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kakashi--mole · 3 years

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40 Day Dream

This was the first chapter of a fic I was unable to finish. I’m posting it here, in case anyone wants to read it.

Hawks meets with Dabi after the events at Jaku City.

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He was fifteen minutes late.

Hawks knew he was either going to be late, or he was going to change his mind and not show at all. Riding on a hunch and his first half-drained beer, Hawks kept seated to the barstool, his heart ticking in rhythm to the wall clock above. The hunch was that he was going to show. Dabi made it a point to do things his way. For all Hawks knew, the villain was purposefully late because he wanted to remind the winged hero: you can lead me to water, but you cannot make me drink.

Hawks slid his finger down the beer glass, gathering a drop of condensation onto the tip of his finger. Rain pelted behind the bar windows, causing the neon sign outside to reflect colorful ripples on the wet pavement. In the steady rhythm of rain, Hawks lulled into the memory of Dabi standing over him, enveloped in blue fire, smoke curling from his smiling mouth. Without his consent, the memory made his body jerk, his heart to seize in electric panic. He sat straight, checking all around him for an unseen danger, a walking nightmare in the waking world.

He peered over his shoulder at the desolate bar room, near empty save for two elderly patrons swapping cards at a corner table, the smoke from their cigarettes rising in slow, unperturbed clouds. The lightbulbs above were dim with age, and their yellow glow barely illuminated a pool table pushed sideways in the middle of the room. Behind it, hanging on the wall, was a worn poster of the flame hero Endeavor. Its edges were creased, and a line of graffiti had been crossed out with black permanent marker. Hawks narrowed his one good eye, but could not make out the word behind the black scratch-marks.

The bartender behind the counter had his arms crossed, watching the television screen hung above. The news came as a continuous stream. Images of the country’s destruction, including the havoc wreaked upon Musutafu, cycled on repeat.

The bartender tisked under his breath, muttering, “If this doesn’t let up, I’m leaving the city for good.” He pulled the dishrag strewn over his shoulder, grumbling, “Fucking ridiculous” as he swatted at the bar’s counter. In one gliding motion, he stepped from the bar into a backroom, muttering to himself all the while.

From where he sat, Hawks could hear the bartender sigh, “Why not give up this country to the villains.”

Alone at the bar, Hawks lowered his gaze to his drink. He brought the drink to his lips, and swallowed the beer, as well as the hunch burning at the back of his throat.

Dabi would show. He knew this, because Hawks had something for him.

Even if he prowled along the periphery, judging, assessing… Dabi’s curiosity would bring him closer eventually.

Three days prior, Hawks had called the burner phone Dabi had used during their time together in the Liberation. It was a long shot, because he was sure after revealing his identity, Dabi would have abandoned the phone in a trash can, or better yet, drop it into the ocean, or burn it into a melted puddle of plastic. Surely, he would take measures to cut all ties with the winged hero, and by association, the Todoroki family.

When Dabi answered, however, the breath in Hawks’ lungs was immediately sucked out, and everything he thought he would say came to a screeching, silent halt.

‘What do you want?’ Dabi asked. The connection was choppy, and Hawks could hear in the background the blare of a barge ship’s horn. In their shared silence, Hawks listened closer, and heard the sound of choppy waters splash against what he assumed was a harbor.

‘You gonna say anything?’

‘Where are you?’ Hawks asked.

There was a long pause. Dabi laughed.

‘I bet you’d like to know.’

Hawks, alone in his dimly lit apartment, the blinds pulled closed over the windows, turned in a circle. He stared at the carpet, and then, slowly, pulled a blind down with the edge of his finger. His one gold eye scanned the street, honing the dark alleys in search of a shadowy figure. The scars on his back hummed in the same deep growl of Dabi’s voice. Hawks screwed his eyes shut. He pulled away from the window, running a hand through his hair, and forced his voice to sound cheerful.

‘I have something for you. Meet me in Fukuoka.’

The blare of a ship’s horn sounded.

‘Huh,’ Dabi said. ‘Funny.’

He was quiet, and Hawks imagined him looking into the water, his rippling reflection, the way his piercings glinted in the sunlight.

‘I’m already there.’

Hawks wanted to ask why he was in Fukuoka of all places, but instead gave him the address of the bar to meet him at, followed by a time and date. He couldn’t maintain cordiality for much longer. The phantom burning in his back, the scars clawing between his shoulder blades, wouldn’t allow for a conversation with their creator.

Without another word, Dabi hung up, and Hawks lowered the phone from his ear. It was whispering, the pain in his back, in the muscle between his shoulder blades which cried out for wings. He wasn’t sure what was worse— the pain, or the emptiness where his wings once were.

He wondered if he was the right person for this plan— if maybe one of the other heroes should have intervened, but then again, this was his cat’s cradle to unravel, a twisted net of twine that had been tangling together since the moment he and Touya had met.

Hawks hunched over the bar, placing one hand on the back of his head, the other slipping into his coat pocket. The paper package was still secure, entrusted to him by the Todoroki family.

He glanced at the watch on his wrist. A movement at the door caught his attention. Two shadowy figures spoke to each other outside in the rain. Hawks recognized Dabi’s white hair reflecting the neon colors of the bar sign. The other man, who looked to be younger than Hawks, was someone he did not recognize. Behind the watery pane of glass, Hawks could see Dabi wave his hand, then back away. The stranger raised his voice, but then shrugged and turned, walking down the opposite side of the street.

The door opened. Through his one good eye, Hawks watched as Dabi stepped into the bar, grabbing the lapels of his coat to shake the rainwater from him. Rain dripped from his lowered head, and he glanced up, flashing his blue eyes at Hawks in what he could only assume was a smile.

Hawks swallowed, turning to face his drink as Dabi approached the empty seat beside him. He slid onto the stool, and the smell of smothered cigarette smoke and wet ash wafted thickly in the air.

Dabi situated himself on the stool, rolling his shoulders. He placed his interlaced hands on top the bar. They were silent, and Hawks could feel Dabi’s gaze, unwavering, stick to him like a pin to a cushion.

“I didn’t think you’d show,” Dabi said.

Hawks blinked. He found himself unable to look at Dabi, despite mentally preparing himself for this meeting.

Staring into his drink he replied, “I’m the one who made the call. Why wouldn’t I show?”

Stirring his drink with a turn of his wrist, he quickly added, “Who were you talking to?”

His gold eye flickered at the door. Dabi looked at the door, then Hawks, rubbing at the back of his head.

“I don’t know. It was some stranger. He said he agreed with what I was doing. That someone’s got to tear these heroes down.”

Dabi snickered.

“He asked for my autograph—”

Hawks raised his brow, staring straight ahead as he sipped his drink.

“—By burning him.”

Hawks jerked, choking on his drink. He cleared his throat, asking, “He asked you to burn him? What did you say?”

Dabi scratched at his brow. A black scab of burnt skin came off, and fell onto the counter. He flicked it, answering, “I told him to get the fuck away from me.”

The villain turned to look over his shoulder. The two old men were still hunkered in their card game, speaking mostly in nods and gestures. Dabi watched them for a moment before his eyes trailed over the room, searching for any sign of an ambush or attack. Hanging on the wall above the pool table was a worn poster of Endeavor. Dabi’s nose wrinkled in a scowl, and then he chuckled, bringing his knuckle to his lips.

Turning around, he stood, craning his head to search over the counter.

He said to Hawks, “I really thought you’d get cold feet. It’s strange seeing you again. You seem so—”

Dabi’s eyes flickered to Hawks’ back, the emptiness of where his wings once were, and he pressed his finger to his lips, stifling a laugh.

He leaned over the bar, his stomach pressed to the counter, and grabbed an empty glass. He pressed it under a beer tap, and filled the glass until the gold liquid splashed over the edge. Dabi brought it to his lips, and gulped it down without stopping.

Hawks forced himself to glance at Dabi. The true color of his white hair shone brightly under the bar lights, catching every color— gold, yellow, neon blue and red— like a blanket of untouched snow. The passing recognition of its beauty tethered Hawks to the moment, to the motion of his hands, the leathery violet of his scars, and his skeptical, flickering blue eyes, like candle flames bending in an untamed breeze.

He saw it now. Beyond the half-moon scars under his eyelids, and the ruined skin stretching across his face and body— beyond this, the familiarity of his eyes was obvious, and a kindling of hatred sparks in Hawks’ heart: a flame for his own ignorance, another at the betrayal, the lie that Touya was alive, biding his time before revealing his identity.

Hawks thought he could see the familiarity of Touya’s eyes, the gentleness that was once there, but then Dabi flicked his hand in a particular way that made Hawks tense. Smoke dissipated from between the ridges of Dabi’s scars as he brought his hand to his mouth and coughed, a cloud of black smoke pluming from his throat.

The villain wasted no time pulling out a cigarette. His hands moved quickly as he tapped the pack against the counter, dislodging a cigarette to bring to his mouth. He flicked a lighter and hovered the flame over the cigarette’s end.

As he blew out the first puff of smoke, he asked, “So what did you want to give me?”

Hawks sipped his drink, then answered, “You’re going to have to answer some questions first.”

Dabi scratched his bottom lip with his thumbnail.

“And if you don’t like my answers?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Hawks said.

The television screen flashed to an image of two news anchors delivering a segment on the recent villain attacks. The conversation ebbed into the rising public mistrust against heroes. Hawks’ mismatched eyes, one gold, the other blind and blue, flickered at the screen.

Dabi turned his head, watched for a few seconds, then turned back to Hawks, a smile tugging at the corner of his scarred mouth.

“What are you going to do, now that you’ve revealed your true identity?” Hawks asked.

Dabi raised his brow.

“That's what you want to know?” He chuckled, tapping his cigarette over an ashtray. “Lose the hero act Keigo. I thought you were going to ask me something interesting.”

He drank down the rest of the beer in one long gulp. Hawks watched as he helped himself to another full glass.

Dabi sighed.

“I don’t think I’ve gone far enough in teaching Endeavor a lesson.” He chuckled, and then, his tone became serious. “I’m going to use my quirk however I want… but… there’s something I need to take care of. Sooner, rather than later.”

He reached into his coat pocket as if to pull something out, but stopped. Dabi scratched at the back of his neck.

“Like what?” Hawks asked.

Dabi huffed, “Nothing. Just a stupid mistake.” He side-eyed Hawks with a small grin. “You’re going to answer my questions too.”

“Okay,” Hawks said. “Shoot.”

Dabi sipped the foam from the top of the beer glass to keep it from sloshing over.

He smacked his lips, nodding his head as he said, “I want to know what you did after that summer at the Commission. You said you were going to fly across the entire country and see everything you could.”

He tilted his head, rotating the cigarette between his fingers. Smoke rose in a steady cloud around him.

“Well,” he asked. “Did you?”

Hawks shook his head.

“I was a kid when I said that. It was a stupid pipe dream.”

“No,” Dabi returned, pointing his finger at Hawks. “You got caught up in the bullshit of hero work.”

Hawks narrowed his eyes, the scar on his face wrinkling. The longer he stared at Dabi, the tighter his lip curled, revealing the sharp of his canine tooth. It flashed in the light as he spoke.

“Even if I wanted to fly cross-country, I can’t anymore.”

He placed his elbows on the counter, reaching behind him to rub at his shoulder. The doctors at the hospital insisted he was healed, so why could he still feel something sinking its claws into his back?

He brought the beer glass to his lips, seething under his breath, “Thanks for that.”

Dabi turned his head, facing away from the bar with his elbows resting against the counter. He peered over his shoulder at the poster of Endeavor hanging on the wall. He sighed, the cigarette dangling between his lips as he spoke.

“You’re still not angry enough.”

Hawks spluttered between a laugh and a choke.

“What?”

Dabi sucked in a heavy plume of smoke. He held it in for a few moments, then exhaled, “Yeah. I was hoping you’d be more pissed off than this. But Christ—”

He lowered his head. Flakes of ash floated in the air as he hunkered over the bar.

“—You’re more emotionally detached than I thought. I was hoping my fire could bring out what’s lurking under the surface.”

Hawks stared at him. He blinked once, then twice.

“Are you trying to tell me that you burned me alive, for some… some kind of sick test? You want to make me angry?”

Dabi laughed through his nose, and ashed his cigarette.

“Ah, no. I was trying to kill you.”

He laughed again as Hawks stared, speechless.

“But I would like to see you lose your shit once in awhile.”

Dabi was quick to down another full gulp of beer. He rested his chin in the palm of his hand, and for the first time, allowed himself to lock eyes with Hawks.

They watched each other. Hawks could see how Dabi’s scars had spread— they splotched past the pattern he had been accustomed to, extending past his cheekbones to connect with the heavy bags under his eyes. Dried blood crusted the piercings under his eyes. The longer their eyes stayed locked on each other, the quicker Hawks’ heartbeat began to take on a different rhythm. Blood rushed from his head, and Hawks had the sudden urge to blurt out— ‘Are you happy now? Was it worth it?’

‘Your mom cried because of you.’

The scars in Hawks’ back twinged in pain, and his breath caught. He looked away, breaking their stare.

“You got a haircut?”

Before Hawks could answer, Dabi reached out, and trailed his fingertips over the back of Hawks’ head.

A jolt shivered down Hawks’ spine, and he flinched, swatting Dabi’s hand away.

Hawks rolled his shoulders, trying to convince the goosebumps to settle from his arms.

“It looks good on you,” Dabi said.

Hawks glared at him from the corner of his eye. He drank his beer, the liquid settling hot in his stomach.

“It wasn’t a deliberate choice,” he muttered.

Hawks shifted uncomfortably. Up above on the TV, barely audible, the news report showed an image of himself before the battle at Jaku— red wings still intact, his left eye gold and unblinded, and the side of his face unscarred.

The voice of the news anchor spoke: ‘How can we trust the people sworn to protect us when they so callously…’

Dabi followed Hawks’ gaze to the TV. He whistled.

“Too bad,” he said. “By next week, they’ll have some other ‘breaking’ story. Just wait until All For One makes his move. But I guess, by then, news won’t really matter. Never does when you’re on a sinking ship.”

Hawks nudged his beer glass. The quiet of the room fell over the pair. The whir of the ceiling fan, rotating in slow, idle motion, and the card game of the two men in the back, the paper folding and sliding against the tabletop. The ticking of the clock drummed, keeping pace with the patter of rain outside. Dabi’s cigarette crackled as he took a drag.

After a few minutes, he said, “You’re awfully quiet.”

Hawks turned his beer glass in a circle.

“I’ve been quiet ever since you burned me.”

Dabi wrinkled his nose.

“Yeah. My fire has that effect on people.”

Hawks slowly turned his head to Dabi, narrowing his eyes as he repeated, “That effect on people?”

He watched as Dabi sucked at his cigarette, then swallowed the last swig of beer in his glass.

As he refilled his glass, Hawks asked, “Are you actually crazy? Or is this all an act?”

Dabi quirked his brow, laughing with the cigarette pinched between his lips. He steadied his third glass of beer onto the counter.

“I’m just pissed off. That doesn’t make me crazy.”

“You’ve killed people,” Hawks said.

“So have you,” Dabi replied.

They stared at each other once more. Dabi studied him. There was a way about Hawks that soaked up the light— his gold hair, his gold eye, the faint copper spots freckling the soft underside of his eyes, extending over the bridge of his nose. The sun-kissed golden complexion that now seemed diminished, smothered by Dabi’s own wrath.

When he was a child, the first thing he wondered when he could produce a flame was how much heat it took to melt gold.

1,946 degrees Fahrenheit. 1,947 degrees. Its resistance to heat, greater than any other metal. The temperature rising, 1,948 degrees. Even more so, boiling gold was nearly impossible, at least with his own quirk. It’d take half the strength of a sun to accomplish that feat.

Dabi wrinkled his nose, half-way between a sneer and a smile, his hand curling with smoke, crackling with ember flecks.

Gold, as it were, was truly the greatest test of fire.

Dabi’s eyes flickered to Hawks’ mouth, and he breathed a laugh, shaking his head as he looked away.

“I bet you miss those red wings,” Dabi mused. “They were good at hiding the blood.”

He snubbed his cigarette into the ashtray.

Hawks downed the rest of his beer. Between clenched teeth he breathed, “Excuse me.”

He stood from the barstool and treaded into the restroom. As soon as he was inside, he shoved the door closed, locked it, then grabbed at his head.

‘You motherfucker, you goddamn, piece of—’

He mouthed the words silently, clawing his nails into his scalp, his face burning red hot. The scarred skin beneath his shirt flowered in fresh pain. It doubled when Hawks imagined going back out there and throttling Dabi by his neck, tearing the piercings from his face, and taking hold of something sharp— perhaps a knife conveniently hidden behind the counter— and carving a scar onto his body. He would call it a ‘mistake’, to match the one he had been given on his back. Like a rush of blood Dabi’s words swam through his memory: I don’t make mistakes, my ass, Hero. Without his wings, devoid of his feathers, Hawks’ hands itched for command over something sharp and deadly.

Anything to put fear into Dabi’s eyes.

He kept his scream silent until it rolled out of his throat as a muffled groan.

Bet you miss those red wings. They were good at hiding the blood.

“Fuck, fuck, FUCK,” he hissed.

Hawks straightened himself, clearing his throat. He went to the sink and turned on the faucet. As he splashed cold water onto his face, he repeated to himself: I’m doing this for the Todoroki’s. I’m doing this for Endeavor. For the entire country.

He recalled the conversation he had with Endeavor earlier that evening. Over the phone, Hawks explained where he would be meeting Touya, to which Endeavor said that he had received a phone call from an anonymous source claiming to have information on him.

‘What kind of information?’ Hawks had asked.

‘She wouldn’t say,’ Endeavor answered. ‘Unfortunately she put a price on what she knew.’

‘Did you take up the offer?’

‘Certainly not.’

Endeavor paused for a moment, then continued, ‘If someone will only provide intel for money and not for the sake of morality, then I don’t trust their words. Lies always beset greed— it’s a two-headed snake to watch out for.’

Hawks shifted uneasily, remembering those late night talks he used to have with Touya, back at the Commission. Whispering back and forth, the two boys would scoot to the very edges of their bed, and reach out, swinging their arms to brush their hands against each other. It surprised Keigo, how Touya spoke. He had never met a kid who spoke with such sternness and finality, as though he could see the world for what it truly was. In his whisper, Touya would explain that his father wouldn’t so much as look at him, let alone speak to him, despite being proud of him when he was younger.

Before his quirk hurt him, he was convinced by his father that he would carry on a great legacy.

Perhaps, the boy had reached the conclusion that growing older had tarnished him somehow, plaguing him with a body unable to handle his quirk.

A two-headed snake. Hawks turned his hand over, stretching his fingers taut. The scar flashed milk white, undulating like it were its own entity, its own creature, alive and wrapped around his wrist.

‘It’s always an option,’ Hawks had said. ‘The more we know about what he’s been up to, the better.’ They discussed the plan once more before saying goodbye. The line went dead, and in the approaching rainstorm, Hawks prepared for the night ahead, and ultimately, what he deemed to be for Touya’s own good.

He shook the water from his hands, sucking in a sharp breath. Tears burned at his eyes, but he ignored it, hissing between clenched teeth, ‘Good at hiding the blood.’ He repeated the words, mocking Dabi’s raspy growl. His face crinkled in a scowl, and he couldn’t stand to look at his reflection, because otherwise, he was sure he would break down into tears, or worse, he would punch the mirror, and send flying shards of glass scattered across the floor and into his fist. It would hurt less than being burned alive— at this point, anything would hurt less. What smarted him most were Dabi’s hands. Not his eyes, or his low, cigarette choked laughter. Not the way he could slip in and out of a room like smoke, leaving behind a bad feeling that something was burning, rousing uneasiness in a crowd, as though danger was present but no one could see it.

It was his hands. The same hands that beckoned bodies for kindling.

Hawks saw blue specks in his vision, and slammed the faucet water off, the acid in his gut churning.

He pushed these feelings down, and forced himself to remain focused on the mission. Hawks left the bathroom, knowing his face was still flushed from rage and alcohol.

At the bar, Dabi had taken it upon himself to filch an entire bottle of whiskey from a cabinet, as well as two shot glasses. Hawks quirked his brow as he approached him, watching Dabi pour the whiskey into the glasses.

Sliding onto the stool he asked, “Not slowing down anytime soon?”

Dabi downed his shot, wincing at the burn going down his throat. He answered with a smile, “I’m celebrating.”

He poured another shot, then muttered, “And I’m thirsty all the time now.”

Before Hawks could ask him what he meant, Dabi lifted his shot glass. Hawks lifted his own, and their glasses clinked together.

Hawks only drank half of his shot. The television perched on the wall ran a recycled news report on the villain rampages. Alongside the video were names and mug shots of the villains who had been freed from the prison Tartarus.

