#instead of letting the 5 pound dog be walked across the path in to her face

[fruitless-vain]

Sometimes the rolls are just that good 👌

[maatryoshkaa]

young god | chapter 4

serial killer!han jisung au

chapters: | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11| 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | epilogue |

word count: 1.8k

warnings: themes of domestic abuse, descriptions of violence, and foul language.

description: jisung keeps getting flashbacks, and he’s determined to do whatever it takes to keep them at bay. tonight, however, he makes one mistake that sends everything spiralling out of control.

watch the trailer here!

04| two roads diverged

A light fog was seeping into the night air when Jisung stepped out of your apartment complex, flinging the empty takeout boxes into the Dumpsters as he staggered past. There were no cars on the street at this hour, the campus having shut it gates an hour or so earlier. He checked his phone. 1:00 A.M. on the dot. 

He ducked into an alleyway -- a shortcut -- which was also dim, lined sparsely with flickering street lamps that split his shadow into distorted fragments. In his peripheral vision, it almost looked like someone was following him. Yanking his hood over his head, Jisung began walking faster.

“You’re dead,” he mumbled, eyes darting around as he wove through the alleys. A dull throbbing was beginning to ebb and wane in his head. “You’re dead, you’re dead, you’re supposed to be dead.”

His fist slammed into the brick wall on the last word, entire body slumping forward. The sound of his own heavy breathing seemed to echo in his ears as he screwed his eyes shut, images flashing behind his eyelids. Your smiling face under the veil of moonlight, eyes softened into crescents. Her bled-out, empty one, eyes staring back at him but not seeing. Jisung had thought he could take it -- the hot flashes of memories you seemed to draw out of him without even trying. He’d thought that maybe, he could last one night, that if you were by his side, the nightmares would finally stay at bay. That maybe, if you thought that he was a normal boy, he could convince himself, too.

Feet feeling like they were dragging through cement, he stumbled to the end of the alleyway, which opened up into the clearing of a park. In front of him now was a children’s playground. During the day, it was alight with shrieks of laughter and joy, mothers and fathers chasing their delighted children up and down slides and colourful swing sets. Now, however, it was hollow and barren as a graveyard, cold metal waiting for the new day to bring back its warmth.

On his left lay the Yellow Wood, where two paths of the park diverged into a thicket of sparse forest. Across from the playground, Jisung could see the main street, lined with shops. Their windows were dark now -- if he wasn’t wrong, the latest shop on campus closed at 1 A.M. -- the buzzing of their dim neon signs echoing like sinister whispers down the empty street. 

Jisung felt two eyes watching him, the back of his neck prickling, and he turned to see a stray dog, small and scraggly. It had floppy ears and matted fur that might have once been blond -- like a teddy bear that had been through the wash one too many times. Letting out an incredulous laugh, Jisung bent down, shaking fingers reaching to scratch it behind its ears. A breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding escaped his lips. He was okay. He was still in control.

“Why the fuck are you crying? Get the fuck up.”

Jisung’s head snapped in the direction of the voice, squinting through the hazy darkness. He held his breath, and heard muffled crying, the voices growing closer.

“I said, stop crying!” 

A sharp slap rang through the night air, and Jisung’s hand froze in the stray dog’s fur. He narrowed his eyes, making out the outlines of two figures by park entrance. It was a man who was speaking -- yelling, really -- his voice slurred, evidently drunk. Cowering in front of him, face buried in her hands, was a smaller woman. The man’s hand shot out again, seizing a fistful of her hair.

“Fuckin’ bitch. You want to leave me? I’d like t’ see you try.” He yanked her head up, sneering. “If you make another sound, I swear I’ll--”

Crunch.

Jisung didn’t register his feet moving across the playground until he felt his fist connect with the man’s jaw, sending him flying back with a surprised squawk. When the man turned his head back, eyes blazing with fury and confusion, one flared nostril was gushing blood.

“What the--who the fuck are you?” The man’s voice was shrill, gruff hands shoving at Jisung’s chest. “Do you want to die?”

Jisung glanced at the girl, whose hands had flown to her mouth in shock. The two looked as if they’d been back from a night out, the girl--a brunette--wearing black heels, a ripped, damaged blouse, and a skirt. The man looked not much older than Jisung -- maybe a senior, it was too dark to tell. Tears shone on the girl’s cheeks, an angry red welt where her boyfriend had hit her blooming across her face. Jisung’s eyes flashed back and forth between her and the man, back to her again, head beginning to spin. 

This was all so, so familiar.

“I asked you a question, kid!” The man was still screaming, the stench of alcohol on his hot breath momentarily jarring Jisung out of his thoughts. “Hey, are y’ fucking crazy or sumn’--”

Wrenching himself from the man’s grasp, Jisung snapped his arm back and buried his elbow in his face. Blood seeped through his hoodie as the man gave a roar of pain, crashing to the ground. The girl screamed, and Jisung turned to her. She flinched, and he jerked his head towards the main street. “Get...out of here. Go--go home.”

Her wide eyes flickered from her boyfriend, who was currently groaning on the pavement, to Jisung, and took off running. The sound of her frantic heels clicking grew fainter as Jisung stepped closer to the man, who was scrambling to his feet like a chicken with its head cut off. Sighing, Jisung looked around -- his apartment was still a few blocks away, but making a scene on the main road was practically begging for someone to see. His eyes landed on the Yellow Wood.

Ah. That would do.

Seizing the man by the front of his jacket, which was already wet with dark blood from his shattered nose, Jisung dragged the drunk across the artificial sand, through the playground, and into the forest, stopping only when the glow of the street lamps had disappeared behind them, and slammed him against a tree. The man felt like a bag of wet cement and moved like one, too -- limbs sluggish and waterlogged with too much alcohol. Jisung shook his head, a humourless laugh bubbling in his throat. Some people almost seemed to be looking for death.

“Wha--whaddaya think you’re doing? Who--you can’t--”

Jisung picked up a rock from the base of the tree, fingers absently rubbing its cool, jagged surface. It was heavy, with one blunt side. His head was beginning to pound again, cold sweat beading on his forehead as he studied the man. Fear was scrawled all over his features, fingers scrabbling against the tree as he tried -- hopelessly -- to crawl away.

“H-hey! Calm down! I w-won’ do it again, promise -- j-jus’ lemme--”

“You have his eyes,” Jisung breathed, and drove the rock down. They were all he could see -- those eyes, the same ones from thirteen years ago, burning into his own, soaking his vision with red, red, red, as his fist came down again, and again, and again. His own face felt wet, the metallic tang of someone else’s blood trickling through his lips as it spurted from the dying man’s gaping mouth. The screams had turned to gurgles, the hard skull he was striking was beginning to cave in, the jerking of the man’s body beneath him subsiding into feeble twitches instead. And yet the blood in Jisung’s ears was still roaring, and his head was still splitting apart, a thousand voices hissing in his mind.

You killed her. You killed her. You. Killed. Her.

                                                ────────

Yang Jeongin wiped away the sweat dripping into his eyes, slapping his face lightly to stay awake as he pedalled through the alleyways, a list of deliveries rustling in his hand. He had just dropped off his last parcel. Earlier today, he’d gotten hired for deliveries at another store -- this one specialized in late-night shipments, with his latest one running until 1 in the morning. It was probably closer to 2 A.M. now.

Jeongin stifled a yawn. He’d been up since 5 in the morning, and, though he was used to working long hours, he had to admit that this first day was a little hard. Near the end of his shift, his mind had begun to wander to his one-bedroom apartment -- sure, it was small and rundown, and the AC was broken beyond repair, but it was still home. He thought of the warm herbal tea he would drink before crashing for the night. He thought of the stray dog -- it was small and scraggly, and looked more like a worn-out teddy bear -- that often slept outside his window, and smiled, pedalling faster.

His hand reached into his back pocket and pressed the Record button on his Walkman, straightening his earbuds before speaking.

“I.N. here!” He cleared his throat, voice a little hoarse and out of breath from all the biking he’d done. “It is currently...2:04 A.M.! It’s my first late-night delivery -- or is it early-morning? Anyways, it’s exciting, huh? The whole campus seems to be sleeping; no one’s out on these streets at this hour. It feels pretty cool, like I’m carrying out a secret mission or something.

“Anyways. Why did I take up another job? Well, today Hyunjin -- he’s the barista, owner, really, of Glow Cafe -- asked me why I didn’t apply for, you know, a driver’s license or something. At first, I thought, well, there’s no point -- I can’t afford a car, anyways. But --” he let out a long sigh, and laughed. “I’ve decided that it’s worth a try, right?

“I want to pay off my student loans soon. Maybe fix my bike up. It’ll be hard at first, but nothing Yang Jeongin can’t take! Me and my bike, we’re unstoppable.”

He turned onto the main road, cutting into the children’s playground across the storefronts. He knew Miroh Heights like the back of his own hand -- every nook and cranny, hidden alleyways and shortcuts -- and the trail that ran through Yellow Wood led almost straight to his neighbourhood. The leaves and fallen tree branches rustled and snapped beneath the wheels of his bicycle as Jeongin hummed lightly.

Not too far into the Wood, though, an odd sound began to prick at his ears. Was that...breathing? Or just the wind? He looked around, and, as his eyes adjusted in the darkness, he saw the vague shape of...a boy? The figure had his back turned to Jeongin, and was trembling -- as if an electric current was running through him. 

Jeongin skidded to a stop and hopped off his bike, pulling out an earbud. “Hello? Is everything okay over there?”

Silence.

The boy had his hood up, and seemed to be holding something heavy in one hand. Jeongin stepped closer, and realised with a start that there was another man -- was it a man? -- lying at his feet.

“U-um. Is he--do you need help? I can call an ambulance. What hap--”

Without warning, the boy swung around and slammed a rock straight into Jeongin’s head.

[writing-the-end]

Exodus- Part 5

Previous Chapter

An Edolas Hermit Story (AU Belongs to @theguardiansofredland )

A stranger has been found in the forests of Edolas, unconscious and unanswering to the questions the Edolas Hermits have. Who is he, and why does he look like a friend they lost long ago? Why is he so badly wounded? Why does he have a broken clock? 

Why has the ocean stopped taking Zed and Tango’s wishes?

--------------------------------------------------------

Part five is my favorite part- I’ll tell you that. Finally reaching edolas, and getting to have fun with the wacky characters that Red has come up with! And, since Edolas is a world of opposite hermits, we decided that yes- Jellie is a dog. A good girl. 

Warning: This story contains general dark elements and language

________________________________

“Jellie! Come here girl!” Scar whistles, clapping his hands together as he continues along the dirt trail through the forests of Edolas. Tall, cozy spruce trees offer a fresh pine scent, the detritus beneath Scar’s shoes a tangle of soft needles and bark. The dark wood offers a muted, calming sensation for Scar. 

Jellie barks off in the distance, but doesn’t return to her owner’s side. That’s unusual...Jellie almost always comes when called. The only time she doesn’t is when food is on her mind. Scar hops off the path, following the barking through the winding maze of trees. He picks up the pace as Jellie’s barks turn into a whine. 

“What’s wrong, pretty lady?” Scar whispers as soon as he spots the dark coated dog. Scar’s next sentence falters in his throat as he sees the body. Face down in the dirt, surrounded by stones, an unmoving figure lays. White bandages, fraying and bloody, wrap around his arm. Brown, wispy hair is dirty with grass and mud, caking down the remnants of a white buttonup shirt. Black trousers are torn and covered with dirt, one leg bloody both on the fabric and skin. In one hand, a busted clock is still firmly held onto- even with the person obviously not conscious or even alive. Scar sighs. “Xisuma needs to stop dumping bodies in the woods.” 

Scar reaches out to pull Jellie away from the corpse, but she plants her paws into the dirt and refuses to leave the side of the person. It’s not until Scar is forced to get closer that he realizes why- it’s not a corpse. He’s still breathing. Holy shit he’s still alive. Scar begins to panic, unsure who to turn to. This isn’t exactly his expertise, dealing with something like this. Who is? 

Scar calls the only person he can think of at this moment in time. Cub. He starts to pace around the clearing, too afraid to get close to the body. Jellie stays near instead, laying her head gently on the boy’s back. Keeping his body warm, her fur comforting. Finally, after 3 times going to voicemail, Cub picks up the phone. “Is everything alright, buddy?” 

“No, everything isn’t ‘alright’. Things are super fucking weird, Cub.” Scar can’t help but snap, looking back at the form still laying in the dirt. “I...I found something.” 

“Something? What kind of something?” Cub’s voice is calm and soothing, a fatherly tone that Scar has come to rely on so much. 

“I...it’s a person. He’s still alive, but...I dunno, I think this is some sort of cult thing. He’s wearing some really nice trousers and shirt, but they’re torn to hell and back. He’s got bandages, and surrounded by rocks and theres a clock and…” Scar doesn’t know what else to say. This is too odd, too much for him all to take in. 

“Take a deep breath, Scar. I’ll get some others to come out, and we’ll take a look at what you found. Just...make sure he stays alive.” Cub hangs up, leaving Scar to the silence of the forest and the occasional whimper of Jellie. The boy’s chest continues to rise and fall, but Scar doesn’t dare reach out and push him onto his back. 

Thankfully, he wasn’t far from the others. Cub, Keralis, and Bdubs appear in the clearing, all stopping dead as they see the body. Bdubs shrinks behind the others, peeking over Keralis’s shoulder. “Oh my god…” 

Cub stoops low, taking a gentle hold of the boy’s unharmed arm and checking his vitals. His pulse is steady. “Let’s get this kid to the infirmary. Looks like he needs it.”

Keralis helps Cub gather the boy in his arms. Scar can’t help but watch with Bdubs, both a little too shocked as the others roll over the body and see his face. It’s covered in dirt, caked with sweat and a little bit of blood. But it looks exactly like the face of a person they thought was long gone. No, that’s not right. It’s just coincidence, people look the same all the time. Scar won’t entertain that idea any further. They just need to focus on getting to the infirmary.

----------------------------------------------------

Wind blusters across the sea, white capped waves pounding against Zedaph and Tango’s bare legs. Behind them, sand whips and scratches at anyone who dares to be in it’s path. 

But no amount of wind, not hell or high water will stop the duo from their daily ritual. When even Zed’s beliefs change, this is still constant. A tradition, no matter what else is going on around them. Tango’s elegant, cursive writing is slipped into the clear glass bottle that Zed had brought. Tango opens a single, white feathered wing to protect his friend from the angry sand behind them, daring to blister their skin from the beach. He stays silent as Zed whispers out the same wish every single day. “Please, bring him back.” 

Salty tears fall from Zed’s eyes, mixing with the ocean around them, just another drop in the sea awash with their pain. They’ve been doing this for years, but every time it still feels as fresh as the day they lost him. Zed caps the bottle, and throws it out with all his might. Beyond the angry turmoil of the surf. 

The two remain ankle deep in the ocean, silent and staring. Searching for some sign, any sign that their prayers have been answered. They know it’s impossible, but they still do it. They saw him sink, trapped in the ropes and sails. A gentle smile as he assured them everything would be alright. 

But it’s not alright. Tango and Zed are without their best friend, left with a hole in both their hearts. A bed empty in their shared apartment. Zed rubs his tearstained face into Tango’s shoulder, comforted only by his large white wings as they wrap around Zed. The two are about to return to shore, until Zed feels something brush up against his foot. 

The bottle. It returned to them. Zed picks it back up, and throws the bottle again. Beyond the surf once more. “No, no. You go out to sea.” 

“It’s never done that before.” Tango breathes. He feels sick to his stomach as the bottle returns again, carried on the white waves back to rest at his feet. He stoops low, plucking the bottle as it brushes against his legs. It has to go out to sea. Every single time Impulse showed them this tradition, he said the sea would take their wish. And grant it. He takes off, flying well past the waves, dropping the bottle into the sea. 

But by the time he returns to Zedaph, the bottle is back in his friend’s hands. Zed’s anger grows, grabbing the glass bottle. What was once something the two teased to Impulse, was now their only lifeline, their only way to process and grieve his loss. “Take the fucking wish!” Zed screams, reeling back and throwing the bottle as far as he can. He stumbles into the sea, collapsing to his hands and knees. “Take the god damn wish and give us our friend back!” 

Tango pulls Zed back to his feet, careful to be sure he doesn’t get a mouthful of water and drown. Drown like Impulse did. Zed’s cries turn into quiet prayers, angry curses at the gods who won’t listen and desperate pleas to those that will. Wishing for a miracle they know will never happen, but still desperately beg for. 

The two retreat, grabbing their shoes and rolling their pants back down. Fighting the heavy wind and stinging sand, neither look back. Because they know it’s sitting there again. Spit back out by the ocean. 

It’s a quiet walk back to the guild, back to town. It always is quiet, both lost in thoughts and memories. Of easier days, warmer days. When the sun was warmer and shone through their best friend’s smile. When laughter filled their apartment so loud that their neighbors- even Cleo- would yell back for them to shut up. 

Zed is the first to notice that things are busy with the guild. Joe nearly knocks Tango over, running to the infirmary with a handful of bandages. Zedaph looks at Tango, both sharing confused looks, before following after the mercenary. Inside the infirmary, most of their friends are there too. Talking in small groups, trading information in whispers and passing papers. 

Tango grabs Mumbo as he makes his way towards the exit, fingers wrapping into the leather of Mumbo’s jacket. “Mumbo...what’s going on?” 

Mumbo turns, smoothing out his mustache and hair. He’s the only one that doesn’t seem at all frazzled. “Eh, Scar found a body out in the forest- turns out the body is still working. Now they’re trying to figure out what the fuck is going on. Stuff way beyond my capacity, dude.” 

“A person?” Zed echoes, frowning. 

Mumbo shrugs. “Yeah… though he kinda reminds me of Impulse. Looks exactly like him.” 

Zed and Tango share shocked glances, and Tango immediately lets go of Mumbo as they sprint past the others, ignoring the shouts. Mumbo simply shrugs, walking out and sauntering to the nearest bar. Not the strangest thing to happen to him. 

"Should've known you two would come." Cub states as the two barge into the room. 

"Is it really him?" Zed's voice betrays his disbelief. He wants it to be true, for all those gods he's dedicated himself to finally be answering his prayers. Tango flutters closer, peeking around the blinds to see.

