#like none of the workers seem to realise the ugly either

[maryse127]

The bathroom ceiling was painted today and holy fuck it's even uglier now

[morganaspendragonss]

holly's august extravaganza day 17: you and me (moving through this world as a two-man team)

for both my incredible birthday twin jenny (@laelipoo) and a little bit for myself! i hope you are having a wonderful, wonderful day and i wish you all the love in the world. i'm so glad we became friends and i cannot tell you how glad i am for our conversations 🥰🥰🥰

many, many, many thanks to jenny as well for helping me out with the plot!

ao3 | 3.1k | firefighter carlos, hurt/comfort, pining, developing relationship, major character injury (two of them 😌)

TK does not have a crush on the 126's latest hire.

Carlos Reyes: an Austin local, an incredible firefighter, and—objectively speaking—the most beautiful man TK has ever laid eyes on. Which is, in fact, the entire point; TK has eyes and, yes, he will use them to sneak a look or two when he’s suddenly sharing space with a man who looks like a Greek god.

That does not mean he has a crush, Paul.

(and, sure, maybe he does sometimes dream about how soft Carlos’s lips look and the soft blush he gets when he laughs and those little flecks of gold in his eyes, but he’s only human)

(how TK knows about the gold in Carlos’s eyes is none of anybody’s business)

The thing about Carlos Reyes is that he isn’t only stupidly hot; he’s also just plain nice. TK can’t even make up a flimsy excuse to keep his distance. Carlos is, quite literally, perfect.

He shares recipes and book recommendations with Paul, he spars with Marjan, he discusses superheroes with Mateo, and Judd has had nothing but good things to say since before Carlos even joined them. Apparently they’d worked together a lot before the explosion, when Carlos was with the 116, and he’s ‘one of the best damn firefighters’ Judd has ever seen.

He even makes time to hang with the paramedics, which...isn’t a new development, exactly. But it is recent, and TK is willing to bet they’d still be pretty divided if Tim hadn’t suddenly transferred back to Maryland and he hadn’t taken the leap to be a full paramedic.

Even after that… His friends were hardly going to abandon him after he switched, but Nancy had still only been semi-included at best. She’d called him out about it during their first week working together, but fixing it had been a slow process.

Until Carlos came along, that is. Excluding Judd, they all regularly hang out at his place now, and Nancy’s inclusion had never even been a question. Safe to say, Carlos has charmed everyone in the firehouse, including both captains, and the worst part is, he doesn’t seem to realise he’s doing it.

He’s perfect, from his freakishly toned body to his infuriatingly sweet personality to his incredible skills in the field, and TK does not have a crush, goddammit!

One morning about three weeks after Carlos’s arrival, TK is greeted in the firehouse by the sound of a long, beautiful laugh coming from the kitchen. Three weeks is an embarrassingly short amount of time to admit that he’s memorised everything about him, but he instantly recognises the noise as coming from Carlos, even if he can’t see him yet.

He saunters into the kitchen, where Carlos is standing with Paul, and leans up against the counter. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Carlos turns with a winning smile and holds out a steaming mug of coffee, clearly freshly made even though TK only got in two minutes ago.

He blinks. “How—” Then, taking in the slight pinkness to Carlos’s cheeks, “Are you seriously offering me your own coffee, Reyes?”

Carlos shrugs, forcing the mug into TK’s hands. “I only just made it so technically it belongs to anyone, and I can always make another,” he says. “Besides, you look like you could use it more than me.”

His grin has TK narrowing his eyes and stubbornly refusing to drink even though Carlos is right—he really, really needs it.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that was an insult.”

“Who says you do know better?”

TK splutters, momentarily left speechless in the face of Carlos’s smile and the twinkle in those goddamn eyes. He turns to Paul for help, but Paul...has disappeared. Huh. TK honestly hadn't noticed him go.

He shakes his head and looks back to Carlos, only to be stunned silent again by the way his smile has softened into something else, something more.

TK’s heart skips a beat or two and he swallows, staring down into Carlos’s coffee. “Whatever, Reyes,” he mutters.

It was too late for a witty comeback anyway.

Carlos’s laugh follows him out of the kitchen, and TK wonders when, exactly, he let himself fall this far.

*

“Earth to TK? Hello?”

TK is rudely snapped back to reality by one Nancy Gillian’s hand waving violently in his face. He scowls at her, to which she responds with an eye roll.

“Stop drooling over your man and come help me with inventory.”

“I’m not drooling,” TK argues, following her over to the rig. “And he’s not my man.”

“Right,” Nancy drawls, folding her arms over her chest as she leans against the ambulance. “So you’re just going to deny that weird energy around you two that makes the rest of us feel like we’re creeping on something?”

“Exactly.” TK nods emphatically, then frowns. “Wait, what?”

Nancy casts her eyes heavenward. “You know,” she says, “you’re a lot of things, Strand, but I hadn’t pegged you for oblivious.”

TK’s next words are reflexive, said without thought for the consequences—the story of his life, really.

“I’m not oblivious!”

The grin spreading over Nancy’s face rams home just how much he’s fucked up with those three words. TK drops his head in his hands and groans, unable and unwilling to look Nancy in the eye.

“Not a word,” he warns, which Nancy appears to respect, for now. TK is well aware that there will be words—several of them—later, whether he wants them or not.

The thing is, he really isn’t oblivious. He knows perfectly well what Nancy is talking about and he has often fantasised about all the things he’d do to Carlos given half a chance. TK likes Carlos, way more than just in the physical sense, and he’s pretty sure that Carlos likes him right back. It would be so easy to start something between them and, god, TK wants to. He just… He can’t.

One year—that’s what he promised himself back in New York. One year on his own to sort his head out and figure out how he fits back into the world after the overdose. Granted, his sobriety anniversary is only a couple of months away now, but he refuses to give up on his promise, especially when he’s so close.

Maybe in a couple months, if Carlos hasn’t gotten bored of something that’s clearly going nowhere.

But not now.

*

“He did not ask me out!”

“He totally did, dude, and you know it. You want to say yes, I can tell.”

“No, I don’t. I—”

“Children,” Tommy interrupts from the back of the ambulance. They’re heading to a callout, and Nancy has not let up the entire way about something TK is certain never actually happened. “Either of you want to enlighten me on what the argument is about this time?”

“TK’s too chicken to go out with Carlos,” Nancy jumps in, before TK can stop her.

“I am not!” he protests. “Plus, he wasn’t asking me out, he said we should go over to his place for dinner sometime, which Carlos does all the time. So there.”

“Strand, you are not this dense,” Nancy snarks, probably rolling her eyes. “His exact words were, ‘You should come over sometime’.”

“We were all there! It was obviously the plural you.”

“Oh my god—”

“Alright!” Tommy sighs wearily. “Nancy, can we keep from provoking TK until we’re back at the firehouse and he’s no longer driving?”

“Ha!” TK exclaims, but Tommy’s not done.

“TK, if I weren’t your captain, I’d be telling you that Nancy is right and you should pull your head out of your ass before it’s too late, understand?”

Now it’s Nancy’s turn to be triumphant as TK struggles to form a coherent response. Thankfully, he’s saved from further torment by them finally pulling up at the scene—a warehouse where one of the workers had become trapped after parts of the upper level walkway had broken and fallen. Apparently, the falling metal had caused some of the machinery to malfunction, turning the call from simple to beyond complicated in a matter of minutes.

“TK, grab your turnout gear and your bag; I’m sending you in with them,” Tommy informs him as soon as they’re out of the rig. “Normally, we’d just talk the firefighters through it over radio, but given your training it’ll be quicker and safer for you to deal with our patient.”

TK grins; he’s missed the adrenaline rush of running into emergencies more than he can say. “Got it, Cap.”

“Maybe try and look a little less happy about a serious injury, too.”

“Copy that.”

*

The noise when they enter the warehouse is deafening, an ugly screeching cutting right through TK’s skull.

“Shouldn’t they have shut the machines off?” he shouts, fighting to be heard.

“Apparently they can’t,” Judd calls back. “Something wrong with the control panel, I don’t know exactly what.”

TK groans—just what they need. The sound is lost in the din, but Carlos still looks over and gives him a sympathetic grin, shrugging in a ‘what can you do’ motion. TK can’t help but grin back, the mere sight of Carlos easing the annoyance he feels and the headache already beginning to build behind his eyes.

Their patient, when they reach him, is pinned under a large, heavy-looking sheet of metal. He’s bleeding from a gash on his temple and his skin is worryingly pale, to the extent that TK can tell even from a distance. He jogs to the patient’s side and kneels down, pressing his fingers against his neck.

