#and my bus didn’t arrive for another twenty minutes.

[sharkieboi]

so I got some skirts. I haven’t worn skirts/dresses in a very long time, basically since I came out and started transitioning. but I love this artist and one skirt in particular I’ve been pining after was on the “Discontinued” chopping block so I caved and bought it.

and it arrived and I tried it on tonight and holy shit I didn’t realize how much I missed the appeal of skirts, like on levels fashion and aesthetic and sensory and comfort and !!!

I’m literally so happy about it and so reluctant to take it off that i’m sitting on the couch watching TV still in the full Outfit I tried on, it’s so great

[boyfhee]

MARRIED UNDER TWENTY-FIVE / sjy

SYNOPSIS : a look into yours and jake’s life as you meet, fall in love, get married, and lose each other— all under twenty-five. ( 5.3k )

or, eight months after your death, jake finds the courage to open your letter.

GENRE : heavy angst, bittersweet

WARNINGS : death, grief and grieving, heavy drinking, smoking, implications of substance abuse, one mention of intrusive thoughts, my attempt at cinematic parallels but in writing so i hope it's not confusing, switches between past and present. byf : written in italics are the contents of the letter

NOTE : was in the zone while writing this like the way i teared up?? boyfhee angst returns happy reading, everyone. ALSO big thanks to @flwrshee ri my bae for beta-reading this and reminding me to work on this from time to time lmfao. ib : richard feynman's letter to his dead wife (need someone who loves me the way he loves her)

buried in jake’s drawer is the letter he found four months ago. actually, it has been sitting there for over a year, under the pile of other papers and envelopes, tucked in the lowest drawer of the shelf, one that is rarely ever opened. you had put it there for him to find it— hoped that he would find it because you couldn’t bring yourself to give it to him yourself. jake had stumbled across it four months after you left him forever. four months after walking and stumbling, after four months of staring blankly at his ceiling, the letter is the closest he can get to you. 

he keeps it with him, in his bag, sometimes tucked in his coat during winters, as a bookmark for the books he reads that take him to back you, even if you only exist as a figment of his imagination. he keeps it on the bed-side table before he goes to sleep, it’s there in front of him on evenings he drinks for hours on empty. the letter stays unopened— he couldn’t bring himself to open it. his fingers brush against the pale paper and it feels like a sword to his heart. opening that letter feels like tearing you apart, and four months is what it takes jake to sit by the kitchen counter with the letter once again; with pain in his eyes and a scissors by the side. 

eight months after you’re gone, jake finds the strength to read it. 

‘i think the first time i fell for you wasn’t at the bookstore,’

your handwriting feels like a warm hug after a long day. his fingers tighten around the loose sheet of paper, a faint crease forming along the edges. a single tear rolls down his cheeks.

‘it was that day at the bus stop. it was raining, i was running towards the bus stop, covering my head with my bag. fortunately enough, the bus arrived a minute after, and you happily lent me your jacket before getting off at your stop,’ 

and jake remembers it clearly. grey skies and merciless rain, he was already late for his evening classes and the weather didn’t seem to help. he already missed a bus before making it to the bus stop near his apartment and managing to catch another, his umbrella decided to malfunction in the worst way on seemingly the worst day. his perfectly styled hair was ruined thanks to running in rain, across and under the sheds he could find. jake was so sure, it was the worst day in the nineteen years of his life, until the bus arrived at the stop, and his eyes handed on you as you stood at the bus stand, annoyed at the weather. 

jake could hear one of his friends calling his name from a distance as soon as he gets down from the bus, but all he did was look at you and offer you his jacket— the most far-from-normal and astonishing thing he had ever done— before you aboard the bus, shooting him a soft smile from the windows as it drove away.

‘i still don’t know why you did that,’ 

reading further, jake realises that he doesn’t know why he did that either. the two of you weren’t even heading in the same direction. he was rushing to the university campus while you wanted to catch the bus to your way home. the chances that he would get his jacket back were low, almost zero. there are days when he sits by the window and thinks about all the stuff you did together, about everything he did that led him to you. the jacket, perhaps it was supposed to end up with you, maybe it was the only way nineteen year old jake could’ve talked to you and get one step closer to your world after admiring you from the sidelines for months. 

‘the bookstore, i think it’s a place where i realised that i’m in love with you. a place where i made all my decisions about you, where i shared my firsts and lasts with you— as promised. if you’re wondering why i’m writing a letter in this date and era,’ 

his eyes are a little blurry, there’s a picture of you in the said book store in his mind. it’s like a nineties short film— a grainy image, slightly blurred, the voices are muffled, but jake feels every emotion down to the very core of his heart. 

on some days, he ends up in front of the same bookstore. there are evenings he sets out on a journey with no destination, wherever the roads take him. his eyes are up towards the sky, usually towards the venus shining like a gemstone, he likes to think it’s you, that you ended up being the favourite star in the sky. on evenings like those, jake sits outside the very bookstore his and your story originates from and lets his mind play the picture, tracing over the image of you in his mind. sometimes, he goes inside and sits at the same place you both used to sit, he’d pick the same books you used to read, occasionally coming across tiny doodles you left on some pages even though it violated the rules.  

‘it’s because i’m afraid i haven’t loved you enough,’ 

the words hit him like a train travelling at hundreds of kilometres per hour. jake pauses, putting aside his glass of alcohol, letting the words and tears you spilled on the paper diffuse through the tips of his fingers, wanting them to flow like they’re the blood in his veins. he reads it all over again, a single tear rolls down his cheek, a lifeless sigh escapes his mouth.  

‘because you were there on nights i stayed in the library to study for exams. you were there, at my door, whenever i needed you to drive me to classes. you were there outside my class, waiting for me, during lunch when i needed someone to hear my complaints, at the bus stop on days it got late because you didn’t like the idea of me going home all alone at night,’

because you were there on noons that jake had trouble remembering reactions of carboxylic acids and amines. you were there to bring him snacks or lunch whenever he got a little too immersed in concepts of quantum mechanics to even remember about his meals. you were there when he called you to complain about his professor, who kept adding his name to every single project, all because jake was an excellent student. when you stayed with him throughout the evening and beyond at the campus, accompanying you to your apartment late at night was the least he could do to thank you. 

‘you were there on the night it was raining and the power went out. i still remember how you looked— drenched and worried with your phone’s flashlight turned on, standing at my doorstep. you said that the crime rates were high and that it’s better for me to stay at your place that night. you were there for me day, noon and night, and all i’m doing in the end is saying goodbye.’ 

it was his first instinct— maybe even beyond first, if it exists, because the power went out in your whole neighbourhood, and jake was already calling you while running down the streets, towards your apartment, with nothing but his flashlight to guide him through the complete blackout that night. when you asked him why he was at your place, he spent ten minutes looking for an appropriate reason. perhaps, it was because he wanted to see you, or because he was worried to death, maybe acts of service are how you both look after each other— doing favours and being the helping hand. jake didn’t know, he still doesn’t know, as he sits by his kitchen counter, letting the small sips of alcohol intoxicate his systems gradually, killing him slowly, in a way that hurts so right. asking you to spend the night at his place was the toughest and the bravest decision jake had made in his entire life. 

‘agreeing to do that summer festival dance with you is still the best decision i’ve ever made, my proudest moment, and letting you step into my life was the second best. nothing compares to when you joined the music club and changed my life forever.’ 

the summer festival dance— jake remembers it, the memory is as clear as a crystal in his head, ingrained in his mind, every single second playing at the back of his mind even when he’s half wasted, as if he’s reliving the moment. no one had enough time to dedicate themselves to a mere summer festival dance, but jake saw you looking at the flyers on the notice board just three minutes after he had told jay that dancing was not his thing, and he knew he needed to get that dance with you. 

getting partnered up with you was a pure coincidence, but everything that led to it wasn’t. the deliberate bumping in the hallways and the extra cups of coffee that jake bought every morning for a friend that never seemed to attend classes, everything led to him and you standing in the practice room in front of him, helping him come up with dance steps for audition, which finally led to his selection on the team. 

jake attempts to gulp down all the contents of his glass before realising that it’s empty. another sigh falls off his lips as he reaches out for the bottle kept across the counter, pouring him yet another glass for the evening, another day spent drinking while drowning in the thoughts of you, another line of intoxication, another stray tear rolling down his face, another memory creeps inside his brain— this first dance rehearsal. 

he could’ve sworn, his heart stopped beating for good ten seconds when the instructor told him that he needed to lift you up for a dynamic step during the intro. it was simple— you in front of him, his hands on your waist, he would lift you up— but the hands on the waist, his hands on your waist, jake felt like he was about to pass out. the second time his heart skipped a beat was when you grabbed his hands and put it on your waist because he was hesitating beyond belief, and that was the beginning of everything. 

and the hand stayed there for as long as jake could remember. his hand resided on your waist whether you both were crossing the road, or sitting on a park bench while you showed him pictures of layla you look the evening before, or while taking mirror selfies, or in all those moments that he spent slow dancing across the living room with you. it was as if your waist had been the home his hands were searching for and now that you’re gone, they feel empty. in the silence suffocating him, sitting on a chair with his head hung low, the floor looks so pretty. there's a faint reflection of him on the tiles, then his eyes land on his hands.

maybe it's the timing that has been making him feel this way. perhaps, it's the location, the empty rooms with threatening silence and the empty streets, the empty hallway, the empty hours, the lack of something and abundance of everything— it's making him go insane. it’s the empty pockets of the seconds that pass by, an undisturbed wave of silence that is disturbed everytime he sighs or gets his glass on the granite kitchen countertop, pouring himself another glass of cancer.

he sniffs, it could be from cold or tears. jake can’t point to the reasons anymore. his gaze settles on your letter that lies on his lap, a few of his tears soak through the paper. he puts his glass aside once to pick up the letter and pads on your words with his fingertips, not wanting them to get smudged by his tears. occasionally, he tries to convince himself that this is a dream. that you're here, somewhere, perhaps at work or at the nursery, maybe out shopping with a friend or at your parent's house because you've been missing them lately. jake imagines himself waiting for you at the station or the bus stand or the airport, smiling like a fool because he hasn't seen you in days and finally he can have you close to him, his lips on yours, your hand in his,

but now, his hands feel emptier. 

there's a yearning for something he doesn’t know. his apartment feels emptier, the stillness amongst your stuff that lies around even after eight months of your death is paralysing. his arms stretch across the bed at night in hopes of feeling something, anything. he takes another sip from his glass, eyes focusing on your letter once again as he reads further. 

‘you can call me crazy but every second with you felt like living in a whole new world. i started noticing things i didn’t before— seriously, who even smiles while watching wind ruffle through clothes hung up for drying? it was as though i was living a monochromatic life, the same routine, same pattern; then it was you, and everything around me became so beautiful. suddenly, i stopped caring about assignments because i needed to talk to you all night. i didn’t care what i was getting into by skipping prof. hong’s lectures because we got to hang out together. i was knee deep in troubles but god, i was so happy because i had you standing in front of me, and i knew you’d pull me out. i know you’d be on the ninth cloud while reading this, probably even call me stupid but i don’t mind because it’s true; i am madly, stupidly, crazily, insanely in love with you,’ 

jake remembers the day he came to your apartment for the very first time. 

you two weren’t dating, but the line in between had started to blur, fading into something none of you could see but both of you enjoyed. amidst alcohol and the faint odour of cigarettes that encapsulates him, being all the reasons behind his stumbling steps and hazy mind, jake could still see you clearly in the back of his mind— the way you glowed under the mid-morning sun, the warm breeze sweeping away stray strands of your hair out of your face, and your arms raised up above your head to hang the clothes up for drying. he could make out your smile through the silence between you two. no words were shared, but the fluttering glances and quiet smiles said more than any words could ever convey.

and then jake realised— it wasn’t just you feeling this way. 

the presence of something intricately new in your daily routine, although too minute to point out with your fingers, lingered throughout his days and nights after meeting you. suddenly, the boring computer science lessons didn’t seem bad, for you would visit him after the classes. jake, who used to arrive in class exactly on time, started arriving minutes and hours early just to see you, maybe, even strike a conversation. you had mentioned to him your favourite thing about him— the way his hands hesitatingly slide inside his pockets whenever one of your friends mistook him as your boyfriend. it was the way he smiles, the subtle rosy tint on his cheeks, the shy gaze travelling everywhere but to your face because he was too embarrassed to look at you. being mistaken as each other’s lovers was a mistake none of you clarified, and it was only a matter of time before it came true.

when his eyes settled on your panting for hair in a secluded corner of the hallway after running out of professor hong’s classes while he was just about to notice you two was the moment jake fell in love with you.

and jake falls first, he falls hard. 

because there were two tickets to the movie in his pockets with words of asking you out on the tip of his tongue, just waiting to be spoken, and he was too busy being enamoured by your laughter as you leaned against the wall, catching your breath. your laugh is the music to his ears, watching you is better than any movie ever directed, and the feeling of his lips on you just a minute later in the same corner of the hallway is still the best feeling he has ever felt in his entire life. you were like a painter and his life— a canvas; and it was only after you he started seeing colours.

jake could get any girl he wanted but it was only after you, he realised who he needed in his life. 

‘remember the day you proposed to me? i cried all night.’

and jake lets out a dry chuckle as he reads through those words, gripping his glass a little tighter, feeling the carved patterns through the tip of his fingers. his eyes travel to the ring adored on his finger. it’s one thing keeping him close to wherever you are, and his eyes occasionally travel to the pen lying stray across the counter after he wrote something he, himself, doesn’t member. his fingers brush over the words you’ve written, letters that insinuate of you as he weep with love— jake wants to write back to you but he couldn’t, for he doesn’t know your new address.

‘it felt like a fever dream, the thought of marrying you. we met at nineteen, we fell in love at twenty, we got married at twenty-two— all under twenty-five, it was scary. it was like a thrill ride, like a rollercoaster, i had my parents tell me to wait things out. there were people who told me things, words about how i should be sure of who i’m marrying, certain if that person is right for me. it was the world against you and me, and i hate to admit that i understood their stance, but they never knew you like i do. they knew the jake who i fell in love with deeply enough to marry within four years. in their story, it was you and me and our young and immature love, and that’s it.’ 

it’s ironic because jake didn’t sleep all night after you said yes to his proposal. getting married at twenty-two was an adventure, you being the general instigator all, and he would just follow. waiting things out wasn’t even an option when it came to you, he knew what he wanted. you cried even while buying your engagement rings, on the wedding dress trial, the day before the wedding, and jake was there, every single time, holding you close, smiling against your lips as his kisses soothed you down. his heart was overflowing with love, with happiness he couldn’t contain.

being engaged was an eccentric feeling overall.

you weren’t his girlfriend, nor his wife. fiancée would be a better term, but jake called it a phase of transition. the knot was yet to be tied, people tried convincing you two out of it left and right. uncertainty spun in the air instead of saccharine smiles that usually cloud the days during weddings. it was the world against him and you— him, you, and your young immature love, a pair of rings exchanged, a promise made, a promise to stay.

and jake chuckles again, half annoyed, perhaps at fate, perhaps at himself. you promised to stay. another sip of alcohol goes down his throat, it tastes bitter than it used to. your picture in his head gets clearer as his vision starts to lose focus, your laughter echoes through the cracks in his heart. it reflects through every corner of his body, it stays inside with a yearning that makes him ache for you. your memory is now a child that he tries to lose in a grocery store, but also a place he comes to at the end of the day because nothing quite feels like home anymore. 

‘do you remember that conversation we had about secret codes? one that went on about how even inanimate objects could have ways to communicate? that is how i feel about you. it’s untranslatable, i cannot put it in words for others to understand. it’s a language that only me and my heart know.’

it all started on your very first marriage anniversary— heavy rains, skies painted grey, thunders seemed to exhibit their own orchestral opening. inside, the place was warm, his arms. sitting on the couch as you two sipped on hot chocolate, wrapped in blanket and soft giggles and laughter that emerged everytime one of you tried and stole a kiss. jake constantly apologised for not being able to do much for you and you would so exquisitely whisper to him how nothing matters as long as you have him while tracing your lips all over his face. he doesn’t remember when the conversation went from talking about how your kids would look to discussing whether the paintings hung up on the walls on your living room speak as well. no conclusion was drawn and the whole conversation was discarded as just another silly discussion, although jake knew what to make out of it.

the way you laughed when he tickled your sides, or the giggle that danced off your lips when his lips brushed against the tips of your fingers, the rhythm your heart beat when he placed his head on your chest, holding you ever so close, the conversations you two had by just looking into each other’s eyes. jake still can’t put it in words, it’s beyond the understanding of the world. he can blather about you to the stars and beyond and they would still not know you, but jake knows that if you were to come to him with a face he had never seen and a voice ever so unfamiliar, he would still know you. you’re far too well intertwined in his soul, he feels pieces of himself disappearing every time a distant memory of you blurs in his mind.

and perhaps, the stars will go out before he forgets you.

‘i don’t know if i chose the right university to graduate from, if my major was worth the effort, if giving up on caffeine was actually good for my health. there are a lot of things i’m unsure of, but jake, my darling, you, you’re one thing i know i got right. you’re something i’d choose over and over again, over a thousand times over a thousand years in a thousand different worlds. people have their doubts but i don’t, because i know that if i’m ever given a chance, i’d choose to take your jacket again, i’d have that dance with you, i’d fall for you at nineteen and i’d marry you under twenty-five once again.’ 

there’s a sense of uncertainty that always plagued his mind, at all points of his life. even now, when he’s sitting by the counter drinking glasses after glasses, an ashtray just a few inches away with the smoke still emerging like lifeless souls looking for their graves. there’s a voice that is telling him to stop, it sounds like you, or maybe, it’s just the alcohol playing tricks again.

he’s not sure.

nineteen year old jake didn’t know if he wanted you. he had a lot on his plate— expectations from people he knew, a whole life in front of him and he was out in the wild, with no plans or whatsoever. you were like another wind blown past him one august afternoon, your smile just another thing his eyes passed by, yet the first thing to flood his mind at night. it’s the sheer lack of certitude— why did he give you his jacket? why did his mind think of only you when it came to the summer festival dance? why is it that only your eyes seemed like his entire world? jake has been walking with his steps laced with hesitation, a fear of what could go wrong. it didn’t matter when it came to you. nineteen year old jake didn’t know if he wanted you, albeit he knew he didn’t want anyone else to have you.

