#instead of sitting in a library or coffee shop or anything other than a pub or supermarket

[sunjoys]

i am once again calling for more coffee shops and libraries to be open past 5pm

[tulipsandtesseracts]

Day 9: Storm (Carry On Series, Snowbaz)

Dec 1: Cozy (Carry On Series, Snowbaz) Dec 2: Ribbon (Carry On Series, Snowbaz) Dec 3: Red (Red White & Royal Blue, Alex x Henry) Dec 4: Light (Frozen, Elsa and Anna) Dec 5: Mistletoe (Carry On Series, Snowbaz) Dec 6: Icicle (Red White & Royal Blue, Alex x Henry) Dec 7: Warmth (Carry On Series, Snowbaz) Day 8: Comfort (Stargate SG-1, Cassie and Teal’c)

I am a bit behind. Just pretend it is still December 9. (Also, 100%: I posted a tiny Stargate ficlet and had to go freak out a little bit.) This is not the fic I meant to write, but Baz would not cooperate when I just wanted him to magic up a stupid snowstorm? So instead there is this which is more post-Wayward Son found family stuffs.

Day 9: Storm (Carry On Series, Snowbaz)

I’d planned to have a peaceful afternoon catching up on some reading before Simon got home from his shift at his new job. And it had started that way, before Fiona called, and Mordelia texted, and Bunce needed to verbally process her plans for the rest of her life prior to leaving the flat for the evening.

Simon should be home any minute now. He’ll be tired after handling customers all day, though, so I probably have another hour or so to read while he watches some show or other to decompress.

I continue to labor under this illusion right up until Snow bursts through the door of the flat, storms across the living room, and throws himself onto the couch with such force that I can feel the bounce of it from the opposite end. I glance up from my book and make note of his red face and his disordered hair, which is pointing in several different directions at once in a way it only does when someone’s been tugging their hands through the curls.

Since I’ve been sitting here reading for the last hour, I can only assume Simon’s turned his hair into a bird’s nest himself.

From the far end of the couch, he cocks an eyebrow in an aggressive way that I often regret teaching him. I shrug in response and return to my book. “Lovely day at work, I take it,” I say, keeping his voice level. Casual. Bored.

Simon snorts. “The shop was fine,” he says.

“Hmm,” I reply, turning to the next page. “Holiday rush?”

“Not much yet.”

I nod. “Bunce said to tell you she’ll be at the library this evening, and you’re to do the dishes.”

Simon lets out a sound that falls somewhere between a groan and a shout.

“It’s just the dishes, Snow.”

“Cut it out, Baz. You don’t have to coddle me.”

Direct questions rarely yield useful information when Snow’s in a mood like this. I know it. Simon knows it. Simon knows I know it. There’s a great deal of knowing it’s true and very little to be done about it. Usually the roundabout path is the better one, but it seems Simon’s not in the mood for it tonight.

“All right, then.” This was definitely not the evening I expected, but then again, things rarely are when Snow’s involved. I set my book down on the coffee table. “What’s got into you, exactly? If we were back at Watford, you’d have smoke coming out of your ears, and I’d be worried you were about to burn the tower down.”

“Lady Salisbury stopped in at the shop.”

Ah. That would explain the mood - the long-lost and newly-devoted grandmother. (And hadn’t that been a shock to everyone concerned when it had come to light this fall?) “She probably came in person because you never answer your phone. Which, as your boyfriend, I can assure you is quite annoying.”

Simon kicks the table leg. “You’re quite annoying.”

“My life-long goal.” I pause, then try again. “I assume she wasn’t just calling in to say hello.”

Snow drags his fingers through his hair, and yes, that’s definitely why it looks the way it does right now. “She wants me to come visit on Saturday,” he says at last. “Said she’s ‘having a few friends in for dinner.’ And my uncle.”

“And?”

“And what?” He kicks at the table leg again, but it’s softer this time. “I couldn’t very well tell her no to her face, could I?”

To be honest, I’m surprised he didn’t. “Not without becoming the main gossip at the club,” I say, considering. “Magickal society loves a good family rift.”

“The club,” he scoffs. “Last summer they’d all but forgotten I exist. Except your parents, who we both know wish they could. But I’m a Salisbury now, so suddenly everybody cares?”

I don’t say anything to that. He’s not wrong, but we’ve been round and round this track before. It doesn’t go anywhere.

“And how is it a rift when I was never really family in the first place?” he goes on, still properly worked up.

“Don’t coddle you?” I ask. “Are you sure about that?”

He makes a face and then shrugs. “That’s what I said.”

I sigh, then I scoot down the couch to sit closer to him. “Simon, you avoid her, you don’t take her calls, and when Dr. Wellbelove first introduced you, you ran out of the room like you had goblins to slay.”

“Slaying goblins was easier. I don’t even know how to have a family.”

He’s still grumpy. But when he moves, it’s to close the rest of the gap between us, pressing his shoulder up against mine.

It’s a miracle we are having this conversation, I remind myself. That he’s not just in his bedroom lying down with the curtains drawn, or sitting here next to me, not touching, not talking, not living. The fact that he’s not yet noticed he’s been here with Bunce and myself these last few years, having the best approximation of a functioning family we can give him, is best left for another day.

“You smile at the ones you hate,” I say instead, “and make fun of the ones you like. It’s not that difficult.”

“I don’t think normal people do family like you and your aunt.”

I wave a hand. “Well, you can run around tripping over each other and trying to steal the best books for yourself, if you want to use the Bunce model.”

“Not for books,” he says. “Maybe if it were scones instead.”

“I’ll fight Bunce for the books, then.” I tap my foot against his. “If she were here, she’d say something optimistic. That Lady Salisbury means well, or some rot like that.”

“Except she’d say it while telling me what to wear and which fork to eat with.”

I can’t help myself. “See, you do know what it’s like to have a family.”

He smiles, just a bit. “Penny’s not here. What do you say?”

“Lady Salisbury means well.”

“Baz.”

“It’s a nice house,” I offer. “No wraiths, so it’s better than visiting my parents.”

“Also, she actually wants me there.”

“Also that.” I lay my hand on his leg, palm up, and wait for him to take it. “Go see your grandmother,” I say when he does. “If it’s miserable we’ll go to the pub when you get home. If it’s not, you can take me for baked goods in the morning. You win either way.”

He nods, then leans sideways to look out the window. “Maybe we’ll get snowed in.” He frowns as though he can manifest snowflakes himself. He turns back to me. “Can we get snowed in?”

“The forecast is clear as a bell through next week, sadly.”

He squeezes my hand. “You have a magic wand!”

“Weather magic’s dangerous, Simon,” I say in my best Penelope Bunce voice.

He cracks up laughing, his morose mood gone just like that.

I’ll never completely understand, but I don’t really care. I’m just glad to see his smile.

“I’m hungry,” he says, when he’s calmed down again.

“You’re always hungry.”

“It’s your fault for talking about pastries. Did Penny really say the thing about the dishes?”

I roll my eyes. “Yes, Snow.”

“Will you help?”

I shove his leg with my foot before sliding back to the other end of the couch and retrieving my book. “Go do your chores, Chosen One. Then we’ll find you dinner.”

“All right.” He gets up and heads for the kitchen. “I like that plan.”

So do I.

[christinefoley]

How To Manage Time and Work Like A Boss

I’ve been a teacher for nearly thirty years now, and so I should be red hot at knowing how to manage time. After all, the average classroom teacher regularly has so many plates spinning on a daily basis that every limb is a whirling blur in perpetual motion. Experience has taught me that allowing even one plate to go gyrating off its axis can bring chaos and catastrophe for the whole delicately balanced collection.

Blogging

But this blogging malarkey- well, that’s different. And I’m finding the whole issue of time management more challenging than I’d anticipated, to be completely honest. I mean, thinking about the whole idea of becoming a blogger was…well- just fantastic, really. I love writing, and blogging means that I can write about stuff that really interests me, and never again have to write about things that just don’t.

Primary School Teacher

To clarify what I’m talking about, you may not know this, but the average primary school classroom teacher is obliged to take an interest in such mind-numbing subjects as: rocks and soils, units of measure ( both metric and imperial), adverbial phrases and subordinating and coordinating conjunctions. Admit it- you’re bored already! Imagine having to feign interest in that lot- and a whole host of even more boring topics besides- for nearly thirty years! I don’t know how I’ve done it!

Working From Home

So, what I thought was: become a blogger: write about interesting things, things that get my fingers positively sparking over the laptop key board: it’ll be great! Hey- and you get to do it from home, and manage your own time! Goodbye M6! Goodbye difficult parents! Ta-ta to staff meetings and professional development and tedious meetings about assessment. No more report writing- hurray!!

This will be the new pattern of my Week

Monday morning: awakened at 7am by the alarm- no more 6:30 for me anymore! Up, dressed, breakfast and ready at my laptop to report for writing duty by 8:30 am at the latest.

Straight into writing/ preparing next blog post.

Timetable

9:30 am: take first break: wee, coffee, throw the ball for the dog in the garden for around 20 minutes, then back to the keyboard to work steadily through until lunch at around 12:00.

12:00 healthy lunch put together: salad, hummus, green stuff- that sort of thing- and eaten before 1pm before returning to the laptop for another hour’s work. That hour will be spent emailing, and suchlike.

FREE TIME!

2pm-5:00 FREE TIME! Wow! The whole afternoon off!!

Obviously ,this precious time will not be frittered away on any kind of pointless activities: no, it will be utilised for exercise, dog-walking and attending classes that I’ve really wanted to attend but have always been otherwise occupied teaching PE, the Egyptians or subordinate clauses or suchlike. No, now I will spend my afternoons attending French conversation sessions, singing, creative writing workshops and book clubs. I may even join a hiking club and enjoy hiking in the nearby Lake District.

5pm: teatime. Evenings will be spent working on my blog business- no more than an hour or so- and then I’ll actually go out: live music, pubs, the theatre, meals out- whatever I want, because there are no lessons to plan for the next day- and certainly no marking. Fantastic!!

Manage Time?

It’ll be a joy! No more telling myself I’ll do an hour’s marking, then I’ll fill in those assessment tables and then I’ll spend another hour and half preparing tomorrow’s lessons, before……..NO MORE, No more for me!

So, you’re asking, has it worked out like that?

Well, the fact is that I’m still teaching at the moment, so haven’t had the chance to try out this new lifestyle which I have planned out for myself just yet; but I’m having this creeping suspicion that I’m not going to be able to live that life exactly to plan.

Deadlines

Why not? Well, I guess I kind of like deadlines- I am programmed to respond to them anyway. I was always that one who started working on my essays well before the deadline at university, so that I had plenty of time. I was never the last minute panic type-no, I kind of used the whole two weeks preparation time to get pages of notes together and then panic over the last few days about how I was going to create anything of any value out of all that stuff.

Being My Own Boss

What worries me now, is that, as a blogger, working on my own blog, I am going to have to impose my own deadlines, and I’m not convinced that I’ll be all that good at it. It’s that thing about being my own boss- in one way, it’s what we dream of, but in another way it’s kind of scary. I mean, when you’re at work and things go tits up, the boss is ultimately the one who has to take it on the chin- not you. But if you are your own boss, and things don’t go right- well……it’s all your fault.

How To Manage Time and Work Like A Boss

So, before I cut the umbilical cord of a regular job and life pattern, I’ve been researching some hints and tips from the experts about time management- I’m in my note-taking preparation stage.

Find Your Most Productive Hours

Now, there’s a great idea! Work out when you are generally at your most productive and schedule most of your heavy lifting tasks for those times. A  first rate tip for time management- after all, how many people have you heard declare themselves a ‘night owl’ or ‘an early bird’? Loads, right?

Night Owl, or Early Bird?

So obviously that got me to thinking about myself: am I a night owl, or an early bird? A night owl, probably, because I’m used to working in the evenings after school. OK, so save all the deep-thinking stuff for the evenings. Yes…..possible, I guess.

Write a to-do List the Night Before

Undeniably a top idea! Apparently, only takes about five minutes and it means that the next day you can hit the ground running without any fiddling about. Hmmm, so- five minutes before bedtime…just a quick list…

You know what that would mean for me? Five minutes writing, followed by 45 minutes lying awake thinking it all through. Sleep well and up at 7:00 am to hit the ground running? Not on your nelly.