“Cap, I have a pulse,” he reports into his radio after a few seconds. “But he’s unconscious with a head wound, and I think there are probably injuries I can’t see yet. Possible spinal damage, but I can’t tell until we’ve got this metal off him.”

“Copy that,” Captain Vega says. “Get ready to run a line; he’s gonna need it as soon as he’s free.”

TK nods and moves to secure a c-collar around his neck. “We need to cut this thing off of him,” he says, addressing the team. “Quickly, but carefully.”

Judd steps forward, brandishing the saw. He hands TK a couple of spare turnouts and kneels on the patient’s other side. “Couple of you need to cover him, and yourselves.”

TK doesn’t even have to ask before Carlos appears next to him, taking one of the turnouts from him. He smiles gratefully before arranging himself to provide maximum protection to all three of them as Judd starts working on the metal. The vibrations from the saw are unpleasant, and TK dreads to think what effect it’s having on the already unstable machinery, but it’s the only option they have to get their patient free.

Fortunately, everything seems to go off without a hitch, and soon the team are able to remove the metal. TK immediately gets to work, feeling for any damage. As he suspected, there’s a pretty large gash on the man’s leg which is bleeding badly, though thankfully it seems to have missed any arteries. He also seems to have a broken wrist, but he should heal.

TK quickly wraps his leg, then gets Carlos and Judd to help move him onto the spine board. It feels like, for once, the call has gone as smoothly as possible, and TK allows himself a breath of relief as they prep to get the guy outside to the ambulance.

Naturally, that’s when everything goes to hell.

The machine closest to them lets out a threatening groan and shudders before there’s a loud roar and it explodes. On instinct, TK folds himself over the patient as shrapnel rains down on them, and he sees Carlos doing the same in his periphery.

The downpour seems to last forever, but eventually it slows and comes to a stop. TK cautiously lifts his head, his heart pounding, and sags in relief as it seems that the worst is over.

They need to get out of here, now.

He stands, a brief stab of pain running through his back—probably because of his awkward position over the patient—and turns to Carlos, reaching to offer him a hand up.

Only to see Carlos’s face tight with agony, and then the cause—a jagged piece of shrapnel running right through his hand.

“Carlos,” TK breathes, horrified. Carlos looks up at him, his breathing carefully measured and his eyes wide, and TK drops back to his knees, reaching out for him. “It’s okay, I’ve got you, don’t worry.”

Carlos swallows and nods, his eyes squeezing tight. TK’s heart rate skyrockets, and he’s barely able to keep his cool as he signals to the others to get their first patient out of the warehouse.

“Cap, the team are bringing him out, but we have a problem.”

“Talk to me, Strand, what’s going on?”

“It—It’s Carlos.” TK breathes out shakily and takes a moment to steady himself before continuing, “It’s not serious, but some of the machinery broke apart and some shrapnel impaled his hand. I’ve got to stabilise the shard before we come out to you.”

“Alright, but hurry. I don’t want you guys in there for longer than necessary.”

“Copy.”

Stabilising the shrapnel with rolls of gauze and wrapping Carlos’s hand should be a matter of course—it’s an easy process that TK could probably do in his sleep. But this is Carlos, so his damn hands won’t stop shaking and he almost fumbles and drops his supplies.

He manages though, and soon he’s helping Carlos up, instructing him to hold his injured hand above his heart. Carlos sends him a wobbly smile, which ends up turning out to be more of a grimace, but it’s a comfort nonetheless. Things could have gone so much worse today; TK could have even lost him, and he would have never been able to—

But that’s not important. Carlos is okay, or he will be, and they still have plenty of time to figure out whatever this is between them.

Everything will be okay.

TK’s back and side twinge again as they make their way out, but he brushes it off, too focused on getting Carlos to the hospital as fast as possible. Tommy shakes her head as they make their way over, her eyebrows raised despite the concern clearly in her expression.

“Never a peaceful moment with you, Strand, is it?” she asks dryly, hissing as she inspects Carlos’s wound.

“In my defence, Cap,” he says, more at ease now that they’re safe, “it’s not me who’s injured this time.”

Tommy hums, then directs Carlos into the back of the rig, jumping in after him. “Get back here, TK. Nancy’s driving.”

She has a teasing look in her eyes that instantly makes TK suspicious, but he moves to comply, shrugging off his turnout coat as he does. The movement hurts, which is weird, but he thinks nothing of it.

At least, until Tommy’s eyes go wide and she stands from her seat, holding her hands out towards him. “TK, do not move,” she instructs, her eyes firmly fixed on his right side.

TK frowns, then follows her gaze down, and— Oh.

His grey undershirt is stained with blood, and it’s difficult to miss the large piece of metal sticking out of his side. He has no idea how he missed it, but now that he knows, the pain slams into him full force, causing him to stagger.

“Oh,” he gasps, eloquently.

Then, his legs buckle and the world goes black.

*

TK wakes up to a steady beeping sound, which only exacerbates his pounding headache. He groans, scrunching his face up, before slowly peeling his eyes open, almost slamming them shut again after getting an eyeful of obnoxiously bright fluorescents.

“You’re awake,” a voice says, sounding surprised, then the lights suddenly dim, the room lit by the gentle glow of a lamp. TK sighs in relief and shifts to look at his saviour.

It’s Carlos.

“You… You’re here,” TK states, confused. His gaze drifts down Carlos’s body and lands on the white bandages around his hand, the memories of the warehouse suddenly hitting him all at once. “Shit, you— How are you?”

Carlos shakes his head and comes to sit in the chair by TK’s bed. “I can’t believe you’re the one asking me that.”

“I’m a paramedic, it’s my job.”

“Not when you’re the one in the hospital bed,” Carlos counters, sighing. “If you must know, I’m fine. They gave me some pretty good drugs, so…” He shrugs, and TK can’t help but laugh, which proves to be a very bad idea.

His side lights up, an unnecessary reminder that TK is very much not on the good drugs, and he moans softly, slowly settling back in the bed. “I hate you,” he mumbles, eyes closed.

“You love me,” Carlos says, and TK’s heart seizes in his chest.

The silence after his words is deafening, so TK forces himself to crack his eyes open enough to look at him. Carlos is frozen in his chair, biting his lip hard, and he looks like he either wants to bolt or be swallowed by the earth.

TK thinks he should probably be feeling the same. They’ve been dancing around this issue for weeks now, and he’d thought he had it under control. That he could last that little bit longer until his one year was up; that he could ignore these feelings that have been steadily growing since he first laid eyes on Carlos.

It was a hopeless endeavour; he recognises that now. TK remembers the fear he felt when Carlos was injured back at the warehouse, the desperation for him to be better, and now with his own injury…

He could have lost this chance before he ever got it, and TK isn’t about to let it slip through his fingers now. He reaches out and takes Carlos’s good hand, startling him into meeting TK’s eyes.

“Yeah,” TK whispers, just loud enough for Carlos to hear him. “I think I do.”

The smile Carlos gives him lights up the room, and he doesn’t waste any time in leaning down to kiss TK. And it’s… It’s everything TK had hoped and imagined it would be and more. It’s soft and sweet and gentle and perfect, and he never wants it to end.

But end it does, though Carlos doesn’t go far. TK smiles at him, squeezing his hand with all the strength he can muster.

“That’s a yes, by the way,” he says.

Carlos frowns. “What?”

TK’s smile widens and he flicks his eyebrows at Carlos. “To dinner. Or were you not asking me out after all?”

Carlos huffs a laugh, and the look in his eyes when they lock back onto TK’s melts his heart and makes his entire chest ache. “Does Friday work for you?”

He nods, tugging Carlos down for another kiss. “It’s a date.”

[margarethelstone]

Why the Scrapyard

This story is dedicated to @wilderwestqueen and @astridthevalkyrie because those two trigger my worst instincts, no matter what time of day or night it is. This fic never would have happened if it weren’t for them, so you know whom to thank (or not).

fanfiction.net

Hiccup inhaled deeply, too tired to focus on anything other than the simple activity of breathing.

Goodness gracious, he felt like he could collapse any moment.

“Why are we doing this?” he asked rhetorically, resting his hands on his knees and bowing his head, hoping the dizziness would go away before he lost his balance; he really needed a rest.

“I’ve been asking you this ever since we started working here,” Snotlout decided to answer from his chair, where he was sitting lazily, drinking his soda, and yet grimacing as if he had been the most miserable man in the entire world. “In fact, I’ve been asking you this ever since you first thought of working here. But of course, you never listened.”

Hiccup straightened up, and shook his head in disbelief. “You’ve never said it was a bad idea, either.”

“I’ve never said it was a good one.”