‘you’re probably wondering why i’m writing this instead of telling you when i had the time, or why i didn’t give this to you sooner. it’s because i want you to read this if you ever feel lost, and i wanted to take my time and choose the right words. i wished for a life where i wouldn’t have to live without you, and if i knew that would end up with heavens changing our fates, i would’ve done anything to save you from this pain.’ 

his eyes are the first to remember. the face that he once cradled in his hands, now just a figment of his memories, an illusion he sees through mirrors and turns around frantically, heart beating out of his chest, hoping you’re still here. sometimes, he sits at the bus stands and formulates your responses to everything happening around. he sighs, brushing his fingers over the wedding ring as he pictures you looking up at him with a smile, as if you’ve never been happier. the way he had felt and the way he feels— the bittersweet ache between having and wanting— your words drown him in that pain over and over again.

loving you, to jake, is like knowing you before he actually got to know you. as if you had always existed in his heart and your presence only completed the puzzle. and in that brief moment between— wrapped in your arms, he would think, how lucky i am— a pause as he snaps back to reality.

how lucky he was.

‘i know this is an impossible bargain, i cannot swap your pain for something else even though i wish i could. i cannot make you forget me so that you can live a better life. it’s a pity, a shame, i’m sorry,’ 

he furrows his brows at your words, the one about living a better life without you, it’s a lie, a hypothesis never to be true. you held him close at times he didn’t feel like himself, when his own skin disgusted him and his own thoughts told him to cut the string, you wiped his tears and accepted his pain like your own— jake sniffles above the silence in the room— how could he live, when the very person who taught him to live left him forever? 

‘so for you, jake, my love, i wish you a lifetime of happiness and health. i want you to read this and realise the impact you had in my life. if you ever feel like we got to spend a very little time together, one that went by in a blink, i want you to know that your presence is something i’d hold in my heart for a thousand lifetimes. i won’t tell you to move on quickly, it’s hard, i know. instead i want you to take your time. go easy on yourself. let me go, one by one, one finger at a time,’

he reads the same words over and over again— let me go. to let you go, oh, how he wishes he could do that, but that’s the consequence of falling in love. jake would go out in the mornings to find a purpose, his ring kept undisturbed on the bathroom counter, and he would return home in the evening, back to silence and sorrow, holding the ring in his hand, fist close to his heart, him on the bed, and the night fills with his sobs.

jake didn’t lose you all at once, but instead, he’s losing you slowly, bit by bit, over and over again. he loses you whenever he absentmindedly calls out your name from across the house, only to be met with cold silence. he walks down the street and loses you the moment he sees a couple walking past him, hands intertwined, realising his hands would forever remain empty. he loses you everytime he thinks of kissing you, holding you, wanting you; every time he sits on the couch and watch the skies pour outside, drinking hot chocolate all alone. he loses you when nights get cold and he has no one to hold, and in the morning when he wakes up to the emptiness across the sheets, he begins to lose you all over again.

it’s hard to let you go, one finger at a time, when everything prompts him to get on his knees in front of the universe and beg for one chance to pull you back in his arms, to hug you for one last time.

just once more.

‘there wasn’t a second spent with you when i wasn’t smiling. you made me the happiest person in this entire world and in return, i wish the same for you. so, go and live the life you’ve wanted to live. do everything you had planned and become the person you want to be. when your friends reach you out, go out with them and drink your heart out. you’re not alone because your love isn’t the first to leave. even worlds apart, i’m with you. i’ll be there next to your favourite umbrella hoping that you remember to take it on rainy days. on nights you can’t sleep, i’ll be there holding your hand and singing to you. one day, you’ll be fifty, and i’ll be there with you. when you turn ninety, i’ll be there and i will still love you the same as i did when we were twenty. and if you fall in love with someone and decide to take the vows again, i’ll be there with you, and i’ll be there hoping for the happily ever after that you deserve.’ 

and unknowingly, you went away making yet another promise to stay, another commitment you couldn’t keep. jake knows his love isn’t the first to leave, it stays there, waiting, weeping, wanting. it stays everywhere you’ve ever been, next to your favourite mug that is still on the shelf, next to his. his love is with your toothbrush in the bathroom, with the picture of you and him on your very first date that is adorned in the photo frame kept in the bedroom. it’s ingrained in all the post-it notes you wrote to him that he has kept safely in a box, in all the matching jewellery you had got for the two of you, in every corner of the house that cries, yearning for you. 

he could be fifty and his love would be still there, in the fading polaroids and letters torn from the corners. at ninety, his love would be still there, waiting for you, his heart aching because he wanted to get old with you by your side. his love will stay there, for a thousand lifetimes, over a thousand years. it turns out, jake is just good at sad things, waiting, holding on, remembering.

‘whatever comes forth, wherever life leads you, know that i am with you,’ 

as for your words— jake scoffs, burying his head in his hands, tears smudging between his palms and cheeks— loving someone else isn’t even an option. 

to him, you, dead, are better than anyone else alive. 

‘until we meet again.’ 

[fartenthusiastwriter]

The Saga of Billy Boy Part 12 - Date Night

As Will and Clay’s new roommate, Frank has weaseled his way into Friday night’s date. Get ready for the foul stench of romance 😈 where you can find all parts of TSOBB

- - - - -

Clay and I waited on the bench at the bus stop, as Frank leaned on the post looking out for the bus. I appreciated that this stop was in a busy area, so I had a chance to get a little fresh air and a break from having my face in Frank’s ass. Only a little, seeing that I was still face level with Bomber and he doesn’t care how many people are around.

PREEERRRRRT

A few people walking by either chuckled or plugged their nose as we were hit with another blast from Bomber. While I enjoyed these gifts, I hoped the bus would be here soon for Clay’s sake.

My wish came true as the bus approached. Clay and I stood up and Frank gestured for us to enter. “After you, Billy Boy,” he added with a wink.

When I climbed on the bus, I noticed Frank whisper something to Clay. Preoccupied, I found a spot on the bus and sat in the middle. The seat was a tight fit, so Frank and Clay each had to lay a leg over me. Fortunately, there was only people behind us, so no one could see how intimately we were sitting.

PRTRRRT

I felt a short but loud fart erupt from Clay. “Damn, Billy Boy!” Frank yelled loudly, plugging his nose, “can’t you hold it in until we’re off the bus?”

“It sure does stink, Willy.” Clay added, projecting for the whole bus to hear. My face grew red as I quickly put together their rouse. I placed my hands over my growing crotch.

BWRWWRBRWRWRWRWR

An even louder, brassy fart trumpeted for a whopping ten seconds. A feat that could only be achieved by Bomber. Clay could only cover his nose, leaning over to stifle laughter and coughing.

“I told you not to eat that burrito!” Frank chastised, ruffling my hair.

The charade continued until we arrived at the movies, receiving ugly looks and even some words from passengers as they left. I took a deep breath of movie theater popcorn as I led the group off the bus.

As we entered the theater, we realized we were the only ones there. As soon as we picked out our seats, Frank looked at me and Clay, “Billy Boy, hand that popcorn to Clay.”

I rolled my eyes, knowing where this was going. I turned to hand the popcorn to Clay; when I turned back, Frank was bent over with Bomber fully exposed. Frank grabbed my head and pulled it in.

BRRRRRRRT

“Bomber just wanted to give you a kiss before the movie. He’ll let you watch the show, but he’ll be sending you messages,” Frank jiggled his cheeks against my face. I gave a last big sniff before removing myself and sitting back down.

We all sat down, and Frank immediately christened his seat with a fart. In the five minutes before the trailers, Frank managed to fart over twenty times. The whole theater reeked of Bomber’s love.

As the trailers started, I realized I had to pee. I handed the popcorn to Clay and walked quickly to the lobby. When I returned, I found Frank in my spot next to Clay. Frank saw me and said “You didn’t think I’d do all that farting in my own chair?”

I started to cross to sit in the open seat next to Clay, but Frank grabbed my arm. “Bomber was warming that seat up for his sweetheart. You wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings.”

I gave in and sat down into Frank’s old spot. I immediately noticed a damp feeling in the cushion from all the farts Bomber unleashed. The smell radiated here more than ever and my boner raged on.

I noticed Frank and Clay whispering and giggling when I went to get some popcorn. As I started to pull away with a handful, Frank grabbed my wrist. He pulled my hand down to his ass and Bomber sprinkled my popcorn with a fart. I ate the popcorn, as the mix of aroma made for an odd experience. Frank farted on every handful of popcorn I got throughout the movie.

As the movie neared its end, I looked over to find Frank and Clay making out. Frank had each of his hands stroking their cocks. Frank slipped an eye open and saw me watching. “You know what you have to do if you want to get off too, Billy Boy.”

Understanding his order, I put my face between his legs while I slipped my cock out of my pants.

BRRRBBRBRBRBT

I sniffed vigorously as I felt Frank’s balls slap against my forehead. Frank continued to jack himself and Clay off, while I took care of myself.

BBRFPTPPRPRPORBRBRT

Another fart blasts my face forcing me to climax. I finish stroking and start to get up, but Frank forces my head back down.

BRRRRT BBRRRRRT BRBRBRBRBRBRBRBRT

Frank and Clay both begin to moan loudly as they cum. Frank covers your hair with his jizz. He begins rubbing it in, dissolving it as if it were hair gel. Frank proceeded to force me to lick up any other cum from myself and Clay.

The bus ride home was empty, so I sat alone as Frank and Clay stood in front of me. Every few seconds, one of them would pull my face in and rip a fart. Mostly Frank.

At home, we headed straight to the bedroom. The farts on the bus had my cock ready for round two. I laid down face up. Frank sat Bomber down onto my face; Clay sat on my stomach with his ass facing my cock. Each ass showered me in farts as I got off for a second time.

Exhausted, Frank and Clay joined me on each side to cuddle as we drifted to sleep.

That I dreamed I was back in the theater with Frank, Clay, Brad, Tony and all kinds of people I’d known in my life. As the screen lit up, I saw myself naked on my knees.

The audience burst out laughing, several people nearby pointing me out. “Tell me what you want Billy Boy” I recognized as Frank coming from off screen.

“I want to sniff your farts, Master Bomber.” I answered in the movie. I covered my face as the audiences laughter soared.

I peaked through my fingers as I saw Bomber come into frame. Makeup had been put on Bomber to make it appear like a woman’s face. The audience erupted as I begin making out with the lips.

BRBRBRBRBBRT

Movie me sniffs and kisses, getting deeper into the crack and covering myself in makeup. I look away from the screen to realize the men around me had stood up and several more were on their way, not a pair of pants in sight.

Recognizing each face, I saw the men of my life surround me. The last thing I remember is the dozens of asses blasting endless farts.

- - - - -

See the beginning of Will’s life collapse on the next part here.

[bigasswritingmagnet]

The Jagerfrät, Part 2: Lunch and Learn

Modern day AU Agatha goes to Mechanicsburg University and discovers another part of her family legacy: The Jägerfrat. After rescuing/being discovered by three of the fraternity members, they buy her lunch, and Dimo gives her an impromptu history lesson.

Chapter 1 | AO3 Link

It was technically Theta Phi Theta Fraternity, but they were known to one and all as the Jägerfrat. It was the oldest fraternity in the country, and probably the most notorious. They were popular on Mechanicsburg University grounds, and absolutely nowhere else. On their own, they were a troublemaking rabble, known for drinking bars dry, picking fights, and tipping poorly.

But when a Heterodyne arrived…

Agatha had heard the stories. They’d burned a bar down. They’d terrorized every university within driving distance with “pranks” that usually resulted in real bodily harm and property damage in the thousands - minimum. They were the reason the Galați Goats no longer had a live animal mascot.

Every Heterodyne who had ever gone to Mechanicsburg University (which was all of them) had been a member.

Except for the last two.

“I mean, I wasn’t there, but we’re big on like, oral history and shit, y’know, so I know how it went down. It was like...everybody can’t like everybody, but the dudes didn’t even want to know us, y’know? We were embarrassing to them.”

Dimo had won the most emotionally charged game of rock-paper scissors Agatha had ever seen, and therefore was the one who got to ride with Agatha and give directions to a place that served ‘the most dope-ass sandwiches you ever ate in your life, no joke’. He sat slouched in the seat with his knees pressed against the dashboard, twirling his baseball cap on his finger. With each revolution, the enamel snarling demon face pinned to the brim caught the sunlight in a brief flash of gold.

“They made everybody tone it way, wayyy down. No more ragers, no more raids, no more anything . And the frat was not happy about it—I heard one guy straight up tried to knife them.”

“ What?”

“Yeah! Got expelled and everything, it was wild. The house heads burned his name off the wall with a fuckin’ blowtorch.”

Agatha knew why Uncle Barry had never told her stories about things he and his brother had done, but...maybe he could have squeezed in a few? Dropped casual hints? Something to prepare her for the inevitable reveal, the day she would have to face her legacy.

“If everyone was so unhappy about it, why did they do it?”

Dimo looked blank.

“Do what?”

“My father and Uncle Barry didn’t even join the fraternity; what authority did they have to tell the Jägers how to run it?”

“They were the Heterodynes,” Dimo said.

“But they weren’t in the fraternity.”

“But they were the Heterodynes,” Dimo said again. Suddenly he grinned and sat up, jamming his hat back on his head. “Turn here! This is it!”

“ This is the place?” Agatha exclaimed. Despite her trepidation, she obeyed the instruction and pulled into the parking lot of what she had assumed was an abandoned shack left over from a horror movie set.

Twenty minutes later, she was sitting on a half-rotten picnic table and staring down, wide eyed, at the perfectly pressed ham and cheese panini she had just tentatively bitten into.

“This is...the best thing I have ever tasted in my life,” she marveled.

“Told you, bro!” Maxim said. Beside him, Oggie managed to shove half a triple-decker club sandwich into his mouth in one bite.

“The guy who runs it used to be in the frat, sorta, so we get free sodas,” Dimo said.

“Also his granddaughter is smokin’ hot and totally into me,” Maxim said, preening.

“She is so not,” Oggie said.

“How the fuck would you know?” Maxim demanded.

“Cause you flirted with her and she hit you with a side of meat.”

“That was an accident, and she gave me her number after,” Maxim said, glaring.

“How can you sorta be in a fraternity?” Agatha asked, taking another bite of her sandwich.

“You hang around the house and help out with the parties, but you don’t do any of the pledging or drink the Jägerdraught.”

Agatha’s brow furrowed.

“Drink the what?”

The three boys glanced at each other, and Agatha sighed.

“I know very little about what my family used to do,” she said. “Outside of rumor and what I got off of the internet, I know almost nothing. Uncle Barry never liked to talk about it. He and my father worked hard to distance themselves from all of it, and he tried to do the same for--to me. You said they were embarrassed about it, I'm starting to think they were ashamed of it."

“Are you?” Dimo asked.

The table went quiet. The three Jägers were staring at her with startlingly solemn expressions. They didn’t know it, but it was a question that Agatha had been considering for a while now. Even not counting the college shenanigans, her family had been responsible for shady business deals, violent corporate take overs, and more tax fraud than you could shake a stick at.

But when she’d visited Mechanicsburg University last spring, she’d found herself drawn to it in a way she couldn’t quite name.

“I still have to go sign in and get my dorm keys,” she said, “but I’d like to see the fraternity house when I’m done.”

Their eyes lit up, and there was as much relief as excitement, but before a word could be said, a shadow fell over the table.

“ Where the hell have you idiots been?”

The girl standing over them was a few years older than Agatha. She had flaxen-blonde hair that was almost white, and furious brown eyes that bored into each young man in turn. Agatha could see the sunburn on her cheeks, despite the large sunhat on her head. Which—Agatha almost couldn’t believe her eyes—had a Jäger symbol pinned to the purple ribbon on the top.

“Jenka!” Maxim cried, winningly. Oggie let out an oof as a shaggy brown head the size of a toddler shoved itself over his shoulder, black eyes fixed on Oggie’s sandwich.

“Ayy, Füst, my man!” Oggie said with delight, and pulled out a slice of chicken for the dog.

“Why are none of you assholes answering your phones, where the fuck is my car, and who the hell is this?”

The three boys grinned broadly.

“This,” Dimo said, and Oggie and Maxim drummed their hands on the table in a drum roll. “Is Agatha. Heterodyne.”

“Tadaaaa!”

[mighty-ant]

Not Superhero Material

ao3

Honker shifted on the mat, staying on the balls of his feet as he circled his opponent. His gloves creaked around the handle of his sword, and through the slats in his helmet he watched the eyes of the taller dog across from him. 

There, a flinch. 

At the same moment his opponent lunged, Honker darted to the side. He turned, planting one foot forward, and let out a battle cry that would have shocked anyone who hadn’t seen him in the dojo before. 

With a practiced thrust, he struck the top of his opponent’s helmet. 

“Yame!” Sensei Enaga barked, raising her hand. “Second point, red. The match goes to Muddlefoot.”

Honker and his opponent stepped back from one another, until they were at opposite ends of the mat. They bowed to each other, and only then did the rest of the class erupt in applause. 

“Whew!” Across from Honker, Dusty pulled off his helmet to reveal his great canine grin, his fur matted with sweat and sticking up in all directions. “You didn’t let up for a second!”

Honker smiled shyly as he took off his own helmet. “Your harai-waza almost got me the second time.”

Dusty scoffed. “Don’t even try that false modesty sh–stuff! I obviously need more practice before I try and take on the reigning champ again.” Despite the challenge, there was no malice in the doberman’s face, just a friendly sort of fierceness. It was such a juxtaposition from his classmates’ treatment that it still gave Honker mental whiplash. 

“You all need more practice,” Sensei Enaga interrupted sourly. “But not today. Training is done, everyone go home.”

The class broke up into laughter, already more than familiar with their teacher’s short, sharp, and to the point nature. With that, order dissolved as kids broke off into groups, gathering their belongings, and heading out the doors. 

Dusty stopped to fistbump Honker before moving off to the side to take off and store his gear. 

Honker moved much more slowly to do the same. Mom was at her book club and Dad was with his bowling league, and the bus he took to get home wouldn’t arrive for twenty minutes. He had time to think. Though, Gos would probably call it brooding . 

He’d just started taking off his gloves when Sensei Enaga ambled over to him. He respectfully hopped back to his feet, but she just waved him back down; he took her leave to keep putting his armor away as she spoke. 

“Not to give you a big head, but you are doing very well, Honker. You’re more than ready to test yourself in a real competition.” 

Sensei Enaga had a way of speaking where everything she said, even her opinion, sounded as if she was stating fact. It didn’t stop the heat from flooding Honker’s cheeks. 

“Th-thank you, Sensei,” he mumbled as he pulled off the padded fabric protecting his throat, neck and shoulders. “But…I don’t know if I am ready for something like that.”