Dabi snickered under his breath.

“Fucking amateurs,” he said. “Bet they’re enjoying their fifteen minutes of fame.”

He reached into the cigarette pack and pulled one out, placing it between his lips as he thumbed at his lighter. As the flame took hold, Hawks rolled his eyes, saying, “How is what they’re doing any different from you?”

The corner of Dabi’s mouth pulled in a smile. He drew in a deep breath of smoke, then let the cigarette hover over an ashtray.

“Because I’m making a point.”

Flatly he added, “I’m a product of narcissistic greed. People should know what their role models are doing behind closed doors.” He couldn’t help the smile tugging at his scarred lips. He brought his hand to his mouth and chewed at his thumbnail.

He poured another shot, but hesitated as he brought it to his lips. His eyes rolled up to the ceiling, as though he were reciting a silent prayer, before quickly downing the shot, slamming it back onto the counter with enough force to crack the glass.

Hawks winced at the sound.

Dabi leaned back, eyes fluttering to the wall clock hanging above. The alcohol sloshed in his stomach as he dismounted the stool, nearly tripping over his own feet as he walked backwards. Hawks turned his head and watched the villain saunter over to the pool table. He rolled the myriad of solid and striped balls across the green felt top with his fingertips, staring at Hawks all the while as he circled the pool table. Gathering the balls into the triangular rack, he whistled at Hawks.

“Don’t make me play by myself.”

Hawks watched him for a moment before downing the rest of his shot. He pushed off the stool, licking his lips as he approached Dabi. Dabi tossed Hawks a cue stick. He caught it, the pinch between his shoulders stinging at the movement.

“Stripes or solid?”

Hawks answered, “Solid.”

“Alright,” Dabi said. “You break first.” He lifted the rack and tossed it onto a table nearby. Its clatter caught the attention of the two elderly men in the corner of the room. Hawks balanced the cue stick against the table, lined up his shot, and hit the white ball. It scattered the others, the clack stirring another wave of uneasiness over the two old men.

They cast wary glances at Dabi, his scarred skin curled like a shadow across his thin frame, and turned to each other, muttering a few low words. Gathering their coats, they stood to leave.

Hawks handed Dabi the cue stick. He reached for it without taking his eyes off the old men.

Dabi’s mouth twitched in a smile. It was his turn to shoot, but he just stood there, propping the cue stick to the ground and leaning against it like a shepherd resting against a staff. He watched the two men scuffle from the bar, his half-lidded gaze brightening.

Before he stepped through the door, one of the old men gathered a deep breath, turned, and said, “It ain’t right what you’re doing.”

Dabi raised his brow.

“It ain’t right what I’m doing,” the villain repeated slowly.

The old man’s friend tried ushering him out the door, but he continued, “I know who you are. I saw your video, and I get you were dealt some bad cards in life.”

His buddy hushed, “Tatsu…”

“No,” Tatsu said. His tired voice croaked, “Young man, this path you’re on… take it from someone who’s been on this earth long enough to know… the path you’re on will only lead to sorrow. A man’s got to take responsibility for his life, or else he will be lost.”

Dabi leaned his head against the cue stick. He tapped his finger against it and smiled.

“Okay,” he replied. He took hold of a chair next to him, and swung it across the room. It scuffled in a roll over the floor before coming to a stop in front of the old man.

“Next time you start preaching from your soap box, at least stand on something first.”

The old man stared at Dabi for a few moments, then lowered his gaze with a shake of his head. He put on his hat, then stepped out of the bar, his friend following close behind.

Dabi chuckled, then lined up the cue stick to make his shot. The white ball clattered against the others, but did not pocket any of them. He tossed the cue stick to Hawks. Hawks caught it. He went to the front of the table, lowered his aim, his one eye blurring in and out of focus. He took aim, and tapped the white cue ball with precision. It knocked into a solid ball, rolling it into a pocket.

“He was only giving advice,” Hawks said. He stepped back, offering the cue stick to Dabi. Dabi narrowed his eyes, positioning his next move. The villain lined up the cue stick to the white ball, focusing on the number eleven ball. He hit the shot, and the red and white colors swirled as the ball rotated across the table. Again, his shot did not pocket, and quickly Dabi shoved the cue stick at Hawks.

Dabi clicked his tongue. He stepped back to the counter, and took a deep swig from the whiskey bottle.

“Spoutin’ self-righteousness,” Dabi answered, his voice tight with the sting of whiskey. He held the bottle up, its amber liquid sloshing, and pointed at the door. “I doubt he can practice his own advice.”

Hawks gave a slight shake of his head, bending over the pool table to line up his shot.

Dabi meandered the pool table in a circle with the whiskey bottle in hand. Looking Hawks up and down, he swayed on his feet, blinking slowly, the hum of alcohol lulling him into a half-dream. It was a mirage, filled with empty places. The only landmarks he could distinguish were Hawks, the green felt of the pool table, and the Endeavor poster on the wall.

He took a swig of whiskey into his mouth, approached the Endeavor poster, and spit on it.

Hawks watched as Dabi used the hem of his white shirt to wipe away the permanent marker hiding the graffiti.

Barely legible was the word ‘LIAR.’

Dabi turned to Hawks, pointing a finger at the poster.

“Looks like people are waking up.”

Hawks did not answer. He gave a slight nod, rubbing the tip of the cue stick with chalk.

The alcohol sloshing in Dabi’s empty stomach burned like an acid lake— placid, too still for comfort, that calm he’d find like being in the darkness of sleep before forgetting what happened in the waking world. Half-awake, fully drunk, and riding on the sappy sweet-tooth notes his words could make, Dabi pressed his hip against the pool table, leaning over the table to try to meet Hawks’ gaze. The way he felt now— it was the same feeling he had before telling a lie, but this time, he wanted to admit a truth.

Hawks thrust the cue stick forward, knocking the solid red ball into a corner pocket.

Dabi said, “I want to show you something.”

He pulled down the collar of his shirt. Under the bar’s yellow light his piercings shimmered. Hawks only glanced at Dabi’s chest before uprighting himself to look closer. Examining the exposed skin, he saw the damage from the battle at Jaku City, and with it, the assault which had branded Hawks for life. It was evident in the scar’s ridges, how they had curled into black, dead skin. His scars had spread, and in the quiet, he could hear how they crackled when Dabi bent his arms, tilting his chin higher to show his chest.

Hawks winced.

Dabi tugged his shirt collar down farther, tilting his head back so Hawks could see his chest fully. His collarbones jut out sharp. Black ashen scabs broke from his skin, fluttering onto the pool table.

“See how the scars don’t touch my heart?”

The unburnt skin spread like a cloak over his left shoulder, splayed over the part of his chest where his heart resided.

He smiled, adding with a wink, “I think I’m treading on thin ice.”

Hawks blinked.

“What do you mean?”

Dabi set the whiskey bottle on the table, replacing it with the cue stick Hawks handed him. His shirt pulled up, covering his chest once more. He leaned against the pool table, pulling the cue stick back to take aim.

“It means I’m running out of time.”

He hesitated, and Hawks wondered if there was fear in his voice, or if the liquor was catching up to him.

“After I had my little accident on Sekoto Peak—” he laughed, shaking his head, “—all I had to show for it were these scars. Afterwards, I wondered how I was still alive. It wasn’t until awhile later that I realized the fire hadn’t touched my heart.”

He looked over at Hawks, his mouth fighting against a smile.

“It keeps getting closer and closer. If it reaches my heart…”

A thin tendril of smoke rose from the crease of his dry, broken mouth. The smoke whirled into Hawks’ face, and he waved it away, retorting, “You don’t know that for certain.”

Dabi lifted his brow. He rocked the cue stick to and fro in his grip.

“No, but—”

He hit the white ball.

“It’s a gut intuition.”

The white cue ball hit a striped white and blue ball. It missed the pocket, rolling across the table until coming to a stop.

They were quiet for a few moments. Hawks peered at Dabi from the corner of his gold eye, and startled when he realized Dabi was staring at him.

“I like talking to you,” Dabi said. “You always ask the right questions. Or maybe… it’s easy to give you answers.”

He recalled how he had given up his true name to Hawks. Amidst the fighting and chaos, as the Liberation’s château was dismantled board by board in the throes of battle, Dabi hovered over Hawks, intent on killing him. That’s what he convinced himself, but, looking at Hawks now— the blue-veined bags under his eyes, the dead eye, his wingless body, the way his shoulders slouched like a sick little sparrow— Dabi knew he had been playing with him, just as a cat would play with a canary before delivering the killing bite.

The blue fire could incinerate a body before the soul had a chance to pray, before they had a chance to know what was happening and make right with their creator, but Dabi realized it was different with Keigo. There was satisfaction in taking his time, in burning him piece by piece, starting with those pretty red wings.

Dabi recalled how, during those early evening Liberation briefings, Hawks would lean against the wall, and let his wings droop to the ground like a cloak over his shoulders. He would lick his thumb and run his fingers through each individual feather, meticulously cleaning them down to their hollow shafts.

The longer Dabi watched him dote over his wings, the harder his heart began to pound.

Even if Hawks was at death’s doorstep during their fight, and Dabi was the one ushering him through, he still couldn’t help but reveal his secret. There was something about the look on his face, the pained desperation in his voice, demanding to know who Dabi really was, that made the villain speak the truth, like a punchline to a long, dragged-out joke.

Dabi chuckled, wiping his finger across his nose.

“Twice was right,” Dabi muttered. “You are a likable guy.” He placed his fingertips on the white cue ball, forcing it into a spin with a flick of his wrist. “It’s so goddamn annoying.”

He handed Hawks the cue stick.

Hawks pursed his mouth to the side, lowering the cue stick to the table to take aim. Dabi waltzed around the table, one hand in his pocket, the other rocking the whiskey bottle like a pendulum. When he was behind Hawks, he leaned over, whispering into his ear, “This interrogation going how you want?”

Hawks jerked upright, his gaze following Dabi as he continued to circle the table in slow, meandering steps.

“I’m not interrogating you,” Hawks countered. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a paper package, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. The thin paper was held together by red string. “I’m here because your family wanted me to give this to you.”

Hawks placed it on the pool table, and pushed it forward with his fingers. Dabi stared at the package, then set down the whiskey bottle before picking it up. He tugged at the string, loosening it and unwrapping the paper.

Hawks gulped, damning his stammered heartbeat.

I’m doing this for his family, he told himself. If it goes wrong, then I’ll accept the consequences.

I won’t betray what’s under the surface, Touya—

“Holy shit,” Dabi said.

He balled the paper into his fist, his other hand holding the piece of jawbone. He held it up to the light, blue eyes squinting as he examined it. Letting the paper fall to the floor, he put his hand to his jaw and rubbed at the indentation.

“It’s smaller than I remember,” he said. He tilted his head. “But I guess I was smaller when it broke off. Huh.”

He held it out to Hawks. Hawks hesitated, then took the piece of bone into his own hand.

Idly rotating it, he saw how the break had been jagged on one end but clean at the other, the small splinter of bone like that of a snake’s rib, its point needle sharp. Hawks pressed the tip of his finger onto the sharp tip, and hissed when it broke the skin. He drew his finger back to see a bead of blood rise to the surface.

Hawks handed Dabi the bone, bringing his fingertip to his mouth to suck off the blood.

“Why’d they give me this?” Dabi asked.

Hawks shrugged.

“I think they felt like it didn’t belong to them.”

He licked his lips, the taste of blood still on his tongue.

“Maybe it’s their way of saying ‘come home’.”

Dabi laughed. He tossed the splinter of bone to Hawks.

“Here. You have it.”

Hawks studied the bone in his hand. He wouldn’t say as much, but for a reason he would not admit, he was secretly glad that such a breakable piece of Dabi was now his to keep, at least, for the time being. He wrapped the bone in a paper napkin and slipped it into his pocket.

Dropping his head into his hand, Dabi muttered, “There’s no home to return to anyways.”

He turned away, his shoulders shaking with laughter. He rubbed at the back of his head.

Hawks watched him, wondering how drunk Dabi was, and when he should—

“What the hell was I thinking?” Dabi said, his tone strained. He rubbed his thumb against the scars under his eyes. “Why was I trying so hard to win Endeavor’s approval?”

Hawks stiffened. He held onto the cue stick tighter, glancing from side to side.

“You get it right?” Dabi asked, staring at the floor. “One minute you’re a prodigy, and the next, you’re some kind of freak. A monster. An inconvenience.”

Dabi rubbed at his forehead, his lips pulling back in a smile. Black ash fluttered from his eyelashes each time he blinked.

“I don’t care if you’re interrogating me. If everything I’m saying you’re going to report back to my father, I don’t care. It won’t get through to him.”

He picked up the whiskey bottle, lifted it to his mouth, and drank.

Quietly Hawks replied, “Maybe if you tried talking to him—”

Dabi reached behind him and grabbed one of the pool balls. Spinning on his heel, he cocked back his arm, and threw it at the wall.

The ball flew past Hawks’ head, the force of it grazing over a strand of his hair. He did not move. The black pupil of his gold eye narrowed thin as a razor, staring directly at Dabi.

The ball slammed into the wall, the impact reverberating in the quiet room. Dabi was breathing faster. He ran his hand through his white hair. Rolling his shoulders, he huffed, “I missed.”

Hawks looked behind him. The ball was lodged in the drywall a few inches from Endeavor’s poster.

Dabi marched to the poster and tore it off in one swipe. He crumpled it into a ball, then shoved it into a pool table’s pocket. Wordlessly, he reached across the table, grabbed the white cue ball, and forced it into the pocket too, burying the crumpled poster deeper.

He muttered, “I’m sick of this game anyways.” He took the whiskey bottle from atop the pool table, and trudged to the bar counter, his balance teetering as he hung his head low. He pressed his back to the counter and unscrewed the whiskey cap. Throwing the cap across the room, he raised the bottle, and said, “This one’s for Endeavor.”

He brought it to his lips, then rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

Quieter he said, “No. For my family.”

He licked his lips.

“It’s going to burn going down.”

He tilted his head and gulped the whiskey, his scarred throat bobbing as he drank.

Hawks scratched at his brow. Carefully, he laid the cue stick onto the pool table, nudging the black eight ball with his hand as he slowly approached Dabi. The villain swayed with his heartbeat, and the faraway look in his blue eyes darkened the longer he stared at the floor.

Hawks took a seat on the barstool next to Dabi. He wasn’t slowing down with the liquor, or the smoking. The muffled crackle of his burnt skin popped as he placed a cigarette between his lips, lowering himself on the seat next to Hawks. He lit it, and purposefully blew the smoke in Hawks’ direction.

Hawks blinked at the smoke in his face, but did not move, or speak. He glanced at the clock on the wall, and beyond his control, a dark part in his heart caused him to smile.

He breathed in Dabi’s exhaled smoke, and imagined how this night was going to end.

The bartender emerged from the back room. He rounded the corner, only glancing at Hawks and the newcomer sitting beside him, until it registered that the man had a scarred face and burning scowl.

The bartender halted before stepping back. Slowly he reached into his pocket for his cellphone, intent on calling for the police, when Hawks sat straight up. The hero motioned across his neck, pleading with the bartender not to call for anyone, and with his one gold-eye, desperately asking him to remain calm.

The bartender coughed into his hand, then began wiping down the counter with a dishrag.

“You want to order anything?” he mumbled.

Dabi smiled.

“Nope,” he answered. “Already helped myself.” He lifted the whiskey bottle and took a swig from it.

The bartender nodded. His eyes lingered on Dabi as he turned, intent on leaving. Before he could retreat to the backroom, Dabi said, “Hey.”

He tapped his cigarette over the ashtray, then took a drag off it. Smoke plumed from his mouth.

“This is a pretty cute bar. It’d be a shame if it burned to the ground.”

His blue eyes flickered from behind the white bangs of his hair.

“You know how to protect it, right? Keep your mouth shut.”

The bartender wavered, looking at Hawks for an answer. Hawks raised his brow, as if to say, ‘Keep calm.’

“Right,” the man replied. “You were never here. Got it.”

He swiftly turned and went into the backroom.

“Fuuuck,” Dabi groaned. “Shoulda burned that fucker’s phone. Can never be too careful these days.”

Hawks sighed.

“What’s the point? Your identity is revealed, and your quirk is good at—”

He stopped himself, scratching at the back of his head.

“Good at what?” Dabi asked.

Hawks sipped at his unfinished pint of beer, mumbling, “Scaring the living shit out of people.”

Dabi copied Hawks, lifting his own drink to his mouth. He peered at the man from the corner of his eyes, his line of sight drifting over the empty space behind Hawks’ back. He seemed so much smaller without his wings.

“You should show me the scars.”

Hawks choked. The beer sloshed over the glass, and he set it on the counter, struggling to catch his breath.

He turned to Dabi, narrowing his gaze, his dead blue eye catching the light in an unusual glow.

“You’re out of your mind if you think—”

“Whatever,” Dabi intervened. “Can’t judge a guy for being curious though.”

He laid his arm flat on the counter. His scarred arm, burnt leathery black and purple, smelled heavily of ash and still-smoldering cinders. Hovering over the skin was the scent of burnt flesh, a smell that caused any passerby to cringe. It was the smell of death, and before they could register where it came from, Dabi was already gone, taking his aching bones and stretched-thin skin with him.

“Does it look like this?” he asked, gesturing at his scarred arm.

Hawks shook his head.

“Touya, c’mon…”

Dabi raised his hands, a wide smile spreading over his face.

“Alright, alright.”

He glanced at Hawks, lifting his drink to his mouth. His foot tapped against the stool, and he bit his bottom lip. The music played over the loudspeaker was soft and dim, its song faraway, but it was one of his favorites, and it’d always touched a place on his wrecked body, reaching deep into his heart. Always played a way that made him want to kiss the next best thing in his life—

Dabi reached out, and grazed his pinky finger over Hawks’ beer glass, but stopped at the chime of breaking news on the television screen.

‘Reports have come in of former U.A. Student Izuku Midoriya…’

Dabi looked up at the television. He watched grainy footage of a kid— the kid All For One was obsessed with— dart from building to building, aiding city residents and defeating escaped convicts on the streets of Musutafu.

He downed three gulps of whiskey, slurring his words as he lifted the bottle.

“Toast to that kid.”

He handed Hawks the bottle.

“You make a toast.”

Hawks stared at Dabi with a frown. He took the whiskey bottle, raised it in the air, and took a sip. He closed his eyes at the burn, shivering at the way it settled like a stone in his stomach.

“That kid—” Dabi said, pointing at the screen, “—should give up the ghost.” The cigarette in his hand burnt out. He tossed it over his shoulder, ignoring the ashtray.

“Midoriya’s a good kid,” Hawks retorted.

“Sure,” Dabi said. “They’re all good kids until they do something you don’t like.”

He turned to Hawks.

“But it’d be interesting to see.”

“See what?” Hawks asked.

Dabi answered, “See All For One get taken down.”

“I thought you were on his side.”

“I’m on my side,” Dabi explained. “My side is all—”

He pulled down the collar of his shirt, ducking his head to peer at his chest.

“Most of my sides are fucking gone.”

Hawks leaned against the counter and took a deep breath.

“Touya, how much did you drink?”

Dabi pressed his knuckles against his lips, muttering, “I was already drunk when I got here. But now I’m…”

He paused, taking a deep breath. He stuck the glass under the tap and filled it with more beer. Hawks’ brow creased in worry as he watched Dabi drain it without stopping. He pulled the glass from his lips, breathing hard, then panted, “I’m thirsty all the time. I’ve gotten so desperate, I started drinking saltwater, straight from the ocean.”

Dabi swayed, nearly falling backwards in his seat as he placed another cigarette in his mouth. He was coughing before he even lit it, taking the first deep drag of smoke.

“But nothing’s made it go away.”

He closed his eyes and sighed. Placing one hand over the other on the counter, a piece of dead, black skin, thin as a butterfly’s wing, detached from his elbow. It rocked to and fro, drifting through the air until settling on the floor.

“Sometimes I feel like I gotta confess to someone. And you’re not a priest, but—”

He wiped a bead of watery condensation from the whiskey bottle.

“We used to be best friends.”

The pink flushing Hawks’ face did not go unnoticed by Dabi. The villain nudged Hawks with his elbow.

“Do you remember,” Dabi said. “The bird nest that fell out of the tree on the Commission playground.”

Hawks stared into his glass of beer. His reflection rippled with the rise and fall of his breath. Dabi’s voice continued like a burning in the back of his mind, constant, following him not just now but in his dreams. The villain hovered closer.

“There was a baby bird in it,” Dabi continued. “You picked it up. It was barely clinging to life.”

He leaned forward, blue eyes staring daggers into Hawks.