Back to the drawing board…next tip for how to manage time, please?

Start on the Most Critical Task First

Yes….now, that’s good….I get that. Get the thing that’s bothering you most out of the way first thing and you’re bound to feel better about yourself and what you can achieve.

Now that makes perfect sense! Thing is….that’s just not me. No, better for me to get a few little things ticked off my list first to get me stoked up with enough confidence to bring out the big guns and get cracking on those tasks that are going to CHANGE MY LIFE.

Sit down at my laptop and hit myself straight between the eyes with something that scares the pants off me and has probably kept me awake ever since I wrote it down on that to-do list the night before? That just ain’t happening.

Next hint, please….

The Eisenhower Matrix

What d’you mean- you’ve never heard of it? Well, I’m not a fan of tables, because they bring out all my twitches, but this one makes perfect sense- you may want to look it up. In essence, the idea is that you write down all the tasks you need to do- in one, long, terrifying list- then you categorise all the tasks. If it’s urgent, mark it ‘U’, if it’s important, mark it ‘I’, and if it’s neither of those, then cross it out.

Still following me?

Next, you evaluate how much time each of the remaining tasks on your list is likely to take and arrange a plan for yourself. Now, I must admit, I’m liking this idea of time management…especially the stuff that you can cross off the list altogether. The aim is to identify your genuine priorities: which tasks on your list are going to get you to achieve your objective the most quickly, and which, simply, are not.

Like it. Yes, this is one for me! Next tip, please…..

Use Time Constraints- Set a Timer

This tip to help you to manage your time advises using a timer to set time to achieve certain tasks, as the task will inevitably expand if there is an unrestrained time in which to do it. The idea is to beat the timer- complete the task in even less time than that which you allocated!

Hmm. Have I not escaped the 5-9 to escape exactly that- time constraints? The school timetable is gone, so I devise one of my own? Not sure I want to do that to myself, although I do understand the benefits of this time management idea, and every task does undoubtedly expand if there are no constraints in terms of time.

Hmm… I need to think this one through…….and while I’m thinking about it I might just make another cup of coffee and put a load of washing on…maybe iron those few shirts? Watch a bit of TV?

No, Christine, you’re talking about being productive, remember? Now, sit down and just get on with it.  

Next hint to ace time management, please.

No Distractions

No browsing your ‘phone, checking through emails, doing odd bits of housework. Now I have struggled with this trick of how to manage time, but have actually had a breakthrough in recent weeks.

What has worked for me, is to go out of the house- no dog wanting to play, no endless possibilities for making coffee and no housework-style responsibilities. The other benefit of being out of the house-for me- is no silence.

Silence

I’m not very happy with silence- it makes me a bit edgy. Never been very productive working in libraries and such places. However, it’s no good putting on music either, because then I start listening to that instead of concentrating on the job in hand.

Coffee Shops

I’ve found that coffee shops are my perfect place for productivity. Not only is there the gorgeous aroma of freshly-ground coffee beans wafting up my nose, but there’s just the right kind of background noise- neither too loud nor too silent to distract me. Obviously, a great cup of cappuccino also enhances the whole experience.

If you would like to learn more about how to manage time, and tips that you could use to improve your own productivity, then take a look at this excellent article by Dan Silvestre: ’23 Time Management Techniques of Insanely Busy People.’

[fhimechan]

#Hannigra(ha)m Meet-Cute Challenge

Summer came back and so, inevitable like the heat wave, does our meet cute. This month, we celebrate our first artwork!

@murderfriesandgayguys filled the prompt  #1 (“B works at a bookstore and offers assistance to an embarrassed A, a customer carrying a large stack of self-help books”) with a beautiful fanart, which you can find and reblog here.

As for the fanfiction side, I finally filled a prompt, asking myself why Will should mistake his roommate for someone else. Encephalitis, that's why. You don't see enough, you see too much #3: A walks into the kitchen, half-asleep, and mistakes B for her roommate. B knows the roommate and stayed overnight; makes breakfast for A. 

These two prompts come in addition to the currently filled ones: #29: Welcome to Widdershins Close by @zigzag-wanderer #110: Fancy meeting you by @mazephoenix #74: Going My Way by @fragile-teacup #55: A Face Like Yours by @hannibalsimago #13: Admirable Deceit by @cinnamaldeide

As usual, in place of the filled prompt we chose two others scenarios which we (I) would love to see depicted in vivid details, or in gory ones, possibly in porny ones 👀

#230: A is waiting in line when they notice B who looks incredibly familiar, but A can’t quite place where they recognize them from. When they exchange glances, A smiles and says hello, thinking that they must have met before – until B says, “Do we know each other?” After talking for a few minutes A realizes that they recognize B from… um, well some amateur NSFW videos online.

#240: A stops at the pub near their house to pick up some food on the way home (they make the best fries in the neighbourhood) when A receives a phone call – and some terrible news. A starts crying and B, the bartender, asks A what’s wrong. As A opens up to them, B gives A a drink on the house, and helps talk them through it.

After @murderfriesandgayguys suggested "dancing in a nightclub" as their next prompt, we realized there's a world of wonderful ideas beyond the list we chose. Would you guys be interested in substituting the filled prompts not only with prompts from the list but also with original ones?

The complete prompt list of the month is this one, which we hope could pick your imagination.

#22: A is having a quiet night at home – that is, until A’s apartment neighbour begins blasting music. Frustration levels rising, A goes to knock on the neighbour’s door to ask them to keep it down… at the same time B, the resident on the other side, is about to. Need more detail? Click on the post.

#32: A checks into a cozy inn while on a cross-country road trip, beyond tired and ready to collapse. When A gets to the assigned room, he or she is in for a surprise! Someone else, B, is already in the room. Uh-oh.

#50: A is at his/her cousin’s wedding. At the reception, A wanders over to B, a stranger, and in the spirit of the romance and happiness in the air, asks if they’re here for the groom or the bride. B’s answer is both simple and, ultimately, confusing: “Neither.”

#116: Although A normally goes to the cafe on Thursday evenings, A’s sibling had called in tears, and s/he had been forced to miss it. So instead A goes the next evening, sitting down at a table with a fresh cup of tea, and then abruptly realized that Friday night was Speed Dating night as B slides into the chair opposite and says, “They say you and I only have five minutes, but I can tell we’re going to need longer.”

#117: A is a professional assassin hired to take out a client’s cheating husband. But the client also spoke to B, a close friend, who has made it his/her’s own mission to also kill the husband. Unfortunately, both A and B have chosen the same night to do so, and it just so happens that B is a bit clumsy… and keeps getting in A’s way.

#143: A’s blind date just left, mumbling some sort of excuse about leaving the stove on. Confused and feeling rejected, A sits orders another beer at the bar, wondering where s/he went wrong. B, who had witnessed the situation, goes over and says sympathetically, “I think I know what went wrong… there’s something in your teeth.”

#162: A is interviewing potential roommates and is having very little luck. When it comes to B, A says, “I’m so sorry, I don’t think this is going to work. I can’t live with someone that I’d like to ask out.”

#166: A is at a coffee shop and sits down at a table, only to find a book on the chair. Intrigued, A starts flipping through it, and realizes it’s actually someone’s journal that had been left behind! And it’s fascinating. Unfortunately, B, the journal’s author, rushes back to retrieve it… and is horrified to see A reading it. But A, having gotten a feel for this person through his/her writing, asks if they want to go out sometime.

#176: A works at a pet store and is utterly surprised when B bursts through the door in a hurry and walks up to the cash without looking around. Out of breath, A says, “Please don’t ask why, but what do capybaras eat?”

#180: There has been a series of recent break-ins in A’s neighbourhood. B, a cop, knocks on A’s door to recommend safety measures and to ask if A has noticed anything peculiar — A hasn’t really seen anything, but invites the cop and his/her charming smile inside for coffee and a bit of false information so s/he might stay a while.

#186: A is walking through the park at night and notices B following close behind. With every step A is getting more and more paranoid until finally, as B goes to pass A, A swivels on his/her heel and punches B in the face! Turns out, B really was just trying to quicken his/her pace to make it home in time for the hockey game.

#207: A meets B and falls immediately for them, but B clearly doesn’t feel the same. After being rejected, A calls on Anteros, the avenger of unrequited love, to exact vengeance on B.

#210: A is a writer struggling to find inspiration for their next book. The publishers are breathing down their neck and the pressure is almost more than A can take. When A comes across an old Greek book in a thrift store, A brings it home and flips through the pages…. only to come across an old chant that was supposed to bring inspiration to those who read it out loud. A gives it a shot and… oh dear. Oh, oh dear. Somehow that summoned B, one of the Muses, to A’s living room.

#215: A is brought in to the police station for questioning about a crime they know nothing about and is put in an interrogation room… with B, who is another suspect in this particular case.

#239: A is sitting in a cafe trying to casually read their book, but is distracted by B’s loud phone conversation at the table over. B tells a joke over the phone, which makes A crack up unexpectedly – B looks over at A, annoyed that they were eavesdropping, but also appreciative that at least someone liked their joke! B hangs up and offers to tell A another.

#246: A was fatally wounded in an accident and suddenly finds themself looking down at their own lifeless body in confusion. B is a reaper and offers A guidance… but A doesn’t want to do the whole follow the light bullshit. A wants to flirt with the cute reaper.

#248: A is a barista and has come to recognize the regulars and their orders. One day, B walks in and A greets them, starting to prepare their order, when B stops A with a sigh: “I’m not who you think I am.” After receiving a blank stare from A who has no idea how to respond to that, B continues, “I have a twin. I’m the other one.”

#252: A is in the public library and notices a strange book that looks like it doesn’t belong in this section. A moves along to another genre, but it seems that this book is in every section… almost like it’s following A. How peculiar! When A finally picks it up to see what exactly it is, B appears out of thin air, and simply says, “I’ve been waiting fifty years for you.”

And as always, we'd achieve nothing without the help of @hanniwinsagrahamy, @diemetzgermeisterin, @niceven-silace, @jenacar and @mistikfir, who keep spreading the word ♥

So... How do you imagine our favorite Murder Husbands first meeting? Is it lust at first sight? Is Will dying in the heat (like us all) and feeling inclined to remove his clothes? Would he rather move to Alaska? 

We're eager to read or see what your imagination can conceive. Just pick a prompt, fill it and contact me (FhimeChan) or Cinnamaldeide. We're creatures of habits and we're keeping the same nicknames on tumblr, pillowfort and now also twitter, while our complete collection can be found on AO3. Feel free to reach out for any question!

We wish you may find some tasty ideas to throw at us this summer... Have fun!!!  (＾▽＾)

[wilderwestqueen]

A Pinch of Sugar and a Dash of Spite - Chapter Three

“Astrid Hofferson has better things to do than ruin your life.”

“Yeah? You could’ve fooled me.”

Hiccup Haddock’s just trying to sell coffee and stumble through presentations about Shakespeare, but one persistent rude customer keeps ruining his day. Astrid Hofferson would be the top of her class if it weren’t for one golden boy barista that needs to be taken down a notch.  

[Coffee Shop AU] [Enemies-To-Lovers]

IN THIS CHAPTER: Hiccup retaliates. 

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Start from the beginning

[AO3] [FF.NET]

death threats are a customer service 

Since the day that Astrid had marched into Bean & Gone for the first time, intent on making Hiccup's life an absolute misery, he'd started to notice her everywhere. She didn't just show up for her daily dose of diabetes or for the seminars and lectures they shared, no, she seemed to pop up in every aspect of Hiccup's life. The cafeteria was no longer safe - she was there every lunch time, gabbing away to her friends as she ate. He'd taken to sneaking his portion of fries and eating them in a dark corner of the library, far away from her.

One morning, he'd found her waiting alone at the bus stop, and he'd ducked behind the bus shelter so that she wouldn't see him - and promptly, missed the bus. He'd had to wait for the next one, which didn't come until he'd been suitably drenched by the rain. He'd walked into his lecture fifteen minutes late, dripping with water, everyone's eyes on him as he opened the door. Embarrassment coursed through him, hot and heavy on his cheeks, not helped by the fact that Astrid's eyes tracked him as he got into his seat, a smug grin on her face.

She'd been at the weekly pub quiz he always went to, she'd been in the gym when he went to use a treadmill, and he'd seen her more than a few times at the local club, dancing and screaming with her friends.

