the right guy, and now he was asking her if she was flirting. That wasn’t how this was supposed to work. She could still save the situation, but she was tired, and a bit annoyed that her acting wasn’t having more of an affect, so she just replied, “Well I was trying to,” irritated.

She could hear the smile in his voice as he answered. “It was a great try, don’t worry. I’m just not interested. But I’m flattered by the attempt.”

“Don’t be. I was just trying to recruit you to join the revolution.”

“……See, I think you’re joking, but honestly I’ve been thinking about that for a while now.

She straightened up. Perhaps tonight wasn’t lost.

 Thomas Jefferson walked down the street, watching the sunrise and whistling a hornpipe he’d learned asea from his years as a sailor. He walked jauntily, hands in pockets, his steps long and loping and his hair bouncing. He was feeling good today. Gregarious and sociable. He’d woken up early after a good night’s sleep, his landlady’s breakfast hadn’t been burnt and was surprisingly edible, and the cat that slept outside on the steps of his landlady’s house had actually let Jefferson pet him for a few seconds before hissing and stalking away.

Perhaps, given that was the first time he’d pet it, he shouldn’t have tried to scratch its tummy. Oh, well.

He walked along, passing a freckled man and a strikingly beautiful woman walking the other way, energetically discussing what sounded like plans for a revolution. He whistled. The woman glared, but the man grinned at him and waved.

Huh. Okay.

He smiled and chuckled to himself. The fresh glow of the morning sun, a breeze in the air, birds in the sky, talk on the streets of revolution—what could be better?

He wanted to find a friend to talk about revolution with, too. It was a good day for making friends. He waved to a passing woman, who pointedly ignored him. He doffed an imaginary cap and walked on.

A few blocks down the street, a man was kneeling, vigorously scrubbing cobblestones with a bucket of soapy water and a sponge. Jefferson stood by him and watched benevolently for a few minutes.

Finally, the man looked up at Jefferson, passing the back of his hand over his forehead and accidentally leaving a dirty streak. He looked annoyed. “You’re in my light.”

“Exactly how the English stand in the glow of their gold and prevent even the distant light of it from reaching the poor, downtrodden masses of America,” Jefferson rejoined.

The man looked puzzled.

Jefferson grinned. “My name is Thomas Jefferson.”

The man scrubbed a cobblestone and ignored him.

“No, really, the honor’s all mine,” Jefferson said.

The man scrubbed another.

“I know, I know, you feel you need to continue to work lest you fall behind and not get paid and starve or whatever. But fear not! A new dawn is breaking!”

“It broke twenty minutes ago, and you’re standing in its light,” the man muttered. Jefferson ignored the remark.

“A new day is starting,” Jefferson continued. “A day when the rich shall fall, and the poor shall rise. A day of brotherhood for all men—well, most, at least—when the lowest-born son of a farmer shall dare to face the sons of kings and proclaim that he is their equal. A day when the peasant shall snatch power from the emperor, shall dare to say “I shall decide my life.  No emperor, or monarch, neither a rich man nor a warrior, can decide my destiny. Only I, and I alone, will control my fate.” A day when the land will flow with plenty, for at last the harvest will be shared. A day when peace and wealth shall rain down from the heavens, and all men will partake in the bounty. But this day,” he said, and crouched down to stare directly into the man’s eyes. “This day shall not come if its bringers are too busty cleaning cobblestones to herald the dawn.”

Slowly, the man set down his sponge. He looked Jefferson straight in the face.

“You’re a bloody idiot. And get out of my light,” the man said.

Jefferson stood up and stalked away.

James Madison picked up his sponge, swirled it in the soapy water in the bucket, and scrubbed another cobblestone.

[all-you-need-is-paul-mccartney]

The Couple Next Door (Roger Taylor x Female!Reader)

A/N: Alrighty, since I am seriously lacking energy to write a date scene for part 2 of Lift Confessions, I’ve decided to start another series to hopefully break through my writer’s block.

I got inspiration for this fic from another I read years ago and I can’t remember what the characters in it were for the life of me. I think I also read it on AO3 but again, I can’t be too sure. If the author of the first fic sees this and realizes it was their beautiful work that got me inspired, then thank you.

I ALSO APOLOGIZE FOR HOW SHORT THIS IS

Summary: Roger and his good friend y/n decide to move out of Brian’s flat after he gets a girlfriend and wishes to move her in. It’s a shame the condominium Roger and y/n want is owned by a landlady who is strict on who lives in her complex. They couldn’t possibly pretend to be a couple just to live here… or could they?

(Like all my other fics, this can be read as either BoRhap!Roger or real Roger. Do whatever floats your boat)

WARNINGS: Swearing. that’s something you can expect from me all the time.

I’d rate this chapter G, but the language puts it at a T

Your eyes marvelled at the high, bright ceilings as soon as you and Roger stepped into the vacant condominium.