Honker risked a glance. Sensei was so short that only when he knelt were they of a height. He found her pristine, white feathered face screwed up in a frown.

“Why not? Your strike is the fastest I've seen in ten years of training hapless children, and your defense is next to none. I’m lucky if I can land a hit on you.”

He looked away again, undoing the straps of his breastplate. “My…friends don’t think I’m strong enough for stuff like that. All they see when they look at me…all most people see, is this little, helpless geek who can’t take care of himself.” Honker didn’t mean for that to come out as bitterly as it did, but in the darkness behind his closed eyes as he pulled his armor off and over his head, he let the ball of frustration in his stomach roil and churn, just for a moment. 

When Honker reopened his eyes, Sensei Enaga was across the room, standing beside the racks of wooden weapons on the walls. 

“All people saw when they looked at me was a small, weak shima enaga,” she said thoughtfully, taking a katana-sized tachi off the wall and weighing it carefully. Short or not, in her black keikogi and hakama, holding a blade twice her size, she looked like a deadly spirit from one of Mr. McDuck’s stories. “But I trained, I strengthened myself, and I proved them all wrong.” She pointed at him with the end of her bokken.  

“You must show your friends what you are capable of.”

Honker struggled to speak, as usual. “I…maybe. If I ever g-get the chance.”

Sensei Enaga scowled, dissatisfied. “Hmph. Well right now, you’re getting a chance to practice your kata. Up, let’s see how you’ve improved with bokken.”

—

Honker had so little to do in the command center when the team went on patrol that he’d spread out his physics homework across WANDA’s console. 

Gos liked to joke that he was her ‘guy in the chair,’ and sure he was good with computers, but WANDA was a literal supercomputer with top-of-the-line artificial intelligence. There was nothing he could do that WANDA couldn’t do better. As long as access to opposable digits wasn’t required. 

Of course, he’d just started to settle in with Bernoulli's principle when the ‘Something’s Gone Horribly Wrong’ alarm sounded (Gos was also responsible for that name). 

He was so startled he almost fell out of his chair, scattering his notebook with all the loose papers he kept meaning to put into a proper folder. 

“What’s going on?” he yelled over the alarm, pressing one hand over his ear while he stooped to gather his papers with the other. WANDA silenced the racket almost as soon as he raised his voice, making sure his shout sounded extra loud in the ensuing, ringing silence. 

But as the words left his beak, he understood why things had gone horribly wrong. 

The comm channel that the team always left open during patrol was choked with interference, harsh static rendering everyone’s voices nearly unintelligible. The signal was being jammed, and for it to interfere with WANDA’s comm lines, it had to be deliberate. 

Through the interference, the team was shouting, Gos louder than the rest. 

“It—trap!”

“Quiverwing?” Honker cried, his stomach swooping in alarm. 

“FOWL is here! Oh crap—”

“Arrow!” That was Darkwing. “Call—anyone but Gizmoduck—”

The line went dead. 

Honker stood frozen at the console, hands poised uselessly over the keys. Blood rushed through his head, deafening him, and his heart pounded with sickening fervor, as if it was about to leap right up his throat and out his beak. 

Despite his panic, his mind was racing. 

The team was just supposed to be out on a stakeout, breaking up a minor arms deal between local gang leaders. Nothing too dangerous, per Darkwing’s own words. But still enough not to let him join them. 

For FOWL to be there, it meant they had to have been lying in wait. Waiting for Darkwing Duck and his team. 

There was no love lost between Darkwing and the tattered remains of FOWL, especially their new shadowy figurehead, who they strongly suspected to be Taurus Bulba. He’d escaped from prison some months ago with the help of Steelbeak and a few dozen Eggheads, and promptly disappeared (but not before trying to take Gos with him and almost drowning Honker in the ensuing fight). 

The best course of action, the smart course of action, would be to call the ‘We’re Not All Ducks’ Justice Ducks for backup. FOWL was a threat worthy of Darkwing Duck, Gizmoduck, Penumbra. Not three and a half foot tall Herbert “Honker” Muddlefoot with a stutter and deadly nut allergy.

Honker moved his hand over the console, over to the series of switches that would tap him into the Justice Ducks emergency line. But he didn’t press any of them yet. 

He still had the team’s last known location locked on the GPS. If he hurried, took the underwater tunnel and borrowed Dr. Bellum’s experimental winged jetpack she’d loaned to Gos after Darkwing lost one in the bay and Launchpad crashed into various buildings with his….

This was such a bad idea. This was such a potentially disastrous idea. 

Still standing in his frozen tableau, Honker glanced over his shoulder to where he and Gos had dumped their school gear a few hours ago. He’d taken to carrying his kendo armor and uniform with him when he left the house; he didn’t trust Tank not to find and destroy it in some new, creative way. He was extra grateful for his paranoia now.

Honker didn’t have the ill fated Arrow costume anymore, thanks gods for that. Instead, he borrowed one of Darkwing’s masks and slipped on the breastplate of his armor, as well as both kote, adjusting the long, thickly padded fabric gloves to make sure he could still grip his new bokken. It was specially made by Fenton under the guise of it being for Darkwing. 

Yes, he’d lied to Gizmoduck. He tried to think about it too much. 

Strapping on the jetpack and hoping he didn’t explode, Honker glanced over at the screen they all considered to be WANDA’s digital ‘face.’ 

“WANDA, if you don’t hear from me in an hour, please contact Gizmoduck.”

WANDA affected the sound of a sigh. “You’re about to do something needlessly dangerous, aren’t you?”

“Uh…yeah.”

“You superheroes are all the same.”

-

Honker knew that the team meant well, not letting him join on patrol. They weren’t like Tank, or the kids at school who singled him out because he was smaller than them, smarter than them, and apparently hatched with ‘bully me to feel better about yourself’ stamped across his forehead. 

The Mallard-McQuack family had welcomed him wholeheartedly, and it wasn’t their fault that he’d needed rescuing when he met each of them. 

Even though they lived on the same block, he and Gosalyn didn’t meet until the second week of sixth grade, when a pack of eleventh graders tossed his backpack into a tree and stomped on his glasses. Gosalyn raced down the sidewalk screaming her head off like a banshee and chased them all off with her hockey stick. 

A week later, Launchpad met him on a rainy afternoon when his parents forgot to pick him up from school, and Gosalyn was just getting out of detention. He sat in the backseat of their dented minivan, shivering and sneezing, swallowed under Launchpad’s huge jacket. 

About two weeks after that , Mr. Mallard walked into his kitchen one afternoon in full Darkwing Duck getup to find Honker sitting at his table with a black eye and a bloody gash over his eyebrow, courtesy of Tank, who’d bounced a basketball off the back of his head and knocked him face first into the concrete. 

Launchpad had cleaned the cut over the sink and given Honker a napkin to staunch the bleeding while he went to ‘hunt down the real big band-aids.’ Mr. Mallard was actually sporting similar injuries: cuts on his cheek, already bandaged (from the glass of a store window exploding in his face), and singed feathers, plus an impressive bruise blossoming on his temple. 

For an endless, surreal minute, as brilliant sunlight spilled through the window and reflecting off the tile backsplash, they stared at each other in increasingly stunned silence, Honker’s confusion growing as Mr. Mallard’s horrified expression became more and more dire. 

Honker finally dared to ask, “Are you…”

“A cosplayer!” Mr. Mallard blurted too loudly. “That's right, uh, strange kid that’s in my house. I’m way into cosplay! Made this Darkwing costume myself.”

Honker frowned, unsure what to do. He knew better than to call an adult out for lying, but that was a bit much, even for him. 

Launchpad then breezed into the kitchen behind Mr. Mallard, carrying an almost comically oversized first aid kit, with Gosalyn in tow. “C’mon, DW, the kid’s not gonna buy that,” he said, nudging Mr. Mallard as he passed. “Honker here’s a real smart cookie.”

Gosalyn latched onto Mr. Mallard’s arm, laughing at him as he sputtered, “Who –Honker? What’s this kid doing in our kitchen?”

“Daaad,” Gosalyn drawled, long-suffering as she swung back and forth. “Honker, my friend from school? The one I told you was coming over to hang out today?”

Mr. Mallard scowled. “I don’t remember agreeing to that.”

Launchpad had opened up the first aid kit on the kitchen table by then, and he glanced over his shoulder with a breath of laughter. “I’m not surprised, babe. Calendar Cluck clocked you good around the noggin. I told you to get some more rest.” He refocused his attention and reassuring smile on Honker, moving to take the makeshift wound dressing above his eye. “Now, I’m just gonna take a quick look, okay, Honk-man? See what we’re dealing with here.”

Gosalyn let go of Mr. Mallard and crossed the kitchen to sit next to Honker. Under cover of the table, she reached out and silently took his hand. 

Even with Gosalyn’s steadying presence, Honker had to swallow and take a few shaky breaths before he nodded at Launchpad, his mouth gone dry with nervousness. He lowered the napkin, and Launchpad leaned forward to look closely at the cut, not touching, his face scrunched up in its utmost seriousness. 

After another endless handful of seconds, Launchpad’ expression broke into a smile. “Good news! It doesn't look like you’ll need stitches.” He turned back to the first aid kit, pulling out butterfly bandages, gauze, and antibacterial ointment. “I’ll just patch you up, okay? Won’t hurt a bit.”

Honker nodded again, relief nearly making him lightheaded. The last thing he wanted was to convince his parents to take him to the emergency room. “Thank you.”

Launchpad shook his head. “No thanks needed, little man.”

Mr. Mallard stepped into the kitchen proper then, lowering himself into the chair beside Launchpad with the careful movements of someone nursing various aching limbs. “You’re in luck,” he said, the calmest he’d been since he appeared in the doorway. “LP’s the best nurse there is.”

Launchpad scoffed, slanting Mr. Mallard a wry, fond sort of look as he gently nudged him with his shoulder. “Nah, you and Gos are just trouble magnets.”

Before now, Honker had only ever seen photos and video footage of Darkwing Duck in full costume, his face obscured by a mask and the shadowed brim of his hat. Mr. Mallard leaned forward then, barefaced and hatless, but his shoulders were broad beneath the fall of his cape. Without anything to hide it, Honker watched the lingering smile in his eyes melt away into a far steelier expression. 

 “Who did this to you?” he asked, resolute in all the ways high-strung Mr. Mallard wasn’t. This was the superhero talking.  

“Uh, it was my brother, Mr. uh…Darkwing,” Honker stammered.

Mr. Mallard’s eyes widened, the superhero staunchness dropping as quickly as he’d donned it. “I’m not—” he started to backpedal.

Launchpad interrupted with a quick smile over his shoulder. “You can trust him, Drake. Right, Gos?”

“Heck yeah!” Gosalyn said at once, squeezing Honker’s hand that much tighter. “Honk’s the best at keeping secrets.”

Drake fixed her with a look, though the suspicion was tempered by a quirk of a smile. “That so? Any of them have to do with the call I got from your school about a pig in the boys’ bathroom?”

“Uhhhh, no?” Gosalyn replied unconvincingly. 

It took Honker an embarrassing amount of time to stop staring at the way Gosalyn interacted with her father, all comfortable jibes and open affection that was utterly foreign to him. He was lucky if he received a blank stare from his parents when tried to tell them about his day. 

He glanced up at Launchpad instead. The pilot had his tongue sticking out of the corner of his beak as he concentrated, spreading antibacterial ointment over Honker’s cut with a sterile Q-tip. When he turned to pick up the butterfly bandages, Honker mustered his courage enough to whisper, “Is he really…? I mean, is Mr. Mallard actually…?”

Launchpad smiled, with an understanding in his eyes like he’d been in the same place Honker was now. “Welcome to Team Darkwing, Honk-man,” he said with feeling. 

The moment would be further cemented when Gosalyn slapped a bag of frozen peas over his face to, quote, ‘deal with his messed up eye,’ while her fathers yelled over each other for her to be more careful.

That was then. 

But now, months later, after megalomaniacal moles tried to sink St. Canard, evil doppelgangers emerged from a rift in space-time, and Gos recruited him as her sidekick just in time for Taurus Bulba to break out of prison, one would think that they’d trust him as a full fledged member of the team and not just some innocent they had to protect. 

Gos had been on his side at first—even coming up with his sidekick name, which Honker honestly could’ve done without—but Bulba’s return had scared her badly. Where before she’d try wheedling her dad to let Honker join them on patrol and missions, now she agreed with Mr. Mallard and Launchpad when they shut him down.

“But-but you let Gosalyn go with you!” It was utterly unlike Honker to raise a fuss, much less argue with an adult, but the hypocrisy was galling 

As ever, Launchpad tried to play the mediator. “Gos has got training that you don’t. Give it some time. Right now, Honk-man, you’re just not ready.”

Mr. Mallard was more circumspect. “Honker, I appreciate where you’re coming from, but you never should’ve been involved in the first place. It was an accident that you discovered my secret identity, one I won’t have you paying for.”

After living through the terrifying ordeal that was Bulba’s attempted kidnapping, Gos clung to his arm, her green eyes almost painfully wide and for once doing nothing to hide the depth of her fear. 

“We need you here, Honk,” she’d muttered, staring like she expected him to be wrenched out of her hands. 

Honker knew about her grandfather and the part Bulba had played in his disappearance—at this point, maybe even his death. He didn’t want to be another person Gos was afraid of losing. He’d never had a best friend before, and he didn’t want to hurt her. 

But he’d seen what Darkwing Duck could do. What all of them did: saving lives, helping strangers, trying to make things better. 

Seeing real superheroes in action, not just a man in a high tech suit of armor, awakened something in Honker. A desire not to be helpless, maybe. A glimpse into what his future might look like, perhaps, outside of his brains and bookishness. A calling greater than he’d ever known before, when he watched Darkwing force himself back to his feet, fists raised, no matter how many times he got knocked down, when Launchpad stood in front of someone who couldn’t defend themselves and refused to be moved, when Gosayn donned her own mask and hood and rappelled through the air with her grappling hook, proving there wasn’t an age requirement to be a hero. 

Only superficial rules, apparently. 

He’d practiced kendo for an entire year before he met Gos, after stumbling into Sensei Enaga’s dojo while running from his usual gang of tormentors. But the thing was…the team didn’t know. About any of it. Not the competitions he’d won, the first and second dan he’d achieved. When he left for practice, he told them he was going to Geography Club. 

At this point, he’d lied about it for so long he was resigned to lying about it for the rest of his life. Or at least the rest of middle school. 

Though, after tonight, there might not be much of a secret to keep anymore. 

-

Honker landed on the roof of a brick warehouse across the street from the team’s last known location, stumbling a bit as the jetpack’s engines cut out. It had been a jerky, terrifying flight from the Audubon Bay Bridge, but at least Gos and her family had only ventured as far as the south dockyard and not the opposite end of the city. 

Clipped to his belt were a set of night vision goggles, and he put them up to his masked face. Laying low, he searched for any sign that the tall warehouse across from him was guarded. 

Because the goggles were certainly a Gearloose invention, they also displayed heat signatures, and a handful immediately popped up around the warehouse perimeter. Whatever material the building was made of, it was too thick for the goggles to get a reading through it. But judging by the way moonlight bounced off a portion of the roof, there seemed to be a skylight he could use to get a look inside the warehouse. All he had to do was get past one, two…six Eggheads without any of them raising an alarm. 

Easy peasy, right?

He gathered a handful of small rocks from the rooftop, snuck over to the opposite side overlooking an alley directly in front of the warehouse. He threw a few at the dumpsters below, knocking over a garbage can with a clatter. Like he’d hoped, two of the Eggheads peeled out of the darkness and went to investigate the disturbance. 

The last four were in pairs of two, too, but so separated that they were nearly on opposite sides of the warehouse. Honker engaged the jetpack and rose over the heads of the two facing the north side. He’d taken more than goggles from Darkwing’s endless supply of gadgets, and dropped two pellets of knockout gas from fifty feet up. They struck the Eggheads in a cloud of clear mist and they slumped over almost at once. 

The two Eggheads on the west side heard the hiss of the gas escaping, or maybe the thump of their bodies hitting the floor, and made to engage with their guns raised. But Honker was already hovering over them.

He descended rapidly, throwing a smoke bomb as he went. In the confusion, with his night vision goggles still on, he was able to strike with unerring precision. His new bokken, made of titanium, unfolded smoothly to its full length, and was more than a match for the Egghead’s unprotected stomachs, knees, and the backs of their ugly armored heads. 

All that remained were the two Eggheads just barely leaving the mouth of the alley, and Honker tossed down another smoke bomb before launching himself at them. 

The first he downed with a swipe at their ankles and a blow to the top of their head. The other came up on him with fists rather than a weapon, and Honker swung out one arm, his bokken shattering their visor. 

They fell on their back with a startled swear, and Honker stood over them, ready to deliver the blow that would render him unconscious. 

The Egghead sneered at him, fury in their exposed eyes, but Honker didn’t feel a lick of fear. “Who’re you supposed to be?” they spit out, deriding. 

Honker tilted his head to the side. “Not sure yet.” With a neat little swipe, he knocked out the last Egghead. 

Or at least, the last one that was outside. 

Beneath the skylight was a web of catwalks that Honker took ruthless advantage of. The only lights in the warehouse were the ones pointed straight down in the center of the building, and when Honker disabled the night vision setting on the goggles and zoomed in, he saw the whole team tied together against some rusted canning machinery. 

Relief swam through him intense enough to leave him lightheaded. Even if closer on inspection Gos was more bruised than he last saw her, and Darkwing had a bleeding cut over one eye, at least they were all conscious. Honker supposed that needed to be the case, for Steelbeak to monologue at them like he was. 

 As he tallied up the number of Eggheads, he wondered if Steelbeak was still under the effects of the Intelli-ray. Honker’s intuition told him no, because no smart supervillain would make the mistake of monologuing for so long. 

Honker counted twenty Eggheads. Too many for him to take on without help. 

Fortunately, help was located down below. They just happened to be a bit tied up at the moment. 

Stealing his nerves, he pulled another gadget out of his pack: a set of bolas. Calculating the angle he would need, he positioned himself and swung, letting the bolas go flying out of his hand in a blur. They knocked out the lights with a smash, hailing broken glass on the unsuspecting FOWL agents below. In almost the same moment, he reactivated the night vision setting on his goggles. 

With assistance from the jetpack, Honker rose in the air as chaos exploded on the ground, only made worse by the smoke bombs he tossed at various clusters of Eggheads. He spotted Steelbeak furiously waving his arms through the smoke, coughing and shouting, “No! No way! No way there’s any more of these bozos hanging around!”