"I...I truly doubt its Impulse. He just looks like him." Cub sighs, watching the hope on the two's faces collapse. They creep closer all the same, getting a good look at the stranger in the hospital bed.

Dark brown hair, wispy and unruly, frames a pale and weak face. Even unconscious, the stranger's brows are furrowed together as if he's thinking through some complex problem. He's wearing a torn up white shirt, the buttons lost or in the wrong hole and the tail of the shirt untucked. His hips and legs disappear under the bed's covers, but one foot has been pulled out. White bandages wrap around his ankle, spots of red slowly growing. 

And then there's his arm. Opposite of the arm that the stranger's IV is protruding from, red and black catch the pair's attention. Underneath a slick coat of medicinal salve, angry red skin and dark burns surround a series of letters and numbers tattooed under the skin. Zed points to the arm opposite of him. "What is all that?"

"We...aren't really sure." Ren whispers, setting his quill down from taking notes. "Scar thinks its some kind of cult thing, Xisuma says maybe an experiment of sorts. But without him awake, we won't be able to tell for sure."

But while Zed is focused on the tattoo, Tango can't take his eyes off of the stranger's neck. Black, blue, and purple marks ring  around the skin, the surrounding area inflamed. The bruises are tight against the person's neck, nestled at the juncture of jaw to spine. Right on his trachea. 

Cub notices Tango’s gaze. "Someone else did that, poor kid. Someone tried to kill him. And nearly succeeded."

For Tango and Zed, its like seeing a ghost. It looks exactly like Impulse, from his hair all the way to the dirt under his fingernails. But it can't be true. This isn't really Impulse. Just someone who looks like him. But how much they both want it to be real.

Tango looks up, seeing fluorescent light glinting off of something on the bed stand. It’s not like anything else in the infirmary- dirty brass against the sterile white and silver of the room. Tango flits over the bed, picking up the item. It’s dented, with the clock face ripped open. Trapped at twilight hour, not quite daylight and not quite nighttime. “Was this with him?” 

Cub nods. “I don’t know why, but he wouldn’t let go of it. Even unconscious, we had to pry his fingers off it.” 

Zed peeks over Tango’s shoulder and wings, violet eyes taking in the damage. It’s quite broken- but not destroyed. The two look at each other, then the stranger, and finally the clock. “We… let’s see if we can do something with this.”

[skgway]

1828 Dec, Fri. 26

6

11 35/60

From 7 1/2 to 7 50/60 reading Dr. Hutton’s excellent and most temperate speech in last Saturday’s Mercury in favour of emancipation. His sentiments on the subject, my own –

Breakfast at 7 50/60 in 20 minutes – Went out at 8 1/4 to Lightcliffe to pay Mrs. William P– [Priestley] for carriage of the parcel of books I paid for yesterday – Got there in about 1/2 – Sat talking. Mentioned the inconvenience of my being here, my fathers oddity of temper. To live with my mother was much to be pitied, and excused my father. Wont let me put stoves in the North parlour and room, tho my aunts coming here depends on it. A hundred a year would be enough to pay for her board and that of George and MacD[onald]. Did not see Mr. P– [Priestley]. Mrs. P– [Priestley] walked with me as far as the Hipperholme bar, I then went back with her to her own gate, and we parted there at 11 50/60 –

In returning, met the Saltmarshes (Mr. & Mrs. Christopher S– [Saltmarshe) in their carriage – Had passed Shibden – Thought from my manner of speaking of it yesterday they could not get there – Jno [John] – said it was no worse than usual – and took Mrs. S– [Saltmarshe]’s card for Marian instead of a call – 

Then went up Barraclough-lane to George Naylor’s – Took him to shew me what Joseph Hall wanted – Haigh has bought the bit of waste there of Mr. Rawson, wants to enclose it, make a garden of it, and block me up – Has already abused Joseph Hall’s son for carting across it – Said I would consider about it – But that I could not be thus blocked up – I had nothing to do with Haigh – Should speak to Mr. Rawson – He had no right to sell it – 

Then a good deal of conversation with George N– [Naylor] as to raising his farm etc. He must give me his opinion as to the rest and I should not hurt him. Pearsons and Hardcastles each worth fifty and Hilltop forty five, and to raise Hemingway twenty guineas fair to take cottages at half the actual rents. The man that George wishes me to take for the next vacant farm is John Kurten who married a Miss Priestley of Halifax has for three or four years been a preacher, but would give it up. Has a hundred a year of his own and wants a farm for his lads. Would be advised in all things at first by George. 

Said I should give Balmfirth notice to quit. He thought I could not get rid of him. We will try, said I. For that, explained that it was to get rid of a bad tenant with less trouble, for which I mainly had agreements, because then I could quit them in 6 months from the time instead of 3 times that time – Balmfirth has just sold off 500 stalks of hay to a man who is bankrupt and will therefore get nothing for it – 

Then walked along the top of the hill and got down into the plantation at 2 1/4. Nobody there – Went to the cunnery – The men Throp and Nathan came from dinner at 2 1/2 – Throp cleaning trees in the Hall wood, Nathan helping Jno [John] and William to clear the plantation, and Robert walling with James Smith for my father, a bit of Jno [John] Bottomley’s wall near the pit road gate at the too of the old bank that had come down – 

Staid a little in the plantation – From 3 20/60 to 5 with Throp – Planted out 2 little yews from the plantation and removed the 2 cypresses lower down, next to the wood – A pity to move them, they were beginning to strike out little roots so nicely – 

Came in at 5 10/60 – Dressed – Wrote the 1st 7 lines of yesterday – Dinner at 6 1/4 – Afterwards till 10 asleep on the sofa – Then sat talking 1/2 hour about the bit of waste near Joseph Hall’s, raising rents etc. and discharging James Travis – 

On going up Barraclough lane to George N– [Naylor]’s saw 3 or 4 men one with a gun and dog, in George N– [Naylor]’s field or Balmfirth’s – Asked his name (lives near the bridge?) discharged him – He would have a written discharge – Was qualified – Had a certificate – I could only make him pay for trespassing – At last, he was for asking leave to come – No! Said I, you are too late now – You shall have a written discharge – and it is your peril you come shooting on my ground without my leave – On inquiry James Greenwood junior at the Cunnery told me he had discharged him several times – Jno [John] has often seen him in the fields – 

Came up to bed at 10 1/2 – Till 11 looking over rent roll, and making, rough draft calculation of what the farms and pews would bear raising – Can now manage something upwards of sixty pounds and b[y] and b[y] can get about eighty or ninety, that I shall make what I now have, altogether thirteen hundred a year – Fine day – Frosty – Farenheit in the library 9 degrees colder this morning than yesterday – 

[sideways in margin] Musing this morning as I walked to Lightcliffe (first time the idea ever struck me) that as much is done for the rights of the Roman Catholics why not something for the rights of single women to vote for members of parliament? Write on this, on the good of raising women to a proper rank in society, their influence, their general education and manners in different countries in times past and present, their relative degrees of respectability.

[More on Dr. Hutton’s Speech]

Dr. Hutton’s Speech - Leeds Mercury Dec. 20, 1828

We have great pleasure in laying before our readers the following excellent speech, which was indeed to have been delivered at the Leeds Meeting to Address His Majesty in favour of the Catholic Claims. 

Mr. Chairman and Gentlemen, – In the cause which has assembled us together this day I cannot but feel deeply interested. As a man and a Briton, I must be anxious to see the rights of men and Britons freely and fully participated by all my fellow-countrymen and as a Christian desirous that the truth may have free course amongst us I must wish that all the stumbling blocks of party prejudice and passion, with which our own frailty and folly, or those of our ancestors, have strewed the path of religious inquiry may be removed, and that we may all rejoice in the liberty wherewith it was the design of Christ to make us free. But, I stand in the midst of my fellow-men and my fellow-Christians many of whom I know to be as willing as myself; and more competent, to plead our common cause; their love of liberty, civil and religious, I believe to be not [insurdent?] than my own, and however we may differ on other subjects, I am assured of their entire sympathy with me in the wish to banish the temporal power altogether from the field of religious controversy; and to leave Truth – omnipotent Truth – to fight her own battles, with “the sword of the spirit; which is the word of God” In the character of a man and a Christian, therefore, I could have gladly remained silent, satisfied to say, “God speed,” with all my heart, to my friends and brethren around me, one of whom I cannot forget, has within the last few days nobly vindicated the rights of his fellow-men on Christian grounds, with a spirit and an eloquence, which multitudes have felt as deeply as myself, and which it would be superfluous therefore for me to panegyrize. There is a character, however, in which others cannot speak for me, and in which therefore I would embrace the opportunity of saying a word or two for myself. I appear amongst you; my fellow-townsmen, not only as an inhabitant of Leeds, bound to you by the strong ties of hospitality, and an absentee in the body from the land of my nativity, yet often-present with her in the spirit, with a heart that bleeds for her miseries, and kindles into indignation at her wrongs, and rejoices

in my hope, however faint, of seeing those miseries relieved, and those wrongs redressed. You have assembled, I trust, to express to our gracious King, your cordial acquiescence in a measure, should it be his good pleasure, in concurrence with the other branches of the legislature to sanction it, which I am not indeed so sanguine as to think will prove a panacea for all the numerous ills under which my unhappy country has so long suffered; but which, nevertheless, I am convinced will do something for her; – will help at least to soften and soothe the animosities, by which, while the present system of parish favour, proscription, and exclusion [?] she must continue to be torn asunder; a measure which will remove at least one material cause of dissension estrangement, and will tend in facilitate, if it does not absolutely produce that union of hearts amongst Irishmen, without which there can be no union of minds to any good purpose.

You have met, Gentlemen, to do what you can to alleviate to do what you can to alleviate the wretchedness and promote the future welfare of my suffering country, and I cam anxious, I confess, to express to you the deep interest that I take in a cause which the [?ctive] feelings of nature combine with reason and reflection to render dear to me. I should indeed be worthy of reprobation if I could stand by an uninterested spectator, where others, who have less reason, manifest so fervent a zeal. Gentlemen, if there still remain doubt and indecision amongst you on the subject before us, I cannot but think that it arises, rather from those prejudices and prepossesions of which we all carry about with us too large a share, – rather from the fluctuations of excited feeling, than from any serious difficulty suggested by the understanding. If the decision had rested with reason alone, it would have been long since made, and Fox and Barke, and Pitt and Canning, those master minds of various moulds, supported by almost all the intellectual strength of the houses of Peers and Commons, would not have addressed their powerful arguments to the British people in vain. But that people have a strong hatred of oppression, a powerful sympathy with suffering. Of Roman Catholics as they exist in the present day, either in the Sister Island or elsewhere, Englishmen know little, but they have many of them read tho fearful ties, and inspected the no less fearful prints in Fox’s book of Martyrs, and the have all heard of sundry wicked Popes, and more formidable still, of bloody Mary! Often, I am persuaded most Roman Catholics have been affected towards her, as an excellent preiste of the Church of England is said to have been towards a certain creed, and wished, alas! in vain, that they could be well rid of her. In truth I cannot but think it is somewhat unkind, when people are evidently ashamed of their relations, to be always putting them in mind of them, and I must say I feel some pity for my Roman Catholic brethren, when I see the blood brought into their countenances by the perpetual obtrusion of that bloody queen on their reluctant memories. But what proof have we that Roman Catholics either love or have any inclination to imitate that wicked woman? Earnestly do they disclaim all approbation of her conduct, and loudly do they protest against the injustice and cruelty of making them answerable for the crimes of their ancestors, whether of noble or ignoble blood.

True it is that Mary was a bloody persecutor; but it is prejudice and bigotry alone that dwell exclusively upon her atrocities, and contrive at the same time to forget the less numerous perhaps, but still bloody persecutions of her protestant sister Elizabeth – not in this connection certainly though a Rev. Gentleman has styled her so “of happy memory.” Few indeed are the sects that have not at one time or other swelled the annals of persecution, and we should all of us perhaps have reason to tremble if Heaven were to visit upon our heads the sins of our fathers in this respect. Calvin persecuted Servetus to death. Is there a Calvinist living now that pretends to vindicate the deed? Archbishop Cranmer persuaded King Edward against his will to condemn to the stake Joan Bocher and George Paris, one for denying the humanity, and the other for dyeing the divinity of Christ. What member of the Church of England will come forward to prove that Cranmer was justified in doing so? Luther, the father of the Reformation though he was against punishing heretics with death, thought that other punishments less severe might be lawfully hindered on them. “It is sufficient,” says he in one place, “that they should be banished.” In another passage he allows that “heretics may be corrected and lured to silence, if they publicly deny any of the articles received by all Christians, and particularly that Christ is God.” In a third passage he goes further, and says “that heretics, though they may not be put to death, may however be confined, and shut up in some certain place and put under restraint as madmen.” What think you, my fellow-townsmen, ought we to be satisfied with Luther’s toleration, and rest contented to enjoy our liberty of conscience in a gaol, or what might be called perhaps a heretic’s asylum. Though we are most of us Protestants, and as such have no small reverence for the great reformer, I rather think we shall none of us agree with him on this subject. Once more, that you may not think me partial, I may just mention, that Socinus, whom you probably think a great favourite of mine, and for, whose genius and virtues I will not deny that I feel a sincere respect, in a letter of his still extant vows [?] his opinion that “obstinate heretics” or, as he explains the epithet, “heretics who will pay no attention to their adversaries arguments, may be properly prevented from reading then opinions, if it cannot be otherwise done by chains and a prison.”  According to which doctrine I fear there are not a few in Leeds, whom, if I and my friends were in power, we should be under the painful necessity of placing under restraint. On this subject however, as on several others, I have the pleasure of assuring you that we take the liberty of dissenting from Socinus, and that you need be under no alarm on this head even if we should be called to rule over you. The truth is, that in the former days of ignorance, the spirit of persecution was to be found, in a greater or less degree, in almost every church. The Emancipationists say some of their opponents, cannot have read history: I answer, that they would have read it to little purpose, if they had not learned from it, that persecution of all kinds and in every degree is detestable, and that to persecute Roman Catholics a little now, because they persecuted our ancestors a good deal formerly, is neither wise nor Christian conduct. The church of Rome, I grant, was more deeply stained by the guilt of persecution than most of the churches that have seceded from her; but this is easily accounted for without supposing that it is essential to her nature to persecute, and that, no lapse of time, or alteration of circumstances can enable her to purge off this stain. It should be remembered, that she had long been in the possession of unrivalled and almost unbounded power; It was to be expected therefore, in consistency with all that we know of human nature, that, when the first attack was made up on that power, pride, and anger, and every other malignant passion should instantaneously rise up in arms, against those whom, as supreme judge in her own cause, she would naturally regard as rebellious schismatics and wicked innovators.

The Church of England on the contrary, chastised in her infant days by her aged parent, and surrounded almost from the first by Dissenters, was early taught wisdom and mercy by her own sufferings. Had she stood as long without a rival as the Church of Rome, it is at least possible that she might have persecuted as bitterly. The hostile spirit which some of her sons have manifested and still manifest to Dissenters as such, and the high tone which they assume, as if the mere act of their tempora establishment qualified them to take spiritual precedence of  those around them, would lead one to apprehend that even the Church of England meekly as, I grant, she has for the most part carried her faculties, might have abused, if she had enjoyed, enresisted, and unbounded power. In truth such power is good for none of us. We are all, not merely liable but likely to abuse it. The Church of Rome in power, however, and the same Church out of power, are very different. B[?] the terror of Europe, at St. Helens was a quiet gentlemanly, and somewhat [?] man: and so it is with the Pope in these days. As [?] as we are concerned, he might as well be at Helena as where he [?] an ocean flows between us and him; – the ocean of knowledge – which he can never cross to set foot in a hostile manner on our shores. Were he to do so, were he to threaten either our civil or religious liberties, I will pledge myself for my countrymen, yes, for my Roman Catholic countrymen; that they would be amongst the first to assist in driving him back to his snug hole and corner in Italy. Except as a peaceful ecclesiastic, a kind of Archbishop of Canterbury of the Church of Rome, the Pope neither has, nor can ever any substantial power in this realm. The greatest power he enjoys here at present is that which our No-Popery friends so kindly confer upon him, of frightening the grown-up children, who are not ashamed to listen to the horrible stories which they tell about him. What says our able townsman, Mr. M. Sadler, of these Papists, – this people who have been brought up under this murderous system, – who have imbibed, with their mothers milk, these doctrines, which according to our Brunswickers, not only forbid them to keep faith with heretics, but would lend them to commit murder upon all such? You shall hear “In the character of the inhabitants of Ireland!” says Mr. S. “there are the elements of whatever is elevated and bole.” These, however [?] down and hidden, are indicated whenever their development is not rendered impossible. Their courage in the [?] and panegyric of min, and has never been surpassed; their charity, notwithstanding their poverty, never equalled.” “Even while I am thus writing,” says Mr. Sadler, “I will dare to assert, that in many a cabin of that country, the godlike act of our immortal Alfred,” (who by the way, was a Roman Catholic too) “which will be transmitted down to the remotest generations – the dividing his last meal with the beggar, is this instant being repeated; – and their gratitude for kindnesses received equals the ready warmth with which they are ever conferred.” I mean not to contend” Mr. S proceeds, “that they have not faults and grievous ones, but these are mainly attributable” (I agree with him cordially) “to the condition to which they have been so long treated.” He then proposes his remedies, some of them well, worthy of attention, for Ireland’s calamities, and anticipates a time when “the Social edifice compact together and at unity in itself shall never again be shaken.” I thank Mr. M. Sadler in the name of my country, – I warmly thank him for his eloquent panegyric upon her sons, whom Popers, it seems, has not altogether corrupted, and whom unequaled charity I should hope, – charity that divides with the beggar his last meal should not be banished or transformed into the [?]-like spirit of malignity, and murder, by a little more kindness. Their “gratitude for kindnesses received,” Mr. S tells us equals the [?] warmth with which they are ever conferred.” Take Mr. S’s word for it, if you will not take mine. Though I too know something of the Irish heart – take the world of both of us, that they will not abuse your favours – that they will not violate your generous confidence – no, not for all the Popes and Priests that the word can contain, – but, on the contrary, will return [?] your  and your [?] every deal of kindness as you shall mete out to them. But what does Mr. S. say of emancipation in his work on the grievances of Ireland?