“I remember what you did,” he whispered. “I’ll never forget it.”

Hawks jerked back, baring the sharp of his canine tooth.

Dabi chuckled.

“‘Course, afterwards, you cried.”

Hawks shook his head. He gripped the beer glass tighter.

“Because it was sad,” he seethed under his breath.

“You were such a crybaby.”

Dabi pulled the cigarette from his lips and studied its glowing tip.

Hawks glowered at him. He tried to steady his breath as he grit out, “You were the one who cried the most.”

Dabi scoffed, shaking his head.

Hawks continued, “If a caretaker or teacher scolded you, you’d burst into tears. And it wasn’t just when you did something wrong. Sometimes you’d start crying for no reason.”

Dabi slowly turned his head at Hawks.

“Everything would be fine, and then you’d get this look on your face and suddenly start crying.”

Dabi clenched his jaw and turned away. He scratched his nails down his scarred hand, digging roughly into the ridge separating his destroyed skin from the flesh still clinging on.

Under the dim yellow lights, Hawks thought he could see a bead of blood form at the corner of Dabi’s eye.

Dabi went quiet, and Hawks turned his attention to the TV screen. It was recycled news at this point, repeating well into the night. An image of Endeavor at the press conference was shown, followed by a journalist stating her opinion on the mounting mistrust against heroes.

“Are you sad?”

Hawks was taken aback by the question.

“About your wings?” Dabi asked, ashing his cigarette. “Are you sad?”

Hawks scoffed. Shaking his head, he snapped, “Are you serious? Am I sad?”

He spoke through clenched teeth.

“No, Touya. I’m glad you cremated my wings to ash. I’m glad you scarred me for life, and now—”

He placed his fist against his mouth. Hawks closed his eyes shut, recalling the nightmare of that fire recurring in his dreams every night, and how he couldn’t walk down the street without people crossing the road to avoid him. How he couldn’t turn on the stove anymore because of the heated coils, for fear that he would be burned again. He couldn’t ride an elevator because it was suffocating, like being entrapped, forced under the weight of an assailant: his assailant, his boot against his face, suppressing him to the floor as hellfire swarmed in a furious dance.

No, it was worse than that. It was being suffocated, burned alive, by someone who used to be his friend.

He couldn’t look at the sky anymore. He was an orphan to flight, and worst of all, now—

Hawks grimaced, and the alcohol in his stomach threatened to come up.

He was afraid of heights, now that he could fall and there would be nothing to save him.

“You can do anything now,” Dabi said. He took a slow drag of his cigarette, and lowered his voice. “You don’t have to take orders from the Commission anymore. You don’t have to be a hero, Keigo.”

“I want to do the right thing. I want justice,” Hawks answered.

Dabi thumbed his bottom lip.

“Listen. You don’t have to be a hero. The whole system that’s come out of quirks… it’s corrupt. No one actually knows for certain what ‘justice’ is. It’s…” Dabi paused, sorting through his thoughts, the liquor causing his words to slur, “Justice is convenient for people who want an excuse to do shitty things. It’s not infallible. Listen—”

He reached out, and placed his hand flat on the counter.

“Let’s make our own justice. Fucking—” He laughed, waving his cigarette in the air, “forget about all this. Seriously, you and me—”

Dabi shifted in his seat, as though he was unsure if he should continue. He took another swig from the whiskey bottle. Clinking it onto the counter he said, “Let’s leave. We’ll go somewhere far away, live under the radar. I don’t have that much money, but I can take care—”

He stopped, and turned his head. Hawks stared at the back of his head, and then at realizing the implication of those words, his face reddened.

But I can take care of you.

And beneath that, buried under liquor and smoke and an unrelenting burn that clutched at his body, were the words: I don’t want to be alone.

Dabi cleared his throat of the smoke, muttering, “We can make our own justice.”

Hawks chewed on the inside of his cheek.

The alcohol settled thick in Dabi’s veins, slowing his body into a drowsed numbness. He glanced at the rain-washed windows, into the darkness of night, blinking at the neon lights blurring in his vision. Restlessness had followed him for days now. Unable to sleep, or eat, or satiate his thirst— it was catching up to him, like the fire working its way through the last of his skin. Without thinking about it, his hand slipped into his coat pocket, his fingers grazing over what he knew he'd have to settle before this sleepless night came to an end.

“I’ve had time to think about these things,” he began. “The heroes. They’re actors. Actors, producers, directors of their own bullshit dramas. It’s all a script, written and performed in the name of ‘justice.’ Let’s get real Keigo. This society doesn’t need heroes. They need something to believe in, so heroes wormed their way into that role.”

He tugged at the piercings on his hands.

“And some of us weren’t born to perform that role.”

“You think I’m playing a role?” Hawks asked. “You think villains are playing a role when they threaten people’s lives?”

Dabi glanced at him.

“Do you like what you do?”

“I like helping people,” Hawks answered.

“Why?”

“Because,” Hawks said, “I want people to feel safe enough to do what they want. To have their own freedom.”

“Pfft,” Dabi muttered. “You should help yourself first.” He sucked cigarette smoke into his lungs, coughing, “The Commission saw a pretty little angel and trapped you in a cage. I mean—”

He turned to Hawks, his face crinkling in disbelief.

“You never even flew across the country, to see everything you could. What about the Akaishi mountains? You said you were going to fly there, and live out in the wild—”

“Fucking hell Touya,” Hawks laughed. “I was a kid when I said that.”

“But it’s what you wanted,” Dabi countered.

Hawks rolled his eyes.

Dabi placed the side of his hand on the counter, raising his voice.

“People want to be the heroes of their own lives. I get that. I won’t deny what it’s like to suffer so badly that you want to find something to make all the bullshit worthwhile. And, the absolute narcissism you have to have, to make a kid just to fulfill that dream, or, delude yourself into thinking you’re fulfilling a dream.” He laughed, smacking his hand against his forehead. “Endeavor sure as hell couldn’t succeed. What made him think having the perfect kid with the perfect quirk would fix that?”

He rested his hand against his forehead, speaking with grave seriousness.

“I have to ask myself— what happens when you forsake that idea.”

Hawks sipped his drink.

“You’re a philosopher now that you’re drunk?”

“No,” Dabi stated. He fidgeted, and answered with a sigh, “I’ve been thinking about alot of things. Life. And existence. And maybe there’s a reason we were born, but also, maybe not.”

He tugged at a piercing on his hand. Without hesitation, he pulled back, until the piercing tore from the burnt skin. No blood spilled. Dabi brought the piercing to his mouth, and licked the ash from it. As he readjusted it back onto his hand, he spoke.

“And I’ve been thinking about… how time never recognizes us, or even cares, even though we spend so much of our lives worried about it. About… not having enough time. Time, nature, the universe… it’s insane. It doesn’t give a fuck.”

He glanced at Hawks, quipping, “You asked me if I was crazy, but c’mon. How are you not supposed to go insane in a universe that could not give a fuck about you? It’s a shitty one-sided relationship. Just… fuck off and go home. Wherever the fuck that is.”

Hawks raised his brow.

“I didn’t know you were so eloquent when you drank.”

He chuckled, adding, “Then again, you were a bookworm when we were kids.”

The corner of Dabi’s mouth turned up in a smile. Quietly he said, “Seems like that’s what kept me alive all these years. That, and—” He peered over his shoulder at where he’d ripped Endeavor’s poster from the wall. “I had good reason to bide my time.”

Hawks turned to him, confused by the statement, but Dabi slid off the stool. He leaned against the counter as he chugged a mouthful of whiskey, then pulled back, forcing himself to swallow. The whiskey was halfway gone, and Dabi’s eyelids drooped heavy, his breathing shallow. He stubbed the cigarette into the ashtray.

“You should try thinking for yourself once in awhile. I know you’re not stupid,” Dabi drawled. He tilted his head, blue eyes roaming Hawks’ back. “Unless hero work has completely fried your brain.”

The corners of Hawks’ mouth pulled into a tight smile, his one-seeing eye fixated on his beer glass. In the reflection of beer the clock’s minute hand seemingly ticked backwards.

Dabi whistled, shuddering at the taste of liquor on his tongue, then said, “I gotta take a piss.” He shook his head. “Or puke. Whichever one.”

He staggered, veering sideways into the counter before steadying himself. His walk was uncoordinated, and he bumped into the wall as he turned down the hall into the restroom.

Hawks steadied his breath. He waited a few seconds, closing his eyes.

It’s for his family, he reminded himself. It’s for his own sake.

The winged hero hesitated, rubbing his hands as he glanced in the direction of the restroom. He thought of Dabi as he was now— intimidating, unpredictable, a shadow looming down a dark alleyway, and…

Hawks tensed, rolling his shoulders.

A blue inferno, manic in its conception, wrathful in its delivery. Whatever his victims felt, Dabi felt too. The burning went both ways.

Hawks took their two shot glasses and poured them to the brim with whiskey.

It’s for his own sake, Hawks repeated as he brought the small envelope from his pocket. He took the pill inside and held it in the palm of his hand.

‘We can make our own justice.’

“Yeah,” Hawks breathed. “We sure can.”

He dropped the pill into one of the drinks. It dissolved, disappearing into the amber brown liquid. Hawks’ stomach dropped as he watched that decision hide itself, like a snake beneath the dead winter brush.

Dabi returned. The ripped ends of his coat billowed in his movements, his eyes downcast as he plopped back onto the stool next to Hawks. His words jumbled together, “I feel like shit.” He wiped at his mouth. “Puked my guts out.”

He tilted his head at the full shot glass, blinking slowly.

“I poured us a drink,” Hawks said. “To make a toast—”

“Switch,” Dabi said. “Give me yours.”

Hawks watched as Dabi switched their drinks. He stared at the drink in Dabi’s hands, and felt an inexplicable wave of sadness come over him.

That sadness soured into anger when Dabi flashed his blue eyes at him, the smoldering skepticism all too apparent, the judgement always there, constant, unavoidable. Hawks could feel himself being judged in Dabi’s eyes, and it was enough to make his fingers curl like talons into a fist.

“So,” Dabi said. “Did you make your decision? You gonna leave this bullshit behind?”

Hawks smiled.

“I would love to leave this bullshit behind.”

Dabi raised his brow, fumbling through his words, “You think you can’t, but it’s not ‘can’t.’ It’s won't. You’re still…” He picked up the shot glass. “You’re still caught up in the past.”

Hawks raised his glass.

“Then let’s make a toast.”

He waved the shot glass in the air.

“To letting go of the past.”

Dabi grinned.

They clinked their shot glasses, and together, downed the whiskey. Dabi let the glass fall heavily onto the counter.

He slurred through his words, “It sucks. Memory sucks. But it won’t go away.”

“It’s hard,” Hawks said, staring straight ahead, his one gold eye narrowing, “Letting go of the past is hard, when it leaves such an ugly scar.”

Dabi snapped his fingers, nodding his head. He reached over, and Hawks startled when Dabi traced his fingers over his hand. The motion was for a moment, and then he pulled away.

“You get it. No one in my family gets it.”

Dabi propped his elbow on the counter and leaned heavily onto his hand, flashing a full smile. His half-lidded eyes went in and out of focus.

Hawks pulled back the sleeve of his jacket and checked the time on his wristwatch.

The song over the speakers changed three times, and not once did Dabi speak, nor did Hawks. Dabi slumped over the counter, his eyes fluttering as he tried to stay awake. Hawks continuously checked his watch, counting down the minutes.

The villain was quiet, and then, without a word, he slid his hand across the counter. Taking hold of Hawks’ hand into his own, Dabi lowered his head, and pressed the side of his face to the counter.

“How you feeling?” Hawks asked.

Dabi smacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He shrugged, replying, “Drank too much.”

“Too fast,” Hawks agreed.

“Guess I… overdid it this time…” Dabi sighed. “I haven’t eaten much, not since… you know… and drinking water doesn’t help… but inside… I thought my heart was going to give up when I saw Endeavor.”

Dabi blinked. His pupils were dilated, and he struggled to stay awake. He emitted a breathy laugh.

“Am I dreaming?”

He squeezed Hawks’ hand tighter.

“When I’m near you, it feels like I’m dreaming. Like I can’t believe I’m with you again. Maybe we’re still at the Commission, and this is just a dream. That summer, you—”

He laughed again, and then, his breath caught in his chest. Once again, Hawks could see just the slightest bead of blood collect at the corner of Dabi’s eye.

He bit his bottom lip, his brow furrowed.

Dabi hiccuped, “He was my home.”

Quickly he wiped at his eyes, mumbling, “Don’t fucking tell Keigo I said that. Piece of chicken shit.”

Hawks sighed.

“Yeah. I won’t tell him.”

Dabi stroked his thumb over Hawks’ hand.

Hawks asked again, “How you feeling?”

Dabi closed his eyes, mumbling, “Wanna go home.”

He shivered.

“So cold.”

Dabi coughed, a thin wisp of smoke escaping his throat.

“Go to bed.”

He was barely awake as he added, “But not under a bridge, or an empty house. I want a real bed. And someone warm to hold.”

He squeezed Hawks’ hand. Hawks checked his wristwatch, then said, “I’ll get you home.”

Dabi rolled his head, pressing his forehead to the counter. His white hair covered his face as he huffed, “Not ‘home.’ I don’t want to see my dad. Or my mom. Take me… shit, take me to those goddamn mountains Keigo wanted to see so badly.”

Hawks watched as Dabi’s breath slowed. After a few seconds, Hawks carefully helped Dabi to sit upright. His eyes were half-open, and he stared blankly ahead.

And then, without another word, Dabi closed his eyes, and relented into the drug’s sway, pulling him into a dark sleep.

Hawks grasped at his shoulders, careful as he slid from the barstool to catch Dabi’s leaning body into his arms. With one heave, Hawks lifted Dabi, cradling his neck in the crook of his elbow. He lifted him into his arms, his head resting against his chest, his limp legs swaying as Hawks situated his hold on him. This close he could smell Dabi— the cigarette smoke and unwashed clothes and burnt flesh— and pressed against him, Hawks could feel his bones jut sharply from his frame. He carried Dabi to the front door, his own scarred back frantic at being so close to its judge and creator, but Hawks continued forward, pushing open the door with his shoulder. Outside, the rain had softened into a faint drizzle. The empty streets smelled of damp asphalt, and the humidity in the air curled around Hawks like a blanket as he walked down the street.

Dabi breathed a heavy sigh. In his sleep, he reached out, wrapping his arm around Hawks’ neck. He grabbed at the back of his jacket, holding it in his fist. He slept-talked, and the way he sounded like he was on the verge of tears caused Hawks to halt. He looked down at him. His white hair reflected the streets’ neon signs glow, and this close, Hawks could see the piercing at the corner of his mouth was barely hanging on.

Quietly, Touya whispered, “Where are your wings?”

He held onto Hawks tighter, burying his face into his chest.

Hawks carried Dabi to the street corner. He reached into his pocket, taking out his phone, keeping Dabi cradled in his arms as he dialed a number. He pressed the phone between his ear and shoulder. Dabi’s bony elbow nudged into Hawks’ stomach, and he mumbled incoherently, asking to be put to bed.

The phone rang once, twice, before a familiar voice answered.

“Hello?”

“It’s done,” Hawks said. “I have him.”

He looked down at Dabi. His eyes remained closed, and his breathing had slowed into sleep.

“Is he okay?”

Hawks laughed, unable to help the bitterness in his voice.

“He’s unconscious. That’s good enough for me.”

He pursed his mouth, closing his eyes. The hero steadied his breath, then added, “He’s fine. I’ll meet you at the rendezvous.”

There was silence on the other line. After a few moments, Endeavor asked again, “But… how is he?”

Hawks hefted Dabi closer in his arms, tightening his grip on him. He looked down at Dabi, his one-seeing eye lingering on his chest, remembering the patch of unburnt skin over his heart, and how the scars seemed to purposefully crowd close to his heart, a frozen tide beckoning an ocean of blue fire to unfreeze it and deliver the final wave that would surely drown him. Dabi's bony elbow dug sharper into Hawks’ stomach, and he winced, answering, “He seemed worn out. Maybe we intervened at the right time.”

He took Endeavor’s silence as worry, so Hawks continued, assuring him that he would follow through with the plan, no matter what.

They said their goodbyes, and Hawks stuffed his phone back into his pocket. He jostled Dabi’s limp body tighter in his arms. The rain drizzled as mere specks in the nighttime, faint scatterings reflecting in the streetlight. They fell on Dabi’s hair, and in the light, shimmered as dewdrop pearls.

Something in Dabi’s coat pocket fell onto the sidewalk. Hawks’ gathered his strength, keeping Dabi nestled in his arms as he stooped to a squat to pick it up.

It was a miniature snow globe, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. Under the pale streetlight he could see a tiny cherry tree inside, its pink blossoms hanging onto the delicate branches. Hawks shook the snow globe, and white specks flurried, swirling in a rush around the tree.

Dabi’s head lolled to the side. Raindrops caught on his white eyelashes, his gold piercings, beading on his scarred bottom lip before sliding down his jaw and onto the pavement.

He had always liked that dark place before a dream. It was like staring into an abyss, and there, every lie he told would be swallowed whole, nothing but fodder for an empty stomach, an emptier, mutilated body— blood for a never satisfied, ill-formed heart.

#bnha #dabihawks #keigo takami #touya todoroki #bnha fic #boku no hero academia #my hero academia

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codango · 4 years

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10 Things I Love About The Untamed

I’m just gonna spitball this.

I clicked on The Untamed in Netflix because a lot of authors I admire were geeking out about it on Twitter. I’d seen it around Tumblr, but I’m not much of a TV show person, and there are 50 episodes. I have a bajillion books on Kindle I can’t get to. I did not have time for this.

But these authors were into it, man. And I’m trying to respect the tastes of people I respect, and allow it to broaden my horizons. So last weekend, I said fuck it, and clicked on the show.

Halfway through the first episode, I was absolutely one hundred percent sure I did not have time for this, and took to an online writers’ group to say, um, hey y’all, this is bonkers, I don’t understand anything, the CGI is awful, the martial arts on wires is terrible, and the fake playing of musical instruments is worse, and do I really want to do this?

And then my betrayers said, Yes, you really fucking do. Traitors, all of them.

Get through the first three episodes, they said.

Guh, fine. I mean, I like Gintama, I can respect that instruction. So I did.

And by the time I got to, oh, about the 15th or 16th episode, you could not have paid me to spend my time any other way. Dear god.

Hence, a list of ten things I have fallen in love with about The Untamed. This is pretty much spoiler free, just evaluating the feels:

1. It is SUPER applicable to our current zeitgeist.

Globally, I’d say. A common recurring theme in the show is what is morality anyway? What makes something good or bad, black or white? Why do we choose to follow these ideals or those? Do we listen to our gut about our loyalty to this or that person, this or that teaching? How do we know when we’re being deceived or deceiving ourselves?

2. Family is everything and nothing.

This really ties into the first point, I think, especially with how divided so many families are right now with politics as they are across the world. How do you love a family member who doesn’t think like you do? Who rejects you and makes it known to the world that you, in fact, are the one in the wrong? What do you fucking do with that?

This includes found family, which the show explores beautifully.

3. Morality demands things of you.

Life is messy, and there are no easy answers. What does your morality demand from you? Listen, listen hard, and follow it. Question it constantly.

4. Sometimes you just want someone to tell you what to do.

When life gets SUPER messy, and you’ve tried your damnedest, and everything is still going to shit, god, wouldn’t it be nice if someone just told you what to do?

Who can’t relate to that emotion?

5. Romance is wwwwaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyy more than sex.

There is no way, zero way, that the two main characters are not in love. Zero. There is no goddamn way to read their relationship as straight and platonic. They never kiss, but in fact, no one kisses. There is one (1) straight romance that we see unfold over the course of the show, and even they do not have any physical intimacy onscreen.

Most people looking into The Untamed probably know that its source material is a BL novel. In that context, the heroes are unquestionably queer. However, the material from the book that the TV show left out is mostly dubcon and external and internal homophobia (yes, I read the BL novel, too. I did nothing else but wallow in this show for like four days).

I’m not here to kinkshame, but I am here to say that the soft-eyed, I-would-die-for-you romance onscreen was way more heartpounding for me than the hardcore sex of the BL novel. I also didn’t feel that the homophobia in the book was dealt with in any particularly meaningful way; it was just there. Your mileage may vary.

There are perhaps two physically intimate scenes in the book that I’d call sweet and would have liked to have seen onscreen. But even those could still be considered dubcon lite for readers with triggers or squicks in that area.

So when we take out the homophobia and the sex, we’re left with SO MUCH romance. Beautiful teasing, drunken escapades, flirty looks, stolen glances, awkward blushing, inside jokes, and about a bajillion declarations of loyalty and I’m-with-you-forever.

