#spaghetti washer
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ao3 re: izzy hands
#everyone who recognises at least 2 of the fics on here: i’m starting a support group /j#our flag means death#izzy hands#steddyhands#ofmd#ao3#spaghetti washer
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27 with doctor! abby au please 🙏!!
𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐞
abby anderson x fem! reader - drabble
sorry this literally took me a millennium.. i kept getting it wrong and having to rewrite 😭 .
anon left a second note, it read: “same anon who requested 27 with doctor abby! i forgot to add i want angst with fluff at the end if possible. thanks:)”
tags - angsty 🥀, mentions of light loneliness, relationship problems.. fluff at the end!!!
Abby having late night shifts was nothing knew.
She was a surgeon, staying late was apart of her job. but sometimes you wished it wasn’t.
she always came back extremely exhausted, only having the strength to mutter a few ‘thank you’s’ when she eats the food you made her before she goes to sleep. resting all night and getting up at the crack of dawn. You barely see her, and when you do, it’s not for long.
you do miss her, you miss really being around her and having her eyes and attention and love on you, but with her job… it wasn’t that simple. you had your own job, yeah, you were the owner of a small bakery downtown. but you ran that business, you had employees and assistant managers to cover for when you couldn’t make it, and abby didn’t.
you sigh deeply, shutting your eyes upon the refreshing feeling of the cold air flushing out your lungs. Abby was most likely working another late shift at the Hospital. No surprise, you loved her, and her job, but she’d said she would be back by 6:30 to have the promised dinner you were thrilled to make. you’d been going on about it for weeks, asking when she would swear to be free, and she had pinky swore that this wednesday— today— would be perfect.
but, here you sat. alone at the table, your plate empty as the one across from you was full, the once warm food now cold. You weren’t angry, no, you understood. Obviously, she’d come back if she could, obviously she’d stay with you if she could. but she couldn’t. being a doctor was hard, and you understood.
You stood up, taking your plate and utensils with you to the sink. overlooking all the dishes you’d dirtied to try and perfect this dish for her. You rinsed your dishes and placed them in the dishwasher, going to gather the other ones and wash them, putting the plates, bowls, spoons and such in the washer. Your thoughts went back to the day you’d told her. she walked through the door at her usual retuning time, smiling at you when you ran up to her for a hug. You’d asked her the usuals; ‘how was your day?’ ‘anything exciting happen?’ ‘was dina as smart as she usually is?’ ‘were jesse and ellie as weird as usual?’ she’d laughed at your dumb questions, answering them as she took off her shoes and placed down her bag, walking with you to the kitchen. then, you be brought it up.
“abs, i found this super cool, almost gourmet recipe, and i thought i could make it for us to have for dinner on a night that works for you.” you offered, watching as she practically inhaled the spaghetti and meatballs you’d made for dinner. She chewed for a moment, smiling at your words. she swallowed, looking at you. “that sounds great, baby. what is it?”
“can’t tell ya! have to kill ya.” you teased, leaning on the counter and grinning at her eye roll. “okay, whatver.”
“what day works for you? i want you to actually have it free so you don’t miss the freshness of the food.” you inquired, watching as she squinted her eyes in thought. “next wednesday. some construction is going on at the hospital and me and a few others are being let of early.. around 6:30, so that’s perfect.” she replied, twisting her spoon to gather some noodles. you beamed, leaned closer “you pinky swear?.”
“i pinky swear.”
you bit your bottom lip, gnawing at the now raw flesh at the reminiscence of the memory. You always tried to be open, not upset— but you were hurt. You hadn’t actually, really had dinner with her for months.
it wasn’t her fault. you’d told yourself, knowing it wasn’t. You didn’t want to take her work schedule to heart.. but something inside you cracked every time she broke a promise. You huffed angrily, brows furrowing harshly as you aggressively scrubbed the pan you’d used. the dish had took you most of the day, calling ahead to your employees yesterday to let them know you wouldn’t be there, you spent seven hours perfecting this recipe.
even the name of the dish took you time to read. ‘Prosciutto-Wrapped Pork Tenderloin with Crispy Sage, a side of Salade Niçoise (from france) and a side dish of duchess potatoes.’
you knew abby would fall to her knees from joy upon hearing those food titles. she’d love to have it with you, and that’s why you made it. so she’d love it. but she’s not here to have it with you like she said.
before you knew it, the kitchen was clean. stepping to the dinner table, you scooped up her plate of food and nicely wrapped it in plastic wrap. taking a piece of paper from the notepad on the fridge and writing her a small note. You weren’t trying to be rude, in fact, you tried everything in you to he as kind as possible— but after being bailed on four times in the past three months, you were at the edge of a line. you put the paper on the plate, leaving it on the counter for her alongside some water before storming off to your shared bedroom— barely, shared bedroom. you made it, cleaned it, kept it tidy, rearranged it, etcetera.
tearing off your nice shirt, you tossed it to the floor. usually, you’d wear one of abby’s shirts during her night shifts, the lingering smell bringing you comfort— but now, the thought of her made you internally irk.
you took a shirt from your drawer , tossing it over your head and shoulders, sliding it on. You didn’t same with your pants, taking off the nice linen fabric and fuming as you put on crappy old shorts.
You basically threw yourself into bed, putting a pillow between your side, and abbys side of the bed. hoping she’d get the message. i mean, it’s not like she’ll have the time to talk to you about it tomorrow anyways, right?
˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
abby sigh as the door to your shared apartment opened, her hand pulling out the key she’d used to unlock it. you don’t usually lock the door.
She knew she’d fucked up.
you’d been so excited for this, chatting about it and reminding her to not be late. and she was late. four hours late.
Abbys dropped her bag by the door as she usually does, sliding off her work shoes and sliding on her slippers before walking to the kitchen.
the lights were out, it was cleaned nicely. her eyes met a plate on the white marble counter, a lazily folded piece of paper on top.
She smiled lightly, knowing you’d be the kind to leave her a note. she reached for it, unfolding it.
“Hope the construction workers weren’t in your way. Enjoy.” abby’s smile fell, guilt flooded her every atom at the words. fuck.
she knew you’d be upset, she doesn’t know what she was expecting— she’d bailed on you four times, and she swore to be on time this one. but, she wasn’t.
Abby was getting ready to head out at 6:25 to be able to make it home early, the biggest grin tugged at her lips as she told all her co-workers about the meal you were preparing.
she was about to leave when an emergency was called in. It was bad, but she’d seen worse. this poor girls bone was completely shattered, a bad case of compartment syndrome. unluckily, her and mel were the only two true professionals still clocked in, leading to a four and a half hour long surgery.
by the time abby got out of the hospital, she basically ran to her car and sped home— praying that by some miracle you were still awake and waiting for her.
you weren’t.
She put the note down, eyes landing on the plate of food you’d left her.
it was beautiful.
the potatoes shaped perfectly, the prosciutto-wrapped tenderloin looked amazing; cooked to perfection, the salad beside it was also stunning.
Each course of the meal was placed individually and carefully on her plate. Abby’s stomach fell with guilt upon imagining you sitting alone, eating your meal without her.
Abby was mad at herself. not because of this single instance, but because she feels as if she’s choosing her career over you— and she would never, ever do such a thing.
Her life revolves around you, so much.. she’d been planning a little something with a ring.
but for some terrifying reason, she felt that you would refuse. why would you marry someone who you’d never be around? nausea ate at her stomach due to the thought, hoping it was only her crazy nighttime, overworked imagination.
Abby unwrapped the food, putting it in the microwave for a minute. You weren’t anywhere in sight, and so she assumed you’d gone to sleep. alone. again.
“fuck..” she murmured, regret running through her veins. She leaned on the counter, her muscular figure easily keeping her upright.
you were the love of her life— her light in the darkness, her jam to her bread, her peanut butter to her jelly— without you, she doesn’t know where she’d be, and thanks to her stupid work schedule, she’s beginning to think that’s starting to happen.
the timer went off, a loud beep ripping her from her thoughts. “oh shit— shh, shh— loud ass microwave.” she complained, taking out the food. The potatoes were now soft, the salad unfortunately warm do to being in the heat, but the rest of the meal was good temperature. Abby got a fork, quickly snagging a bite of the tenderloin. It was even better than you swore it would be. The juice of the meat flooded her mouth like the sea to the shore, accompanied with the small amount of potatoes that gathered on her fork; they were magnificent.
Abby had inhaled the meal, it being gone in a matter of inhuman minutes. She rinsed her dish, going to load it in the dishwasher— but seeing that you had ran it. she frown. you always made sure to never do that, claiming you ‘wanted to get the love she deserves, and love is definitely not having to do your own dish.’
she cleaned her dishes and walked across the house and down the hall to your shared bedroom, pushing the door open she saw you. laying on your side, hair lightly messy as it always was when you slept (she loved it.) and.. a pillow between your side and her side. she wondered what else she’d missed that you’d done.
Abby striped her pants, throwing on some sweats and a hoodie, sliding in bed beside you. She gripped the pillow and threw it so hard she was surprised it didn’t pop, and wrapped her ams around your wait.
you shuffled, grabbing her hand before it could do a full 360 and ripped it off you, harshly turning your back to her.
“babe,” she whispered softly, sadness coating her vocals.
you were reluctant, eyes snapped shut even though she knows your awake.
“I’m sorry, i’m so sorry. i really tried to be here, something unexpected came up, i swear i would have had been here.”
your silence had her itching at her skin.
“please say something.” she pleaded, her frown only deepening.
“whatever you say, abigail.”
abby grabbed the top of her head, ‘fuck’ running in her mind a thousand miles per hour. she really was in deep shit.
“i’m sorry, y/n, i don’t even think sorry can describe how sorry i am— i just, i wanted do come back, i couldn’t though. i couldn’t just leave the hospital, they needed me.” you clenched your jaw. her points were decent, great even— but you were petty.
“i’m sure they did.”
your little-word replies had abby at edge of her seat, suspense and fear building up.
“that’s all? nothing else?” she poked, confusion flooding her, anger starting to appear as well.
“yeah.”
she scoffed, sitting against the headboard. “You don’t have anything else to say? at all? i came back, yeah, i was late and i’m sorry, but—
“late?” you bit back, interrupting her. “you’ve bailed on me four times for dinner. You’ve always put your job before me, you’ve always had more time for your career— is this even working?”
those words were the ones abby feared the most. When you two began dating, she had told you about her passion, and where she worked. you found it fascinating, understanding completely. but, that was also when she used to spend genuine time with you.
“ i love you abby, i really do— but i can’t be with someone who puts a career before a person. I support your passions, and i wish nothing but the best for you, but I don’t want to be stood up by the person i’m dating anymore. fuck, abby, i took work off today to spend seven fucking hours making a meal you couldn’t even text me to say you couldn’t even show up for!” before you knew it, you’d sat up and looked at her, voice raising in a way she’d never heard.
“i know its not your choice, but you could at least find five fucking seconds to reply to my text.”
guild flooded her like a tsunami once again, a frown growing at the look on your face.
“I’m sorry.” she whispered out, watching as you sigh deeply.
“Don’t apologize, abby. it’s past that.” your reply scared her, fearing the worst; a break up. were you going to break up with her? were you going to leave her behind? she didn’t know, and she didn’t want to find out.
“how can i make it up to you?”
“i don’t even know if you can do that anymore.” you turned away, laying on your side, the pillow you’d somehow slipped between you both felt like a rock wall, each side of the bed you slept on cold; missing one another’s warmth.
abby stayed silent, internally scolding herself for being such a bad girlfriend and, frankly, not trying harder to be better.
˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
you woke up with a sore neck, probably from sleeping in a way you never do.
you didn’t need to look over to abby’s side of the bed to know she was gone. sitting up, you crack your once resting bones and stand up. Shuffling on your slippers, you walk to your bedroom door, twisting the cold handle and walking out.
Every morning you wake up after abby, she always kisses you goodbye before she leaves (or so she claims to.), grabs a quick bite to eat from the fridge and you are left to make breakfast for yourself. it was second nature, to wake up and immediately crack and egg or two.
but, something was off. It smelled almost.. good in the house. you ignored it, labeling it as your desperate imagination.