 "Rog, look how high up it goes!“

 You pointed to the very top of the ceiling of the visible second floor at the base of the staircase 

 "This is more spacious than I thought,” Roger responded gently as his eyes followed your direction of pointing, his hand on your shoulder.

 Although the both of you considered your shared apartment with Brian to really be “home”, it was barely that when Brian started to move his girlfriend in.

 It’s not that you and Roger disliked her, she just had lots of furniture, and three people in a small flat was crowded enough, let alone four. 

 That’s when you and Roger decided to relocate elsewhere so Brian and his girl could have some privacy.

 You and Roger had been friends since high school, and had been close ever since. You were now both in your mid twenties, and your friendship was still going very strong.

 So much so that the both of you had no problem living alone together rather than finding partners yourselves to settle down with.

 So this is how you ended up here; house shopping with your drummer roommate and best friend.

 You’d spoken to Roger about the benefits of moving out before. not only would a move be convenient for space, but your work, as well as the recording studio Roger often used with Queen, were closer.

 There were so many pros to moving, and little to no cons. It was something you both eventually felt you had to do.

 "I know this is the first one we’re looking at, and we only just got through the door, but I’m already in love with this place.“

 You moved deeper into the house as you spoke, grabbing Roger’s hand in the process to drag him along. At the end of the hall, a large empty room sat, the sun shining brightly through the large front window.

 "I can clearly imagine this to be our living room,” you exclaimed, letting go of Roger’s hand and moving around the room and pointing to certain corners and walls to speak your visions about which pieces of furniture would look best where.

 Of course, Roger wasn’t exactly sold on the place yet, but he crossed his arms, and listened intently to your opinions.

 This was going to be your place as well, after all.

 "And here is where we can put that picture of us at– oh my god, is that the kitchen?!“ You playfully pushed Roger out of the way to get to the kitchen. He turned to give you a playful glare, but soon followed along.

 "This is getting better,” Roger voiced as he stepped into the kitchen after you, nodding his head in approval.

 The kitchen was bright, clean, and very welcoming.

 Everything about this place was very welcoming.

 "God, couldn’t you just imagine us making cookies and cakes in here?“ 

 "You mean burning,” he corrected.

 "Just shut up and daydream with me.“

 Roger laughed, his hand resting on your shoulder again, and his chin propped on the opposite one.

 "We sound like a married couple, don’t we, Doll?”

 "We do,“ you agreed.

 Roger sighed gently before moving away from you and beckoning you towards him with his finger. "Upstairs time.”

 Upstairs was what you two expected. A nice bathroom, a master bedroom, and two smaller rooms. 

 "I call the master bedroom.“

 "You’re joking,” Roger retorted. 

 "I called it first!“

 "You know what,” Roger sighed. You smiled, clearly under the impression you’d won the argument so soon.

 "Why don’t we just share a bed?“ Roger teased, raising an eyebrow and smirking. You smirked back. 

 "You’d like that, huh, pretty boy?” Roger laughed, shaking his head and looking back into the large empty room. 

 "We should just use it for a storage room or something. Mediation.“

 "You suck at being a mediator,” you voiced. Roger rolled his eyes at your response. 

 "That’s why John makes a lot of decisions for the band. C’mon. We can fight about this later, Doll.“ He nodded to the staircase to the bottom floor.

 You led him outside by the hand, and the both of you took a step back to look at the house one more time. 

 "I really like it,” you told Roger. 

 "It is really nice,“ he agreed. He looked over at you, who was too busy admiring the house’s exterior.

 The last time Roger saw you look at anything like that, you were admiring your high school sweetheart– your first love.

 Roger knew you’d die for this place.

 "Let’s go talk to the landlady, then. Tell her we’re interested.” Your eyes lit up brightly, and you turned to Roger. The smile on your face looked like it hurt. 

“Really?!”

 "Really,“ Roger grabbed your wrist, and led you off to the complex’s office without another word.

 And you happily followed close behind, your hand tightening around his.

                                                                   "Your references look really good,” the landlady, Tina Welch, commented with a grin.

 "You guys are definitely eligible for the condo! I just need to ask a question or two if that’s alright.“

 She examined the both of you over the thick lenses of her glasses, your references bouncing in her thin hands.

 You and Roger looked at one another for a moment before agreeing.

 "How long have you been together?”

 "Uh– excuse me?“ Roger was the first to answer Tina’s question with another. 

 Tina raised an eyebrow, and cleared her throat. "This complex is full of small families, couples, and those attempting to start families. I only rent out to serious couples.”

 You looked over to Roger, and he could see the glint of worry in your eyes.

 "You two are together… Right?“ You held your breath for a long time, but you were eventually able to release a sigh, and prepare to tell Tina the bad news.

. But your words caught in your throat when you felt Roger’s hand grasp yours tenderly on the arm of the chair you were sitting in. 