"It's not funny," Hiccup grumbled. "She's following me everywhere. It's like she's decided that making life miserable for me at work isn't enough, and now she's got to find other ways to torture me."

Fishlegs rolled his eyes. "She's not trying to torture you."

"She is. Why else would she show up everywhere I am?"

"What has she done to you outside of the drink thing?" Fishlegs asked.

Hiccup opened his mouth, ready to tell Fishlegs all of the ways that Astrid had been trying to ruin his life, and then realised that he didn't have anything to say. He was going to bring up the seminars they shared, but, despite challenging every point that he made, Astrid was remarkably restrained in those. Maybe it had something to do with the adult supervision – she couldn't be too awful in front of the lecturers.

"Well. Nothing, really," he conceded.

"Exactly."

"But that doesn't mean she won't!" Hiccup crossed his arms. "It's like she's watching me. Waiting for the perfect moment to do something awful."

Fishlegs snorted. "She's not a super villain, Hiccup. Astrid Hofferson has better things to do than dedicate her life to ruining yours."

"Could've fooled me," Hiccup muttered.

He had reached breaking point. Technically, he'd reached breaking point a day ago, and the day before that, and the day before that, but this time, he'd really hit breaking point. So much so that he was about to break something else. He should have been used to Astrid's antics by now, but the way she'd walked in today, smarmy smile on her face as she gave her order - a venti mango black tea lemonade with 24 pumps of mango - had him grinding his teeth together.

"Busy today, we're backed up with orders," he'd bit out after he'd typed her drink in, "take a seat, and we'll bring your drink to you."

"I'll be at my usual table," Astrid said, with a smile that utterly masked what an evil witch sent straight from hell she was.

"Oh, I'm sure you will," he muttered.

He relayed the conversation to Fishlegs and Snotlout while he prepared the disgusting drink, his teeth gritted the whole time.

"Y'know, there's a simple solution to your problem," Snotlout said, looking up from his phone for a moment.

He was sitting on an upturned crate on the floor beneath the counter, barely even pretending to work, as usual.

"What?" Hiccup grumbled, crumpling a napkin between his fists, while he waited for the machine.

"Retaliate."

"Retaliate how?" Hiccup said, and then wrinkled his nose as he finished making a drink. "Ugh. This has got to be one of the worst."

He waved it in Snotlout's face, only for his cousin to smack it out of the way. "Get that away, it's vomit central."

Fishlegs twisted away from the counter to look over for a second, his face screwing up. "…She hasn't, like, thrown up from one of these yet, has she?" he said, his forehead wrinkling. "Because that is going to push her over the line."

"Please, the woman has an iron stomach," Hiccup said, heading out onto the shop floor, drink in hand, before something on the corner of the counter caught his eye, and he stopped.

Snotlout watched him, as he stood, frozen in space. "What do you need, an invitation?"

"No," Hiccup said, taking a fistful of salt packets from the jar on the counter, "but I think I've got an idea."

He took the drink back into the kitchen. Fishlegs watched him go, his brows furrowing together as realisation set in.

"Hiccup, no," Fishlegs said and abandoned the counter, ignoring his customer's cry of frustration. "You can't do that."

"Oh, he can do this," Snotlout said with unrestrained glee. This was apparently entertaining enough for him to look up from his phone. "I'm so proud of you, Hiccup!"

Hiccup grimaced at the idea, but that uncomfortable thought wasn't enough to stop him, as he brandished the salt packets on high.

"Think about what Gobber would say!" Fishlegs said, hopping anxiously from foot to foot. "This is a health violation. What if she has allergies?!"

Hiccup tipped his head back and let out a long groan, slamming the salt packets back on the table, before marching out from behind the counter and storming towards Astrid's table.

She looked up at him and blinked. "Henry?"

Henry. Hiccup's jaw set on edge.

"Do you have any allergies?"

Astrid's lips curled upwards in the most irritating way. "You what?" she said.

"Allergies," he repeated, "do you have any allergies?"

"No."

"Diabetes?" he said. "I mean, I'm gonna assume that you don't have diabetes judging by what you drink—"

Astrid rolled her eyes. "I don't have diabetes, Henry. Now, what—"

"Any foods that might cause hospitalisation or anaphylactic shock?"

"—No, now what are you—"

"Good," Hiccup snapped, twisting on his heel and heading back to the counter.

He grabbed the salt packets up from the table, ripped them open, and dumped every last drop into the drink, before taking it back out to the tables and slamming it in front of Astrid.

When he joined Snotlout and Fishlegs back behind the counter, they were watching the scene, intently, ignoring the queue that was starting to leak out of the front door.

"I thought you didn't approve of this," Hiccup mumbled as he passed Fishlegs.

"It's like a car crash," Fishlegs said, "you know it's wrong, but you just can't help but take a look."

They watched as Astrid lifted the drink to her lips. It couldn't have been for more than a second, but for them, it seemed to happen in slow motion. She took a long deep gulp of the drink, and then froze.

"She's gonna spew," Snotlout stage-whispered.

She didn't spew. She turned slowly, her expression unreadable as she stared them all down. All three of them stilled, like deer in headlights.

And then she smiled.

Looking them dead in the eye, she lifted the cup to her lips and downed the whole thing, lifting her little finger like she'd come straight out of Jane Austen. She drained every last drop and then scrunched up the plastic cup with one hand, wiping her lips with the other.

The three of them remained frozen still.

She got up from her seat, tossed the crumpled cup into the nearest bin, threw a wink over at the boys behind the counter, and then marched out the door.

"Wow," Snotlout said, after a long pause, "that girl is something else."

"I'm going to throw up," Astrid moaned, before retching into the toilet.

"Wouldn't have happened if you hadn't been trying to mess with Hiccup," Heather said, examining her fingernails.

She was sitting cross-legged outside of the toilet door, a smile tugging on her lips. Astrid had found her outside of Bean & Gone, took her by the arm and told her in no uncertain terms that there was about to be an emergency and she was needed in the bathroom right away. She'd been tempted to ask exactly why Astrid needed her in there with her but trying to stop Astrid Hofferson from doing something she'd already set her mind to was like trying to stop a moving train in its tracks.

"Haven't you been listening?" Astrid whined. "Henry's the one that dumped all that salt in."

"You added 24 pumps of mango to a mango black tea lemonade. You were going to throw up anyway," Heather said, "and you didn't have to drink it."

"Yes, I did."

"Why?"

"Pride."

Heather snorted. "It goes before a fall."

"You're not funny," Astrid grumbled.

Heather rested her head back on the toilet door, taking a pause before turning her head to the side and saying, "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"The crazy drink orders."

"I told you, so I can ruin Henry Haddock's day," Astrid said.

Heather rolled her eyes. "You've never actually explained to me exactly what Hiccup did to you."

Astrid sighed, dropping down on the floor and resting her head next to the toilet bowl. "He's Vaughn-Stretton's favourite."

Heather frowned. "You know he can't help that."

"I know," she said, sticking her lower lip out into a pout, "but I can't mess with Vaughn-Shithead, so I have to mess with him instead."

There was a pause, silence filling the bathroom. "You know," Heather said, her tongue swiping across her lips, "Hiccup's really not that bad."

She almost fell backwards when Astrid yanked the door open, but she caught herself in time, managing to duck as Astrid marched over her form towards the sink.

"Not that bad?" Astrid hissed, wrenching the tap on so hard she almost pulled it off. "He laps up Stretton's praise, laps it right up. He loves it. Has to be coerced to speak in class, he's so cocky, he thinks he can rely on essays alone, participation be damned. He knows he's the favourite, so he doesn't even bother to try. And do you remember that time he put salt in my drink?"

"He did that because you were messing with him."

"He did that because he's a jerk."

Heather shook her head, getting up off the floor and joining Astrid at the sink. "No. I don't think you hate him as much as you claim to."

"And why is that?"

"You don't get anything out of this, really. Seriously, Astrid, you're wasting a hell of a lot of money to buy crazy drinks that taste disgusting. You don't gain anything. Except," Heather said, a gleam in her eye as a grin spread across her face, "it means you get to see him every day."

Astrid gaped at her, opening her mouth wide and jabbing her finger out as if she was about to say something of the greatest magnitude. Then, she snapped her mouth shut and stormed out of the door.

If Hiccup thought that Astrid was everywhere before his stunt with the salt and the drink, then he was very, very wrong.

It seemed that his retaliation had opened the floodgates. It wasn't just in Bean & Gone that she bothered him now, it was everywhere: it didn't matter where Hiccup went, he could be sure that Astrid Hofferson was lurking not far behind. Class had become a battle of wills - he'd rarely spoken in class before, too afraid that he was going to say the wrong thing and get laughed at, but now, he had to speak. Astrid challenged him on every point, undermined every single one of his answers and heckled him during his practice presentations.

Hiccup was starting to wonder what he wouldn't give to get away from Astrid Hofferson.

But the worst time had undoubtedly been at one of Tuff's infamous house parties.

How she even knew Tuffnut - Snotlout's permanently stoned best friend - was beyond him, but there she was, chatting merrily to one of Tuff's friends in the corner of his living room. Hiccup groaned and would have walked out if he wasn't seeking refuge from Snotlout. His cousin had been bugging him to join them in a drinking contest, and he had no desire to close the evening by puking his guts out on the street, no matter how many times Snotlout insisted that it was the only way to end a night.

Instead, Hiccup hovered awkwardly between the living room and the kitchen, clutching a drink and getting ready to duck out of Astrid's sight if she looked his way, doing his best not to touch anything. Tuff's house made Hiccup's skin crawl a little bit. The whole place seemed to never lose its haze of marijuana fog, and that weed smell clung to everything; he'd have to wash his clothes when he got home, even if he hadn't touched any of the joints that Tuffnut had offered. Hiccup had never been a hypochondriac, but whenever he was in Tuffnut's flat, he had the strong urge to scrub the whole place down with anti-bacterial spray.

"Sweet party, right?"

Hiccup jumped as Tuffnut clapped a hand on his back. He'd been too lost in his thoughts to notice him appear behind him.

"It's not bad," Hiccup said, although just moments before he'd been fantasising about all the other places he'd rather be.

He took a sip of his drink. It was disgusting - vodka, mixed with some kind of sugary drink - but it felt good going down, and the only way he'd survive this was if he was drunk.

Tuffnut looped an arm around Hiccup's shoulders. "What are you doing hiding all the way over here?"

"Avoiding Astrid," he said, jabbing his thumb over to where she was standing in the living room, making conversation with two of her friends.

On cue, Astrid tipped her head back and laughed at a joke. It had to be one of the worst laughs Hiccup had ever heard - more of a cackle, really, like some kind of witch. And her voice, Christ, Hiccup was sure that he had never heard a voice quite so grating as hers.

Tuffnut followed Hiccup's gaze. "You like her, or something?"

Hiccup's eyes bugged out at the way Tuffnut had misread the situation. "No, I—"

"I get it, she's pretty hot, right?" Tuffnut said.

Hiccup flushed a bright red. "No. I mean, I guess, but that's not—"

"She's my sister's roommate, man, I could put in a good word for you."

"Absolutely not."

Tuffnut watched him for a second, eyebrows raised. "You should talk to her, instead of just standing creepily in a corner," Tuffnut said, and then raised his voice. "Yo, Astrid!"

"Wait!" Hiccup hissed, grabbing at the arm that Tuffnut was using to beckon Astrid over. "Don't!"

It was too late. Astrid was already walking over.

"This is my friend, Hiccup," Tuffnut said, nudging Hiccup in the arm.

There was nowhere to run. Hiccup briefly considered darting back into the kitchen and throwing himself out of the window.

Astrid was looking between the two of them with that stupid smug grin of hers.

"He thinks you're hot."

Hiccup just about combusted.

With his mouth gaping wide open, and his eyes flitting between the smirks that Astrid and her friends were tossing his way, he did the only thing he could think of, and fled.

A few days later, after he'd relayed the story in full, Fishlegs and Snotlout roared with laughter.

It was funny enough for Snotlout to look up from his phone, wiping tears from his eyes. He grasped Hiccup's shoulder to keep himself steady as he clutched his stomach. "See, this is why you need to go to parties more often," he said. "Tuffnut is such a legend…"

Hiccup scowled. "It's not funny."