Your feet hobbled across the house, yawning deeply and shutting the bathroom door. looking in the mirror, you grimace. the eye bags on your face were not your strong suite, you noted.
quickly rinsing off your sleep, you brush your teeth along with your hair. each and every yawning that stole itself from your lips reminded you how much you needed your coffee. rubbing your eyes you opened the bathroom door and began your journey to the kitchen.
when you round the familiar corner, what you hadn’t expected was to see Abby in the room.
your eyes flew wide, her blonde hair was still down from sleeping, she had her glasses on and was hovering over the stove.
brows furrowing, you stepped forward. “aren’t you supposed to be at work? isn’t thursday one of the most important ones?” you genuinely ask, catching her off guard attention, her head snapping up.
the big, sweet smile that encased her beautiful lips made you feel bad for your harshness the previous night. She pushed her arms off the counter, fixing something by the stove quickly before walking over to the bar, pulling out the two chairs and revealing two sets of plates.
“Yeah— but it’s not as important as you.” Abby affirmed, a light pink coating her cheeks. You wanted to stay angry, to stay mad at her lies and broken promises. But, your ice heart thawed quickly, revealing the warmth you still posses for her.
“abby.. you didn’t have to. I know i was harsh last night but— it’s your passion, i didn’t.. actually expect you to not go.” you confessed, walking to her cautiously, as if she’d vanish from existence.
she gave you a small smile, “I know. but, i would rather be with you. I love you way more than any hobby.” Her words were the validation you’ve been craving all these months, the words you’ve been seeking to hear. You instantly complied.
“i’m glad to hear that.” you laughed, approaching her and gingerly placing a kiss to her cheek as you sat at your chair she pointed to.
“always.”
she rushed back to the stove, flipping over whatever had been on their previously before motioning for you to give her your plate. you obliged, handing it to her.
“I love you, baby. I always will and.. even though i’m not a baker, i tried to make you those pancakes you like so much.” oh did her words make you fall for her all over again. “you didn’t have to, abs.” you grinned, ear to ear. something abby hadn’t seen you do since.. since a while.
“i did. i hope you like them.” she placed the plate in front of you, beautiful, fluffy pancakes alongside fresh bacon and eggs with syrup drizzled over them placed nicely on the dish.
“wow! abby, you might want to reconsider your career and come work for me.” you joked, smiling wildly at the wholehearted laugh she let out.
“who knows, maybe i will.”
you rolled your eyes, cutting a piece of the pancake and dipping it in the puddled syrup.
your eyes widened, “mhm!” you expressed, eyes shutting in satisfaction.
although abby was a very high ranked doctor, she was still nervous to get her professional baker girlfriends opinion on first time pancakes.
“Abigail, you are a natural.”
“only for you, babe.”
she put food on her own plate, turning off the stove and coming to sit beside you.
“I’m going to call my supervisor and ask for some more free hours from now on. So i can start to have breakfast and dinner with you. and maybe a couple free days, too.” abby announced, causing your heart to beat happily.
“that makes me so unbelievably happy, abby. you deserve it.”
you kissed her cheek, syrup sticking from your lips to her skin. you laughed, and she did too.
“I love you. more than anything.” you said, chewing softly. she wiped some food from your face, a loving smile tracing her features.
“i love you more.”
#abby x reader#abby x fem!reader#abby x you#abby anderson#abby x y/n#abby the last of us#abby anderson x reader#abby anderson x y/n#abby tlou#abby anderson x female reader#abby anderson the last of us 2#abby anderson x you#abby anderson x f!reader#tlou abby#leabian#abby angst#abby fluff#fem! reader#girls like girls#tlou x you#tlou 2 abby#tlou 2#tlou fanfiction#the last of us part two#yara tlou#ੈ✩‧₊˚ 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝟐𝐤+ 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 !
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...ramen before you go? choi Jongho (m)
🍜 pairing ⇢ neighbor!Jongho x (fem) reader
this story is based on true events I have actually experienced. (Cat stuck in sauce can, cat stuck behind appliances) but sadly, no Jongho to the rescue. #saucecat
🍜 synopsis ⇢ you thought things couldn’t get worse after finding a cat in the dumpster behind the liquor store, but now here you were, alone in your new apartment, staring at that damn cat that somehow got stuck behind the washing machine. You needed some strong hands….but the minute you met him, you didn’t want him to leave. Do you want some ramen before you go?
🍜 genre/au ⇢ next-door neighbors au, comedy, smut, fluff
🍜 warnings/tags ⇢ 18+ minors DNI, shower sex, completely unhinged and does not make any sense. this is all over the place and just for fun, so please have a good laugh, comedy to smut, oral sex (female receiving), hair pulling, cream-pie, profanity, jongho is the cat savior, and also a little sleepy and drunk off beer
🍜 word count ⇢ 2.8k words
🍜 taglist ⇢ @jjhmk @yesv01 @roe-sinning @meowmeowminnie @yeritheloml @yukine-smx @y00nzin0 @8tinytings @halesandy @shegotboreddsoo @kangyeosangelic @sanshineeeeee @kodzukein @hwaightme @likexaxdaydream @ssaboala @gtr-skyline-lover
ateez masterlist
Your life flashed before your eyes.
Well, your cat’s seventh life, that is.
“I swear to god, I’m gonna go fucking insane.” you hissed. “I literally just found you and you already lost seven out of nine lives.”
You stared at your little troublemaker, the cat you found in the alleyway behind your favorite liquor store in the dumpster. Surely enough, he still caused the same amount of trouble since the very first day you found him.
The situation was even worse, especially because you were four glasses in on your red wine. You barely had enough brain power to comprehend this all.
He stared at you, bug-eyed, through the glass that surrounded his little head—an empty spaghetti sauce glass he had found in the trash can. You were in the middle of moving into this apartment. Boxes were all around you, your furniture not even set up yet, but here your cat was, stuck in a sauce can and sitting there like he did nothing.
For fucks sake carrot I don't have time for this.” you groaned, looking around quickly for paper towels. When you realized you didn't even have utensils out, yet alone paper towels, you let out an aggravated noise and waltzed over to your cat. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
You grabbed onto the glass container, gritting your teeth while pulling it gently.
“Meow.”
“Dude, I'm trying to help you, dammit,” you growled, playing tug of war with Carrot. “Now sit still.”
Carrot, in fact, did not sit still. You let go after the first battle, letting out an irritated sigh before trying again.
After an ungodly amount of time, you were finally able to free the dumpster cat, only for him to look like he’s had war flashbacks.
Covered in spaghetti sauce, Carrot looked like he was bathing in blood. You ran a hand through your hair as the little bitch stared at you like he was gonna screech. After a moment of uncertainty, Carrot licked his sauce-covered lips and waltzed away, still drenched in sauce.
“Come back here!” you yelled, but the more you followed him, the faster he went. You ran through your living room, covered with boxes, and down the hall to where your laundry room was. “I will literally break down right now if you get in that washer. Tears and everything. You better feel bad for me.”
Carrot turned around at those words, but then blissfully stared at the open washer. He had a habit of sleeping in it, and it did cross your invasive mind about how it would clean him up without the use of paper towels.
y/n, that would drown him. Shut the fuck up, brain.
“Carrot.” you swallowed your anger, knowing it was just your stress—and maybe the fact that in the last twenty-four hours, he ate your sandwich out of your hand, sat in the sink while the water was running, started hissing at his own reflection, drank out of your glass of alcohol, and got high of catnip and broke a picture frame. He was cute…too cute. You wished you could get away with his antics. “Don't. Touch. The. washer.”
If a cat could smirk, you were certain that’s just what he did. With one swift movement, Carrot leaped into the washer, rolling around in it in sheer happiness.
Oh, to be a cat.
“You know what? Fine! Roll around, do whatever.” you huffed, tossing your hands up in the air while turning around. As you tried to walk away from the devil himself, you heard a boom, a hiss, and a squeal.
When you looked back at the washer, Carrot was no longer in it. He was nowhere in sight, actually.
“Carrot??” you said anxiously, only hearing a terrified meow, causing you to run over to the machine as quickly as you could.
“MEOW.”
You looked over the washing machine to see bright yellow orbs staring back at you as he moved frantically behind the block of metal. You desperately tried to pull the machine back, only to feel like a goddamn weak ass shrimp.
“I’m trying, I’m trying,” you breathed, groaning as you tried to move it. “Now's the time I am regretting quitting the gym.”
Several minutes pass—you were on the ground sweating like a lunatic. Carrot had gone quiet—he wasn't dead, just probably disappointed in your weak attempt to save his eighth life. He was most definitely shaming the hell out of you by now with his little judgy eyes.
As you thought about asking for help, you knew 911 couldn't save you now. Or ever.
So you did what any sane single woman would do after finding out a man lived across the hall.
You zoomed out the door to knock on his door.
He opened it after a moment, his hair a mess and his eyes all sleepy.
Awe fuck, did you wake him up?
Whatever, it's too late now.
“Um, hello?” he yawned, and as he did, you looked down at your watch to check the time. It was eleven at night, how could you totally lose track of time?
Carrot.
“Hey, listen, um,” you sighed, running a hand through your hair as you noticed how good looking he was. “I need help. Are you strong? You look strong.”
He blinked at you, brown eyes picking apart your expression. His lips were pretty, his eyes were pretty, his arms looked….strong. Mmhhhmm. Yummy.
“I guess so.” he nodded, tilting his head at you. “What do you need?”
“You.” you spewed out, and then laughed at yourself. “Dammit, I mean, yes I do need you, but not like in any other way than your strong arms. I mean that would be nice bit uh..fuck, You seem like a very nice man….”
As you trailed off, it was pure silence, other than the war cries of Carrot in the distance.
“I need you to free my cat from his imprisonment.”
“You need me to do what?”
—
“You couldn't move a washer?”
You and the strong gorgeous man stood in the middle of your laundry room, staring at the machine that held carrot captive. Strong man looked so sexy in his tight little t-shirt and sweats—god, you were so touch-deprived. Here you were creating scenarios in your head with a stranger that involved a washing machine…
“Oh, uh.” you gulped. “We can't all be hercules, man.”
He yawed, causing you to look over in his direction. He looked young, maybe younger than you, with blackish brown hair and glossy eyes. His body looked delish, if you could say so yourself. You would pounce on him right then and there if you could.
“All right, let me move it for you.” the minute he pushed up his sleeves, you swallowed your pride. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck—
Within a second, he pulled the heavy machine with ease, letting out a sexy grunt that nearly made you moan. The wine was indeed hitting your slut system, for sure. The minute there was enough space for him to reach down to grab the garbage cat, he pulled him out, holding him far away from him after realizing how dirty he was.
“Carrot!! You’re alive!!”
“Yo, why is he covered in…sauce?” he made a face, turning to you with that gorgeous body of his. “And it’s name is carrot?”
“He was born in a dumpster. Old habits die hard.” You said as a matter of fact my. “And he’s orange. Self-explanatory.”
Muscle man laughed, setting the cat down. “I guess that explains it.”
A few moments of silence. You didn’t like the emptiness.
“….Do you think that’s why he loves the washer?” you wondered out loud. “Like, it looks like a mini dumpster. Probably feels like one too when he rolls around like an idiot.”
The cat savior laughed shyly, but his eyes said otherwise.
“You know,” you pondered as he looked at you as if he were going to tear you apart. “I don't know your name.”
“Jongho,” he mumbled, a smile finally reaching his eyes. He still looked so tired, but you were too selfish to let this opportunity go. “And you?”
“y/n.” you smiled, looking him up and down like a crazy person. “I just moved in.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“Mhm. Watched you fall down the stairs and play it off earlier. I was gonna help, but you seemed like you would have been embarrassed so…” he started to laugh. “Sorry. I should've helped you.”
You smirked. “Well, you made up for it now.”
You stood close, unaware how close you actually were. He smiled down at you while you looked at his lips.
“I should go…” he hummed, eyes narrowed on you.
“Yeah,” you breathed.
He looked at you lustfully for a moment longer, and then broke away from the trance to walk away. You followed him to the door, but right before he could leave, you blurted out the only thing on your mind.
“Would you…like ramen, you know, before you go?”
He was facing away from you, and as you said those words, he stopped in the middle of the doorframe.
“Depends…” he murmured, turning around to face you. His eyes were no longer sleepy, rather they looked murderous. “Are you…the ramen?”
You nodded.
“Mhm.”
He smirked.
“I guess I can eat.”
You crossed the distance, tugging on his arm to pull him to you as you slammed the door behind him. You shoved yourself onto him, pressing his body up against the door, lips colliding at the same time.
His hands ravaged your body, moving from your hair, to your face, to your waist, to your ass. He moaned into your mouth causing you to arch your body into him like a cat.
“Wanna move this into the shower? I need a shower.” you breathed against his lips as he kissed you.
“Mhm.” he moaned against your lips, picking you up with that superhuman strength of his. “Where is it?”
“Last door in the hall.” you slurred, his arms holding onto your back and your legs. He held you like you were a feather, hot damn.