 "Of course!” Roger laughed airily. “We weren’t expecting a question about that, sorry.”

 You snapped your head to watch Roger in disbelief.

 "We’ve been together for about…” Roger estimated, looking to his left as he gave thought, puffing up his cheeks and exhaling slowly. “What is it, five years now? It must be.“ You watched silently as he improvised so easily.

 He looked over at you, smiling warmly.

 You’d only seen him smile this way towards his old girlfriends.

 "Right, Love?”

 Even you could tell Roger found the word funny in his mouth when acknowledging you, but you nodded your head.

 "Y-yes. Wow. Never realized how fast time has gone by,“ you nervously squeezed Roger’s hand, and the both of you turned to Tina, who smiled warmly. 

 "I could tell there was a strong connection. Five years is a very long time.”

 Roger saw Tina look over the desk at your left hand. You weren’t branding a ring of any kind.

 "Do you plan on getting married any time soon?“

 Your stomach dropped at the next unexpected question. "Married?”

 Roger covered for you again, clearing his throat.

 "Hopefully soon. After settling here fully, of course.“ Roger lifted your hand up, and he kissed the back of it. You continued to study his sudden behavioural change.

 Tina watched you with a small amount of suspicion, but after smiling at her with a believable grin, her face relaxed, and she slid the keys over to Roger. 

 "Welcome home, you two.”

                                                                    "What the fuck was that?!“ You knew this car ride home was going to be anything but quiet.

 "We got the place you wanted, didn’t we?" Roger’s behaviour, bubbly and happy, was a great contrast to you– stressed, and upset.

 Roger actually had the audacity to drum his fingers on the steering wheel and nod his head to imaginary music in his joyous state.

 "Yes Roger, but at what cost?! Telling our landlady we’re together?!” You began to spiral into a small panic.

 Roger just shook his head like it was no big deal.

 No big deal your ass.

 "What about those monthly checkups she mentioned? We have to make it look like we share that bedroom! And what of the neighbours?! Tina is probably telling them about the “new couple next door” right now!“

 Roger stopped nodding his head and drumming his fingers. He actually sat and thought about the situation, and considered your worries.

 He was personally fine with what he did. He’d dealt with fake relationships before when it came to publicity.

 However, in your defence, you were not accustomed to doing something like this, and that made him begin to feel a little guilty.

 "Look y/n, I’m sorry. I didn’t think things would be this complicated.” He tried to think of upsides to the situation in order to calm you, although very few came up.  

“You aren’t exactly a very social person. We don’t have to have an awful housewarming party or have weekend barbecues at the kind middle-aged couple’s a few doors down.”

 "What are you saying?“

 Roger smiled at you the like how he did in Tina’s office.

 "I’m saying… we only have to pretend to be a couple in public. In the complex. That’s all. It’s not like we’re going to live day-to-day as an actual couple. We’ll go to work, get together afterwards, sleep in different beds, repeat. Just like at Brian’s.”

 "… Are you sure it’ll be that simple?“

 Roger shrugged. "We just need to remember to be a little more romantic and touchy around people. Besides, how hard can it really be?”

 His response echoed through your head for the rest of the car ride home.

 How hard can this really be?

                                                                 A/A/N: I know this one is really shitty and short, but I promise it will pick up after this.

As always, suggestions and feedback are always welcome. Maybe help contribute to my stories by giving me ideas below!

@benders-diamond-earring @radiob-l-a-hblah @bohemiansweede @demo-wise @culturefiendtrashqueen

[bangtaninfiresaubrey]

Hoseok- LOVING YOUR ASS IS EXHAUSTING PT 2: (BUT I WOULDN’T HAVE IT ANY OTHER WAY)

Summary: Taehyung is a detective and you get into some trouble, so he's originally your interrogator, but he ends up giving you love advice OR It takes a slice of thug life for you to realize that you love Hoseok, too.

Word Count: 1,716

Third Person P.O.V.

“Excuse me, ma’am!  You have to pay for that!  Miss!?  Hey!!”

“Someone call the police!  She’s stealing!”

“No, I’m not stealing, I swear!  Just trust me!  I’ll come back, I promise!” you yell to the cashier, trying to get out of there as fast as you can.  You stop, halfway out of the store, panicking that you might actually get arrested.

"Likely story, princess, I’m calling the cops!” one of the managers announces, obviously way too used to excuses like the one you just gave him.  Instead of staying at the store and actually paying for your item, you act without thinking and run out of the building.

If I could just get to my apartment, you thought. If I just get there as fast as I can, everything will be fine.  Of course it’s kind of hard to tell yourself that, given your current situation along with the fact that you’ll probably be sued by the landlady because of it.