"It's pretty funny, man."

"It's not," Hiccup insisted. "I don't know why she has to show up everywhere I am. It's like she's stalking me."

Fishlegs snorted, looking Hiccup up at down with a knowing smile. "I think you like that she messes with you. I think you're hoping to see her outside of work."

"Bullshit," he said, through clenched teeth. "You've cracked."

"If you say so."

"I can't stand her, how is that difficult to understand?"

Fishlegs rocked back and forth on his feet. "Methinks the lady doth protest too much."

Hiccup felt the frustration hot on his cheeks. "I don't have to listen to this," he said, storming out towards the kitchen door.

"It's from Hamlet!" Fishlegs called after him. "How are you going to beat Astrid in class if you don't know that?"

Hiccup slammed the door behind him, ignoring the sound of their laughter.

The day didn't get any better, and Hiccup's mood soured even more still when Astrid strolled up to the counter at Bean & Gone on his later shift.

"Good evening," she sang, cheerfully.

"Is it?" Hiccup said, gruffly.

The last thing he needed was Astrid Hofferson in a good mood. Not that Astrid Hofferson in a bad mood was any better. In fact, Hiccup didn't want Astrid Hofferson in any mood anywhere near him.

"Well?" Hiccup said. "What do you want?"

She did her standard thinking routine, rocking back and forward on her feet, staring up at the menu board while she stroked her chin. "What would you recommend?"

"A healthy dose of cyanide," Hiccup said, deadpan.

"Are death threats a part of the customer service handbook?"

"It's just part of my natural charm," Hiccup said. "Are you going to order?"

There was a long pause, while Astrid just looked at him, her eyes narrowed. "A venti coffee with ten Splenda packets and whipped cream."

"Ten?"

"Is that a problem?"

"No," Hiccup said. "I just fear for your doctor."

He made the drink. "Four pounds, please."

"What, I don't get a discount?"

Hiccup frowned. "Why would I give you a discount?"

A grin spread across Astrid's face, two dimples pinching her cheeks, as she leaned across the table, her fist propping her chin up, "because you think I'm hot."

Hiccup's face turned crimson, and he slammed the drink down onto the counter, liquid sloshing out of it, onto the table top. Another mess that he'd have to clean up.

"I hope you get diabetes and die," he spat viciously.

Astrid grinned. "This is why I come here," she said. "The service is just wonderful."

She turned on her heel and swept out of the shop, leaving Hiccup to fume.

She was the last customer of the day, and as soon as the door had swung behind her, Hiccup tore off his apron, marching out from behind the counter, into the coffee shop itself.

"I swear to God, one day I'm going to slip arsenic into her drink," Hiccup hissed, slamming his apron down onto one of the tables. "If she comes in here one more time, I'm not going to be responsible for my actions."

He stopped in his tracks after not getting a response from either Fishlegs or Snotlout and scanned the room to find the two of them kneeling on one of the tables in the corner, their noses pressed flat against the window, looking out into the street opposite. Hiccup raised his eyebrows, but he'd seen weirder things from the two of them, and he was still irritated that he hadn't got a reaction out of either of them.

"I mean it," he tried again, folding his arms, "I've had it with her."

"Oh, stop being so melodramatic," Fishlegs said, finally turning around to acknowledge him. "Get up here, you need to see this."

Hiccup pouted, but obliged, climbing up onto the table into the space between the two boys.

"Where would you get arsenic from, anyway?" Fishlegs said.

"I don't know," Hiccup grumbled, still pouting. "The deep web."

"Both of you, shut up and look," Snotlout said, jabbing Hiccup in the ribs with his elbow.

Hiccup looked. There was a big van out on the street, in front of the store opposite. The shop had been vacant for the whole time the three of them had been working there, boarded up and used mostly as an illegal advertising space for whatever dingy, underground gig was happening in their university town next.

But now, when Hiccup squinted, the low-light making it difficult for him to see, he could just about make out that the boards had been wrenched off and the posters pulled away. There were two men pulling something out of the van and into the shop, but he couldn't make out what it was.

"Someone's moving in next door?" Hiccup asked.

Snotlout scowled. "Yeah, no shit."

Hiccup ignored him. "What do you think it's going to be?"

"No idea," Fishlegs said. "It's hard to tell. They only just started moving in."

Over the next few days, the employees of Bean & Gone watched as, gradually, the vacant shop next door came to life.

It wasn't until a week later that the penny dropped. Fishlegs and Hiccup came in early for their morning shift, dead tired and fighting off yawns as they began their day. In fact, they were so busy trying to keep themselves awake as they switched on appliances and made the shop ready for business, that it wasn't until thirty minutes into their shift that they noticed the sign above the vacant shop had been painted.

Al's Espressos, it read, in gold fancy lettering.

It was a rival coffee shop.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter 

[lauralikesbaking]

Feedback on my short story?

Hello! So as a writing exercise I wrote a short story based on one of my secondary characters to understand the character more and now I have a completely different character than the one I started off with. And now I’m hoping to get some feedback on the character and my writing style. 

The short story just mainly follows the inner dialogue of the character, Jack Drummond. He’s the lead singer of a band and he’s supposed to be writing music but he’s having a bad bout of writer’s block and anxiety. His label creates a contest - Jack is going to pick a fan with an original song the fan wrote and produce it in his studio. It goes into his back story of how he became a musician and a certain gay love interest, and why he chooses the winning song. 

The book I’m writing is going to follow the contest winner’s point of view - this is like a prequel to that. The book is going to focus on how music production works and what it’s like to work up close and personal with your favorite band.

Anyway please and thank you in advance!!

Shit. Shit. Shit. Absolute shit.

Jack Drummond was lying on his back on his old leather sofa, cradling his laptop between his stomach and his thighs. Scattered around him, stuck in between the cushions and on the floor, were various open bags of beef jerky and peanut m&ms. A couple of empty cans of Monster energy drink were on the coffee table beside him.

Jack had lost count of how many nights he had spent in the studio. He was trying to force himself to write something, anything. It had been over two months and he hadn’t been able to write a single lyric, melody, or even a decent beat to work off of. He was sifting through his library of saved voice memos on his computer, hoping something would spark inspiration. He had over 500 tracks of recorded material, and he had so far been unsuccessful..

So much fucking shit.

His voice memos contained different melodies, drum beats, harmonies and various compositions that had come to him on the fly. Scores and instrumentals he drafted while he grocery shopped. There were harmonies inspired by a flock of sparrows nesting in the trees who called out to each other. Composed guitar riffs and percussion to match the beat of his nervous energy while sitting in interviews. He’d be on the toilet in the middle of the night and find that his hands would be tapping out a rhythm. It never seemed to matter where he was, or what he was doing, or what time it was - there was always music in his mind.

For the last two months however, his mind had been quiet. His normally restless hands remained steady at his sides. His knees didn’t bounce when he sat. He wasn’t walking to the pace of the half formed song. There wasn’t a soothing lullaby in the back of his mind either to lull him to sleep. He was no longer overwhelmed by the music notes no one else could hear. His brain remained stoically and numbingly silent.

Jack reached the last voice memo. A jarring, pop beat played out from his speakers and just as soon as it started playing, he hit the spacebar, cutting off the music. He groaned, rubbing his hands over his eyes that were sore from staring at his computer screen from too long. He had listened to all 500 recordings he had made over the last three years and every single one of them were absolute crap.  

He was supposed to be working on demos for a new album. Now that the Archives cycle was over, he was due to hand in 10 to 12 new songs in a year and a half from now. Usually, around this time after the last cycle had ended, he would have handed in five, different sounding demos. His label would then approve the ones they liked and would tell him to write more like them. By now, he should have already had ideas lined up that he had thought of while he was way on tour during the long bus commutes from city to city. He had some half assed ideas, but when he recorded them listened to them, he’d just as soon as scrap it.

His band mates suggested that he’d take some time to do some solo research and travel to a couple of cities famous for music. He decided on the U.K., hoping the country’s old rock sounds and history of producing world famous bands like the Beatles and Queen would give him inspiration. He toured all the old famous recording studios; Abbey Studios, Olympic Studios, and Trident Studios. He visited the venues and cafe’s where The Who had first played at. He browsed through vintage record shops and scored a couple of rad guitars that he couldn’t wait to play around on. He even went as far to travel to Scotland, but the only thing he gained from that trip was a severe hangover after being challenged by a local to a drink off in the pub. It turned out the pub had a fun time tricking Americans into drink offs, get them completely wasted, and then take their photo and add it to their “Make Americans Drunk Again” Wall of Fame. Jack returned home to the states with two new guitars, a severe headache, and still no new ideas.

He dreaded the meeting between him and the label when he returned. He knew that once he explained to the label he still hadn’t thought of anything new, they would threaten to let him go. There was no point for a label to continue to support a musician who couldn’t produce music.

Instead, the label had suggested the fan contest. For one week, Jack would work with a fan one on one with the fan’s original song and produce it in his studio. Jack wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea of having a fan shipped out here. It wasn’t that he despised or was afraid of his fans, even if he’d get the uncomfortably personal question at almost every meet and greet, or the time he was gifted a handmade doll of himself made with the fan’s own hair. He loved his fans, and he was grateful for their unyielding love and support of the band. It was himself he didn’t trust. He was afraid that he would disappoint the fan, that the fan would show up, eager to produce their song and Jack still wouldn’t have any fresh new ideas. The winning song is supposed to be released digitally at the end of the week of the fan’s stay, and if those digital sales and streams tanked, it would be Jack’s fault.

. The contest was a good idea. Sometimes working outside of your own work to someone else’s sound sparked creativity. But he also knew the contest was the label’s last ditch effort to get him writing again. If he didn’t, then Jack would know for certain; he would be done. He’d be Jack Drummond, former lead singer of the band 5 Years From Now, officially washed up at 27 years old.

Jack ran a hand over his tired face, feeling the scratchy stubble that had started to grow across his chin and jawline. It had been over a month since he bothered to shaved. He didn’t have any gigs, music videos, photoshoots or interviews he had to prepare for. He wasn’t supposed to be assigned to one for a while anyway. He was supposed to be using the time away to write music.

With an exasperated sigh, he closed out of his iTunes library and opened up Twitter. He ignored the hundreds of notifications he would get daily from fans tagging him in posts. In the search bar, he typed in #5YFNMYSONG. The page reloaded and displayed all of the fan entries, from most popular to most recently uploaded. The contest had closed a few days ago, but fans were still submitting entries.

Jack was responsible for picking a winner. Each of his band members and his team at the label were helping him sort through the entries, but in the end Jack would have the final say. The problem was there were literally thousands of entries. Word had spread about the contest, and aspiring musicians from all across the country were entering. The entries had a wide range of aged contestants, the youngest he had seen being about ten years old to contestants in their 20s.

They couldn’t help but remind him of his time in Hollywood when he was on Great American Voice, the country’s singing competition. There were thousands of people who had tried out over the course of the few days he was there. They had driven from all over the tri-state area. There were people of all ages, which had surprised Jack since the show had only ever cast competitors ranging between mid teens to mid twenties. There were little kids dragged in by their parents who hoped to make money off by sticking them in front of cameras. There were adults who hoped to at long last chase their dream of pursuing music. And everyone he talked to had a deeply personal, traumatic, backstory; one girl had been abused by her father up until she was 13 years old; an 18 year old boy suffered from severe bouts of depression. There was another girl who had at last minute decided to enter because she wanted to make her recently departed mother proud. These were the type of contestants who got film time with the celebrity judges, and that was when Jack realized what they were doing. They were using their trauma, deaths, mental disorders, any type of leverage they could to get themselves filming time with the celebrity judges.

Several fans who uploaded videos to his contest were doing the same. They would spend a few minutes before performing their song to explain their own backstories of depression, anxiety, death of a loved one, abuse, and other various traumatic experiences, and how music has helped them become stronger. He wanted to believe their stories. But he wasn’t interested in selecting a fan just because it was their parent’s dying wish. If they were talented on top of their tragic backstory, then great. But Jack needed someone who was both talented and sparked his own creativity.

Truthfully, Jack hated singing competitions, and he despised the fact that this fan contest was essentially just another form of one. At least this way, he could just choose one person and be done with it. He knew first hand the true toxicity of reality competitions. It had been over ten years since he was on Great American Voice, but the memories still burned in his mind.