Of Emancipation Mr. S professes to say nothing. He merely intimates – and here too I agree with him – that Ireland has other grievances of a very serious nature to complain of to neglect those latter [?] talk of Emancipation only is in his mind, to pay tithe of mint and anise, and cumin, and to omit the weightier [?] of the saw of patriotism– judgment, mercy, and idolity supposes it to be so allow that Emancipation resembles the small tithes yes Mr. S. I should think would be one of the last persons to recommend our not paying them – he will doubtless remember the words, “these things ought the to have done, but not to leave the others undone.” – Having had [?] her tithe of [?] which she did not ask for, poor Ireland might perhaps be grateful for what she would deem a tithe of [?], in the form of Emancipation. I have read Mr. S’s book on Ireland with some attention: I admire the spirit of [?] and generous feeling in which it is written; I think that he has taken a true view of some of the sources of Ireland’s mystery, and I approve of some of the remedies which he proposes but I cannot agree with him that little good would be effected by pinning all sects on the same [?] of equality in respect to civil rights and privileges, and thus doing away the bitter jealous with which a depressed [?] always regard a dominant and domineering party, especially if the former be, as in the present instance, the more numerous. Does Mr. S. think that any good could be effected by it? If so, he ought not to be a Runswicker, and in his book certainly we may look in vain for the spirit of that party. Gentlemen, you are many of you anxious and so I confess am I, how can any honest and consistent Protestant be otherwise? – to see our Roman Catholic brethren brought over to Protestantism. Is this your real wish? Remove then the barriers which sever them from you in mind as well as body. Remove the party prejudices which dender their understandings and their heards inaccessible to any arguments or pleadings, however powerful and just, that you can address to them, I solemnly warn you, Gentlemen, that in perpetuating their persons and party hostility, you will necessarily obstruct their conversion to what you deem truth and in so doing, may find hereafter that you have “fought against God.” There is little change that we shall convince or persuade those with our lips, whom by our actions we are degrading and insulting. And is it not a degradation and an insult to brand your fellow-countrymen as persons whose patriotism a breath from Rome can disperse, at any moment, into thin air – whose oaths of allegiance and fidelity are not to be believed – and who are not to be allowed to serve their king and country in a civil capacity because they acknowledge an ecclesiastical superior in the supposed successor of St. Peter? The Roman Catholics are clamouring for power, say the Brunswickers. No, Sir – It is for eligibility to power, a right to which our Constitution supposes every Brion entitled who is not incapable of exercising it, or who has not forfeited his right to do so by his misconduct. Minors, aliens, criminals, and Roman Catholics, with a few other Sectarians, (who scruple to take the oaths prescribed) are the classes of persons noted by Blackstone as incapacitated from serving in Parliament. And is there no injury, no insult, in this association? I contend Sir, that there is, and that neither Roman Catholics nor any other class of sincere religionists whatsoever, ought, as such, to be ranked with [?], aliens, and criminals. If Protestant Englishmen were thus associated, the blood would boil in their veins; and can they wonder, then, that it runs in a quickened current through the body of the Irish Catholic, constitutionally hot in temper as he is warm in heart? As for the danger likely to result from admitting Roman Catholics into the legislative body, it is really childish to talk of it. While the comparative strength of the two parties throughout the United Kingdom remains as it is, there cannot, obviously, be the shadow of danger of Popish domination if all the Catholic Members without an exception) were Catholic barristers, as clever as O’Connell, and us eloquent as Shell, and if in the fervour of a zeal, such as few Protestants feel for the 39 Articles, they were to bring the questions of Transubstantiation and the Papal supremacy before the House every Session, which is not highly probable, I will leave it to any Brunswicker possessed of a decent portion of common sense, to compute the probable number of their converts, within any given time. And as for the House of Lords, their ease there would be still more hopeless, their advocates being still fewer in number, and the prejudices of [?]; we know, peculiarly strong. The Earl of Shrewsbury, it is true, has written a book in defence of his creed, but he will find some difficulty in persuading the Lords Temporal to read it – find the Lords Spiritual will, of course, find it easy to refute anything that a hymn can have urged upon the subject. On the whole nothing can be made ridiculous than the pretended apprehension of Poplar legislation, [?] weak heads may possibly entertain it; but when men of sense pretend to feel it, the purest candour must fear that it is their object to frighten and delude those whom they know to be ignorant, and therefore expect to be credulous. But say some really good men, the Roman Catholic religion is so attractive to the imagination, from the antiquity of its origin, and the splendour of its ritual; its doctrine of absolution, purgatory, &c. are so well calculated to make fail man easy under the burden of his frailties; and, in short, it is so skillfully accommodated throughout to the weakness of our nature, that we cannot but fear that if placed on an equality in other respects, with Protestantism, it may have superior charms for the multitude, and may even in time win over our princes and our rules by its seductions. So long, I would reply, as the Establishment retains its rich endowments, and enjoys the exclusive patronage of the Crown, there can be little fear of such a catastrophe. The majority, of the higher class especially, will long feel the sacred duty of conforming to an Established Church, of the truth of which they will require no surer voucher than the simple fact that it is established. I mean no disrespect to the Church of England, as a church, when I assert, that religion so well endowed as here – a religion that, in the phrase of Burke, can “raise a mitred head in Courts and Parliaments,” be its forms and doctrines and theological merits what they may, need be under little apprehension of any sudden or material defection of its wealthy and powerful adherents. But this, it will be said, is a mere argumentum ad hominem, addressed to the worldly wise, which will not satisfy those who are upon conviction piously attached to Protestantism, and seriously apprehensive of a revival of Popers. 

To objectors of this class, those worthy and pious men, for I doubt not there are many such, – who not having studied the subject in its political bearings, ground their hostility to Catholic Emancipation solely on their fears of the future prevalence of what they deem a dangerously erroneous creed, I would reply by this simple question, “– whether they can seriously think; that in a fair and equal contest with error, truth is in any danger of being defeated; or that with the favour of God on her side she can fall of being victorious? For my own part I am well persuaded that she needs none of the weapons, either defensive or offensive, with which the rulers of this world are so troublesomely axous to supply her. If she might have her own will she would cast them all from her, as David cast from him the armour of Saul. Like that brave champion of the Lord of Hosts, she would go forth to the battle free and unencumbered, trusting for her defense to God’s favour and her own unfettered movements, and asking for no weapons of more destructive power than a few sound and solid arguments, smooth pebbles well rounded from Silaos brooke, with the sling of natural eloquence, to send them home to their destination. Reflection I think will soon convince the pious and the good that error can be no match for truth, when they stand on equal ground, and that to pretend to guard the latter by pains and penalties is to discover want of faith in her native resources, and in reality to encumber her with aid. In conclusion I would say with my esteemed and respected brother, to our friends of the Church of England, “Be just and fear not.” – Be generous and fear not. You have relieved the Dissenters from their shackles. You have elevated them to equality with yourselves. I trust you will reap the good fruits of having done so; and that you will find in us your cordial and zealous co-adjustors in every just, humane, and virtuous enterprise. But let us pead with you, – gratitude should be like that of the manumitted slave, the first effect of whose recovered liberty is to render Him indifferent to the sorrows and the sufferings of the former companions of his bondage, gratitude, I say, which in our ethical system is not that frosty kind of feeling which some seem to imagine it, having ore affinity to cold than heat, and exerting a contractile rather than an expansive influence, gratitude for our own success excites us to plead with you for the brothers of the family who are still excluded, still degraded. Try my Roman Catholic countrymen, and, trust me, you will find them also capable and worthy of being connected with you in the equal bonds of brotherhood. If you thought them your enemies it were a noble and Christian experiment, and experiment justified by a wiser and better policy than that of this world, – to try to subdue them by your kindness. “If thine enemy hunger feed him, if he thirst give him drink,” says an apostle. ‘Absurd policy!’ says a Brunswicker; food will strengthen, and drink refresh him, and his power to do you mischief will be greater than ever. Christ however and Paul thought otherwise and foreold that by so doing we should “heap coals of fire on his head,” and melt or [?] him into friendship with us. This is human nature in this opinion; and Mr. M. Sadler has told you that my countrymen are not an exception to the general rule, but that they are as capable of gratitude as they are of kindness. All that I wish, my friends, is that you would try them. 

[scullysexual]

titanic au | multichapter-au | au | multiple parts | historical au | msr | mature | ao3 | 5/13 | @today-in-fic​ , @xfilesfanaticfanfic​ |

For Mulder, a wealthy English-bred socialite who’s had everything given to him since birth, the Titanic is shipping him off to a prison, a life he no longer wishes for or wants. For Scully, an Irish stranger from the lower class, it offers a new life, a future she can truly envision in America. What if the universe put them on the same path to achieve those dreams at the cost of life?

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

- - -

A JEWEL BENEATH THE MOONLIGHT: CHAPTER FIVE.

It’s been a while since he’s felt his head pound as it does. Mulder’s hangover doesn’t treat him well, the lack of sleep from last night also wasn’t helping.

Krycek had caught him. Mulder had no doubts that the younger man had probably been spying on him all evening on behalf of his father. The journey up to the rooms, Krycek had spent goading Mulder, telling him just how much trouble the Golden Boy was in. Mulder had ignored him, as best he could, walking ahead and blocking the boy’s voice from his ears.

Only once in bed and sobered up did Mulder let the worry in. The rat had probably scampered off to Father before coming back and waiting for Mulder to leave third class, just to appear out of nowhere with that stupid smug smile Mulder wouldn’t mind wiping off the bastard’s face one day.

Now, he tries to ignore the tension circling around the room, the quiet anger radiating from his father.

Mr Mulder had all be ordered Phoebe out of the room, proclaiming to want some alone time with his son. Mulder knew what was happening, what his father was doing. He was almost hesitant to let Phoebe go but the look in Father’s eyes, the way he stood with his back keeping the door open, telling Phoebe she needed to leave shut down any hopes that Mulder had of keeping her with them.

Mulder picks at his breakfast, his stomach revolting from the hangover or from worry, he isn’t sure. His nervous glances towards his father are too common, every move his father makes has Mulder flinching, something he immediately scolds himself for afterwards every time.

The tension is killing him. He feels like weak prey sitting here, caught in a trap with no way out.

“You’re mother was worried about you last night,” Father starts, not looking up from the paper he reads.

Mulder cringes, clamping down on the guilt that swirls in his stomach. This method, Mulder thinks. Bring up Mother and how she feels, great.

“I told her she had nothing to worry about,” Bill Mulder continues. “He’ll be back soon, I said, of course that was before I got word you were off gallivanting down in steerage.”

“I wasn’t gallivanting,” Mulder cuts in. “I was invited down there.”

Mr Mulder throws his paper down on the table, his anger now seeping through the lid.

“Those people could have ripped you apart and stolen everything you’re worth, did you think of that before you accepted the invitation?”

Mulder tries desperately hard to not roll his eyes, his jaw clenching.

“But I wasn’t and that didn’t happen. I just danced and had fun.”

“Had fun,” Bill laughs. “Fun is for children, Fox, you were almost a father, there’s no time for fun anymore.”

A sting of sadness stabs his gut. In of the concern for Phoebe’s wellbeing through the whole miscarriage, nobody had once consoled him. Phoebe got a dog, he got nothing, not even an ounce of comfort from anyone.

It was his child, too.

A cap on his anger, his father calms down. “Now I know this year has been difficult but that doesn’t give you an excuse to fool around. I’ll admit, this Scully girl isn’t as bad as I thought she would be but she’s not good for you either, getting you in trouble like this…” Bill sighs, leaning back to look at his son. “Maybe you’re just looking for friendship, after Samantha—”

“It’s been twelve years,” Mulder says, unable to stay silent much longer. “It’s got nothing to do with her.”

“Maybe it does,” his father says, the man who has all the answers to everything and is never wrong. “Maybe she reminds you of her somehow but that doesn’t make this…acquaintance right.”

A beat passes and Mulder mulls this over. At eight Sam had a freedom about her but that was only because she was a child, naïve to the path that was set out for her. Scully has no path, she is freedom- hers and his. This is about freedom, not long-lost sisters.

“It’s best you don’t see that girl anymore.”

The words hit like bricks.

“And to make sure you don’t, for the rest of the journey we thought it best you stay in our sights,” Mulder’s eyes shut in defeat. “There’s a service at ten and a tour after,” Bill explains but Mulder’s barely listening at this point. “You will attend both with your mother, Phoebe, and myself.” With that, Bill pushes away from the table and leaves the room.

Now alone, his face falls into his hands. His sentence has begun.

 Religion had never been something he believed in, never something he needed. Most people used it as a clutch, something to give them faith when there was nowhere else to turn to. He respected it but he ever found it necessary.

His mother had dragged him and his sister to church when they were younger; Sam liked the hymns, Mulder liked going home.

He feels much like a child now, sandwiched between his mother and father much had he had to be when he was younger, only it’s Phoebe who sits to the side of Mother rather than Sam.

Time dragged and his head hurt, somewhere behind him he could hear a voices, or voices, from behind the glass doors. Mulder twists in the bench, looking out beyond the doors, unable to see the figure making a fuss fully but also certain that he caught a glimpse of red hair.

“Get her out of here,” Father says to Krychek. He passes him a note and the boy scurries to the doors. Mulder watches.

“Face the front,” Father tells him and automatically Mulder turns. In a low, calming voice his father speaks.

“I’ll give you permission to talk to her later on,” Bill tells him. “You’re to tell her that you’re thankful for the company she’s provided but she’s not to bother you again. She stays in her area and you’ll stay in yours. Krychek will accompany you.”

Mulder doesn’t say anything, instead feeling more padlocks be added to his prison.

The service ends soon enough, for which Mulder is grateful for. He’s ready to use head to his room and stay there for the duration of the journey.

He goes to do as much before Phoebe’s voice is stopping him.

“If we go now we’ll still make it in time for the tour.”

The bloody tour, Mulder thinks, he’d forgotten about that. He turns, eyeing his father with pleading eyes, hoping that he’ll let him go.

Of course, Father does the complete opposite.

“Yes,” Bill says, making direct eye contact with Mulder. “Fox was just telling me he couldn’t wait.”

The bastard.

Despite his father’s proclamation, Mulder makes no effort to be at all interested in the tour. He lingers at the back, catching words here and there about how long the ship took the built, who built it, why they built it, pointless stuff that Mulder just wasn’t interested in right now. Phoebe took to the front, constantly asking questions and if Mulder was in a better mood right now, he’d be surprised as her level of curiosity.

“How many lifeboats are there?” Phoebe asks.

“Twenty, I was told.”

“Is that enough?”

The small group stop, surrounded by sixteen lifeboats, Mulder counts, pressed up against the sides and out of the way as much as possible.

“Bit of an eyesore, aren’t they?” Mulder hears his father say.

The guide up front shrugs, mutters something about them being necessary to which Father hums in disagreement at.

“Let me show you the pool,” the guide says.

The pool is nothing special despite people ‘oohing’ and ‘awing’ at it. They get the history, they watch people swim and Mulder’s just about ready to drown himself.

Just as they’re about to leave, his name is called. Mulder spins, catching a glance of a person who disappears behind a pillar and he knows it’s Scully.

His heart sinks.

The group, and most importantly his father, busy following the tour, Mulder breaks away, heading towards the pillar with a lump in his throat.

“Finally,” Scully says grabbing onto his arm and pulling him towards her, hiding him from view. “I didn’t think I’d get a chance to see you.” His chest feels heavy, a sad smile flittering across his lips and instantly Scully’s frowning. “What’s wrong?”

Mulder stares at her, this woman that he feels like he’s known forever, who gave him access to a life away from pre-built paths and futures decided. He thinks of last night, of the fun that he had and the consequences having fun created. He thinks of his father, of Phoebe, of a life he doesn’t want but has to take it all the same.

He doesn’t want to lose Scully, but it’s only right. After this journey, after this ship docks, they’ll go their separate ways, end the ties now when they’re new rather than later when they’ve grown more attached.

“Scully, I…” He struggles with the words, with getting them out, with even forming them. His heart pounds, his head pounds still with the hangover, his stomach twists and his father’s probably now noticed he’s not with them. Can he not do this another time? Later? Tomorrow? Never…

“What is it?” she asks, she knows something amiss, knows there’s something wrong.

“I…can’t see you anymore,” he says slowly. “I don’t want to.” A lie, his brain screams. But it isn’t. He may have been glum before but he wasn’t conflicted, he was bound to do right by Phoebe, to work on their relationship and make something out of it. “It’s too complicated, what we have.”

He watches her blue eyes turn to grey steel, the concern turning to hurt and then to anger.

“We’re just friends, Mulder, what else did you think we were?”

The word stings. He remembers her dancing, with the little boy and later when the night had progressed. Remembers her answers at the dinner and their conversations before it, the smile she’d given him when she knew she was doing well. Mulder can’t even begin to pinpoint what moment it turned complicated.

“I know, I know,” he answers quickly, frowning, thinking. “It’s just…I love Phoebe, and you…”

The words die on his tongue, a realisation crosses Scully’s face and Mulder’s stomach falls. He’d mistakenly just told her the truth when he should have finished the words.

He doesn’t even try to.

“Right,” Scully says, all metal and concrete. “I suppose I should take this as kindness, so I should, you not making me your bit on the side, an’ all.”

Mulder shakes his head furiously, “No, no, it’s not like that!”

She moves away from him and Mulder misses the closeness already.

“Why not?” She’s fire and cold at the same time, both burning and he wants it to stop. “That’s all we are to you anyway, isn’t it? Something new when the regular gets old.”

Words aren’t forming, he just continues to shake is head, it all spilling out of control before him.

She brushes past him, knocking into him on the way. Before she leaves, she turns back towards him, attempting to deliver one last blow.

“I hope you’re happy, Mr Mulder. I hope Phoebe makes you happy.”

“It’s my father!” he shouts before she leaves, above the natural loud volume of the swimming pool they’re still standing in. “He wants this marriage to work, he doesn’t want any distractions.”

It was the wrong thing to say as Scully swirls, ready to say something before it seemingly dies on her lips. With one last cold hard stare she leaves.

