Hey guys! A few days ago I had to invent a random AU on Tumblr, and then it wouldn't leave me alone. So, here you go. :) Dedicated to Aleyah (stargazer-in-a-puddle on Tumblr).

One more thing, you may notice this has the same name as the show with Billie Piper…yeah. I've only seen one episode, but I used the name and a few lines in the beginning of this are inspired by lines in that. But that's it and I won't watch any more of it till this story is finished.


I don't really know how to do this. My colleague got me this diary as a joke, and I've never kept a diary in my life. I never saw the point. Sorry if I mess it up—oh shit, I forgot to write "Dear Diary." See, I'm already screwing up. Oh well. Here goes. Let me tell you about today, possibly one of the weirder days of my life.

My name is Robin Charles Scherbatsky Jr. (don't ask), and the first thing you need to know about me is that I'm a whore.

I mean that literally. I'm a high-class call girl living in New York City. By the way, I don't care what name you call me; hooker, whore, prostitute, escort, call girl, it's all the same to me. Also, just in case you're wondering, I've never been addicted to anything. Well, except Angry Birds.

That's basically all you need to know about me for now. (On another note, why am I talking like I'm talking to a real person?) Oh yeah, and earlier today I was sitting in a hotel room waiting for some dude to show up, and I was bored out of my freaking mind.

It's not like this guy knew I was there. I was a surprise birthday present from his best friend, who was gonna get him up there after the party they were having. It was taking forever. I had half a mind just to get up and leave, though I'd never actually do it.

Whatever. It wasn't like I don't get paid by the hour anyway.

God, if I'd known it gonna take that long, I would've brought something to do. My iPhone (which is my personal phone), iPod, a book, anything. My work phone, which I had with me, is just a stupid, tiny little Motorola that does nothing. It's about as basic as you can get and while it serves its purpose, at that moment I hated it. I pulled it out then and bored holes into it with my eyes. "Stupid," I muttered at the thing. Just then the lock on the door started to jingle and I nearly jumped out of my skin. I hastened to put the phone away and then positioned myself sexily on the bed.

I hear a man's voice protesting, "Barney, no, I—" and then someone is shoved inside the room and the door is closed. He pounded on it. "Barney! Let me out!"

"Not a chance, Ted! You need to get laid and since you seem incapable of finding a chick to do it with, I have taken the liberty of finding one for you myself and she is in there waiting and dammit, just have sex with the pretty prostitute already!"

"Hey baby," I purred, and he slowly turned to stare at me.

"Hello," the man called Ted said in a hoarse voice.

I slowly climbed off the bed as provocatively as possible, a skill I'm quite good at. I'm good at all aspects of my job. It's why I'm the favorite at Maîtresse de la Lumière's.

By this point you may be wondering how I got into this business. Well, I couldn't find anything else. I came to New York looking to be a journalist, but that career pretty much tanked, and I needed to pay the bills somehow. Now I'm kind of in too deep.

Anyway, back to tonight. Where was I? Oh yeah, I was getting provocatively off the bed. He gulped. I sidled up to him and began to take his clothes off. "Go on, do mine," I urged when he doesn't move, shrugging the strap of my lacy black see-through sheer blouse (under which is only a bra and panties), off my shoulder and led him towards the bed. I shoved him down on it. He squeezed his eyes shut and refused.

I looked at him, sized him up. Figure out what he wants. There had to be something. "Do you like…" I racked my brain. "What do you do?"

"I'm an architect," he whispers weakly. I try to hide my irritation. What the hell can I do with architect? In my moment of thinking, he took the opportunity to slip out of my grasp. "So what's your name?" he asked, flinging his arms open, desperately trying to start a conversation.

I sighed. "Robin Sparkles." I coined the name when I was thirteen. Back then I hoped it would be my stage name as a pop star. That didn't end up happening either, thank God.

"So what do you do then…Robin?" This guy's an idiot. I gave him a pointed look. "Right."

"Look, your friend went through all this trouble for you," I told him. By this point I was really, really starting to get sick of this Ted guy. "You might as well fuck me already." As I talk I pull of each of my very few articles of clothing, which is something I hardly ever do—certainly not myself—unless the client asks, but this seems like a special case.

He made his way to the door and bolted before I could stop him. "Well that's a first," I said to myself. I gathered up my clothes, dressed, and went home to my apartment, where I was greeted by my three dogs.

As I walked my mind raced, trying to figure out where I went wrong. I did everything I could've done for that guy (at least as much I was able to, what with him constantly running away and all), and nothing. Zip. Zilch. Nada.

Well, whatever. That's his problem. I'll probably never see him again anyway.

This diary thing wasn't as bad as I thought it would be.

-Robin Scherbatsky

October 23, 2012

So what did you think? Most of this won't be in Robin's POV, but just occasional interjection chapters as Robin's diary entries. It also probably won't be totally accurate or anything as far as prostitution or New York goes, but I'll do my best.