Unfortunately for you, you only get to the corner of the street before the cops are right on top of you.  You had managed to keep them at a distance for a good minute or so before you couldn’t run anymore.  At that point, you realized you had messed up… just a little bit.  And not just because you actually thought you could outrun two police cars.  Putting down the stolen item, you put your hands up and sighed in defeat.

...

“Hoseok, I’m scared,” you whispered into the police station phone.

“You’re not panicking right now, are you?”

“…No,” your voice wavered just a little bit, giving him the tell-tale sign that you were obviously lying.

“Y/n, I don’t know what you did, and I don't care if you're panicking, just... do it quietly.  The cops can’t know how weak you are.  You have to act tough.  I’m sure you didn’t even do anything that bad.”  You just nodded, too caught up in the anxiety this moment was causing you to actually remember that he can’t see you.  But before you had the chance to snap out of it and reply, one of the large security guards came to you and told you that your time was up.  Time for your interrogation.

“Miss y/l/n, you are currently facing two charges: thievery and resisting arrest.  Depending on the current condition of your apartment and the temperament of your landlord, you may be facing an extra charge or two,” the man stated, glancing between you and your case papers with a serious, almost intimidating look on his face.  You wouldn’t have been so scared of him if he wasn’t so tall; not to mention his voice was a hell of a lot deeper than his cute, child-like facial features let people believe.  “I can help you with those two if you tell me what happened.  Do you want to maybe explain to me why you stole a ten thousand won fire extinguisher and ran from the police?  What is that in American money, like nine dollars?” he asked, waiting for you to reply with a slightly-amused smirk on his face, confusing you even further on whether you should consider him scary or harmless.

“It’s actually a really long story…” you replied nervously, trying to gain some of your composure to tell the detective about it (but also kind of stalling).  His smirk grows wider in response.

“I’ve got all day, sweetheart.  You’re obviously not getting out of this anytime soon unless you start talking… and you’ve got a lot of that to do, hun.”

You heave another defeated sigh in reply and begin telling him the story.

…

“Wow.  Okay.  It's official, this is the worst case I've ever worked on, and that's including the one with the dog as a suspect.  So you really mean to tell me that all of this is because of some stupid friend of yours?”

“He’s not just any friend.  He’s… been there for me.  No matter what I’ve been through, he’s the one that’s gotten me through it.  He’s amazing, beautiful, funny, smart… he’s a really good dancer,” you continue, not realizing that you’re actually gushing about your best friend, not even caring that your interrogator, who you now know goes by the name ‘Taehyung’, is probably looking at you weird because this is not information he needs to know.  “And man, can the boy sing.  He’s even better at rapping.  Whenever I think about what our futures will be like, I know we’ll still be best friends.  He’ll have a career in dance and a night job as a bar-singer.  He’s always saying how he loves nightlife stuff.  And once he’s found someone to marry, she’ll be so beautiful and she’ll be really good to him.  They’ll probably have three or four kids; Hoseok’s really good with kids.  And when we both have families, his kids will have playdates with my kids at least once a week.  They’ll be best friends, too…” you finish, going into your own dreamland of your future with Hoseok.  And then it hits you.  You love Hoseok.  As in you-are-never-going-to-let-him-go-no-matter-what love him.

“I think it’s great that you love this man, I really do.  But you should probably tell him how you feel before he goes and finds some other girl.  It sounds like you two are pretty much made for each other.  And that’s not including the fact that you are willing to—granted, only by accident—burn down your kitchen trying to show him your affection and go to jail for him by stealing a fire extinguisher and refuse being arrested because the food you made for him is so precious.  That’s love, right there,” he muses.  “However, I would suggest trying to get out of this mess, first.  I’ll do what I can to get them to drop the charges and clean your record.  You really shouldn’t be having a criminal rep.  You’re too nice for that.  But, in the meantime, I’m forced to have you sit in one of the temporary holding cells.”  You nod in acceptance and thank the man in front of you, shaking his hand.  You both stand and he escorts you out of the room so you can be led to your cell.  Taehyung promises to call Hoseok for you, that way you can get out as soon as possible.  Wow, you think.  I definitely didn’t think I’d be in a prison cell during any part of my life.

…

“Well, this is a nice change of scenery,” you hear a very familiar voice state from a short distance.  You immediately look up from the bench you are sitting on and give him a mocking, sarcastic smile.  

“It's a prison cell,” you reply, continuing his reference.

“I was being sarcastic,” he finishes the quote and smiles in return.  “How’s the thug life treating you?  Did you make any new friends?” he asks mockingly, imitating the voice of those stereotypical mothers that everyone sees on TV.

“It’s not as scary as I thought.  I had a feeling I’d be sitting in a corner, keeping myself away from huge, bearded guys with tattoos,” you joke.

“So, what’s this I hear?  You decided to blow up half of your apartment complex just for me?  That’s risky business, y/n.  Next time, a simple confession, a tub of ice cream and a movie would suffice.  That way you don’t create a food-bomb in your kitchen,” he jests.