6. Friendships across genders are things of beauty, and I want more of them onscreen, dammit.

The main characters both interact respectfully with women constantly. One of the main characters develops a friendship so strong and loyal with a woman that it reduced me to tears on more than one occasion. And it is never, ever even remotely hinted as being romantic.

They are hilarious together, and fierce together, and goddamn, their friendship is beautiful. It’s honestly one of my favorite elements of the show.

In fact, all in all, there are just some really fantastic female characters in this show. They’re well-rounded and entertaining and surprising.

7. Sometimes mistakes create damage that just can never be fixed.

Sometimes that damage hurts, hurts so much. But there’s still life after it. Sometimes life will look very different, but there is always life, and life will always hold beauty. Keep going, loves.

8. Loving and guiding the next generation is important and rewarding.

Hatred and hurt are taught and passed down, but so is love and healing. You can always choose to be kind. It’s important for those younger than us to see that.

9. The music is beautiful.

Again, the fake playing of the musical instruments by the actors is, ahem, not great, but the soundtrack itself is gorgeous.

10. This show is a gift to bisexuals.

There are so many—so many—very pretty people in this show. Augh.

#the untamed #mdzs #wangxian

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alfredosauce50 · 5 years

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Who’s the bad guy? (2p + 1p America x reader) 18

Wordcount: 3,552 The reader is referred to as she/her

A body slumped heavily against the table, causing the cutlery laying on top to clink. The woman who had been approached by the host of the event not long ago was now out like a light, her cheek pressing firmly against the crisp white table cloth. But it was now stained with a beige blotch of her foundation. Guests sitting around her had their conversations cut short at that, their murmurs and laughs fading as they realized the source of the thud. A butler standing nearby with a tray rushed over to her side to shake at her back.

"Ma'am, are you alright?" He asked her through a shaky breath. No response. She was completely limp, and the panic racing through the man's eyes immediately spread to the faces at that table. "Oh my god, somebody call 911!" A voice screamed. That voice was joined by many others in the same, fearful tone, and eventually, chaos choked the necks of guests of surrounding tables to make them pale.

To start chaos was just like kindling a fire. It would ravage its way through its surroundings and leave behind destruction you could never go back from. It did not take long at all for the whole hall to catch on to what happened. But the people sitting near the scene took notice right away. Flipping your head to the man sitting next to you with round eyes, you found yourself staring at him smoking another cigarette with his dark and hot magenta eyes fixated at whatever it was in front of him. "Luciano!?" You whispered. "You just- You just-" The glass the unfortunate lady drank from turned out to be no ordinary serving of vodka just like he had suspected. "-poisoned her!" He inserted the cigarette in between his lips before turning to you. There was no remorse in that gaze of his. "She's not poisoned. Drugged, my dear." He responded, inhaling from the little white tube again. "And I wasn't the one who was responsible. It looks like my staff here has really been compromised..." Luciano continued. It took you a while for your brain to process his words and to make the links, but when you did, the color drained from your face. The moment you saw Happy, you knew they had come for you. Allen and Alfred that is. But this man-- those piercing irises glowered over you in the same manner a predator would to their prey-- he was too good. He caught on even with the assistance of the smallest hints and you were back to square one again. They were back to square one again. And you were cornered like a trapped animal, once again. Even with his security defeated, having him even know about this rescue mission increased the risk of failing by more than fifty-percent. "Your friends won't be able to save you, (F/N). You're mine." He narrowed his gaze dangerously and pulled you into his lap. You let out a fearful yelp at that, squirming and struggling to the best of your ability to rip yourself away from him. Taking advantage of everybody's attention diverted to the unconscious guest, he did as he pleased with you. All while the little wisps of grey curled from his cigarette in between his lips, he interlocked his gloved fingers with yours and stopped your movements. A few soft cries were heard, but they only quietened down as he pressed his face to yours. You looked away. "I take it back. You and Allen might see each other." He murmured, grazing his lips over your cheeks as he spoke to send chills down your spine. "Mm... Maybe for a second. But it's better that way since I can see the pain in his eyes as I take you away from him forever." You choked back a sob. If this had not been centered around Allen, you would not have been reduced to tears this quickly. Not because it was his fault and the feeling of betrayal lingered, but because Luciano kept on mentioning his name. At this point, you did not even care what Allen did in his shady past. You missed him. He was your best friend-- a flawed human you guessed. Very flawed. He was one to make mistakes, and that was an understatement. But at the same time, you would never dare to hold a grudge against him. If Luciano was trying to test your love for him, the results were already here. "Fuck you...!" You hissed, shooting him a dark glare. "I bet you Allen's right outside that door right now, ready to gun you down. The police and Alfred'll be here too, and they're gonna lock you up in jail where you'll rot for the rest of your life!" As you spat venom in his face, he welcomed it with a mocking smile. After all, he was venom. "But their plan to get me has already failed. They can't save you as long as I'm here, wide awake." He responded lowly, nearing his face to yours again much to your discomfort. His grip on your hand never loosened, and it looked like he was about to kiss you while you sat in his lap. "They'd have to kill me to get you. And I doubt they even had a proper, civilized conversation with the police-" Luciano let out a loud laugh- "Hah! You're killing me, bella. The police! Allen can't work together with the police!" "... Yes he can." You whispered faintly, startled by his loud explosive laughter. "To get you, they'll have to work together." The Italian mobster just shook his head. Were you this naïve? "He can't. He can't work with anyone, let alone the police. He's just that guy." He hummed. "And that is exactly why he won't be able to get you. He's an arrogant dumbass who thinks he can do everything by himself." Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. And this one was for dramatic entrances. The double doors swung open after being kicked by the man behind it. A few heads turned to the newcomer whose attire clashed greatly with their own. He wore a bomber jacket and ripped jeans while everyone else was dressed primly in tuxedos and evening dresses like they had been cut straight out of a fashion magazine. But then again, he was not one of them. Taking long, powerful strides with a gun pointed straight at the figure sitting in the centermost table, he stormed to him with a murderous rage. Guns were omens and harbingers of death, and everyone seemed to know when someone made a move to use them. It only took a few seconds for the guests to understand that shit really did hit the fan and made their quick decisions to flee. While everyone ran by in a blur, Allen was in a deep state of mind to derive a fool-proof plan to save you. And to make matters worse, you were sitting in his lap. If you had not been there, he would have pulled the trigger without hesitation. "Let her go right now, you piece of shit." He growled, cocking the firearm with a loud click. He always prayed that seeing you would flood his systems with a rush of euphoria and not pure fear. But it was finally happening-- this scenario he dreaded that had you in the arms of someone he did wrong. Under the death in those fiery red irises hid another version of himself he never showed anyone. Under the stoic surface of him pointing a gun at his most hated nemesis was him, cowering in terror. But he refused to let that persona of his manifest. He couldn't, for you. Your prayers were answered, but you were far from being home safe as of yet. When Allen finally appeared, your heart thundered so violently in your chest it threatened to break right out your ribs. You struggled and twisted in the Italian's hold that seemed to tighten even more. But you couldn't blame him. Allen actually showed up like you said. Luciano suddenly shot up with you in his hold. Spinning you around so you could face your savior, he whipped out a throwing knife and held that against your neck. The dam in your eyes finally broke upon feeling the cold touch of the blade and you burst into tears. "Please don't hurt me!" You choked in between cries with an enflamed face. "Allen, help!" Allen's blood ran cold when the whole ordeal escalated just like that and his mouth fell open. "Luciano! Don't you dare touch her!" He roared. But he already did. His favorite throwing knife was held against the softness of your neck, and with a simple movement, it would claim your life like it did with so many other's. And knowing that made him panic like mad. His face was losing color and little beads of sweat were forming around his temple. What could he possibly say to make the other lower his hand that clenched so tightly around that weapon? Allen was never really a talker if it did not count flirting. He was more of a doing-guy. Do before thinking. That's how he always got by, but it was clearer than day that following that little motto of his would end up with fatal prospects. "There's no point. You're just taking another life-" His voice cracked when he said that. "-another innocent life. You won't get anything out of it! You'll just get more blood on your hands!" The other just sneered and dug the blade deeper into your neck, the sight making Allen tense up in all reality. "Don't!" While the redhead had his visage fixated on the knife pressed up against you, your captor took advantage of his frazzled state of mind and backed away some more. It did not look like it, but he was in a similar state of mind. He did not believe that Allen even made it this far into this establishment, so he did not expect himself to be cornered like this to his last resort. To flee into his personal chopper and leave his own party. How embarrassing. "One sin or a thousand, you still end up going to hell!" He hissed back, walking backward slowly with clenched teeth. "And I'm talking to you, Allen! Why don't you enjoy the fun while you can? You're a murderer just like me! You're a bad guy! I told your girlfriend all about you!" His breath hitched and he gripped tighter on his gun. "You-" He was caught off guard at how low he could stoop, but it was not at all surprising. Immediately, the burning hatred dissolved into concern and he turned his attention to you. You shook your head furiously when you met the look he had in his eyes, the force causing a few tears to go flying off to the side. "Don't listen to him, Al! I don't care what you did in the past. I don't car-" A hand clamped over your mouth and muffled the rest of your screams. Your hot breath ended up dampening his gloved palm. Unfortunately for Luciano, his efforts to silence you proved useless in the end because Allen heard everything he needed. "Fuck you. I'm not like you at all!" He shouted, feeling a small tremble seize his arm that was holding his gun. "I only killed once for reason-- to save my friends and my whole damn neighborhood from rich, selfish bastards like you!" When you suspected he had a reason, a gut feeling told you were correct-- and you really were. "That doesn't matter! A life is a life!" The man shot back, gripping the handle of his knife even tighter with cold, clammy hands. He backed away some more with you struggling to pull the lethal blade as further away from your neck as possible. As much as he wanted to turn around and book it the fuck out of there already, he could not risk taking his eyes off of the man in the bomber jacket. That meant instant death for him. And that would mean an instant win for the police and Allen. Like hell he'd let that happen. Maybe over his dead body, literally. "And if you think you can get let off the hook after fucking with me, you're a fool!" "I could say the same to you." He whispered, wiping away a ball of sweat before it could enter his mouth. Narrowing his dark gaze, he readied his index finger on the trigger. He took note of the way you struggled and pulled at the mobster's arm. The knife kept on parting from your skin as you did, and if you managed to push it away far enough, he could blast a hole in his damn head without worrying about your safety. But for the meantime, he focused on getting his guard down. "The police are waiting for you. Even if you do kill (F/N), you're fucking over." To mention such a thing squeezed his heart, but it was the cold, hard truth. There was really nothing for Luciano to get out of holding you hostage like this because he was going to lose everything in the end, whether you were alive or dead. So why was he doing this? The answer was simple, but difficult to find for those who had a heart. "I'm not over because I am going to win. Being caught is irrelevant." He spat. He would never admit it, but he was actually shocked there was police involved in this. Not that he had the time to properly react anyway. "Just as long as you lose everything's that precious to you, I win." At that moment, Allen's peripheral vision disappeared into black as he was speared with a revelation. Everything narrowed down into a tunnel and all he could see was you. His breathing grew shallow and his head started to spin. The mobster couldn't care less about getting caught. Nor did he care about dying. That was right. He was that twisted. He was so torn apart vengeance he did not mind trading up his life just to ruin his. He could kill you and be satisfied with just that. Even if he was shot dead right after, he would die happy because Allen was going to live with pain. Everything made sense now, and connecting the ends to come up with this confronting conclusion made Allen's heart drop to the pit of his stomach. Luciano could slit your throat right now. He could take you away from him, forever, and do so with a smile. "It's over, you motherfucker!" "Nothing's over while I'm breathing-" He screamed, only to be cut short with a loud thump at the back of his head. The grip around you loosened as he fell forward, and you were finally able to breathe without worrying about killing yourself. The pain would have been so excruciating to fathom, but he was knocked out cold before he could properly experience the unpleasant sensation. Somebody just smashed a whole chair against the back of his head, and when he collapsed onto the ground, the one responsible was revealed. Glancing over your shoulder with a racing heart, you gasped when you saw who it was. "Alfred!" You squealed, jumping up to latch your arms around his neck. Pulling away with relief, you cupped his cheek and returned the smile he offered you. "You just saved my life! Thank you!" "No problem, (F/N)." He breathed heavily with a lazy grin. That chair was pretty heavy, it seems. He then ripped his gaze away from you to direct it to whatever it was in front. "But I also think you need to thank the brains of the operation." The blonde gestured to the figure standing behind you with his head. You slid your arms off of his shoulders and turned around to find yourself staring at Allen whose gaze was purposely directed off to the side. A small smile was tugging at his lips as he stretched his arms wide open like he was expecting you to dive right in them-- and hell, he was right. Wasting not a second to run over to him, you jumped at him in a manner that sent him stumbling back a few steps. But he caught you like always. "I missed you so, so much!" You cried, coiling your arms around his neck so tight like he'd disappear if you didn't. You even clamped your legs around his torso to hold onto him like a koala. But you could not help it. Joy had filled you to the brim and manifested in the most bittersweet manner. Alfred was not hurt the least upon witnessing the difference between your reunion with his and his cousin's. He just watched along with a wide smile, and for the first time, he was happy for Allen. Walking over to the said man, he whispered something in his ear before leaving, making sure not to forget the body on the ground. He dragged that away for a few meters before he was joined by a few of his friends-- Happy, Flavio and Eliza. Before they could surround you and shower you with affection, Alfred hissed at them to keep moving the body. You and Allen deserved the privacy. As you sobbed in his neck, he returned the embrace just as tight. Nestling his chin in the crooked of your neck, he felt bile rise up in his throat the longer you cried in his ear. But he swallowed it all down and took the initiative to console you. To tell you that he was here, and there was nothing to be afraid of anymore. Allen rubbed comforting circles in your neck as he held you in his strong arms. It took you a while to stop the tears, and he did not make a single peep as you cried your heart out. Once you did quieten down to sniffs and hiccups, Allen opened his mouth to speak. "Have you stopped crying now?" His arms were now under your thighs and he bounced you once as he captured you in a loving gaze. Because you were looming over him, he needed to tilt his head back a little. "You big baby." His lips were stretched into a warm smile when he called you that. Usually, you would have given him a playful pinch to reciprocate the playful name, but instead, you just pressed your forehead to his. The action calmed the rapid thumping in his chest, and he shut his eyes to savor the sensation of your skin against his. "I won't cry anymore." You murmured, fluttering your eyes open to find that he still had his closed. An idea, no, a desire suddenly hit you as you flickered your irises over his peaceful face. He would not see it coming, would he? Not that he would mind. And this was the perfect time to do it too. After nights of terror and perhaps months of dread for Allen, everything would be vanquished by this short, sweet moment. If you did end up doing it, you would be returning what he had been giving you for the past few years. So you gave in to the pleas of your heart you had been ignoring and leaned in to kiss Allen. The second your lips met, everything else in the world disappeared and all you could focus on was the pounding in your chest and the softness of his own lips. It took him a second to register that you were kissing him. You were actually kissing him! You, not him. And that fact made him ecstatic. And when it all dawned on him in the most pleasant way possible, he returned the intimate exchange and captured you in a breathless kiss, something he had been wanting to do with you for a long while now. Aside from being drowned in happiness like never before, he was also swarmed with so many questions. What now? He pulled away from the kiss and stared up at you with grin. "I'm guessing I have another reason to be protective of you now." A small laugh was heard before you hummed in agreement. "Yup." You just stared right back down at him, and God, it was hard not to kiss him again. "You wanna take me home, Al?" He nodded and started to walk in the direction of home-- and by that, meaning the exit of this stupid hotel. "Thank you for choosing to ride with Allen today- Ow!" You bonked him on the head. "Go faster!" He picked up the pace by jogging. "Alright, whatever you say, babydoll. I'll go harder and deeper as well- Hey!" You hit him again with a red face. "You have no shame!" Allen's cheeks were hurting from how much he was smiling. It was just too much fun to tease you for the pleasure he got out of it was so addicting. And that last statement you made about him was very true. With you, he had no shame at all. No secrets to hide, and certainly, no boundaries.

#hetalia #hetalia x reader #reader insert #aph #aph america #america x reader #2ptalia #2p america x reader #series #Axis Powers Hetalia #Axis powers ヘタリア #HETALIA FANFIC #Hetalia Fanfiction

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a-bear-at-hogwarts · 4 years

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Loathing

Complicated didn’t quite cover Merula’s relationship with one Dahlia Goldman. The first word that jumped to mind was loathing it had been for some time. After all, loathing wasn’t something that sprung up out of nowhere, no... loathing grew from slight into hatred, and then festered into scraped-raw nerves and antagonism and bared-teeth lashing out. She was pretty sure she could pinpoint which slight had planted the seed, though she wasn’t fond of doing so - after all, Goldman had been showing her up for years. Why else would she have grown to loath her?

As she remembered it, they’d been eleven at the time, which would make sense considering it’d been the wait in the hall before getting sent up to put the dumb hat on where they’d first met. Much as she’d have liked to forget the particular detail, she recalled she’d been right scared, her hands shaking under her robe as she glanced about the room full of students - nobody’d known who she was yet, but they would. Soon as that old witch with the list started calling out names, someone would recognise hers. Snyde. Death eaters’ daughter. Merula’d known she needed to emphasise right off the bat she wasn’t to be screwed with, and at the time she’d thought she knew the perfect way to do it; the one kid there she knew enough about to make a jab at, and the one kid who wouldn’t know her to jab back either. The so-called cursed student, little sister to the famous Jacob Goldman. Famous for supposedly going mad, for searching for the vaults and getting expelled and vanishing without a trace… the sheer amount of material she could pick from only grew as she got closer to her target, padding through the huddled masses of dark-cloaked kids. From the article she remembered reading on the whole debacle, the missing Goldman had been described as noticeably tall, and it seemed to be a family trait since she stood at least a head above everyone else - tall, and muscular and scarred, two noticeable marks marring her face. Making fun of how she looked would have been the easiest thing in the world with all that to work with, names like Gangly, Chub and Scarface popping to mind immediately, but it’d have been simple and way too forgettable. She’d wanted to make a proper first impression to scare off anyone who’d have tried the same with her.

So she’d gone for the thing that was bound to hurt the most. Her Brother.

What exact words she’d used she couldn’t remember, not really - she’d gone up close to her, having to crane her neck to jeer in her face, and she’d told her… well, she’d told her a lot of things. But she’d finished it up with the cruel declaration that more likely than not, her brother's corpse was lying in a vault somewhere, rotting. Or something to that effect anyways, like she’d said the exact words were foggy. But Goldman’s reaction was crystal clear, sharp in contrast with the fog surrounding it - hell she could even remember her gaze flicking from her eyes, dark brown and long lashes with one of those scars splitting her eyebrow, to her lips painted pitch-black with some sort of matte lipstick or something, point was they’d twisted into, into….

A bored sigh. She didn’t even look at her for more than a few moments as she drawled her response, voice low and rough-

“Yeah, no shit. He’s been missing for two years. What, are you going to tell me the sky’s blue next? Try something original at least.”

Years later the memory of those words still burned her, ears and chest and lungs. Especially when she remembered how she’d just bloody stood there afterwards, like some kinda idiot. Just because - because she’d never been thrown quite like that before, off balance, confused and vaguely hurt and outraged because no, no that wasn’t supposed to happen, you were supposed to get upset or angry or, or-

Anything but that. I’m not irrelevant damn it!

Yet as time had gone on and she’d tried again, to find something that stung, to drag her down to earth from that lofty air of boredom she seemed to just love so much, it seemed like to Goldman at least she was. Nothing phased her, nothing got under her skin past a passive sort of annoyance, and the only thing that was more annoying was how…. how perfect she seemed, all the time. Calm, composed, in control and making progress someway, somehow. She constantly outpaced her in terms of house points, despite the fact she fell asleep in class basically every day, despite the fact she seemingly knew nothing and was starting from scratch, despite the fact she faded into the background for seemingly anyone but her. Even when Merula’d lost her temper completely, when she’d made the dumbest decisions of her life and locked her in a cupboard with a Devil's Snare...

The whole afternoon she’d been panicking, terror rasping in her ear that she might as well have just killed her outright, whatever her intent had been she’d just signed Goldman’s death certificate. It’d been the first time she’d actually been happy to see her dumb squishy face when she’d been herded into the common room by the groundskeeper guy, Hagrid or something- yet that happiness had been shortlived. Because even after all of that, even after mortal peril and betrayal she just looked…

Flat. Shut off and out of reach and calm as anything as she padded past the chattering crowds of Slytherin students and headed to her dorm. Merula’d had to pinch herself to make sure she hadn’t dreamt the whole thing, it was over that fast. There was no doubting that the girl had just had a brush with death, everything from the red marks around her arms and neck where the plant must have grabbed her to the tears in her jumper pointing to a struggle having taken place. Yet… nothing. Her face had been locked into the exact same expression it had borne every day that had passed, the tiniest of cracks marring the mask as some sort of vague annoyance lined her brow. Nothing more. Nothing….