Honker descended rapidly with his bokken fully extended, batting away a cluster of Eggheads nearest to where the team was imprisoned with a series of precise strikes. 

He hurried over to the pile he recognized as Gos, Darkwing and Launchpad, the three of them bound together and already struggling to free themselves. But with them pressed that close, Honker knew that Darkwing wouldn’t be able to activate his buzzsaw cufflinks. Instead, he pulled out his own swiss army knife, a gift from Mr. Mallard for his last birthday, and set to sawing through the knot binding them to the old equipment. 

When all three of them went abruptly quiet, Honker quickly raised his head to make sure they were alright. 

He met three identical stares of bewilderment. 

“Uh. Thanks for the save,” Darkwing said slowly. 

“Seriously!” Launchpad added. 

“But who the heck are you?” Gos demanded. 

If Steelbeak and a whole host of Eggheads weren’t about to pounce on his head, Honker might’ve burst into laughter. All that time insisting he couldn’t join them on missions, and they didn’t even recognize him. 

He went back to sawing through the ropes. 

“Let’s just say,” Honker said, knowing his nasal voice would give him away in an instant. “I got tired of being the guy in the chair.”

Gos’ beak dropped open. “Keen gear,” she breathed. 

Darkwing sputtered incoherently, but beside him, Launchpad was grinning. “Sorry for saying you weren’t ready. That was my bad.”

“When it comes to solo missions, you might be right,” Honker huffed, tugging on the rope. “I’d rather be out here with all of Team Darkwing.”

[jisungsdaydreamer]

Ghost of You

«GENERAL M.LIST» · «NAVIGATION» · «TALK TO ME» · «TAGLIST»

SYNOPSIS He’s gone from your dimension now, but there’s nothing stopping him from finding his own world.

Pairing: Han Jisung x fem!reader Genre: angst, horror, supernatural au Warnings: swearing, death, brief depiction of murder, ghosts, betrayal, mentions of cheating Word Count: 1.3k

NOTE: Images are from this moodboard by the amazing @jinniebit

P.S. ♡ If you like my work, please consider giving me feedback in the form of reblogs, comments, and asks! ♡

Jisung doesn’t remember dying. 

The day it happened had been normal, like any other. He had woken up in the morning late, some time past noon, after another long night of staying up to finish a college term paper. He had scrolled through his phone while eating his makeshift breakfast of coffee and half a pack of M&Ms. He had hunted around for his keys for twenty minutes before realizing they were in his pocket the entire time and deciding to leave his criminally cramped apartment for a brief outing.

It was a sunny day, he remembers that. A rare respite from the unforgivingly frigid climate of his city, he had felt the rays of warmth kissing his cheeks and the gusts of gentle breeze ruffling his hair. Even thinking about everything going wrong in his life, from school to his relationship with you, as he did on walks like these, he could feel the stress melting away like the light sweat dampening his skin. There was nothing but him and the idyllic suburbia around him. 

He remembers being lost in his own thoughts, admiring the uniform rows of the prim little houses, the matching sets of leafy oak trees that adorned them, and the robin’s egg blue shade of the sky. He also remembers preparing to cross the street before he felt someone’s hands exerting pressure on his back, propelling him forward. He remembers the faint roar of the approaching engine above the unsuspecting beat of his frightened heart. He remembers getting the breath knocked out of him, the flash of searing pain, and then everything going black.

But he doesn’t remember dying. He can’t picture being surrounded by his friends and family, all of them there as he stills on his bed. He can’t collect the sensation of life slowly fading out of his limbs gnarled with age. He can’t collect the feeling of leaving with a smile on his face, content with a life long lived and loved. He can’t summon the idea of the death that he had always imagined he would meet, because he was never done. Jisung’s story was unfinished, cruelly ripped from him. And it would stay that way, a tragically youthful face of the past, never to have another word written about it.

The first thing Jisung does remember is how fucking cold it was. He had sat up on the sidewalk, knees drawn to his chest as he curiously watched the agitated scene unfold in front of him, the uncertain bystanders gathering around in some sort of spectacle and the paramedics arriving, shouting for everyone to get out of the way. Jisung was about to move aside to allow them room, before he realized that he didn’t have to. Because the rigid body being zipped up into a depressing black cover was his. The limp arm hanging out of the bag, before being tucked in, was his. The discarded pair of keys on the ground that no one paid any attention to was his. 

So he was dead now. Great.

Then he saw his best friend, screaming in horror and being held back by a neighbor, before being allowed to talk to the police officers that had appeared. The confusion Jisung initially felt upon seeing him dissolved into excruciating grief, the kind induced only by being stabbed in the back. Or rather, being pushed into a speeding bus by the man he once called his own brother.

Having heard enough of his lies, Jisung turned and walked away. He witnessed everyone in his life receive the news of his death— the shock, the crying, the collapses on the floor. But he didn’t feel particularly moved, because at least in death, he didn’t have to worry about all of the incoming deadlines, the stern and loveless family dinners he was forced to attend, and the calls that his merciless landlord kept spamming him with. And best of all, he didn’t have to be the unsuspecting idiot killed by his best friend. Instead, he could just be another friendly ghost watching the world turn without him.

But Jisung still carries a portion of the sentiment he lauded when he was alive, so that’s why he makes his way up the steps to the church. He enters the cemetery like the guest of honor he is, holding his head up high and strolling in with his arms folded expectantly. There’s the headstone framed with fucking gardenias, the one flower he was allergic to, freshly erected in front of the ditch where his coffin is being lowered into. He had always wished to be cremated, not buried in the ground as if in a crime, but then again, someone at his funeral did have a reason to feel guilty.

Jisung watches that person of interest, the sobbing Judas, the Brutus to his Caesar, deliver his eulogy. The lines are tasteful, poignant yet affectionate, as anyone would expect, but all Jisung can think of is how good of an actor his best friend is. He wants to be able to eat again, so he can hold a bucket of popcorn and enjoy the damn show. And then he sees you.

Beautiful as ever, you’re dressed in a black silk dress and a matching netting veil that does a crappy job of concealing your delicately contorted features. The large, expressive eyes that Jisung fell in love with are filled with tears, and the lips he’d kissed so many times are pressed into a tight line. And watching your misery, he almost forgives you for everything you had put him through, for all of the canceled dates that he painstakingly made time for, the unwarranted fights and emotional abuse, the failure that you constantly deemed him to be. He almost forgives you, but then his best friend pulls you aside during the reception indoors, taking it upon himself to comfort you in the darkened corridor where no one else strays. 

And what ample consolation it is, with its breathless whispers of relief and stifled sighs of sin fulfilled, and Jisung wonders if both his girlfriend and best friend missed their respective callings at drama school. He doesn’t stay there long, fucking off to find somewhere he doesn’t have to hear the two people he loved the most in his life gloat about making their fantastic getaway in cheating and murdering him.

Jisung leaves both that hallway and his shattered heart behind him, walking on. He blankly goes past all of the inconsequential people and problems in the world, meandering until he reaches the edge of a dense thicket. He recalls his childhood fears of the malevolent forest entities in his grandmother’s stories. But then he just laughs, a pure, hearty sound, because he’s dead. He has no reason to be afraid, because that’s the role of the living.

He steps into the forest with a new spring to his step; there’s no one else nearby for miles, but he feels no fatigue. As the brush around him grows even thicker when he passes through a strange shrine, Jisung feels a sudden chill spread throughout himself. He looks up to see numerous pale apparitions floating around him in the fog. 

Some of them look almost like people, while others are indiscernible, glowing shapes among the darkening trees. They do not approach him, but they do not disturb him either, merely alerting him of their presence. The iciness has faded into a strange warmth, a feeling of security, of home. For the first time in a long while, Jisung feels not so lonely, for these are his fellow tortured spirits, devastated specters, and longing phantoms. They are his kind, the beings with no belonging, the ones who traded the trials of being mortal for mortality. He has left his corporeal form, cast into this dimension for the spurned in-between. He has purpose here, in this forest of lost souls. And he shall stay here, dancing with the undead and gleefully awaiting the day when he’ll be able to exact his sinister revenge.

«GENERAL M.LIST» · «NAVIGATION» · «TALK TO ME» · «TAGLIST»

TAGLIST @hamburgers101 @chansburgah @hee0soo @ajxreads @anyamaris @hash2013 @pixigreen @ohish @ana-marais98 @chizumiyoshi @lilydaisyyy @jetblackbelle

©jisungsdaydreamer 2023 | All rights reserved. I do not condone translations or transfers of my work onto other platforms such as Wattpad, AO3, etc. Tumblr is my only platform. Acts of plagiarism are strictly prohibited.

[lemoncrushh]

Too Far From Texas | Chapter Six

STORY PAGE

Word Count: 5716

Since I didn’t have to be back home until 2:30 when Jasmine got home from school, Lorelei and I slept in and ordered room service for breakfast before heading out on the road. We’d received a group text from our agent Kris, informing us that we’d nearly doubled the sales from the Houston book signing, and she was eager to book us for a longer tour, possibly starting with Dallas, but she’d let us know the details before the end of the day on Friday. I reminded her that if at all possible, I’d rather not start until Wednesday since Tuesday was Halloween and I wanted to be with my kids. She said she understood and would do all she could.

When I arrived home, I quickly unpacked and dropped a load of laundry in the washer to get it out of the way. Then I made a cup of coffee and sat on the sofa with my phone. I hadn’t talked to Harry since the texts the night before, and I was anticipating at least one new one or perhaps a voicemail, but I was a little disappointed when I found nothing.

Deciding it was still early, I sent him a short message saying I hoped he was having a good day. Then I texted Tod to ask how Jasmine’s doctor’s appointment had gone. I was relieved when he said it went fine, just an increase in pill dosage, and that she’d been smiling that morning when she left on the school bus.

The girls were both happy to see me when they got home that afternoon, and we all sat in front of the TV and ate ice cream and watched SpongeBob before they both retreated to their rooms while I prepared dinner.

I wasn’t sure why, but I found myself checking my phone every ten minutes, hoping to see Harry’s name pop up. I laughed at myself and shook my head. I was being ridiculous. It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours and already I was expecting some sort of reassurance. So, I’d had the nightmare, big deal. He didn’t know anything about it for one thing, and he definitely didn’t know how it had thrown me for a loop. Plus, he was busy. In fact, I didn’t even know exactly where he was - if he was still in Chicago or had left already for another city.

After dinner I was trying to distract myself by watching a sitcom when I heard my phone ping on the table. Lorelei.

Hey look at your boy.

Underneath was a link to an online article titled Boy Band Star Goes Solo. I rolled my eyes at the term but tapped on the link anyway, muting the TV and sitting back to read it. The subtitle was more encouraging: Former One Direction Singer Harry Styles Creates the Album the World Has All Been Waiting For.

Duh! Of course! The album was coming out the next day. I was an idiot; I’d completely forgotten about the release date. I’d already spent nearly two weeks enjoying the album in private. Now the rest of the word was going to hear it.

That was why I hadn’t heard from him. Of course he would have been busy all day.

Rolling my eyes once again, but this time at myself for being such a dimwit, I read the positive article. By the end, my cheeks hurt from smiling so much. It was a rave review. I was so incredibly proud.

I was about to reply to Lorelei when I noticed at the bottom of the page was a link to something else about Harry. Clicking on it, I saw a collage of photos, all from various stages of his career. The young photos made me giggle, the more recent ones made me swoon. Goodness, he was a looker.

The bottom of that page, however, took me to something I immediately wished I hadn’t seen.

Harry Styles in Chicago with New Girlfriend? read the caption. Girlfriend?

I inspected the handful of photos. To anyone it would look as though he was out shopping. He was standing by a counter, he was outside on the sidewalk, he was laughing. Nothing out of the ordinary. But it was the final word that made my stomach flip. In all of the photos, he was standing next to a female. I couldn’t see much more than her profile, but she was definitely pretty. And in the final photo, they were embracing.

I wanted to throw up. Not just because I was jealous, but because I felt like I was far too old to be. Jealousy was for young, insecure girls, not grown women.

Deciding I’d seen enough, I tossed my phone on the sofa and walked down the hall to get the girls ready for bed. Emery automatically pressed play on the CD player, Harry’s voice booming through the speakers. My jaw set, I walked over to it and pressed stop.

“Mommy!” whined Emery.

“No music tonight, Em,” I shook my head. “I don’t feel that great. Just go get your shower, okay?”

“Okay,” she frowned, heading for the bathroom.

As Emery showered, I helped Jasmine change into her pajamas, gave her a drink of water with her medicine, and tucked her into bed. When I turned out the light, Emery had returned to her room, her hair still wet as she danced naked to no music. She giggled when she saw me, quickly pulling her pajamas from her drawer. I towel dried her hair the best I could before she brushed it and climbed into her bed.

“Tomorrow’s Friday,” she sang as she held her arms out for me to hug her.

“I know,” I kissed her.

“Are we going to look for a costume again?”

“Yes,” I nodded.

Emery cheered, pumping her fists.

“Did you see Harry?” she asked.

I looked at her, confused. “When?”

“When you were away.”

“No, baby,” I replied. “I was in San Antonio. Harry’s in...Chicago. Or he was.”

“Oh.”

I smiled as I recalled. “I did talk to him on FaceTime though.”

“You did? I wanna FaceTime him! Can I?”

I chuckled. “We’ll see. Get to sleep, monkey.”

Giving her another kiss, I turned out the light and shut the door, returning to the living room. With slight hesitation, I picked up my phone again. Lorelei had sent another text.

Did you read it?

I hastily texted her back.

Yes. It was great.

I thought so too. I feel proud of him, even though I don’t really know him.

I sent her a simple smiling emoji.

Tell him congratulations from me.

Ok.

You ok?

Lorelei knew me too well. She knew that my short replies could only mean I was not in the best of moods.

Yeah, just tired. I think I’m turning in early.

Ok. See you in the morning.

With a sigh, I switched off the TV that was now showing an old episode of Everybody Loves Raymond and turned out the lights as I headed toward my bedroom. I changed into my night clothes, washed my face and brushed my teeth vigilantly before pulling back the comforter.

When I climbed into bed, the cool of the sheets hitting my toes, I breathed in and out slowly. My stomach was in knots. And the thing about it was, I was more upset with myself than anything. I knew better than to think the worst of Harry, but even so, we had yet to put a label on our relationship.

I laughed at myself again. Relationship. Harry and I flirted on the phone. That was it.

Still, curiosity getting the better of me, I reached for my phone and brought up the page again with the photos. He was most definitely in Chicago in them. In fact, he was at Macy’s at the FAO Schwarz toy store. That seemed like an odd place for him to be.

I took a closer look at each photo, as though looking harder would make me feel any less anxious. He seemed as though he was having a good time. But other than the final photo where he and the girl were hugging, they didn’t make any physical contact at all.

I huffed, turning the ringer off and dropping the phone back on the night stand. It could have been anyone. A friend. They could have even just run into each other while he was out and about. It didn’t mean anything.

Rolling over onto my side, I switched off the lamp and buried my hands underneath my pillow. I made myself promise not to jump to conclusions, that I needed to give him the benefit of the doubt. There was no reason to assume anything until I could hear him out.

I just wished he’d call.

The next morning, I made my coffee before I got Jasmine up for school. My fingers itched to reach for my phone, but I made myself wait until later. After Jaz left, I took a shower and woke Emery. As I was getting dressed, I finally decided to check for any messages. My stomach flipped again when I saw I had a voicemail from Harry.

“Hi baby. Sorry I didn’t get a chance to call you before now. I’m in LA. It’s 10PM here, which makes it midnight where you are. I reckoned you’d be asleep, but I just wanted to leave you a message. You should be receiving a box from the post sometime tomorrow...or today I should say. It’s for Emery, but it’s a surprise so don’t tell her it’s from me until she opens it, okay? I um...I miss you...and um…”

I heard a slight pause then as he sounded like he was trying to gather his thoughts.

“I...I’ll try to text you or something tomorrow, but it’s gonna be a fucking...wicked busy day…” he chuckled. “So if I don’t, please know I’m still thinking about you. Always. Goodnight, love.”

I was a moron. Here I was worried that he had some other girlfriend while he was getting ready for the biggest day of his career. And to top it off, he was sending my daughter a package. Yeah, somebody shoot me and put me out of my misery because first class moron right here.

“It has to be a friend of his,” Lorelei insisted as she scrolled through the photos of Harry that I’d told her about. “Or maybe someone in the industry. His manager or producer or something.”

“I would think if it was someone like that, the press would have known her name,” I remarked. “But you’re right. It’s probably a friend. Maybe someone he happened to run into while he was in Chicago.”

“Exactly, hon,” Lorelei nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “And by what you told me he said in his voicemail, I don’t think you have a thing to worry about.”

“You’re right, you’re right,” I threw my hands up and sunk into my chair. “I knew that, I guess I just needed to hear it from someone else.”

Lorelei smiled as she perched on my desk like usual. “So have you read any more reviews?”

“I haven’t had a chance yet,” I replied, “but I noticed he’s already number one on iTunes and he’s trending on Twitter.”

“Of course he is. I think he has the record for the most followers or likes or something.”

I quirked a brow. “How do you know that?”

Lorelei rose from my desk, a smug look on her face. “I know things.”

I laughed as she strode out of my office, flipping her blonde locks.

I took the opportunity then to download the album from iTunes. Although I’d already been listening to the CD in my car, I felt like contributing and showing my support was the least I could do. As Harry’s voice sang through my computer speakers, I began pulling up any review or mention of him I could find, reading all of it. Every single article gave him praise.

“Don’t be expecting the sugary bubblegum pop of 'What Makes You Beautiful'. The One Direction singer has grown up, maturing into a solid musician in his own right.”

“If any pop singer was thought to do well this year, it was Harry Styles. And he’s proven it with his solo album. Giving nods to some of his musical influences, it’s a taste of the old and current, dipped in something completely new and his own.”

“The world didn’t know what hit it when Harry Styles graced the silver screen in his first major motion picture. Now he’s done it again with his first solo album, proving that this is his world and the rest of us are just living in it.”

By the time the last track started, I was giddy. I was in heaven, my eyes glistening with tears. I was so happy that everyone was enjoying the album as much as I was. I was so incredibly proud. I wanted to hug him.

After Lorelei and I returned from lunch, we were on a conference call with Kris, setting up our plans for what she referred to as the official book tour for The Loving Kind.