“Joke’s on you, I regret nothing,” you counter with a small chuckle.  “Except maybe that I’ll have to pay the landlady a bunch of money so she can get someone to fix everything.  Which leaves me even further in debt, since it looks like I’ll be eating out for a while…”

“Nonsense,” he objects.  “You’ll just live with me.  I could use the extra company.  Besides, I think we both have some things we need to say to each other,” he concluded.  You looked at him in surprise, only to see the hint of blush on his cheeks as he looks down at the clipboard of paperwork.  Hoseok filled out your release forms and the charges were dropped, leaving your resisted arrest the only thing on your record.

As you both exited the police station, Hoseok just looked at you.  “I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that you actually wanted to make me—not just one—but three different Korean meals, just to impress me.  You could have made me a couple cheeseburgers or something so you didn’t have as much of a difficult time making me food.”

“All this seemed like a good idea yesterday, but now you’re starting to make me think otherwise.”

“And I would assume that those thoughts would entail the fact that you should cook with a supervisor next time?” he asks, his challenging smile returning to his gorgeous, full lips.  You look at him with a mock expression of hurt and irritation.

“No, actually.  I was thinking something along the lines of, wow, my best friend sure is an ungrateful son-of-a-bitch. I try to make him food and show him that I love him and here he is telling me I don’t know how to boil water.”  In that moment, Hoseok’s mind couldn’t even begin to register the fact that you were being rude because of those three special words.  Those three words that he had been waiting for you to say all his life.  Those three words that he had waited exactly seventeen years and forty-three days to hear.  Those words that he never believed you would say to him in return when he mentally told you them every day.  With just those three words, his world was complete.  Everything was perfect.  He was free to love you just as intensely, openly, and deeply as he had always wanted to.  He was free to speak his mind without worrying about you leaving him.

“I love you too, dork,” was his only verbal reply.  However, when you looked into his eyes, and he looked into yours, you exchanged more than just smiles.  It felt as though—in that moment—you were having a lifetime’s worth of conversation and unspoken emotions that couldn’t be explained with anything other than these three words:

Pure.  True.  Love.

[orenbeval-blog]

Rosie Watson’s Diary - Tue.12/02/2030 (part 1)

Actually, yesterday, we got caught. Yifan, Kiara and I, in the toilets. That was a shame. A tremendous humiliation !!! ANOYING ANOYING ANOYING ! 

"Ms. Rosamund Watson was found hiding inside the WC with two of here classmates instead of attending her class."

I tried to bargain, Yifan even tried her magical “sweet-bunny look” and almost cried, “please, don’t put the word WC on it”… but there was nothing to do… The clerk just went on, heartless. Damn grownups !!!

 GOD ! And my parents... well actually my official parent has to sigh this.

Gggggggggh, I'm done. Farewell human dignity. How could one be so cruel ???

Anyway. This is not that bad compared to :

- my fucked Chinese vocabulary test I will also have to hand back signed next week and (Lol, I got D-. The teacher said she avoided the E because I was able to write my name flawless... sooo kind, I LOVE to be pitied at…) well,

- to Daddy not having been home since Saturday evening,  and

- to me, sleeping at Molly's and only getting news through Irene Adler and Harry regarding my parents.

Actually, on Sunday, after Irene Adler had decided... wait, I found that word... I looked it up in Molly's old Harap's book (God, she actually IS old...) ow yes : unilaterally.

So, once Irene Adler had decided unilaterally (meaning : without taking my opinion into account) to end our conversation, I slowly went down. I didn't know what to expect. And I found a totally hazed Sherlock wearing his dark red dressing gown over the very cloths he was wearing on Saturday's evening, pacing wild around in the kitchen while smoking. YES. He was smoking. He saw me and froze. This was bad. But even worse, his loose gaze, not being able to focus. I shyly tried to pretend everything was fine :

"Morning !"

But it wasn't fine. He did not answer. He just started to pace again. Ooookay. So... this was Sherlock without Daddy for one night. I didn't want to picture a Sherlock without Daddy for one day. Imagine two days ??? God he had to come back, roof jump or no roof jump, this was ridiculous ! I wanted my life back. Still want. And my parents. Both of them.

"Watson... what about spending the Sunday with Molly ?"

He was not even looking at me. This was not a question. As I already said, I am an almost grownup, I know when it is useless and when it is useful to argue. So I went up, called Molly and half an hour later, she was picking me up. As I went down, Mrs H. poked out her door, silently asking what all this was about. I just shrugged. I didn't know. Something about a roof and about my mother. She rolled her eyes and made an annoyed noise. She nevertheless wished me a happy Sunday and went up. I love her. Molly was silent. Stella was at her place. We had a cosy breakfast and talked about Paris. Stella had looked up : it really might work.