It was difficult from the start. In the beginning he was sectioned off into group harmonies with contestants who thought they were better than everyone else and tried to take charge. Those first few weeks of group harmonies and group performances were tests to see how well you collaborated with the other contestants. The test was designed to make you feel uncomfortable. Really, they were just picking out anyone who succumbed to the stress early on and send them home.

As Jack advanced through the weeks, he found each week was always harder than the last. There was constant pressure to sound great, look great, and be great. You had to convince the judges and the fans each week to vote you back for the next round. It didn’t matter if he nailed Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” last week. If you got a bad review from one of the judges, it could cost you your spot on the show. Soon sounding and looking great weren’t enough. There was always something new added each week. Photoshoots, interviews, and costume fittings. Charities, children hospital visits, school visits, parade appearances and sponsorship commercials. And you were still expected to do four to five hours of vocal rehearsals. The schedule was endless.

By the time Jack was finished with the show he had lost about 15 pounds and was struggling with episodes of insomnia and depression. Jack thought he’d be relieved when he was kicked off the show. He could finally sleep in. He could finally eat whatever he wanted and not what his vocal coaches and stylists told him to avoid. He could finally relax from being under the spotlight, from being picked apart week from week by his stylists, the publicists, the judges and from the public. He didn’t have to be followed by camera crew from the moment he woke up to when he lay his head down to rest in the evening.

But he wasn’t relieved. He’d lay awake at night, angry that he had come so far in the competition, and with a single vote, he was kicked off. He had developed his own sound on the show. He loved working on new covers each week with his production team, and each Friday night he couldn’t wait to get on stage and show everyone what he had been working on. But the show had left him high and dry. He beat himself up, blaming himself for not being good enough to make it to the next round. He self critiqued constantly, watching and rewatching his performances, trying to figure out where he went wrong, and what he could have done better. The sickening truth was, he wasn’t done being in the spotlight. He wanted it more.

When he made the decision to stay in L.A. after the Great American Voice LIVE! Tour concluded, he jumped right back into the music scene, scoring a small one album record deal with Kathoulos Records. But that had been a mistake. Right before the album was supposed to released, the label was taken over by new management and dropped Jack and his band. The label refused to sell them back the rights to their album and the album was never released.

The days following the label drop crept from Jack’s memory like a slow, sinking infestation. The black, bleak days when he continued to make desperate attempts to get resigned by a label. The swell of bitter disappointment of doors slamming in his face over and over again; the paranoia of over hearing security guards murmuring into their ear pieces. The nights he spent stumbling through bars and dark alleys in a dizzy, drunken hazes…

He closed his eyes and breathed in through his nose. He counted to four and exhaled slowly through his mouth. The flashbacks were coming at him more often now that his mind wasn’t distracted with constantly writing music. It was why he was so desperate to get back to writing music. When his mind was silent, everything else he suppressed began to resurface. Each night he lost more sleep, and each night it would whisper in his ears, reminding him of who he used to be. Who he still could be. They would become louder and more insistent as the days and nights blended together. He heard it now as he struggled to slow down his heartbeat, quickly rising into panic. He needed to get back to writing music, and soon.

Not all of his memories from those years were bad. He still talked with his vocal coaches from time to time. His real saving grace during those first few months was his hotel roommate, Danny, a boy his age from Mississippi. They had become fast friends when they discovered they had a bunch of shared interests - music, movies, online gaming. Jack had never become so close with someone so quickly. Maybe it was just the pressure of the competition, and it was his own selfish desires to meet someone who wasn’t trying to sabotage his performances. When Danny and Jack had both made it to the top ten, they had celebrated by sneaking cheap champagne into the hotel room. They had gotten deliriously drunk and were jumping on their beds belting Queen. Danny had hopped from his bed to Jack’s, tackling Jack on to his back. As they lay there, laughing and out of breath, he had noticed the precise shade of green Danny’s eyes were. Clover green with specks of silver, like morning dew sparkling in the sun. The way his heart had pounded in his ears.

Jack forced his attention back to his computer, yanking himself out of the memory. He refused to let himself go back there.

He scrolled through the entries. Twitter automatically displayed the most popular entries first, and then the most recently added. Right now, the fan favorite was a girl from Tennessee named Missy Maeve, the red headed version of Ariana Grande, except instead of singing about goddesses and ninety nine problems, Missy Maeve sung in a strong country voice about being true to yourself in a world of fake media. She stared confidently into the camera, pouring all of her energy into the performance.She had spared no expense in creating her video, using professional cameras and lighting, and had an entire back up band performing behind her as she danced around on stage with her long red ponytail swinging hypnotically behind her.

Right away, Jack knew she wasn’t the one. He had seen these types of artists before. They may have sounded and looked good, but at the end of the day, they weren’t connecting with the music. They’d be more focused on how they looked and sounded to other people. A real musician didn’t care about performing; he played music for the sake of music. He didn’t give a fuck who listened. He also would rather be caught dead than write a fluff piece about being true to yourself.

There were several decent entries, but none of them had what Jack was looking for. Jack wasn’t even sure if it existed in other musicians. He was searching for the moment when the musician was no longer a musician. It was those moments he felt himself, when he became so in tune with the music itself that reality fell around him. He’d forget he was on stage, performing in front of hundreds or thousands of fans. The music would fill him so completely, it was like he was the music. Every time he performed like that, it would leave him shaking and exhausted. It was the best kind of high.

He sifted through the videos. He felt guilty knowing he couldn’t possibly watch all of them. There were just so many. His label assured him not to worry about watching them all. The label was responsible for looking at the numbers - meaning who ever had the most likes and views. The band was free to look through them at their convenience, just as long as he had an ideal entry picked out by tomorrow.

There were a lot of good videos - too many good ones, in fact. A lot of the fans showed off their riffing skills, as if that was the one vocal skill that proved how well of a singer they were. Jack secretly despised artists who used too much riffing in their songs. It always sounded like the artist was trying to say “look at me! Look out amazing I am at singing! No one else will be able to copy these incredibly complex arrangement of riffs because I’m so amazing!” There were artists who tried to over compensate with autotune, which he detested more than any other sound engineering tool. It always felt like cheating. If you can’t hit the note, why bother pretend you can?

Jack continued to click through the entries. There were just as many bad ones as there were good ones. There were fans who recorded with voices too flat, or too sharp. They were monotonous, or pitchy. Some hadn’t even tried to submit an original song and sang a cover of one of his song. It was almost always his song, “Perfect Chasers” that he had written about the toxicity of perfection and his own personal addictions. Even though it had been years since he released it, it continued to be a fan favorite.

He kept sifting through hoping a song would jump out at him or he’d find an artist with unique vocals. He kept checking the time. 12 hours before he had to pick someone. Then it was 9. Then it was 6. Jack shifted his weight, so he was lying on his side curled up and had his computer sitting on the coffee table and continued to scroll with his wireless mouse. The couch perfectly cradled his thin form. His eyes burned from the white light of the endless scrolling through Twitter…

“DUDE!”

Jack jumped awake. The bright lights of the studio blinded him. He blinked away the the thick eye crust coating his eyelashes. He made out a silhouette standing in front of him.

“Huh?” Jack mumbled.

“We’ve been trying to get a hold of you,” said the silhouette that Jack recognized as Cody, his guitarist. “The meeting with the label is in a half hour.”

“Shit.” Jack sat up. The room spun around him for a moment and stars popped into his vision. His neck and back was sore after another night of sleeping on the couch. He grabbed his phone to check the time. It was dead.

“Did you pick someone?” Cody asked.

“Um…” Jack couldn’t remember. He saw him computer still sitting on the table. He reached over and tapped the keyboard. The screen lit up and showed all of the Twitter entries he had been looking through. He had gotten deep into scrolling through the entries last night. He was almost at the end of the list.

“Yeah,” he lied.

“Cool. Get ready, the guys and I are out back.” Cody left.

When he was gone, Jack groaned and leaned into his hands. Taking a moment to gather himself, he breathed in deeply. He figured he got maybe three or four hours of sleep. His head ached, rebelling against him for the lack of sleep. After a few slow deep breaths he got up and washed his face and brushed his teeth in the studio bathroom, ignoring the dark shadows under his eyes that matched the shadow of his beard.

When he finished he sat back down at his computer. He still had to choose someone. At this point he didn’t care if they were bad. He couldn’t show up empty handed. He randomly chose a name, scrawled it on a piece of paper and tucked it into his jeans.

Jack climbed into the backseat of the bassist player, Mark’s truck. He slid in next to Brendon, the band’s drummer..

“Good morning, sunshine,” Mark called back to him from the driver’s seat. “You enjoy sleeping in?”

“Mhm, right.” Jack mumbled, if you counted barely sleeping at all as sleeping in.

Brendon looked at him. “You kinda look like hell man,” Brendon said, concerned. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Jack said. Brendon handed him a pair of sunglasses.

Out of everyone in the band, Jack had known Brendon the longest. They had gone to grade school together and form a band after Jack finished on Great American Voice. Jack was close with all of the guys, but Brendon was always the one who somehow understood Jack and noticed all of Jack’s warning signs. Like right now.

Jack gratefully accepted the sunglasses.

Thank God for coffee, thought Jack as he filled a styrofoam cup.

At the label meeting, everyone was going around the room, pitching their chosen contest candidates. Someone mentioned Missy Maeve and Jack immediately shot it down, claiming if he had to write a bubble gum pop country song, he’d cut off his ears.

Each of the guys in the band got a turn to present someone. Jack waited to go last, since he technically didn’t pick out anyone in specific. He trusted his band, and hoped they would find someone decent enough to produce for that wouldn’t want to make him chuck himself over a cliff. Each band member played the video and explained why they chose it. Their reasons were good and valid, but despite the talent presented, none of them inspired Jack. He had been betting on one of the guys would find someone for him.

“Alright then Jack,” the label manager asked, swiveling his chair towards Jack. “Who did you pick?”

Jack swallowed the lump his throat. “Yeah, I’ve got someone. Her name is…” He pulled the piece of paper out of his pocket and read the hastily scrawled note. “...Robin Jones.” He walked up to the front of the room to the computer that was projected onto the pull out screen. He searched for her name in Youtube. Her video came up as the 7th result on the page.

Christ, she only has 6 views. Jack kicked himself. Why didn’t he bother to check the view count? He hit play. Please don’t suck, please don’t suck.

The video began with a blurry close up of blonde hair. The camera refocused as Robin leaned back from the camera. She was sitting at a baby grand piano. Around her were music stands, stage risers, and a variety of other instruments were stacked up against the wall. She looked like she was recording from a high school band room.

The girl cleared her throat and stated to the camera, “Hi. My name is Robin Jones. I am 18 years old. I am from Boston, Massachusetts and this my original song, Candle Light.” She turned to the piano, a curtain of blonde hair falling in front of her face. She paused for a moment to take a deep breath. Then she began to play.

She was nervous. Her movements were slow, calculated and careful. The notes began higher on the scale, and then steadily dropped into lower notes as she began to quietly sing the first verse.

“When did it begin?

Couldn’t you tell me where the start of it ends?

Cause I got caught in the light.

Yeah, it was too damn bright.

It left me blinded, just for you.”

She sang in a soft, lower register, which surprised Jack. He thought by the tone of her voice, she would have sung higher. But she was good. Thank God.

Her voice shook slightly through the first chorus. It wasn’t until she broke into the second verse, he noticed a shift in her performance. Her voice grew stronger, and she tucked the hair that had curtained off her face behind her ear. Jack found himself nodding along with the gentle rhythm of the song.

I had to take the long

way home, did you know I barely survived

I couldn’t see how and I,

Couldn’t see why after all this time

the goodbye still hurts you more.

Jack almost paused the video on that last line. It stood out to him. It was a good, subjective line that he liked to use in his own music. It was one of those lines he knew came from her specific experience, but it could relate to anyone. It could relate to him. It did relate to him. The goodbye still hurts you more. Jack knew exactly just how it related to him.

Memories of Danny popped back into mind. He saw Danny standing to the side of the stage with everyone else advancing, crying when Jack was voted off. He saw Danny fight with him at the end of the Great American Tour when he didn’t want to move back out to L.A. with Jack. The look on Danny’s face when Jack spit harsh words out of anger and regret. He saw himself a month later, staring at his phone, wishing Danny would just fucking text him back. Danny and his stupid, morning dew green eyes.