[jaerie]

just because its 5:30 in the morning, here’s a sneak peek of what i’m currently working on :) 

It was always such a relief after a long stressful day to finally get out of the house and stretch his legs.  Harry walked through his front door, hung his light jacket on the coat tree and then walked through is house towards his back door.  He shed his clothes along the way, draping them on one of his kitchen chairs instead of leaving them in a trail on the floor like he wanted to, but he didn’t live like an animal.  In that sense, anyway.  

It was already dark after a long day at work and he really should just make himself some supper and crawl into bed but he just needed to let loose.  He needed to be free, even if it was just for an hour or so.  Fully naked, he stepped out his back door onto his patio, stretching and trying to ignore the light chill against his bare skin.  It was a temporary discomfort.  He stretched his arms high above his head, cracked his neck and then took off at a run towards the woods starting just behind his backyard.  

This was his favourite way to shift.  At a full run he lept into the air, feeling the trickle of magic shimmer through him and over his skin.  He always imagined it like a sparkly aura they visualized magic as on tv.  He knew there was nothing actually visible about the force that caused his shift but he still liked to think about it.  That was how it felt, a little tingly and shimmery through his nerves.  

He landed on the ground one paw at a time, not even breaking his stride as he propelled forward, his new form giving way to more speed than his human legs could ever give him.  Yes, that was what he lived for, that was what he needed.  He raced through the familiar woods in a path he frequently took, one that rarely took him past any other humans.  On this night, though, he caught the scent of something strange.

Harry trotted to a stop, nose lifted as he sniffed the air and then aimed his nose towards the ground.  Someone had recently been through the area and the scent had him immediately apprehensive.  He couldn’t pinpoint it right away but he knew it wasn’t friendly.  Only allowing himself to sniff around for another minute, he opted to turn back towards home, unwilling to get himself into trouble when he was just out for a run.   

He heard it before he saw it, the snap of twigs and the deep menacing growl.  Frozen in his spot, it suddenly became clear.  He had stumbled upon a pair of bear cubs and their mother was now in defense mode, ready to attack.  He was a white streak of fur as he took off in no particular direction, heart pounding and hair standing on end as he pushed himself to his limit to get away.  The bear gave chase behind him, the path of the large animal not quiet as it closed in.  

He ran and ran until he wasn’t even sure if he was still being followed, trying to put as much distance between himself and the threat as he could.  In his panic, his awareness of his surroundings had dulled, failing to see where he was even going.  His paws took him across a small clearing and then suddenly a bright light was blinding him while his nails scrambled for purchase on the different texture he had stumbled across.  A great force slammed against his body and before he could even react, it was dark.  

--

Louis cursed to himself and turned his brights on as he tried to navigate the winding country road that led up to his new house.  House was the word he would use to describe it but he supposed that’s what it was.  He had been in the market for somewhere private, quiet and secluded after the chaos of the last few years of his life.  

Since he was a bit older than his siblings, he had always made up stories for his sisters when they were growing up.  His mom had had her hands full with so many young children and it became his job to put them to bed more often than not when he was home.  With some urging, he had started writing down his ideas for his fantasy worlds with werewolves and kingdoms and worlds he had always thought to be silly.  The editors that his oldest sister had sent them off to hadn’t had the same thoughts and before he knew it, he was the author of the latest best selling young adult novel series.  Promo tours, book signings, readings and eventually movie deals to bank on the latest fad.  He’d barely been home to see the family the stories had been created for in the first place.  

Now he had the pressure of continuing the saga and it was becoming more stressful than he had anticipated.  He had taken a chunk of his cash and invested in a property built on a hill in the middle of nowhere.  A two lane highway passed not too far so he wasn’t completely removed from society but with it set back far enough from the main road that it was completely hidden by trees, it had been a happy medium between both worlds.   

He’d barely moved in a couple weeks ago, moving trucks and designers coming and going while they set everything up for him.  It was amazing what could be accomplished with money without having to lift a finger of your own.

It was dark and he still had to use his GPS navigation to find his driveway and still squint at the treeline to find the small break where he’d turn.  He was doing just that when a streak of white reflecting his headlights came out of nowhere and even with the slam of his breaks that had every part of his body aching, he still felt the thud of a collision.

With adrenaline pumping in panic mode, he jumped out of the car and ran around to the front to see what he had hit.  To his horror a large dog was sprawled across the concrete, still with red slowly soaking through the white and grey fur.  

“Oh fuck!! FUCK!!” he yelled, pulling at his hair while he stared at the scene in shock.  He looked around frantically but of course there was no one around to help him or offer him any advice.  The animal didn’t look mangey or unkempt so he knew it had to be someone’s pet and not some kind of white wild wolf.  Which made it worse, really.  He scrambled to the dog’s side and was relieved that it was still breathing though it was quick and shallow.  It’s leg was bent at an odd angle and the way it had fallen seemed unnatural.  It definitely needed medical attention and quick.  

[draco-omega]

Touhou Randfic #5

Tenshi + Yorihime, ‘Old Promises’

Footsteps echoed through the quiet lanes of the Lunar Capital – sharp, deliberate, implacable. Their owner passed mansion after immaculate mansion, flawless gardens of sand and reed, and art of the most subtle beauty without ever sparing a glance from the path in front of her – so fierce was the resolve upon her face and the purpose in her stride. If one hadn’t just watched her walk in circles for twenty minutes, they might even think she knew where she was going.

“Would it kill them to put up a sign?!” Tenshi growled.

Perhaps expecting such legendary isolationists to care about the tourist experience had been ill-advised and so she turned her irritation upon the nearest living creature instead.

“Hey, you!”

The lone rabbit in earshot stiffened so abruptly that she dropped the mallet she’d been carrying on the ground and then glanced at the alleyway behind her in the futile hope this statement had been addressed to someone else.

“Yes, you,” Tenshi continued. “Tell where I can find Lord Moonbutt McHead-up-his-ass.”

“...who?”

“Tsukuyomi.” She all but hissed the word.

The rabbit’s eyes went wide as saucers. Not even in her wildest imaginings had she envisioned someone speaking so disdainfully of the tallest pillar of their society. Just what sort of terrifying person was this intruder?

“I- I don’t know,” she stammered. “I’ve never met him. I’m only a rabbit. I pound mochi....”

“Well, you’ll be able to pound mochi on his face by the time I’m through with him. Where is he?”

“Er, I don’t know if I’m supposed to- I mean, they told us not to go and- Alright, alright, I’ll tell you!” she cried, shielding her face with her hands as though she expected to be struck at any moment.

Tenshi hadn’t exactly meant to flash her teeth at the rabbit – that was merely a physical inevitability of glowering so hard – but it appeared to have a desirable effect nonetheless. The rabbit relayed a frantic series of directions to Lord Tsukuyomi’s palace, her voice seeming to rise in pitch and tempo with every other word until the final instructions came out as little more than a squeak. Tenshi nodded once, then eyed the rabbit with the kind of dreary appraisal one might give a mangy dog.

“I thought you guys were supposed to be slaves or something,” she said.

“Er, no? I mean, well... um... maybe?” It was an odd question, now that the rabbit considered it. She’d never had a choice in how she spent her days and she certainly wasn’t allowed to leave. She knew she was intrinsically inferior to her overseers and that no amount of diligence on her part could ever change that. But was that really enough to make her a slave?

“Have a little more pride in yourself,” Tenshi muttered. “They don’t deserve your loyalty or your obedience.”

But before the rabbit could figure out how to respond to this, the celestial was gone – her footfalls ringing upon the stone walkways like a blacksmith’s hammer.

Tenshi made little attempt to disguise her approach to the palace, simply following the instructions she’d been given to the letter. It mattered not. Many stared as she passed through the busy streets near the Capital’s center, but none moved to stop her. She was imperious, inviolate, a celestial. And before long, her destination lay in front of her – a spired pagoda in the middle of a lake of purest blue, its surface undisturbed by even the slightest ripple. Heaven itself never looked so unblemished.

Tenshi sneered. “Figures he’d have the place that looks like a giant prick.”

She stepped forward onto the narrow bridge of land which linked palace and shore, its surface paved with intricate stonework and flanked by silent lanterns. It was a solemn processional onto a god’s demesne and the lake around it was an ornament. No fish scurried within its waters, no lillies rested upon its surface; the Moon was too pure to admit such things. It was a perfect, lifeless mirror reflecting an equally lifeless society. It was even worse than back home, Tenshi thought – at least in Heaven they had the decency to spend their days singing and feasting instead of looking down on people.

A voice from behind broke her reverie – its words clear and sharp and utterly commanding.

“That’s far enough.”

Tenshi grinned without even turning around. “Says who?” She took another, very deliberate step forward.

But just one.

The moment her foot touched the ground, a dozen blades burst from the stone around it, encircling her like a cage of razor-sharp metal. She hissed under her breath and glanced behind her – or at least as far as the tachi surrounding her face would allow.

“State your purpose, celestial,” the woman commanded. She was tall and almost martial in her bearing. Her lavender hair hung in a single loose ponytail at her side and the sword she was gripping was sunk half its length into the ground at her feet – a sword that was an exact duplicate of the ones entrapping Tenshi.

The celestial’s eyes hardened. “I’m here to keep a promise 500 years overdue.” The words came out almost as a challenge.

She took take measure of her opponent – the confidence with which she carried herself, the belt which hung loosely upon her hip, and particularly the bright yellow ribbon with which she tied her hair. She’d heard all the stories about the Scarlet Devil's failed invasion of the moon, of course, but while she didn't think very much of Remilia, anyone capable of holding Reimu captive for a month was worth taking seriously.

“You are not permitted in the Lunar Capital,” Yorihime continued. “How did you get here?”

Tenshi smirked despite herself. “Worried your impenetrable defenses aren’t so impenetrable after all?”

One of the swords surrounding her dug into the small of her spine – just enough to make it clear that it might cut much deeper should its wielder wish. Tenshi grumbled.  “Fine, fine. I trailed one of the Dragon Palace’s messengers on her way back home. Er, the one with long red hair.” She hoped there was someone who actually fit that description. Iku could be a royal pain in the ass, but she'd still feel kind of bad if she got her mixed up in all this.

Yorihime stared at Tenshi in silence for several moments, as if she too were taking measure of an adversary. Tenshi tried to pry an arm loose from the cage of swords she was trapped in, but the blades just tightened around it.

“A rabbit told me you planned to assault Lord Tsukuyomi,” Yorihime said at last.

“Spineless little sycophant,” Tenshi muttered under her breath, then locked eyes with the Lunarian. “And so what if I am? You can’t tell me Lord Dickmansion doesn’t have it coming.”

If the insult had been intended to faze her opponent, Yorihime showed no sign of reacting to it. “I can’t let you do that.”

Tenshi wrenched one foot free of its bondage and grinned fangs at her. “Then just try and stop me!”

She stomped that foot upon the ground and the earth reverberated violently. Cracks snaked across the length of the bridge in an instant and the land beneath her tore itself apart. The blades confining her fell away, some tumbling into the lake while others were snapped clean in half by the faulting rocks. She sprung free.

“World Creation Press!”

An enormous keystone slammed down from the sky above Yorihime – larger even than the one she’d placed beneath the shrine. This was no playful danmaku or warning shot; it was a heavenly meteor and Yorihime was directly in its shadow.

“Lord Kanayamahiko.”

The Lunarian’s expression was as calm while she spoke the words as it had been from the start. Even with a keystone hurtling towards her with enough force to level a castle, she hadn’t bothered to move a single limb. She didn’t need to. When the tip of the keystone neared Yorihime’s head, it simply crumbled away to dust. There was no impact, no earth-rending shockwave. The keystone just parted in a waterfall of sand that collected gently around the Lunarian’s feet as if guided by an unseen hand. Not even the ribbon on her head had been sullied by it.

Tenshi was already rushing forward. This wasn’t Gensokyo and this wasn’t a duel between friends. She was here to right a wrong left long unpunished and no arrogant bodyguard was going to stand in her way – not even if she called down a million gods.

“O master of stone and metal,” Yorihime intoned solemnly, “Return this celestials’s creation onto her a hundredfold!”

The sand around her rose up and took form: swords and spears and naginata – dozens of them, perhaps even hundreds. They aimed themselves towards the barrelling celestial and took flight in an instant. Tenshi’s eyes went wide and she narrowly banked away from the first volley, but there were too many, too suddenly. One spear drove itself into her shoulder, another into her arm, a third between her ribs.

She barely slowed. A true celestial could shrug off a landslide and she was better than any of them. Just another few feet....

“Sword of Scarlet-”

Yorihime raised one hand in front of her. “Lord Naruikazuchi, let your heavenly cry silence this interloper!”

A flash of lightning snaked forth from her fingertips with a shriek like a thousand keening hawks. It struck Tenshi squarely in the center of her chest and whatever the celestial had been about to say was swallowed by it completely.

Better than any of them....

With inhuman stubbornness, Tenshi gritted her teeth and manifested her weapon, cleaving through the tendril of coruscating power linking her and Yorihime. The lightning quivered violently as her blade passed through it and then split apart in a spray of scarlet mist. She collapsed onto the ground.

“The Sword of Hisou?” Yorihime questioned, eyes fixed firmly upon the blade in Tenshi’s hand. Its scarlet length flickered, wavering like an autumn leaf on an unseen breeze. She appraised the celestial again, as if seeing her for the first time. “You are of the Hinanawi?”

“That’s right,” Tenshi replied, pulling herself back onto her feet and attempting to will sensation back into her limbs.

“Why would one of Heaven's most venerated seek to harm Lord Tsukuyomi?"

A hint of a smirk traced Tenshi’s face once more – a frighteningly incongruous expression for one with weapons still impaling their body. “Let me tell you a story.”

She straightened out her dress and then took hold of the spear in her shoulder, prying it loose with only the faintest hint of a grimace. “Once upon a time there was a family of priests who lived in the mountains and spent all their time managing earthquakes. If a storeroom collapsed, it was because they willed it. If a village survived unscathed, it was because they ensured it. They were so devoted to their work that even the gods took notice.”

“I am aware of the special dispensation your clan received,” Yorihime noted curtly.

“Of course, with so many important errands to perform, they certainly didn't have time to spend with their only daughter,” Tenshi continued, seeming to ignore the Lunarian entirely. “No, that would just be silly – that’s what servants were for, right? But fortunately for that girl – let’s call her... Chiko – one of those retainers treated her just like the little sister she’d always wished she’d had. She took her for picnics, taught her how to make paper cranes and play the koto – all the kinds of things her parents wouldn’t. With them it was always rituals and traditions and ‘carrying on the family name’.” She couldn’t quite keep the sarcasm from her voice.

“I fail to see how any of this is relevant.”

“Then shut up and listen!”

She took a moment to compose herself again, then assumed her sweetest, most mawkish smile.

“One day when she was 13, Chiko’s father took her aside and told her the clan had just been granted a great honor – they were all moving to Heaven! She’d get to fly and dance upon the clouds and feast on food sweeter than anything anywhere on Earth. It sounded wonderful! There was just one catch – their retainers didn't get to come. They were branch family. They weren’t pure enough, not ready to be celestials. 'Some day', he told her.” She flashed a bitter smile at Yorihime. “Funny, huh? I thought celestials weren't supposed to lie.”

“I’m sure Lord Hinanawi spoke the truth as he saw it.”

“Oh, he always does,” Tenshi growled. “But I didn’t give a shit back then and I’m not about to start now. I swore to Chikame on the day we left that I’d see her in Heaven again. That I’d spend a hundred years shouting at the Dragon himself if that’s what it took.”

“And did you?”

Rather than answering, Tenshi turned to watch the cerulean arc of the Earth as it sunk beneath the Lunar horizon. The lifeless stasis of the Lunar Capital made it look even more vibrant by comparison. “You know what they think down there? Heaven’s full. Enlightenment’s on hold because we ran out of room. Of course, we both know that’s bullshit.”

“Lord Tsukuyomi has no judicial authority over Bhava-Agra. That fall squarely within the jurisdiction of-”

“Oh please,” Tenshi spat. “Save that line for someone who doesn’t know better. Bhava-Agra is the spiritually nearest realm to the moon and Lord Dickmansion here just didn't like the idea of so many 'impure' humans taking up residence that close to his stupid lifeless utopia. He leaned on Heaven and Heaven caved; not worth getting into a power struggle over a few lowly humans, right?” She shook her head. “For years, I thought the Celestial Bureaucracy was just drowning in its own red tape and sanctimony, but that wasn’t it at all. It was always him.”

“Your brashness does you no credit, celestial,” Yorihime chided. “By your own word, it’s been centuries. Has the Yama not passed their own judgment on her already?”

“You mean ‘Is she dead’,” Tenshi spat, but the ensuing silence was answer enough. Ordinary humans didn’t live to be 500.

Yorihime shook her head. “Only a child rails against the order of the universe. The Yama’s judgments are absolute. It is only right and proper that the impure remain crawling upon the Earth where they belong.”

“Bullshit!” The Sword of Hisou flared angrily in Tenshi’s grip. “If my father gets to live in Heaven and she doesn't, then there's no justice in the universe at all. I'm gonna fix that. I'm gonna make things better. Maybe it's too late for her now, but I still owe it to her memory and to the girl I used to be. And you're in my way.” Her eyes flashed dangerously.

“You can’t win,” Yorihime stated simply. “I've seen the way you carry yourself in battle. You are impulsive, overconfident, unaware of your own limitations.” Tenshi bristled with each new insult, but somehow kept her ground. “Among the enlightened of heaven,” Yorihime continued, “you may indeed rank a warrior, but you are 10,000 years too early to challenge the Moon.”

“Not so long as I’ve got this.” Tenshi’s grip tightened on her weapon’s hilt until her knuckles turned white. The Sword of Hisou, Blade of Scarlet Perception –  a weapon of the enlightened that could combat even gods. It drew out the nature of those it touched, manifesting their spirit in scarlet mist; one slash could divine the essence of any living being and bring it to bear against them – even a Lunarian.

“I am aware of your weapon’s power,” Yorihime replied. “It will avail you not; there is no spirit on the Moon or in Heaven that can touch me and neither will your blade.”

Tenshi sunk into a crouch and grinned at her. “Wanna bet?”