“So here’s the idea,” stated Kris. “I know I said we’d probably do Dallas, and we will. But I’ve rearranged some things that I think would suit better. Instead of starting with Dallas, we’re actually gonna do it last.”

“Last?” I inquired. I loved how Kris always talked about Lorelei and me in terms of “we”. As though she’d be going too.

“Yes. We’re gonna start in New York.”

“Yay!” cheered Lorelei as my jaw dropped. I hadn’t realized we’d be venturing out that far.

“Why New York?”

“Because it’s The place to launch a bestseller. And besides, your story’s set there. I’ve already booked you for the Barnes and Noble at Union Square for the third, and…”

“The third?” I sounded. “That’s next Friday.”

“Yes ma’am,” said Kris. “You’ll be flying out on Wednesday afternoon. You arrive in New York at 10:55PM.”

I looked at Lorelei and we both shrugged. Alright then.

Kris continued to give us our travel plans, the itinerary and hotel reservations. Then she went on to tell us the list of cities we’d be visiting after New York: Chicago, Nashville and Dallas. When we hung up the call, my head was spinning. This was really happening. Lorelei and I were actually going on a book tour.

“Look!” exclaimed Lorelei a couple hours later as I made my way to my desk after a bathroom break. She was holding up her phone, but I couldn’t quite make what she was showing me until I got closer. It was a tweet from The Late Late Show with James Corden.

“Tonight: @Harry_Styles and @kevinhart4real.” Underneath was a selfie of the two of them with James.

“Oh my God!” I shrieked, a little too loudly.

Lorelei giggled as she danced beside me. “Your boyfriend’s gonna be on the Late Late Show.”

“Stop it,” I chuckled, lightly slapping her arm.

“Look at him, he looks so cute!” she said, holding up her phone again.

I took a closer look at the picture, but mostly taken back by how green his eyes looked. I must have been staring for a few seconds when I heard Lor whisper.

“You miss him, don’t you?”

I glared at her. “I…”

I stood there with my mouth open, but no words came out. Lorelei blinked slowly as she nodded. Then she turned around to head back to her office.

“I...I just talked to him the other day!” I finally called out.

“Uh huh.”

“He just texted me last night!” I argued, catching up with her.

“I know,” Lorelei nodded again, gathering a few papers from her desk.

“How can I miss him already?”

“It’s okay, Stace, you’re allowed to miss him.”

“Lor!”

She turned to look at me, her right eyebrow raised.

“Are you gonna shut the door, or are you just gonna stand there yelling at me?”

Finally realizing I was standing inside her office, I turned around and closed the door behind me. I heard Lorelei chuckle low as her heels clicked across the hard floor. I twirled around swiftly, my hands on my hips.

“What are you laughing at?” I scoffed, the writer in me knowing better than to end a sentence with a preposition.

“You,” she replied. “No, I’m not laughing at you. I just think it’s adorable.”

“It’s not adorable,” I narrowed my eyes. “None of this is adorable.”

“Then what is it?” she asked, stopping at the end of her desk to drop a couple papers in the shredder.

“It’s…” I paused, trying to find the best term. “Unfortunate.”

“How so?” Lor sat in her chair, crossing her arms.

“Because...he’s in LA...and I’m here. And he’s super busy and super famous and...and I don’t know if I’m ever going to see him again. Oh God!” I groaned as I leaned against the door.

“Stace,” said Lorelei softly, “It’s okay to miss him. I told you, I don’t think it’s silly. He likes you, I know he does. He wouldn’t be texting you and FaceTiming you and sending you flowers and buying you coffee if he didn’t. If I’m being honest, I think he’s as smitten as you are, maybe even more.”

I ran a hand through my hair and stood up straight. “Yeah?”

“Mmm hmm,” she nodded. “And if it’s in the cards, when the time is right, you’ll see each other again.”

I smiled, releasing a huge breath. “Thanks, Lor.”

“Anytime,” she beamed. “Now let me finish this before the hour’s up.”

I retreated back to my own office then, starting Harry’s album over again, admittedly missing him like crazy.

“Can I open it now?” Emery asked, bouncing in her chair.

“Yes,” I rolled my eyes with a smirk.

The package had arrived while we were eating dinner, but I’d told Emery to wait until we were finished, and afterwards we would go shopping for her Halloween costume. She giggled with glee as she grabbed the box and tried to rip it open.

“Hang on, Em,” I instructed, walking over to her with the scissors. I slit open the tape, allowing her to open the box the rest of the way.

“Oh! My! God!” she screamed when she saw what was inside. “I don’t believe it! It’s a Lapis Lazuli costume!”

My eyes about popped out of their sockets. “Are you kidding me?”

“Look!” Emery exclaimed, pulling a blue dress from the box and holding it up. “Oh my gosh, there’s wings!”

Dropping the dress, she reached in again and held out a set of clear wings that to me almost looked like dripping water. I’d never seen anything like it.

“Wow!” I breathed, picking the dress off the floor and examining it. “I can’t believe he did this.”

“And a wig!” screeched Emery. I chuckled when she pulled out a bright blue wig from the box. “Can I try it on, Mommy?”

“Of course,” I nodded.

In two seconds, Emery had her clothes off, ready to try on the dress. I helped her with the zipper in the back and attached her wings. I smiled as she twirled around. It fit perfectly. Then I went to the bathroom, returning with a hair tie and pins so I could pin her hair back for the wig. The blue hair made her eyes pop.

“You make a beautiful blue crayon,” I teased.

“It’s Lapis Lazuli!” she enunciated every syllable.

“Oh, okay then,” I smirked. “You look fantastic. Do you like it?”

“Yes!” she bounced on her toes.

“We need to thank Harry.”

“Yeah! Let’s FaceTime him!”

I laughed and shook my head. “He’s very busy today, monkey. He probably can’t talk right now. But how about we make a video and send it to him?”

“Okay!”

I grabbed my phone, preparing it for the video. I instructed Emery where to stand and to be sure to tell him thank you.

“Hi, Harry!” she beamed, shifting her body from side to side. “Thank you for the Lapis Lazuli costume you sent me! I love it sooooo much. And I love you!”

As she said her final words, she jumped up and down, then ran closer to the phone to pucker her lips and blow Harry a kiss. I tried my best not to giggle until I stopped the video. Setting up a text for Harry, I typed a quick message saying that it was from Emery, then added the video and sent it. Then I gently helped her take the costume off and put it back in the box where it would wait until Halloween.

I stayed up to watch The Late Late Show. I was exhausted, and I knew I very easily could have set the DVR, but I wanted to watch it when it aired.

My heart fluttered in my chest when James announced Harry’s name, and the door to “the blue room” opened. He looked amazing. I could barely take in what he was saying to James as the audience cheered. Or maybe it was the cheering coming from my own head. Either way, I was ecstatic to see him, and so was everyone else.

The interview was both comical and insightful. James, having known Harry for quite some time, was very candid with him, but also knew what questions to ask about his album and solo career. It was apparent that he was just as proud of him as I was. Kevin Hart, who sat next to Harry, made me laugh so hard I was crying. Overall, it was a fantastic show.

Then came the performance. Although I knew there wasn’t another musical guest, and James had made it a point to mention that Harry would be performing his new single for the first time on television, in my mind I suppose I was still trying to grasp the reality of it. It wasn’t until they came back from commercial break and James introduced him once again, that I finally knew it was happening for real.

I was on the edge of my seat, my hands rubbing their sweat off on the knees of my pajama pants. I sucked in my lips as he began to sing, my own nerves for him taking over. But he didn’t seem nervous in the least. In fact, by the time the chorus kicked in, I knew he was in his element, and he actually made me feel at ease. Soon I was singing along with him, a huge grin on my face as I bounced gently on the couch.

When the song was over, James returned, giving Harry a hug and a goodbye to his studio and television audiences. As the credits rolled, I watched the people cheer and clap as Reggie and his band played the outro. But the best part of all was the charismatic smile on Harry’s face as he conversed with James. He exuded pure joy and pride. And I felt myself slipping further into whatever it was I had already started to feel for him.

I couldn’t sleep. Although I’d been tired before the show, my brain was buzzing afterwards. I laid in the darkness until I decided the point was moot and I turned on my phone. I scrolled through a few more articles about Harry, including one about that night’s performance, again all positive. The world adored Harry.

I wondered what he was doing. My fingers itched to text him, but I knew it would just go unnoticed, at least for now. As I read one more short snippet, my phone pinged and my face lit up. Harry.

Tell Emery she is very welcome. And she makes a beautiful Lapis Lazuli.

Thanks :) Will do.

Two seconds after I sent my reply, my phone rang and my heart beat out of my chest.

“Hi!” I answered.

“You’re awake,” he said. I could hear noises in the background.

“Couldn’t sleep,” I replied. “Exciting day.”

“Oh yeah? What happened? I mean besides the costume of course.”

I laughed. “You, silly.”

“Me?”

“I’m so proud of you.”

Harry made that little contented sound he’d made during our first major phone conversation. “Thank you, baby.”

“So how does the world’s biggest star end his biggest day?” I asked him.

“I um...I’m at a party. A small party. At Jeff’s.

“Oh.” I knew who Jeff was only by reading. He was Harry’s manager as well as a close friend. “That sounds fun.”

“Yeah. I walked outside to watch Emery’s video. I’m glad she likes it.”

“She’s ecstatic. I can’t thank you enough, Harry. You didn’t have to do that.”

“It’s no problem, love. I was happy to do it. Although I have to thank my friend Jen for helping me.”

“Jen?”

“She’s Cindy’s cousin. Cindy Crawford?”

I stuttered, trying to get my words out. Who? What?

Harry chuckled. “Cindy’s a good friend of mine. Her cousin Jen was in Chicago while I was there. I ran into her at the toy store when I was hoping maybe I could find the costume.”

“Oh,” I sounded, the pieces connecting in my mind. “Jen.”

“She was there with her little girl,” Harry continued. “I couldn’t find the costume and she suggested I contact a specialty store that she’d bought from before. They didn’t have any in stock, so I had to have it ordered and sent to you.”

I sighed a shaky breath. Once again, first class moron.

“Harry,” I managed to say.

“Yes, love?”

“You’re something special.”

“Hmm. So are you.”

I swallowed hard. There was so much more I wanted to say. Like how he deserved everything that came to him, and then some. Sure, he was talented and worked hard. But he was also a kind soul. Someone who was willing to go out of his way for someone he cared about, or even someone he hardly knew. I’d never met anyone like him in my life. And if I thought about it too much, it might’ve overwhelmed me. Instead, I cleared my throat.

“I’ll let you get back to your party.”

“Okay, baby,” he said softly. “Sleep well.”

I hung up, laying my phone on the night stand. I curled up on my side with a contented smile on my face. I hadn’t told Harry about New York and the book tour. Today wasn’t about that, or me at all. It was his day. And all was right with the world.

The next two days flew by. I did my grocery shopping on Saturday with the girls, although I didn’t buy that much since I would be leaving in a few days. I was still on a high from the previous day, and the fact that I didn’t hear from Harry at all didn’t even bother me. It just meant he was busy, as he should be, and it made my heart swell.

My mother came over for Sunday dinner, a tradition we’d begun after the divorce for the weekends in which I had the kids. I made a roast with potatoes and carrots, she provided a squash casserole and a pecan pie.

As we ate, she made her usual discussion about her until it shifted to me. I informed her that I would be heading to New York in a couple of days for the book signing and that Jasmine and Emery would be staying with Tod. Although she didn’t care for that, she knew it was for the best.

“You know you can work it out with him if you wanna take them for the weekend or something,” I said.

She made a face. “We’ll see.”

We then got on the subject of Halloween, and I cringed when Emery jumped up and told my mom she wanted to show her her costume. As she ran to her room, my mother looked at me.

“So, you found something?”

“Kind of…” I started, interrupted by Emery’s return.

“Look!” she exclaimed, dropping the box next to my mother’s feet. She pulled out the dress and wings. “I’m gonna be Lapis Lazuli!”

“Do huh?” my mom asked, making Emery giggle.

“It’s a character from Steven Universe!”

“That’s pretty,” my mother smiled. “I bet that looks great on you.”

I held in my breath as Emery, bless her heart, nodded and dropped the costume back in the box and ran back to her bedroom with it.

“What time’s your flight Wednesday?” my mom inquired, changing the subject.

Any other time, that would have drove me up the wall. But this time I was grateful. If Emery had spilled the beans about Harry, we would have gone into a round of twenty questions. I just wasn’t ready to divulge any information on Harry Styles, how I knew him, and why he had sent my nine-year-old a Halloween costume.

Later that evening, however, while the two of us were playing cards at my kitchen table, Harry texted me.

Just wanted to say I miss you x

I miss you too, I texted him back with a grin.

What are you doing?

Playing gin rummy with my mother

Oh, hi mum!

I giggled, resting my chin in my hand as I tried to concentrate on my cards in the other.

“Stacey,” my mom scoffed, “that’s rude.”

“What?” I furrowed my brows.

“Texting someone while I’m here.”

I rolled my eyes. Whatever.

Are you winning?

Yes

Good. Can I call you tonight?

You can call me anytime, Harry.

Even with your mum there?

She’s leaving soon. Probably about an hour.

“Stacey, do you want that card?”

“No,” I shook my head and drew a new card from the pile.

She’d love me anyway.

I laughed again.

I have no doubt. Even though she’s giving me the evil eye right now.

Oops. Off to my last interview of the day. Call you later.

Can’t wait.

My mom ended up staying until it was time to put the girls to bed, but fortunately Harry didn’t call before then. She requested that I call her when I arrived in New York, but I reminded her that my flight got in late, an hour later than Texas, and she would be asleep. She settled on my agreeing to text her when I landed, and she would call me the next morning.

I’d already changed into my pajamas, brushed my teeth, and was rummaging through my closet when my ringtone sounded.

“Hey you,” I said, quickly putting him on speaker so I could have my hands free.

“God, it’s good to hear your voice,” he groaned.

I smiled. “You just heard it two days ago.”

“Are you in bed?” he asked, sidestepping my remark, but also adding to the fire.

“No,” I chuckled. “I’m going through my closet, trying to decide what to pack.”

“Pack for what?”

“Well, Mr. Styles, on Wednesday yours truly and her best friend will be embarking on an adventure. We’re officially doing this book tour thing.”

“Ah, baby, I’m so happy for you. Where are you going?” he inquired.

“We’re starting off in New York City. Then we’re doing Chicago, Nashville and Dallas.”

“Stacey…”

“I’m so nervous and excited at the same time,” I expressed.

“You’ll be in New York on Wednesday?” Harry asked.

“Yeah. Well, late that night. Is New York cold the first of November? It probably is, huh? I should pack a coat.”

“Stacey. Baby…”

“Yes?”

“I’ll be in New York this week,” he announced.

My throat suddenly felt dry and the blood rushed to my head. “What?”

“Yeah,” Harry chuckled. “I’m recording Ellen’s show in the morning. It’s gonna be airing on Tuesday, but by then I’ll be in New York. I’ll be there until Saturday.”

“Harry!” I exclaimed.

“It’s fate, baby,” he said.

“Oh my God,” I clutched a fist to my chest.

“I mean...I’m assuming you wanna see me,” he teased.

“Are you kidding?” I squealed, making Harry laugh.

“What time’s your flight?” he asked.

“Late,” I replied. “It doesn’t get in til almost eleven.”

“Oh. Well, we’ll work it out. No worries. I’m not about to miss seeing you.”

“I can’t believe this,” I sighed, dropping my shoes on the closet floor and crawling onto the bed. The packing was suddenly unimportant.

“It’s meant to be, Stacey,” said Harry, his voice low.

“Yeah.”

Lying down on the pillow, I listened to Harry tell me some of his schedule for the week. It was all so thrilling, and I continued to be full of pride for him, though I couldn’t help but wonder how I could fit into all of it. But he reassured me by expressing his excitement of seeing me again, as though I was top priority.

We talked into the night until he finally insisted I get some sleep. My thoughts were too much of a whirlwind to fall asleep though. I was going to see Harry again. In person. In the flesh! Holy shit, was I nervous. I was more nervous than I was that night he came to my apartment. I was more nervous than I was before either of my previous book signings. I tossed and turned for over an hour until I finally got up to make some decaf herbal tea.

As I sat at my kitchen table, my head rested in my hands, it finally occurred to me why I was so nervous. It was because of something Harry had said on the phone.

“I plan on seeing you again,” he’d said. “And I plan on taking you out. And I’m gonna kiss you again.”

My body shook as I let out a breath. He’d also made a comment about his hotel bed being lonely, and he’d wished he was holding me. I knew what that implied. I wasn’t naive. But I suppose at the time I hadn’t expected to see him again, not really. Sure, I’d hoped, but I guess I just didn’t think it was actually going to happen. Now it was going to. I was going to be with him and…

Yeah. I was nervous as hell.

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The drive back to Sherwood is quiet and twice as long as the drive here. Veronica spends most of it staring straight ahead, the pamphlet for the clinic flat in her lap. Gradually, the pamphlet becomes small pieces, which turn into even smaller pieces, which turn into even smaller, smaller pieces. Veronica’s skirt is littered with them, fluffy white pieces spread across her knees like snowflakes. 

She wraps her fist around them, feels them in the lines of her hand. When she breathes out it’s short, shaking, a harsh reminder that she is still here. They fall from her hand when she opens it and she almost laughs.

Heather glances briefly at the mess she’s made. Her eyebrows pinch, but she doesn’t say anything.

“How much longer til we’re back in Sherwood?” she asks.

“About another twenty minutes. Why, you in a rush?”

Veronica sinks into her chair, traces patterns in the torn paper. There was a moment, just after they left Oakwood, where the town’s buildings petered out and residential roads opened up to stretches of highway. There was nothing on the horizon, not that they could see anyway. They could just keep driving, on and on and on, until the road ran out and the car fell out into empty air.

The thought wasn’t unappealing. Until she remembered Heather was in the car too.

“Honestly?” She pushes the pieces into a small pile between her knees, a dry grin on her lips. “You can slow down if you want.”

Heather doesn’t reply. Out of sheer curiosity, Veronica dares a glance sideways. Previously, Veronica would have assumed that Heather’s social calendar was packed over a weekend. Then she got to know her, saw the shine wear away once she got close enough. Heather Duke didn’t float around Sherwood as she thought. She was dragged around from party to party, Chandler’s hand making imprints on her collar. As weeks went on, Veronica started to get the impression that Duke was doing what she did; kill time until graduation and then get the first bus out of here. And maybe she didn’t pick the best ways to kill time but who is Veronica to judge? Duke purged, Veronica got high on JD. 