“You make it sound like I dragged you here by force and made you start this job with me.” He approached his cousin in a brisk step, and not bothering to ask for permission, he took the can out of his hands, and took a long sip. “Besides, we really need the money.”

“You need the money,” Snotlout retorted, yanking the soda can back. “I mean, sure, I could use some cash, but let’s face it, none of us would be here if it weren't for your stupid studies.”

Hiccup rolled his eyes. “Again, you didn't have to come here with me; I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah, I bet you can.”

Hiccup didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the wide field on the other side of the window. He didn’t have to look at Snotlout to know that he was glaring at his prosthetic, as if trying to prove his point; he had got used to it long ago.

“Come on, admit it. You hate working here just as much as I do.”

The taller man sighed and finally, he flopped on the chair, leaning back and relaxing to the point when his body was almost completely limp. That resulted in him nearly slipping down on the floor, but truth be told, he wouldn’t even mind.

He covered his face with his hands.

Why are we doing this? He wondered for the thousandth time that day, knowing that the excuses he’d just presented to Snotlout were less than satisfactory. Of course they needed money, but heck, there were so many other ways to earn it. Why not give extra lessons to some of the many kids in the neighbourhood? Why not find a job in a small, ordinary store? Why not work in a magazine, a pet shop, a zoo.

Why the scrapyard?

“It was so terribly awful,” he said out loud after a moment, massaging his temples with his fingers. “First, the can crusher broke, and of course, I was the one who had to fix i t– screw it that I have never meddled with this kind of machinery. I burned my fingers at least twice, got hit in the head three times, and don’t even get me started on all the cuts I got in the process. Anyway, after that was over, Gobber announced there was a new delivery we needed to take care of, and since it’s raining, it was more painful than ever before. And then, he  decided it was a good time to finally clean up the mess in that old shack he calls his office -” he stopped to yawn widely, “which gave us another thirty minutes of slouching and heaving. Fuck – I hate this job.”

The only answer he received in acknowledgement of his complaint was a laugh Snotlout didn’t even try to suppress. Hiccup glanced sideways at him, unamused.

“You think that’s funny?” he mumbled in an offended voice.

“It sure is,” Snotlout cackled. “Mostly because it’s probably the first time ever that we’ve been sitting here together, and you are the one whining.”

“That’s probably because unlike you, I spent the morning doing my job. Where have you been anyway?”

Snotlout shrugged. “And where should I be? Walking among all this junk in such a rain? Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

“Isn’t it what you’re paid for?”

“I, my dear Hiccup, am hired here as a driver. I don’t need to do your dirty work.”

“Gobber doesn’t hire drivers. You’re in general labour like each and every of us – our licenses are just an additional perk.”

Before Snotlout had found the right words, the door opened with a squeak, and in came Gobber, grinning and cheering, causing both men two raise their brows in surprise. Their employer – if that was what they could call him – was soaking wet, just like Hiccup had been just a half an hour ago, but he didn’t seem to notice.

He slapped his hand against his lap, and somehow managing to smile even more widely, he cried out: “Ah, there ya are!” and not wasting another second, he made his way towards them.

The two friends exchanged their casual, sceptic looks, and shifted their gazes back to Gobber.

“I come with good news, lads. Well, good for Hiccup, at least,” the old man explained, patting his godson on the back; Hiccup almost fell over under the stroke. “We’ve got a new worker starting today, and I want you to show her around, with all the explaining and things. That’s all you have to do for today, so make sure you make that tour useful, alright?”

Hiccup frowned, but nodded in agreement before standing up from his chair and waiting for the further instructions. Snotlout however, had a much longer comment to pronounce.

“Hold on a second -” he chimed in, also jumping to his feet, miraculously avoiding spilling his drink all around. “Did you say she? You hired a girl here?”

“Aye. A very smart and strong girl,” Gobber answered teasingly. “I don’t know what brought her here, but I’m ready to bet she’ll beat you both when it comes to productiveness. But you know Astrid Hofferson, don’t you?”

Both of his interlocutors froze for a second.

“No way,” Snotlout bared his teeth in a wide grin, and chuckled again. “Astrid’s gonna work here now? The Astrid, for whom Hiccup has been pining since we were all fifteen, but never had a guts to talk to? Come on, he’ll never pull this off. He’s even blushing now!”

“Shut up, Snotlout,” Hiccup mumbled, fighting the urge to touch his cheeks with his fingers and check if they really were as hot as he feared. To absolutely nobody’s surprise, Snotlout ignored his demand completely.

“Oh yes, he is! Well, Gobber, that may not be such a great idea to make him a guide after all. I don’t think Hiccup can even talk when Astrid Hofferson is around. But hey, I can sub him just fine!”

“No you can’t,” Gobber waved his prosthetic at him, and then pointed it at the other man. “Hiccup knows this place better than I do, and I want Astrid to learn as much as possible. He is exactly the specialist I need. Come on, boy, you can handle this, can’t you?”

“Yeah,” Hiccup’s voice wavered, which obviously caused his short companion to smirk at him even more; he cleared his throat and more firmly, he stated, “Of course I can. Where is she?”

“In my office. Come – and you Snotlout… I want to see you there in fifteen minutes. Not a second sooner.”

Snotlout saluted carelessly, and sat down again. He followed his companions with his gaze, nodding absent-mindedly, still inwardly laughing at the memory of Hiccup’s terrified expression.

“Hiccup Haddock -” he mused to himself, “some scrap metal expert you are.”

Somehow, even in her big, unfitting, ugly working uniform, Astrid Hofferson still managed to look absolutely gorgeous.

Hiccup swallowed. He was in so much trouble.

Get it together, he chanted in his thoughts, holding tightly to what was left of his usual faith in his skills as an employee. He knew this place – every path between the buildings, every machine either working or broken, every little secret a scrapyard could have. Now all he had to do was to convey some of this knowledge to Astrid – or at least the part of it which she would find useful.

It couldn’t be too bad.

“Hiccup!” she cried out in greeting, her smile broadening significantly at the sight of him.

She remembers me.

Of course she remembered him, they had known each other for over six years now, and that was excluding the little interactions they had had before high school. They had never really been friends, but they were never enemies, either, and if his memory was serving him well, there had been times when they had exchanged more that the casual “hellos” and “byes”.

Still, they had never made it beyond being colleagues; neitherof them had been particularly surprised or heartbroken when they’d realised that the beginning of the university also meant the end of their acquaintance.

Well, maybe he had been. A very little.

He approached her quickly, praying that his stupid heart would stop pounding in his chest, making him completely unable to focus on anything else than this fast and furious train of thoughts. He cleared his throat, and plastered on his best professional smile.

“Good day to you, Astrid,” he said simply, determined to pay no mind to Gobber and his wiggling eyebrows, immediately deciding that the best he could do was take Astrid away and do the sightseeing on his own terms. “Welcome to the Meridian of Misery, where we make dreams of scrap come true.”

Astrid’s grin widened even more, making Hiccup’s heart skip a beat. Again.

“It can’t be that bad, can it?” she asked with an amused look.

“Oh yes, it can,” he admitted decidedly, and crossed his arms on his chest.

“Really?”

“Really. Come and see it for yourself?”

He waved his hand at the exit in an inviting gesture, deaf to the sounds of suppressed laugh that were coming from his employer’s spot. Astrid didn’t lag behind, and soon they were outside, both equally relieved to get rid of Gobber’s charming presence, even if each of them had their own reasons for it. Hiccup quickly resolved not to let his usual anxiety kick in, and focused on showing the girl around, pretending to believe she was just another greenhorn who happened to need his more experienced self.

To his astonishment, Astrid proved to be more interested about the little details than he had initially imagined. He had been sure he’d have to hold back from telling her everything he knew – the scrap metal nerd he was – however, it soon turned out that she was the one asking questions, as if determined to learn everything she could  in the few hours they had.

She surely was something else.

“Can I ask you a question?” he inquired after answering six queries in a row; Astrid shot him a quick glance and nodded. “Why work here?”

She shrugged.

“No, seriously,” Hiccup insisted. “You have always been the top student, in all of the subjects… and from what I’ve heard, it didn’t really change after high school. You could easily get any job you’d like, but instead, you chose to work with this junk. Why?”

Astrid looked up at him, and shrugged again. “There really isn’t much reasoning behind it. Being a good student, the best student, requires lots and lots of intellectual work, and after nine months of pushing myself with the studying, I just wanted to have a job that would not need me to think much about what I’m doing. I’ve never minded physical work, and this place is just as good as any other. Plus, Gobber’s in charge, so I don’t have to worry about my boss surprising me with something unexpected.”

Hiccup smiled at her. “Everything Gobber does is unexpected.”

“True,” she chuckled. “But at least I know what sort of unexpected it is.”