The harder lessons are learned

When you see the scars are from the burn

Wish I wasn’t so afraid to believe

That there could still be so much more.

There was Danny was again in the last line. Robin was good with her lyrics.

She launched into the chorus with a change of confidence. She sang with a soulful vibrato. Her eyes were closed as felt her way through the song, her fingers finding the right keys on their own. Her performance looked effortless, but Jack could tell she was pouring everything inside of her into the music.

Her fingers danced across the keyboard, racing towards the bridge. Robin’s entire body rocked along with the rhythm. Suddenly the song tapered off to the quiet notes from the beginning of the song.

I could for now, just stay where I am

Though I still don’t know how this all ends.

Until then I’ll hold on to a little light

So one day you might find me again.

When she finished, she rested her hands on the keys, drawing in a few deep breaths. Her hands dropped so suddenly from the keys, like someone had caught her playing when she wasn’t supposed to. Robin turned back towards the camera and leaned in to end the video.

There was silence in the room. Jack was holding his breath, waiting for someone to respond.

“Well,” the assistant manager started. “She has a nice voice, but -”

“This one,” Jack interrupted. “I want this one.”

His manager looked at him, arching an eyebrow. “You want this one? A romance song?”

Jack was equally surprised. What was he doing? He doesn’t write romance. He doesn’t even like songs about romance. And the memories that she pulled from the back of his mind should have given him enough of a reason not to pick this one. And yet, it had slipped out. He wanted this song.

Jack looked to his bandmates for their confirmation. He wasn’t about to make a decision without them, especially when it involved all four of them. They looked between the three of them, silently discussing the song. After a few moments, and some shrugging, Brendon nodded to Jack.

“Yeah,” Jack said. He cleared his throat. “She’s got a great voice, and the song sounds a little different from most romance songs I’ve heard. I think maybe the lyrics could use a little help, and I think if we put in some percussion with some better acoustics - “ Jack caught himself. He almost didn’t notice the click in his brain. It was like suddenly he turned on a light. Or lit a candle after the power had gone out. His was brainstorming. He was writing.

At that moment he knew for a fact - this was the winning song.

He looked around the room, waiting for everyone’s opinion. They exchanged glances, debating.

Finally, the manager stood up. “Alright, I guess that’s it then. We’ll go with…” He squinted his eyes, looking up at the project screen. “...Robin Jones. Tomorrow we’ll go live with the announcement.”

The meeting concluded. Everyone started packing up. Jack let out a breath of air he didn’t realize he was holding.

The guys approached him.

“So...romance now, huh? Didn’t know you had such a soft spot all of the sudden,” Cody remarked, smiling.

Jack shook his head, just as surprised as they were. “I guess maybe I need to start looking into the romance writing genre.”

“Hah, yeah man.” Brendon clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Good to have you back man.”

Jack gave him a smile of thanks.

When he got home, he pulled up Robin’s song again and rewatched it, beginning the process of drafting different types of instruments and background sounds he could add to the song. The ideas came easy, and he could feel something in him relax. He was relieved. He was writing again.

The song had resurfaced those memories of Danny that he fought for so long to forget. Some part of him still thought he was insane to want to work on this song. But another part of him, the part that he had shared with Danny all those years, demanded him to work on this song, and it refused to be ignored. He felt a nervous tingle in the pit of his stomach.

He didn’t want to acknowledge it, but the song had given that part of him a new, stronger voice. And it was screaming at him.

Jack continued to write.

[flaignhan]

Tiny Ways

Marriage, for her, is more natural than she'd first anticipated.

When they'd bitten the bullet, when they had said the words and exchanged the rings, when they'd signed the papers at the registry office, she'd wondered if it was real, if it had any chance at longevity.

But here they are.

People used to joke, used to call her his babysitter, but the truth is they look after each other, and everything evens out. She supposes it's because she takes care of him in more visible ways; she's always the one to sort out the Christmas and birthday cards for his side of the family, the one to send Mycroft a bottle of port and a mini hamper of baked goods from the farm shop, on the day that he tries to pretend doesn't exist.

She does other things too, like remind him when to eat, sometimes when to drink, and often when to sleep. He still gets caught up in interesting things, and shuts out the world for a bit but it's fine, because she'd rather that than him wallow in boredom.

Boredom, she has always known, will be the death of him.

Marriage, for her, is also full of little quirks and sources of amusement. Some years, she receives a large bunch of flowers anything up to three weeks in advance of their anniversary, just in case he forgets. Some years, he forgets he's already taken care of it, and a second bunch arrives a few days before the big day.

There's never been a year when he's forgotten altogether.

Marriage is also coming home with a pile of dissertations to mark, because now she's a consultant (the house is big enough for two after all) she has a responsibility to pass on her knowledge to the next generation. She'll fall asleep on the sofa while halfway through the third one, but she'll wake up in bed the next morning. He'll be snoozing quietly next to her, limbs splayed at awkward angles because even after all this time, he's still a restless sleeper. She'll go downstairs and discover neat piles - firsts, two-ones, two-twos, and the don't even bothers. They'll be stacked from worst to best, and all she has to do is read the important bits and scribble a grade onto them. He won't surface until around noon, and by then she'll be finishing up, while he wanders around in his dressing gown, nose in a book, a piece of toast hanging from his mouth while he turns the page.

Sometimes she wakes in the middle of the night, and can hear the sound of his violin, filtering through from his study. She can hear the bow gliding across the strings as he composes a new piece, or learns something from hundreds of years ago, sheet music perched haphazardly on his music stand. She listens for a while, and even though it's the early hours of the morning, and even though she has to go to work in a few hours, she smiles as she looks up at the ceiling, because she doesn't know anyone who can play music like he does, and she'll spend all day operating on a few hours' sleep if it means she gets to hear him play.

When she goes back to London, to meet up with friends and have a few drinks that will inevitably stretch out until she misses the last train home, he is always on hand to drive up to collect her; he offers in advance, so she doesn't have to worry about finishing up too soon. He will put the heated seat on a few minutes before he arrives at the bar where she and her friends have set themselves up for the night, to ensure it's appropriately cosy. When she gets in, he asks if she's had a good time, gives her a once over, just in case he needs to think about pulling over at any point, and he turns down his podcast so she can settle into her seat and close her eyes.

On the evenings when she's a little more awake, he'll take a detour on the way back, the detective's tour of London, taking in their old haunts; Baker Street and Bart's of course, but the Embankment too, where they have walked and walked for hours, when the lights of the bridges twinkled in the reflection on the rippling river surface. They had driven past her old flat once, but it's now a new development with glass panelled balconies and lines of identical trees planted at regular intervals along the path that leads to the lobby to give the illusion of greenery. They've not bothered driving past that again.

He takes care of her in tiny ways, ways that people don't often see, and frankly, she doesn't want them to see. It's just the two of them, and that's all that counts, it's all that's ever counted. So long as they're ticking along, she doesn't mind what anybody else thinks.

Marriage, for her, is having the courage to not give a damn, because she's got everything she needs.

Marriage, for him, is an excellent construct.

He hadn't considered it before, before she'd asked if he wanted to come with her. He had always thought it was the sort of thing that other people did, the sort of thing that would inevitably fall apart because statistically, he, even more than most, wouldn't stand a chance.

But when Lestrade had been promoted to DCI and his legwork days were over, it was he who had been left behind to collaborate with the bright young things who had worked their way up through the ranks. Fans of the blog, many of them - not his, never his. He's yet to meet a single one who has shown any interest in tobacco ash.

But, he supposes, it's probably all about vaping these days. It's one of the few things he can't get addicted to. A childish toy with childish flavours designed for a new age of not getting cancer from cigarettes, but from much more fashionable sources instead.

The trouble is, all the young guns who read the blog every night at Hendon had started to bring him stupid, simple cases, with ridiculous conspiracy theories attached.

Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.

He had tired of it quite quickly, so when she had asked, when her brown eyes had fixed his, earth meeting sky to form the horizon, he'd realised that a tiny part of her was genuinely asking. When she'd said that with the money from the sale of her flat she could buy a three bedroom cottage, with a garage that could easily be converted into a lab, he hadn't been able to say no.

And the rest had followed.

Sometimes, the gold band on his finger reflects a hint of sunlight, and the resultant glint captures his attention, reminding him that she cares for him so much that she's willing to spend her life with him, good days, bad days, and all those days in between. She's willing to put up with him and all his habits, at which he knows most normal people would baulk.

But she's never been normal, she's always been completely extraordinary. When he thinks about it, he supposes it shouldn't have really been a surprise that he's ended up here. Not really.

She doesn't mind if he doesn't come up to bed some nights, but spends his time in the garage instead, pottering about. She doesn't complain if he finally heads up at four o'clock in the morning, and inevitably wakes her as he slips into bed. Instead, she snuggles up to him, slings one arm over his waist, and presses a tired kiss against his neck before she sinks back into slumber.

Some mornings, after a night when he has had good intentions, but never quite made it up the wooden hill, he wakes under a thick patchwork quilt, and rolls over to see his book resting on the coffee table, a bookmark poking out from between the pages, marking the spot where tiredness had consumed him.

She also doesn't mind if he retreats for a few days. She just leaves him to it, and comes into the garage in the evenings, with a flask of tea and something filling to eat that will keep him going until the following evening. Sometimes she stands behind him for a while, arms draped over his shoulders while he sits, hunched over his microscope. He's not sure if he feels her heartbeat against his shoulder blade, or if he just imagines it, but the little bit of contact reminds him that there is a world outside of his garage.

She won't ask him any questions about what he's doing until he resurfaces, and they can talk for hours on end, sprawled across the sofa, the fire crackling in the grate. She gets him a pass to the university library, and he can spend a contented day in there while she gives seminars and lectures.

It all works rather well.

Marriage, for him, is the lazy, hazy, Sunday mornings that creep up on them at the end of every week. He'll go down to fetch a pot of tea and the papers first thing, and returns to bed, where they'll lounge about for a few hours. They surface in time to head down to the pub for the carvery, and a cosy afternoon with some pale ales, followed by a slow walk back home.

He supposes it's the normal life that people sometimes dream of, but because the two of them only have little pockets of normality, they get to enjoy that more than most. It's real, as opposed to some constructed aesthetic, tailored so that the outside world can be envious.

Maybe that's why they're still happy.

For the first few years, he had been anxious that she would discover even worse habits than those she already knew, that he would be found out as a scoundrel and a heathen and everything she doesn't want around. But that had never happened, and she had surpassed herself, by knowing him better than he first thought, even better than he knows himself.

Marriage, to him, is a lifelong commitment to the person who loves him best, and a lifelong commitment to ensure that she doesn't regret a single second of it.

[laylahtalks-blog]

A Week in The Life. (Part 1).

From the 12th of September until the 2nd of October I had what were probably three of the busiest weeks of my life. Because I’ve never been one to suffer in silence, I decided to document it and share it with all of you. During this period my Grandmother was very sick so I had to travel in and out of the hospital amongst many other things. I completely recognise that this was my personal choice and I in no way wish to make out that this was a burden for me. But acting like it wasn’t difficult would be a lie. My life isn’t usually this busy but I’m proud of how I handled myself throughout this time.

Monday. Today is my first day back to college. I’m slightly hungover from drinks that I had the night before. I get the bus in with my roommates who are all in the same course as me. I have four lectures from 11 until 6. During our one hour break I go for lunch with my friends, some of whom I haven’t seen all Summer. I really enjoy catching up with them before I head back to college. When I’m finished college for the day, I get the bus out to the hospital. It’s about a 20 minute journey. I sit with my Gran for a couple of hours, telling her about my day and helping her with anything that she needs. I leave in the evening. I get a bus that drops me off a ten minute walk away from my apartment. I collect the post from the pub that I live above and I go upstairs. It’s then that I realise that my keys are sitting on my desk inside the locked apartment. None of my roommates are home. I ring Aoife and she tells me that she’s at the shops. I don’t bother telling them that I’m locked out and instead make myself comfortable on the floor. In my post there are two proofs of my new book “Just Saying” and a novel that I’ve been dying to read. I read some of the novel and flick through the proofs looking for mistakes. It’s freezing in the corridor and I’m counting the seconds until my roommates get back. One good-looking boy from my building comes into the hall and sees me sitting surrounded by stuff. I’m wearing a beret and flicking through my notebook. Disappointingly, I don’t think he fell in love with me. When the girls finally arrive back I nearly jump on them with glee. I make myself some dinner before retreating to my room to catch up on tv and get an early night.