“I have given you enough indulgences already. Awanagi no Mikoto!” Yorihime raised her hand. “Awanami no Mikoto! Bind this child in fetters as unyielding as the tides!”

Two great columns of spray burst from the lake on either side of Tenshi, then four, six, eight, their surfaces weaving into rippling chains of purest water – chains whose links could no more be severed by any weapon than could the oceans themselves.

Tenshi just grinned. “Scarlet Weather Shroud of all Gensokyo!”

Her sword’s blade flared like a geyser that had just been uncorked and spirit surged forth from it, so dense that it was almost white – spirit gathered on a hundred visits to that land below. She felt the earnest drizzle of an ordinary magician, the unrelenting wind of a tengu journalist, the shimmering frost of a cocksure ice fairy and a thousand others like her, from the spirits which dwelled within the oldest mountains to the tiniest blades of grass. Emotions, ambitions, life.

The shackles encircling Tenshi abruptly lost cohesion and plummeted back into the lake. The swords in her side disintegrated. Yorihime leapt backwards, eyes wide with genuine horror.

Tenshi took one look at her and began to cackle. “Oh my god, it’s true! It’s actually true! I almost didn’t believe that star spangled shit-disturber.” She shook her head. “Fairies? What kind of a lame-ass weakness is that?”

“Have you lost your mind?!” Yorihime cried. “That much impurity will make even a celestial lose their agelessness!”

“So what?” Tenshi replied as the spirit pouring out of her sword engulfed her in a brilliant scarlet aura. “If some shinigami wants to try taking my soul, I’ll just kick their ass too.”

The Lunarian tightened her grip on her own weapon and locked eyes on Tenshi with an earnestness she’d not needed in millennia. “Did Junko send you?”

“I sent me,” she countered. “Because Tsukuyomi left the only family I ever loved to die alone and I’m gonna pay him back ten times over.”

“Impossible. Celestials can’t hold grudges.”

Tenshi just laughed. “In case you haven’t been paying attention, I’m a really, really lousy celestial, but that’s exactly why I’m gonna kick your ass.” She brandished her weapon, its blade still streaming with pride and ardor, curiosity and petty jealousy and all those other things that made life interesting which the heavens had learned to disdain. Just for today, she’d cast aside her celestial name and all its privileges. Just for today, she was once again that little girl who’d sworn to rail against the heavens.

She rushed forward.

“Scarlet Weather Rapture!”

[lexiemybestfriend]

Walking

This post is an aside and not chronological. Already mentioned, I felt that walking was important. I didn’t realize that it would be, perhaps, the one thing that would define my relationship with Lexie. Obviously, more important are the emotional connections that created value in our walks together but, the act of walking is the manifestation of my life with my best friend.

On almost every walk, there could have been a story. From the scared, tiny puppy that I carried in my jacket to the old slow dog that became a fixture in our neighborhood, we walked. From her first days, I tried to get Lex to walk on the shoulder of the road or sidewalk. First, I thought it might provide a micro-distance of safety, but I thought it might be easier on her growing joints and bones. Pre-disposed to hip dysplasia, I tried everything I could think of to help my dog be as healthy as possible.

During a walk, when she was very young, I heard a shuffle as we walked down the sidewalk. My spidey-sense went off so I turned around and saw a pit bull running straight for my puppy. Reflexively, I yelled, “NO!” and, fortunately, he came to a skidding halt. I snatched up Lexie as the dog slowly walked back toward a house across the street.

In the same stretch of road, about a year later, I passed a house where a big, yellow lab barked at us, every day, while wagging his tail. This day, the owner was in the yard and walked up to talk. I complimented his dog for guarding the yard. He asked if I wanted him, joking-I assumed. I wanted to say yes. Clearly, I had become a different person from twelve months prior. I was able to say no but only because I didn’t have the means to take care of another dog. I asked him why and found out the prior owner had shot this kind, old boy in the face with a pistol. Only then, did the mark on his face make sense. This guy had ended up taking care of him. It was even harder to say no.

Some days, I would let Lexie off leash, inside a fenced baseball field. Often, she would find a squirrel to chase or I would run after her warning that I was “gonnagetthepuppy.” She almost seemed to smile when we played these games. I couldn’t stop smiling. One day, Lexie was about halfway across the field when she saw a lady walking her dog. Breaking into a sprint, Lex found a gap in the fence and rushed right up to the nose of the Rottweiller/Saint Bernard mix. As the owner yelled, “I can’t hold my dog!!” - she planted her feet and white-knuckled her leash with both hands. I was in a full sprint, watching the 180 pound dog “bow up” and my one year old, fifty pound, dog bounce spastically around him. I would never get there in time, if this dog chose to attack my dog. Fortunately, he determined this young dog was simply stupid, not dangerous. So, he stood his ground but never harmed the ignorant puppy or her more foolish owner as I grabbed Lexie by the collar to create some distance while apologizing to the big dog’s owner.

On some walks, down a bike path, through the woods, I used to hide from Lexie. Without fail, when she found out that I was no longer following, she always came back to find me. I had assumed she would just keep walking or break for freedom. Until one day, when she was about two years old, I hid behind a snow bank where I could see Lexie but she didn’t see me. I smiled as she stopped and scanned every direction. Then, I stopped smiling as I saw her face switch of inquisitive to panic. It literally made my heart hurt. I jumped up, calling her name, so she could see me. I never hid from her again. Somewhere behind that big stoic face, my dog seemed to actually like me.

In Fort Collins, we would walk by a collection of baseball fields. At certain times of the year, almost the entire outfield would be filled with geese. We would sneak up to the gate. Slowly, I would ease the gate open and release Lexie’s leash. I would whisper in her ear, “go.” She would sprint across the field as hundreds of geese exploded into flight. It was one of the very few times that Lexie barked and she would jump as the birds lifted off. She was never fast enough to threaten any of them or I would not have played this game.

Similar to our first camping trip, there were multiple rolling incidents in a variety of hideous substances. There were almost countless incidents of scent distractions that led to left behind pizza, or french fries, or something so small I couldn’t even see it. There were walks in the rain, in the snow, on ice, in the wind, in searing heat. There were walks in the middle of the night, middle of the day, during times that I was injured or sick. There were walks with threats of fights, both human and canine. There were numerous encounters, almost always friendly, with homeless people - many of whom looked forward to seeing the big, black dog. Once Lexie reached one year old, we walked twice daily instead of just mornings. During almost thirteen years, with the exception of when I was out of town, I can confidently say we didn’t miss more than 5-10 walks except for days when Lexie had an injury or illness, which was almost never. A few walks were shortened because I was in a bad mood or didn’t have sufficient time before work. Some walks turned into adventures. Some were miserable. But the vast majority, I wouldn’t trade - a simple activity that defined our days. Any time I said, “Lexie, wanna go for a walk?” - her ears would pop up. When she was young, she would jump up and run to the door. When she was older, it would take a bit longer to get up but she would head out for a walk, every time. It seriously impressed me. As years passed, I would become more and more amazed at my dog.

When Lexie was almost thirteen years old, we walked very slowly but her eyes were always bright and her nose sharp. One day, we ambled down a street toward our little apartment, a car slowed down. A woman who I’ve never seen, before or since, called out, “excuse me, I wanted to tell you that I see you walking your dog all the time and how impressed I am at your patience.” That same day, a friend was having to say goodbye to one of his dogs, who happened to be my second favorite dog in the world. A personel hero had passed away that day, at thirty-five years old. Lexie was hampered by an injured paw that we, unsuccessfully, had been trying to heal. So, emotionally, I was frayed. Having a stranger tell me that I had managed to do a good job, caring for my best friend, made me immediately tear up. As a result, I mumbled something like, “well, she’s always been a great dog” and spun around while walking away. I’m sure I looked like a fool but I didn’t want to break down in full blown tears, in front of someone. I knew Lexie was approaching our goodbye and it was obvious that knowledge was already beginning to beat me.

After I said goodbye to Lexie, I continued to walk because it was so hard-wired into my “normal” day. More than anything, walking is what I miss the most. In Heaven, there is almost nothing I look forward to as much as a long walk with my best friend.

Many of the following stories happened during our walks. Some were daily walks, some were hikes, but so many of my memories are melted to our walking together.

[artandteaandstuff-blog]

Strange Places - Part 7

Summary: Emma Swan is only just getting to grips with the whole fairy-tale thing, let alone the villains. She’s already defeated the Evil Queen. But the Evil Queen’s mother is a new story entirely. Not to mention Captain Hook. She will do whatever she has to do to take him out. Until one day she wakes up in an entirely different bed, only to find out she’s married to him. | Captain Swan.

Author’s Notes: THANK YOU @irishswanff FOR YOUR BETA-ING.

Tagging a few people who are/ were reading! If you want to be taken off this list or added to it, please let me know! Also I’ve lost track of who asked to me tagged so if I missed you, shout at me!!

@pottlock @killian_whump @silmarilswan @katromine @like-waves-on-the-beach@the-selfish-heart @galadriel26 @elaine-spades@blackwidownat2814@spartanguard @lifeismadeup-ofmoments@superchocovian @linda8084@georgianablythe16  @revanmeetra87 @swanslieutenant @swanandapirate @dreadpirateemma @ofshipsandswans @killiancygnus

FF.NET

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

Too Much, Too Far

Hook cornered Emma in the kitchen after he dropped Lizzie off at school.

She was only just out the shower, hair loose and freshly dried, clothes soft against her skin. Other-Emma had a different fashion sense than her. She was more into soft jumpers and dresses, whereas Emma prefered a good pair of jeans and a tank top. She managed to get a good night’s sleep the night before, so she had woken early and bright-eyed.

Hook, on the other hand, didn’t look like he was faring so well. His face was pale with sleepless nights, his eyes bloodshot and tender. If Emma didn’t know him any better, she’d say he was heartbroken. That was the feeling she got from him every time he fixed her with those wounded puppy-dog eyes she was so unused to seeing.

“I have something to tell you, love,” he said.

She turned, in the midst of drying a plate, and raised her eyebrows in response.

“Now, bear with me…”

She didn’t like the sound of that. She turned to face him, folding her arms, battle stance at the ready. Was he going to tell her to stop with the questions? He hadn’t objected to them last night, but she could tell he was at breaking point, especially when she started quizzing him on their sex-life... and his villainy. They were touchy subjects. She made note to use them as button pushers later, when the occasion arose.

“What?” she asked. When she realised how hostile her voice sounded, she added, softer, “What’s up?”

“We’ve been invited out to dinner,” he said, grimly, watching her with those bright blue eyes. She looked away from his gaze, finding that it burned into her too much.

“Okay?”

“With your mother and father.”

“That’s it?” She almost laughed.

She noted the relief on his face. She thought it would be much worse, especially with the way he was acting. But her parents, she could handle. In fact, she could probably use them to her advantage. She smiled, unable to stop herself, and he caught it before she dropped her expression into something more neutral. He must have mistook it, for his own face broke out into a smile, and for a moment it was so blinding she couldn’t look away. She had never seen him smile like that, not once, not even when he flirted so shamelessly with her.

“I need to go and sort out the laundry,” he said, still smiling. He made his way to the door but turned just shy of it. “And Emma?”

“Yeah?”

“Glad to see a bit of the old you.”

The twist of guilt in her gut surprised her.

So, it was settled. Lizzie, Neal and Archie were to stay with Belle, who took on her babysitting duties with enthusiasm. She turned up at the door a, little earlier than expected, to pick Lizzie up. Emma couldn’t notice how much happier she seemed. Nothing like the shy, closed-off Belle she had known back in the other Storybrooke.

“You’re alright having three of them sleep over?” Emma heard Killian ask.

“It will be my pleasure.”

Emma had yet to come down the stairs. She was perched at the top of the landing, listening to their conversation, and glimpsing Belle from around the corner. She hadn’t worked up the courage to go down the stairs yet, and she wasn’t quite finished getting ready but she wanted to hear what tales Hook spun when she wasn’t around. Was it just her he was fooling, or was it the whole town?

“Brilliant. Thanks again, love.”

“No problem,” she said, holding her hand out for Lizzie to take. “Have you said goodbye to mummy?” she asked her.

Lizzie nodded. “Yeah, I went upstairs to say goodbye. She’s getting ready.”

“I’ll give her your love,” Killian said to Belle.

“Please do.”

He gave his daughter one last wave before she disappeared down the path with Belle. When Emma heard the door close, she scrambled back into the bedroom, heart pounding in her chest.

She needed to finish getting ready. It wouldn’t do to be distracted. She caught sight of the jewelry she laid out on the bed for herself, and crossed the room to pick it up. Usually she wasn’t the jewelry type, but today she wanted to make an impression on Killian. It was all part of her game plan.

She laid out a glimmering necklace, a few bracelets, and earrings. They were all silver, sparkling in the light when she picked them up. She fastened her earrings first, pushing back her freshly curled hair. She’d been wearing her hair less curly recently, because she hardly had time to shower with all the monsters running about, let alone spend hours in front of the mirror. But she found she missed it, as she pinched a curl between her fingertips. It was reminiscent of a bail bonds Emma; someone who did whatever she had to to get answers.

That was who she needed to be tonight.

Perhaps that was why she’d decided on a tight black dress she found in the back of the wardrobe. This body was older than her normal one, but she still managed to pull it off. If she and Hook were really married, he wouldn’t be able to take his eyes off her, and that would make everything run much more smoothly. She paired it with black kitten heels.

She was just about to go downstairs when a breeze wafted from the open window, straight to her bare legs. She felt the goosebumps rise and the cold run through her. Stockings would help that. Now, where would they be?

She started with the drawers, pulling them open, and peering inside. She thoroughly looked through panties, socks and bras, but she wasn’t able to find the stockings. She decided to try her luck on the lingerie drawer she’d found one of the first few nights she’d been here. She felt around, and found not stockings, but the red lacy panties and bra she’d come across before. As she pulled them out of the drawer, another thought struck her.

It would be bad…

But if it worked, it would be oh so useful…

Her lips curled into a slow smile. Yes, those would come very useful later tonight, but not until after the meal. He’d have a few drinks, and so would she, to get her confidence up.

Captain Hook really didn’t know what he was in for.

“Wow, Emma,” Hook said as she walked down the stairs, smiling at him in greeting. “You look beautiful, but we’re just going to Granny’s.”

She stepped off the bottom step. “Is it bad that I wanted to dress up?”

“You won’t find me complaining.” She noticed Captain Hook flashed in Killian Jones’ eyes.

When she held her hand out for him he looked at it, surprised, but she nodded. He took it. His hand felt strange in hers, and the feeling of his touch made her want to snatch it out of his immediately, but she pushed the thought away and smiled at him. She was going to have to be on her best behaviour if her plan was going to work.

For now.

 By the time they got to Granny’s, Mary Margaret and David were already there, sat in a booth. They smiled at them as they made their way in. David stood up immediately and took Emma’s coat, murmuring a, “You look beautiful.”

“Thanks Dav- uh, dad.” She cringed at herself.

She sat next to Mary Margaret, who she deemed safe territory. Mary Margaret smiled at her with glowing eyes, and handed her a menu.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, with a smile.

“A lot better, thanks mom.”

“Killian told us you were making more of an effort. I’m really glad to hear that, Emma. You’ll be back to your old self in no time.”

“I think you might be right.”

They order drinks. Hook decided on rum, no surprises there, and Emma ordered a big glass of red wine. She gulped down half of it as soon as the waitress set it on the table in front of her. She ignored everyone’s worried eyes on her, as she set it back on the table with a louder clink than necessary.

“Right, what are we ordering?”

Everyone ordered burgers. When the waitress came, Hook ordered onion rings for Emma instead of fries, and fixed her with a smile. She had to force herself to smile back, alarm bells ringing in her head. He knew her too well. They’d been married for years.

He knew her too well.

They were in the middle of waiting for the food when Emma decided to bring up the questions.

“Hook and I have found a way to beat the amnesia,” she said, gulping more wine. With everyone’s eyes on her, attentive and listening, she continued. “We’re playing 20 questions. Aren’t we?”

“That we are,” he said, taking a steady sip of his rum. His eyes were guarded as he watched her.

“So I might ask Hook some questions during dinner- and I might ask you some too, is that okay?”

“Of course Emma,” Mary Margaret said, reaching across to take her hand. She squeezed warmly. “We are willing to do anything to help you. Please ask us anything you think might help.”

“I will,” she said, suppressing her smile.

She decided to bide her time. She listened to Mary Margaret talk about Neal, and how he refused to do his homework, because -according to him- he was a prince and princes didn’t have to do homework. David rolled his eyes as he listened to his wife tell the story, interrupting to add that algebra is much less work than sword fighting or horse training, or all the other things a prince has to do to rule the Kingdom. Mary Margaret mentioned that she had to get through three thick volumes a week when she was learning how to be a princess. It taught her discipline and helped her realise the true sacrifices princesses have to make.

Emma tried not to seem bored by the conversation when, truthfully, it was a little out of her depth. She couldn’t imagine Mary Margaret as a princess, or David as a prince, and she didn’t want to. It all seemed so far away from her, and though she knew it was true, she couldn’t connect herself to the reality of it.

“I’m sure Neal will grow out of it,” said Hook. “He’s a smart lad. If it’s a sword fighting lesson he wants, perhaps I could teach him a few tricks.”

“Yeah, like how to play dirty, pirate,” David said, but the tone was playful. She was surprised to see the men exchange wide smiles, and it put her on edge. Who’d have thought they’d end up becoming such good friends? It sent a shudder right through her.

Only when the food arrived, did Emma put her plan into action. She waited until everyone had cut into their burgers before she got out, “So, what do you guys think of our marriage?”

David swallowed a mouthful. “What do you mean?”

“Do you think it’s happy?”

Mary Margaret and David exchanged looks, before she too swallowed her own mouthful. “Haven’t you asked Kill-”

“Yes, but I’m asking you. I don’t think Ho- Killian would lie.” She directed a forced smile at Hook, who had become very still. “But I want your side of it. Please understand, I’m trying to piece all of this together. I can’t do that if you won’t help me.”

“Of course you’re happy, Emma,” Mary Margaret said. “I’ve never known a couple so in love, or so trusting as you two.”