And it ignited an anger she’d never felt before, wrathful and bitter in a way only fury kindled by redirected guilt could be. Hadn’t she spent the whole damn day worrying over what might have happened as a result of her reckless actions? Fretting over how a single act of lashing out might have cemented her in the shoes of her parents? All that time, all that fear and she came back like nothing had fucking happened-

It was only a matter of time before that seething rage bubbled over. And if she remembered right, it had done only a few days later.

It’d been late. Like, really late - she’d only stayed up in hopes of catching her alone, sneaking back into the dorms like a lost midday shadow; had it even been night or next morning? The fire had long since burnt itself out to crackling embers, its warmth leached out of the air and into the cold stone walls, encouraging her to burrow into her cloak as she waited, waited for… there. The grinding of stone, muted but audible, clued her in to the arrival of her quarry - and as Goldman padded through the entryway with gentle, quiet steps she rose.

“You’ve been gone a long time. Is that even allowed?” The flinch of her shoulder silhouetted in the dark had given her a flicker of momentary satisfaction, before the figure turned to face her. Eyes flashed in the dark, the torchlight glancing off them as her fellow snake regarded her. “What?”

“You waited up for me?” More than anything the amusement in her tone set her teeth on edge, anger and frustration and something, something melting together into a sensation that was very nearly painful. A feeling that, looking back on the moment from the present day, felt all too familiar. But in that moment it had been new and uncomfortable and she’d wanted more than anything for it to stop.

“You’re awfully cocky for someone alone with someone who nearly killed you.” … oh yeah, that was why she usually avoided thinking back on this. God she’d been a dumbass eleven year old, angry and just enough of a jerk to do stupid shit like that. And it’d only riled her up more when instead of getting pissed in response, Goldman had smiled.

“You didn’t mean to.”

“You can’t know that-”

“Please,” She’d started padding towards the dorms again, brushing past her like it was the easiest thing in the world. “You’re not an idiot. That plant is far from a sure kill, nine times out of ten a teacher would hear the struggle. It’s ineffective.”

Somehow the backhanded compliment only infuriated her more, enough she’d missed the chill that traced her spine. She remembered jumping to her feet, getting in her way, in her face as blood thumped in her ears; how dare she, how dare she!

“You don’t know everything, you-! What if I did want you dead, huh?! What then?” The underlying threat in her words was empty, but rang in the air as though it might be true… but still. Nothing.

Or at least very nearly so.

Because while no fear or fury lit in the figures eyes, she remembered clear as day that something undeniable had changed. Something about her stance, the way she looked at her maybe. More than a year later she still couldn’t figure out what it was, what had shifted and bloomed in the low, flickering light of candle and torch… but as it had, she’d frozen. Because Goldman was still smiling, but now… now it was something else. A challenge. A dare.

“Then you should try harder.”

Frozen to place like frost had claimed her bones and all, Merula hadn’t said a word as the tall figure had brushed past her.

Not then at least. As it always did, always did, confusion and fear and guilt had all given way to a flood of rage. And after the day that followed, she’d returned to her furious attempts to break that mask the tall girl wore - however she bloody well could. Sure they had their moments, brief snippets of time where she was… decent. But it never lasted. Her very existence seemed to get under her skin, how she’d look at her as though her efforts to lash out were mere amusement, how she’d confront her on purpose - and how she couldn’t resist rising to her confrontation with bared teeth and sharp words. She hated the fact that loathing couldn’t quite seem to cover what she felt while sparring with Goldman.

She hated that she couldn’t quite want it to.

#Death ment tw #hphm #Merula Snyde #Merula hphm #jacobs sibling #hogwarts mystery #Dahlia Goldman #yeet-#Not 100% happy with it but I just wanted to be done with it dsfgfdgb #I wanted to sort of talk a bit about Merula and Dahlia's early relationship and how it develops ^-^

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curvy-cardio-cutie · 5 years

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Tangent: So i had this friend in middle school, all the way through college until...

Donald Trump ran for president.

Me being a black, plus-sized, low/middle class, female, with mental health issues. Her being a white middle class military brat. Up until right now, I didnt think that made us so different. I kind of just thought she thought of me well enough not to support his bs lol. Crazy how not. I unfriended her immediately once she announced who she would be voting for, though i didn't care to read her reasoning. The betrayal was too much for me.

I loved her, loved her family, as she did with me. It was like she was a part of my own. Then Trump ran for the presidency, and she... supported him.....?????????

In my eyes, he stood in opposition to everything that I was. I couldn't fathom how someone who loved me could vie for his candidacy.

I wondered how she got past his bigotry, racism, and blantant ignorance. I was confused on when America was this great place... Hell, I couldn't figure out how the douche dick was applicable for the job tbh. Before then, I thought there was a standard lol Opened my eyes, didn't it? Did whites hate having a black person in charge that fckn much [though they had to actually vote for him in order for him to win]. Why give Obama so many hurdles and so much flack, but eagerly protect this person who doesn't give a damn about any of us?

Did they feel Obama was just the lesser of two evils? Did they feel that way about Trump? Who was his evil opponents? Against who? Clinton? Sanders? Carson? Christy? Just fckn who? Why do you hate so much?

My ancestry has black, native American, and even white people. I could never judge a person's struggle. But I'm still baffled on how you could see me for a person within your heart and still place faith in this man.

It's Martin Luther King Jr. Day and I watched Selma yesterday and I'm wondering just how far we've come. We, as a people of color, trying to invoke a nation of equality through peaceful protest. At times, you're in so much pain, being peaceful is a distant concept. Is it so different from 50 years ago? Not all the fights are the same, but are they so dissimilar. It wasn't even a lifetime ago, but I hoped things would have changed. This is ingrained, inbred hatred.

Back to her, sorry. In lieu of this shutdown and Syria and the blatant hatred that's being spewed across 'this [soon to be] great [again] nation', and etc. et al, does she still support her decision? Is she going to vote for him again? How will she justify it now?

...you support this wall? And for fckn what? ...you support 'legalized' slavery? For fckn what? ...you try to deny rights to anyone who doesn't look, dress, act like you? For fckn what? ...you were my friend and you turned your back on your country. ...you tried to justify his bullshit to me and others and wondered why i couldn't fck with you anymore. Why i couldn't trust you. For fckn what? With a knife in so deep, I've acclimated to the pain so that the twisting scratches the itch on my back every so often.

'Love you like a sister' my ass.

Question, what will your mom do when the government cuts funding for the military? If the people riot, is it their own fault for not preparing for these consequences? How much longer will the world burn, and when will those like you stop acting like kindling? Do you expect every disenfranchised people to be beat into submission and thank you for it? Really, just help me understand it all, and for fucking what.

Sorry, not sorry.

#personal #sorry not sorry #friendship #black #tough love #hatred #Jewish #news

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urcadelimabean · 6 years

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Miranda/Eleanor ficlet for femslash friday

I loved all the Mirandanor we got today!! I thought I would join the party. Here's the first scene of my Miranda-is-a-witch AU, set during season 4. The idea is that Miranda will seduce Eleanor away from Rogers (what like it’s hard?)

Eleanor thought she was dreaming at first.

She had fallen into a deep sleep beside Rogers under the weight of the warm humid night. Her heart ached. In moments of weakness like this she was struck by hatred so strong she felt physically sick with it--hatred for a man she had convinced herself she loved, hatred for herself for making the choices that had lead her here. She'd betrayed everyone she knew for Nassau, and in some twist of poetic irony, that list now included herself. She had betrayed herself. And what good had that done Nassau? She didn’t believe the woman she’d been would recognize her anymore.

She was too tired to get up and drown her thoughts with a drink, so she let dreams claim her.

At first, it was like many of dreams--indistinct and a little muddled. She was walking through a house, and through the dream haze she thought distantly that she recognized this place. She had been here as a girl. This was the governor’s house in Charlestown. And she was at a door, and the door was opening.

Flint sat at the table before her. Beside him, Miranda, her dark hair curling over her pale breast. They both sat still and tensed. At the head of the table was a man she did not know--Lord Peter Ashe, she supposed, invented by her imagination, for she had never met the man. Why she needed to reminisce about this place, she had no clue. Charlestown had burned months ago. Miranda had been killed--she had been told it was by gunshot. And Flint had begun a war.

They were speaking about the pardons, and a Lord Hamilton. Eleanor could not make much sense of it. It was a blur, as dreams go. Complete nonsense, fabricated by her overactive tired brain, she was sure. The Thomas Hamilton part was no doubt inspired by rumors about why Flint had never visited the brothel or taken a lover. Eleanor wryly acknowledged that of course there were others besides her who hid such liaisons with the same sex, so it was not impossible to imagine that Flint was one of them...but that was all this was, imagining. An imagining of answers for things Eleanor had long wanted to know. About Flint’s past--about Miranda’s past. None of it was true. It was a dream.

At the beginning she had thought she disliked Miranda, perhaps for simply having secrets. A whole island had been under her power at the time, but Miranda had seemed untouchable at the heart of it, shrouded in mystery, beautiful and distant. When Miranda made it clear how she viewed the men with whom Eleanor did business, Eleanor had resented it furiously, all the more for the voice in the back of her head reminding her she had thought similar things of those men. They were stupid and crude, many of them. If not most. She did not want Miranda to think she was no better than any of the witless fucks on the beach. What she wanted was to make Miranda understand how hard she had worked, how dirty she had fought, just to be viewed as an equal to those men. And she wondered what Miranda would have done in her place.

She could say she didn’t regret anything she had done, but that would be a lie. She could say she wasn’t proud of what she had done, but it would be a lie as well. Why she wanted to work out these contradictions in front of Miranda was beyond her. She didn’t need Miranda’s favor. She hadn’t ever needed anything from Miranda.

The clock struck it’s chime, and with a rush of vertigo, Eleanor felt suddenly like she was there, in the room with the four of them: Flint and Miranda and Ashe with his guard. A breeze was coming in the open window, ruffling Miranda’s hair and the fabric of her dress.

Ashe seemed not too different from Rogers--a man convinced of his righteousness, used to getting his way, completely unaware of the privilege he had been awarded by his sex and status.

When Ashe’s betrayal came into the open Flint went silent, like the breath had been knocked out of him, but Miranda flared to life.

“I want to see this whole city, which you purchased with our misery, burn!” Miranda shouted, like a clap of thunder, and it was so loud that her words rang in Eleanor’s ears.

Miranda’s eyes kindled with fire, and Eleanor could practically feel the heat of her rage, feel it spreading to her own chest as if caught by an ember, and all Eleanor could think in that moment was that Miranda had never looked more beautiful.

Eleanor had thought--naively, stupidly--that Miranda was above those emotions like rage and vengeance. She had seen Miranda as some gentle Englishwoman living peacefully in the countryside. It was a flat image one takes at first glance, one likely intended by Miranda herself, a perception so obviously superficial that Eleanor was ashamed.

Miranda was like her. She had held this fire inside her for years, and kept the appearance of control and calm, and it had burned until she couldn’t contain it. The pain, the loneliness, the rage, the hurt. Eleanor knew about that too. They both knew about being judged twice as hard for being a woman, and being twice the monster for it when the ember finally caught fire.

With that realization Eleanor felt herself waking from a slumber she felt had lasted months since she’d been in England. And she burned, hot and then with cold fury, for being captured and brought to England, for mutilating herself into the role she now occupied simply for the need to survive.

But she would feel no shame over that. She would not punish herself for where life had taken her--because if she did, she would be doing the work of those who would like to see her punished.

She saw an echo of her old self in Miranda, and wanted to reach out to capture it, as much as to reach for the familiarity of her past self as to reach for the beautiful stranger before her, to reach for the secrets behind her mouth and eyes, to know--

The gunshot rang out and Eleanor flinched and watched with horror as Miranda crumpled to the floor. She heard Flint’s yell, but even as Miranda fell, she remained in the air where she had stood as an after image. Or perhaps she was a ghost. It was all a dream, anyway. A ghost and a dream, twice as foolish for Eleanor to be thinking about in British-controlled Nassau from what would soon be her marriage bed.

Miranda looked right at Eleanor. She looked hard at Eleanor, she she could really see her. Then Miranda walked towards her, and Eleanor noticed that there was no gunshot wound on that perfect brow. She could feel Miranda’s breath on her lips for a few moments before Miranda leaned forward kissed her.

It wasn't like Max's kisses, sweet and soft. It wasn’t like Vane’s kisses, hungry like he was trying to possess more of Eleanor than she was willing to give to anyone. Miranda's kiss was searing and hard but without any desire to conquer, the kiss of an equal. Miranda tugged on Eleanor’s lips with her teeth and entered Eleanor’s mouth with her tongue like she was getting to know her, but also like she already knew some part of her--some of the darkness, and the loneliness, and the pain.

If ever Eleanor had imaged being kissed by Miranda she had not thought Miranda would kiss like this.

Miranda’s kiss was heavy and purposeful, and every part of Eleanor’s body felt alive, more alive than she’d felt for months. Miranda pulled their bodies flush together, and Eleanor’s hands moved down to her bodice, trying to touch her everywhere at once, as Miranda’s nails dragged down her neck. Miranda’s hands pulled at her clothes, and Eleanor’s mind was ablaze with the thought of everything they could do together, all the ways she could get to know Miranda’s lips and eyes, the curve of her waist, the softness of her dark hair--

Eleanor sat up in bed, chest heaving. She could still feel the impression of Miranda’s fingers on her throat, the softness of Miranda’s breast under her fingers, the burning heat of Miranda’s kiss on her lips like a promise. She curled onto her side as if wounded, sliding her hand down until her fingers met the wetness between her thighs.

That had been no dream.

#bsrpaw #black sails fic #mirandanor #is that the ship name?#mystuff

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frederickwiddowson · 4 years

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The writings of Luke the physician starting with his version of the gospel - Luke 22:54-62 comments: Peter denies he knew Christ

Luke 22:54 ¶ Then took they him, and led him, and brought him into the high priest’s house. And Peter followed afar off. 55 And when they had kindled a fire in the midst of the hall, and were set down together, Peter sat down among them. 56 But a certain maid beheld him as he sat by the fire, and earnestly looked upon him, and said, This man was also with him. 57 And he denied him, saying, Woman, I know him not. 58 And after a little while another saw him, and said, Thou art also of them. And Peter said, Man, I am not. 59 And about the space of one hour after another confidently affirmed, saying, Of a truth this fellow also was with him: for he is a Galilaean. 60 And Peter said, Man, I know not what thou sayest. And immediately, while he yet spake, the cock crew. 61 And the Lord turned, and looked upon Peter. And Peter remembered the word of the Lord, how he had said unto him, Before the cock crow, thou shalt deny me thrice. 62 And Peter went out, and wept bitterly.

Here is a moment that probably stayed imbedded in Peter’s mind for the rest of his life. As Christ said he would, Peter denies that he knew Christ. It is a sorrowful moment for Peter and probably resulted in the “conversion” that Christ prayed for him to receive.

As Matthew Henry noted in his commentary, “It is well for us that Christ does not deal with us as we deal with him.” How many of us, when placed in a situation that wasn’t even dangerous for us denied, even if only by our inaction or our lack of speaking on His behalf, our Lord. We might do this for fear of rejection by peers or family. We might do this in fear of loss of employment or position.

The important thing is that Christ had a plan to restore Peter and for Peter to provide the leadership he does as represented in Acts. Christ has a purpose for Peter’s life and does not dispose of him in this most awful moment of his life to this point.

The act of denying Christ for whatever reason carries big weight in the Bible. Here, it is defined as a conscious refusing to admit one’s association and familiarity with Christ. Remember this passage in Luke, chapter 12;

Luke 12:8 Also I say unto you, Whosoever shall confess me before men, him shall the Son of man also confess before the angels of God: 9 But he that denieth me before men shall be denied before the angels of God.

The importance of holding onto one’s faith in the face of fear or persecution or the hardening of sin, temptations as they are to deny Christ, is underscored by Paul.

2Timothy 2:12 If we suffer, we shall also reign with him: if we deny him, he also will deny us:

Enduring until the end is spoken of in Matthew 24 and Mark 13 and as Paul also says in Hebrews in regard to sin itself hardening our hearts;

Hebrews 3:13 But exhort one another daily, while it is called To day; lest any of you be hardened through the deceitfulness of sin. 14 For we are made partakers of Christ, if we hold the beginning of our confidence stedfast unto the end; 15 While it is said, To day if ye will hear his voice, harden not your hearts, as in the provocation.

Hebrews 10:38 Now the just shall live by faith: but if any man draw back, my soul shall have no pleasure in him. 39 But we are not of them who draw back unto perdition; but of them that believe to the saving of the soul.

Sometimes atheists will reveal that they believed at one time but stopped and if you examine their life a little closer you will see that the desires of the flesh paid some part in their apostasy. I will post again something I noted earlier about one notable atheist scientist.

Many people, especially young people, have abandoned their faith when the lusts of youth demanded their attention. A noted evolutionary biologist, Edward O. Wilson, wrote a book entitled Consilience in which he writes in chapter one about the joy he felt when he found and believed in the theory of evolution and the unity of all sciences with that atheistic determinism as their foundation, well unquestionable fact more than theory to him with the following as part of his journey to what I call atheism;

On a far more modest scale, I found it a wonderful feeling not just to taste the unification metaphysics but also to be released from the confinement of fundamentalist religion. I had been raised a Southern Baptist, laid backward under the water on the sturdy arm of a pastor, been born again. I knew the healing power of redemption. Faith, hope, and charity were in my bones, and with millions of others I knew that my savior Jesus Christ would grant me eternal life. More pious than the average teenager, I read the Bible cover to cover, twice. But now at college, steroid-driven into moods of adolescent rebellion, I chose to doubt.

It can also be suffering that puts pressure on your faith and, if you are not grounded in God’s word, can lead you away from Him in your pain and anguish.

Galatians 4:14 And my temptation which was in my flesh ye despised not, nor rejected; but received me as an angel of God, even as Christ Jesus.

And it can be persecution that forces you, in order to be accepted by people or to keep from losing life, liberty, family, employment, or property, to consider turning your back on God.

For Wilson, unlike Peter, there appears to be no second chance as his heart was hardened beyond all redemption even though he insists he is not an atheist while simply stating that belief is part of evolution and should be studied as a byproduct of man’s evolving thought processes from an ape-like creature. But, for Peter and others, God left a door open and there was a way back. Hopefully there is for Wilson as time is running out for him.

There were many movements in the early church that did not want to allow those who had repudiated their faith under persecution or handing in their scriptures to the Roman authorities to return to the faith. With names given to them like Novatianism or Donatism these movements did not accept those who had renounced their faith under fear or pain.

And truthfully, Paul wrote in Hebrews something that can be considered as a warning that it is impossible to return under certain circumstances.

Hebrews 6:4 For it is impossible for those who were once enlightened, and have tasted of the heavenly gift, and were made partakers of the Holy Ghost, 5 And have tasted the good word of God, and the powers of the world to come, 6 If they shall fall away, to renew them again unto repentance; seeing they crucify to themselves the Son of God afresh, and put him to an open shame.

However, another way of looking at that passage is considering how Jesus dealt with Peter, understanding that there can be a way home in these circumstances for the repentant denier. If that is so then the passage in Hebrews 6 merely points out the absurdity of thinking you can lose your salvation. Christ was crucified once and that is sufficient for all.

Hebrews 9:12 Neither by the blood of goats and calves, but by his own blood he entered in once into the holy place, having obtained eternal redemption for us…26 For then must he often have suffered since the foundation of the world: but now once in the end of the world hath he appeared to put away sin by the sacrifice of himself. 27 And as it is appointed unto men once to die, but after this the judgment: 28 So Christ was once offered to bear the sins of many; and unto them that look for him shall he appear the second time without sin unto salvation.

Hebrews 10:10 By the which will we are sanctified through the offering of the body of Jesus Christ once for all.

Peter’s realization of what he has done and the fact that he wept bitterly shows us that he was deeply repentant over his betrayal. Compare this with Judas’ betrayal for which repentance was not expressed in bitter tears but worldly sorrow expressed in self-harm.

Matthew 27:3 Then Judas, which had betrayed him, when he saw that he was condemned, repented himself, and brought again the thirty pieces of silver to the chief priests and elders,

4 Saying, I have sinned in that I have betrayed the innocent blood. And they said, What is that to us? see thou to that. 5 And he cast down the pieces of silver in the temple, and departed, and went and hanged himself.