Tuesday. I awake to discover that I had turned off my alarm. I am running late for the first time in my life (I wish). I jump into clothes, make myself somewhat presentable and run out the door, just catching a bus at the last second. I fidget nervously through rush hour traffic and manage to miraculously arrive just in the nick of time (positive thinking really is the best). I had been planning to go to the library and get some work done before going into the hospital for the evening but because of my lateness, I could not do this. I go for a quick coffee and catch-up with my friend Sophie before heading back to my apartment. I have lunch with my roommates before sitting down to work for an hour or so. After packing aan overnight clothes with my essentials, I have to leave.  My roommates get the bus into town with me. They are going for drinks and I can not. I am only slightly jealous. I get a quick Luas out to do an hour’s session of electrolysis hair removal. It is particularly painful today but I manage not to scream too loud. I then get two buses to the hospital before spending two hours there. My Mam then brings myself and my sister Rachael to dinner in Nandos and we all spend the night at my Grandmother’s empty house.

Wednesday. I get up at 7 and my Mam drives me in to my appointment relating to my transition in Loughlinstown hospital. I am in a foul humour. I do not want to sit in front of a doctor while he decides whether I should go on hormones or not. People tell me that I should be grateful to have secured this appointment as they seem to be like gold dust but I can’t feel delight for the fact that I’m on of the lucky ones in a broken medical system. I am terrible company for my Mam as we sit in the waiting room for two hours. I can’t overcome my moodiness and I later have to apologise to her for it. I get my bloods done and I’m told that I will be sent out a prescription for hormone blockers. I feel numb as I thank the doctor for seeing me. It is far from a joyous occasion, rather just another thing to tick off my list. My Mam (who is an angel) sympathises with me. She brings me to a nearby shopping centre where we get breakfast and she buys me some amazingly generous gifts (If my sisters are reading this and rolling their eyes I wish to remind them that I was born with an unwanted penis). I then say goodbye to my Mam and get the Luas into town for an hour lecture. My friend and I go for lunch for an hour before we part ways. I walk through the park alone feeling the sun on my face and sipping from a hot chocolate. Due to some miscalculations on my part, I end up getting three different buses to the hospital when I could have gotten one. I don’t beat myself up about it. I just get on with it. I spend a couple of hours at the hospital and my Mam is also there. I hear disturbing news that one of my peers has been giving out about me to certain people (it’s a long story that I don’t wish to disclose). I rather unwisely decide to tackle this issue over text and end up in a terrible mood. I’m probably a little harsher than I should be considering everything that’s going on but I do make apologies for that. The issue is resolved pretty quickly. I get a bus into town and bump into my roommate with a friend of mine. We have one drink together before my friend decides to stay over with us. We get a bus back home and eat nachos. We discuss different matters and I have a rare cry (I think the first time my friends have seen me cry in fact). I recognise that this is because I have a lot going on and my friends are very comforting. We go to bed early.

[smartgirlsaremean]

My Heart’s in the Highlands - Chapter 2

Fandoms: OUAT, Hamish Macbeth

Pairing: Bellish

Rating: T

Summary: With Rumplestiltskin gone, Belle can’t face going back to the Enchanted Forest without him. She leaves Storybrooke forever, travels the world, and ends up in a small village in Scotland, where she meets a constable with a very familiar face.

AO3

Chapter 2: The Twilight Home Past

“I swear, I didnae do anything,” Hamish Macbeth hissed as TV John hovered over the still form of the stranger lying on the sofa of the police station. “I offered to help her with her tire and she just...” He fluttered his hands to indicate that she’d fainted dead away.

That was a novel experience. He knew he wasn’t exactly hard on the eyes - took no small amount of pride in how well he wore his uniform, in fact - but he’d never had a woman swoon on him before. It wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Women could be damned heavy when they fainted, and of course he’d had to catch her; couldn’t have her braining herself on the pavement. He scratched at the back of his neck and tried to ignore the way TV John’s lips were twitching, choosing instead to focus on his unwitting houseguest. Doc Brown was on his way and hopefully they could revive her but until then...

She was pretty. And that wasn’t really something he should be thinking about an unconscious stranger in his police station, but there was really no way not to think it because she was. Heart-shaped face, creamy ivory skin, rioting dark curls, full cherry lips - he hadn’t got a good look at her eyes before they rolled up in her head but he had the impression they were blue. And she was tiny. Half a head shorter than him and light as a feather to boot.

Doc nearly whistled at his first sight of their visitor. “Holy hell, Hamish, what did you do? Knock her out with a club and drag her here?”

Well. He knew he had a reputation as something of a dog, but that was uncalled for. “‘Course not,” he snapped. “just make sure she’s okay, will you?”

The doctor had scarcely finished his brief examination when the woman’s eyelids fluttered and she breathed in a deep gasp. She flinched away from the doctor, who immediately backed away to prove he was no threat, and she locked eyes with Hamish again. He swallowed hard. Yes, blue - an unreal, translucent blue-green that rivaled the sea at its most breathtaking.

She muttered something under her breath and shook her head a little, never breaking eye contact. Her staring was beginning to unnerve him, so he glanced away and pretended to be fascinated by the typewriter on the desk. He could tell she’d gotten his hint when Doc introduced himself and she answered, her voice that low Australian alto he’d remembered from an hour ago.

“Do you know your name, m’dear?” Doc asked, and Hamish felt it was safe to look back.

“Belle French,” she said shakily. One hand rose to smooth her hair while the other was captured in Doc’s grip as he checked her pulse.

“Date of birth?”

“August 28, 1990.”

“Mother’s name?”

“Colette Johnson French.”

“Do you know where you are?”

“No, but that’s not...I mean, I left Inverness this morning and I - well, I didn’t really have a plan, so…”

“So you were just...driving for the hell of it?” Hamish asked, ready now to risk her piercing gaze again.

She glanced at him but, thank God, didn’t resume staring. “Yeah. I just wanted to see what was down this road. If it got late before I found a place I was going to sleep in the car.”

“Well, you don’t seem to have a concussion,” Doc Brown said. “Just take it easy tomorrow, eh?”

Belle nodded.

“Thanks, Doc, I’ve got it from here,” Hamish said brusquely. Doc nodded reluctantly and turned to go, squeezing Belle’s hand in encouragement.

“All right, Miss French,” he said when Doc was out of sight. “Why don’t you tell me what’s really goin’ on here?”

“Just what I said,” Miss French said calmly, pulling herself into a seated position and combing her fingers through her hair. “I’ve been on a sort of - pilgrimage, I guess? - a trip, anyway, around the world, for the last two years or so. This is just my latest stop.”

“And what exactly are you running from?”

“I’m not running from anything. I’d always meant to see the world, and when the opportunity arose, I took it.”

“How did that opportunity arise, if you don’ mind me askin’?”

“I do mind, as a matter of fact,” Miss French snipped. “It’s none of your business. Now since I’m not dying or under arrest, could you point me in the direction of my personal effects and then the nearest hotel?”

“I didnae say you weren’t under arrest.”

“What could you possibly arrest me for?”

“Illegally parked vehicle. Assaulting a police officer.”

Miss French’s eyes flashed. “I didn’t assault you.”

“Me back remembers it differently.”

“Next time you’re welcome to let me fall.”

He grinned. “You plan on swoonin’ on me again? That’s downright flatterin’.”

Miss French huffed, but he thought he saw a flicker of a smile on her lips. “My things?”

Hamish jerked a thumb towards the table and she rose, looking carefully over her purse and its contents before nodding at him. TV John offered to take her to the Lochdubh Hotel and set her up for the night, and then she was gone with nary another word or glance his way.

“Hamish means well,” TV John told Belle as he walked her to the hotel. “We dinnae get mony visitors here, that's all. Certainly none as found us themselves.”

“Driving or walking on any road that caught my fancy is how I had some of my most memorable adventures,” Belle said. 

“Well, I hope this road doesn’t disappoint.”

Belle was introduced to Barney and Agnes, the couple who ran the hotel, and shown up to her room. It was clean and spacious, if extremely dated, and Belle unpacked her things into the dresser drawer. This leg of her journey had begun to feel like the last, but she wasn’t sure what she’d do when she decided to settle down. Boston hadn’t agreed with her, and she had a feeling that she’d like New York (where the newly minted Cassidys had ended up last she’d spoken with them) even less. She loved visiting in cities, but she’d always been a provincial girl. Avonlea had been, as Rumple described it on his only visit there, a “little town,” and she’d been completely charmed by Storybrooke. Thankfully the world was full of little towns and villas into which she could disappear and quietly live out her days.

Belle French’s education included a degree in library science. Perhaps she could be a small-town librarian or bookshop owner. The thought of spending her days surrounded by the written word filled her with joy as nothing had in the last two years. Her head spinning with ideas and plans, Belle fell asleep quickly despite the sounds of the restaurant/pub below.

The next morning found her rested and ready to explore the hamlet she’d found herself in. Today would be a day for the streets and shops, tomorrow for hiking, and then, probably, she’d be on her way.  Two years of travel had seen a significant change in her wardrobe. Gone were the short skirts and floaty dresses and flirty heels she’d been fond of in Storybrooke (most of them anyway), replaced by sensible tops and shorts and cargo pants and boots and tennis shoes. A few dresses for nights out remained, but no one in Storybrooke would recognize her now. Sometimes she scarcely recognized herself.

The pub attached to the hotel served breakfast, she’d been told, so she shouldered her messenger bag and headed out. This early in the morning the pub was hardly a hub of activity, but there were a few people at booths. With a little flutter of nerves she noticed that the constable - the one who so resembled Rumple - was there with TV John and the doctor who’d examined her last night. They were all nursing mugs of coffee, but when the doctor saw her he leapt to his feet and was before her in an instant.

“Miss French! How are you feelin’ today?”

“Much better, Doctor, thank you,” she smiled as she shook his hand.

“Well, you certainly look better. Less peaky. Here for breakfast?”

“Yes, I…”

“Och, you must sit with us, come on.” He hadn’t released her hand and began fairly pulling her to the booth.

“Oh, but…”

“No arguin’, Miss French, I willnae hear of it.”

“Belle, please,” Belle sighed as she was gently shoved into the booth across from the constable and TV John. “I’m not sure anyone’s ever called me Miss French.”

“Belle,” the doctor said almost triumphantly. “A bonnie name.” The constable snorted and Doc Brown glared at him. “Well, it is,” he said defensively.

“Ay course it is, divit,” the constable said with a crooked grin. “That's what ‘Belle’ means. Beauty.”

“Ah, bugger off, Hamish,” the doctor grumbled, puffing his pipe madly.

They were interrupted by Barney, who brought her breakfast, and Belle tucked into her meal with enthusiasm. She looked up after about ten minutes of silent eating to see that all three men were staring at her avidly.

“Sorry...do I have egg on my face or something?”

“No, no,” PC Macbeth said. “Has it been a few weeks since you had a decent meal, then?”

She narrowed her eyes. “No. And I don’t appreciate being stared at like an exhibit in a zoo.”

TV John cleared his throat and stood. “Sorry, lass. Hamish, I’ll be at the station.”

“Aye.” The constable’s eyes didn’t waver from hers.

The doctor, his eyebrows raised, glanced between her and the constable. “And I, ah, probably have a patient tae see somewhere.”

“See you later, doc.”

Belle raised her eyebrows and met his stare, forcing herself to notice differences between him and Rumple. He was younger, for one thing, but then everyone in this world was younger than him. His hair was shorter, his eyes less haunted (though not entirely serene, interestingly enough) and his bearing was different. However much he resembled Rumple, he was very obviously not the same man.

She shouldn’t be surprised that she was attracted to him - she’d always been drawn to Rumplestiltskin and this man could be his twin - but she was surprised nonetheless. She hadn’t felt attracted to anyone since she’d left Storybrooke, and had not unreasonably assumed that she wouldn’t again. True Love didn’t come along every day, and it certainly didn’t die easily, and she didn’t think she was crazy to think her chance had come and gone.