Around noon, I got a text from Harry : "Rosie, my love, this is Daddy. I am at Harry's. I forgot my phone at home. I needed a bit space. I will be home tomorrow evening, do not worry."

"I am at Molly’s.”

“Good.”

“Dad, Sherlock is smoking."

"Rosie... I know."

As Molly and Stella settled in to watch some dull romance on Netflix, I turned back to Irene Adler. I was not done with her. Not the slightest.

15:34 - Are you a lesbian ?

15:43- Oh. Junior is back. Would have been surprised if not. So we are discussing sexual orientation now ?

15:43 - Are you a lesbian ?

15:44 - Define lesbian.

15:44 - A woman falling for women ?

15:45 - Fine then... define woman.

15:44 - A person with a vagina ?

15:53 - Please, Junior, I have no time for that. Educate yourself : go down to the Landlady and ask her for "Gender Troubles" by Judith Butler, and “The Second Sex” by Simone de Beauvoir. Learn how one is not born, but rather becomes a woman and start distinguishing the terms "sex" and "gender". That will do for a start. And then, we might actually be able to have somewhat of a proper conversation. 

15:53 - I can't go down, I am not home, Sherlock sent me away.

15:53 - You won't make me cry, Darling.

15:54 - Maybe you should talk to him... he was smoking in the kitchen, this morning.

15:58 - Mmmh... Did your parents have a domestic ? All couples do, no matter to worry there. Let the big brainy boy smoke. This has always turned his Doctor on, they will have great dinner after that. Angry smoky sex is the best one.

16:00 - How is sex related to diner ?

16:02 - Well it is. Ask your parents, might be fun.

16:05 - Is all this somehow related to army boots ?

16:05 - Well this is getting really funny. Army boots ? Who told you about that ?

16:06 - What's a kink ?

16:06 - Junior, where is this conversation supposed to lead to ? Is this sex ed ? Can't you google yourself around and gain this knowledge by yourself ? 

16:07 - Well... I have no personal computer, only my phone. And Daddy can see every single webpage or google request I made on the monthly bill. I can't... do research on that. He would now.

16:08 - Well if you get caught while searching "army boots kink" on the internet, I promise you, you will have some fun. Add “smoky eyes make-up kink” and your grace will be complete.

16:10 – Whatever. Are you a lesbian ?

16:11 – Well… I’m married to a woman. Does that make me a lesbian ?

16:11 – Is the Hooper girl a lesbian ?

16:12 – She is not married.

16:12 – Well, that is actually interesting. So to be a lesbian, one has to be married ? You consider this to be a social construct, then ? Maybe you are more educated than I thought.

16:13 – Er…

16:15 – Okay, got it. I overrated you. We actually won’t be able to have an interesting conversation. That saddens me. Kate being out, I was hoping for some distraction.

16:15 -  Who is Kate ?

16:16 – My wife.

16:18 – If you are married to a woman and Sherlock is married to my Daddy (who is a man), that makes you a lesbian and Sherlock a gay man ?

16:19 – Well, basically, leaving out all the sophistication and subtlety of actual real world sexual orientation, yes, it’s a way to put this. Why you are insisting on the “being married part”, I don’t know.

16:20 – Well marriage is a commitment, no ? So… if you marry someone, you chose him/her and that should mean that you will stick to him/her and this will lead to… prevent your sexuality from… changing somehow ?

16:21 – Junior, you know that some people do actually marry for tax refund, don’t you ?

16:21 – Oh.

16:22 – Sorry to break your false “romantic” marriage idea. Well, no, I’m not sorry. Anyway, no, marriage never prevented anyone’s sexuality from… evolving. Even a “love marriage” based on true commitment. One’s sexuality, identity, tastes, etc. are fluid matter. It may always evolve.

16:23 – But do you like guys ?

16:24 – Well… I happen to have liked some guys. But generally speaking, my comfort zone definitively evolves around women.

16:24 – How long have you been with Kate ?

16:25 -  I fail to understand how this is any of your concern ?

16:25 – Were you already settled with her, in love with her, when you met my parents ? When was that ? Is she The One ? Was she already at that time ?

16:26 – Junior, why restrain to one single person ? You may love several... even at the same time.

16:24 -  Wait, really ?

16:25 – Yes. It’s not always possible to “chose” between to (or more !) people. Love is always valid. Shared or not. Everything else is bullshit.

16:26 – So… if someone does love… let’s say a girl and a boy at the same time, that is valid ?

16:27 – Yes Darling, it is. The love is valid. The situation may be complicated to handle, though. You may wanna read some books by Franklin Veaux or Dossie Easton about polyamory.

16:28 – Is Sherlock polyamorous ?

16:29 – Junior, I can’t follow your thoughts process. Why are we talking about Sherlock Holmes here ? You really think that dude may be able to handle more than one romantic relation at a time ? Are we talking about the same man ?

16:31 – Does Sherlock like women ?