I suppose one lesson that can be learned from this passage is that Godly repentance, in guilt, seeks God’s forgiveness acknowledging His authority while worldly sorrow, though still an act of sorrow over what you have done, is expressed not in glorifying Christ but in self-hatred or shame, a sort of reverse glorification of one’s self making self not Christ of the most importance.

2Corinthians 7:10 For godly sorrow worketh repentance to salvation not to be repented of: but the sorrow of the world worketh death.

One of the most notorious ways modern so-called Christians deny Christ is to call Him a liar. Christ said;

John 14:6 Jesus saith unto him, I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me.

John also wrote this about believing what Jesus said about Himself.

John 3:36 He that believeth on the Son hath everlasting life: and he that believeth not the Son shall not see life; but the wrath of God abideth on him.

So, it is amazing to me how many people today call themselves Christians but, not wanting to offend anyone and not wanting to appear not inclusive, they call Christ a liar and say that it doesn’t matter what you believe as long as you believe in something or that everyone has to choose what is right for them. How can Christ overlook such a hateful rejection of His own words?

As Peter so famously said;

Acts 4:12 Neither is there salvation in any other: for there is none other name under heaven given among men, whereby we must be saved.

And yet, curiously, I have met even people who claim “the Golden Rule” as their motto, who do works of charity that are exemplary, but who, in the end call Christ a liar and deny Him.

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tumblunni · 6 years

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fuck, that story did so many complex things with morality, i think that’s why ultimately it was his most well remembered story like the basic premise of a unicorn looking for the other unicorns is basically nothing compared to the MILLION DEEP QUESTIONS it kindles in childrens’s brains along the way! and like, the fact that it was even aimed at children despite having so much dark imagery and psychological horror. and how the psychological horror comes from weird places?? like, it subverts and analyzes the fairytale genre and turns a lot of commonly accepted ‘happy ending’ things into absolute burning hell and eighty million other far more interesting plotlines springing from the corpse of the cliche it just killed. I love it. I LOVE IT.

Random examples of stuff that really intrigued me as a kid!

* the whole idea of how it starts off, that this unicorn just legit doesn’t know that anything happened to the rest of her people. she’s lived alone for centuries and doesn’t even know what loneliness is until she finds out that the world has changed while she wasn’t looking, and her assumption that there’s a million other forests with a million other unicorns was false. And like.. her journey is really complex because of it? her motivation is less about saving a family she personally knew, and more about the fear of being forgotten like they were, and like.. ‘do i even have any value if i’m not defined as a unicorn anymore, if people forget what unicorns mean?’ And like the idea of her first meeting other unicorns for the first time and having even mroe challenges to her perception of reality, like thats not even something she WANTS but the same somewhat rude and egotistical sense of honor she has as an immortal is gonna keep her going towards an ending that probably won’t be happy in any way.

* the many many nuanced moments where the unicorn completely fucks up and is generally allowed to be a flawed protagonist, despite existing in a narrative that’s from her perspective and paints her as perfect and her philosophy as the only thing that exists. And like.. how many of her fuckup moments are ABOUT her being this perfect godly figure to everyone else! How molly breaks down at seeing a unicorn NOW, instead of back when she was young and had hope of a happy fairytale ending. How she feels like she isn’t worthy of a unicorn even looking at her anymore, and how it manifetss into screaming anger, blaming this thing for being too late. And how the unicorn didn’t even know that this woman was waiting for her, and hinging her entire life worth on meeting her, and like.. molly isn’t prepared to look at it that way, if anything its even scarier to think that the people you idealise just DIDNT CARE. And how its complex cos i mean its not like the unicorn is bad, either?? She just didnt know what she meant to humans until she got out of her forest and started meeting them. She was so self-absorbed and proud about being immortal without even knowing the reason why magical creatures are considered godly. And its so complex cos the way she figures it out is via the actions of an asshole villain, like seriously its SO SAD that she gets to see little human kids feeling like they have a reason to live just from seeing the false image of a unicorn that the creepy slavemaster witch lady shows to them. the unicorn herself was powerless to be what they needed her to be, and all she even cared about was judging the humans as rude bastards for not being able to see her, rather than thinking about it as it really is, and realizing that its not like they don;t want to, they’re absolutely desperate to...

* and okay just seriously THE COMPLEX NATURE OF HUMANITY! cos she sees all the worst of humans and all the best of them too, and the story doesn’t even draw any conclusions as to whether we’re worth it, it’s up to you to decide

* also it was really deep and complex how becoming human wasn’t just a cliche happy ending for her! it was TERRIFYING! being forced into a new body wasnt even the worst part, it was the loss of identity factor that hit her after she was limited into a non immortal mind and soul. she goes crazy ‘feeling this body die around her’ and gets scared that she’s going to forget her old self, and also scared of going back to her old self because she doesnt know if these things like love are impossible for unicorns and she’ll become unable to feel them anymore. her opinion of herself falls so far from arrogance into outright FEAR! and its so fucked up because being human is hurting her like this yet she’s also kinda idealizing humanity and blaming it for all her positive character development and like SHE’S ANGRY AND SCARED OF POSITIVE CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT??? it fucking makes my soul weep and then the ending is so fucked up cos she does return to being a unicorn, and no she doesnt stop feeling love for the human guy she fell for, and all her human friends who helped her this far. but now she’s burdened with the knowledge that she will never die and they will, so the story just ends with her running away so she doesn’t have to feel that pain, or burden them with any more pain too. And she’s even more alone than she was at the start, because she knows that none of the other unicorns understand these emotions, they’re all like her pre character development self and she could never be part of their world again. Its complex because these positive emotions and this kinder personality is like.. a curse to her. because at least she didnt hurt when she was blissfully oblivious, and didnt care about anyone but herself. Its like.. was this newfound ability to feel love actually a blessing, if she gets the love but also the ability to have her happy ending is forever lost to her? so really all she gained was the power to be aware that she was suffering all along. and like even if she managed to get magicked into a human again, the story makes it clear that it’s intense suffering for her, its like walking on knives and her personality would just melt away and she wouldnt even remember why being able to love was so new and so important. it’d be just like someone else having a happy ending instead, and her ceasing to exist. But then the story also gives us this very clear binary where all of her personality is very much linked to being immortal, and her only choices are to live forever and be sad, or to die and not even fully be happy because she’d lose herself. and like all she accomplished was losing the option she never knew she had- to live in innocence without a concept of good and evil, and thus never regret. which isnt a happy ending either, but at least she wouldnt KNOW she was in a bad ending...

* fuck this movie is so hard to explain and so sad

* oh and!! the harpy was fuckin terrifying!! and all the morality around it was even more so! its the first time the unicorn really fucks up, cos she’s just running on the honor of all magical creatures, which is very far from concepts like good and evil. she has to free a fellow immortal, even if its clear that the harpy is evil and will only do harm. but she doesnt even fully understand evil yet, all she knows is.. like.. fear? and betrayal. she knows that for some reason she doesnt understand, she fears this other person who is like her. and subconciously she recognises the darker side of what an innocence of good and evil can turn you into. but she recklessly chooses to ignore the humans trying to explain morality t her, cos thats just a human thing she doesnt need to care about, right? and then what ultimately surprises and scares her isn’t that the harpy does what humans think are evil, but that the harpy has no loyalty to the one who freed her, and immediately tries to kill the unicorn too. And you even get the sense that the unicorn would have still freed her even if she expected this would happen, its just this sense of duty between immortals because being caged means so much more when you’ll never even have the release of death. And i mean.., that’s kind of a point, too. the story’s one moment of embracing cliches is that it says that the harpy is just inherantly evil and was born evil, rather than more directly placing it as a parallel to the unicorn’s absence of good and evil. how do we know that this thing really IS an embodiment of all hatred, and its not just a lost and deluded creature like our protagonist, whose moral neutrality got pushed down the wrong path due to the difference of life it had once it first encountered humans? i mean, the unicorn encounters plenty of shitty humans too, but she manages to at least find some good ones and like.. she had a starting point of assuming she was a proud and inherantly good creature, which was confirmed even by the humans who manipulated and hurt her. she gets to see herself worshipped by humans, even if its as a way to make a quick buck. and we don’t know how long that harpy was locked up in an even worse version of her situation, and whether the unicorn would have become just as hateful if she hadnt been resuced... Its just kinda lazy to say ‘wow its good that shitty mc fuckface locked up this inherantly evil creature, yet bad that she did the same thing to you’ But still it makes for a really scary scene cos the film really went all out in establishing what a born-evil creature would actually be like, and how fucking terrifying it would be to deal with something that just wants to kill and kill and will kill even if there’s no benefit and no logic to it. It’ll betray anyone who shows kindness to it, and you’re being stupid by treating it like a real sentient being with thoughts and a soul. And thats terrifying. But its also fucking sad. And its the one lack of complex morality in this story. but i guess maybe i wasnt supposed to be a story all about exploring complex versions of morality, but just.. different and interesting ones? so taking the ‘inherantly evil’ trope and being like ‘no, you dont get to use that lightly, this is how horrifying and child-unfriendly that would really be’ is still an intriguing idea in its own right

...anyway its a real good movie also my lunch is burning cos i couldnt take it out of the over til i finished rambling RIP salmon dinner

#blunni thoughts

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supernaturalfreewill · 7 years

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Words: 6,985 Sam x Reader Warnings: language (Umm, ya, I wrote it so obviously there's swearing... you should just take this warning as a given always for my fics), mentions of blood and injury, anxiety and fear Summary: Sam tries to get to Y/N and wake her while Dean, Cas, and Crowley wait for their showdown with Rowena. A/N: Alas, all good things must come to an end, and so it is with this story. I hope you enjoy reading this conclusion as much as I enjoyed writing it. This is the final part of our Mess Is Mine series. This is part of a series! Read the other parts here! 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16

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Dean was watching the flames and smoke rise higher and higher beyond the point where Sam had disappeared into the tangled mass of thorns. He paced in his fiftieth frantic circle and stopped in front of Cas.

”I don’t like this,” he said. His green eyes were wide and frantic, and his stomach was twisting.

The angel nodded. “I know. But give him time.”

”How much time?” Dean asked. “There’s no way for us to know if something goes wrong. We can’t see shit in there!” Dean turned again to face the crumbling, smoking ruins feeling helpless and sick.

Suddenly, Crowley’s voice behind them snapped their attention elsewhere.

”We’re about to be otherwise engaged,” he said. “Hello, Mother.”

The angel and Dean whipped around to see Rowena standing just beyond Crowley, a fierce and wild light in her eyes, her red lips pressed together in a thin line. “Fergus,” she said through her teeth. “Have you not yet learned your lesson about meddling in things that don’t concern you?”

Rowena let out a reverberating yell in Latin and Crowley was caught off-guard, catapulting through the air and crashing down hard on the crumbling black-top, his head banging back against the rocky ground, momentarily jarring even the demon.

Dean withdrew his pistol, already loaded with witch-killing bullets, but Rowena was too fast. “Et furantur ignis!”

The grip of his gun suddenly burned red-hot, scorching his palm, and was ripped from his hands. Another flick of her hand a stinging gash ripped through Dean’s chest. Blood began to soak his shirt. He staggered backward under the radiating waves of pain. Cas appeared behind Rowena and extended a hand toward her. A blazing light began to grow around him and his eyes glowed cobalt. A few more seconds and Rowena would have been dead… but Crowley had pulled himself up and was instantly beside her. Cas hesitated long enough for the King of Hell to snap his fingers. Rowena was bound in chains tight enough to prohibit her from standing and she fell sideways to the ground hard, gagged, though that didn’t stop her from trying to scream.

Crowley stood over her and smiled down at her helpless form. Rage still brewed in her eyes. Dean came rushing over and also looked down at the witch, hatred burning furiously on his face. He retrieved his gun with his uninjured hand, pressing his other arm over the laceration in his chest, which was still bleeding freely. The blinding white light faded around Cas and his blue eyes no longer glowed so piercingly.

Dean pointed his gun squarely at Rowena’s head and cocked the hammer.

”I’m afraid I must object,” Crowley said, stepping in the way.

Dean’s jaw clenched and he gave the demon a warning look. “Crowley. I would suggest you move your ass if you’d like to keep those demon cuffs off your wrists.”

The next instant both he and Rowena were gone.

”Crowley! GODDAMMIT!” Dean roared. He uncocked his gun and doubled over from the pain in his chest, fat droplets of crimson blood falling to the ground.

Cas approached him swiftly and pressed two fingers to his forehead, instantly healing the burn on his palm and the gash across his torso.

Unexpectedly, a familiar gravelly voice spoke from nearby and Cas and Dean turned in surprise to see Crowley again standing a short distance away, though there was no sign of the witch. “No hard feelings,” he said. “Business is business. You can’t really say you expected me to wait around for you to get me right where you wanted me again, can you?”

Cas’s brow furrowed and he studied the demon. Dean’s jaw tensed.

”If Moose is successful in retrieving the prophet there is no way I’m leaving here a free demon, and certainly not with her in my possession. So for now, I’ll cut my losses, and I’ll see to it that my mother suffers immensely for all eternity while I plan my next hostile takeover. I do look forward to our next chess match. So long, boys,” he said. He gave a stiff bow and before Dean could even open his mouth to object, the demon was gone again.

Dean and Cas exchanged an aggravated look and Dean ran his hand over his face in frustration. He turned back toward the towering cloud of smoke and the burning hedge of thorns, many of which were now blackened or crumbling to charcoal.

Somewhere in all that chaos was Sam…

_ _ _ _ _ _

The smoke was becoming too thick and heavy for Sam to move through the path he was blazing upright. He had made it back into the ruins of Crowley’s underground fortress and the crumbling walls were trapping the smoke and heat. It stung his eyes and the back of his throat, but he was barely aware of it, just as he hardly felt the scrapes and scratches from the thorns he had blazed through, that seemed to grapple at him like the fingernails of some malevolent entity, cutting him like the blades of an endless forest of knives. Sam had no choice now but to proceed on his hands and knees to stay below the worst of the smoke. His sweat and blood was running into his eyes and he had to wipe his face with his shirt every so often as he slowly but steadily pushed forward.

He made it to the bottom of the stairs and had cleared enough of the hallway to make it to the room Crowley had held you in, the one he and Dean watched begin to crumble when the horrible nightmare of those vines had first erupted and started to pull the place apart. He crawled through the space he had just cleared in the hedge, oblivious to the bits of hot ash that fell and burned him as he moved through the skeleton of charred vines.

He was almost there. Though his lungs were burning, though the back of his throat felt scorched and cracked and dry, though every bit of him was bloodied or burned, he felt none of it and thought only of getting to you.

_ _ _ _ _ _

You stared in wonder as the blackness which had been so absolute, thick and heavy and suffocating like wet velvet, burned away before your eyes, catching the orange and red glow and spreading it like kindling.

Before you was now an expanse of warm, white light and you breathed it in, feeling a calm coming over you as it continued to consume the darkness that still held half the world you were in. You found with curiosity that as the radiance expanded and shone down on the several inches of water you were standing in, it was transformed.

It no longer appeared to you as some endless, threatening void, but now seemed a peaceful lake, responding to the movement of your feet with ever expanding ripples. This made you feel less helpless; you had some control over at least the smallest thing. The temperature of the water even seemed to lift, warming from a frigid basin that numbed your submerged feet and ankles to an almost comfortable temperature.

You didn’t know what this meant. Perhaps—maybe you were dying? People always talked of white lights and an overwhelming sense of peace when it came to the end… Maybe you were finally being released from the torment of that horrific dark place to move to a better one.

But the next moment you knew that this wasn’t so.

Beyond the blackness, within the now expanding light, you again heard a familiar voice—Sam’s voice. And he was saying your name.

You desperately wanted to call out to him, but you couldn’t find your voice.

You glanced behind you. There was only a thin ribbon of black left on the far horizon, and you raised a hand to shield your eyes from the overwhelming white glare. The light surrounded you and began to warm you up.

You felt like you could melt into it in contentment.

You heard Sam’s voice, though distant and echoing, call your name again.

_ _ _ _ _ _

Sam pulled himself through a narrow space he had just made in the hedge, using the last drops of holy oil he had with him, and was amazed when he pulled himself through, and down over a large dislodged piece of concrete and twisted rebar that he was in an open area. All around was a tangled net of the horrible thorns and vines, forming an enclosing weave of nearly impenetrable wood, like a cave, but he had miraculously made it to the center.

And as he moved farther in, still ducking beneath the smoke and coughing from the ash in his mouth, he found you.

You were lying on a flat slab of concrete. Your body was bent slightly at your hips with your knees to one side and your legs partially bent. Your back was flat on the ground and your hands rested on your stomach. You looked as if you had lain down for a nap, and simply slept on while chaos grew and raged around you.

You looked fragile and small surrounded by such disorder. Your skin was pale and smudged with soot. Flecks of ash had drifted down to land on your cheeks, stuck to your eyelashes and settled in your hair.

Sam rushed to your side, nearly tripping over his own feet. He spoke your name involuntarily though he knew it wouldn’t rouse you.

His hands trembled and hesitated before they made contact with you—one resting down on top of yours, the other wiping snowflakes of ash from your cheek and gently cupping your face. Tears of relief burned in Sam’s eyes. Your skin was warm and your chest was moving steadily up and down.

Sam studied your face desperately. He brushed your hair away from your forehead and drank in the sight of you.

”Please…” Fear again gripped his heart and he tried to hold on to what Cas had told him back in the bunker—but being here now, that felt like a lifetime ago. What if you didn’t wake? “Please, Y/N,” he whispered again. Tears broke over his lower lids and spilled onto his stained cheeks, mixing with the soot and blood and sweat clinging to him. “Come back to me. Please.”

Sam grasped your hand in his, brushed his fingertips over your cheek and gently clasped your face, his thumb tracing your bottom lip before settling along your jaw. With his heart thundering in his chest, Sam leaned over you, wished and hoped with every bit of himself, closed his eyes, and pressed his lips to yours, softly, gently.

He pulled away slowly and was afraid to open his eyes, afraid to even breathe. His heart stopped. His mind stopped and fear tightened its grip on his lungs and his throat. You weren’t stirring.

Tears began to pour more steadily from beneath his still closed eyelids, creating runs on his stained skin. He was about to heave a shuddering and desperate and defeated breath, about to break to pieces, when your hand suddenly tightened on his and gripped it strongly and you gasped in a hurried breath.

His eyes shot open and his heart leapt back into motion.

Your eyes fluttered open and though it took a moment for you to see through the foggy veil the spell left you in, you soon saw familiar hazel eyes leaning over you. “S—Sam.”

”Y/N.”

The sight of him leaning over you and the sound of him saying your name was enough to break the last bit of strength you had in you and tears were now streaking down your face too. You threw your arms around his neck and held onto him as though your life depended on it—and it had. “Sam,” you said into the crook of his neck and his shoulder. “Sam.” His arms were around you, strong and tight, tighter than he had ever held you. You could feel him trembling. “I knew you’d find a way to get to me. I knew you would.” You tangled your fingers into his hair and clutched to him.

Sam could have stayed there with you for hours, but there came a deep rumble from beneath the both of you and he felt the ground shake. You pulled back, bewildered, though you didn’t break contact with him. You glanced at him with wide eyes. Sam realized again how pale and thin you were.

You finally took in his condition and wiped some beads of blood from his cheek. Every bit of him was raw and red and your heart ached. “Oh, Sam,” you said, searching his face. He never wanted to look away from you.

Just then there was another quake beneath the two of you and ash and crumbling concrete rained from above. You shielded your eyes and Sam grasped your hand tightly.

”We need to get out of here,” he yelled over the cracking and splitting noises. Fear tightened a bony hand around his throat again. “Come on!” Sam pulled you to your feet and you stumbled, but he didn’t let go of your hand. He wrapped his other arm around your back and guided you, bent over, through the smoke.

There was a crashing noise overhead and Sam pushed you to safety, shoving you out of the way of a falling chunk of stone, shielding your body with his. When the debris came to rest, Sam squeezed your hand. “Are you alright?”

You nodded. “I’m with you.”

Sam nodded, wishing he had time to wrap you up and give you a proper kiss, but the world was quite literally crumbling around the two of you. Clouds of smoke now mixed with dust and ash raining from above and around as he led you back the way he had come, through the trail he had burned with his blood and sweat and a hell of a lot of holy fire…

_ _ _ _ _ _

Dean was pacing along the length of the Impala, occasionally looking down at the slash and bloodstains on his shirt, wringing his hands endlessly. His eyes were drawn toward the mess of thorns, now wreathed in char and smoke and embers floating up toward the overcast sky.

Cas stood stoically in one spot, his hands tucked into the pockets of his trench coat, but his brow was dark and heavy, and he didn’t move his eyes from the fortress that held you and Sam.