Hiccup opened his mouth to answer, when his phone buzzed, announcing a call from Edward “Fishlegs” Ingerman, his co-worker and best friend. He apologised quickly before answering, and pressed the device against his ear.

“Hey, Fish, what’s up?”

“Hiccup, you’re late!”

Not exactly the thing he’d been expecting to hear.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, glancing sideways at Astrid, only to find her focused on one of the machineshe’d described to her a moment earlier. “Late for what?”

“We were supposed to get another batch of junk to Johann, remember?”

“Another one? Hasn’t he bought half of the stock already?”

“He has. Look, I don’t know what he needs it all for, but the point is, we’ve got an unhappy client over there, and as harmless as Johann is in general, I don’t feel like listening to his ridiculous monologues any more. Also, how is it possible you missed the course?”

“I didn’t miss it,” Hiccup rubbed his tired eyes with his fingers. “Snotlout was supposed to take over today, I’m kinda busy being a scrapyard guide again.”

“You mean, someone’s joining the team? Who is it?”

“Funny thing. It’s Astrid.”

Fishlegs gasped in shock, but Hiccup was sure what sort of expression appeared on his friend’s face in the following moment.

“Fishlegs, don’t,” he bid him, picturing the silly grin that was no doubt spreading across the other man’s face. “It’s just work.”

“Sure it is.”

Hiccup sighed heavily, earning a curious look from the blonde girl standing nearby, and shook his head helplessly.

“I still need you to make that delivery, though.”

“But Snotlout -”

“Snotlout walked into a wall again, and now he’s waiting to have his head stitched. I can’t leave the office, besides, I don’t even have the driving license. Just… Bring Astrid with you for the ride? She’ll get to see you in action.”

“Exactly what I needed her to see,” the brunet muttered. “Fine, we’ll be there soon. Just call Johann and tell him that, alright?”

“You got this.”

Hiccup sighed again, and ended the call, however, he kept his gaze fixed on the screen, wondering how Astrid would react to the offer he was about to make. There was only one way to find out.

He looked up at her and grinned lopsidedly.

“So -” he asked. “wanna deliver some scrap metal?”

[poisoning-of-the-party-blog]

A FIVE YEAR LETTER - A RESPONSE TO MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE’S BREAK-UP

I woke up this morning still dreaming, or not fully aware of myself just yet. The sun poked through the windows, touching my face, dragging me from a dream world I wasn’t ready to leave. That tends to be my motive every morning. The dreams are better than my reality. I hope that someday, whether it’s tomorrow or 5 years from now, my reality is much better than my dreams. I’m willing to go the distance. I’m sure I’ll make it. Of course, my slumber was broken by the sound of chaos. Naturally, I panicked. Of course, I did. Loud noises tend to scare me. Or, should I say, loud noises that I didn’t plan nor expect scare me. The sound of dogs barking and my mother screaming. That scares me. The sound of a drum pounding, led by my movements. That doesn’t scare me. But the chaos of the morning ripped me from my half-sleep and caused me to get tangled in my blankets. Take Lucky out, feed the outside cat, do a list of unnecessary chores that my mother simply cannot do herself, or refuses to do herself. I don’t hold it against her. Two jobs, three jobs. Simply too much. But I would definitely prefer it if she used a calmer tone and was a kinder woman. Screaming obscenities at your children aren’t the way to go. I lean on the back door, staring into the outside world. Things looked to be about the same - a beautiful, but cold, day. Yesterday was the first day of spring and as a result, it snowed quite a bit. I hadn’t realized how much it was until I was left taking out the trash to the curb. Tomorrow is trash day. But my thoughts weren’t focusing on tomorrow. They were focusing on today. Today is March 22nd, 2018. 5 years ago today, My Chemical Romance had ended. It didn’t seem that long ago, but yet, it seems so far away. Was 2013 really five years ago? Have five years already passed? I can’t believe. My brain simply cannot wrap around it. I spend quite a lot of time on social media today. My time is spent mostly on Discord and Tumblr. I never thought those would be my chosen social media spots. I always saw myself as a Twitter or an Instagram person. But, alas, it seems lately my choice in social media has changed. I’m careful with it. Too much of it messes with my head. But I definitely enjoy it, I will admit. I find myself getting ready for work. Throwing on new boxers, questioning between ratty old jeans or a new pair of jeans. Straightening my hair in what seems like the first time in months. I treat myself today. I feel as if I deserve it. The walk to work is a quiet one. It gives me time to ponder. Most of the time, I find myself filling myself with sound. Some sort of sound. Somedays, it’s Green Day. Somedays, it’s Nirvana. Somedays, Blink-182. But today? Today is a day of silence. Maybe it’s because my phone’s headphone jack isn’t working anymore. Maybe it’s because I know I don’t need the sound. The walk to work is surprisingly peaceful. Why wouldn’t it be? That’s the perk of small-town life. It’s peaceful, for the most part. Here and there, we do have our little bumps and messes. I won’t lie, I live for those days. I love the excitement. I always love the hustle and bustle. Maybe, someday, I’ll move to a city where the hustle and bustle is every day. But my heart will always have a special spot for small-town life. Small town life can be a blessing and a curse. You don’t meet a lot of people and people tend to all be the same. If you don’t fit in, you’re cast out. But that doesn’t mean it’s impossible to make friends and connections. I have plenty. Which is a perk? Everyone knows everyone or is related to someone. I’m not a native, so the latter doesn’t apply to me. But still, I feel the lull. I can tell that’s a diesel truck driving by, just by the sound of the motor. This is my home, despite how out of place I may feel some days. It’s hard to find a place, but I found my place. 5 years ago, I found my place. I was young and frail. I was broken and alone. I was isolated and afraid. It’s not surprising. March 19th marked the 6 year anniversary of my father leaving. It’s still a sore pain. Sometimes, the wound is fresh. Sometimes, the wound is a scar. But it’s always there. Always throbbing. It’s one of those pains in which all you can do is put the headphones in and crank it up. When my depression set in, that’s when the isolation began. I became an iceberg. I burned my sketchbooks like every bridge to my island. I smashed the keys on my keyboard just as I smashed the key to every lock to my heart. I shut down. I cut off. I became violent and irrational. I became a ticking time bomb, ready to blow. As I type this, my chest feels tight. I feel numb. The tears well up. I am no longer a 17-year-old man, hardened by battles. I am a 12-year-old girl with arms sliced open with a bloody knife and bruises around her neck from another broken noose. I am no longer me. I am her again, blackish in colour again. With every bomb, there comes a point where it needs to explode. And when I exploded, it was ugly. It was days with a psychiatrist, in a doctor’s office instead of school, suicide watch, revoking and isolation. I was a failure. I was a mess. I was a runaway dragged home. With the healing process came latching. I needed someone to hold onto. Someone to lock myself on to. I clung to an old friend who had been there for so long. I feared to lose her. Kiya was the one who introduced me to this band. They were called My Chemical Romance. It was a sound I had never heard before. Scratch that, it was similar to what I had heard, Green Day and Shinedown. But it was different. The vocalist’s voice, he sounded familiar. But that was a memory I would realise down the road when the red-haired man on Yo Gabba Gabba! that I pointed to at age 10 saying I wanted to be like turned out to be none other than the man that saved my pathetic and worthless life. This was a new feeling. This was a feeling of salvation. It gave me a new-found confidence and new-found identity. Slowly and steadily, the healing process truly began, now with a soundtrack. It was okay to not be okay. It was okay to learn to be okay. I arrive at work to start my shift. I clock in, already tired before the chaos has begun. But this is a good chaos. This is running around, on my feet, taking orders, laughing with co-workers, getting messy. This was blaring music on the stereo, mixing in with the smell of freshly baked pizza, flour on my pants and in my hair. It was smiling at customers and living life. 5 years ago, I wouldn’t have dreamed of being here. That’s the thing, about time. Time changes. Everything changes with time. You grow older. You grow stronger. This will be my third summer here, marking the end of my second year here and the beginning of my third year here at Ison’s Family Pizza. I started about two months after I turned 15. I love it. I never thought my first job would be at a pizza place, a family restaurant when I can’t even spell “restaurant” without auto-correct. I also never would have thought I’d live to see my 17 birthday. But yet, in just a few days, I’ll be on a date on my 17th birthday with my beautiful girlfriend, Kiya. I would never have thought that I would be driving around town in a trashed ‘97 Buick, blaring The Used on some Bluetooth speaker connected to my cell phone, because my headphone jack doesn’t work and neither does the tape player in my car. I never thought I’d pick up music and art again. But here we are. After I returned from my depression-fueled hiatus on life, I learned a lot about myself. My name is Ryder. I’m 1/16 Native American. That’s why my brown eyes are the way they are and why I tan so well and never burn, despite being a pale ginger. I love to play piano and sing. I learnt to sing from years of music lessons, but I learnt to SING from Gerard Way. You can tell, by the way, I say my “R”’s and when you compare to how I sang before I quit. Though I’ll admit, I have a soft spot for the drums. I’m not the best, but I love it. I also love to draw. I’m not the best at that either, but I’m learning and growing. That’s the thing. Learning and growing. It comes with time. Everything comes with time. Just like recovery. My first piece on the piano, after returning from my hiatus, was “Welcome To The Black Parade”. I still can’t play it quite right. I’m still learning. But I’m still learning to be okay. I’m not okay at the moment. And that’s okay. It’s okay to be not okay. I learned that from a very special band. A band that became the soundtrack to my life. There was a time where I needed headphones. I needed to kick the headphones up loud until the world was silent and I was lost in the bass. Now, I can put the music on the speaker and make it simply a backtrack to my life. And now, I tune my own guitar and pluck out my own melodies, something that no one has heard before or thought of before. It’s been 5 years. Things have changed over the last five years. Thank you, My Chemical Romance. You’ve given me a great idea.