He walked blindly towards the bathroom, bumping into the walls and door knobs aggressively. You gripped the back of his head, kissing him like you knew him forever.
You didn't even know him for ten minutes.
This is a new low, y/n. A new low.
Oh well, hot guy trumps embarrassment.
The minute he found the bathroom, you nearly tumbled into the room as he opened the door. He pressed you up against the wall, tugging at your lip with his teeth like an animal.
You slid off of him to turn on the water, sparing no time to undress him like a mannequin. He stood there, a boyish smile on his face as you pulled his shirt over his head, revealing his toned body. He was stunning, my god.
“It must be the beer I drank,” he spoke lustfully. “But damn, you’re the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Ditto, hercules.” you hummed against his lips as you unbuttoned his jeans, smiling into a kiss. “Now shut the fuck up.”
He undressed. You followed, although he seemed inclined to pull your clothes off himself. He had a goofy smile on his face as he tugged your bra off, making you smile with him.
“So pretty,” he whispered, tugging you back into him with a giggle. You stumbled into the shower, freezing cold water hitting your back and dripping down your head, drenching you from head to toe. You would have cared about the temperature any other time, but you were too focused on sucking this stranger's face. He didn't seem to mind, either.
You tasted the coldness of the water on his lips, your hands running up his bare skin to reach his hair. He moaned into your mouth as he bucked his hips into you, breathing heavily.
“I want you to eat me out.” you moaned as his hands danced at your hips. “That was our deal.”
He smirked, burying his head into your shoulder as the water pounded against you. “You want what?” he pestered, tongue dancing in your mouth as you lost your train of thought. “I didn't hear you.”
You groaned, tossing your head back. “I said I want you to eat me out.”
“Eat what?”
“Me. Out.”
“Me out what?”
You shoved him against the cold tiles of the shower wall, glancing down at that sinister smile of his. “I want you to fuck me with your mouth.”
His hands smoothed your curves, his eyes everywhere on your body. “Alrighty then, no need to get harsh.” he laughed, gaining pleasure from having you repeat those words over and over again. “I heard you the first time.”
He knelt down in the shower, his lips meeting yours immediately. His hands were gripping your thighs, and you couldn't help but admit you liked seeing him, or any man, on their knees for you. His tongue slid through your core, igniting an eternal flame that only he could extinguish. He looked up at you through those long eyelashes of his, and you gripped his head, pulling his hair like your life depended on it.
“Fuck.” you hissed, slamming your head back against the wall. “Don't stop.”
He hummed against you, his hands moving to grab your ass tightly. Every time he moaned it felt like a wave of electricity was flowing through your body—an intoxicating feeling on top of the wine.
He pulled back, even after hearing your command. As he looked up at you from his lowly position, it made you feel like you could rule the world.
“I would like to fuck you, you know, with more than just my mouth.”
You shivered under the coldness of the water—and his touch. “Yes, please. Go right ahead.”
He smirked at your response, standing up and gripping your hips without a word. He then shoved you up against the tiles, positioning himself just right, only to shove himself in like he owned the place. You gasped at his sudden entrance, your walls tightening around his dick.
He pumped into you, holding onto your waist from behind and pressing his other hand against the wall. You moaned as he quickened the pace, and either you were too lost in his trance or the wine added to the feeling, but you were so far gone that you didn't even notice when he picked you up mid stroke, holding you to his body as your back pressed against the wall. He fucked you silly, like he did it a million times before. You couldn't get enough of him, even if you just met him today. He was all you needed.
“Come inside me,” you groaned, your tone serious. His movements slowed at your words, unsure of what to do.
“H-huh?” he continued to pound into you, but he was reaching his high way sooner than he wanted to. “Into you? Are you on the pill?”
“Pfft. yeah. Fuck children,” you shut your mouth, hating yourself for saying that while he was literally inside you. “That sounded bad, jeez. What I’m saying is you can come inside me. Please.”
He laughed at you, but was too focused on finishing that he ignored your craziness. His breaths began to quicken, his hips bucked in shallower movements as he reached his climax. You let out a cry as you felt the warmth of his come coat you from the inside, dripping down your thigh as his head fell onto your shoulder.
Your shaky breaths tangled together, the water slowly feeling colder and colder as you looked at each other.
And then you both laughed.
“I…wow.” Jongho laughed, setting you down slowly so he didn't hurt you.
You quickly reached to turn off the water, not holding back the string of curse words attached to your tongue.
You chuckled, wrapping your arms around his neck. “That was fun.”
He smiled at you, leaning in to kiss your lips, once again like he’s done it before. “It’s nice to um…meet you, y/n. I don't think I ever said that yet. It’s not like I met you twenty minutes ago or anything.”
“I’m hoping you’ll keep coming over to rescue my cat…” he mumbled, a knowing smirk on your face. “And to eat some ramen once in a while. A lot in a while, actually.”
“Mhm. Just knock on the door, I’ll be at your service.”
Still in each other’s arms, you were unsure about your future with the cat savior, but yet, this was just enough. It was strange, but enough.
For now, at least.
“So, is now the right time to tell you I’m ready for round two?”
#choi jongho#jongho comedy#ateez comedy#ateez smut#jongho smut#ateez fic#ateez x reader#ateez fanfic#next door neighbor au
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Being in a age gap relationship with Jim (delinquent season) and he is a perv & a little bit pathetic
We LOVE pathetic men around here 🥺💕
It was wrong! Very wrong. Jim was married, not happily but still married. He shouldn't be thinking about you. You're his neighbor. You've barely said two words to him since you've moved in next door. He often finds himself thinking about the day you moved in eight months ago. You were watching as some movers brought in the heavier stuff , sitting all pretty like on the porch swing with your legs crossed. Did Jim go say hi? No. He stood watching from his kitchen window. It wasn't until the next day when you were checking the mail that Jim came to meet you. He found out your name, where your from, that he's literally double your age and that you have a cat named Dumpling. And for eight long months Jim watched your every move.
Now here you are standing in front of him and his wife talking about how you've adjusted to the town while having a nice spaghetti dinner. Jim shouldn't be paying that much attention on how you slurp a noodle.
"So... any men around catch your eye yet!?" His wife let out a little laugh and so did you.
"Uh not really... just still focusing on myself you know? Don't want to rush anything." You we're lying through your teeth. Truth is you did have on eye on someone... Jim! Yeah we double your age and married but you knew Jim wanted you.
"You're right! It's good to focus on yourself and know what you like." His wife gave you a smile before sipping her wine. "If you'll excuse me... ladies room." She left , leaving the two of you alone. You sat there with a smirk on your face as you watched Jim stir in his seat. Your foot trailed up his inner thigh and press gently in his crotch. You licked your lips at him before getting up out of your seat , walking up to him and placing your hands on his shoulders.
"It's been a week Jim." You pouted at him.
"I know sweetheart, but she's going out of town tomorrow." He touched your cheek gently.
"Then listen carefully.... as soon as she's gone, you're coming over and fucking me or I swear, I'll give you blue balls from hell! Got it?" You cupped his face and smirked before quickly returning to your seat.
A few seconds later his wife returned with a smile that was faked. "How did you enjoy dinner?" She asked politely as you placed a paper towel on your plate.
"It was delicious . Jim's a lucky man." You smiled and gave her a wink as she blushed. Both of you helped clean up after dinner as Jim excused himself to the bathroom. You noticed the hard on straining against his pants as he ran in there.
"Probably all the wine." His wife laughed as you handed her the rest of the dishes. You helped wipe up the table as she washed the dishes and loaded the washer. Just as you went to talk her phone rang and she quickly asked you to tell Jim she had an urgent call. You made your way into the bathroom because Jim being Jim and rushing in there didn't lock it.
"JESUS CHRIST!" He jumped as he heard you enter the bathroom. "My wife is home and you know we can't ..."
"Shut up! She had an urgent phone call apparently and you're in here fucking your fist thinking of me." You we're fed up with the situation. You didn't being a secret but maybe you were fed up because usually you two could sneak in a quickie during the week but it's been a week and the most you've gotten is seeing Jim jerk off through the window.
"Then fuck... finish me off please!" He gave you a pout and how could you stay mad? You walked up behind him , laid your chin on his shoulder and jerked him off fast. It felt good to hold his fat cock again but it wasn't enough. You watched as his face twisted in pleasure as a silent orgasm hit him and his cum shot into the toilet.
"That's a shame, should've been shot up into me!" You kissed his shoulder before letting go of his cock and walked out of the bathroom with a sour look on your face. Jim followed shortly behind. He was wrapped around your finger and in too deep with how much he needed you.
#cillian murphy blurb#cillian murphy smut#cillian murphy x y/n#cillian murphy x fem!reader#cillian murphy x reader#Cillian Murphy as Jim#emsblurbs
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The last update of 2023 for this story hit Sunday! It was a day late to bring you all the best in CSS spaghetti to make the Phantom/Huntress website come to life. I hope my readers find it entertaining.
The next chapter is on for Wednesday as usual since I don't have to wrangle code. I'll can't wait to post it.
Still not convinced to read? Have a sample below!
The forums flooded with reports of tech coming to life and menacing the populace of her hometown with spraying liquids and attempted murder. Vending machines, cars, trucks, laptops, gaming consoles, cell phones, kitchen gadgets, alarm clocks, anything and everything electronic in Amity seemed susceptible to waking up and wiggling around. Not everything that came to life ended up being violent. So, now the website had two areas on the forums to separate ‘docile’ from ‘aggressive’ tech, but they hadn’t changed the submission forms yet.
It all still lacked a pattern. Some pieces of equipment came to life calm and friendly. Others, despite sharing a make and model, were aggressive and homicidal. The forums buzzed with speculation about the nature of the outbreak, the reasons behind certain types of behaviors, the few people with a large number of electronic ‘wigglers’ as they were now being called, and all betwixt and between.
She’d set up one of her boards, pushing her Phantom one to the other side of the room, trying to make sense of the calamity befalling the reviving rust belt city. A quick exchange with the website owner, someone calling themselves ‘Technomage’, gave her access to the backdoor to analyze the data herself. Not that she didn’t trust their work specifically, she just didn’t trust the work of anyone who wasn’t her. She frowned down at the printouts, strung up against a map on her wall, as she tried to discover if there were clusters of animation locations or if that was random too. Hours of eye watering squinting at tiny font and color coded pages, neck craned in awkward positions, and she was no closer to a solution. She flipped open her phone as it buzzed with a scowl. It did that all the time now. Even with the city divided in half, between her and Amity’s famous protector, her hands were full.
She looked up at her wall again. The string, photos, and pages reminded her of scenes from movies with paranoid conspiracy nuts. Luckily, her dad knew she was a visualizer and didn’t take her walls being covered in new floppy paper as a sign of her going bonkers, but she was starting to doubt her own sanity as the case gnawed at her mind. She tossed her cell phone back onto her desk and closed her eyes once more, trying to make the cluster of information coalesce into sense. The only thing she and ‘Technomage’ agreed on was that the tech coming to life involved people’s favorites. Every sewing machine, washer, or Xbuddy proved that. But, since not everything was connected to the internet or even had chips inside to infect, her data collaborator was at as much of a loss as her.
#Danny Phantom#Danny Phantom Fanfiction#Phandom#DP#Passion and Plasmatic Plague#PaPP#Balshumet's Baragouin#balshumet's fanfiction#Chapter Seven
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It’s stupid, really.
It’s less than a week, and Cas is an adult who votes and pays taxes and mostly remembers to put the trash out on time and he’s lived alone before, so it shouldn’t be so difficult that the apartment is empty, sans him.
Except that it’s the first time since he and Dean moved in together that either of them are spending a night away, so the emptiness of their cramped one-bedroom with its weird yellow linoleum in the bathroom feels vast and unending.
Dean’s visiting family, and he’s been texting Cas all day, updating him on his drive to Kansas and sending Cas pictures of his mom’s garden. They’re supposed to talk later, before bed, too.
And yet the loneliness remains.
Cas makes dinner (spaghetti, jarred sauce, Dean’s the cook here), does the dishes, and then tries to sweep the kitchen before he realizes that the dustpan has decided to go missing. It’s not in any of the usual places (hidden behind the trash can, in the bathroom, shoved between the washer and dryer in their postage-stamp sized laundry room), which leads him to checking under the couch and on the top shelf of the storage closet.
The dust pan is there.
And a loaf of bread. And a jar of peanut butter. And a jar of jelly. And on the jar of jelly, a sticky note (green and obviously stolen from Cas’s desk) with Jam is unsettling, right? written on it in Dean’s untidy scrawl.