Emma somehow found that hard to believe, but she nodded along nevertheless, and took a bite out of her burger. Despite how ever many years seemed to have passed, it still tasted exactly the same as she remembered. Same recipe or… magic?

She decided to ask simpler questions, rather than reel out the big one she planned to ask. She asked them how often they come around to the house.

“Every week, of course!” said David. “Though, not in the mornings anymore. Not since we walked in on you making -uh - pancakes.”

According to David, Neal slept over at her house a lot. According to Mary Margaret, he loved his Auntie Emma, who managed to make him smile more than anyone else. Emma found that hard to believe too. She couldn’t even keep hold of her own kid, how would she be able to charm others?

She wanted to know how she suddenly came to trust them so much, and when she started to call them ‘mom and dad’, but she didn’t want to offend them, so she kept her mouth shut about that. It was only when they were halfway through dessert - strawberry and lemon cheesecakes - that Emma decided to bring out the harder questions.

“So dad,” she said, with a butter-wouldn’t-melt smile, “How come you let me marry Captain Hook?”

His smile faltered, but only for a second. “What do you mean?”

“Were you happy with that?”

His eyes flickered over to Hook and back to Emma, his smile growing wider. “Of course I was. I love Killian. I couldn’t have picked a better match for you myself- of course, not that we pick matches here, not since the Enchanted Forest.”

Her smile remained plastered to her face. That was not the answer she was hoping for. She didn’t want to have to do it, but she was going to have to up her game. They had forced her hand.

“So you really don’t mind?”

“Don’t mind what?”

“That I married a pirate?”

Hook gave a small cough. She looked over to him. His eyes were unreadable. “I think we all know I’m not that man any more.”

“Do we?” The stare she fixed him with was unblinking. She turned back to her parents. “I mean, do you really believe he just woke up one day and changed? You’re heroes. And he is- was- a villain.”

“What sort of heroes would we be if we didn’t believe people could change?” Mary Margaret asked, gently. “Your father and I, we’ve done things we’re not proud of-”

“But I doubt you’ve killed countless innocent people,” she said. She finished off her glass of wine. She needed her courage for her next words. “Come on, dad. How do you really feel that that hand- the hand that so gently brushes hair off my face-”

“Emma, don’t do this,” Killian said. She didn’t even look at him.

“-Or that hand, that have so softly touched-”

“Emma!”

“-have also ran a sword through innocents, hell, for the fun of it. How does it make you feel that your little girl married a man who ripped wives from husbands?”

“Emma, please,” Hook’s voice was pained, but she wasn’t falling for it.

“-who ripped fathers from their children?”

“Emma!” Mary Margaret shouted.

She finally looked into her parents’ faces. They were red, but that wasn’t what got her. They were looking into her face like they didn’t know her at all. They shook their heads, but she didn’t let it get to her. She couldn’t.

She threw down her napkin and rose from her seat. Without uttering another word, she turned and left Granny’s, out into the cold. No-one called after her, even though she half expected them to. She gulped down cold air, sighing as a breeze hit her warm skin. She needed the air to think, to clear her head.

She wondered if they were talking about her, shaking their heads, muttering how she's not the Emma that they know and love. Good, she thought savagely. Maybe then they’d realise that she’s not the real Emma, and send her back to the real Storybrooke, instead of keeping her at this God awful hell of a place.

She heard footsteps behind her. And of course when she turned, Hook was right there, closing the distance between them in a matter of strides. His eyes were dark, and his expression was still unreadable. She turned away from him, and out into the street, folding her arms. He came to stand beside her. He didn’t speak for a while. The only sound was the crickets’ soft chirping, and the faint sound of music coming from the diner. Finally, he spoke.

“What do you want me to do, Emma?”

She turned away from him, away from his gaze which was so uncharacteristically patient, and kept her own gaze fixed on the street. He sighed.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

 The journey was silent. Emma didn’t utter a word to him, and he didn’t utter a word to her. She wondered why he didn’t try and make conversation with her, or ask her what that was all about, and then she would tell him that the only way she would stop would be if he promised to help her get back to the real Storybrooke. But he didn’t speak.

They went their separate ways when they returned to the house. Killian went straight into the kitchen, and she heard the sound of a bottle hitting the side, and liquid being poured in a glass before she continued on up the stairs.

She had intended to kick off her heels, to get into her pajamas and go to sleep, but the red garments on the bed caught her eye and she remembered the next part of her plan. She smiled as she picked up the lacy red bra.

Let’s see what kind of man you really are, Captain.

 It took all of her courage. Three times she made it out into the hall, and ran back into the bedroom. She sat on the bed, talking herself into it. She needed to do this tonight, if she was going to do it at all. Lizzie wasn’t here, which made it the perfect opportunity.

She stood back up. She’d swapped her black heels for some red ones, to match the lacy undergarments she wore. She caught sight of herself in the mirror. The red stood out against her creamy skin, and it did wonders for the golden tones in her hair. She placed her hands on her hips and smiled at her reflection.

She was Emma Swan. She wasn’t scared of anything. And she definitely wasn’t scared of Captain Hook.

She made her way down the stairs, slowly, in her heels. He was no longer in the kitchen, but in the living room. He was sat on the sofa, his back to her as he looked into the fire, like something out of a storybook. His hand was clasped around a glass of rum. She watched as he brought it up and took a long, slow sip.

She leaned against the door frame, placing one hand on her hip, the other against the door.

“Well, hello there Captain.”

He jumped out of his seat and turned around. His eyes almost bulged out of his head as he took her in. “Bloody hell, Emma?”

“What do you think?”

She watched as he stood up, glass left forgotten as he approached her, eyes still wide.

“What do I think?”

She almost rolled her eyes. Almost. But instead, she sauntered forward, swaying her hips, borrowing some of that confidence she seemed to possess during one night stands. The idea was to seduce, not be vulnerable.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“What do you think I’m doing?”

She came to a stop in front of him and touched the collar of his shirt. He didn’t move away from her, but he didn’t take her in his arms like she thought he would. He stared at her, expression torn, eyebrows knit together. She dragged her hand from the collar down his chest, skimming over the buttons.

“Emma…” he warned.

But she continued her path, right down to the bottom of his shirt. It was a move that always worked, especially when she slowed the trail of her hand.

“Don’t you want this?” she asked, blinking innocently up at him.

He caught her hand. “Emma,” he warned again, though there was something in his voice. It was deeper. There was an edge to it. She smiled.

“C’mon.” She leaned in and whispered, “What do you say?”  

The pause was long. She didn’t like being so close to him- it put her on edge. His face was so close to hers, she could see each individual tiny hair on his chin. She could smell the sweetness of the rum coming off his tongue, and something else, perhaps a sea salt shower gel. She hadn’t been nearly this close to him since they were on the beanstalk and he’d bandaged her hand.

“No,” he finally said.

“No?” Her tone was laced with surprise. “What do you mean “no”?”

“I won’t take advantage of you, not when you’re like this.” He moved a hand up to stroke hair from her face, but she flinched away from his touch. “You won’t even let me touch you like this, Emma. How am I supposed to make love to you?”

No, that’s not the answer she wanted. She hadn’t intended to sleep with him, but get him to try it on with her, so she could prove what she’d already known; he was a villain, and always would be. There was a quick jolt of shame, but she pushed it away and inched forward to him.

“Oh c’mon.”

She leaned in for a kiss, but he caught her by her shoulders. His jaw was set, his eyes stern. “No.”

She caught him by his collar and pulled him towards her with all the force she could muster, crashing her lips to his. They both stumbled before regaining their balance. His lips were soft- softer than she had imagined- but when she tried to move her mouth with his, there was no response. He gently but firmly pushed her away, and though she resisted, he was too strong for her.

“Emma, please don’t do this.” The look he gave her was earnest. “I know you do not want to do this.”

“Look, you’re an attractive man. A girl has needs.”

She moved to kiss him again but he placed a finger on her lips. She looked up at him and for a second he seemed to be amused, his eyebrow quirking up.

“I knew you’d come around eventually love,” he said, and his tone was teasing. “But I really don’t think this is the best idea.”

“Why not?” she demanded.

“I’ve told you why not. I- can’t. That’s not who I am. Not any more.”

She scoffed. “Yeah right.”

Then all at once his face moved from gentle, kind and patient to dark in a matter of seconds. It wasn’t anger exactly, but pain, and it cast a shadow over every one of his features. He took a step back from her.

“That’s why you’re doing this,” he said, with quiet realisation. “You’re trying to see what kind of man I am. I thought that perhaps- perhaps you were remembering, perhaps a part of you missed-” He shook his head. “But you’re playing me. That’s what the questions are about, aren’t they? You’ve not been forthright with me. You’re not trying to remember. You’re manipulating me.”

He looked at her, waiting for her to deny it, but she couldn’t. For some reason, she couldn’t lie to him.

“What do you expect me to do?” she finally asked. “Huh? You won’t help me. What am I supposed to do?”

“I expect you to come to me.”

“I did come to you. And, in case you’ve forgotten, you refused to help me.”

His face changed from stony back to gentle. He took a step towards her, voice soft as he said, “Emma, I am trying to help you. I promise. We all are. I just want you to rememb-”

“I haven’t forgotten anything!” she shouted. She hadn’t intended to lose her temper, but she knew if he said the words ‘remember’ one more time, she was going to lose it. And suddenly, it was like she couldn’t stop, and words were pouring out of her. “All you care about is getting the “old Emma” back, like I have amnesia. Well guess what? I don’t. And you won’t even entertain the possibility that what I’m saying might be true. You’ve convinced yourself that I’m wrong without even listening to my side of the story. You- and the rest of my family- are all hearing what you want to hear.”

“Emma-”

“How would you feel if one day you were arresting Captain Hook for shooting someone, another living human being who has done nothing wrong. He looked me in the eyes and he told me that he didn’t care who he hurt, as long as he got his revenge. Then suddenly, later that day, I’m married to him? The villain, Captain Hook?”

He clenched his jaw. “I told you, I’m not that man anymore.”

“Then I don’t know who you are, because you clearly don’t care enough about me to help me. And I feel sorry for this Emma who you claim is your wife.”

“How do you think I feel?” he shouted.

She scoffed and folded her arms.

“My wife woke up one day and suddenly she’s not my wife anymore. She refuses to look at me because she finds me repulsive. She is frightened of me.” He takes a step towards her. “I cannot hold her. I cannot even talk to her, because she is under the impression that I am a villain.”

“You shot Belle!”

“I am not that man any more,” he bellows in her face. “I know who I was. I know what I did. Do not think for one second that I’ve forgotten.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What’s so hard to comprehend, Emma?” He stalks towards her now, and she steps backwards with him. “Yes, I was a villain, but I confronted my past, and I learned from it. I changed for the better, and that was all because of you.” He takes a breath, and she thinks he’s done but then he says, “You changed too.”

Changed? She flinched.

“I didn’t- don’t need to change.”

“Well that’s where you’re wrong,” he said, softly now. “You were closed off. You put yourself before others. Your walls were so high, you couldn’t even see over them yourself, let alone break them down.” He paused, studying her face. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps you are not my Emma. My Emma is open. She’s caring, selfless, but most importantly, she is open to love.”

Emma wraps her arms around herself, suddenly cold, suddenly very aware that she is hardly wearing a thing. Goosebumps rise on her arms.

“Well there’s one thing I don’t buy,” she says, without looking at him.

“What’s that?”

“I could never and would never love you.”

The tension in the air was thicker than it had ever been. She expected him to shout at her, to tell her to get out, to revert to his usual ways, but when she looked up at him, he was not even looking at her. His hand clenched into a fist at his side.

“Fine,” he said, so quietly, she wasn’t sure she heard him right.

“What?”

“I said fine. I’ll help you. Starting tomorrow, we will work out a plan, and we’ll get you back to wherever you bloody came from.”

He strode past her and out into the hallway. She heard his footsteps thunder up the stairs. The guest bedroom door slammed shut. Emma stood there for some time, arms wrapped around herself.

She had gotten what she wanted. So why was it that she felt like she hadn’t won at all?

[oceangl1tter]

Postpone the future

future things i'm itching to write about:// - INFP and unrequited love: name a more iconic duo - past lovers as colors of my nailpolish - sappy fiction in which i write a happy ending - how many  flowers can you stuff in your mouth before you throw up and die of indigestion - new year resolutions: TBD ————————————— First glass://

" HOUSE RULES to keep in mind 1. Do not go into any other rooms except for the restroom and my room 2. Bring enough food to be finished up or you take home whatever is left. 3. Do not open my closet/drawers lol its just my clothes tf? o.O 4. Clean up after yourself.... plS/ run to the damn restroom if u feel like yAK 5. PARTY ENDS 12AM sori pplz mama/papa gots to sleep " As a result of breaking the Golden Rule, the first of rules that had been posted in advance in our private Facebook event, we have been declaratively kicked out. R sneaks in a vomit-session before embarking on our expedition to the nearest boba place that would tolerate the ruckus from 4 hobbling pairs,2 observers, other stragglers lost on the way. It's supposedly a 40 minute walk to TenRen but time doesn't exist when you're trying to stop waddling kids from veering into oncoming traffic.The ranking of most drunk to least goes like this:

S E KC Q R MR DY A M JR, V R, JS, KG

Unfortunately, those burdened with not being shit-faced have been assigned the lovely task of cleaning up spilled drinks (a fizzy coca-cola liter erupts two times, same girl, same stumble, twice the sticky), being a branch for others to hang onto, and emotionally supporting the less-fortunate drunks. 

Breaking down the Hot Mess:

S and E pour up as if the red cups in their hands are the equivalent of shot-glasses—this measurement is obviously incredibly off and perhaps the reason why one of  them surpasses their breaking point (the other will throw up the remaining Malibu/ Smirnoff in a public trashcan in Atlantic Times Square) But for now, they're hyper, happy, laughing drunks, prancing along the host's bedroom and clinging along people in their path and tearing themselves off like pinballs.

S: Everything seems to be funny. Affectionate & eerily giggly. The next moment she's crying into the host's bed, facedown, emitting ugly sobs through convulses of her body. J is at her side telling her she can't cry into the host's bed and that she'll find someone else who will make her happy, but she has to get up first. She replies with," FUCK HIM!! I NEED HIM! HE MADE ME HAPPY!" This must've been inevitable. Don't drink in the same room with your ex. Another moment, she's pounding on the bathroom door because she has to pee. We broke the first rule. The host's mom comes out of her room later to see what the commotion is all about. She enters the room. Girl on bed, facedown, crying. Guy talking her down. R, taking a lazy nap on the side. Me, standing up with tissues stained coke-brown, red-faced, with my dumb nosering on looking into the eyes of someone that has known me since I was 10. She's on the phone and looks around the room. Concern or anger? I can't tell. I say in Cantonese that everything is fine. She is fine. I don't know how to say "she's not drunk! ! she's heartbroken" but the smell of the room betrays any statement. Kick-out ensues. 

E: This happened last time and she always proclaims the day after: "I wasn't that drunk!" The girl has lost all principles of momentum and flops on people's shoulders, anchoring her arm around necks. She drinks the same amount as S + the leftover bottle of Malibu. Her layer of introversion is gone as she lunges around the room with cup in hand. On our way to boba in the dark, she strides in zig zags with confident, imprecise steps. R runs after her. 

KC: Her original state is a high-pitched buzz of energy and it seems like alcohol multiplies that tenfold. She whacks S's left eye with her hand on accident. E whacks S's right eye with her foot on accident. She calls E fat and then apologizes. Later, she cries because she is sad. She loves everyone. She loves you. She loves her friends. She loves everyone, especially you. S, E, and KC are trio drunks. KC and I started out next to eachother drinking Calpico. I can't pinpoint when the trajectory split.

Q: She is a flirty, artificial drunk and at this point I'm over it. I saw the same thing unfold in Berkeley except with her boyfriend added into the equation. Not fun. Everyone else ignores her. She lays on the bed texting him.

R: R is a sleepy-drunk and he's knocked out first. I'm not sure how he was able to sleep through the loud singing of the national anthem and random indian music someone put on. I tell wide-eyed observers that this is signs of an alcoholic in the making. He pets S's hair as she cries into neatly folded blankets. On our way to boba I've been tasked with handling his inhibition. I am his crutch for the first half. The second half he is pushing me in an abandoned shopping cart and topples it over a bump in the sidewalk. My backpack, thankfully, protects my head from cracking open like an egg. Later on he grips my balled up hand and tries to unfold my fingers forcefully as if he could peel them out of the curled fist position. His hands feel like demands instead of sheepish drunk maneuvers. They don't feel sweaty but they're not warm either. We can't do this. I am shaking my head and curling my mid-sentences up as if I were scolding some dog. I don't let anyone hold my hand! Not even my mom! I say matter-of-factly. After wrestling it for a few moments he gives up.

New Years pt.1 / 11-12:// —————— J KM A S Q D KC R MR KG

New Years I had decided that I was sick of cleaning up after sick people and decided that it was up to me to be the agent of my own shitface-ness.  I arrive an hour before countdown. Early enough to not be missing out on the fun but late enough to have enough of it. I hadn't gone to this point before of not being able to coordinate the joints in my legs and how they are supposed to move together. I feel like a mannequin moving the different wooden blocks of my body. My cruise through the living room is stop-motion movement at 6 frames per second. I ask KG if that means I have meningitis and if that means I will die because I heard from my sister some girl when she was in highschool shared drinks, caught some virus and forgot how to walk afterwards. I took the shots and I also took shots, so do these shots cancel out?? My heart is beating so fast? Will I die? These are fleeting worries as I engage in a heavily regulated sequence of sitting on the floor, mulling on my phone, and sashaying across MR's house to the beat of the music with a cup of water and Soju in my hands for optimal simultaneous intake. I love MR's floor. I could have a ball in here. Loopy thoughts in my head spill out of my drink. I love that drunk words and actions never mean anything. I'm seated next to D in the kitchen under dim lights when I blurt out that I hate f***ots. I'm laughing and laughing and Laughing and Sipping on my Cup. D laughs along in shock and tells me to stop. I lazily say I must be projecting.

Some in-betweeners: (11) I stop KP and KC from having their New Years Kiss because we are NOT changing teams right now while drunk and/or heartbroken and I slice their SIN with my hands. Checkmate, athiests. 