With her eyes trained on the road, Heathers eases up on the gas and the car slows down. 

It isn’t the driving off the road moment she wanted. But it keeps her in this middle-space for a little longer, so she’ll take it for now. 

They arrive in Sherwood just as parents are bundling their kids into cars for soccer practice and strapping babies into car seats for the morning grocery run. It’s so normal, so familiar, that she shudders at the sight. 

Heather drums her fingers on the wheel. She’s clearly aware of her discomfort, but she doesn’t press it. Her scowl is saved for the road in front of them and honestly, it’s kind of nice. For once, the mask she’s been carrying since the pep rally can be tossed to the backseat and Veronica can sit there in all her fucked-up glory. Maybe it’s the fact Heather just drove her to an abortion clinic and back. Maybe it started before then, when they slipped into a bathroom stall so Veronica could help her purge. Whatever started it, they leave shame at the door when it comes to each other and Veronica can breathe.

Which is not something she’d ever feel with Heather Duke.

Gradually, the car slows down, lifting up and down as they hit speed bumps and stopping so families can cross roads. Veronica leans back, lifts her eyes to where the window meets the ceiling, almost content to let her eyes drift shut, until Heather taps her bare knee.

“Hey.” She points her chin eastwards. “Wasn’t that your boyfriend’s place.”

With a small scowl, Veronica looks down, just enough for her to see the street view. Sure enough, two houses from the corner is JD’s house. At this angle, she can see the window she climbed through. She’s too far to see the state of the window lock though, but she assumes Mr Dean didn’t bother getting it fixed. 

She exhales shortly and averts her eyes before she can think any more.

“Yeah. So?” Heather clicks her tongue and tosses her ponytail over her shoulder.

“Just thought you’d care,” she says. “Looks like his dad’s moving on.”

“What?” 

She looks again, this time forcing herself to focus on the front of the house rather than JD’s window. Sure enough, sat at the end of the drive is a bright white TO LET sign, so obnoxiously big that Veronica wonders how she missed it the first time. 

JD’s words come back to her, slamming like a tidal wave. “It’s only a matter of when”. Despite knowing about his dad, it somehow never occurred to her that one day JD could have just left her. That instead of watching him explode she would have watched him drive out of town and lived with the fact that he was out there, doing whatever and her not knowing. For them to go through everything they did, for him to take her higher than she ever was and throw her down to earth, then leave so mundanely. It feels too soft for him.

Her hands move before she realises it, and in seconds she’s undoing her seatbelt, unlocking the door and jumping down from the Jeep. Heather is swearing behind her, and before she crosses the road Veronica sees her hastily pull the car into park. A couple of angry drivers honk horns, but she is already tearing across the pavement until she’s outside the house, standing beneath the sign and looking right at him. 

True to character, it takes him a second to see her. Dark glasses obscure his eyes and when he does notice her, he blows a cloud of cigarette smoke so thick it makes her eyes water. She turns her head and coughs, her hand already reaching for her stomach. She drops it instantly. He doesn’t need to know about that. 

“What are you looking at, sweetheart?”

“You’re leaving,” she says. He looks at the sign and back at her, then takes another drag of his cigarette. Veronica’s fingers curl. She wants to rip those glasses off his face and make him look at her, but now she just asks, “Why are you leaving?”

“Business,” he tells her. “Finished the job in Sherwood. Normally I’d stick around for a few weeks, but I already got a call from someone down in Florida. Bunch of condos need flattened.”

“Florida,” she repeats. JD would hate Florida; he doesn’t like heat and he always scoffed at the idea of going to the beach. When she asked him what would change his mind, he kissed her shoulder and whispered ‘you in a bikini’. She had blushed and giggled and looked in the catalogue that night.

“You need something from me, missy?” 

She snaps back to the present. Mr Dean looks her up and down, his mouth twisted in what she can only describe as contempt. Anger fizzes her veins, from her shoulders down to her trembling hands. After all he’s done, he has the nerve to look at her with contempt?

“You can’t just leave.” Her voice sounds hollow. “You-you can’t just….” She shakes her head, her breath hitches. Her heart careens in her ribs, like an acrobat doing somersaults. “What about Jason?”

Time slows down, a second becomes an hour. She watches him straighten up, his mouth fall slack, the cigarette dangle between his fingers. For one impossible, manic magic moment, she thinks she’s got him. With one word, she pushed away the damage and found the human inside it. 

Then he drags and puffs again.

“What about him?” he asks gruffly. “Boy decided he was better off blowing himself to pieces. Nothing I could’ve done. So what’s it to do with me?”

The glass breaks. What began as a gust in her chest leaves a small, strained squeak. She may well not be breathing at all. He turns his back to her, tinkers with whatever is wrong with his car, like she doesn’t even exist. 

“You son of a bitch.” A shiver runs down her spine, chills her to her core. Then she looks up, and from a well deep inside her she screams, “You son of a bitch!”

Hovering outside her body, she watches as she throws herself at Bud Dean, digging her nails into his jacket as she screams. She knows he’s saying something-he’s probably yelling-but she can’t hear it. Even when he tries to pry her hands off him, she doesn’t feel it. What is her goal here? To tear him apart? To beg him to care? Or maybe she’ll drag the two of them into the road and a car will flatten them together. 

As someone grabs beneath her shoulders, the thoughts melt away. All she is looking for is the satisfaction of seeing him brought low and even as she’s dragged away, the look on his face is more than enough. His eyes are wide, his stupid glasses knocked to the side. There, she thinks to herself. Turns out you’re human after all.

“Jesus Christ, Sawyer,” Duke sighs. She looks from Bud to Veronica, silently asking for some sort of explanation. When she doesn’t get one, Heather shakes her head, tosses her hair over her shoulder and straightens her blazer. Mr Dean stands taller, fixes his glasses. Neighbours stand at the ends of their paths, gawking at the sight before them. 

They don’t know, Veronica realises. They don’t know what he is. All they saw was a teenage girl beating the crap out of a man whose son just killed himself. For weeks, grocery store aisles and book clubs and the sidelines at soccer practise will be buzzing about this.

Veronica almost tells them to take a picture, it’ll last longer. Almost, because Heather has her hands on her shoulders and is steering her back to the Jeep and with Heather’s hands on her, the rage is forced to simmer beneath the surface.

They climb into the car. Heather slams the door shut and touches up her lip-gloss in the mirror. Veronica sinks into her chair. The scraps of paper litter the ground at her feet. 

“You think I’m insane,” Veronica sighs. 

“I think you’re more than that,” she says. “I think you are in the running for most fucked-up person in this town.” Veronica rolls her eyes. “And that’s saying something. Considering.”

“Considering what?” 

Heather shifts the gear and pulls away from the kerb.

“Considering I thought that was me.”

Heather takes the long way back to her house. Veronica spends the drive there with her knees pulled to her chest, teeth chattering despite the warm air in the car. The walls close in tighter and tighter, scraping against her skin until she can’t take it. Heather hasn’t even parked the car before she stumbles out like a feral animal, all dignity gone. It’s not until Heather taps her shoulder, so perfect she is almost plastic, that the ringing in her ears fades.

“Look alive,” Duke says curtly. “People are watching.”

Sure enough, when she turns around, there are already a few heads looking in her direction. She can only wonder what she looks like to them, gasping for air against her not-friend’s Jeep. She pushes her hair away from her clammy face, then slips the scrunchie from her wrist and ties it back. Heather’s eyes linger on it, her expression unreadable. Veronica thinks a tremor moves through her small body, but she could have easily imagined it. These days, it’s hard to trust her own eyes.

Hair tied back, Veronica shakes herself out to force feeling back into her limbs. 

“You going to be okay?” Duke asks. She’s crossed her arms over herself, turned her face so she appears more interested in the shubbery than Veronica. It would be so much easier if she had no real interest in Veronica’s life. Sadly, Veronica knows that’s a lie. 

Heather just drove for an hour to help her. Even if she didn’t know it was for. Even if she had nothing else going on. She dragged her away when she was borderline hysterical. Contrary to what Veronica would like, you don’t do that for someone you don’t care about.

She holds back for a second, wondering if it would be easier to say goodbye and leave. Then, she reaches out and places her cold hand over Heather’s. She watches her eyes wide, her whole body jump at the contact. 

“Thanks for today,” she says. “I owe you one.” 

Duke stiffens, every muscle pulling in on herself like she was trying to disappear. This time she does pull away, her hand hanging loosely and uselessly by her side. Heather looks down, lets her hair fall over her face. She shuffles back a bit, takes a breath, then gives a minute nod.

“If you need… anything,” she says. “Help or something, I don’t know. You know where to find me.” Veronica nods. Heather darts around her and climbs into the driver’s seat. She doesn’t even acknowledge Veronica until the engine is already rumbling, when she gives another nod and then pulls away from the curb. 

She watches Heather disappear down the road, the car getting smaller until it turns the corner and she’s gone; back to her nice house in the nice part of town. Veronica imagines running after her, climbing into the seat just and keeping her close just because. She huffs a laugh at the idea, probably looking even crazier than she did before.

“How would you respond if I did that then?” she asks JD. He doesn’t answer her. Not that she expected him to. She can almost feel him, a shade of something, glaring daggers in the back of her mind. But other than that, he subjects her to the silent treatment and she rolls her eyes. 

“Asshole,” she scoffs and she heads inside.

After another sleepless night, Veronica heads to school before her parents wake up. She doesn’t realise how relieved she is to be out until she’s standing on the sidewalk and can breath for the first time in hours. She inhales once, then again, tilts her face upwards to look at the greyish clouds above her. After spending all of Sunday staring at her bedroom ceiling, they make a pleasant change. If she climbed into them, she wouldn’t find her way out again.

On the other hand, her house seems to become smaller and smaller by the second, the inevitable weighing down on it. She’s got a ninth-month time tomb inside her and at some point, she’ll have to face it.

For now though, she has other plans.

The front gate is open when she reaches the school, a small scattering of cars in the parking lot. Thankfully all the staff are inside, so Veronica drifts through the parking lot as if she’s the last person on Earth. She might look aimless from the outside-hell, a part of her feels like she is. But she knows where she’s going. She could probably get there blindfolded.

It’s been almost two weeks and the field is still cordoned off. Practise has been called off for the foreseeable future, leaving the team irate and Principal Gowan dealing with some very angry phone calls. Which…. It’s not like they have a winning streak they’re in danger of losing. Or any athletic ability for that matter. Most of the football team are there because their parents paid for it. 

But at the same time… it’s normal. Practise after school, running laps during gym, hiding beneath the bleachers during lunch. It was normal, all of it. Veronica hadn’t realised how normal it was until now.

“Bet you never found that normal,” she tells JD. She can almost hear him tell her how pretentious it all is, or some shit about how it’s all just a distraction, a ruse to keep the hierarchies in place and how next year it’ll be the same shit with a new Queen Bee and a new Quarterback to keep it up. She laughs bitterly. “Well maybe you’d be right. But what would you know about normal anyway?”

They’ve scrubbed him away; the blood and skin is all cleared and headed to who-knows-where, but the site is still marked by the gaping hole in the grass. It’s only a matter of time before forensics inevitably test it and realise who it is. God, she doesn’t want to be here when it breaks. 

She leans forwards, chin resting on her hands. Loneliness settles on her like winter snow. She tells herself she isn’t alone, that JD is just steps away from her but she knows how stupid she sounds. Like a child and their imaginary friend.

“Not that anyone could have imagined you,” she mumbles. With a sigh, she leans forward and rubs her bare legs, the lump in her throat hard as a stone. She’s under no illusions about why she came here. Heather Chandler tried all night to get it out of her, asked and asked until the words didn’t sound real.

“Bet you’re wondering why I didn’t do it,” she says. She laughs, a small and bitter huff that makes smoke dance in front of her. Pressure builds in her chest and the lump cracks, sending two small tears running down her cheeks. “I didn’t know either. And then I…” She looks down at her stomach. “I couldn’t do one more thing I’d regret.”

The admission chokes her as she speaks, like it was unwilling to leave her mind. Veronica feels the shame of it like coalfire, but there’s freedom in it too, heart-pounding, delirious freedom. She looks about wildly, waiting on the edge of her seat for everything to change. Wind billows across the field, tossing stray trash, rolling through the burnt patch of grass.

There’s no answer. She’s not sure what she is expecting; an epiphany, a moment of clarity, JD rising like a phoenix to tell her what to do. At this point, she would even take him appearing from beneath the bleachers to tell her he faked the whole thing. 

She’d kill him for it,of course. After she got what she needed from him. Instead, she only gets silence, and gnawing realisation that she’s confessing to a dead man and hating him for being dead. Tears are running down her hot cheeks, burning like acid, and she can’t blame anyone but herself. The FOR LET sign flashes in her vision, stronger and brighter than it was before, and she digs her nails into her temples.

“Jason, be honest with me,” she says. “How much would you have fought it? If you were still here, what-what would you have done? Begged him to let you stay? Run away from him?” A shudder runs up her back as an answer forms in her mind. “Would you have tried to kill him?” She looks down at her stomach. “Would this have changed anything? Or would you have left anyway?”

A minute passes. The question echoes around her, each one more broken than the last. Shame rattles in her bones and she buries her face in her hands, throat tight with the scream she can’t let out. 

Heather brought it up last night after the abortion teasing got boring. Wouldn’t it have been better if JD had left? Kurt and Ram might have lived. Her conscience might be cleaner and she wouldn’t hide bruises beneath her shirts. All she would have had is a broken heart and a string of what-ifs. And a dead Heather Chandler.

Veronica had just scowled and pretended to sleep, but she knew. She knows why the idea of JD leaving her like that cuts worse than the bomb did, why her hand searches for his. Why she can’t for the life of her stop talking to him. JD was the first person who looked at her and saw through her. He saw through the make-up and the blazer and the goofy laugh. He saw the messiness and the imperfections, the cracks and the black marks on her soul, and he liked it. He made the new look feel worthless. No-one, not even Martha, saw under her skin the way he did. And just the possibility that he could have understood her so deeply and then left , regardless of whether it was his choice, it just tears her apart. 

He was terrible and he was hers. It’s why she keeps asking him what to do, even if she knows she’d do the opposite. When it comes down to it, no-one knows her better than he did. Walking away felt freeing but every day since he’s been gone, she’s felt more alone than she ever has. 

“Did you feel like that too?” she asks. “With me?”

Worst of all, she doesn’t need him to answer. She knows it’s a yes. And it sickens her how much she loves it. 

[got-into-worm-by-mistake]

Agitation 3.2 Live Reactions

(This is me, writing reactions as I read, because why the fuck not. They're not complete, mature thoughts taken after I sit back and evaluate what I've read. Consider them as such)

I was pleasantly surprised to find that the bus line that ended at the old ferry put me only a fifteen or twenty minute walk away from the loft that Lisa, Alec and Bitch called home.  I could be spending a fair bit of time there before I gathered enough information or earned enough trust from them to turn them in to the authorities, so the convenience was nice.

Convenience is very nice when scheming betrayal

 Tourists were already crowding the railings or migrating to the beach,

Tourists? In My Brockton Bay? It's More Likely* Than You Think?

*More Likely meaning 'any at all' bc wtf? Who would want to visit America's largest open air insane asylum? :P

I knew the tattoo on the arm of the guy lifting boxes into the florist’s van that read ‘Erase, Extinguish, Eradicate’ meant the guy was a white supremacist because it had the letter E repeated three times.

I mean, anyone with that kind of tattoo is either a fan of a knockoff version of 40k or a white supremacist, even if the local neo-nazis didn't have a triple E name.

Any of the store owners or employees could call the likes of Miss Militia, Armsmaster or Triumph in, given a minute. 

Given how many issues the city has, I'm not sure it's that simple.

I headed off the boardwalk and into one of the alleys leading into the Docks.  Glancing over my shoulder, I saw one of the uniformed enforcers staring at me.  I wondered what he was thinking.  Good kids didn’t hang out in the Docks, and I doubted I looked the part of a guileless tourist. The abandoned factories, warehouses and garages of the Docks all blended into one another very quickly.

So the shitty part of town is right next to the big tourist zone. Seems... ill thought out. Also reminds me of that line from Buffy where Cordelia says that the bad part of Sunnydale is right next to the good part, because "we don't have a whole lot of town here" but Brockton Bay is supposed to be bigger than Sunnydale.

...

Fic Idea: Brockton Bay gets a Hellmouth.

:rofl:

(I wonder how Taylor would fare against Buffyverse vampires? Vamps can feel pain, so a bunch of biting insects would still be a distraction, but...)

“Hey,” he said, “Lisa said you’d arrived.  I thought you had school.”

Normal Protagonists: "Don't Do Drugs, And Stay In School."

Skitter: "Drop out of School. Drugs are Fantastic." (So curious what the context for that second line is. No one tell me.)

As it turned out, it was less of a ‘sparring’ session than an attempt on Brian’s part to give a less than fully committed Alec some basic lessons on hand to hand fighting.

Is Alec capable of taking anything seriously, I wonder?

He wasn’t big in the sense of a bodybuilder or someone who exercised just to pack on muscle like you saw with some of the people just out of prison.  It was a little more streamlined than that.  You could see the raised line of a vein running down his bicep, and the definition of his chest showed through his shirt.

So lithe prettyboy?

“Well fuck this then,” Alec said, “If you’re going to go easy on me and still kick my ass, I don’t see the point.” “You should learn how to fight,” Brian said. “I’ll do like I have been and bring my taser,” was Alec’s response, “one poke and they’re out cold.  Better than any punch.”

On the one hand, you can always lose your taser. On the other hand, given the kinds of people Alec is likely to go up against, if he loses his taser, he's probably doomed either way.

“Okay, now you’re going to do two things different.  Step into the jab so you’ve got your body’s momentum behind the hit, on top of your arm’s power.  Second, I want your left arm up as you’re jabbing with your right, and vice versa.  If I see the chance, I’m going to pop you one on the shoulder or ribs, so be ready to fend me off.”

I know people for whom these sorts of scenes are absolutely shipper candy.

“How is that a ball?” I asked, raising my own foot to point at the vaguely spherical part of the foot where the ankle met the ground, “this is the only part that looks ball-like.”

She's not wrong.

“Ehhh,” he hedged, “Some.  My dad was a boxer when he was in the service, and he taught me some when I was little.  I moved on to other stuff on my own – Karate, Tae Kwon Do, Krav Maga – but nothing really held my interest.  I only took a few weeks or a month of classes for each.  I know enough and keep in shape, which is enough to hold my own against anyone who isn’t a black belt in whatever, which is the important thing, I think.  Keeping up with the more serious martial artists is a full time job, and you’re still going to run into people who are better than you, so I don’t see the point in stressing too much over it.”