Cas fishes his phone out of his pocket and shoots a text to Dean: Why is there sandwich stuff in the closet?
You forgot to buy sandwich stuff at the supermarket this week, comes back Dean’s response.
I could have had something else for lunch.
Uh-huh. Dean would be smirking at Cas if he was here, as if to say, gotcha.
Don’t forget to sweep the kitchen, Dean adds, double-texting.
You planned this, Cas replies.
What, me? Never :)
Maybe it’s not so stupid, really, Cas thinks to himself as he takes the things to the kitchen, already planning to have a PB & J for breakfast tomorrow (who says they’r just for lunch?), to miss someone you love.
Especially when they love you back.
#offbeatwrites#okay okay I get it it's super cheesy#I'm just like. in a small acts of love moment rn#I'm feeling it
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I'm having stellar levels of ADHD today...
Usually I can wrangle myself around and attempt to finish one job or another before moving on, but not today!
It started with washing my bamboo sheets. As I go past the office I say to the husband:
"Question of the day. How do you wash the bamboo sheets?"
"I've no idea. Google it."
Level of annoyance spikes. "I told you how when I bought them, I wanted to see if you were paying attention."
"Nope."
I proceed to explain again how to wash the sheets. Annoyance has now reach peek levels which triggers "clean mode."
While in the basement, I bring up a load of laundy that needs to be put away and place it on the bed, but on the way by, I notice no one bothered to clean up breakfast.
Swing back out to the dining room and clean up the table.
Sees the kitchen is messy. Does dishes, cleans stove, wipes countertops, and feeds dog.
Notices hubs still hasn't put the screen back in the window (second floor or I would do it myself). Nags him till he gets to it. Watches him put it in upside down. Climbs on countertop and assists from the inside by turning it over.
Puts step ladder away. Notices empty pots and soil in cupboard, proceeds to repot 5 plants.
Waters all interior plants.
Slops on floor. Needs to mop.
Floor is dirty, vacuums first. Mops floor.
Remembers the dishrag and placemats from the table are dirty. Goes back to kitchen, collects them. Goes through the bathrooms, collects dirty towels.
Passes basket of laundry on the bed (original job) mutters about ADHD brain, tosses dirty laundry down stairs.
Cleans bathrooms, because eww. Priorities.
Returns cleaning stuff to kitchen, thinks about supper. Decides on spaghetti.
Is distracted by daughter.
Forgets to take out ground beef.
Feeds dog.
Goes back and picks up bowl because, I already did that. Succumbs to puppy eyes and feeds him a biscuit instead.
Gets distracted by husband. Ends up watching TikTok for 30 minutes. Thanks, G.
Remembers to take out ground beef.
Washer buzzer goes off. Goes down stairs. Almost falls on ass thanks to towels thrown down stairs. Collects laundry tossed down stairs. Switches loads.
Gets distracted by daughter.
Ends up tidying up basement family room.
Gets distracted by dog.
Ends up watching Netflix.
Dryer buzzer goes off. Takes sheets upstairs to remake bed.
Groans at sight of laundry basket still sitting on the bed.
Finally finishes original chore.
And that's how I ended up on Tumblr.
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in my mind whenever i draw althaea and themis in modern day clothes all i can think about is althaea babysitting themis at her place which is a wooden panelling trailer house in the woods and themis walks in and immediately finds hythlo sitting at the big clunky computer playing desktop solitaire (with the spider) in a white tank and pajama bottoms with a homemade ash tray to the side of the double decker walmart desktop table, turn to the right and the open kitchen with a yellow fridge one of those wall-attached island bars, trun BACK around because the computer is in the living room where a subwoofer system is hooked up to the TV which is surrounded by identical leather couches and a singular lazyboy, with a bean bag and some blankets thrown on the floor in case you wanna sit at the only ''kitchen table'' in the house which is the low as hell coffee table in pristine condition
take the tight hallway to the right and althaea's room is a doorless little square room with one of those vertical near the ceiling windows open with a metal latch (did i mention the entire house besides bathroom and kitchen is covered in white carpet), a mattress on a low walmart frame, a singular CRT TV on a plastic tub, and a closet that takes up an entire wall made with shitty wood that rolls inside of itself and houses all of althaeas clothes and the fuse box. and when you go farther you find the bathroom which is a shitty toilet knee-knockingly close to the sink directly across from it, a singular cabinet that doubles as the mirror, a low bathtub, and a random bar to the side that has all their deoderants and makeup products (and another homemade ash tray) filed on top)
to the other side of the house is the door to the down stairs, which is an entire concrete dungeon that keeps the boiler, the heater, the washer and dryer and every single stored away holiday decoration, scrapbooks, luggages, and their bikes. no window besides a small one once again near the roof.
althaea teaches themis how to make 2006-era slime (putting flour and water in a zip loc black and playing with it through the bag until it became nothing but paste), LOUDLY play pocketful of sunshine by natasha bettingfield, and go outside to randomly build the bridge to terabithia with the work tools kept in the basement and random shaved planks of wood and log halves piled in the wood shed (where she also parks her car)
you have to end this all off with the fact that althaea would be wearing a black spaghetti strap tank top with low rise, skinny flare jeans bedazzled on the pockets with a beaten up brown leather belt and shitty pink flip flops, and themis stands there in a blazed WAFFLE KNIT Ed Hardy shirt that was hand bedazzled with those old weird toys that just basically pierced your shirts with 5 cent jewels that are originally meant for your hair but you found out the contraption is literally just that it has 4 metal tiangle spikes that the machine ''pinches'' down to attack to things, which works really good on shirts. get bejeweled asshole
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my favorite mcu trope is scientist x asgardian actually
#IM GOING TO DIE TAIKA MY MENTAL HEALTH IS IN YOUR HANDS#thor love and thunder#mcu#marvel#thorbruce#valjane#janeval#??? who knows!#spaghetti washer
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Am I still wearing them?
You might be wondering if I still wear them or if my style has changed? well...it didn't. The only difference is my color choice, although the blue Is, or rather was my go-to color, now I’ve opted for a pair of white converse Yeah, a white pair, which isn’t .always outdoor friendly, but like I’ve mentioned the shoe tells the story of a person, so how else would someone know you tried to jump over a puddle and didn’t make it, but instead stepped right into or how else could someone know that you went out to eat spaghetti for dinner the night before? Shoes are shoes and converse are converse. I love them and I love taking care of them, but it doesn’t mean my life is always put together and that the beauty of the shoe. I always wear them, but now that I am in college my shoe eating dorm washer has nearly destroyed them, maybe I shouldn't blame the washer because it could be just me. Anyways, back to the shoe talk. Real talk Converse are the most comfortable, versatile, convenient shoe on the market. (Not sponsored but would be totally cool if they did.) Converse has been portrayed by media for many years and I love that they are evolving and marketing their audience to more than basketball players, and I know my grandpa is proud to be a Converse supporter, just like I am. Trends come and go, but a good shoe will always stay, wow I feel like I should be a marketing agent for converse, but in all seriousness converse bring people together from all around the world, and will forever be a phenomenal shoe brand.
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vodka: black feet, bruised arms spaghetti theres vomit on my sweater spaghetti mom spaghetti
1 lagunitas: I dont remember cooking eggs and bacon pouring the grease into a can tossing out old food from the fridge loading th dish washer cleaning my bathroom showering putting my hair in braids spraying comet on the shower doing my gumx routine taking my meds folding laundry sketching stuff loading the bong going to bed but there is overwhelming evidence that it all happened
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ohhh dilemma dilemma. i had forgotten that i had spaghetti and so made ramen and then remembered but the thing is d'aj made the spaghetti for me and let me take it home but i said yes ill bring the tupperware back monday! which i did plan to do but as mentioned i forgot 2 eat it bc yesterday. sigh. the devil. and today is also the devil i havent gotten to do my laundry yet because somebody has left their clothes in the washer since fucking noon so i cant. do mine. i cant go to bed until my laundry is done so my points r gonna be off to suchhh a bad start. but anyways m going to eat my spoagahetti
#when i say spoeoeghetti you have to read it like brennan u know.#but yas. it isnt rly spaghetti LMAO she didnt have spaghetti noodles so she used farfalle. BUT ITS SO GOODD shes such a good cook#shes used to cooking for her husband who eats like 4 servings worth of food LOL and since hes stationed in japan rn she keeps cooking way#too much. so she was like Ill bring u food.. and tmrw its loaded baked potatos... super super exciting i famously love baked potatos#but yas. she put likee peppers in the sauce and its SO GOOD she said she hadnt ever used peppers before so she wanted 2 try them#shes awesome. and also omgg its so nice to be out to somebody at work... ik im out to greg but hes like one of the big important guys LOL w#usually only see eachother 1-2 times a day. but d'aj has been rly good at like. when were around somebody else she uses kamille she/her#since i explained im closeted at work. but she uses connor he/him when were alone and :] ive been like mostly out for a while so i forgot#how much joy being gendered correctly gives you when youre not used to it...#like i am used to it obviously but work connor (different guy) isnt LOL. so its nice :]]#omg she also got her septum pierced and it looks so awesome i was giving her tips#my biggest tip. septum piercing havers. if you plan on flipping it up Dont fucking get the ones with the pointy tips. Signed guy who cut th#inside of my nose so bad it looked like i was having a severe nosebleed... I DIDNT REALIZE HOW POINTY IT WASS AND I HAD FLIPPED IT UP BEFOR#SO IT WAS LIKE O_O#but yes. she got the ones with the balls which is good. the only reason i had pointy was bc that was all ollie had at the time LOL#and she did my piercing#i also didnt shower today dire dire dire.
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Have a Relaxing Friday Night
Happy Friday evening!!
What are you up to this weekend? We’re still at the beach and had the most beautiful, relaxing day playing, lounging, and relaxing in the sand. The kids splashed and swam in the water with new friends (they have never met a stranger), and towards the end of the evening, PJ joined them.
I have no problem staying in a chair with a book in my hand the entire day, but he can’t sit still, and every day before long, he’s in the water with the kids. He made his famous drip sand castle that his mammaw taught him how to make when he was little.
Watching him make these has fascinated me for over a decade. He gets so much enjoyment out of doing it, I feel it’s almost therapeutic for him. Hands in the sand and water, building and making something out of nothing.
Tonight’s was a smaller one, but stunning nonetheless. The kids loved looking at it, and they had even more fun knocking it all down before we left.
We still don’t have appliances in the kitchen here at the Beach Shack, so we’re living off ramen noodles and Spaghetti-O’s for the time being. It’s not ideal, but it’s good for now. The kitchen appliances we can do without, but we’re very much in the market for a washer and dryer and a TV. We looked at all of them yesterday and haven’t made a decision just yet on what we’re going to go with, though I hope we make it fast because we’re quickly running out of clothes.
Hope you have a wonderful weekend, friends!! xoxo
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A Second Look Chapter 4
Tags: Elementary, Female Sherlock Holmes, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Season 1 Episode 11- Dirty Laundry
Warnings: None
Summary: The murder of a hotel manager unravels a complicated scheme involving espionage.
AO3 Portal
Joan hears the kettle whistling and walks into the kitchen, turning the flame down. She opens the cabinet and sighs at its emptiness. "Are we completely out of mugs," she calls to Sherlock.
"Check the sink," the woman shouts back.
She looks at it. "Some of these are ready for carbon dating," she mutters to herself. She crosses to the other cabinets and searches them. "Ugh. I guess we're out of clean bowls, too?"
"And plates and forks and cups," Sherlock walks in from the study.
"Where am I supposed to put my tea?" Sherlock extends the mug she had been eating spaghetti out of. "This isn't healthy, you know."
"A little marinara won't kill you, Watson."
She's no longer startled by Sherlock calling her by her last name. She doesn't think she's heard her call any of her friends be their first name- only 'Detective,' 'Bell,' 'Captain,' or 'Gregson.'
"No, I mean the state of your kitchen," Joan says, looking around at it. Takeout containers abound- Chinese on the table, pizza boxes by the trash. Sherlock isn't one for cooking and frankly, neither is she.
"Don't you mean our kitchen," Sherlock asks, looking for something.
"No, I mean yours. I'm only going to be here for ten more days, remember?"
"Nine days, twelve hours, forty-seven minutes, actually, but who's counting?"
Joan rolls her eyes. "I'm just saying, this is a problem," she gestures around the kitchen.
"This is the sign of an active mind! Or, rather, two active minds. Lincoln, Einstein, among others." Joan sniffs the milk and groans. "Geniuses draw inspiration from chaos in their environs."