(11 1/2) 

(12) J envelopes me in a big bear hug he has a knack for doing and I don't understand why he is hugging me when he does not even know me. I'm being consoled as I empty my lungs in gasping heaves. I've been made physically immobile at this point and I don't feel like squeaming out from this embrace like I would usually do. It's more of a crumple. D hovers over us. Sons! Sneezed out of her nose! We do a family hug. It's a comforting one. I shake hands with J in a marriage pact that if in 40 years we still haven't found The One we would just call it a day and get married. D wants to join in, but I tell him I'm not down for threesomes. Letalone incestuous ones. I don't think it will happen but in case it does, it wouldn't hurt to fall back on history. 

He tells me a few more things:

The money he spent, the Blitzcrank plush that he ordered that never came in the mail and was too shy to ask for a replacement.

The middle school cringey rejection song sent to him played on repeat as he ran laps to get swol to win the hearts of others and move on https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W9A52UWmmrE ; The cliche line about learning to love yourself before you love someone else and his backburner recognition that the song I sent that apparently "changed his life" like a cop-out of some manic pixie dream girl concept, might not have been for him. Bingo.

The $5 bill he snuck under one of my frontyard rocks because he thought I was broke. He asks if I ever got it. No I did not, but thanks.

My tumblr he tried to find and couldn't; the one Samantha told him I had but wouldn't give him unless they went out together.

(1) Later that night I'm limping J back to his house as he spits out foams of champagne out of his mouth. M kicks him out of his house because he's done with his shit that he dumps on others—shit that he brought about himself. (2)   (3) (4) —————————————————————————————————-

[aljan-r]

Day 5 - CSI Forensics Study, Royal Holloway

The morning was so cold. There's this one guy sleeping in the corner. His friend woke up first, and tried to woke the guy up. The sleeping guy just murmured and straight went back to sleep. He took a bath, got dressed up, and once again woke his sleeping mate up. Instead of ignoring, this sleeping guy suddenly jumped out of bed and looked at the clock, oh now look at his face! It was me. The clock literally pointed at 8 o'clock. Of course I was shocked, we literally have to gather outside by half past eight! I immediately took bath, only to discover that the hot water's gone out! Great, what could possibly went wrong after this? It was so frustrating that I even decided to not take a bath. I just straight up washed my feet and get clothed up after it. Anyways, I went downstairs to get only few eggs, and decided to finally go outside, just in time. We went for Penton Street, and walked quite a road until we saw some kind of a grafitti, where we enter some kind of an alley and into a building. It looked like an office or some sort, but we waited for a while in front of this building, until they directed us the room our forensic instructor was in. So we went upstairs, where then she appeared from behind her room door, asking if we actually looked for her, and then let us inside her room. So we entered the room, and had seated right away. She then introduced herself. She's a colleague at University College London, which is not even far from Central London itself. She then introduced us on forensics, how it originated, and how the SOCO (CSI equivalent here) usually got their job done. She then gave us cases that's already divided into four desks, which was: - Tracing fingerprint with some kind of dust - Identifying whose footprint was whom - Prioritizing which items need to investigate first in a crime scene - Identify blood stains, be it from a bullet to the head, or stabbing Personally, I got myself overwhelmed with this lesson, because there's literally no such thing, not even we're introducted on these kind of matter back then in Jakarta. After some toilet break, finally the lesson's over, so we said our farewell and we continued on our journey. Then we took a bus to Waterloo, where we ate some chicken and drank some coffee. Some tables were only for three people, so I got separated from my friends, and sat with our mentor (kak Kelvin, kak Ayu) and Audriel (that was my junior) on a four-seated table instead. After we had some lunch, we finally gather outside the restaurant, had some banter while the other kid went to the toilet. Everyone's ready, so we set foot through a bus stop onto a nearby station, called Waterloo. As I looked around the place, unlike the other places I've seen (like Oxford Circus, and areas near Hyde Park) this area actually had skyscrapers. I don't know why I brought this in the topic, maybe that it's quite odd for me? Anyways, we went in the station, while passing through a blanketed homeless man and his dog. Before we entered the platform, we asked our mentor, do we actually need an Oyster (like e-toll card on a bus) card? Well, this time we weren't using the tube, so the card was obsolete. This time though, we're using a ticket. We're using South West Trains bound for Reading, but we're going for the suburbs. So we took a train to Egham, where from there we got off the train and walked to the bus stop. When we got there, the bus that went to our destination was already there, so they took off without us. We kinda waited for another bus that went for our destination, which was far too long. We're waiting for about 12 minutes, which was kind of boring to be honest. So when our bus finally arrived, we had relief and lined up immediately. By just only a few stop, we finally got off near some kind of a cemetery, which from there we walked around the suburbs to the university itself. With a bit of midroad-crossing, we eventually arrived at Royal Holloway. Firstly, we walked through the gate, through the Founder's Hall. We had banter there, whilst waiting for our guide to come. After I took a seat and rested for a while, came our guide. We gathered around her while she introduced herself, and took us to a room in a separate building, where we're introduced to the university itself, and the surrounding building itself. I asked if they provided scholarship. They say they did, but I should rely more on our government scholarship program. Anyways, they took us out to the building's parking lot, where we're being introduced to three fellows, which were a guy, a woman, and an Indian-Indonesian woman. They began introducing themselves while took us around for a walk. Firstly, they took us to Student's Council Building, where the guy explained that there were many communities throughout the college. He also said that there were weekly festivals, like Asian Food Market. After that, we got out of the building, and walked across the college. The guy and the girl kept introducing us to the surrounding buildings, where the Indonesian woman just had a chat with us on the back. Not long after that, we went into the fellow's canteen, where the colleagues there usually hangout whilst doing their study. After that, we took a path through a small forest back to the Founder's Hall, where from there the guy had an important meeting, so he wished us good day, and went away. Carrying on, the woman took the lead, this time she took us to the Founder's Library. We entered the building, and went to the second floor, where the giant library was at. We were told by the woman to be quiet, because many of the colleagues were actually learning there. Slowly we entered the library, where there were lots of colleagues actually sat on a table with their laptops doing researches, and we, a group of twenty-one people, suddenly came in to the room. Even though we walked slowly, it felt like we're actually wreaking havoc on the library. Everyone just looked at us whilst we're walking to another corner. Even at this time all I was thinking about was to get out as soon as possible. Finally, we're out of the building, so that's quite a relief I guess. Moving on from the library, we're continuing to the Founder's Courtyard. There, we seen some colleagues having company in the courtyard while studying something behind their notebooks. We carried on through the alley, where then we got off in the same place where we met the guide for the first time. Anyways, here she said farewell, and left us to ourselves, and she said it's up to us whether we wanted to explore the college by ourselves. We took photos in front of the statue of a queen, that opened the college back then, but I kinda forgot her name. Here goes our journey at the outskirts of London. It's about five in the evening, so we decided to go back to London to have dinner. Firstly, we thought of waiting the bus, but the bus schedule here was kinda off, so we decided to walk to Egham Station anyways. In the way, we stumbled on Marcs & Spencer minimarket, so we (read : I) got inside. We were so hungry, even though we're about to have dinner. But still. So we bought food here instead, to have some energy on the way anyways. Personally, I bought myself some salmon, an ice cream, and a pepsi (yes I'm a pepsi fan). After i brought in at the expense of ±10 pounds. I got out of the store to have myself something to eat whilst my friends were inside, still waiting at the cashier. Anyways, we continued on our way to Egham. I ate my food on the way, I didn't care I was so hungry. Passing through the suburbs, the bus station too, we finally got into Egham Station, where we waited for our train to Waterloo. As the train came, I can definitely see from outside, that the train was so crowded as hell. We got in. Even though there were some seats, we were dumb enough to not sit in it and went straight near the door instead. Fortunately, we were just stations away from Waterloo, so it didn't matter much to us anyways. We finally reached Waterloo, where as soon as we got out, something took my attention. There's this woman that was playing a guitar in the middle of the station hall, with opened guitar case full of pennies in it. Frankly I could say that she played her song very well. Even one of my friend threw her money in it. So did I. From there, we exchanged to the subway, where we took the Northern Line to Leicester Square. From there, we got up the street and went to the chinatown nearby. Remember Day 2's Loon Fung restaurant? This time we're eating in the restaurant next to it, called Lido. Inside, we ate some chinese soup and rice in the basement. To be frank, I didn't like chinese food that much... After that, we decided to had some shopping in Covent Garden, except it was already evening. The sun already fell beneath the horizon, so stores were closing. The stores left that were open was Boots, which was a pharmacy shop. Nevertheless we got inside and had a look around. I bought a deodorant here not because I really wanted it, but because the one I had back in Jakarta was already depleted. Brought to the cashier, paid five pounds, and off we went somewhere. We looked for signs of shoes shop still open, but unfortunately they're all closed. We were disappointed. At the last minute, I bought a burger and a milkshake at a nearby Shake Shack. After that, we took a late ride back to Paddington, where from there we walked to our inn, had some sleep.

[psychicdinneranon-blog]

Five Times Shou Eats Something He Shouldn’t (And 1 Time He Doesn’t)

This is part 4 of a series based off the MiB AU! From bakanohealthy and qcatter Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 5 Part 6

(Fourth Time: In Which Shou Eats TWO Microwaves)

(Note: Shou is an alien who thinks he can eat anything in this fic. However he is going to be eating some weird stuff in here, like basically garbage, if you are sensitive to this you may not want to read this particular fic.)

 Shou had done it. He had run away from home.

Now he would never ever have to go back to that stupid house where he had to endure hallways that warped and twisted and stretched on forever with dark silent rooms lining them. With the way the entire place echoed with the footsteps and low drumming of his father. And the air felt like it would choke his stardust lungs with how heavy it grew.

So now he would never have to go back there ever again.

But he couldn’t leave entirely.

Shou couldn’t run off and disappear to some far corner of the Earth. He couldn’t just up and leave with his father still in power over CLAW. He knew that. He was too smart to burn his bridges this early; so he just left his home and showed up at CLAW’s HQ whenever his father actually needed him. Sometimes it was a call to go investigate one of the lower branches, sometimes it was to demonstrate his powers as his father’s golden child in front of anyone foolish enough not to realize that his father was just preying on them and their lust for power.

And all the while he never set foot back in that home with his father.

But running away was not as easily done as just walking out the door. He had to worry about feeding himself now too.

At first Shou just raided whatever he could from CLAW. It was all too easy to get offered things that nobody wanted, especially with his reputation for eating anything.

Shou had already learned that he shouldn’t take important things. It was better if he ate things that weren’t useful, like broken machines, plastic wrappers and all the rocks he could find.

But he still had a “job” to do. And he couldn’t let his father think that he was slacking.

So really it was no wonder that on the sixth day since he had run away from home, he saw a pile of discarded wood waiting to be picked up as trash. He snuck over and gathered as much of it as he could into his hands. He planned to take the pile away to a slightly less open area to chow down on the old wood.

Until a voice called out from behind him.

“Now what do you think you’re doing with that, sonny?”

An elderly woman had her hands on her hips and a dog’s leash in her hands, dangling down to the small Chihuahua mix sniffing near her feet.

Shou pulled his hands away from the wood as fast as a lightning’s flash and stuck them into his pockets with a sheepish look. The wood he had gathered clattered to the ground behind him in same time he subdued the snap of fire that had burst from him unbidden.

“I was just cleaning it up. I’m sorry, I’ll go now.” Perhaps he could snag it while he was invisible. He had never turned anything but himself and his clothes, invisible before; but surely it wouldn’t be that hard?

As he was thinking he almost didn’t see the toothy smile aimed at his way. “Good thinking!” She said as she clapped a hand onto his shoulder. And Shou blinked owlishly in response.

But the old woman continued chattering happily. “We’ve been needing this old pile taken away for almost a week now. I can’t do it and Martha’s back has been bad as of late.” She frowned for a moment before waving it away. “But never the less, you’re a good young man for keeping the city clean. If you need any help with anything while you move it you just let me know.”

“Ah, thanks.” Shou was at a loss for words for a moment before slowly turning back to gather the wood. The woman went into what Shou presumed to be her house and he rushed away with the pile while he would not be stopped.

It was then that Shou realized that people left piles of unwanted things all over town. Just sitting outside, waiting to be taken away.

Sure everyone else thought of it as garbage, but well, Shou knew he could eat anything.

 ---

 It had been two weeks since he had run away from home and as long as he kept out of the way while he slept and ate; sleeping in the crevices of roofs on old buildings unseen by those on the ground and sneaking the garbage during the day with a bag at his side and invisibly during the night. As long as he followed the rules of not being caught, Shou was as free as a bird.

Well aside from the whole issue with his father and that organization, but he’d deal with that soon enough.

Then once his father finally saw reason and calmed down from his delusions of grandeur, then maybe his mother and father could both talk to each other again.

Maybe they could even be a family again, and not embroiled in this mess.

After all, Touichirou missed his mom as much as he missed her. If Shou could just get him to see reason… Well he had to hope for the best.

Shou wandered through the streets, absentmindedly watching the dark clouds for lightning with a half-smile flittering across his mouth. Even while he was cold and wet from the rain, the lightning would be there to light up the night with its wild laughter.

But then the thunder rumbled a bit too close to comfort, with a pounding that was deep and expansive and hauntingly familiar, so Shou phased into the nearest unoccupied object to hide.

Which turned out to be a dumpster.

This was okay though, since Shou discovered a multitude of cardboard boxes, crates and packaging materials filling the thing.

In order to make room for himself- and because there was all of this easily accessible food; Shou scarfed down the entire contents of the dumpster that he was hiding from the rain in.

Afterwards he stretched out and pressed himself to the metal sides, listening idly to the rain pitter-pattering against the metal lid.

He hardly noticed when he started to doze off.

Then all of a sudden a loud rumbling snapped him away and looking around himself blearily he saw that the entire dumpster, and him, were shaking. Shou felt himself being lifted into the air and watched as the dumpster turn upside down and felt gravity try to tug him downwards.

Not really wanting to stay in the dumpster anymore after it had been upturned, Shou allowed himself to slide down into the garbage truck. Making sure that he was invisible before entering the sight of anyone who might be watching.

Once inside the truck a sea of unwanted items greeted him. All of them ripe for the picking to go into his stomach.

Shou delicately plucked an aluminum can out from under his tail with a clawed hand and threw the thing into the air to allow it to fall into his mouth. With a snap of his jaw he crunched on it like a snake sinking its teeth into prey, and also much like a snake, he swallowed the can whole.

Shou spent the rest of the ride picking out more cans and bottles to munch on. He phased through any new items that fell through the same hole he had when the truck stopped and added to its load. And mostly he just relaxed as the truck continued to drive on.

Until he was upended again that is.

This time however he fell into an even larger pile of garbage.

Shou laid on his back for a while, looking up at the darkening sky and thought about what he wanted to do.

Then he saw the light glint off of a glass bottle. And he spent the rest of the night alternating between eating everything he could get his hands on and dozing lightly.

Even if he snapped awake at every sudden sound, he got more than enough sleep. And when the sun rose he climbed to the top of the tallest pile and watched the colors fill the sky.

Then he dusted himself off and went to meet the newest batch of cadre at headquarters. Then see if his father had anything new for him to do.

The next night he went back to the dump again.

And again the night after that and the night after that.

Instead of searching all over town for stray unwanted piles, Shou had stumbled upon the biggest unwanted pile of them all. So of course he delightedly plowed through and ate everything that he could lay his hands on.

Everything and anything, until he came to an old discarded microwave.

Something caused him to stop the mindless way his hands grabbed everything in their path. And Shou tilted his head and looked at the old appliance. There was something off about it, somehow, with old fuzzed over energy which clung to the dilapidated metal husk.

But this did not matter to Shou, so he reached out and eagerly swallowed it whole. He started to go back to the pile, floating a little in order to get to a particularly tasty looking bunch of singed fence-posts.

Then all of a sudden Shou was hit with a punch to the gut and he dropped from where he had been hovering.

Shou’s entire form recoiled and he curled in on himself. Instantly he was wracked with churning fiery pain racing through his system. He breathed out harshly through his teeth, biting at his tongue for a moment before another wave of pain washed through him.

Shou pressed himself to the ground as much as he could and clenched his teeth. He twisted in response to another wave of pain surging through him. His movement jostled the pile he was near and dislodged an old gaming console. It broke free and tumbled down and shattered into pieces a few feet away from the tip of his tail.

The sound startled something and all of Shou’s eyes snapped towards the figure fleeing in the darkness. He assumed it was a rat by the sound of the small skittering across wood and metal and plastic.

As he glanced up he noticed that a strange silhouette of a small robot puppy. Its blank eyes stared at him judgingly, wondering just how he had gotten himself into this mess.

Then he gave up trying to be quiet and the sound of a fork in the garbage disposal echoed throughout the dump.

Another shuddering wave hit him and he curled tighter into himself. It felt like his insides were dissolving into nothing, like cotton candy meeting water. And it only continued to sear through him.

It took the rest of the night, but by daybreak Shou had successfully managed to weather the pain, and in response to his stubbornness it had died down enough for him to jerkily make his way to HQ.

However all throughout the day Shou plotted.

He could do this, he could eat it. He just had to figure out a way how. He refused to let something as simple as a microwave get the better of him.

Giving up and just staying away from microwaves in the future never even occurred to Shou.

After all, if he was bested by a mere microwave then what would happen when he had to fight his father?

He refused to let this stand.

So when he went back to the dump again he came armed with a plan.

If he couldn’t (currently) eat a microwave whole then perhaps he could eat the thing in pieces. It would be worth a shot to try, he figured.

Of course first he had to find another microwave before he could test this theory. He began his search, nibbling on a few glass bottles here and there as he filtered through the piles.

It took him until midnight, he supposed his internal clock wasn’t that great after the sun went down, but he found another discarded microwave. The same type of old almost fuzzy energy clung to this one as well, like dryer lint caught in pockets.

Shou reached out and snapped off the microwave door effortlessly. He paused and after a moment of consideration split the thing in two.

After all, he did need to start small.

Then he popped half the door into his mouth and waited.

Much like last time he did not need to wait long for it to take an effect. However this time the surge of prickling pain was much much more bearable than the previous waves. After all he was still floating and not curled up on the ground, hands around his midsection like they would actually give him comfort.

