#a dumb

*later that day*

jakes: did you sleep with her???

I neither know how to articulate nor implement whatever this is but I had an epiphany about it and had to put it down.

I wanna

I wanna!!!

I wanna maaaake!!

I wanan do things!!

I still have assesments!!

I wanna write- cant writ ebut really wanna push my self and maybe stop having such a block!! 

I wanna make more Ocs with epic stories!!!

Because there must be neighbours, right? I mean, even if Geoff was throwing money about and bought the whole damn building, so long as they're trying to fly under the radar and avoid police detection they've got to fill all that space with something. The lower levels would be rented out as offices, no drama, and he'd probably keep the top few levels below the penthouse as a combination of expansion space and insulation preventing any noise drifting into the wrong ears, but somewhere in-between there are apartments. Apartments filled with civilians.

And, sure, they wouldn't have all that much to do with those civilians at all - building managers take care of all the necessary interactions and the penthouse has its own private elevators and garage, gym and pool, but they'd have to cross paths sometimes. There's still foyers, still coming and going from the same door at ground level, still some idiot burning his dinner and setting off all the fire alarms, automatically locking down the elevators and forcing a very disgruntled Fake AH Crew into the firestairs with everyone else if they want to get anywhere that day.

Without fail, the residents of every apartment building i have ever lived in can put aside any individual differences for the common goal of mercilessly mocking the the penthouse owners behind their back. It’s pretty much a bylaw, no matter your drama with anyone else, regardless of loud children, barking dogs or relentless smokers, never mind the never ending feud between renters and owners, the one constant truth everyone can accept is that if there’s a fancy penthouse the residents of that level must be obnoxious assholes, no matter how normal they may present. And the Fake's? Yeah nobody is going to be calling them normal.

The rumours start slow - you'd be lucky to see one of the penthouse inhabitants in a month after all, but once talk starts it only grows and grows, odd incident after odd incident coming together with more than a sprinkle of exaggeration to make for the best kind of gossip. It’s inevitable really, lord knows the FAHC’s living arrangement is deeply bizarre from an outsiders perspective – too many grown adults to be living together, too many people coming and going at odd hours to be even an unconventional office space, and then there’s the strange attitudes and oddities of the actual individuals in question.

Because once the gossiping gets going you better believe every little interaction with the weirdos from the penthouse makes the rounds between residents like wildfire, everything from clothing choices to stilted small talk picked apart and talked to death. And who can really blame them, considering the characters they might run into.

Just think about coming across Ryan in a shared space. At best, people say he’s the big, silent type, clearly thinks he’s above everyone else since he barely says two words to them, and only ever in response to direct questions. At worst he’d the rich asshole who likes to wander around in a replica of a mask worn by the city’s most notorious criminal, an active murderer with countless deaths to his name. What a sicko.

Or Jeremy. Just, Jeremy. Those clothes. Those colours. Once is a bad day, a costume party, the last of his clean clothing, but eventually it must dawn that this man really just thinks he can pull off neon orange and purple as a fashion choice. As a hair colour. The horrified whispers only spread when someone catches sight of his vehicles, one after another, all painted in the same blistering shades of regret.

There’s Geoff, who is almost exactly what one would expect from a penthouse owner; filthy rich and deeply disinterested in small talk with the locals. Except, well, it’s a terrible assumption but most can't shake the idea that a man with that many tattoos just shouldn't be in a suit that nice. That a man with that many tattoos probably didn’t make his money investing or running some franchise. That a man whose friends laugh unrepentantly when his voice snarls in anger but go still and serious when it drops into something cold and quiet isn’t the kind of man you want to run into alone on a dark night.

Gavin, the only one who stinks of wealth to the same degree as Geoff, every inch the trust fund baby stereotype with his clothes, his indoor sunglasses and raised eyebrows, the polished kind of smirk that is anything but kind. Of all the people from the penthouse Gavin is the most likely to know names and details about the other residents – more information than anyone actually recalls sharing with him in fact – yet is one of the least likely to engage in any kind of normal conversation if caught, calculating disinterest only really giving way in the face of the few relentless old biddies living in the building.

To the surprise of nobody the residents very quickly learn not to press for conversations with Michael. Michael with his leather jackets, his split lips and bruised knuckles, his unflinching willingness to tell absolutely anybody to mind their own fucking business, viciously scathing whenever he catches anyone paying too much attention to anything the penthouse group are getting up to. It doesn’t stop them from talking when he’s not around, if anything only encourages hearty debate about what role such a man must play to be involved in such rich company, but the moment Michael makes an appearance the tenants tend to scatter like mice.

There’s less to specifically say about the rest of the crew, spotted less frequently or without any defining quirk for the locals to leap on. There’s Lindsay, who’s largely sweet as pie, maybe smiles a little too sharply sometimes, but honestly what young woman doesn’t. She’s an artist, maybe, what with the little flecks and splats of red staining her nice clothes. Then there’s the twins. Or not twins. At first considered to be one man until multiple accounts swore up and down they had seen a pair of them together. Clones, that one stoner living on floor 32 likes to swear, the friendly one and the unsettling one, nobody knowing quite who they’re talking to until it’s too late to turn back.