"Way to be the stereotype."
"Without Andrew Fleming's reluctance to wash petri dishes, we wouldn't have penicillin, would we," Sherlock continues, ignoring her.
"Yeah well, the mold that is growing on your actual dishes won't be as beneficial." She dangles an old tupperware that was in the fridge from her finger.
"Nine days, twelve hours, forty-six minutes." Sherlock walks off with a stack of books.
Joan sighs and forgoes the tea. She hears Sherlock's phone ring. "Captain," she greets. Joan's heart starts to beat faster. A case. Finally. She starts to get ready, and she and Sherlock meet at the door. "Shall we," Sherlock asks.
They head to a hotel, and the Captain meets them at the doors. He walks them downstairs, debriefing them. "Victim's name is Teri Purcell, she's the general manager of this hotel. She worked late most nights in her office, that's where she was last seen." Joan is expected to be led to some back office, but they go to stairs that lead down, not up. They go down to the basement. "Has a husband and a daughter, we're about to head over to make the notification." That's the one part Joan dislikes- the look on peoples' faces when they learn that their loved one is not only gone, but had gone violently. It's a face she doesn't miss from her days as a surgeon. "Looks like she died from blunt-force trauma to the head, then got stuffed in the washing machine to wash away any physical evidence."
"The washer makes it hard to pinpoint time of death," Marcus continues. "Best guess right now is somewhere between 9:30 and midnight." Joan thinks that that's an awfully vague time.
"Machine was wiped down, so there're no fingerprints except the maid who found her," Gregson picks up.
"Witnesses," Sherlock asks.
"No."
Sherlock looks at the table where the cops had put evidence they found on her, and Sherlock picks up a bag and shakes it. Joan can see the shell of a fountain pen in there. "And this?"
"Fountain pen," Marcus replies. "It was found in the washer with the body and some sheets. Now, could be the victim's, could be the killer's." Marcus takes the bag from her and hands it to a waiting CSU worker. "No way to tell because again, no prints."
"Broken in half, yet I see absolutely no ink anywhere," Sherlock notes.
"Yeah. I'm guessing because it was empty." Joan blinks at Marcus' derisive tone. What's with him today?
"I noticed that neither the security camera in the corridor nor the one by the exit are functioning; the red power lights were off?" Marcus opens his mouth, but the Captain is the one who answers. A sour expression crosses Marcus' face, so quickly that Joan would have missed it if she wasn't looking at him.
"Yeah, hotel security said that they've been inactive for months. They keep fixing them, they keep going on the fritz."
"Which means the killer could come and go without fear of being monitored," Sherlock nods. "Suggests they were familiar with the environment." She walks to the side and looks down at the floor. Joan looks, too- red drag marks, probably from the victim's shoes. "As for these drag marks; a distinctive maroon color from the heels of the victim's shoes. Similar marks running the length of the corridor, which means she was dragged here from somewhere else." She looks at Gregson. "You mentioned an office?" Gregson nods and walks away, Sherlock following him.
"Marcus," Joan asks before Marcus follows. He looks at her. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Marcus," she says. He sighs and tilts his head. They go to a quiet area on the first floor.
"Holmes just gets on my nerves sometimes."
"Why? She hasn't done anything different today." Marcus shifts on his feet. "All she's done is talk to the Cap-" Marcus scowls slightly. "Oh."
"What?"
"You don't like it when she talks to him." Marcus freezes. "Why?"
"You've been spending too much time with her," he complains.
"Talk to me," she encourages.
"I don't know, Joan. I guess I just got used to being his right hand guy, you know? And now that Holmes is on the scene," he shakes his head. "I just feel a little," he trails off.
"Under appreciated."
"Something like that."
"Marcus. They're soulmates."
"So are you two."
"Yes, but I live with her. Trust me, I get my fill of her." Marcus laughs. "The Captain hasn't seen her outside these few weeks since 2001. Sherlock respects him, and he her." She smiles softly. "Now what do you say we go solve this?"
They go up to the office, which Sherlock and the Captain are just stepping out of. "We're just headed back to the precinct, a couple'a unis made the notification," Gregson says.
"Let's go," Marcus nods. Joan rides with him and Sherlock goes with Gregson. Silence reins for a while. "What's it like," Marcus asks softly.
"Living with Sherlock?"
"Having a soulmate," Marcus mutters.
Joan glances at the inside of his left wrist- under his watch she can see faded grey words. She first saw them a week ago. "I'm not sure," she admits. "As you can probably guess, Sherlock isn't average."
"You got that right."
"She doesn't seem to like physical affection, and can be silent for hours at a time. But," Joan trails off. "She's brilliant. Watching her work...I just get caught up in it." She pauses. "I'm going to miss her."
"What do you mean," Marcus asks.
"I'll be gone in ten days."
"Why?"
"My contract's up."
"As her valet?"
"Yes." She's surprised Marcus still believes that. Though, she guesses that Gregson wouldn't want word to get out.
"What are you going to do after?"
"Stay in touch," Joan nods. "Maybe visit when I have time between my other clients."
"What's that like, being a valet for six weeks?"
"It's challenging. My job requires me to live in close contact with people, most of who have problems that they expect me to solve. Part of my job is making them realize that they're the only ones who can solve their own problems."
"Sounds like being a baby sitter."
"Now you sound like my mother."
"Joan, I didn't mean-"
"I know."
They pull up to the brownstone. Joan watches Gregson and Sherlock talk for a few moments before she gets out. Joan follows suit. Sherlock waits for her and holds the door open for her. Joan waves at their friends before she goes inside, and she doesn't hear them leave until both women are inside.
The next morning Sherlock lets her wake up on her own time, which is still earlier than she used to wake up. She ignore the voice in her head that reminds her of what Sherlock said when they first met- she had two alarms because she hated her job. Now she just has a phone alarm when Sherlock doesn't wake her. She goes downstairs to find Sherlock looking at her wall of evidence. It's sparse for now. "Ready," Joan asks her.
Sherlock nods and they go to the precinct. Gregson drives all of them this time.
"Suburbia." Sherlock may have been saying 'vomit' with the distaste she infuses in the word. "I'm shocked you haven't tried to get me to move out here for the sake of my sobriety. All the 'structure' on display." The policemen had gone forward to knock on the door, and Sherlock elects to hang back on the sidewalk. Joan had quite happily joined her. She knows the man already knows that his wife was murdered, but to be reminded all over again by a Captain and Detective knocking on his door... She stops thinking about that and returns to her and Sherlock's conversation.
"Mock me all you want. Organization is a form of structure, and structure is good for recovery." Joan smiles at her teasingly.
"After you complained about the state of the kitchen last night, I took a personal inventory, assessed myself." Joan looks at her. A good start. "I am excelling at recovery." Of course. Joan just manages to not roll her eyes by looking at the men knocking on the Purcells' door. "Which tells me that you're only taking a grim view because you're annoyed that I'm doing so well."
"Right," Joan replies. "I'm upset by your success which is, by association, my success."
"Success at a job you don't enjoy." Here we go again. "As opposed to my work, which invigorates you."
"I've never denied the fact that I find what you do very interesting." She ignores the fact that she was excited last night when she found out they got a case. Like she said- she finds Sherlock's work interesting.
"I've decided, Watson; the lessons can continue after our companionship ends. A weekly salon perhaps. You could come by, I could share my wisdom. In exchange for some light housework, of course."
"I was always planning on staying in touch with you, Sherlock, but I'm not your maid." Joan looks at her. "We're soulmates." Sherlock looks at her and her expression softens just a tad.
"That we are."
"Holmes," Gregson calls, and both women look over. "Come on."
Joan watches Sherlock work, quietly deducing. The Purcells' daughter, Carly, comes over.
"Dad, is everything alright?"
"Fine, Carly. Why don't you get our guests some water?"
Carly pauses. "Of course."
"I'll give you a hand," Joan says, following her. They had already greeted at the door.
"Thank you, Ms," she trails off. "I'm sorry, I forgot your name."
"Watson. Call me Joan."
"I can't do that," Carly laughs lightly, and Joan smiles.
"Early admission to Georgetown and Michigan," she marvels, reading the acceptance papers on the wall. She looks at Carly. "Congratulations, your mom must have been really proud."
"Yeah. She was."
"Looks like you're a pretty serious soccer player, too," Joan adds, looking at the articles and pictures pinned up as well.
"The coach at Michigan promised me that I'd start," Carly says. But she doesn't sound happy; she sounds bitter. "But my mom had her heart set on Georgetown." Joan looks at her, and Carly starts to cry. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be," Joan assures her. She comes around the island and puts her hand on Carly's back, comforting her.
"I keep telling myself. Tough times don't last. Tough people do." She pauses. "And this too shall pass."
"This too shall pass," Joan repeats quietly. "Living one day at a time." Carly stops and looks at her. "I know a lot of people in recovery," Joan explains, pouring the water from the pitcher.
"Yeah," Carly whispers. "A couple of years ago, I hurt my knee." Joan hands her a glass of water. "So...I started taking pain pills just to like, get through games. By the end of the season I was taking them just to get through the day, and," she trails off and inhales. "My mom was the one who helped me get clean."
"You know, I'm going to give you my phone number," Joan says, going to her jacket. "If you need to talk, my phone's on all the time." Carly takes the number gratefully.
Sherlock, Gregson, and Marcus wrap up and Joan says goodbye to Carly. "All the time. I mean it," she whispers. Carly just nods. Joan meets Sherlock on the curb.
"Waste of time, that was," Sherlock says. "He's clearly got great confidence in his alibi. When I look at him I don't see killer I see," Sherlock pauses. "Bleh."
"How articulate." But Joan sees her point- the man is a stereotype. She looks around and sees a woman working in her yard. "You want the scoop on our victim," Joan asks Sherlock, who looks at her. "Talk to her."
Sherlock turns to follow her gaze. "She's worth talking to because?"
"She's trimming her evergreen in the middle of winter. You're supposed to do that in June." She looks at Sherlock. "And the only thing more important than a well-maintained lawn in the suburbs is gossip."
Sherlock nods, impressed, and they cross the street.
"Hares are much bigger than you think they are," Joan greets.
"You think they're more the size of rabbits," the woman greets back.
"Hi," Joan says. "We're with the police. We were talking to Mr. Purcell about his wife."
"I heard Teri died." She smiles sadly. "I'm Mrs. Dean."
"Ms. Watson, Ms. Holmes," Sherlock introduces them.
Mrs. Dean narrows her eyes at Sherlock, but recovers quickly. "Teri was a lovely woman. Everybody thought so. Men, especially."
The soulmates share a look as the other woman walks around them. "Is there any particular man you're referring to," Joan asks.
"Oh, I wouldn't want to speak out of school."
"Of course you wouldn't," Sherlock says.
"But," Mrs. Dean says. She gestures for them to follow her, and they go inside her house. She hangs up her coat on a rack and leads them to her living room. "I think Teri was having an affair. A very handsome man used to drop by a lot. Always when Oliver wasn't home. Before he lost his job, of course."
"Could you describe him," Sherlock asks, going right into detective mode.
"I can do better than that," Mrs. Dean says, picking up her phone. "My friend Sheila lives over on Oxford. She didn't believe me when I said that Saint Teri was entertaining a gentleman caller, so I took a picture for proof." She hands the phone over, and Sherlock takes it. "Like I said; handsome, right?"
"Very," Sherlock says. "I find his license plate particularly fetching." She looks up. "Mind if I text this to myself," she asks.
"Go right ahead." Mrs. Dean seems pleased her gossip helped. Now she can add 'crime solver' to her bragging rights.
The women meet Gregson and Marcus outside. "There you two are," Gregson says. "Why were you in there?"
"Mrs. Dean believes that Mrs. Purcell was having an affair," Sherlock says. She shows him the photo. "Shall we run the plate?"
"Marcus, take this down," Gregson says, putting on his glasses. Even then, he squints. Sherlock takes her phone back gently and reads it out. Gregson nods his thanks as he puts his glasses back.
They return to the station so Marcus can run it through his computer. When they get the answer, they leave sans Gregson.
"Teri was as passionate about our cause as anyone I've ever known," Mr. Silver says after introductions are made.
"Is that all she was passionate about," Sherlock asks. Joan gives her a pass this time- that was a perfect segue.
"Uh, I'm not sure what you're asking," Silver says.
"Intercourse," Sherlock says. "Were you and Teri having it?"
"I assume you're referring to the conversational variety."