Still, there he sat, his bottomless dark eyes boring into hers, his mouth quirking into a half smile, and her insides quivered ever so slightly. She recognized that look; she’d seen it on countless men who’d tried to pick her up in bars around the world. He knew he was handsome, and he capitalized on it. The only way to depress impertinence like his was to meet it with her own.

Adding a sparkle to her eyes, she speared a sausage with her fork and lifted it to her lips. Locking her gaze on his, she took a deliberate bite and smiled when his grin faded a little and his eyes widened.

He’d been wrong the night before, Hamish mused as Belle polished off her breakfast. She wasn’t pretty. Her baggy, comfortable traveling clothes and weary face had concealed the truth from him.

She was bloody gorgeous and nothing less. His mouth had run dry when she stepped into the pub, fresh as a daisy and sexy as hell with her fluttery knee-length skirt and long slim black-tight-clad legs. Every unattached man in this pub (and probably one or two of the married ones) was imagining those legs wrapped around various parts of his body, and she’d sat across from him. The fact that she didn’t seem to reciprocate his attraction didn’t bother him; she was just passing through, a pretty little tourist to admire, nothing more.

“You still have questions,” Belle said, scraping up the yolk of her eggs with her toast.

“Aye, if you’re open to hearin’ ‘em.” He rearranged the questions in his head, dragging the most policeman-like ones forward and the dog-like ones to the recesses of his brain.

“I’ll hear any questions you care to ask. I might not answer them, though.”

Hamish grinned. “Where’re you from, Belle?”

“Here and there.”

“That's no answer. It’s a simple question.”

“Not really, in my case.” Belle studied her glass of water with a strange expression. After a few moments she took a deep breath. “I was born in Australia, but I grew up in Maine. My father’s business took us there. I came into some money a few years ago and finally got to do what I’ve always wanted to do.”

“And what’s that?”

“Travel. See the world.”

“Alone?”

Her face clouded over, her eyes darkening and taking on a haunted look that suddenly made her seem decades older than she was. “No. That wasn’t the plan, but…” shrugging, “we do what we must, don’t we?”

“What’s on for today?” he asked after a few seconds.

“I thought I’d walk around town, visit the shops, see the beach. I don’t need a permit or anything for that, do I?”

“No, of course not.” Where the hell had that come from?

“You’re sure?”

“Aye, I’m sure.”

“Then I won’t need a police escort, will I?”

Hell. How had she known he was planning to show her around? He fidgeted in his seat. “No.”

“Great.” She rose and tossed a few quid on the table. “Then I’ll wish you a good morning, P.C. Macbeth.”

Lochdubh was many times smaller than Storybrooke. It only had the one main street, and there were very few shops along it. Before lunch she was fairly sure she’d met all the principal inhabitants and seen all the important sights in the town itself. Rory the grocer had shown her around his store and convinced her to buy a few of his apparently famous crumpets; Esme, one of the schoolteachers, had given her a tour of the school and invited her to sit in on a Gaelic lesson; Lachlan McCrae, in town selling some of his wares, had waxed eloquent about his farm and various business ventures. She was now nearing the end of the street, enjoying the brisk breeze from the harbor and scrutinizing the mountains. Tomorrow she’d pack a lunch and a dinner and spend the whole day up there, losing herself in nature.

A building near the end of the street caught her eye; while most of the buildings on the street stood in need of a few repairs, they were all open and busy, but this building had boards on the windows and a chain on the doors. Curious, she walked closer and tried to discern what it once had been. The sign above the door was faded, but when she was directly before the building she could read it.

Lochdubh Public Library

Some emotion she couldn’t define surged through her, compressing her lungs and choking her. Images of another library, boarded and abandoned, swam in her head and she clutched at her elbows, pulling her arms around her body. “We may sit in our library and yet may be in all quarters of the earth,” she whispered. Tears trickled down her cheeks and she bit her lip hard. “Rumple…”

Magic was hard to come by in this land, but destiny knew no boundaries. Libraries were how she grounded herself, how she knew she was home and safe and loved. She’d felt that connection in Avonlea, she’d felt it at the Dark Castle, she’d felt it in Storybrooke, and she felt it now, growing and spreading and digging deep into the pavement at her feet as if rooting her there. Scotland had already felt like home, and now there was a library in need of love. She’d always known that since she couldn’t return to Storybrooke, she would need a home somewhere, and if the tugging at her heart and the heaviness in her legs didn’t signify that she was home, she didn’t know what would.

Cautiously she approached the doors and peered through the cracks between the boards. With no curse to keep everything pristine, she could see dust gathered on everything. Several of the shelves were missing books. It would be no small task to clean and arrange it all, and she would need to expand the collection, but…

“I hope you’re not thinkin’ of goin’ in there.”

Macbeth had found her. She kept her back to him. “I thought you said I didn’t need an escort.”

“You don’t, but I thought you might like a tour guide.” He grinned as he came up beside her, but the expression dropped when he caught a glimpse of her face. “Is summat wrong?”

Belle turned her head and wiped at her face. “I’m fine.”

“Och, aye, many a lass I’ve found weepin’ her eyes out over an abandoned library.”

“How long has it been closed?” Belle asked, ignoring his huff of frustration.

“Six months or so. Mrs. Coffey died and no one in town’s got the background tae take over.”

Belle hummed, studying the facade. “Would it be worthwhile to reopen?”

“Eh?”

“Has the town missed having a library? Would it do well if it opened again?”

“I, eh, really couldnae say. I suppose so. Folk around here aren' great readers, but they’ve been known tae crack a book frae time tae time.” He chuckled. “Why, d’you need a job?”

Belle shrugged. “I am a librarian, and it’s not as if I have anything else to do or anywhere specific to be.”

Macbeth was silent for several seconds. “So you’d - what - open it for a month or two and hand it off?” She turned to look at him and raised her eyebrows. “You cannae mean you want to stay here.”

Rolling her eyes, Belle turned back to the library. “I never tire of hearing someone tell me what I want.”

Macbeth huffed. “You must have somewhere tae go. People you miss.”

“I really don’t.”

“Now, why dinnae I believe that?” Macbeth stepped closer to her.

“Because you’re an arse?” Belle snapped, her temper rising.

“Or maybe because you’re still not telling me the truth.”

Her temper spiked and her vision went red. “What do you want me to say?” Belle rounded on him, and he backed away a step, his eyes widening. “What will get you off my back? Do you want to hear that I have no family or friends anxiously awaiting my return? That I have no place to call home?”

“I - “

“Or maybe you want me to tell you all about how I watched my - the man I loved die. That I was powerless to stop it - that I wasn’t even able to hold him or tell him I loved him as he faded away. That I couldn’t go home because I just couldn’t face life there without him.”

His face had gone pale and he looked as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t determine what.

“Have I told you enough, P.C. Macbeth?” she asked, ice in every syllable.

“Aye, lass. You have.”

Her words had run out, and she walked away, struggling to calm her heart and slow her breathing. In two years she had never - not once - even hinted at what had driven her around the world, not to kindly boarding-house owners or sympathetic bartenders or friendly fellow travelers. The memories seemed at once too precious and too terrible to share with another soul. In this land without magic, how could she explain what Rumple had been to her, how empty and frightening the world had seemed without him, how powerless she was to do anything but run and never return?

She was tired of running, of never having a fixed home, of doing odd jobs to pay for her next plane or train ticket - and of dipping into the dwindling funds the sale of the antiques had provided. She wanted to feel useful again, and the library needed her.

Belle nodded to herself as she climbed the stairs to her room. She would canvass the locals and determine if the library were a valued resource; if it was, she would know what to do next.

[sunbroste]

Test Post: Past writing (2015): ‘Uni Struggles.’ - A little blog I wrote on the ‘hardships’ of student life...

A brief introduction, then. The “On This Day” feature of Facebook, today points out that on this day five years ago... my Facebook status was: “beaten 3 times in a row on FIFA. *MASSIVE SULK.*”  ... and my second one was: “ oh ffs...someone in Cov lend me some internet?! I NEED MEW!!!” Wow, such struggles. Looking back, I am not sure how 20-year old Ste coped. Here I sit in the present day, at 25 (>_<) with a recurring stress-knot in my shoulder thanks to the stresses of my full-time job, a financed car, most Apple/Sony products under the sun, an expensively relatively unused Playstation 4, and two parents who, let’s face it, would love me to find a girl and GTFO. Do not get me wrong... owning Mew is important. Winning on FIFA, less so, now, (fuck you, FIFA)... but the point is, simpler times were simpler. This is a very legitimate list of some of the real-life struggles and hardships endured by student Ste...  N.B. At this stage, I will assume most people know the ACTUAL family struggle I had during that period. So, casting that saga aside... 1) Being unable to connect my Nintendo DS to the landlord/lady’s internet... and being unable to obtain Mew and various other rare Pokemon. 2) Having to do the washing up... once every blue moon when my housemates got fed up with me and made me do it. 3) Realising that doing the washing up once every blue moon was just too much... and eating take-out (Benny’s) instead. 4) Having between 8-16 lecture hours a week, with an ‘early start’ of 10am. (Second year, you were harsh.) 5) Finding a legit pair of socks. 6) Finding anything. 7) Running out of revision post-it’s... because I posted them all on my housemate’s door. With dick’s on them, and things. 8) Only being able to play Badminton on average five times a week... for free. 9) Having to order TWO ‘small breakfasts’ on seperate plates, because that was the discounted breakfast... and I wanted a large breakfast. 10) Being unable to eat cheesecake in the library. But eating it anyway. 11) Not ironing anything ever and going out looking like the perfect crease. 12) Losing the Wumpa Cup on ‘Crash Team Racing’. ;_; 13) Complaining every time an electricity bill came, despite abusing TV’s, docking stations, laptop charger’s, phone charger’s... 14) Waiting for the bathroom to be free. Waiting... and waiting... an- GOGOGO it’s free! Oh goddammit, too late. I’ll hold it. 15) Owning more Badminton shirts than any other form of shirt. 16) Simply inviting everyone round to our house, because the nearest pub we could meet up at was a hefty five-minute walk away. 17) Handing assignments in at 11:59, having completed it in only two hours, and still being disappointed to scrape a ‘pass’. 18) Having to use Wikipedia as the scientifically objective research form, because finding a book in the library was... well, don’t be daft. Wiki is easier. 19) Having to put headphones in at 3am... cos somebody was having rampant sex. 20) Being told to put headphones in at 3am... cos apparently Muse was too loud. 21) Passing out on booze before 9pm and having your friends rip your jeans in an attempt to remove you from the kitchen floor. 22) Being the scruff who could get ready in under five minutes, and having to wait days for everybody else to do their hair. 23) Realising that cheesy chips are actually really overrated, and going back for some greasy chicken. 24) Air-conditioned lecture theatr-zzzzzzzzzzzz 25) Being the only ‘Northerner’ and frequently having to defend my use of the legitimate word.... ‘t’ 26) Carrying heavy shopping back from the shops... because baked beans with everything. 27) Getting portioned more meat and potato than anyone else when having a house dinner, because I didn’t like the green things. 28) Responding to “how’s your dissertation going, Ste?” With “I’ll think of a topic for it, soon.” 29) Accepting that your social awkwardness will one day catch up with you when you leave, and not everybody has exactly the same interests... 30) Binge-watching TV shows because everybody has ‘that housemate’ with the 100 tera-byte hard drive... filled largely with porn. 31) Deciding whether to be the guy that farts loudly and proudly, or witholds it and casts internal suspicion on the entire group. 32) Living by ‘swear jar’ rules. 33) Rating girls in ‘Football League and position’ terms. 34)  Not knowing whether to take one, or two power-naps in the afternoon, to catch up on your sleep-debt from waking up at 1pm. 35) Realising that sleeping with teddies is, actually still acceptable. 36) Lending aftershave because yours smells like sewers. 37) Having to down your drink because it has a small, circular chunk of copper thrown into it. 38) Having “No thanks, I don’t drink tea or coffee.” met with “AND YOU CALL YOURSELF A NORTHERNER?!” 39) Teaching everybody south of Derby what 9 ‘while’ 10 means. 40) Being excited about breaking-up and going home for Christmas/Summer, so that you can do nothing in even greater quantities, with different people. The list could go on... but I can smell my tea. Being cooked for me... by Mum. Oh, the struggle! :)