But the first rumble beneath their feet threw them both off balance and they exchanged a terrified and desperate look. Dean’s head snapped around to watch some of the towering vines begin to crumble, dropping rubble the size of cars and raining crumbling concrete down on the ruined remains of the old baseball stadium, which was unrecognizable.

Dean’s stomach twisted. “Cas—“ he choked out, watching helplessly as another part of the thorny hedge crumbled away into ash. “Cas—what’s—what’s happening?” he yelled, trying to keep his footing on the shifting ground.

Cas only shook his head, his blue eyes focused intently on the changes taking place across the empty lot.

Another huge piece of rubble fell heavily and shook the elder Winchester and the angel.

Dean took off at a run. “SAM! Y/N!” he roared. Cas chased after him. Dean skidded to a stop at the edge of the hedge. He could see the path broken and burned by Sam ahead of him and he started to make his way inside. Cas was just behind him. “SAMMY!” Dean coughed from inhaling the soot and plaster and concrete dust. They coated his tongue and his throat. “SAMMY! Y/N!” Dean roared. He was straining his ears for any voice, for the sound of movement.

”Dean—“

”SAM!” Dean roared again. He couldn’t see through the smoke and debris clouding the air but he continued to press ahead.

”DEAN!” Cas’s voice was insistent this time and Dean looked around to determine what had him sounding so demanding. The angel’s eyes were turned upward toward the turret of smoke. Through the haze, Cas and Dean could see the outline of massive trunks of vines wound around pieces of what had once been the roof. The wood was scorched and starting to crumble beneath the weight of the stone and tile and steel.

Dean registered what was about to happen and made a movement to lunge forward down the path. But Cas grabbed his shoulder.

”We have to get back!” he demanded. His blue eyes flew up to the danger overhead. “Now! Dean!”

Dean pushed the angel off of his shoulders and turned to run forward again.

Cas caught up with him and placed a hand on him again, this time not trying to talk him down. Instantly they were back across the lot by the Impala. Dean spun around furiously and shook off the angel.

”They’re in there!” he yelled. He tried to run back across the lot but Cas blocked his path and held him back.

”DEAN!”

”SAM AND Y/N ARE IN THERE!”

”DEAN, STOP!” Cas tightened his grip on Dean’s shoulders and even shook him, trying to get him to understand. “You can’t go in there. It’s going to—“ he broke off as something that sounded like several lightning strikes resonated across the empty space.

From their safety, Dean and Castiel watched the debris rain from the sky ripping and tearing and crumbling on its way down, and land in a cloud of smoke and dust and sparks. More rumblings rolled out and they stared in horror at the complete and total collapse of whatever had been remaining of the structure.

When the dust began to settle, there was nothing left but the lazily drifting clouds of smoke and a mountainous pile of rubble.

Dean’s green eyes were wide and fixed as he stared in abject horror. Cas finally dropped his hands from the elder Winchester, no longer able to fight off the sudden waves of disbelief and crushing loss that began to wash over him. He turned his eyes away and put his back to the ruined pile of debris, no longer able to stare at what had so quickly swallowed up you and Sam.

But Dean couldn’t look away. He was frozen and seeing everything in shades of grey and black, except for the shocking orange and red embers that floated up from the smoldering piles of splintered thorns to drift lazily, almost dancing on the currents of heat. Tears burned in his eyes but he didn’t blink, couldn’t tear himself away.

He didn’t believe. It couldn’t be.

Dean felt his whole body go numb and he could hear each heartbeat loudly in his ears. It sounded like it was barely limping along. His breathing was shallow, and there was a pain, sharp and distinct, up under his ribs, like someone had shoved a red-hot poker in through his side. He was about to close his eyes and give in to the weak feeling in his knees… but just then… there was something different.

Movement. A shadow. Dean’s jaw dropped partially open and he squinted, though it made little difference in aiding him to see through the fog. But another second and he was sure. Movement. Low on the ground, at the edge of broken building and smoldering ruin, there was movement.

”Cas.”

Dean’s tone caused the angel to turn eagerly. He followed Dean’s eye line and unmistakably saw two figures. The next moment Dean and Castiel took off streaking across the uneven ground toward the shadows. It felt like the parking lot kept growing and expanding before them. They couldn’t race fast enough. But finally, as they neared, their hearts leapt.

You and Sam.

”Sammy! Y/N!” Dean roared as they neared the two of you, and you both looked up at the sound of his deep voice. Cas was behind him, his coat and tie streaming as he ran to you.

You and Sam were bent over, coughing and sputtering, still hand in hand. You were out of breath and your lungs were stinging from inhaling so much soot and smoke and dust, but you were out. You were alive. There was a vast overcast sky overhead. There was Dean falling to his knees beside you and Sam, grabbing his brother by the shoulders and looking into his face with a pained but relieved expression. There was Cas sitting down next to you and then gripping you in a hug so tight you couldn’t breathe. Then the angel was grabbing your face, studying you for injuries and hurt.

And suddenly you weren’t coughing anymore—and Cas and Dean weren’t stern and worried—all of you were cracking smiles, relieved, jubilant, and then all of you were suddenly laughing, and happy tears were streaming down your cheeks.

Sam squeezed your hand again and you turned to look at him. He was beat up. He looked like he had crawled through hell, and you supposed that he had, but he was grinning at you now with a glistening light in his eyes and that warmth that you remembered and associated only with him—with safety and comfort and home.

Dean and Cas fell slightly back and you moved into Sam, again collapsing into him, tears once more breaking free and pouring down your cheeks. You cried into his chest and he surrounded you, his arms strong but gentle, and his hands smoothing your hair and tracing down your back. You felt him plant countless kisses on the top of your head and you grasped more tightly to him, smiling and crying at the same time.

At length you began to calm and the tears stopped, and you pulled slightly away to look up into his handsome face. His eyes were waiting to meet yours, searching your face for the answers to so many things he wanted to ask, but knowing that you would need time.

And what did those questions matter?

You had come back to him.

”Thank you,” you mouthed to him.

He lifted your chin gently and caressed your cheek, his other arm still wrapped around you, holding you to him. And he kissed you again. And you kissed him back desperately.

And for once Dean didn’t have any smartass comments or any desire to interrupt. He fell back to sit on the blacktop, leaning on his palms, and heaved a sigh that let out the knot in his stomach and the lump in his throat.

And Cas smiled and gazed at the two of you in wonder, his heart full and happy and fit to burst.

When you and Sam broke apart, you wished you could have just sat there pressed together, but you knew it was time to leave that broken place behind.

You turned and caught Dean’s eyes, which were crinkled at the corners the way they were when he was genuinely happy. Cas helped you to your feet, and Dean scrambled to his and offered a hand to pull Sam up, which he accepted, though he still winced whenever he moved.

Dean looked both of you up and down, Sam torn and bloody and covered in burns and ash, and you pale and fragile. “Don’t take this the wrong way but you two look like hell,” Dean said.

Sam scoffed at him and allowed his brother to prop him up, taking some of his weight. “Is there a right way to take that?” he asked.

You were unsteady and weak and Cas took your arm gently to help you over to the Impala. When you finally reached her, you pressed your palms against the hood and looked over at Dean. “It’s good to be home,” you said.

”You’re not home,” Dean retorted. “Not quite yet.” He nodded to the angel. “Cas, think you can patch them up a little?”

Cas pressed a finger to Sam’s forehead and all the angry crimson burns and cuts and scrapes were gone, leaving behind only the stains on his skin and the tears in his clothes.

Next Cas wandered over to you and gave you a small smile. “Your turn,” he said kindly. You shut your eyes as he placed a hand on your head. The stinging cuts on your legs and arms disappeared and the heat from the burns you had sustained on the fight out also vanished. Though you felt a little steadier, the fatigue and ache hadn’t gone away completely.

”It will take some time to heal you fully,” Cas said. “I wish I could do more for you now.” His brow was knit with concern as he withdrew his hand from you.

”Thank you,” you said. You grabbed the angel into a tight hug, catching him off-guard at first before he sank into it sweetly. “Thank you for everything.”

”Y/N,” Cas said, holding you at arm’s length and looking earnestly into your face. “You never have to thank me for anything.”

Dean was leaning on the open passenger door now smiling at you and Cas. “Alright, kids. We may have just snatched you from a whole pile of shit, but Heaven and Hell are still looking for you. Let’s get you home.”

You responded only with a tired smile. Sam opened the rear door for you and you climbed into the back seat, sighing as you sank into the leather seats. Sam slid in beside you and tucked you under his arm. You rested your head against his shoulder and entwined your fingers with his.

There was a beat of silence, where each of you was turning things over in your mind, but you finally broke it. “I’m sorry.”

Sam looked at you, puzzled. “For what?”

”For running away.” Your voice was quiet. You felt ashamed. “I thought I was doing the right thing—I didn’t want to pull you and Dean and Cas into my whole—mess. But I made everything so much worse.”

”To be fair, my life has pretty much always been a mess,” Sam said. “I’m just glad now that I have someone to share it with.” He kissed the top of your head and left you thinking that you didn’t deserve him.

You found yourself looking at the blood and soot stains on his hand and yours, your fingers intertwined.

”We are a mess,” you said. “In more ways than one,” you joked, managing a half-smile.

Sam followed your gaze and nodded. “But you’re mine.”

”And you’re mine,” you repeated, listening to his steady heartbeat, shutting your eyes and trying to breathe him in.

Sam couldn’t take his eyes off you. ”Are you alright?” he asked, quietly, only for your ears.

You nodded. “Yeah. I am now.” You could read the questions in his eyes and nodded again. “I’ll tell you everything. But not now.”

Sam only leaned in to capture you in another sweet kiss.

”Alright, lovebirds,” came Dean’s gruff voice from the front seat. You could hear the smile in it. “Buckle up. We’re gonna burn rubber here. Let’s go home.”

_ _ _ _ _ _

”Where do you think you’re going?” Sam rolled over and draped an arm over you, pulling you back into bed from where you sat on the edge, about to climb out.

”Umm—nowhere?” you smiled and moved in closer to him, trailing your fingers up his bare arm and shoulder to slip them into his hair.

”Good,” Sam said, closing his eyes again at your touch. He flattened his hand against your back, still feeling the edges of your shoulder blades sharply through your skin. You still hadn’t gained back all the weight you had lost through your ordeal.

Sam’s fingers were sending goose bumps rising on your skin and you bit your lip as you looked at him, tracing his strong jaw line with your eyes and letting them wander over his bare chest and shoulders. You wrapped a leg over him and giggled as his eyes shot open. He gave you a fiery look, eliciting another giggle from you as you bit your bottom lip.

”Now you’re definitely not going anywhere,” he said with a smile. He grabbed your hips and tugged you farther down on the bed so your head hit the pillow, eliciting a small noise of surprise and more laughter from you. Sam moved over you and swept the hair away from your face. The next moment his lips were crashing into yours, his teeth biting at your bottom lip. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him tighter against you, both of you smiling through the kisses, starting to feel the heat kindle and grow between you, your breaths becoming more hurried.

But it was all interrupted when there was a loud banging on the bedroom door.

”Hey! Quit with the hanky-panky and get your asses out here! Cas is back!” Dean’s voice was strong through the door.

Sam froze and let out a heavy sigh as he pressed his forehead gently against yours, his eyes closed in annoyance at the interruption. “Screw you!”

You heard Dean’s gruff laugh through the door and smiled, planting another kiss on Sam’s lips.

”Oh, yeah, and your cat has been out here mewing all morning, Y/N,” Dean’s voice came again. The doorknob turned and the door started to open.

”Dude! What the hell?” Sam yelled, but the door only opened a few inches and a streak of fur shot into the room.

”Keep your bra on, Sam. I sure as shit do not want to see your ass, so relax. And get out here!” he yelled. This time you could hear his footsteps retreating down the hall.

”Jest! What’s the matter, buddy? Were you worried about me?” you cooed as Jest jumped up onto the bed next to you. Sam flopped down beside you and let out another sigh.

”Of course he was. You know he doesn’t like it when he can’t see you,” he said, sitting up on the edge of the bed. Sam got up and walked to the dresser to pull on some boxers.

You whistled at him as he did so and giggled at the look he shot you over his shoulder.

”Come on. Let’s go see what Cas found out,” Sam urged.

A short while later you and Sam emerged into to library with Jest trailing behind you, his tail twitching jauntily. You grabbed the mug of coffee right out of Dean’s hands and ruffled his hair as he tried to object. “Thanks,” you said, shooting him a grin.

”Look, just because you were kidnapped by the King of Hell and his bitch of a mother, and put into some crazy fairy tale nightmare, and trapped in a fortress of thorns in a magic coma does not mean you have the run of the place now that you’re back,” Dean joked.

”I’m pretty sure that is exactly what it means,” you said, taking a sip from the stolen mug. Sam shook his head and smiled at the two of you.

”Cas, welcome back. You got something for us?” Sam asked the angel.

Cas was looking earnestly at you and you finally seemed to realized the steadiness of his gaze. You felt a flicker of nerves. “Cas? What is it?” The angel shifted his weight a little nervously. “You found something out?”

He nodded. “More than something. I was able to find someone who knows exactly what happened when you were a baby, and what happened to your biological parents.”

Your stomach clenched. You’d been waiting so long to get any scrap of information about your earliest history, it was hard to believe that Cas was standing here now and telling you he knew everything. You sat down hard on the arm of the couch and Sam looked at you with gentle concern and wrapped an arm around you.

You stared at the angel expectantly and he seemed to be asking you if he should continue. You took a deep breath and nodded. “Okay.”

Cas nodded in return. “From the beginning, we knew that you were hidden from angels and demons, most likely in the same way that I hid Sam and Dean with the sigils I carved on their ribs. It’s very powerful, and I guessed that it had to be done by an angel. I suspected that whoever had hidden you must know the truth about your past, and that there was a reason it was done.” Cas stopped and took a breath, trying to read your expression and reaction so far. “Obviously, I couldn’t just go around asking about it. You’re still wanted by some in heaven and I’m still under suspicion… so I had to find out through some underground channels and utilize many indirect networks of information—that’s why it took me so long to find anything out.” Cas gave you an apologetic look and you only smiled at him.

”Eventually, I found out who had hidden you. His name is Zadkiel. He is often called the angel of mercy. He is an archangel and for some time he travelled often between heaven and earth.”

”An archangel? But—why? I mean, how did he get involved?”

”Your parents, the ones who gave you your birth name, the name all angels have memorized on their list of prophets, were hunters,” Cas said

”Whoa,” Dean said. You, Sam, and Cas all turned to look at him. He shrugged. “Sorry. That’s just—I wasn’t expecting that.”

Sam grabbed your hand and gave you a concerned look. You laced your fingers with his but turned your eyes back to Cas.

”From what I learned, your parents had once helped Zadkiel and he never forgot it. When they gave birth to you and your name matched the name of a prophet, he knew how dangerous it would be for you to grow up entrenched in the life of a hunter. He returned to earth one final time to tell your parents what you were to become.”

”So, they gave me up to keep me safe,” you said. “This archangel—Zadkiel—he hid me and my parents gave me up.”

Cas nodded, sadness easily seen in his blue eyes. “I believe that very night. The only thing I know for certain is that shortly after Zadkiel warded you and placed you on the doorstep of a church, your parents—were—they were killed. They didn’t reveal anything about you before they died, or you surely would have been harmed or taken.”

You felt your stomach twist at his words, which was puzzling—you didn’t know your biological parents. You couldn’t remember them—but here you were being told that they had given you up and given their lives up to save you, and you were having a deep, visceral reaction. You mind was somewhat spinning and Sam squeezed your hand.

”Do you need to take a break?” he asked. Across the room, Dean’s face was dark with worry.

You shook your head. “No. No, just keep going. I’m okay,” you said, nodding to Cas.

”I’m afraid that’s about as much as I know. After Zadkiel left you at the church, you were put up for adoption and adopted by a very wonderful couple, who raised you as their own. You know the rest,” he finished, giving you a somewhat sad smile.

A long silence stretched and you moved only to pet Jest who rubbed between your ankles and mewed.

”I know it’s a lot to be told,” Cas said. “But I thought that you would want to know as much as you could.”

You looked up at the angel and nodded. “Yes. Thank you. I know that it was probably difficult and—and dangerous for you to find all that out. Thank you, Cas,” you said.

”Of course.”

There was another long silence where both of the Winchester brothers were studying your face, waiting for whatever was going to come next. “I guess hunting is as much in my blood as it is in yours,” you said vaguely. “Not that I’m planning to run off to chase after werewolves but—my whole life I thought I was ordinary,” you said, looking up at Sam and finding his eyes already on you. “I thought I would just go to work, maybe meet someone and settle down someday, retire, move to the mountains… Just live a normal life. But it turns out that from the very first moment of my existence I’ve been marked as something else entirely.”

”Welcome to the club,” Dean said. His face was serious and still touched with concern, but his eyes crinkled at the corners as he stood up. “You belong here. And you’re not going anywhere.”

You watched Dean go, and Cas followed suite, giving you and Sam some space.

”Are you alright?” he asked, rubbing a hand gently over your back. Jest purred and jumped up next to you.

You nodded. “I think I am. I just wish I could have gotten a chance to know them, ya know?”

Sam nodded and his eyes grew a little distant. “Yeah. I do.”

You gave him a sad smile. “I guess you do.”

_ _ _ _ _ _

As the weeks passed you continued to regain your strength thanks to Cas’s continued healing, Sam’s attentive care, and a whole lot of Dean’s self-proclaimed “miracle meals.”

But one afternoon, as you and Sam were reclined on the big couch in the library, just enjoying being together, you weren’t feeling quite right… and you were suddenly struck with a familiar pain behind your eyes that started to grow and press outward. You winced and squeezed your eyes shut, putting a hand to your head.

Sam was alert and worried instantly.

”Y/N? Are you alright?”

You sat up on the edge of the couch and pinched the bridge of your nose. “Yeah, it’s just—just a headache,” you said. Sam gave you a knowing but agitated look.

”So, still no fairy tales, right?” he asked warily.

”No. No fairy tales. Not since that day, when you woke me up,” you said. “I think Rowena is probably a little preoccupied at the moment. Besides, I’m safe here,” you added.

Sam breathed a small inward sigh of relief, but the worry lines on his forehead did not east. “I’ll make you some tea. Why don’t you go lay down? I’ll be right in.”

You nodded and made your way to you and Sam’s bedroom, Jest following as your ever-present shadow. You had just pushed open the door and were making your way to the bed when the room began to swim and fade. You lost your balance, unsure of where you or your feet were in the space you could no longer see, and fell to the ground, hitting your knees hard.

Images began to flash before your eyes, at first just a swirl of faces and voices you couldn’t distinguish. But then it started to clear.

Sam. You and Sam. And you were both tucked in close together peering down at a small pink bundle, tears glistening in your eyes and Sam absolutely beaming, kissing every part of you he could. Another moment and a small child bounced up onto the bed and crawled up beside you, calling you Mommy, snuggling in under your arm, straining to look at the little swaddled baby.

Next, Dean burst into the scene, scooping up the little boy and tossing him in the air playfully, grinning as brightly as you had ever seen him. Dean came to sit beside you on the edge of the bed, the little boy on his lap, and looked with wonder over at you and Sam, and what must be your newborn baby girl.

That scene faded into a fog, but when the images crystallized again Cas sat stiffly in a chair and Sam was placing the baby girl in his arms. Cas looked like a proud uncle, the light sparkling in his eyes bright and tender as he peered down at the miracle in his arms. Sam grinned down at him.

Another swirl of colors and sounds and a mist overtook the vision, fading into a familiar voice calling out to you.

”Y/N! Y/N! Are you alright?” Sam was frantic, gripping your shoulders, trying to pull you out of wherever you had gone. Your eyes were wide and unseeing as you kneeled in the middle of the floor. But you snapped out of it all at once. “Hey! Hey, can you hear me?”

”I’m okay. I’m okay,” you said, and you could feel that tears were glistening in your eyes, but you smiled at Sam’s warm eyes fixated on you, narrowed in concern, and maybe a little fear. You threw your arms around him and he hugged you tight, worried and perplexed.

”What is it?” he asked. “You saw something?”

You sniffled and laughed. “Yeah. I did.”

He tilted his head in confusion at your laughter. “What was it?”

You clasped his face and kissed him, surprising him, your heart racing in your chest, skipping beats every so often. When you broke apart, there was still confusion on Sam’s face and you smiled at him again. “I love you,” you said.

”And I love you,” he returned. His eyes flitted between yours. “What did you see?”

You bit your bottom lip. “Us.” He puzzled over this response again. “But I don’t want to ruin the story.”