"No, I meant fornication," Sherlock replies. Joan wonders how long she can keep using euphemisms. "The insertion of part A into slot-"
"Mr. Silver," Joan interrupts her. Ok, she was wrong about the euphemisms. "We are not here to judge you."
"Perish the thought," Sherlock exclaims. "No, we are simply inquiring if your time spent with Mrs. Purcell involved coitus."
"No. It did not."
"Her neighbor seems to be under the impression it did," Marcus says. "She said you had a habit of visiting when Teri's husband wasn't around."
"I visited when he was home, too. Oliver is a friend; I've known him for as long as I've known Teri."
"Can you account for your whereabouts between 9 and midnight last night," Marcus asks.
"Yes. A friend and his wife had me over for dinner. Why?"
"We'd just like to call and confirm," Marcus says. He hands over his notebook. "So, if you wouldn't mind." Silver looks at Sherlock and takes a step towards her.
"I don't really care what you think of me, but you got the wrong idea about Teri." He backs away and sits at his desk without looking. "She was as devoted to her family as she was to this foundation. She was, without a doubt, one of the finest human beings I've ever had the pleasure of knowing." He finishes writing and hands the book back to Marcus.
"Thank you for your time, Mr. Silver," Marcus says. They walk out and Marcus' phone rings. "Excuse me. I have to take this." He walks away.
"Another suspect, another alibi," Sherlock groans.
"You're angry because Silver and the husband could prove they didn't commit a murder," Joan asks, incredulous.
"I'm angry because I've run out of suspects. At least for the time being. I really liked that one, too. Oily."
"He helps run a charity that dismantles landmines!"
"John Wayne Gacy donated his time to several charitable foundations. Does that make him a good person, too?" Marcus hangs up his phone and comes back before Joan thinks of a good response.
"So, that was the Captain," Marcus says. Joan chances a look at Sherlock- she doesn't seem upset that Gregson called Marcus and not her. "He talked to head of security at Teri Purcell's hotel. Now, he said they had a prostitution problem recently," he continues, pocketing his phone. "Some guests got solicited in the hotel bar and complained. Teri cracked down, cleared out the working girls. Few weeks later, she starts getting threatening anonymous calls."
"Probably from their pimps," Sherlock says.
"That's what I'm thinking. I'm gonna head to Vice, see who might be running hookers at high-end hotels. Wanna come?"
"I appreciate the offer, Detective, but Watson and I have an errand to run."
"Alright," Marcus shrugs, walking away.
"An errand," Joan questions when Marcus is out of earshot.
"Why go to Vice when you can explore the problem at its source," Sherlock asks, cocking her head slightly. "Tell me. Have you ever been whore-fishing?"
"I'm pretty sure they don't like to be called that," Joan says.
"British term. Nothing undue meant," Sherlock says, straightening. "You know me and my sexual proclivities, Watson. I'm the last person to judge a woman based on her number of sexual partners, past or present."
They arrive at Teri's hotel and grab a couple cups of tea, sitting in chairs facing the majority of the lobby and the bar. They sip silently and Joan sees a possibility. "What about that one," Joan asks.
"Too obvious. Too intoxicated. High-end escorts are more polished, discreet."
"You say that like you speak from experience."
"I do. Of a sort."
"Sherlock, were you," Joan starts, shocked.
"I've never been a sex worker, no. But I have been known to hire one for an evening's company."
"Sherlock!"
"I said 'company,' Watson. Not every night with a lady of the night has to culminate in sex. Sometimes, I just needed someone to talk to. They're better listeners than you might think, and I often chose the inexperienced ones so that they didn't have to entertain a john for however long they spent with me. They appreciated it."
"So you-"
"Enough about my past, Watson. No one will take you seriously as an investigator if you can't spot a fille de joie at twenty paces."
"What is the point of this again," Joan deflects. There Sherlock goes, calling her 'an investigator.' She isn't; she's a sobriety counselor.
"As Detective Bell suggested," Sherlock gestures with her cup. "If Teri Purcell ran afoul of the working girls in her establishment, it may well have led to her death. And if one of their pimps did indeed kill her-"
"Then they would know that the hotel was open for business."
"You're catching on."
"I just think this is a little," Joan trails off.
"A little what?"
"Never mind."
"No, Watson I've almost always encouraged your input."
"I just think it's a little sexist, that's all." Women are not banned from sexism, she knows, even against their own gender.
"Anthropological, actually," Sherlock says. "The species we are on the hunt for is attractive, well-dressed, quick to laugh, and highly-skilled at spotting men coming in from out of town whose desires are not being fulfilled at home." Sherlock looks out at the bar and Joan follows her eye. "Like her." Sherlock puts her tea down and stands. Joan follows suit. Sherlock pulls out a chair for Joan, and she sits. "Excuse me. Might we offer you a drink and some company," she asks the blonde woman Joan is now sitting next to.
"Oh, a drink would be lovely," the woman says. Her voice is soft, inviting. She didn't react at all to Sherlock's lack of greeting. She's definitely pretty, but Joan doesn't see why Sherlock thinks this woman is a call girl. Until she roves her eyes over Joan. Ah. Ok.
"Excellent. Now that's out of the way," Sherlock says. "My friend and I were wondering what you might charge to sleep with us." Joan gives her a sharp look despite her surprise. "Kidding," Sherlock smiles, turning back to the woman. "We're with the police-" her face falls "-and we were wondering if you or any of your fellow working girls might know who killed the manager of the hotel last night."
"Oh, I'm sorry, I think you have the wrong idea about me," the woman says, getting up. Sherlock moves to cage her in. Not threateningly, just to prevent her from getting past her.
"Do I," Sherlock questions. "I know your clothes say sophisticated businesswoman, but the faint line across your thighs means garter belt with stockings." Joan looks down despite herself. "And you've made meaningful eye contact with almost every unattached man in here, even the paunchy ones." The woman settles back in her chair and looks at Sherlock. "Now, shall I alert security to your presence, or do you mind answering just a couple of questions?"
"What do you want to know," the call girl relents.
"As I said, the manager of this hotel was murdered last night. I would like to know if your managers are responsible."
"Why would any of those guys want to kill Teri?" Joan is shocked at the first name.
"So you knew her," Joan clarifies.
"Of course. We all did. But trust me, none of our managers would ever lay a finger on her. Not in a million years."
"How can you be so sure," Joan asks.
"Because she was the reason most of us worked here."
"We were told that she chased you all out because some of the hotel guests complained," Sherlock says.
"She just helped us keep a lower profile. She'd sneak us in the back, put us up in the service elevators to meet the clients. She wanted us here." She clears her throat. "Now, if either of you ever decide you do want a date," she extends a card to Joan. "Call me. I think we'd have some fun." Joan pauses before she takes the black cardstock. The woman winks and leaves, leaving Joan looking at the business card.
"Melinda Hayes," she reads off.
"Almost certainly not her real name," Sherlock replies.
"No shit, Sherlock."
"You know, I've actually heard that a lot." Sherlock watches her. "Unless you want to call that number, I think we better tell Bell and Gregson what we've learned."
"You're kidding," Gregson says.
"In my experience, prostitutes are not often bald-faced liars," Sherlock says. "Twisters of truth, perhaps. But this one seemed truthful enough."
"I'll call around," Marcus shrugs.
"So far, every hooker we've talked to has said the same thing," Gregson says later. "Ever since Teri Purcell took over the hotel in '09, she's been arranging dates with rich businessmen and diplomats visiting from the U.N. Couple'a months ago, someone started complaining about prostitutes in the lobby. So she started sneaking 'em through the laundry room. They told us she's the one who kept disabling the cameras. When their business was complete, she'd sneak 'em back out. And get this- she did it all for free."
"You're saying she was a volunteer madam," Joan says, looking at Sherlock. Her soulmate only looks thoughtful.
"According to the girls who worked there, yeah." Gregson leans up against his desk. "Their pimps loved her."
"And the threatening phone calls," Sherlock asks.
"They all say they came from the one girl she did have to ban. The girl got high in the lobby and made a scene so Teri booted her." He walks closer to Sherlock and almost completely faces her, almost to the extent of putting his back to Joan. Joan notices he gets a little close, and wishes she could see either of their faces. "We tracked her down, she's six months into a bid on possession," Gregson shrugs. "Wyatt," he asks, looking through his window. "Excuse me." He leaves the women alone in his office.
"I don't get it," Joan admits. "Why would Teri risk her career to run a non-profit brothel out of her hotel?"
Sherlock taps her index fingers together. "House of secrets, that place. Perhaps it warrants a closer look."
Marcus is busy with the prostitutes, so they catch a cab.
Sherlock leads Joan to Teri's office and is examining the leg of the desk closely when she looks up. "You know, it occurs to me that once you've accepted my offer of an apprenticeship you should probably start taking notes."
"I'm not becoming your apprentice," Joan responds quickly.
"No, of course not." Joan's heart stutters. "Not in an official capacity. More likely you'd peddle some fiction to my father about me not being ready to be alone yet, hmm? Whatever your pride dictates, I shan't hold it against you." Sherlock keeps looking at her as she feels along Teri's desk.
"You know I'm not staying, right," Joan asks quietly.
Sherlock pauses. "What, and continue your journey to profound professional satisfaction?" Sherlock gets on her back under the desk and looks up. "Why would you?"
Joan crouches to see her better. "What are you doing?"
Sherlock rolls out from under the desk. "Secret compartments have been a part of cabinet-making since the Age of Enlightenment." Sherlock seems happy as she sits in the chair. "You know, I once spent a thrilling afternoon examining a Queen Anne secretary with no fewer than twenty-five hidden caches." She pulls out a drawer and lays it on her lap. She takes out the things inside, but pauses just after she puts something down. Joan looks- Teri's makeup.
"Why are you looking at her compact?
Sherlock picks it up again, weighing it in her hand. "It's heavy." She looks at the color. "Not even her shade." Joan takes a closer look at the makeup and then the photos on Teri's desk. She's right, the color is off. She would have pegged Teri as a winter. Sherlock opens the makeup and examines it, then closes it again. She twists at the base and amazingly, it opens a hidden compartment. Sherlock smiles while Joan laughs softly. Inside is what looks like a thumb drive.
"Wireless connector," Sherlock explains, taking off the things she put on top of Teri's laptop and plugs it in the side. "With this, Teri could sign in to an entirely private network." She types at the computer, and soon a screen with camera views comes up.
"Hidden cameras," Joan marvels.
"Nine hidden cameras," Sherlock clarifies. "Well, I think we've found out how Teri was profiting from her arrangement with the hookers."
They go back to the station and into Gregson's office.
"Blackmail," Sherlock says as she walks in.
"I believe you pronounce it 'hello,'" Gregson says, smiling slightly.
"Hello," Sherlock says. "I think Teri Purcell was blackmailing the hookers' clients." Gregson sits up straighter. "That would explain why she allowed them to work at her hotel but never took her cut of the money. They gave her the chance to catch guests in flagrante delicto."
"Why can't you just say 'sex' like a normal person," Gregson asks her. "That means every guest she ever blackmailed is a suspect in her murder," he continues without waiting for a response that Sherlock probably never intended to give. "But how do you know she was blackmailing them?"
"I found a wireless connector in a secret compartment in her compact. Once I plugged it into her computer, I found nine hidden cameras."
"Let's say they ran all day since '09, that's four years. That makes it-"
"Three hundred fifteen thousand, three hundred sixty hours," Sherlock says. Gregson stops.
"Did you just do that in your head?" He sounds almost awed.
"On the ride over," Joan tells him. "She used a calculator app on her phone."
"Might I add, there are no timestamps on any of the videos, so we can't be sure when any of it was happening," Sherlock adds.
"Ok, smartypants," Gregson smiles. "How long would it take my people to search through it?"
"No time at all. Give it to Watson and I."
"Beg your pardon?"
"I can watch them at two times speed, all at once."
"How," Gregson starts.
"Do you really want an explanation, or do you just want it done," Sherlock asks.
"Take it." Sherlock nods and starts to walk away. "Let me know the second you find something," he calls after her. Joan nods at him and follows Sherlock.
They go home and Sherlock retreats to her media room upstairs. Joan watches with her for a while, but she gets a headache and goes to run errands. When she gets back, she makes two cups of tea and brings them up, finding a metal garbage can on its side with its contents strewn around the room.
"Do I want to know what happened," she asks. Sherlock doesn't turn around.
"You haven't missed a thing." Joan taps her shoulder with the cup of tea and she takes it without looking. "More yak than shack so far. Curiously, many of these videos are entirely prostitute-free," she trails off.
"I meant the garbage."
