wrongs (
wrongs) wrote in
bakerstreet2014-03-18 09:32 am
[ would you care to roll?
maybe they ran away from the survey corps or something idek C': ]
maybe they ran away from the survey corps or something idek C': ]
Edited 2014-03-18 18:16 (UTC)
28 (spoilers for 55)....!!! this is appropriate because I'm listening to 'the draw' by bastille ahh
i don't mind the novel! though my replies keep tending to be shorter aahaha ;;;;
[m/m (characters identifying as male are a-OK) only, please. no 16-1 or 26.]
[One box out of many. About a thousand, from the looks of it. It's the middle of the night and the police officer's waiting impatiently by the door for them to pack away their entire life together - because Claude's been an absolute, fucking idiot. He scowls, dropping a vase into one box just a bit... inelegantly. From the sounds of it. Oh, well.]
( M/F for ships unless cast mate.)
[ would you like to roll? i'm up for mostly anything since i'm caught up with manga :3 ]
Edited 2014-03-18 20:51 (UTC)
Ah, you made my drink wrong, Uzu-kun.
[Because, you know. Putting a blind guy as a barista is obviously the best career choice for Sangeyama. Ever since Ragyo was defeated and they graduated from The World's Weirdest High School, living a much more mediocre lifestyle seemed to be what fate had in store for them.
For a guy with Real Life Skills, Houka had no problem readjusting his lifestyle to something more mundane. For a guy who would have preferred to live a Bushido lifestyle, in the 21st century...
Well, that's why Sanageyama is making coffee-based beverages. And also why Inumuta can afford a first name, and overly affectionate honorific.]
I said frappuccino, not latte. Really, how are you even still working here?
[Because, you know. Putting a blind guy as a barista is obviously the best career choice for Sangeyama. Ever since Ragyo was defeated and they graduated from The World's Weirdest High School, living a much more mediocre lifestyle seemed to be what fate had in store for them.
For a guy with Real Life Skills, Houka had no problem readjusting his lifestyle to something more mundane. For a guy who would have preferred to live a Bushido lifestyle, in the 21st century...
Well, that's why Sanageyama is making coffee-based beverages. And also why Inumuta can afford a first name, and overly affectionate honorific.]
I said frappuccino, not latte. Really, how are you even still working here?
Edited 2014-03-19 01:08 (UTC)
i cant actually believe i want to do this this i fucking hate you. COFFEESHOP AU INDEED
7 oh god I'm so late I'm sorry this starter was just not flowing at all 8|
Hannibal's psychiatrist office is, at first glance, most likely to be confused with a living room from an interior decorating magazine. He has the quintessential couch in one corner, though it's clear it's not actually often used for addressing clients in. There's two plush, green-patterned arm chairs that face themselves across from his expansive wooden desk, and they seem to be the common perpetrators.
Hannibal himself is seated behind the desk, making notes from his last hour's patient. His next one is younger than most of his others - a teen, legally an adult, just shy of flipping the chapter to his twenties. He's been referred by one of the judges in Baltimore's county, as an auxiliary excuse to keep him from jail time - some community service hours and mandatory therapy for his 'kleptomania'. He'd robbed a store, recently, and his lawyer apparently decided that was a satisfying excuse. The judge had made it clear she didn't think so.
Hannibal hasn't met him yet, so he couldn't say - except he too can already smell the lie. It's less an uncontrollable impulse than it is a lazily indulgent one, like eating sweets instead of cooking a proper dinner.
When the knock comes at his door, Hannibal sweeps up to meet it, re-buttoning his black suit jacket as he goes. The blue-and-red tie is straightened needlessly as he grips the handle and turns it.
"Hello, Mr Godwin."
Hannibal himself is seated behind the desk, making notes from his last hour's patient. His next one is younger than most of his others - a teen, legally an adult, just shy of flipping the chapter to his twenties. He's been referred by one of the judges in Baltimore's county, as an auxiliary excuse to keep him from jail time - some community service hours and mandatory therapy for his 'kleptomania'. He'd robbed a store, recently, and his lawyer apparently decided that was a satisfying excuse. The judge had made it clear she didn't think so.
Hannibal hasn't met him yet, so he couldn't say - except he too can already smell the lie. It's less an uncontrollable impulse than it is a lazily indulgent one, like eating sweets instead of cooking a proper dinner.
When the knock comes at his door, Hannibal sweeps up to meet it, re-buttoning his black suit jacket as he goes. The blue-and-red tie is straightened needlessly as he grips the handle and turns it.
"Hello, Mr Godwin."
Alastair had executed no effort to make his introductory therapy appointment today, whatsoever. Are you surprised to see him begrudgingly standing in the waiting room, at Hannibal's office door, then? Alastair is, too.
The only reason why he is here at all is because he stupidly let it slip to his previous social worker, Vedis Daleen, that he had no intention of attending. (Via text message, in reply to her concerned query after the court hearing.) Standing on the doorstep of his shared apartment, Miss Daleen gave Alastair only enough time to put some jeans on before dragging him into her car. He might have had more time to ready his appearance, had he not wasted such valuable time childishly resisting a fate that he was never going to be be able to elude.
He has smoothed down some of his hair, but the shirt he wears under a leather jacket is one he woke up in. The man who answers the door is shorter, but not older than the therapists-- sorry, counselors, that he's previously been forced into a room with.
"'Ello," Alastair chirps with enthusiasm so forced that it strains within his tightly-lipped smile. He steps into the large office, pausing a moment just past the threshold to gaze at the expensively-styled furnishings. He waits until he hears the shift of the door being been shut before he speaks further: "You read my portfolio yet? You can skip right t'the Freudian stuff, if you already 'ave some theories." If you think you're going to be the first one to suggest penis-envy, then prepare your disappointment.
The only reason why he is here at all is because he stupidly let it slip to his previous social worker, Vedis Daleen, that he had no intention of attending. (Via text message, in reply to her concerned query after the court hearing.) Standing on the doorstep of his shared apartment, Miss Daleen gave Alastair only enough time to put some jeans on before dragging him into her car. He might have had more time to ready his appearance, had he not wasted such valuable time childishly resisting a fate that he was never going to be be able to elude.
He has smoothed down some of his hair, but the shirt he wears under a leather jacket is one he woke up in. The man who answers the door is shorter, but not older than the therapists-- sorry, counselors, that he's previously been forced into a room with.
"'Ello," Alastair chirps with enthusiasm so forced that it strains within his tightly-lipped smile. He steps into the large office, pausing a moment just past the threshold to gaze at the expensively-styled furnishings. He waits until he hears the shift of the door being been shut before he speaks further: "You read my portfolio yet? You can skip right t'the Freudian stuff, if you already 'ave some theories." If you think you're going to be the first one to suggest penis-envy, then prepare your disappointment.
[ooc: how does 9 sound? Could be either Quatre or Soubi who needs to be taken care of]
[Especially interested in a post-war, pre-epilogue scenario. Possibly with someone from the wrong side. No 16.1, please.]
Edited 2014-03-19 03:17 (UTC)
[either pre- or post-series is most likely on this - no 16 or 26. i'm not interested in smut.]




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