#supernaturalfreewill #sam winchester #sam x reader #moose #sam imagines #sam fanfics #sammy fluff #spn #spn fanfics #spn imagines #gif imagines #supernatural #team free will #mess is mine #MIM

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captainderyn · 7 years

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Break Me

Despite my total lack of motivation, in response to there being only 2 days until Quinn comes back (*screaming*) I have written my SW Wren’s perspective of the Quinncident.

Warnings: Spoilers for the SW storyline, violence.

“Quinn what is this?” Wren turned to look behind her as the doors hissed closed behind them. When she looked back at her husband he was several paces in front of her, his back to her and hands clasped tightly behind him. “What is going on?”

His blue eyes, ones that had once looked on her with devotion and care fixed on her now with a calculated coldness. “My lord, I that our paths must diverge. Out of respect, I wanted to be here to witness your fate.” Even his words were icy, clipped.

Wren took a step back, her hand instinctively going to the saberstaff at her hip. “My fate? You aren’t making any sense.” But a paralyzing fear was starting to set in her blood, quickening her heart rate to thunder in her ears before he could speak again. Betrayal, this stank of betrayal. “You lied to me.” She murmured, eyes wide as she met his foreign gaze with knitted brows. “Tell me I’m wrong.” her voice rose. “Don’t do this Quinn.”

Quinn pivoted on his heel to face her and she could have sworn his voice wavered. The slight dip of his head was all she needed for her to clench her fists, a swift fury replacing fear in her mind. “It pains me, but this entire scenario is a ruse. There’s no martial law and no special signal emitter. Baras is my true master. He had me lure you here to have you killed.”

“After everything we’ve been through.” Wren spat. “It pains you, it pains you to plot against me with my old master.” Her hand clenched on her saberstaff again before letting go, whipping out in front of her. Quinn flinched back and she barked out a cracking laugh. “Fear? Really? I cared for you! Loved you! Does that mean nothing?”

“I act today with a heavy heart. But without Baras I would not have my career. I did not want to choose between the two of you, but he has forced my hand.” His pacing stopped and once again his back was to her, speaking to the wall as if she were not there. His words were clipped, throwing more kindling into the beastly rage she usually would have shied from forming in her mind. Coward.

“So that is what I am to you, a second choice? You used me!” She closed the distance between them, fists clenching and unclenching. That blinding panic was creeping up on her, seeping through the wall of anger she knew too well. She could feel it coiling around her mind like a noose. “Are you really so stupid? Baras will use you, he’ll ruin you and all you have worked to achieve. If you believe he will lead you to victory then you are blind.”

Nose to nose, Quinn looked her square in the eye, but Wren could see no remorse, nothing except fear. At her, at Baras, it didn’t matter. She whipped around, stalking away from him and squeezing her eyes shut. Fear was never something she had wanted to incite. Especially from someone she had given her love to. This had to be because of her broken mind. He had to think that she was incapable, weak, beyond fixing. That was the only reason she could think of that would even begin to explain this breach of trust.

Her thoughts roared with a uncontrolled fury burning into an inferno, mixing with a smarting pain to burn brighter than ever. She had trusted him, confided in him. For nothing.

“After all this time observing you in battle, I have exhaustively noted your strengths and weaknesses.” The doors hissed open and Wren turned her glare to the two large droids that loomed in the hallway. A shuddering breath was forced out of her and she squeezed her eyes closed again, shaking her head violently. “These war droids have been programmed specifically to combat you. I have calculated a near zero chance of their failure. You’ll find they’re virtually immune to you. I’m sorry it has come to this my lord.”

My lord. He might as well have called her Darth Xin, or any other name used by those distant from her. Strangers. The name Wren had been for moments outside of protocol, outside this hellish war and the sea of backstabbing that was the world of the sith.

Wren looked down, tears dripping down her cheeks as she fell back into the familiar nightmare of the darkest parts of the Force she could draw on, twin golden blades igniting in her hand. “So be it.” She hissed, the static of force lightning crawling up her arm as she raised her weapons.

The fight, no matter how strictly planned or calculated, took no more than ten minutes to end. Each blow she had landed on Quinn until he fell back and lowered his own weapon-he had turned his weapon on her, this had driven into her like a knife-felt like a wound inflicted on herself.

She knew she had shouted at him, screamed at him, but she had sank so far into the willing embrace of the shadows that everything was a blur of motion, the pain of a blaster shot grazing above her hip, the pain in her left leg from landing wrong. It was all superficial compared to the agony of reducing Quinn to a traitor hunched at her feet, a hand clenched over his side. It should never have come to this.

Her breath wavered with each exhale, her cheeks slicked with tears as she pushed the roiling sea of emotions into a barely contained corner of her mind. Just enough for him to explain. If he could just tell her why...

“I thought I’d programmed the perfect killing machine for you, I was painstakingly precise. I should have known.” Even now he would not meet her eyes, would not speak with any emotion other than disbelief. Why?

“You thought machines would kill me?” She spat. “You may as well have just run me through with my own saber, it would have been less hateful than this.”

He finally looked up at her, if only for a second and she finally, finally, read regret. The carefully constructed wall holding back her emotion strained, cracking. “I have betrayed you, conspired with your most hated enemy.” Quinn clambered to his feet, still hunched over and held out a hand uncertainty. “I know it is meaningless to express by deep regret. I don’t expect your mercy.”

Wren fixed her eyes on his outstretched hand, stepping back as though struck. The words were so mechanical, so artificial, that it might as well have been the ship’s droid that had spoken. Unbelievable. He was preparing for her to kill him, ready to accept it. He was scared of her.

With a sudden tidal wave the barrier broke and her unbridled fury came rushing back. Her green eyes hardened to a stony rage and she flung out a hand. “Liar!” he hit the wall with a cry of pain and she shuddered, turning her face away as she clenched her hand into a fist. Undiluted hatred pulsed through her veins from that shattered part of her mind even as the part of her that wanted nothing more than to forgive Quinn screamed at her to stop, slamming her fists onto the impenetrable doors that pushed all conscience thought away.

After what felt like an eternity she was able to tear her hand back, letting out a violent sob as Quinn hit the ground with a resonating thump. Until she heard his gasping, wheezing breath she stood in a numb shock, emotion draining away until she felt like a shell with only a deep exhaustion and tears that seemed to burn like acid to fill the void.

She knelt beside him, summoning as much remaining energy as she could to keep her voice from shaking. “This never should have happened. I trusted you.”

His eyes squeezed shut before he propped himself up on an elbow, giving her only a downcast look. “My...Wren-”

“You are no longer permitted to call me that.” She interrupted venomously. “Not now.”

“My lord.” His correction was filled with mourning and Wren looked away, blinking rapidly. “If you permit me to stay in your charge my loyalty to you will never come into question again.”

Wren pushed herself to her feet, turning away. “Get out.” She forced as much command as she could muster into her voice. “Go back to the ship. I’ll be there shortly.”

He didn’t respond, only dipping his head and pulling himself to his feet. As she watched him limped towards the airlock only one thought pounded in her mind over and over in a repeating chorus, replacing everything else.

Why?

#swtor #swtor oc: Thornley #Wren Thornley #malavai quinn #the quinncident #look its not Taqq OR Deryn

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edc-creations-blog · 6 years

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Tradition by AlTonya Washington

New Island has been quiet for a long time-too long. Now, the time has come to return to a place where a tradition was born. Some will return to honor it. Others will return to destroy it.

Off the coast of Charleston, South Carolina New Island was home to many things-among them stories of resilience and rebirth. New had been home to Frayzer Guthrie before the depraved events of a night 16 years prior removed him from his home and the girl that he loved. When business motivates his return, Fray finds that the girl is now a woman and that his feelings for her have remained unchanged.

Ellia Taylor was still very much in love with the boy-now man-she’d dreamed of spending the rest of her life with, but how could they ever go back to what they were? Things had changed and that fact was about more than the passage of time. New Island was a place of resilience, rebirth… and revelations that would scandalize the names of many powerful families. New Island’s dark tradition was an ugly story that was at last ready to be told.

Watch the “Tradition” Book Trailer on YouTube: https://youtu.be/IxOTvLX2XYc

Review Written by Edwina Putney | 5.0 out of 5 stars

Tradition by AlTonya Washington is an amazing story that shows how family traditions of horrific acts and the ensuing cover-ups can destroy lives in those and future times. The destruction of the teen love and lives of Frayzer Guthrie and Ellia Taylor, as well as the relationships and lives of his cousins, Warwick and Zyon, and her cousins (their girlfriends) Seela and Moira. Hideous, secretive acts, reminiscent of those perpetrated by slaveowners against slaves, were performed on Ellia and her cousins, which caused hatred of and estrangement from Frayzer (Fray), Warwick (War), and Zyon (Zy).

But sixteen years later, the guys have never stopped seeking revenge against those responsible for the dark legacy handed down and perpetuated in an updated, yet still despicable, version. And then there is knife-toting Ellia, who nurses the anger and betrayal, yet knows deep down that her love for Fray never truly died. When he returns to New Island, apologizes and romances her, then gets her help in uncovering buried evidence, we see the truth in ‘a thin line between love and hate’. It’s not an easy path to recover from feelings of guilt on his part and betrayal on hers. So the question is, can they?

AlTonya Washington does an amazing job with fusing the historical and present-day, showing the cycle of romance, and the depths to which people are willing to sink to preserve their ill-gotten gains. Then, even after resolving the mystery, Ms. Washington ends the story with a “wow” moment from the past which will definitely affect Fray, War, and Zy in books two and three of the trilogy. I can’t wait! Kudos to AlTonya Washington for a good beginning to another promising series.

Excerpt from Tradition by AlTonya Washington

Fray judged he’d gotten about three hours of sleep the night before. Not bad, considering 4 was usually all he needed.

Besides, he didn’t think he was in the mood to hear anyone tell him everything would be alright. He couldn’t believe that-not after last night. The way El looked at him when she’d pulled away- it hadn’t been fear.

Well…it had, but not fear toward him, he surmised. What he saw in her eyes last night was something deeper, closer to despair. More than anything he’d wanted to stay with her- to refuse to leave until she told him what had put that look in her eyes.

Of course it could’ve only been one thing. Memories of the branding ritual had taken their toll on his concentration more than a few times over the years. He’d trained himself to get by on little sleep because when his mind was at rest, all he could see was El’s face. Her lovely face terror-stricken. He could feel her bracing against his hold and hear her shrieking his name- begging him to help her- to make it stop before she’d gone silent and refused to beg anymore.

Fray rubbed his fingers over his head and kicked the tangle of covers from his feet. He wanted a shower and was stalking naked into the bath when his room door came alive with the sounds of impatient knocking. Frowning, he switched courses and went to peer through the privacy window. Finding El on the other side, cleared his mind of everything including the state of his dress-or undress as it were. He whipped open the door.

“Are you okay?” His rough voice had turned softer in the wake of concern. The gray-flecked depths of his eyes mirrored that concern as they fixed on her face. He spared a moment to appraise the cut of her dress, but he forbid himself to think about what he’d give to see her out of it.

Ellia didn’t notice his reaction to her clothes. Her eyes had already drifted below his waist. “Are you alright Elli?” He caught her wrist and pulled her into the room.

El intended to respond with the obligatory ‘I’m fine’, but no sound emerged. She managed to drag her eyes to his staggering face for a few brief seconds before they were helplessly sliding below his waist.

Fray finally understood what had his unexpected guest so preoccupied. “I’m sorry,” with an adorable wince he shook his head and released her wrist. “I was going to shower, I’ll um- I’ll go put somethin’ on.”

“No I-” she caught his wrist, released him quickly. “It’s alright I…” Again, she was preoccupied by the picture that was hers alone to survey.

She had already noticed how changed he was from the boy she’d known. That fact was never more obvious than in that moment. The flawless pitch of his skin accentuated his perfect build in striking fashion. More lean than massive, the ropey muscles, long arms, legs and torso gave him the appearance of a living weapon.

Fray took Ellia’s incessant staring to be anything other than feminine arousal. Again, he winced while observing himself. “I’m sorry about this, El. I’ll go get dressed-”

“Please don’t.”

Fray blinked then as the hint of awareness began to filter his eyes. He swallowed noticeably, watching her hand ease beneath her arm where she found the zipper tab to the killer dress she wore. She eased the tab down.

Fray heard a groan and knew it had come from him when the dress pooled around the stunning pumps that adorned her feet. He saw that she’d come to him wearing nothing else and was bracing to push off the door and go to her, when he blinked. Sleek brows met as his head inclined a fraction.

“Elli?” His voice was hollow, barely a whisper.

She forced her eyes to remain fixed on his face. She didn’t want to, but needed to see his reaction to what had become of her. His reaction wasn’t what she’d expected. She’d been prepared to see shame, regret, even repulsion.

Once his initial shock had eased though, it gave way to distinct rage that had his hands curling into fists. His eyes met hers again and El wasn’t sure what to make of the rage that was still ignited there. The emotion caused the gray flecks in his stare to glint like silver shards against an onyx backdrop.

She held her ground as he advanced. Shock flooded her eyes when he took a knee before her and pressed his forehead to her thigh- to his family’s brand marking her skin.

“I’m never going to get you back, am I?” He asked after a weighty moment.

Confusion had El too stunned to respond at first. “Why? Why would you want that?”

The question brought Fray to his feet and then he was pressing his forehead to hers. “Elli, how could I not?”

She shook her head against his. “But this,” she eased back to look down at herself. “This changes things.”

His eyes were on hers again. The rage melded with a determination that made the gray flecks glint vividly. “Not one bit,” he said.

( Continued… )

Purchase Tradition by AlTonya Washington Genre: Family Saga, Romance https://www.amazon.com/Tradition-AlTonya-Washington-ebook/dp/B076HW5V26

Intimate Conversation with AlTonya Washington

AlTonya Washington has been a romance novelist for 15 years. She’s traditionally published with Harlequin’s Kimani Romance imprint, winner of the Romance Slam Jam EMMA Award and two time winner of The Romantic Times Magazine Reviewer’s Choice Award. AlTonya is a mom and works as a Librarian.

In 2015, she received scholarly publication for her article An Indie Author in a Library World . She enjoys a successful indie author career and is best known for her Ramsey/Tesano romantic suspense series. Check out her reader website: https://alsreaders.weebly.com.

BPM: Was there anyone early in your career that recognized your talent and help cultivate it? I actually like to credit friends/classmates who always told me that I should be a writer or that I should change my major from Mass Communications to English. They recognized that writing desire long before I did. I often wished I’d listened to them, but wonder if I’d be loving it (writing) the way I do if I’d taken a different route in getting there.

BPM: How do you stay on top of your game professionally in the publishing industry? I can’t stress this enough I READ!!! READ A VARIETY OF GENRES!! Sorry to sound preachy, but it really does bring a wealth of benefits to the work. For one thing, it gives a writer the distance we sometimes need from our projects and can’t bring ourselves to take without a good reason. Reading is the BEST reason. Sometimes it helps to bring a fresh perspective to your work. It always benefits the vocabulary-way more fun than reaching for a thesaurus.

BPM: Tell us about your most recent work. Available on Nook and Kindle? Tradition is available on Nook, Kindle and a host of other reading platforms. Tradition is a contemporary family saga romance and it focuses on what the title implies-a tradition that originated on New Island, a private -unincorporated- spot off the coast of Charleston, SC centuries earlier. The ‘tradition’ was one that was outlawed by many on the island, while others worked to keep it alive. That tug of war had consequences on the main characters that pulled them apart for many years. A sequence of events will bring them back into each other’s lives, along with the unrest that continued to brew amid desires for revenge and atonement.

Download Tradition by AlTonya Washington Amazon Link: http://a.co/aqKp1gX

BPM: Give us some insight into your main characters. What makes each one so special? Our hero, Frayzer Guthrie and heroine, Ellia Taylor are two lovely people inside and out but both are deeply wounded by the events that took place and subsequently tore apart their budding romance years earlier. For Fray the wounds are more on the emotional end of things. He blames himself for what happened, for not doing more to change the outcome of the terrible night that changed everything. What makes him so special is his potential to be lethal and yet that quality is tempered by intelligence, compassion and an unwavering devotion to the only woman he’s ever loved. What makes Ellia so special is the quiet strength that she wears like an accessory. Her wounds have taken a different kind of toll that have changed her greatly from the person she once was. What hasn’t changed, however, is her love for Fray.

BPM: Is there a specific place/space that you find inspiration in? I find inspiration in the time I have to write. Space rarely matters, but give me a relatively quiet place with a nice large table where I can spread out all my stuff and I’m in heaven. When I have the chance though, I do enjoy writing in libraries and restaurants that have good atmosphere.

BPM: What did you enjoy most about writing this book? As a librarian and an author I enjoy research most of all. The history of New Island is woven through this book and required more study than I’m used to putting in when working on a contemporary title, so that was a refreshing change. Although New Island is a fictional place, there were aspects to crafting the place and the drama surrounding it that required me to put my serious researcher’s cap on.

BPM: How much planning goes into writing a book? How long does it take to complete one of your books? I always enjoy this question because the answer usually varies. The time it takes on a book is relative. I used to say it depends on how long or involved the story is, but I’ve found that’s not even a great way for me to calculate time to write. I’ve written some of my lengthiest titles in as little as 2 months (that’s right…and those have been some of my most successful works…go figure…) I think it depends on the story and how the characters grip me. That’s not to say that all my characters don’t grip me, but there are moments when I know how I want the story to play out and I want to finish it before the idea evaporates. Now when life intervenes or there’s extensive research involved or when we get to the typing part…that’s where things can change.

BPM: Talk us through your experiences as a self-published author. Why did you go down this route? My first self-published titles were done out of a sincere need to have more freedom with my work. If a story-line called to me, I wanted the freedom to explore it without later being told that I needed to change it because it didn’t follow certain guidelines. Finding that freedom in self-publishing has allowed me to bring more enjoyment into the more structured realm of my traditional work.

BPM: What advice would you give aspiring writers that would help them finish a project? I understand how important it is to stick to schedules-to commit to writing a certain amount of chapters or words a day. I don’t work that way, but realize that everyone’s writing style varies. I would suggest to a writer who is challenged in this area, to yes, make the effort to write each day. Rather than adhere to demands for specified wordage, however, listen to yourself. Understand when the work is going flat, when what you’re writing has lost its zing. You may still be a few hundred words off from your goal, but you’ll be more confident that your efforts for the day yielded better results. Writing in order to make your word quota may mean you’ll spend more of the next day in rewrites instead of moving into fresh territory.

BPM: Was there an early experience where you learned that the written word had power? I believe that I’ve always been aware of this, but didn’t feel the true impact of it until I started writing. I’ve felt that impact so many times during the course of my writing career. Writing has done everything from allowing me to please my readers, to keeping me sane when life gets crazy and I need an escape. For me, that’s been my greatest education on seeing the power of words.

BPM: How has writing impacted your life? It has impacted the size of my world-the amount of wonderful people I’ve met during the course of my career. I’ve made connections that I’m sure I’d have never made had writing not been at the heart of those meetings. I believe having an outlet that’s all mine is especially important being that I’m a mom with a child approaching adulthood. After God, my son is first and foremost in my life. My son, however, will go on to have his own life one day and not need me quite so much. Writing is something that is all mine and perhaps the only thing I’m able to control and let go of when I’m ready.

BPM: What does literary success look like to you? Writing the stories I wish to tell, the way I wish to tell them. Finding that my readers feel entertained and believe that their money has been well spent when they invest in my books. Being inspired to tell new and more fascinating stories that challenge me and allow me to take my readers into places that encourage them to expand their reading interests. I’d say that’s what literary success looks like to me.

BPM: What are the 3 most effective tools for sharing your books with the world? A healthy social media presence. A robust blog site. An email list filled with engaged readers.

BPM: Share some of your writing goals. What projects are you working on at the present? I’ve got so much going on! I think this is the busiest I’ve ever been! I began the year by releasing Chef’s Reunion the second installment of The Caterer’s Wife mystery novella series (FYI- a full length will be coming soon). In March I’m releasing Feast of Fantasy-this novel is a Tesano tie-in for those of you familiar with the Ramsey/Tesano series.

For my T. Onyx erotica fans, Pleasure’s Possession is on the way as is Book of Scandal-The Tesano Elders and A Lover’s Redemption, also of the Ramsey Tesano series. Lots in store! These titles have been in production for a while, so it’s exciting to have them finally ready for release.

BPM: How can readers discover more about you and your work? Website: http://www.alsreaders.weebly.com AND http://www.lovealtonya.com Blog: http://www.altonyasblog.wordpress.com Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/altonyaw Twitter: https://twitter.com/Ramseysgirl Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/novelally/?hl=en Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/337210.AlTonya_Washington

Tradition by AlTonya Washington Tradition by AlTonya Washington New Island has been quiet for a long time-too long. Now, the time has come to return to a place where a tradition was born.

#Romance

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