I suppose I understand that. Besides, if Brian ends up against a Brute, no amount of training will matter. That's sort of how the Wormverse works, right? Batman, as he exists in DC, wouldn't work in Worm. (Granted, make Batman a Thinker or a Tinker and he's golden again, but as written, with technically no superpowers...)

Lisa’s voice just behind me startled me, “This.  Pull up your socks, boys and girl, because we’re robbing a bank.”

BANK ARC BANK ARC BANK ARC

[lisbeth-kk]

Holiday

Thanks for the prompt @calaisreno

Ice and fire

They’ve decided to let Rosie choose where to go the next time she’s off school. February predicts she will pick somewhere hot and sunny. Even Sherlock’s unprepared when she makes her wish clear. No hesitation, no matter how many times they ask if she’s sure.

“It’s damn cold there at that time of year, love,” John says.

“And it’s not the kind of cold you’re used to here in England, Bee,” Sherlock punctuates.

Rosie rolls her eyes at her two oblivious fathers.

“I know! I’ve done my research, collected data,” she says exasperated, looking specifically at Sherlock, who does nothing to hide his smile.

“Of course you did,” he says fondly, ruffling her curls. 

“Well, at least we know what to buy for Christmas,” John muses. “Proper clothing. Wool, fleece, windproof jackets and trousers, boots…”

“Always the practical one, John.”

Sherlock reaches for John’s hand and squeezes it. John squeezes back, mouthing ‘I love you’.

***

Rosie and Sherlock uses the next weeks to do further research and decide on the actual destination. It’s after all three countries to choose from. When they’re at their wits end, they call John to make the final choice. Debating back and forth, John finally decides, and both Sherlock and Rosie let out a relieved sigh. John scrutinises them both, then throw his arms in the air.

“You had decided even before calling me, didn’t you?” he sighs.

“Papa deduced which of the cities you would prefer, Daddy. Easy peasy,” Rosie says gleefully.

Sherlock stands and embraces his husband, kissing his forehead.

“We all know how much you hate that kind of research, John. Besides, you would go anywhere with Bee and me, so we just made it easier for you. Nobody benefits from you being all grumpy,” Sherlock states and pulls John in for a proper kiss.

John melts in Sherlock’s arms and feels the excitement of going on an adventure with his beloved family.

***

When the hotel comes into sight, Rosie rubs her eyes and blinks rapidly.

“What’s wrong, Bee?” Sherlock asks as the bus is about to park.

“The windows. They look strange. Blurry. I thought there was something wrong with my eyes,” Rosie answers.

“Ah. Yes, the architecture is rather….” 

Sherlock trails off before he offends anyone, by saying out loud how appalled he is by the hideous look of said hotel. The location’s splendid, though. 

The receptionist is efficient, and to Rosie’s astonishment fluent in English, though he has an unfamiliar accent. Before they walk over to the lifts, she hears him speak on the phone in another language. She’s heard it at the airport and on the bus too.

“Did you understand any of that?” she asks Sherlock when the lift ascends to their floor. 

“Not a single word, Bee,” Sherlock admits.

“You, John?” he asks.

“Nope. Luckily they speak quite good English,” John says.

“They wouldn’t get far only speaking their mother tongue,” Sherlock muses. “And they’re adventurous. Vikings all of them, remember.”

Rosie giggles.

*** 

Before going out to explore the city, John checks the weather forecast like a true native. He’s done some research on his own. The weather can go from sun to heavy snowfall in a blink. He finds it hard to believe, but better safe than sorry, he reckons, and unpacks all their new outfits.

It doesn’t take them more than five minutes to reach the outskirts of the city centre. Rosie’s fascinated by the wooden houses by the small canal, not to mention when they arrive at the bigger one in the inner city. They’re all painted in different bright colours, and the sight’s quite picturesque.

“It’s just like in the photographs,” she whispers, her eyes beaming.

“Indeed,” Sherlock agrees, laying a gloved covered hand on Rosie’s shoulder.

John pulls out his phone to take a picture but is interrupted by a young girl in her twenties.

“Do you want me to take a picture of the three of you?” she asks.

“Yes, please,” says John and joins Rosie and Sherlock by the railing of the old bridge.

The girl takes a few shots of them, returns the phone to John and says her goodbyes. 

They’re starting to get cold, at least on their cheeks, which are the only places on their bodies not covered in fabric. Sherlock suggests they walk to the town square.

“I read that there’s some special event this week. Celebrating the Sami people’s national day. There should be a big tent there where they’re serving food and drinks.”

***

“This is like a fairytale,” Rosie whispers in awe when they enter the tent.

In the middle is a bonfire. Around it wooden benches and tables are placed in a wide circle, the benches covered with reindeer pelts and there’s a woman dressed in the traditional Sami garment performing a joik. 

The food’s also quite traditional. Something called bidos. A stew with onion, carrots, potatoes and reindeer meat. It’s simple and very down to earth, but tasty, and warm. 

John looks around the tent when he’s finished eating and eyes a woman casting glances at them, trying to hide her smile.

“So, you’ve seen her too?” Sherlock murmurs in his ear. “I think she recognises us.”

“You think?” John asks astonished. “I’m pretty sure she’s native Norwegian. I heard her talking to one of the waiters when I passed her earlier.”

“John, please. We’re not in the bushes or wilderness without internet access,” Sherlock huffs. “She probably reads your blog. There’s no question about her knowing who we are.”

“I’m just getting some more water, Daddy,” Rosie says and walks to a table where mugs of ice water are placed. 

On her way back, she stumbles. Before John or Sherlock can reach her, the woman catches Rosie and rescues her from falling. She even manages to save the glass which slipped out of Rosie’s hand.

“You alright?” she asks, and Rosie nods.

“Thanks,” Rosie says shyly. 

Sherlock approaches, thanking the woman warmly. She blushes and waves it away.

“No problem,” she says. “Having a nice stay?”

“Oh, yes!” Sherlock and Rosie say in unison.

“Have you seen the northern lights yet?” the woman inquires as John joins them.

“We were hoping to see them before we leave,” John retorts.

“Tonight may be a good time for it. Which hotel are you staying at?” 

When Rosie explains about the strange hotel, the woman chuckles.

“Ah, yes! Not a favourite when it comes to the architecture, but there’s a roof terrace with a magnificent view over the fjord. You should be able to see it from there, I think,” she explains.

“Brilliant,” John says. “We’ll definitely try that.”

The woman looks at Sherlock and sends him a look John’s unable to decipher. Sherlock just nods gravely at her, and she touches his arm briefly with tears in her eyes, before she wishes them a nice stay and walks out of the tent.  

***

Later that evening when Sherlock’s calculated the best opportunity to catch the northern lights, and they’ve dressed themselves, they find that they’re alone on the roof terrace. Most of the guests are here for business and have probably seen the spectacle numerous times, John thinks to himself.

The three of them are standing close together looking out over the fjord, and suddenly it’s there. Green light dances over the sky, and it’s breathtaking and magical, almost surreal. Rosie squeaks, hops up and down and claps her hands in excitement.

John pulls Sherlock closer and kisses his jaw.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” he whispers.

“Quite,” Sherlock agrees, and pulls John even closer.

“Are you cold, sweetheart?” John inquires when he feels Sherlock shake a little.

“No,” Sherlock murmurs. “It’s just…I…uhm…I remembered that woman from the tent.”

“Yeah, I meant to ask you about that look she gave you. You seemed to know what it was about,” John prompts.

“I did. She knows who we are, John. That look was linked to…”

He trails off and all of a sudden John understands.

“The roof,” he whispers. “She knew about the Fall and silently begged you to be careful.”

Tears spring to John’s eyes, and he buries his face in Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock strokes his back.

“I’m still astounded to experience strangers caring so much about us,” Sherlock murmurs. 

Rosie yawns as the northern lights recedes and they go back to their room, overwhelmed by all the impressions of the day. 

“Thank you for being persistent in your choice of our holiday destination, love,” John says when he tucks Rosie in.

“You’re welcome, Daddy. I didn’t want to bore any of us, and lying on a beach is actually quite boring,” the little girl states. 

She’s asleep before Sherlock has a chance to say goodnight.

Lying in bed Sherlock and John hold each other tight, marvelling in the thought that somewhere in this small town, almost in the middle of Norway, a woman cares for them, knows who they are, wishes them all the best, and they don’t even know her name.

I got a bit carried away today, moving them as close as I could.

@totallysilvergirl @missdeliadili @peanitbear @raina-at @topsyturvy-turtely @meetinginsamarra @keirgreeneyes @gaylilsherlock

[wingingitonwheels]

Monday 11th November: Tome

It’s only two days that have passed since I last wrote, and whilst sitting on a bike and simply pedalling seems such a basic and functional existence, it feels like I’ve had a month’s worth of experience despite geographically having not made much progress south. Avoiding Ruta 5 is proving to take me on the path less trodden and although I’ve only one degree south since Saturday, and overall just 2 degrees south, each day has delivered new vistas, different cultures and daylight hours are accelerating so fast, I wake up confused each morning as to whether I’ve slept too long or not. It’s getting colder and I’m starting to need my jacket both in the morning and descending. It is still spring here and I’ve got hay fever for the first time whilst abroad! In just 5 days, the temperature has moved from oppressive to pleasant, and just 3 days ago, it seemed I’d found Chile’s tranquility. Followed by its wine region, which leaked into Chilean Wales and finally to the Pacific town of Tomé, a busy seaside town north of Concepcion.

My rear tyre will likely need replacing by Puerto Montt and yesterday as I slogged up my fifteenth hill of the day, whilst cursing my mobile home for the twentieth time, I considered that like my tyre, I might arrive in Puerto Montt too tired to enjoy the reason I came. I worked through how I could get there and miss the rest of Chile. Plane (cheap but need a box), bus (three legs - fine if you don’t have a bike) or hire a car. All very reasonable ideas and possible from Concepcion. However the weather in Puerto Montt (the reason I didn’t fly directly there as initially planned) is still poor for another ten days. The reality is that my long held dream could be a damp Squibb by rushing. And whilst I’d love to make the most of my camping gear, as I cross Chile, tired and dirty at the end of each day, given the choice of an average hotel at a reasonable price or a tent where now the nights are cold, it’s an easy decision to opt for comfort. It is a real dilemma though.

I’ve figured out that if I convert a mile for a kilometre (kilometres measure distance here), I’ve found my formula for calculating how long it will take me to get from point to point. In the olden days, when I used to have a fast bike and legs, and carried very little, I’d roughly cover on a good day, twenty miles in an hour. Now I cover twenty kilometres on average in an hour. On a good day that could average twenty-three, but it makes me feel better to think as kilometres as miles so I’m not so disheartened at the slow pace I’m moving. But now with ten days or so until it’s worth getting to Puerto Montt, I may as well make my days shorter for the 785 kilometres remaining until the planned journey might commence 😬. In terms of the UK, that’s roughly John O Groats to Kendal or going north, Land’s End to just north of Lancaster. So today I’ll pass the midway point to Puerto Montt! Woohoo!

Saturday 9th November

Having arrived the night before to Eliana’s little cabin, sun baked and frazzled, I took my time getting going. After saying goodbye to Bongo, I put on my music and hit the road, feeling much better for a later start and allowing myself a shorter day of just thirty miles if I chose, which would take me to Cauquenes for around lunchtime. Not long into the ride, my rear wheel juddered weirdly, as though the wheel was misaligned. It was disturbing but I figured I must have ridden over a rumbly bit of road and got over it. About ten minutes later, I looked back at my rear hub and noticed the tool Allen key bolt still attached to the skewer (this is a tiny slot in key rather than a full length key for clarity) from when I changed my tyre. Doh! Stopping to take it off, I noticed my pannier wasn’t securely shut, so scalded myself and tightened it and continued. The hills seemed like less work than other days, I felt lighter and happy, singing loudly to Sophie B Hawkins Right Beside me and Randy Newman’s One day I’ll Fly Away. She has to be one of the most emotional singers in history. It was Almaz that helped me write my best ever English essay, a story which was really quite sad of a lonely boy living in probably Colorado (where at the time I’d never been, who walked up high into the Aspen forest, lamenting the world whilst taking in its beauty as birds soared overhead whilst he perched on a ledge). After returning tot the real world from my deep and distant thoughts, it immediately occurred that I felt lighter. Perhaps not fitter? At exactly seventeen miles and at the top of a climb, I stopped and checked…had something fallen from my loose pannier? Frantic checking followed and lo and behold, my telephoto lens was gone, a gift, the single most heavy piece of equipment and the thing that nearly didn’t come. I held back tears and considered what had happened. I expected the juddering was the lens falling out of the pannier and being caught in the back wheel before it was spat out and exploded on the road behind me. And of course as I was listening to music, I didn’t hear it drop. Disaster. Was there any point at riding back a likely fifteen miles to see it obliterated? I had to. I couldn’t go on not knowing. And perhaps I might be lucky. There was a hard shoulder all the way and if it wasn’t broken it was unlikely someone would stop at exactly that point. With a very heavy heart, I turned back.

There was no question of it appearing in the first thirteen miles that I retraced. Any fatigue was replaced with adrenaline. Whilst I acknowledged the positive beeps from the friendly and supportive motorists, I was laser focused, riding the wrong way on the hard shoulder. As I got closer to the judder point, my eyes traced every contour, every gutter. Nothing. With two miles to go till I was back at the start, I decided there was no harm in simply asking my hosts if anyone had found a lens. I waited by the gates as Bongo and Max bolted towards me, followed by Elish…cuddling my lens like a baby. I could have kissed him! Tired Chell makes mistakes. Chell was VERY tired that morning!

All’s well that ends well. Lunch of Chicken leg was consumed at the roadside cafe where I started the day and four hours after initially starting the day, I started again, a little heavier, but happy. Dumb ass 🙄. And although a complete pain in the ass of a day, look at the beauty I saw alive at the side of the road? A Chilean Rose Tarantula. Incredibly stunning…

I’m a day behind but there’s too much to say about my next night and day for now, so reader (assuming there’s still a few), you’ll have to wait. 😄. Adios!

[doctors-journal]

11 July

The detective seemed to be a little more himself this morning at least. He even joined me at breakfast for a hasty kiss and a piece of toast.

“I have found us another client,” he declared as he ate, “an American by the name of ‘Garrideb’ who is looking for a long lost relative of his in England. His source is unfortunately outdated, so we have compiled a wide net and we shall see what we find. What do you say, Doctor?”

This came as a surprise to me. I thought he would be preoccupied with his “Moriarty,” but it’s probably for the best that he’s turned to something else.

“Come, Doctor,” he said, “we have not a minute to waste.”

He ushered me out to the bus stop.  I would say that I have crossed the whole city in my time working with the detective, but I am certain that the next time the detective gets it in his mind to go on one of these errands, I will discover whole new places that I didn’t know existed.

 It was a hot day for standing out in the sun waiting for buses and hurrying from door to door. I have spent longer shifts on my feet, but it wore me down hour by hour. It didn’t help that the detective knocked and then stood silently, waiting for me to awkwardly explain our errand to whoever answered.

“We’re looking for someone with the name Garrideb,” I said.

And each time the person answered with varying degrees of annoyance and confusion, “Who? Never heard of them. No, I don’t know anyone with that name.” They all began to blur together.

One woman was especially surprised by the question and to my amazement she answered, “You have the wrong address, George Garrideb lives down the street at number 20.”

I glanced at the detective, but he didn’t say anything, so I thanked the woman and we went to number 20.

Thankfully, the detective finally took the lead to talk to the old man who answered the door. “Hello, I’m Stephen Escott,” he explained in a voice that wasn’t his own. “I’m a plumber, you see. I was just in the neighbourhood and I noticed the age of the pipes going into your house, and I was wondering if you might want a consultation. How old is this house?”

The man seemed taken aback, but he answered, “Oh, must be 80 years.”

The detective nodded and then jumped to the next question. “That’s what I thought, and how long have you lived here?”

“Twenty some, twenty seven maybe, no that can’t be right…”

“I see, I see. And have you had any trouble with the piping?”

“Well, you know, in one of these old houses, it’s a miracle anything works right, but I get by. Say, what’re you selling?”

“Nothing, nothing, I was just wondering if you wanted me to take a look and make sure everything is in ship shape. I was just talking to your neighbour down the way at number 13. His house seems to be in a similar condition. Do you know how long he’s lived there?”

“Hm… Could that be six years, now? Though I don’t see what that has to do with my pipes-”

The detective cut him off. “I see. Any more recent arrivals in the neighbourhood?”

“There’s a young couple who just moved in, but I really don’t need any plumbing work. Good day.”

The man shut the door before the detective could spring another question on him.

That was about all we got out of a long, hot day. I don’t know why we’re looking for Garridebs. We got back to the flat for a late dinner and then I just came up to my room. The detective is probably still in the living room, curled up in his chair with a cigarette and his Sherlock Holmes book.

I haven’t been this tired since I came back to England, and I was hardly even doing anything at all.

[benjaminsblog]

You can take the boy out of Pompey…

I made a long overdue return to Portsmouth this weekend with Sam after almost 6 years away, and I am happy to report that it’s almost exactly as I left it! I fostered a strong affection for the place during my 5-year stay, and as soon as the Spinnaker came into view on my drive in, a stupid grin spread across my face and I immediately felt like I was back home.

I got there rather early as I had dropped Mum off at the airport en-route for a trip of her own (Mallorca v Portsmouth? I think there’s only one winner), but even that worked out, because I found myself on a virtually deserted seafront at about 8am* in beautiful early-morning sunshine. Sam wasn’t due for a good while, so I ended up going on a very long wander along part of the coast, before heading inland past some old familiar spots.

When my Samigo arrived, we located our Air BnB (a stone’s throw from the seafront), and after the old man had a nap, we walked the short distance to Canoe Lake for a game of tennis. Tennis is the reason Sam and I met in the first place, after both narrowly failing to make the University team back in the day. We played at a few clubs during our time in Pompey, but Canoe Lake was the last – and best – of the lot, so we resolved to play both days we were there. As luck would have it, it was ‘Day 1’ of the grass season, so the pristine grass courts were open for play!