[matsoukun]

SugarBaby!Rhys Drabble

for my lovely little brother @madebynerdsfornerds (happy belated bday, reed!) - "Yvette! Goddamn it, help me! Stop it! Look at me! What the hell do I wear?" Rhys was yelling a this point, ready to rip his hair out at the lack of attention he was receiving from his friends in a time of need, unfortunately for Rhys, his plea's were falling on deaf ears. "I need to look cute, but like, sexy. You know what I mean? Please help, please." Rhys' voice is full of frustration and exasperation as he begs Yvette to get on with it and stop raiding his goddamn pantry for a 'light snack' and fucking help him get ready for Jack, it was Jacks birthday, and Rhys wanted to dress up (or dress down, rather) for him. "So you mean, like a sugar baby? Let me take a look at your wardrobe-" Yvette teases as she saunters her way away from the kitchen, through the foyer and into Rhys' and Jack's outrageously large bedroom with a pre-made tomato sandwich in hand, Vaughn timidly following suit, still slightly afraid that Jack had booby-trapped the place. "Jesus Christ, Rhys. This is not a wardrobe, this is literally bigger than my apartment, Rhys- fucking hell, why the hell did he get you a wardrobe this big? What the fuck, I actually feel oppressed." Rhys hears the sandwich flop onto the ground and groans externally, knowing that Yvette has already made a mess even though she's only been in the room for 0.2 seconds. "Perks of having a sugar daddy, I guess." He winks jokingly after giving Yvette an annoyed look, feigning any real anger toward his friend. "Not the point anyway, Jacks going to be home any minute and I need to be looking fine as hell. And you guys-" Rhys gestures between the two of them "Can not be here." Vaughn clears his throat as Rhys finishes his sentence, signalling that he had finally found something worth wearing for Rhys from where he had been silently rummaging for the past minute. "Bro, you should totally wear these, like- I'm not gay, but if I saw a dude wearing these I would tap the fuck outta that." He shifts awkwardly before going in for his ultra hetero slogan. "Not in a gay way, though." There it is. Rhys grabs the garment from Vaughn's hands, inspecting the black lacy material between his fingers. It's lingerie, extremely fancy lingerie in fact, the kind that only higher ups, Handsome Jack, for example, could afford. It was a set of dark opaque pantyhose that ended mid-thigh, the hem being thinly woven lace attached to a set of straps on each leg that led up to a sleek pair of matching black high-waisted panties. A sly smile danced over Rhys' face, he enjoyed looking at the lingerie, and knew that Jack would enjoy looking at him in the lingerie even more. "Huh, I like the tethers. Nice, yeah, guess I'll put these on." Rhys shrugs nonchalantly, trying to hide his embarrassingly growing excitement (and slight arousal) from his friends. Seconds later Vaughn is covering his ears and Rhys is jumping back in surprise at the sound of Yvette's high pitched squealing. "Oh. My. God. Rhys! You're wearing this!" Rhys stares at the accessory, sneering at Yvette for bursting his eardrums. "Why? Isn't that a choker- oh, that's a pretty huge bow on it, wait, is that a pun? As in like, I'm his present and he gets to unwrap me?" Rhys takes the lacy choker from her hands, a thick black bow being the centrepiece with detailed lacy embroidery travelling the length of it. "Hell to the yes it is, Rhysie." Rhys face palms, chuckling a little at Yvette's idea, as if Rhys is some kind of endowed object. The pair stop their chatting to hear Vaughn dry heave in the corner, disgusted in the two of them. Talking about inherently sexual things, more specifically sexual things to do with his best bro, seemed to cause Vaughn to do that. "Ugh, I'm kinkshaming." - Rhys is standing in the kitchen, adjusting the lingerie and awkwardly tightening the choker when he hears the familiar click and slide of the double doors being opened by none other than Jack. "Hey pumpkin, you home?" Shit. Rhys freezes and stands up straight immediately, suddenly regretting his fashion choices. What if Jack didn't get it? Or he laughed at him? Rhys' mind begins to fill with embarrassing, life-ruining scenarios that have absolutely zero chance of happening. Rhys clears his throat hurriedly when he realises he hasn't replied to his boyfriend. "I'm in the kitchen!" Rhys coughs, trying (and failing, miserably) to strike a sexy pose against the side of the bench, stopping when he begins to slip on the hard surface due to the sleekness of his garments. He instead opts to stand in the centre of the kitchen, pretending to be occupied by a stain on the bench. He picks at the hard, marble, expensive surface of the bench, his face turning pink as his insides burn. He hears Jacks footsteps padding toward Rhys' location, he looks up frantically when he sees Jack enter the kitchen, the idiot is too occupied by his damn ECHO and doesn't notice Rhys. "You won't believe what happened today!The ugly R&D worker I was telling you about? I airlocked him today and- oh. This is a nice surprise." Jack drops his phone in surprise, sure he'd seen Rhys in lingerie before, but he'd never looked this... Damn good, and all for him. "I know, right?" Rhys chuckles and looks away, flattered at how Jack is looking him up and down, savouring his uncommon look and taking him in. "You look... Delicious, to be honest." Jack slinks toward Rhys, slipping his arms around the younger mans waist, quickly squeezing his butt cheekily. "Just for your special day, finally 60!Happy birthday, Handsome." Rhys giggles in response to Jacks unimpressed face. "Hey! Shut up, I'm old but I'm not that old!" Rhys giggles and leans into Jack, his hands gently placed on either side of Jacks jaw, smiling goofily. "Make me." Rhys challenges Jack, moving their lighthearted joking to something much more serious and inviting. Jack slides his hand down to the hem of Rhys' panties, lightly brushing over the pristine silk and lace that Rhys wished Jack would rip off to take care of his increasingly uncomfortable, heated... Situation. "Oh? Like this?" Jack asks rhetorically, walking Rhys backwards so his lower back is harshly pressed against the bench. "Or like this?" He uses his other hand to slide up Rhys' naked blue inked torso and chest to grip Rhys' neck with just enough force to make Rhys weak at the knees, Jacks thumb pressed tightly to Rhys' jugular. Jack bites his lower lip as he moves his free hand to slip underneath the front of Rhys' panties, lightly stroking Rhys' growing erection. "Oh, pumpkin, already so hard for me? Look at you, such a mess." Rhys can only muster a strangled moan at this, his face covered in that ongoing pink flush Jack loves to humiliate Rhys about. "Rhysie, when I talk to you, you have to reply. You have to have manners." Jack tightens his grip on Rhys' neck, smiling devilishly. Rhys has completely given into submission by now, his face a mixture of pent up pleasure and pain, just what Jack wanted to see. "Mm, Y-yes." He whispers, his voice mixed in with a muffled moan. "Yes what?" Jack demands, raising an eyebrow expectantly, his grip tightening even more, his thumb pressed flush to Rhys' jugular, just how he liked it. "Yes daddy."

[crowstielean]

Dealing with Crowley - Part 6

As I am currently working on DwC Part 7, I realised that I never uploaded Part 6 here on tumblr... so enjoy! 

Pairing: Crowley/reader

Characters: Reader, Crowley

Warnings: none

Part 1  Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

"So you will be my teacher?" you frown at him. "You?" Crowley smirks. "Don't be so bratty or I need to give you a detention."