"Borrowed our neighbor's bin to test your theory about physical mess and its correlation to relapse," Sherlock responds. Joan glares at the back of her head. "I've been sitting here for hours and I have felt no additional temptation to use drugs."
"You're an asshole."
"So I've been told." Joan's phone rings from downstairs, and she goes to answer it.
"Umbrellas should be called overbrellas," she answers the unfamiliar number.
"Is this Ms. Watson," the girl on the other end asks.
"Yes."
"Hi, it's Carly Purcell. You gave me your number the other day."
"Carly, of course," Joan says, sitting down. "I'm glad you called. Is everything ok?"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah," Carly says. "I haven't taken any pills or anything I just-" the slight laughter turns to silence, and then Carly takes a deep breath. "I just needed to talk to someone," her voice now threatens tears.
"Ok, well, I'm here," Joan assures her. "You sound upset."
"You know what, I don't even know you, this was stupid, I-"
"No, I told you to call me if you wanted to talk, and you called."
"Just...my mom," Carly says. "I don't know, the way she was." There's a pause. "She's not...she's not what people thought."
"What do you mean," Joan asks, horrible scenarios going through her head. Is she why Carly used? Did she abuse her? Silence. "Carly, tell me where you are and I'll come and meet you."
"I'm really sorry, but I've got to go." Carly hangs up. Joan slowly lowers her phone. She opens up the Captain's contact information.
What would I tell him? That Carly Purcell said that he mother's not who everyone thought she was? We know that already. She sighs. I need proof. She puts her hand on her hip, staring down at her phone. What would Sherlock do?
"What would Sherlock do," Joan repeats to herself. "Deduce." From what information, Sherlock's voice says in her head. "The call." What did you hear? "Carly was upset." We know that. What was in the background? Joan closes her eyes. "Night noises. Crickets." There are no crickets in the city. She was probably at her house. Joan picks up her keys. Where are you going? You need more information. It won't do to go in without it. Joan replaces her keys and sighs. Time for bed, Watson. She goes.
When Joan wakes up the next morning, Sherlock is still watching the cameras. She's in the same clothes she was in yesterday. "Did you get any sleep," Joan asks her.
"Here and there."
"I'm going shopping."
"Very well."
Joan goes grocery shopping, replaying what she can remember of Carly's call. She was upset. She didn't think she could turn to anyone in her life, not even her father. But she called Joan to talk. And then the door opened- Joan pauses in the middle of the aisle.Yes. She had heard a door open. Carly had quickly ended the call after that. Maybe her dad had walked out to see where she was. Joan finishes up and goes home.
"Hey," Joan greets, finding Sherlock at the table. "Figured you'd still be watching the videos."
"I finished an hour ago. Apparently, the photos in Teri Purcell's computer was the interesting part."
"What, Teri kept dirty pictures, too?"
Sherlock hums a negative, which makes Joan turn around and raise an eyebrow. Sherlock beckons her and Joan comes around to see the computer screen. Sherlock clicks on the photos. On the screen, an image appears of Teri and Oliver embracing. "Wait. It gets better." She clicks, and next is Oliver wearing a 'Kiss the Cook' apron. And then Carly with a soccer ball. "I know what you're thinking; innocuous. Mundane. But each of these stultifying-" Joan's gonna have to look that up later "-images contains almost a gig of memory."
"That's enormous," Joan says, shocked.
"That's steganography. The science of embedding hidden images in plain sight. Security through obscurity."
"So, you're saying that Teri's picture files are so large because she has content hidden in them."
"Luckily, I have a decryption program that should unlock the coded data," she says, holding up a memory stick and then plugging it into the computer. "In a matter of minutes."
"Carly called me last night," Joan says, straightening as they watch the progression bar fill. "I didn't mention it because she confided in me the other day," she continues, walking back to the groceries to continue putting them away.
"About her drug use?" Joan looks back at Sherlock, shocked. "I overheard a snipped of conversation whilst I was questioning her father. It didn't seem relevant. Has it become so?"
"Well, she did mention something about her mother not being who everyone thought," she says, opening the fridge to stow some things away.
The computer beeps. "I must warn you, Watson. Whatever's on these videos is likely to be the vilest and most startling material that Mrs. Purcell gathered. So you might not want to watch this." Joan walks over. If Sherlock can watch it, so can she. Sherlock clicks. Two men speaking a foreign language Joan doesn't recognize. Another click, and this time it's a man on a phone speaking French.
"Wow. Yeah, I don't know how I'm going to unsee any of that."
"Shh!" Sherlock listens for less than half a minute, then lunges for her phone.
"What, what is it, who are you calling," Joan asks, heart starting to race.
"Captain Gregson. We need to go back to the Purcell home immediately."
"Why, because some French guy is putting on too much deodorant," Joan asks, eyebrow raised.
"It's not what the people in these videos are doing, Watson. It's what they're saying." Sherlock has her phone to her ear.
"What are they saying?"
"Enough to make me sure that Teri and Oliver Purcell are spies." Joan's attention snaps to her. "Captain! There's something I have to tell you."
As Joan listens to Sherlock explain to Gregson, her heart beats faster and faster. I'm going to miss this. Then Sherlock's voice in her head pipes up again. You don't have to, Watson. Be an apprentice. She shoves that voice away.
They arrive at the Purcell home with multiple squad cars, all with sirens blaring. They see Oliver on his way to the curb with his garbage. He stops, puzzled. Joan follows Sherlock, Marcus, and Gregson out. "You're quite good, you know that," Sherlock asks.
"Beg your pardon?"
"Your accent, your attire, your decor. It all screams 'average American,' but you're neither, aren't you?"
"Someone want to tell me what the Hell is going on here," Oliver asks.
"Yeah, you're a spy," Sherlock says. "So was your late wife."
"What?!"
"We have a warrant to search your home, Mr. Purcell," Gregson says, handing it over. Purcell takes it and looks at it.
"Based on what?"
"Based on secret videos that your wife made of her globally relevant guests," Gregson says. He sounds almost like he has the entire time Joan's known him, but there's an edge under it that she's almost certain she never would have picked up on if not for Sherlock.
"At first I thought she was using them for blackmail," Sherlock continues. "Why else would she facilitate a prostitution ring in her own hotel and collect none of the profits? Now I have the answer; the escorts made the hotel popular amongst international power brokers, foreign businessman, diplomats from the nearby U.N.," she lists, staring Purcell in the eye. "But it wasn't their bad behavior she wanted on video, no. It was their information. I imagine that while she was using her job to collect information, you were doing the same at your previous job at a financial consulting firm?"
"I was fired months ago," Purcell protests.
"No. You resigned," Gregson corrects.
"Your firm recently signed a contract with the Department of Defense," Sherlock says.
"The DoD would have required a thorough background check of all your firm's employees. You knew your legend wouldn't hold up to that kind of scrutiny," Gregson picks up.
"'Legend,'" Purcell scoffs.
"The elaborate and entirely false identities created for you and your wife by your Russian spymasters in order for you to pass as American citizens."
"Oh, so now I'm not just a spy, I'm a Russian spy."
"You made a point of stepping out to shake hands the other day," she gestures at his house. "It's bad form in Russian culture to shake hands beneath the arch of a doorway, is it not?" Purcell is now starting to look a little nervous. "Then there were the coins on your wife's desk. Money attracts money in Russian folklore. Leaving coins out is a way of inviting good fortune into your life. Didn't quite work out for her, did it?"
"Listen to me," Gregson says as Purcell straightens. "If what happened with Teri had anything to do with her spying, now would be the time to tell us." Purcell looks down.
"I want a lawyer," he says, looking up.
"Yes, I rather expected you would," Sherlock admits. The unis take Purcell into custody. Joan stands next to Sherlock.
"What happens to Carly now?"
"Let's go see, shall we?"
But Carly isn't in the house. They return to the precinct and Sherlock glares at Purcell through the glass in Observation. Joan waits with her and Marcus.
"I can't believe it," Marcus says quietly. "A real life spy."
"And a Russian one," Joan adds. Marcus nods.
"Amazing. He blended right in," he marvels. "I had no idea."
"Neither did I, if it makes you feel better, Detective," Sherlock says.
Gregson comes in, closing the door behind him. "I just got off the phone with the Feds, they're on their way down."
"Lovely. Can I question Oliver now," Sherlock gestures. Gregson puts his hand on hers and lowers it.
"Easy. This is a joint operation. NYPD handles the homicide, FBI handles the espionage."
"But the homicide and the espionage are the same thing!"
"I know, it sucks. But the Feds have more clout than we do."
"And the bigger penis wins," Sherlock muses. Gregson just looks at her.
"Don't give me that. You couldn't have thought that we would just throw a Russian spy in our holding cell."
"I thought I would get to at least question him."
"We're lucky they're even letting us- and by 'us' I mean the NYPD- hold him."
"Ah, yes. Let's all kowtow and show our gratitude to the bumbling, inept bureaucracy that is preventing us from questioning our best and most interesting suspect that sits not ten feet away!"
Gregson puts his hands on Sherlock's shoulders. Joan shoots a look at Marcus, who looks as shocked as she feels. "Breathe," Gregson coaxes gently. Sherlock obeys. "Again." She does. She keeps doing it until the tension drains out of her, and then Gregson squeezes once and lets her go.
"Carly," Joan says to break the stunned silence between her and Marcus and the...whatever it is...between Gregson and Sherlock. "I've been trying to get in touch with her. She's seventeen, her mother's been murdered, and she's about to find out both her parents are Russian spies."
"Watson's right," Sherlock says, nodding. "She could be in danger, especially if she was a part of her parents' operation."
"I talked to this girl; she is a confused teenager, not a sleeper agent. And now she's alone."
"Spies are never alone," Sherlock realizes. The others look at her. Did she not hear a word I said? "They have handlers."
The next day, Joan still hasn't heard from Carly and is starting to cross the threshold from worry into panic. But she still follows Sherlock and Marcus to Silver's non-profit.
As Sherlock stalks out without Silver, her phone rings. She checks the I.D. "Captain. How may I be of assistance?"
A long pause. "Thank you, Captain." She hangs up.
"Well," Marcus asks. "Care to share with the class?"
"Oliver Purcell has agreed to talk." Joan and Marcus look at each other.
"And he called you instead of me because?"
"Apparently, I'm allowed to sit in because I helped catch him."
Marcus' expression grows thunderous. "And what am I?"
"Nothing against you, Detective. But I was the one who found the videos and put it all together."
Marcus turns and walks to the car, Joan hurrying after him and Sherlock behind her.
Joan and Marcus watch from Observation as Purcell is questioned. When Carly is brought up, she tenses. She dreads the next words out of his mouth- 'yes, Carly is a spy.' "But you can't raise a spy," he says instead. "Teri and I found ourselves with a daughter." Joan exhales. He loves her.
"When did you initiate her into the family business," Sherlock asks, and Joan starts to tense again. "Come on, Mr. Purcell. Russia invested a great deal of time and money into your family; they must have had a plan for Carly."
"They did," Oliver snaps. He sounds bitter. "But I worked twenty years for the SVR, living a lie. I wanted a better life for my daughter."
"You and your wife see eye-to-eye on that," the FBI agent asks.
"No. Teri wanted to tell Carly. To Teri, serving Russia was still the highest calling."
"That's got to be a hard disagreement to resolve," Gregson says.
"It was," Oliver nods. "And so I threatened to expose the operation. Said I'd take my chances with the U.S. Government before I let the SVR use my daughter. That was enough to shut Teri and Geoffrey up."
"Geoffrey Silver, your handler," Sherlock asks. Oliver nods. Sherlock leans in and whispers to Gregson, but she's close enough to the intercom for Joan and Marcus to hear her. "I believe that constitutes a positive I.D. in Silver's involvement in the espionage."
"I'll send a uni," Gregson says back just as quietly.
Joan's phone starts to buzz and she looks at it. Carly. She steps outside Observation to answer. "Carly," she sighs. "Are you ok?"
"I was coming home last night and I saw the police take my dad away." Carly's crying. "What's going on, Ms. Watson?"
"He's just answering some questions right now," Joan says, trying not to give too much away.
"Do you guys think he had something to do with my mom," Carly exclaims.
"No. No, no, nothing like that. Tell me where you are, and I'll come and meet you. Ok?"
"Ok," Carly says in a tiny voice.
"Thanks for meeting me," Carly says, wiping her nose with her glove. "It's been a rough couple days."
"I get it." Joan pauses. "Carly, you said the other night that your mom wasn't who everyone thought she was. What did you mean by that?" She sees Carly's expression. "Did you know she was a spy?" A pause, and then Carly nods. "Your dad, too?" Another nod. "How long have you known for?"