So once the worst of the prickling faded, he ate the other half of the door.

It took the entire night for him to eat the whole thing. He had to wait out the surges of pain that made him feel like he was being twisted into knots, but by dawn Shou was still upright and very proud of himself.

He knew that as long as he was smart he could figure out a way around anything.

And later on, when Touichirou had placed Shou in charge of his own group, those of which Shou had personally selected, Shou figured out that there were little hideouts that dotted across the country under the use of CLAW. He had no trouble at all converting one into a base for him and his allies, after all it was still technically his father’s.

So ended the days where Shou would roam the town and the dump after his “work”. He needed to begin implementing his plan in convincing his father to see reason.

After all it was his responsibility to take his father down a few notches. Then things would get better.

Then he could go home.

[tyleroakley-obsessed]

We’re closing out April with the biggest, busiest, most ridiculous weekend in Memphis ever. I know I’ve said that about a couple of weekends in the past – even ones recently – but this one truly takes the cake. In five years of making weekend guides, this may be the busiest one I have ever seen. Stay hydrated, wear sunscreen, take Lyfts, and post photos with #ilovememphis. It’s going to be awesome. This post has the five things you won’t want to miss, plus plenty of extras. But first, be sure you didn’t miss anything on the blog this week: Food Truck Festival this weekend, Memphis Movie Series in May, Dining Out For Life continues through Sunday, an interview with Beverly Roberston, new Chamber of Commerce CEO, plus we discuss what should go in the old Brooks/MCA building on last week’s Think Tank. Stay tuned: The Levitt Shell’s summer lineup will go live on this here blog at 9 a.m. on Friday (subscribe here so you don’t miss it). Here’s the monster list: 1. Overton Park Field Day, Overton Park, Saturday, 10 a.m. – 2 p.m., free, all ages/kid-friendly Overton Park Conservancy invites you to a day of sun, fun, and games on the Greensward. This event is free to enter and includes field day games, beer, food trucks including MEMPopS, Let’s Be Frank, and Firecracker Grille Foodtruck, live music, Overton Park merch for sale, and a raffle with prizes from local businesses. Plus, guided nature walks every hour on the hour ($10, kids under 12 are free). 2. East Buntyn Art Walk, Midland Avenue, Saturday, 11 a.m. – 5 p.m., free, all ages Head to Midland Ave between Prescott Street and Reese Street for the 9th annual East Buntyn Art Walk, where residents will turn their front yards into galleries for local and regional artists. Mingle with the neighbors at this kid, people, and pet-friendly event. (Rain date is April 28 from 2 p.m. – 7 p.m.) 3. Mid-South Food Truck Festival, Liberty Bowl Stadium,Saturday, 11 a.m. – 5:30 p.m. $8 adults/$3 kids at the gate, all ages/kid-friendly  The Food Truck Festival at Tiger Lane features dozens of regional trucks (each are serving one $5 item plus their regular menu) and DeAngelo Williams Foundation’s ‘Throw-in for a Cure’” Cornhole Tournament. Tickets are just to get in/parking. You have to buy your food and drink. 4. Edge Motor Fest, 645 Marshall Avenue, Saturday, noon – 6 p.m, free, all ages/kid-friendly The new Edge Motor Museum opens on April 27 with a festival celebrating the neighborhood’s automotive history with tons of classic cars, live music, vendors, food trucks, and more. 5. 27th Annual Rajun Cajun Crawfish Festival, Wagner Place, Sunday, 11 a.m. – 7 p.m., free, all ages The Rajun Cajun Crawfish Festival is the city’s largest, at least by amount of crawfish: during the single day festival, they’ll serve 15,000 pounds. There will also be live music, a gumbo cooking contest, and all manner of crawfish-related activities. Bring a lawn chair and set up camp along the trolley tracks while you eat. Proceeds from the festival benefit Porter-Leath.   View this post on Instagram   A post shared by Edge Motor Fest (@edgemotorfest) on Apr 22, 2019 at 12:27pm PDT Plus many, many extras…it’s worth reading these! Lots of big events and too many to fit into the five. – Evolution (A Burlesque Story), Dru’s Place, Sunday, 6 p.m. – 9 p.m., $12 general/$20 VIP, 21 and up Burlesque performer and producer Coco Rosie celebrates three years of burlesque shows in Memphis with a reunion show featuring some of her favorite performers, including Gidget Bardot, Stormy Knight, Maxie Fauna, and Flux Inqueeror. Support our city’s most diverse burlesque show and have a blast at Dru Place this Sunday night. – Riko’s Kickin Chicken Trap Brunch, 1329 Madison, Saturday, 11 a.m. – 3 p.m., prices vary, all ages Riko’s Kickin Chicken is open for the first ever Trap Brunch this Saturday, so you can enjoy their out-of-this-world chicken for brunch. They’ll have chicken and waffles, fish and grits, and other specials, and you can bring your own champagne for OJ they’ll have on hand. – Spirits & Soul Fest, South Main/Old Dominick, Friday – Saturday, $100, 21 and up Thirty distilleries from across Tennessee are heading to the South Main Historic Arts District in downtown Memphis for two days of rare spirits tastings, food, live music, and more. Friday night gets you liquor samples at Trolley Night and access to rare bottles for sale. Saturday is a Block Party at Old Dominick with cocktails, music, and food truck food for sale. Read more here. – Walk The Line Screening, Orpheum Theatre, Friday, 7 p.m., $8 adults, all ages (parental discretion advised) No summer movies this year. Instead, the Orpheum is doing random movies throughout the year and this week it’s time for Walk The Line starring Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon. – Roar and Pour, Memphis Zoo, Friday, 7 p.m. – 10 p.m., $125, 21+ This is an exclusive night of dining and drinking with Memphis’ best chefs and mixologists, plus live music. There’s a VIP option that includes hand-rolled Cuban cigars and select bourbons. – Dining Out For Life Week, Various Locations, through Sunday, Prices Vary, all ages Support Friends for Life by dining out at different local restaurants, when 25 percent of proceeds will be donated to their mission of supporting those affected by AIDS/HIV.  There are 15 restaurants (and counting) including Beauty Shop, Gray Canary, Dru’s Place, Hog and Hominy, Iris, and more. You must check the schedule, though, it’s not every place very day. Fratelli’s Cafe inside the Botanic Gardens will donate 75 percent of proceeds every day, all week! – Grind City Flow Festival Showcase, Memphis Botanic Garden, Saturday, 6 p.m. – midnight., $10 adv./ $15 gate, all ages The Grind City Flow Festival Showcase is selection of performances with hula hoopers, acrobats, aerialists, jugglers, fire twirlers, dancing, and more, with food trucks, vendors, and live music for the whole family.  After 10 p.m., the event becomes 18+. So take the kids home at 10 p.m. Earlier that day, Grind City Flow Fest will host workshops for 18+ in flow aerial, yoga, dance, and more. Those tickets are $75 and that starts at 9 a.m. – Down To Earth Festival, Shelby Farms Park,Saturday, 10 a.m. – 5 p.m., $5 parking, all ages/kid-friendly Celebrate Earth Day at one of the country’s largest urban parks on Saturday, April 27. They’ll have live music, kids’ activities, crafts, eco-friendly vendors, artisans, and more. Rain date is April 28. – Epping Way Wolf River Greenway Opening, 2630 Epping Way Drive, 9 a.m. – noon, free, all ages/kid-friendly Another section of the Wolf River Greenway officially opens this weekend with a 5K (8 a.m.), ribbon cutting with the mayors (9 a.m.) and festivities including free food from 10 a.m. – noon. The Greenway is a paved walk/bike path along the Wolf River that will stretch across the city, it’s being completed section by section, and it’s wonderful. If you haven’t checked it out, you should. Parking is at Jamesbridge Apartments. – Arlington In April, Depot Square in Arlington,Saturday, 10 a.m. – 4 p.m., free, all ages/kid-friendly Vendors from around the Mid-South will display and sell handmade crafts and boutique items. They’ll have lots of activities, great music, and entertainment. – Cooper Young Saturday Shop Hop, Saturday, 10 a.m.  – 5 p.m., free to attend, all ages/kid-friendly Local restaurants and shops in the neighborhood will offer discounts, giveaways, and refreshments all day in honor of Independent Bookstore Day. – Taste the Rarity, Wiseacre Brewing, Saturday, 3 p.m. – 7 p.m., $65 + fees, 21 and up Taste rare craft beers from breweries around the country and celebrate the release of the annual Unicornicopia 2019, with music from the Mighty Souls Brass Band, Griz Line, circus acts, food, games, commemorative taster glass and more. Expect this one to sell out, so get your tix asap. Rain or shine, no dogs. – Lord T & Eloise Live Album Recording, Railgarten, Saturday, 8 p.m., $10, 21 and up  Lord T & Eloise are landing their space ship in a giant bubble bath and recording their first and only live album at Railgarten on Saturday night. It’s gonna get weird. – Spillit Story Slam, Earnestine & Hazel’s, Saturday, 7 p.m. – 10 p.m., $10 entry + there’s a cash bar, 21 and up Gather your courage and stand up in front of strangers to tell your five minute story. You can just watch if you want, too, but I bet you’ll be tempted to talk after a Soul Burger and a beer. The theme is “South Main Stories”, and the best storyteller wins. Spillit remains one of the most unique, compelling experiences in the city and I can’t recommend it enough. – Spring Maker’s Market, Muddy’s Midtown, Saturday, 11 a.m. – 5 p.m., free to enter, all ages/kid-friendly A dozen local makers and vendors pop-up on the lovely lawn of Muddy’s Midtown to shop for gifts (Mother’s Day anyone?), enjoy food trucks, and plenty of coffee and cupcakes from Muddy’s. – Breakfast For Dinner, First Congo, Saturday, 5:30 p.m. – 8 p.m., $20 adults/$10 kids, all ages/kid-friendly  Enjoy a brenner feast at First Congo in Cooper Young – think pancakes, casseroles, cinnamon rolls, grits, pastries, and more – all while benefitting the Room In The Inn program. You can get brunchy cocktails and Memphis Made beer for an additional donation. Room In The Inn is a city-wide program where people experiencing homelessness can stay the night in local churches. It’s a very important cause, and a great way to feed the whole family on Saturday night! – Beale Street Caravan Blowout, Crosstown Arts (East Atrium), Saturday, 7 p.m. – 10 p.m., $75, 21 and up Support Beale Street Caravan’s public radio show – bringing Memphis music to the world – at this huge party with an open buffet provided by local chefs, silent DJ, live music (Black Cream with special guests Rev. John Wilkins) plus a silent auction full of incredible Memphis music memorabilia, private tours, house concerts, and more. Be sure to tag all your fun with #ilovememphis! Are you a home owner in Memphis, with a broken garage door? Call ASAP garage door today at 901-461-0385 or checkout http://bit.ly/1B5z3Pc

http://ilovememphisblog.com/2019/04/5-things-to-do-this-weekend-4-26-4-28/

[some---words]

Don’t Fail Me Now

“Come on, Tess,” he pleaded, the Firebird slowed to snail’s crawl beside her. “Get back in the car.”

Tessa hugged herself, stiff against the night’s chill, and refused to look at him. “Just let me go, Billy.”

“Baby...I didn’t mean it.”

She threw her arms up. “You never fucking do!”

He thrust out his lower lip in that cute little puppy dog pout that she loved. “Just one last time? Please? It’s right there.”

She stared forward and weighed her options. Cars whizzed past on that odd stretch of road that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be a highway or not. The temperature would only continue to drop, and she could use a hot meal either way. The diner beckoned, cheery neon lights calling out to her, echoing Billy’s pleas. Come on in, it insisted. We have pie.

Tessa felt reassuring lump of metal in her waistband. One last time, then she was done. She rolled her eyes and got back in the car.

An old country song hummed low through the aging speakers above them. Tessa picked at her lukewarm apple pie, grease dripping from the slice of melted cheddar laid on top. It swirled around the soupy vanilla ice cream softening by the second. She was starving when she ordered it, but watching Billy seated across from her, stuffing his maw with ketchup-soaked eggs and burnt bacon, had stolen her appetite.

“Let’s go over it one more time,” he said with his mouth full, pausing to gulp down his bitter black coffee. “You go up to the counter all sweet as usual…”

While he spoke, he continued to shove food into his mouth, and Tessa marveled at how he managed to keep talking through it. She couldn’t help staring into the mess of half-chewed slop between his teeth, losing herself in the grey-brown mess until she had divorced his mouth of all meaning, and certainly of ever having been a source of sexual satisfaction. He disgusted her now.

“Tess?” He was looking at her funny, like she was zoning out again. “You got all that?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You ready?”

She locked eyes with him. “Uh-huh.”

“All right, how are you kids doing over here?” The waitress sidled up, pouring hot coffee into their half-empty mugs without asking. She was the same sort of heavy-set, no-nonsense lifer Tessa always saw in places like these. A healthy dose of sugar with just enough salt. She smiled as she glanced at the woman’s name tag: Brenda. Tessa brought her eyes up to meet hers, finding a warm smile waiting for her. “You barely touched your pie.”

Tessa blushed. “I’m not hungry.”

“It’s that nasty ass cheese!” Billy laughed, sending flecks of wet toast flying from his molars. “Who the fuck gets cheese on their pie?”

Brenda ignored him and instead pulled the check from her pad. “Y’all come up to the counter when you’re ready.” She had moved onto the next booth before Tessa could eke out a thank you.

“So, where were we?” Billy wiped his mouth and tossed the napkin onto his plate. “Oh yeah--let’s do this shit.”

Tessa nodded quickly and rose from the banquette. The world seemed to slow around her as she drifted up to the register. They’d done this a handful of times now, the stakes escalating bit by bit each time. She took in their current surroundings: two other tables, plus an old drunk at the counter struggling to hold his head up over his coffee cup. No waitresses besides Brenda, and only a grizzled line cook in the kitchen, back turned and view obscured. Still too many people, if you asked her. Too much unnecessary risk, but then Billy was always a sucker for unnecessary risk.

She found herself at the counter. Brenda was folding napkins around sets of flimsy tin silverware and wrapping each in a paper ring that she licked to make stick. Tessa lost herself for a moment in the rhythm of the motion, the steady roll-lift-lick-wrap-stick-repeat. She was startled when it was interrupted as Brenda looked up at her.

“Y’all need anything else, sweetie?”

Call the cops. Run. Get out now. “Just a milkshake,” she replied. “To go.”

“What kind you like?”

“Chocolate. Please.”

Brenda nodded and went to the machine. The process seemed to take an eternity. First the ice cream, then the syrup, then fitting the metal cup into the machine. The wait was agony. Finally, the machine roared to blessed life, and Tessa exhaled gratefully.

Back at the register, Brenda did some quick math and plugged in the total. The ding of the cash drawer was barely audible over the din of the milkshake machine. Billy had approached them, and he nudged Tessa to bring her back to earth.

“Give me all the cash,” Tessa said, knowing already that it wasn’t loud enough.

“What’s that, honey?”

She cleared her throat and tried again. “Empty the drawer. Now.”

At first, Brenda still couldn’t understand, but then her eyes fell on the gun-shaped protrusion pointing at her from Billy’s pocket and nodded gravely, hands up to show she didn’t want any trouble. She quickly grabbed a plastic take out bag and began shoving bundles of cash inside it, all to the buzz of the milkshake machine that couldn’t stop mixing without her.

“What about the safe?” Billy’s whole body seemed to vibrate with excitement.

“I don’t have the code. Manager doesn’t get here ‘til 5.”

Billy smacked the counter. “You fucking lying to me, bitch?”

Brenda couldn’t look at him. “Please,” she whispered. The word got lost under the noise of the machine behind her, but the tear falling down her cheek spoke volumes. “I got kids at home. I don’t want no trouble.”

Tessa looked around them. The drunk was peering at them now, no doubt attracted by Billy’s outburst. “Come on, Billy,” she said, tugging at his sleeve, “We gotta go.”

He stood there, frozen, fabric-covered gun still pointed across the counter. Tessa could see him weighing his options in his head. The milkshake machine kept on whizzing, the sound an infuriating drone in Tessa’s head.

“Billy…”

“All right! All right.” He reached across the counter and grabbed the take out bag from Brenda’s shaking hands and followed Tessa out the door.

Billy laughed and hollered all the way to the car, waiving the bag like a victory flag after a bloody battle. He tossed her the keys and slid into the passenger seat, as always. She was the getaway driver; he counted the money.

She peeled out towards the maybe-highway, heart pounding in her ears. It was now or never.

The car slowed as it approached a yellow light. He was so deep into counting their meager earnings that he didn’t the gun poised on his temple until she cleared her throat. “Forty seven...forty eight...what the fuck?”

“Out,” Tessa said evenly. “Get out.”

“Tess, baby, wait a sec…” He dropped the wad of bills back into the bag and raised his hands in a swift motion of practiced self-preservation.

“Leave the money, and get the fuck out.”

“Baby--”

“Don’t ‘baby’ me. I will shoot you before the light turns green. Get. Out.”

He stared into her eyes, but he wouldn’t find a shred of pity there. He could stammer and beg all he wanted, he knew she wasn’t bluffing. He rolled up the bag and laid it gently on the center console, never breaking her stare. Didn’t even try for his gun before he was opening the door and running out into the night. She was gone before he could stop to breathe.

The cops hadn’t stayed at the diner long. No need, no one had been hurt and not even a thousand bucks stolen from the register. The manager had rushed over as soon as he’d heard and urged Brenda take the rest of the night off, but she waved him off, insisting that only working would help keep her mind off of the scare. Besides, like the cops had said, no one had been hurt.

The sun was just peeking out over the horizon, bathing the lonely dessert in cold blue light, as Brenda finally pulled her jacket on and walked out to her car. She felt her heart jump nearly out of her chest as a car skidded up and intercepted her path. She looked up just in time to see a rolled up plastic bag shoot out of the passenger window and land at her feet.

If she hadn’t bent down to pick it up, to open it and see the piles of bills she herself had shoved inside only a few hours before, to let out a relieved laugh-sob at the pointlessness of it all; if she’d only looked up, she would have seen a familiar girl give a little wave from the driver’s seat as the Firebird sped off into the breaking dawn.