The wink that follows his words doesn't make them any better or makes the warm feeling in lower stomach disappear. So instead of answering you lay back into the soft pillows that decorate his office. Minutes of silence pass by and Crowley just smiles to you. His suit shows first signs of your nearly amorous activities, if you can even call them so. He was right, this is a torture but judging by a glimpse to his pants, it isn't only torture to you. Catching you staring at him, he sits down behind his desk, denying you the look on him just like you do it with your legs crossed. Goddamn tease.

"So…" he starts in his deep voice and you swear that is even deeper than usual. " I think we should start with your training as soon as possible, so that you can actual be useful for me."

Somehow this sentence hurt you a bit and so you fake a little pout, looking all innocent.

"I don't know what you mean… I thought you enjoy to just look at me being all pretty in that dress", speaking of it you play with the hem on your thighs, showing you a bit more of your knee and the skin above it. "Do you not like me being just a pretty girl for you… daddy?"

You try to suppress your smirk when you see his legs twitching a bit at your last word but when he actually has to move them a bit and to cross his legs new, you don't even try to hold it back anymore. The smirk grows and he just smiles back. God it is incredible how one word can change an atmosphere that quickly. "Daddy enjoys it a lot, that's why he gave you this dress but we need to talk about your education now. Even when you already have some skills in making people feel uncomfortable, I can still help you to improve them." He takes a piece of paper from his desk and writes something with the pen he just used to give you bruises on your leg.

"Unfortunately I have some issues in hell that I also need to take care of. You aren't my only project here. So I will need you to spend some time with a few less important demon creatures. I know that this is way under your level. But I wasn't born as the king either."

"No. You sold your soul for three more inches and that made you a demon. Not quite impressive."

"Only because you didn't see them yet, kitten:" He gives you a wink before he takes his smart phone out of his pocket and dials a number.

"Your king is speaking", he starts the call and you feel like you cannot roll your eyes even more without that it starts to hurt. Crowley doesn't react to it, he is too busy with talking in his phone.

"I hope that you are hurrying up because I hate waiting… yes that's what I thought." He nearly yells into the phone and you couldn't help yourself to feel sorry for the demon he was talking to you, as stupid as it might be. Also it is turning you on. Great.

He glimpses to the door before his eyes lock with yours again. Now you really hope for that poor demon to appear soon. The expression in Crowley's face gives away how mad he is and he doesn't just end the call, he furiously throws the phone on his desk and it must be witchcraft that it is still in one piece.

"So," he gives you a light smile, whereby he still clenches his fist. We were talking about…" but before he can finish his sentence, the door opens slowly, interrupting Crowley as he stands there with his mouth wide open.

"I am so-sorry sir.. there wa-wa s a problem" the demon stutters nervously, closing the door behind him." And this problem was more important than a call from your king?", Crowley frowns sarcastically, making the blonde demon freeze to his position. "Of course, not but my king.." Crowley moves his hand just enough to signalise him to shut up. You can't hold back a smile.

"Silence", he says surprisingly calm and the demon finally dares to take a breath, he seems to be afraid of Crowley but in a different way than you are. In a non-sexual way.

"I assume you already heard about our new co-worker here in hell?" he asks the demon, while he doesn't look at him but at you.

"Yes sir", the demon still has a shaking voice and that you smile to him doesn't seem to help. "Everyone in hell heard about her, sir. There are rumors already, that…" but as if he is reminding who he is talking to, he suddenly goes all silent, blushing deep red. "Not that I would care about the rumors, sir. Of course not."

"No, of course not;" Crowley mocks him, coming closer to the shivering demon. Only inches away from the demon he stops, grabbing the ugly red tie the demon is wearing and starts to fix it. "Now you better start telling me about these rumors…" Crowley whispers, just loud enough for you to hear every single word of the following threat, " or hell won't stay that cosy for you."

"Of… of course sir," he stutters, "the other demons… they are talking…" Crowley impatiently moves his hand to signalize the demon to keep talking, "they say that she is distracting you from work," the demon nods in your direction and you slowly raise from the comfortable couch, also coming closer until you are standing right next to Crowley. "What are they saying?", you ask curiously, crossing your arms in front of your chest.

"Apparently some other on earth heard from someone else that the Winchesters are planning something. " He looks nervously back and forth between you and Crowley, taking a step back. "They say if you wouldn't be so distracted, you would have noticed…" He blushes again, his cheeks in a very deep shade of red.

"Interesting…", Crowley takes his hand away from the demons tie and the demon takes a deep breath. "You can leave now" and the demon more or less runs out of the room, closing the door loud behind him.

"What do you think of this, kitten?" Crowley asks you suddenly, still standing extremely close to you. "I am not sure", you admit, shrugging . Damn. You really should not let him get close to the Winchesters. You ain't sold your soul for these idiots just so that they could ruin their lives again. Crowley sighs.

"I guess we should pay Squirrel and Moose a visit…" Crowley already makes a move to go back to his desk but you hold him back by the sleeve of his dark jacket., "Wait… I thought you want to teach me something?" You smile innocently, pulling him close to you again. His big hand moves to your face and he holds your cheek almost in utter tenderness. It feels so warm and welcome that you nearly give up and lean into his touch.

"I can teach you the most important things later, first we have to get rid of these bloody Winchesters…" He sighs again. "Afterwards will find the time to teach you everything you can imagine and maybe even more…" He leans forward a bit, his scruff close to the soft skin under your lower lip. His breath is like dancing on your cold face, the words make you feel warm. "I think," he starts and the words deep and evil and god, they are smoothing your soul like velvet, " that you have a lot to learn. I will be your teacher. Maybe we should see this visit in the Winchesters hotel room as the first step, the first exercise on your long way to become an useful member of hell." Crowley's lips touch yours for not more than a second, ghosting over your red lips.

 "If you are a good girl, I might even reward you when we are back from them… " The hand that isn't holding your face in a for him perfectly kissable position, goes down to your hip and suddenly grabs you tight. You let out a little huff sound because of the unexpected roughness. His smile grows. "but if you are a bad girl…" his mouth goes down to your throat, placing a dangerously and surprisingly soft kiss on the region of your throat where your carotid has to be. His lips stay at this spot as if he would enjoy being that close to a vulnerable spot. You take a breath, careful not to move even a bit so that your skin would be closer to his teeth. Crowley has to be a mind reader because your breathing finally makes him close his chapped lips around this sweet spot. Hickeys shouldn't hurt as much as they do when he is giving them to you, the reason might be that his teeth are in your flesh as well. It is hurting and you curl your hand to a fist but god knows how much you enjoy it.

"But if you are a bad girl…" he starts his sentence again because of course he knows that you forgot about his words and yet just remember them because of him repeating them, "I will give you more pain than pleasure, do you understand me kitten? You will listen to every word I say to you and you will follow every order I give to you. If I find you lying to me or doing something… naughty, I will need to punish you for that, Darling." Suddenly he grabs your butt tight with the hand that was laying on your hip. "You are mine now… Never forget that. Now let us go and visit those bloody Winchesters…” He gives you a little pinch in your butt and you nearly jump, surprised by this sudden action. “We can continue this later…”

[annamariemirfin]

Trip to Dawson City- my first couchsurfing experience

I had organised to stay that night with a couchsurfing host rather than spending another night in the school gym. I was a little nervous about what this experience would be like. I worried that the social interaction would feel forced, or awkward but went into it anyway, armed with a pack of semi-firm tofu and a selection of vegetables to cook dinner with like a good, thoughtful, grain intolerant house guest. Andre, my host had instructed me to meet him halfway to his cabin at the end of a walking trail. I saw my host waiting for me shortly after rounding the corner of the street. Although I felt a little awkward around him at first, I soon found that Andre had a relaxing, calming aura about him that was enhanced by the dreamy, almost surreal northern sunlight that shone so intensely over the landscape from high overhead in the sky.

Andre’s cabin was a little more rustic than I had been anticipating. It consisted of one room only and had no running water or sink, which I wasn’t sure I was particularly enthusiastic about, but on the plus side, it smelt beautifully of incense and was decorated with art prints, meditation books and crystals. Andre showed me around the area before dinner. There was the old cemetery that was just down the lane from Andre’s cabin. It fascinated him, and he wondered what the stories of the people were that had been buried there. We also walked along to Crocus Bloom, a lookout point that was a particularly productive spot for the new springtime crocuses.