"My mom told me a few days ago," Carly sobs.
"That's a lot for anyone to process."
"My father shouldn't be under arrest, it's my fault."
"You can't take on your parents' mistakes," Joan assures her.
"No, you don't understand, it's literally my fault. I killed my mother." Joan just stares at her. "It was an accident," she cries, leaning into Joan. She hugs her.
"I think it's time we go to the police," Joan says quietly. Carly sobs but nods against her. Joan gets her into her car and buckles her in. Carly slowly stops crying and is silent until they pull up to the precinct.
"Is this as bad as I think it is," Carly asks.
"If it was an accident? Maybe not."
They arrive in the precinct and Joan takes her to Gregson's office. He and Sherlock are in there, and they turn when she closes the door behind them. "I found Carly. And she has something to tell us." Sherlock nods and sits down. "Take off your jacket, Carly." Joan helps her out of it and Carly puts it over the arm of the chair she sits in.
"I killed my mother."
Gregson freezes. "Ms. Purcell, before we go any further, I'm going to read you your Miranda rights," he says, voice gentle. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you do say can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will be provided for you. Do you understand your rights as I have read them to you?"
"Yes. I waive them."
Gregson gets a pad of legal paper from his desk and sits next to Sherlock. Joan notices he sits so close that when he gets settled their knees brush.
"It was the day I got my acceptance from Michigan," Carly starts. "Full athletic scholarship. The first thing I do is call my mom, 'cause I figured she'd be as thrilled as I was." She sobs.
"It's ok, Carly," Joan soothes. "Just try to tell us what happened."
"She sounded weird," Carly admits. "She told me that I had to go straight to the hotel, so that's what I did. And when I got there, she said that Michigan was out of the question, that I was going to Georgetown. And I didn't understand why she was being so insistent," Carly shrugs. "But then she explained why."
"She told you the truth about her and your father," Sherlock says.
"At first, I thought it was a joke. I mean, Russian spies? We live in Westchester, we drive a minivan." She inhales. "But it wasn't a joke. Everything my parents had told me was a lie." Poor girl.
"Odd that your father wasn't there as well, no," Sherlock asks.
"She said that we had to keep it between us," Carly sniffles. "That he wouldn't understand. And so it was really important for all of us for me to do exactly what she told me to do."
"Did she threaten you," Joan asks.
"She told me that there were people out there who could hurt us." That's not enough, Joan laments. "And I figured they were the people she was working for."
"Why was your mom so intent on you going to Georgetown," Gregson steers gently.
"She said that it had the better government program. That a degree from there would really mean something. I suppose after college, I was supposed to get a job in Washington or something," Carly covers her face.
"Where you could operate as a second-generation agent," Sherlock says. Carly nods. "U.S. national who could penetrate the corridors of government power and gain access to information she never could."
"She had my whole life planned out," Carly says, calmer. "She wanted me to give up everything I ever wanted for a country I've never even seen, so I said 'no.' I said no to Georgetown, no to spying, no to all of it! I was going to Michigan, I was going to play soccer!: She starts to cry again. "I just, I-" she gasps. "I'd fought back from too much not to follow my dream." Carly pauses. "I told her that I'd go to the police if she tried to stop me, and that I'd tell them about her." She sobs quietly. "She grabbed me and I-I was so freaked out that I pushed her and she fell and hit her head on the desk. I called her name a couple times, but she just lay there. And that's when Mr. Silver came in."
All three of them perk up.
"Geoffrey Silver," Gregson asks. Carly nods.
"Yeah. He told me that he was my mom's handler and th-that I was in a lot of trouble." She starts to cry in earnest again. "He told me that if I didn't go right away, I was going to go to jail and I'd never see my dad again." She sobs. "I was so afraid. My dad was all I had left so I-I-I didn't know what to do so I went home and...I didn't say anything." She takes a deep breath. "Whatever else you think my dad did, he didn't kill my mom." A long pause. "I did."
Joan looks at Gregson and wishes that the man was easier to read. He has his lips slightly pursed and he's flipping his pen end to end on his pad. Joan watches his hand slowly relax to let the pen hit the paper, slide down and grip the bottom, and just as slowly lift up again and let the rest of the pen swing down before he does it again.
"Captain Gregson," Carly says. "Can I see my dad?"
"I'm afraid not, Ms. Purcell," Gregson replies quietly.
"Will I ever see him again?" Gregson doesn't answer, and Carly bows her head and cries. Joan gets up and stands over her, and Carly leans into her. "I want my dad," she sobs. Joan strokes her hair.
"I know you do, Carly."
Sherlock leans into Gregson and says something Joan doesn't catch.
"Outside," Gregson replies, and the pair leave. Joan comforts Carly the best she can. Slowly, her sobs soften to sniffles.
"This is bad, Ms. Watson."
"Yes, Carly."
"I'll never see my dad again."
"You don't know that."
Carly looks up. "They're going to lock him up in some special prison in the middle of nowhere where they don't get visitors and I'm going to jail." Joan smooths Carly's hair back. "Right?"
"I don't know, Carly. Let's get you washed up." She takes Carly to the bathroom. The girl splashes water on her face. She remains leaned over the sink, quiet.
"Is Mr. Silver going to jail, too?"
"Yes."
"Good. He's the reason I'm going to prison. If he hadn't shown up," she sniffles, then gets herself under control again. "I would have been normal."
Joan brings her back to Gregson's office, but a uniformed officer stops them just outside. "Captain," Joan calls, looking around for him.
"I'm sorry, Joan," Gregson says. "But this is how we have to do it."
The officer puts handcuffs on Carly- thankfully in the front- and leads her away. Joan hangs her head. Sherlock comes up beside her. "Want to go get the last Russian spy," she asks her. Joan follows them.
“I can neither confirm nor deny anything that Carly Purcell may have told you,” Silver says, his hands cuffed behind him and sitting on a table in the common room of his office.
“Because you don’t want to be charged as an accessory to murder,” Gregson says, voice hard.
“And because I don’t recognize your authority,” Silver shrugs.
“Oh, you’re gonna ‘respect my authority’ because the government of New York is going to put you in prison for the rest of your natural life.” Silver’s mouth quirks up. “I say something funny to you?”
Silver slowly stands and looks Gregson dead in the eyes. Joan watches Sherlock’s gaze turn from angry to thunderous. She takes a step towards them but Gregson holds out his hand, stopping her. “I don’t respect your authority because I won’t spend more than a week in one of your American jails.”
“And why is that?”
“People in my alleged line of work don’t tend to be imprisoned. We tend to be traded. I’d bet all the money in the world that your government is perusing a catalogue of political prisoners they’d like to see released from Russia.” He turns to the FBI liaison standing behind him. “Am I right?” Joan can tell from her expression that he is. So can Gregson, apparently.
"Well, then. I guess we'll just let the Feds do," Gregson pauses to look at their liaison. "Whatever the fuck it is the Feds do. Come on." Joan walks past Silver to follow her friends.
"You ruined that girl's life," she tells him. Silver doesn't react.
Joan goes home and puts everything on the wall of her room, looking over it. Sherlock's method works- she can see everything like this.
"What would Sherlock do," she whispers. And she starts to work.
Sherlock opens her door. "I'm flattered, Watson," she says. Joan doesn't turn. "It's a lovely homage to my methodology. But why apply it to a case that's already solved?"
"That door was closed," Joan bites. Sherlock comes and sets a mug down.
"Was it," she asks, conversational.
"I just," Joan starts. "Carly Purcell doesn't deserve what's happened to her. I thought if I looked over the evidence one more time," she continues. "I could...I don't know."
"You could what? Rewrite history?" Joan can hear soft clinking behind her and knows Sherlock is using a utensil in the mug. "She already confessed."
Joan looks at the mug Sherlock brought her and goes to bring it to her mouth but stops. "What is that? Spaghetti in a mug?" She takes some out with the provided fork and lets it fall. "I take it there are still no clean bowls or plates?" She sighs, looking at her evidence wall. "How do you deal with cases not ending up like you want them to?"
"The only thing a puzzle promises is an answer. Liking the answer doesn't factor in." Sherlock's voice is gentle, so much gentler with her than with Carly. Why can't you show this side of you to anyone other than me and Gregson, Joan wonders. "In our line of work, it mustn't."
"You're right." She looks back at Sherlock, who's sitting on the edge of her bed "What is that," she asks, seeing a yellow envelope under her arm.
"Oh. Teri Purcell's autopsy report just showed up on our front step."
"I actually requested that from Gregson." She reaches for it and Sherlock hands it over. Joan opens it, holding the x-ray of Teri Purcell's hand to the lamp.
"There's a break in her fourth metacarpal," Sherlock notes.
"That...is a boxer's fracture," Joan says, confused.
"Resulting from a clenched fist striking something. Or someone."
"Carly said her mom didn't hit her. Do you think she's lying?"
"She willingly confessed to matricide this afternoon. I highly doubt she would leave out the part where dear old mum fought back. The pen!"
Joan looks up in time to see Sherlock pull a piece of paper from her wall. "Hey," she protests. "I put that there for a reason."
"Well done, Watson," Sherlock praises.
"For what?"
"Not giving up. It's a trait any detective worth their salt needs." Sherlock smiles. "I've just realized Carly didn't kill her mother."
"But she said-"
"Her mother was knocked out from hitting her head. Not dead. She was alive when Silver took her."
"Silver," Joan realizes.
Sherlock nods.
They go into work the next day and straight to Gregson’s office. “We need to talk to Silver again,” Joan says.
“You’re getting to be as bad as her,” Gregson points to Sherlock. “Good morning.”
“Sorry. Got excited. Good morning. Carly didn’t kill her mother.”
“But she confessed.”
“Because she thought she did.”
“Now you’re really starting to be as bad as her. Explain.”
“Sherlock realized that the pen didn’t fit.”
“Only because Watson put it up on her wall,” Sherlock tells him.
Gregson just stares at them.
“Right,” Joan whispers. “The empty fountain pen that we found in the washer with Teri.”
“I remember,” Gregson nods.
“It wasn’t empty,” she grins.
“But you said it yourself, Sherlock; there wasn’t any ink anywhere.”
“There was. We just couldn’t see it.”
Gregson shrugs.
“Come on, you’ve never seen a spy movie,” Joan smiles. “What do spies always have?”
“A phone in their shoe and a grappling hook?”
“And what do they write with?”
Gregson’s face brightens. “Invisible ink.” He grins slowly. “You two are incredible. But how does that help Carly?”
“Silver,” Sherlock says. “Carly said that he disposed of the body.”
“But she wasn’t dead yet,” Gregson realizes. “So he killed her. Why?”
“To have leverage over Carly,” Joan says.
“How do we prove it?”
“Invisible ink becomes visible under U.V. light,” Sherlock says. “All we have to do is take one of CSU’s and put it over Geoffrey Silver’s closet and see which shirt lights up.”
“Let’s go.”
Joan watches Carly Purcell walk away from her to go see her dad. “Tough times don’t last,” she looks back at her.
“Tough people do.” Joan watches her go and then her cell phone rings.
“How’s Ms. Purcell,” Sherlock asks her.
“As well as can be expected.”
“I’m quite proud of you, Watson. Your doggedness. I give you as much credit for solving this case as I do myself.”
“Thanks.” At any other time, she would be proud, but…
“No wonder you’re so keen to stay on as my associate.”
“Sherlock-”
“Like I said. We’ll tell my father I’ve hit a bit of a rough patch. He’ll keep the checks coming and you’ll continue to hone your skills-”
“I took another job this morning.” Sherlock looks at her. “I work with other therapists and I was referred to another client. I’ll be starting with him next week after you and I wrap up.”
“I see.” Sherlock faces forward. “Usually, I’m quite good with deductions.”
“Are you ok,” Joan asks her. Sherlock’s harder to read than Gregson is.
“Oh, my dear Watson. Whenever am I not?” She gets up and walks away. Joan lets her.
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So tired of getting to work and nothing being done 😞😔 I wanna take a brick and re arrange these peoples faces. Lunches not made, floors not swept or mopped, guarantee these guys haven’t been changed, dinner food still out, counters with spaghetti sauce all over, NOBODY HAS TOUCHED THE WASHER since I left this morning so the laundry is piled high, not to mention all of the meds that came in that nobody signed in because “that’s the overnights job” so I have to sign these meds in and then do evening shifts job. Just the aura of nobody giving a fuck is sending me. I don’t understand why they keep hiring men that clock in and sit their sloppy fucking asses on the couch all shift and do nothing. I’m so sick of it.
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