We paid another return visit to Sakura, a small Japanese restaurant which Sam had taken me to as my introduction to Japanese cuisine; I have since developed a taste for much of their food – particularly katsu curry – and it all started here. The next morning, we wandered the other (more interesting) half of the coast, stopping for a seafood-themed lunch before ending up in Gunwharf Keys. Another thing we’ve bonded over is our love of films, so we perused the listings for something that took our fancy. The choices weren’t great, but we opted for Kung Fu Panda 4, hoping for a few laughs if nothing else. I have only seen K.F.P. #1, and if I’m honest, I’ve still only seen #1! After about twenty minutes, the warm weather walk + fine food took its toll on me, and I became rather drowsy. I tried my best to resist, but once I realised I’d lost track of the film’s plot, I succumbed and had a bit of a snooze! Sam told me I didn’t miss much.

We took the bus back and had a bit of a rest before our second bout of tennis, and then had a pizza apiece in front of a few episodes of Clarkson’s Farm to wrap up an enjoyable evening and wonderful weekend. My only complaint about the trip was that it wasn’t long enough, but that is easily rectifiable – I don’t plan on waiting another 6 years either.

*Truth be told, my very first stop was the Asda store where I used to work! I was curious to see how the ol’ gal was doing, and if any familiar faces were around. They weren’t, though perhaps partly because it was the dawn shift; I did observe some ‘Click-&-Collectors’ for a bit, and reckon I could still run rings around ‘em – you never lose the magic!

[venturingvietnam2024]

#7 Hoi Anh: The lantern city

The overnight train was somehow more older and more rattlier than the first. I managed to dream that I was home and that an earthquake was occurring and that the rumbling of the ground wouldn’t stop - essentially because in real life, on the train it never did. Finally, I worked out it was only just in my dream. Slightly scary though, as in NZ once I had a similar dream, though I woke up because there was an actual earthquake! Arriving in Dha Nang at 6am, we swapped and made our way to Hoi Anh by bus, taking an hour. On arriving, leaving our bags in the foyer, we had twenty minutes to ‘get spicey’ as Leo would say, or freshen up. From here, breakfast! it was well needed at this time too. Vietnamese white coffee, coffee was needed because I was heavy on the fatigue factor. That and some granola to settle the tummy. We had a walking tour of the old town with our guide today, and immediately fell in love with Hoi Anh. The lanterns and colours of the city are so beautiful! You can possibly take a bad photo here. After the tour, a lot of the group went to a tailor and had the clothes tailor made. Unbelievably they will have them to try on by later tonight, from literally a piece of materials to Libby having a ball gown dress! From the tailor shop, Sonia and I wandered the town and stopped in a famous cafe for ice coffees. The beautiful rooftop views were stunning. We ended up sitting at the front window on the floor level, and a lady carrying a wooden basket hassled us into having a photo and then buying bananas, well done. Bananas in hand, I returned to the hotel for a quick nap! These things are important. A Power Nap later, Libby, Connor, Sonia and I got Banh Mi queen - which was in fact the best we’ve had yet! Following this, we went to the coconut boats! Essentially they are boats that look like half a coconut. We were rowed down the river to Gangnam Style by a little old lady. Amy and Connor then got out and were individually spun quickly by another guide! Hectic! Upon suggesting I did not want to do it on account of a queasy stomach (and pointing to my stomach) the local people proceeded to shout ‘baby!!’ Agh, no I’m not pregnant, but if that gets me out of spinning, sure, that excuse will do! This was such a fun experience, iconic Hoi Anh and Vietnam. Beautiful memories with great people. After boating, we made our way to dinner - I actually had pizza! Hoi Anh by night with its lit up lanterns was beautiful! Whilst many heading out to the bar, Sonia and I headed back to the hostel, both with tummies tattering on the edge that didn’t require more cocktails!

Written Wednesday March 27th at 9.12pm

[sunsetfell]

Cindy in the Water

It was after 4 p.m. when Cindy and Faulkner finally got in Faulkner’s car and drove out into the vast middle of Pennsylvania. Faulkner would have liked to start earlier, but Cindy woke up late as usual, especially since she’d been up till 3 a.m. last night at a friend’s party, then fallen back asleep, then woke up again with a headache, needing coffee and a long shower. When Cindy arrived at Faulkner’s apartment in dark green leggings and a denim jacket, it was after 3 p.m. and she had another cup of coffee in her hand.

This sky in early spring was gray as the piles of gravel that marked the occasional quarry by the highway. The sun had not melted the dew on the grass from that morning. An occasional flower could be seen, but most of the trees were bare.

One week prior, Faulkner had said: “Come drive with me next weekend,” and then explained the purpose of the trip. “I want to show you what this country is really like.”

Cindy was from a big city in Malaysia and never learned to drive. The nightlife in Philly lacked the vibrance she craved, but she and her classmates strived to make up for it—for their end-of-semester party, they had even hired their own DJ at the one girl’s apartment at 45th and Walnut.

But to really see America, Faulkner told her, you need to leave the city, to a place the bus doesn’t go. “And, since you’re only here till June, you gotta see things while you can.”

It was dark when they reached the cabin they’d booked near Coudersport, in Potter County, near the north-middle of the state. Cindy hauled her suitcase from the trunk, then gave a long sigh and leaned against the car. Faulkner took it in for her.

The cabin inside smelled of wood and adhesives. Cindy announced she wanted to shower. She fished a towel and other items out of her suitcase, then went into the bathroom and closed its wooden door.

In less than a minute Cindy came out again, now wearing only a towel. She rummaged through her suitcase, glancing occasionally at Faulkner as if to judge his reaction to seeing her undressed. In the end she took nothing from her suitcase and returned to the bathroom, closing the door.

After Cindy had showered she emerged wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt. She put on her red puffy coat and they went outside to sit at a picnic table by the cabin. It was nighttime and still cloudy, with neither the stars nor the moon visible. Faulkner commented it was one of the darkest nights he’d ever seen, but Cindy said she’d seen darker on a trip to India a few years ago, near Jaipur.

“You’ve seen so many places, it must be hard to impress you with someplace new,” Faulkner said.

“Oh, I haven’t seen so many,” Cindy replied. “My sister’s been to way more than me. She’s been to 23 countries.”

“I don’t even think I could name 23 countries,” Faulkner said, although it wasn’t true.

Cindy stood up and walked a few paces into the damp grass. Although she was just out of arm’s reach, she seemed to have disappeared into the darkness. Only the sound of her breathing remained—unusually loud in the silence of early spring, before the crickets and katydids began their chorus. It was as if she was a buoy in the ocean and her breath was the clanking bell warning ships of the rocks below her.

“There’s nothing to do here,” she declared.

“I’m sorry, Cindy,” Faulkner said.

The next morning Cindy got up earlier than she ever did—she was out of bed just after 8. Even Faulkner still felt sleepy. Outside the sky was yet again like gray rock.

Cindy went to the bathroom to change but came out in just her underwear, then sat on the bed and again sifted through her suitcase while removing nothing from it.

“Where are we going today?” she asked.

“There’s a restaurant in Austin where we can get breakfast.”

“Austin, Texas?”

“No, Austin, Pennsylvania. Just twenty minutes from Coudersport.”

In the car, Cindy said:

“I saw you staring at me in my underwear.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare,” Faulkner replied.

“I don’t want you to get the wrong idea,” Cindy said. “I’m not coming on this trip to sleep with you. I came because you told me it was the way to see America.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Faulkner said.

The restaurant served what Faulkner thought of as breakfast: eggs, bacon, toast, and potatoes. Cindy read the menu several times.

“Does anything here have flavor?” she asked.

In the end Cindy got an omelet that she smothered in ketchup.

After breakfast, Faulkner said he knew a trail along the Sinnemahoning Creek. At this time of year, the trail was deserted—they were the only ones on it. Soon, they left the trail and walked along the side of the pebbly creek bed. The water was low and their shoes stayed dry.

When they came to a boulder set in the creek bank, Faulkner proposed that they sit on it and rest. He did this, but Cindy declared that she wanted to swim.

“The water will be freezing this time of year,” Faulkner said.

“I don’t mind,” Cindy said.

She took off her shoes and socks and placed them on the rock, then pulled her pant legs up to her knees and waded in until the water was just below them.

“Do you think there are snakes in here?” Cindy asked.

“I don’t know,” Faulkner said. He knew he’d seen snakes in water around here, but he had no idea how many or whether they’d be around this time of year.

Cindy walked back to the rock, then sat on it and took off her pants, showing again her pink underwear.

“Don’t stare,” she said.

“Okay,” Faulkner replied.

Cindy went back into the creek, and the water was now just above her knees. She stared into it, poking around beneath the surface with her hands as if she spotted something she wanted to grab. She fished a rock from the creek bed and tossed it about 30 feet in front of her.

“This water is cold!” she yelled.

“I told you,” Faulkner said.

“Why don’t you come in?”

“Because it’s cold.”

Cindy stared into the creek toward her feet. The water was clear, and Faulkner could see her feet from where he was sitting, although they were distorted by refraction at the water’s surface.

“I want to go all the way in,” Cindy announced.

“It’s way too cold for that, Cindy.”

“I’ll just dunk myself in then come right out.”

Cindy stared a bit longer at the water. Then she walked over to beside the rock and removed the rest of her clothes, so that she was fully naked. Then she trudged back into the middle of the creek. Faulkner, remembering what she had told him, kept his gaze on the line between the black treetops and the gray sky.

Cindy plunged her whole body into the water, then came up shrieking and prancing around at the cold. She started to run back toward the rock where her clothes were.

As Cindy ran, her foot hit a sharp red rock that had not yet been worn smooth by the water rubbing against it. It dragged Cindy down and smashed her against the creek bed. Cindy came up screaming. Her calf and thigh were bleeding.

Cindy collapsed on the dry pebbles still screaming. Faulkner ran over.

Through screams, they agreed that the plan was for Faulkner to hold up Cindy’s left side while she hopped on her right leg, and in that way they made it to the car. Faulkner was able to get Cindy’s shirt and coat on, but her left leg was too painful to put on her pants or underwear.

Faulkner drove to the hospital in Lock Haven, where they told Cindy her ankle was badly sprained but nothing was broken. Cindy told Faulkner a social worker had stopped by the room, and although no explanation had been given, she could assume it was because she had showed up half naked, injured, and with a man.

On the drive home, they talked little of the events of the trip. Mostly Cindy talked about American music from the 1990s that she knew well from her childhood (where she’d had the songs on cassette tapes) but Faulkner didn’t. Occasionally she’d complain about the pain in her ankle or the itchiness of the bandage on her thigh.

In the days that followed, Cindy sent one text to Faulkner, on the morning two days later, but other than that there was silence. Faulkner texted her a few times to ask how she was doing, how her leg was healing, and whether she’d like to meet again, perhaps for something less dangerous, but he received no reply. This was strange because her last words on exiting the car at her West Philly apartment had been “I hope to see you soon.”

On a Saturday in a thrift store on Chestnut Street, Faulkner saw a denim jacket that looked like Cindy’s, and for a second thought she was really standing there wedged into the rack of clothes. He put his hand on his cell phone, wondering if this would, by coincidence, be the moment she finally texted him. But it was silent.

In a grocery store by 42nd and Walnut, Faulkner considered if he might run into Cindy, because he knew she shopped there occasionally. Would she accuse him of stalking her, because this was her territory he was in? But the store held only strangers, and no Cindy.

Three months after their road trip, Faulkner, desperate for answers, managed to find Cindy on LinkedIn. To his surprise, it said that she had already returned to Malaysia. She had cut her master’s program short, and started a job at a bank in Kuala Lumpur. Based on the timing, she must have left America no more than two weeks after she had plunged herself naked into the Sinnemahoning Creek.

Faulkner decided not to message her. She had obviously made a choice to end the conversation, and there was no more possibility of developing their relationship. He had accomplished one of the many things he had set out to do: he had shown her the part of America she wouldn’t have seen on her own. And he knew she would always remember that.

[lindsaystravelblogs1]

16 to 18 January - Embarkation and departure

Day 32, Monday, 16 January 2023

We were up early and in the breakfast room before opening time at 7 am.  It looked pretty bleak outside.  It had rained quite a lot during the night and there were big puddles everywhere. It had also snowed on the mountains and they had a mantle of pale grey below their denser, more permanent snow-caps. There were about 15 people there ahead of us, all well into their brekkies!  We had asked the hotel manager to book us a cab for 7:30 so we could be first in line at the clinic when it opened at 8 am.  The first cab only took cash and we didn’t have any, so he ordered another one that arrived 5 minutes later.  We were at the clinic by 7.45 – to find it open and about 15 people ahead of us. Despite this, we were attended to very quickly and both of us had our RAT tests and were back on the street before 8 am!  Australia???

We took the long way home and walked back to the hotel and were there just after 8:30 – to find that our negative test results had already arrived.  They told us it would take 2 hours.  Last week, they said 8 to 10 hours – hence our concern about meeting Ponant’s requirements.  How easy can it be in Hicksville, Argentina.  The Western Hemisphere has a lot to learn from our backward/ backwoods neighbours.

We checked out of our hotel but left our luggage in their storeroom while we did a bit more work upstairs.  We walked down to the main street and ate at Tante Sara’s again – even ordered the same fare as last week.  Then back to the hotel to wait until it was time to head for our ship. The hotel manager had organised a cab for us – I had specified one that accepted cards, but the one that arrived was another ‘cash only’ one.  He was not happy, but the manager was helpful and arranged another one that did take cards. We set off, but after a couple of kilometres, it became obvious that we were going in the wrong direction and the driver didn’t have enough English to understand.  Heather eventually showed him a photo of a ship on her phone and it got sorted.  When I told him we needed to go to the ‘port’, he assumed the ‘airport’ for some reason, so we had to backtrack a couple of kilometres with no reduction in the fare.

I reckon the walk from the cab to the ship was at least 700 metres and I had cricked my back when lifting our bags during packing so was in a bit of pain dragging two cases each as well as our heavy backpacks.  But we finally staggered up the gangplank to be welcomed by a couple of crew members. They were waiting for us, the last passengers to arrive.  Everyone else had been delivered earlier by Ponant, but they were unwilling to do anything to assist us to get from the hotel to the port or from the port entrance to the ship – everyone else simply sat on the bus and were driven to the foot of the gangplank.

We were soon checked in and assisted to our cabin – very nice too, but had hardly started to get organised before we had to go to the welcome drinks and French pastries that are a daily event.  Unfortunately, almost all of them are sickly sweet.  Then it was time for the compulsory safety drill and a quick walk past the lifeboats before dinner.  The lifeboats look luxurious compared with others we have seen but I still hope we never need to enjoy their luxury.

The ship didn’t leave until 8 or 9 o’clock due to someone’s luggage not arriving until late and then we only went twenty of thirty kilometres into the Beagle Channel to nearby Port William where we tied up beside an oil tanker to bunker the ship.  There seems to have been some sort of problem that delayed the tethering process because refuelling was delayed several hours and it was mid-afternoon on Tuesday before we finally set off for Antarctica.

Day 33, Tuesday, 17 January 2023

There were more briefings, some compulsory, in the morning, but food is an important part of the Ponant experience and there seems to be relatively short periods between calls to meals, drinks, pastries, and so no.  In the meantime, while still being refuelled at Point William, we were invited on deck to look for birds with a couple of naturalists, one of whom knew next to nothing about birds. They don’t do eBird surveys, but we looked at the Port William foreshore and surrounds through a couple of telescopes on the ship, as well as the sea around the ship.  I was surprised how many species we identified (19) without leaving the ship at all.

There were also a couple of mandatory briefings for people wishing to participate in certain activities and we went to the Polar Plunge and Ice Hiking ones.

We decided to try the fancy a la carte restaurant instead of the slightly more casual one we had used before.  It was fine, but a bit ostentatious and it is unlikely that we will use it again.

Once out of the Beagle Channel and into the Drake Passage around 7 pm or so, the sea got a bit rougher although nothing to worry about.  We were rocking and rolling quite a lot in bed and in the early hours – 1.30 to 3.30 am – we were woken twice by things flying everywhere in the cabin.  Nothing was broken but we had water all over the place from our water glasses and quite a few things were quite wet.  I was crawling around on the floor looking for things that were rolling around under the bed and strewn all over the cabin. We survived it all and it calmed down a bit towards dawn – but neither of us got much sleep.

Day 34, Wednesday, 18 January 2023

We were up early to collect and reorganise the gear that had been scattered around during the night.  We had showers and breakfast in time to go to the first lecture of the day at 9 am.  It was an introduction to Antarctica and was very informative, if quite unstructured, and somewhat focussed on the speaker’s personal experience of working at an Italian base down here.

During the morning, they had a somewhat odd gathering of all the Aussies on board (26 I think) that seemed to have no focus.  We just sat and chatted to whoever was next to us and as a result, most of us missed a lecture about digital photography that I certainly wanted to attend.  (Incidentally, the Captain told us last night that the ship only had 65 passengers and a crew of 205 – I don’t think Ponant will make a big profit this time.  Also, this is the first voyage Ponant has done from Ushuaia to NZ – and they don’t think anyone else has offered it before.)

After lunch, there was another Digital Photography lecture and although it was good, the slides seemed to be on time-lapse and the lecturer had trouble keeping up with it – and some things were obviously lost as a result.

There was also a lecture (I have been using ‘lecture’ a bit loosely – a lot of them are ‘talks’ rather than formal presentations) about the science being performed on the ship.  Their Citizen Science seems to be pretty pathetic or completely non-existent, but they have a few researchers, apparently on some sort of Ponant bursary or scholarship, and they explained to us what they were trying to do.  All very interesting and we will be able to see inside their laboratories during the voyage.

Very soon after that, all those who had specified an intention to do the Polar Plunge had to front the doctor to get a tick (or not) to do the Plunge.  Ponant is obviously ultra-risk averse and ruled Heather out – so they lost me too without even looking at my documents.  I wasn’t going to do it without Heather.  Quite ridiculous – and costly for us because we had to have ECGs to prove our fitness and they didn’t count for anything in the end.

Incidentally, I have looked for birds at every opportunity I have had all day.  I saw one Light-mantled Sooty Albatross and one Sooty Shearwater – total for the day was two birds.

There was yet another cocktail event and welcome to the cruise by the Captain, followed by a gala dinner at the end of the day.  They had told us about their dress code for dinner (I never even brought a dress!) and some people were dressed to the nines, with only a few plebs like us who didn’t have room to pack suits and evening wear for the trip.  Good job we didn’t like the fancy restaurant where the event was held.  We enjoyed a much more pleasant and relaxed meal in the alternative dining area along with perhaps a dozen other plebs – and a dozen or more of the Officers.