16:32 – Junior…

16:32 – So ?

16:35 -  I shouldn’t answer that… but regarding Sherlock… I am pretty confident in saying that he is the “level zero” reference for sexual orientation fluidity. I guess he wouldn’t even notice if he suddenly happened to feel something -physical- for a woman...

16:37 -  So… no, he doesn’t like women.

16:39 – But… then... WHY is Daddy THAT jealous about you if you are a lesbian liking women and Sherlock is a gay man not liking women and he is not polyamorous and…

16:42 – Oh.

16:42 -  Now I get it.

16:43 -  So ?

16:54 – Darling. We never met, but you should now that I am what is commonly called an attractive woman. It’s actually part of my job. Your Sherlock Dad is (even if you might not perceive him that way) an utmost attractive man. John Watson is well aware of that. He has the eyes and the mind-set to feel both our respective attractiveness.

16:56 – We all three met at a time where your parents were not officially a couple. I know what people like, I saw it from the very start that those two really liked each other. Anyway, that wasn’t clear to them. I tried to help a bit in that matter. Worked well.

16:58 – John Watson is also an attractive man, but he fails to notice this about himself. He also fails to understand that not everyone is like him, being able to feel attracted, with no distinction, on a regular basis, to both, men and women, regardless of gender. He likes boobs and beards equally. So it might just appear normal to him that Sherlock Holmes might want to shag me, fall in love and buy me a cottage in Sussex. But he is wrong. Couldn’t be more wrong.  Army boots don’t suit me AT ALL, that alone would make it impossible on the long run ;)

17:00 – Anyway… Sherlock Holmes being smart but not that smart, he fails to understand all this. Or he understands it in some way, but not completely. He used to use me to make your Daddy jealous without actually knowing why your Daddy would get jealous. Had his fun. But now, damage is done that cannot be undone. Your Dads are two idiots.

17:03 -  And why is Sherlock jealous of my Mum ?

17:04 – Oh. Serious matter, here.

17:05 -  Leave the past being the past, Junior. You’re the future. Enjoy it.

[theonewhostories-blog]

THE ONE I MET IN REAL LIFE

This one is my most recent nightmare, sorry, I mean date.  You’ve probably already spotted the unusual element in this story - I met him in real life. I don’t know about you, but I didn’t even know that happened any more.

So here’s how it went. My mate organised a pub crawl and about three glasses of prosecco in, her lodger turns up. He’s not my normal type but he’s quite cute and catches my eye. Plus my friends go on at me all the time about how my ‘type’ doesn't work out  for me and that I shouldn’t be so fussy, so I’m trying to broaden my horizons.  We chat a bit, he seems quite cool, so I check with my mate to see if he’s single. And what do you know, he is. Well knock me down with a feather.

The night goes on quite late and when the pubs shut we end up back and my friend’s (and by default his) house. Back at the house we get chatting (and flirting) properly and it seems like the feeling is mutual. Towards the end of the night we end up snogging in the kitchen like teenagers whilst everyone stops what they're doing and stares. Slightly awkward.

Next day I get a few texts from him, but it becomes clear quite quickly he isn't a big texter (or at least not with me). Over the next week or so we exchange a few texts but it’s quite hard work. I’m on the verge of sacking it off when he asks me if I want to go for drink. Talk about taking your time buddy.

Fast forward to the big day. It’s a Sunday so we arrange to meet for a drink at 6pm. He’s quite touchy feely from the get-go and we’ve barely touched our first drink when he asks if I want to go for dinner. Why not, eh? So off to dinner we go, get on well, fairly decent convo and all that jazz. We finish dinner and he doesn’t let me go halves on the bill and insists of paying (seems keen right?).  

We then head off to the pub for one last drink before going home. As soon as we get there he steps up the touchy-feeliness and starts playing with my hand when we sit down. A little while later we have a bit of a smooch, after which he starts looking at me funny. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’, I ask. Legitimate question when you’re being looked at like you’re a unicorn. ‘I’m just trying to work you out’, comes his answer. Now here is the thing. I’m a very straightforward kind of person and what you see is what you get, so this kind of interrogating is completely pointless. I tell him as such. He continues with that weird look. ‘Stop it, it’s kinda off-putting’, I think. Then there are some more smooches, before he starts sending mixed messages. One minute, he’s saying 2017 is the year he wants to buy a house and find a girlfriend, then the next, he’s ‘not sure where his head at’. Now, I learnt my lesson a while ago about trusting my instincts (see my previous post - https://tinyurl.com/zu5vpoz), so alarm bells are sounding telling me he’s just not that into it. And for once I’m listening to them.

We finish our drinks and he walks me to the bus stop, and waits with me for my bus (his mum brought him up fairly well). To kill the time we swap snogging like teenagers in the kitchen for snogging like teenagers at a bus stop.  A few minutes later I jump on the bus and give a quick wave goodbye, not entirely knowing how the night went.  I decide there and then to wait for him to text, as I’m not 100% sure I’m bothered either, but I’d probably go on another date to decide if he asked.