After going back to the cabin however, a dilemma soon arose. I didn’t particularly notice this at first. I was busy cooking dinner on a dual mini stove/oven which was balanced on top of the fridge which was crammed between a couch and the woodstove. Andre’s attention was focussed on the woodstove chimney. He kept prodding it with things, and there were a lot of rattling, shuffling sounds coming from above. “This is so annoying, the squirrel just won’t climb out.” he was saying, or something to that effect. I wasn’t paying much attention and absent mindedly agreed that it was frustrating. “I just don’t know what to do. This isn’t how I was expecting to spend my night.” Andre continued to poke at the squirrel. Then he lit the fire. We sat down for dinner. I took a few bites of lemon peppery tofu and crunchy grilled eggplant. “I feel bad for the squirrel.” Andre commented. The sounds of urgent squabbling and shuffling continued above our heads. It was at that point that the reality of the situation began to sink in. “Wait, but... you lit the fire...the squirrel will die.” The ugly realisation dawned on me. “I don’t know what else I can do.” Andre said. I took a few more bites of my dinner as I contemplated what was happening. Suddenly my meal didn’t taste quite as appetising. There was a squirrel roasting to death above my head. I thought about that. Was it really okay? As Andre said there wasn’t much we could really do was there? I wrestled with my conscience and motivation slightly. I imagined telling Marie, Eva and Menna the next morning that I had sat and eaten lemon pepper tofu whilst a squirrel burnt slowly to death above my head in the chimney. They would think I was a monster. They would never allow this sort of thing to happen. My slow brain continued to try and make sense of the unusual and increasingly, disturbing situation that was unfolding before me. I continued to form my moral stance aloud through more experimental, probing  statements, “it’s just so horrible though…”, “it doesn’t seem right…” “I don’t think I feel comfortable sleeping beneath a dead squirrel..” The weight of each statement sank in until I understood that despite the inconvenience and trouble that my conclusion entailed- it would be wrong to let the squirrel die. It would be wrong to eat dinner and continue about my evening instead of saving a poor innocent creature. There must have been something we could do. For a moment I almost used initiative. Instead I reached for my phone and typed “how to save squirrel from chimney.” into google. Apparently I needed a ladder and a rope. A very lengthy discussion then ensued between myself and Andre. I suggested getting a rope and a ladder. He said he didn’t have one. I suggested we could borrow one. He suggested that he didn’t want to do that. And so it went on. Each time I begrudgingly tried to propose a logical solution to each factor that inhibited action. I could climb the ladder, I could dangle the rope, I could go to the neighbours to get these things, none of which I really wanted to do, but absolutely, completely knew that I should. The problem was that my couchsurfing host had another commitment that evening. He and his girlfriend were celebrating their year anniversary that day and so the original plan was that he was actually just going to leave me in the cabin that evening and go to his girlfriend’s place. He really just wanted to leave to go and do that - not deal with a squirrel that was stuck in the chimney. He didn’t want it to damage the chimney either, and apparently did not care greatly about whether it lived or died. It was a pest. The ladder-possessing neighbours were also throwing a party which it would apparently be rude to interrupt. My host was clearly very torn and tortured by the situation. He texted a few people. He rang the neighbours (his landlord), walked out of the cabin to think and ring his girlfriend, walked back inside again. I tried to be as helpful and logical about this all as I could. “Well the sooner we resolve the problem, the sooner you can leave right?” I tentatively and hopefully, politely, proposed. I liked to think that I was being calm and mature but I really had no idea how I would have handled the situation either. I presumed I would have unraveled a little if I was the one bearing the responsibility in this situation myself. Andre disappeared again and I focussed on the one task I knew I could accomplish. I made a makeshift sink and started to awkwardly wash the dishes. The uncomfortable and foreign realisation dawned on me that I just didn’t know what to do. Usually in this situation I would be accompanied by someone who knew what to do. But right now I wasn’t. Google might have been able to suggest using a ladder and a rope to rescue a squirrel from a chimney, but it couldn’t tell me what to do when my couchsurfing host didn’t want to co-operate to get the squirrel out of the chimney and it couldn’t reassure me that it was okay to spend a horrible, restless night beneath restless, persistent squabbling sounds while a trapped creature struggled. Andre returned. “You know, if me staying here is a complicating factor I could just not stay here tonight.” I suggested. It seemed that opting out of the problem was the best solution. “I can probably still just go and stay at the school gym with Marie and the children again.” Andre agreed that was probably for the best. His landlord had said that he would lend him a gun tomorrow so that he could shoot the squirrel. The landlord didn’t want to squirrels there either and definitely wanted all of the squirrels to get that message. By now it was about 10pm at night. I contacted Marie and found that I could indeed come and stay in the gym that night if I needed to. Andre left to go to his girlfriend’s place, leaving me the option of staying in the cabin still if I wished. Neither option seemed like it was going to support a very good night’s sleep, but I thought I’d opt for the gym. I left and walked back down the hill trying not to feel too despondent. The sun was still out, and it was fairly light outside. This is the surreal experience of a northern spring (and summer) time. I considered that perhaps I could stay at a backpacker’s that evening, or a cheap motel. It was a bugger having to pay money for accommodation, but I felt as though honestly, I might value a good night’s sleep at around $40 that evening. I really didn’t want to feel this drained and exhausted, or even sick again tomorrow. I passed a hotel, The Triple J Hotel. Why not just give it a try? I thought. I pushed open the heavy glass door and walked up to the reception desk. The carpet was spongy and comfortable underfoot, the interior, though not particularly luxurious was very pleasant- too pleasant. I knew even before asking that this place was way outside of my price range. Indeed it was. It was $150 per night. I asked the receptionist if she could recommend anywhere that was around $50 or less per night. A man standing beside me, who had been filling out a form during this time chipped in. He said his friend was a hostel owner and that he’d give him a ring for me. He introduced himself as Randy. He was the head chef at the hotel and he’d just finished his shift for the night. I imagine he would have been either in his late 20s or early 30s. He had a genuine smile, pleasant bright blue eyes and a friendly, gentle demeanor. I explained briefly the silly situation I was in. “I’m just being fussy really,” I said. “I can just go and sleep at the gym if I need to.” He rang his friend and there was no answer. Randy offered that I could just come and sleep on the couch at his place if I wanted. He said he had a large flat that he shared with lots of other hotel / hospitality workers and that they’d done that kind of thing before for people who needed it, it was no big deal. “Well, if you’re offering…” I said. I could tell that this was a very kind, generous and trustworthy person I was talking to. “You know, I could just go and stay at my girfriend’s place tonight if that would make you feel more comfortable. You could have my room,” Randy suggested, to my disbelief. I insisted that he didn’t have to do that, but apparently that arrangement actually suited him better. He wanted to. And so we drove to Randy’s flat, he introduced me to his flatmate Katie, and showed me his room - “this is your place for the night.” he said “I hope you’re not allergic to cats...I have two...they’ll just kind of roam around at night, if they’re being annoying you can put their food outside the door... I have tonnes of dvds if you want to watch a movie...and help yourself to tea and coffee in the kitchen...have a shower if you want...yeah, just make yourself at home. I hope you have a comfortable stay!” I was completely astounded by the kindness that I was being shown by this complete stranger. “I’m just paying it forward.” Randy had said. I couldn’t believe my luck. I was being gifted an act of pure goodness from a gentle, kind person. When I woke up the next morning, in my very unusual sleeping accommodations, I felt almost completely at peace. Many of the feelings that I had felt the day before dissolved away completely. I listened to the gentle sounds of the morning outside and knew that I could lie in as long as I wanted and needed to. I let myself doze away a couple of hours without a care. I thought about the future, traveling to the places that Andre and I spoke of, and I felt reassured that wherever I went and whatever I did, I could do it, it would be okay. I thought about my failed couchsurfing experience with Andre and I felt satisfied in the way that it had been resolved for myself personally (though not for the squirrel, this really didn’t have a very satisfactory resolution). I thought of the day ahead and I felt eager and certain about what I was going to do and the pace I would do it at. I relished my aloneness in the moment of peace and quiet. Most of all, I felt totally and utterly spoiled. My surroundings weren’t flash, really this was just a standard sort of flat, but I was spoiled by good fortune and the luxury of kindness. I truly felt like one lucky, special girl indeed. I enjoyed the moment and allowed the feelings of confidence, peace and gratefulness to blossom inside me. I still can’t really believe my luck. I think that must have been one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me. 

And that was my first ‘couchsurfing’ experience. 

[davidastbury]

2920 c

Shorts ... #27

He hadn’t been kind to his mother; he hadn’t treated he as he should have done. He never allowed her to get close - rejected her kindnesses - discarded her gifts - didn’t thank her - never showed any gratitude. When they talked he never said the things he should have said, but often said a lot of things he should not have said.

All this was long ago and one way or another he has found ways to be at peace with it. Of course he never asked for her to be his slave - he never wanted her eagerness to do everything for him. And so, here he is today, feeling that same wordless irritation as his second wife over sweetens his tea.