Now before I continue and tell you what happened next, I need to tell you a bit about my type. I didn't realise I had a type up until The One Who Started It All (see https://tinyurl.com/j9yurbm) unceremoniously threw our life together out the window and I had to enter the land of dating for the first time nearly eight years. Actually, it was probably longer than that, as I had to get all the crying out of the way first… Internet dating was new then and it quickly became apparent to all of my friends (and me) that I only ever liked/swiped/poked handsome men with dark hair and beards. And they had to be tall. Not giants, as I’m a mere five foot one and a very important quarter, but taller enough than me so we wouldn't look like a hobbit couple.  The One I Met In Real Life couldn’t have been further from this. For starters he was short. And I mean really short. With fairly small heels on (me not him) he was basically the same height as me.  Now that is short. That’s dwarf couple short.  Yeah he was cute-ish, but not up to my normal standards - he didn't have beard for starters. Just really spikey, uncomfortable stubble. And to make him a real catch, it transpired throughout the course of the date that he was deaf. With hearing aids and everything. That he had to fiddle with every now and again and thought I didn't notice. Now don’t get me wrong, there is nothing wrong with being deaf, but it does make for quite a funny addition to the story.

So, after that diversion, I’ll continue the story. Three days go by, nothing. My mate who he lives with tries to find out what he’s thinking about it, but he gives nothing away. Fibs in fact and says that nothing had happened on the date. Then on the Thursday, my mate tries to hassle me into going to her house as another good friend is also going over for dinner. I resist quite strongly at first because (A) it’s a bit weird as it’s so soon after the date and (B) I have other plans to meet a friend.  The eve goes on and my two mates keep going on at me to come over, so when I finish up with dinner fairly early, I decide to sod it and just go over. Only he’s come home. He’s meant to be out all night but is back early. Dammit, what do to? I’m a bit pissed at this point so I think fuck it, I’ll just text him and tell him that I hope it’s not too weird but that they’ve been going on at me about coming over all week and I’m coming over to see them on my way home (subtext, I’m not coming to see you so don’t flatter yourself). Only before I pressed send I should have read my mate’s last text. The one that said he’d not come home on his own. The one that said he was with a lady friend. Awks.

Bollocks I think. Why the fuck didn't I read her text properly? And what on earth am I going to do now?!  I obviously can’t go over, that really would be weird, so I’m going to have to recover from that text. I decide to go with a breezy ‘ Ah I should have read [my mate’s name]’s latest text. Don't worry I won’t intrude!’. Swallow me up world. In my drunken state I’m also very annoyed that I can’t go and hang out with my friends, as I’ve got to that point in the night where I really want another drink rather than to go home. So I do what any self respecting single girl would do and ring my gay best friend who duly meets me for a couple more G&Ts. God love him.

Now, as I said before, I’m not overly fussed about this guy, but the situ is a bit awkward given he lives with my friend. And since I’m good friends with his landlady, you’d expect he wouldn't want to shit where he eats and that he might reply, if not that night but the next day, with an ‘I’m sorry about that, bit awkward!’. So does he? Of course he doesn’t.

Two and a half weeks go by without a peep, and to be honest I haven’t thought twice about it for two of those weeks, when yesterday all of a sudden, out of the blue, and against zero context, I get this little gem:

‘Thanks [insert my name] for being considerate. Sorry if I wasn’t clear but life is a bit mad for me at the mo. I do hope you find someone to share all those trips with and have a great time.’

What the actual fuck?

At first it takes me a minute to work out who on earth it’s from and what it’s about, as I’d deleted his number the night of the unfortunate texts. ‘Thanks for being considerate’. Obviously he really meant ‘sorry for being a dickhead’.  As for ‘not being clear’, no, you weren’t, but neither was I sitting at home pining for you.  All it takes is a little text to say ‘I had a nice time but I’m not sure we’re right for each other’, to which I would most likely agree. Like grown ups.  And don't get me started on ‘I do hope you find someone to share all those trips with’. Was he not listening to anything I said? Travelling solo for five months was the most empowering thing I’ve ever done. There is absolutely no need to feel sorry for me and ‘hope’ I find someone to tag along. I don’t need one person, when I travel I end up making countless new friends and can do exactly as I please without compromising for some fucker that doesn’t want to go and see the thing I want to. So The One I Met In Real Life, take your pity and shove it up your (rather short) arse.

Needless to say, I didn't reply.  I have no idea why he felt the need to send me that message. But what did this one teach me? It taught me not to go against my type and what I find truly attractive about a person, because they’re most likely going to end up being a dickhead anyway. So they might as well be a smoking hot dickhead.

And for the record having a type isn’t fussy. It’s called having standards.