A lost skill .... written by Janet Bailey

There has been a lot of posts about the mills in Bury. When I was hairdressing in the early '60's we used to have lots of women from the cotton mills come for their hair done. You wouldn't dare say anything about them when they were under the hair dryer because they could lip read anything you said. They used to talk to each other while they were under the hairdyers by what they called 'me mawing' just moving there lips. 😃

(Mee-mawing was a form of speech with exaggerated movements to allow lip reading employed by workers in weaving sheds in Lancashire in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. The noise in a weaving shed rendered hearing impossible so workers communicated by mee-mawing which was a cross between mime and lip reading. To have a private conversation when there were other weavers present, the speaker would cup their hand over their mouth to obscure vision. This was very necessary as a mee-mawer would be able to communicate over distances of tens of yards. It was said that each mill had its own dialect.

"Stop mee-mawing at me!" means "Stop pulling faces at me or talking behind my back”).

On the Train

She has a disfigurement but I am not going to say anything about it. She’s about twelve or so and life must be difficult. Let’s hope that the doctors will do something - perhaps they have to wait until she reaches a certain age - perhaps they will do something soon.

I can see how she wears her hair in a thick curtain and how she raises one of her shoulders.

Oh God, I hope things are okay at school. I hope she has a loving home - I hope someone is telling her, repeatedly, that she is beautiful.

Night Out

A group of friends - glad to see each other - glad to get drunk together. The men ruddy and randy; the women collapsing with laughter - their voices strident and confident; expressive and exhilaratingly filthy.

So much to be afraid of! So many uncertainties - but none tonight - simply the joy of being a forty-year-old child.

Winter Nights 1965

Cheap rented room in Whalley Range. She’d tried to fix up curtains - tried to make it nice. No TV and burglars had stolen her radio. It was a large room; a leftover from a different world; you could see it in the high ceilings, the double dado rails, the missing interior shutters; the grandeur of the chalk coloured fireplace with its florid carved scrolls, now reduced to housing a sad little electric fire.

These were nights of twilight and shadows; when it seemed as cold inside as out. When the yellow streetlights leaked through the draughty windows and the twigs of the giant chestnut tree scraped across the glass.

And they huddled together. They couldn’t have been happier. Nights of cider and cigarettes - of sour metallic kisses - nights when he couldn’t get enough of her - nights when he was insatiable for her quick mind, her breath, her hair, her voice, her face, warmth, smell.

And the world could not offer anything better to him - he never forgot those nights in the cheap rented room in Whalley Range.

Madame

During our last stay in this hotel we got to know one of the long-term residents. It was at the time of her eightieth birthday and the staff made a big fuss for her. I was fascinated by her raucous smoker’s voice and how she called everyone ‘dhaaa-ling’ - and the way she somehow combined being warm and friendly with downright aggressiveness.

I wrote a little piece about her which I posted on here at the time - just a simple incident - hopefully giving a truthful picture...

In the restaurant: Madame looks up sharply.

Madame: ‘Who has taken away my water?’

Waiter: ‘I took it, I thought you had finished.’

Madame: ‘Well, I haven’t!’

Waiter: ‘I will get you some more.’

Madame: ‘That’s no use. I had dissolved my pills in that glass!’

Waiter: ‘I am sorry.’

Madame: ‘It will be your fault if I get pregnant.’

So we were delighted to see her again - and to learn that she hasn’t slowed down.

We sat at the next table and Pat was able to overhear this little gem.

Madame: ‘Waiter!’

Waiter: ‘Yes Madame?’

Madame: (poking dish with a fork) ‘Is this really butter?’

Waiter: ‘Yes it is, Madame.’

Madame: ‘I do not believe you. I don’t think this is butter at all - it’s more like candle-wax: if I dig into it I will probably find a wick!’

The school bag.

The hotel allocates a space where departing guests can leave items for which they have no further use. Four or five shelves brimming with things like deluxe swimming goggles, piles of books and magazines, inflatable alligators, straw hats, sun creams, flip flops etc. Anyone can take what they want.

I saw a girls school bag; lots of pockets, pink shoulder straps - a bit knocked about - ‘well used’ is the phrase. The interior was scuffed and marked by felt-tip pens, which the owner had not capped - and traces of stickers, unsuccessfully scratched away by her thumbnail. I held it upside down to shake out the sand and the flap swung open revealing a drawing on the underside - a childish image of a kitten in a bow tie, surrounded by bunches of marijuana leaves. I had to smile.

And then, under the picture of the unfeasibly cute kitten, she had neatly stencilled her name ... Lucie Wider.

I put it back on the shelf.

‘O Master of the Universe,

Bless the life of Lucie Wider!’

R.

We knew each other for a few short weeks - right up to the time she left out little town forever. London was the magnet and I understood her reasons for going - I didn’t question any of it - I let the day come round and carried her bags and cases to the station - and I watched the bus take her away.

That was a long time ago. I heard nothing from her in the first few weeks and months - and then the months became years - in fact, nearly sixty years. And now others will have filled her life and they will see her as she is - but for me it is entirely different - I hold a gleaming fragment - fixed forever at that moment; how she had panicked over a last-minute confusion with her ticket - how she was cheerful and tried not to look at me - how she was heartbreakingly soulful - how she tried to smile and how hard she tried not to cry.

Ian and Lorna...1966

‘Come round anytime’ - said Ian - so I did. It was a midweek afternoon and I cannot remember why I was free, but I was. The door wasn’t fastened and I pushed it back and went in. Silence. No sign of Ian - no sign of anyone. And then I saw the shoes - his and hers; Ian’s and Lorna’s.

I stood staring at them and thinking that in a medieval painting it would have meant that the two saints had gone to heaven. I then realised that they were upstairs in the bedroom, so in a way, they had gone to heaven.

A window was open and the curtains were flapping. There was a school nearby, and it must have been playtime; voices shrieking and screaming with happiness.

I left - pulling the door shut behind me.

The Room ... 1964

She kept the rent-book on a table near the door, so that the landlord didn’t have a need to come into the room. It was a large room with three south-facing windows and the green carpet had three bands of faded colour, bleached by the summer sunshine. The furniture obviously hadn’t been planned; a few items bought with economy in mind - a sofa with cat scratches, a cheap drop-leaf table, a wardrobe with a door that kept swinging open, a strong, ugly bed. The only expensive item was her Spanish guitar, propped in the corner furthest from the door, next to a pile of sheet music.

She was very tidy; he wasn’t - but she didn’t mind. When alone she put all his ‘stuff’ away and did what she could to make the room attractive; but it was always unpleasant - except for the nights when they were together - the nights when, in the gloom, she glowed like a silver goddess and their damp foreheads touched and he saw both her eyes melt together and become a single eye, like a beautiful cyclops and she and the room slid into a perfection where everything was sour, salty, brackish.

Roman Baths

My dislike of the ancient Romans - and pretty much everything about them - has caused my aversion to ‘health spas’. I am sure that the Roman enthusiasm for personal hygiene and public bathing played a significant part in their decadence - and as such I avoid the modern equivalent of these facilities.

I have no wish to linger in agitated tepid water nor to loiter, like Nero, in steam rooms, with a towel over one shoulder. Nor to be oiled and mauled by persons of either sex. I am repulsed by the fussing and pampering and the weird relaxed regression into childishness. And despite great admiration for Jim Bacchus, I would not enjoy sprawling bare bellied, with a bunch of grapes on my head, a goblet of wine in my hand, surrounded by the nude frolickings of nymphs and Cupids.

Natasha and her brother Nikolai in their droshky, returning home, late at night.

‘You know,’ she suddenly said, ‘I know I’ll never again be as happy and peaceful as I am now.’

‘That’s nonsense, silliness, rubbish,’ said Nikolai, and thought: ‘How lovely my Natasha is! I have no other friend like her and never will. Why is she getting married? We could keep driving around together!’

‘How lovely my Nikolai is!’ thought Natasha.

‘Ah! there’s still light in the drawing room,’ she said, pointing to the windows of the house, shining beautifully in the wet, velvet darkness of the night.

( Tolstoy: War And Peace ... vol.2 pt.7 )

The Couple

I had a feeling that things would not go well for them. Everything looked fine; they were young and radiated happiness and optimism - he, doing well at his firm; she, post-grad in Russian Lit and offered a permanent position - you couldn’t find a nicer couple. But I had this feeling and it coloured the way I viewed them.

Impossible to put into words, of course. It wasn’t anything that I could explain - utterly intangible - to the point that I suspected myself of projecting some inner malice - some grudging resentment - perhaps some unconscious jealousy.

Only later, when hearing from friends, did a faint perception begin to dawn. There had been too much of ‘something’ about them. I didn’t know what that something was - I still don’t know what it was ... but that ‘too much’, which had illuminated their happiness and optimism, became the ‘too much’ which broke them.