#these two scenes haunt me daily. but they just prove the point here. the man is resilient af when he wants to be | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dabiboy · 4 years

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As promised! Honestly, this one became my favorite piece so far, so I hope you guys enjoy it and please don’t let it flop🥺💕

If anyone is interested in listening the songs I used for writing this one as you read, feel free to do so!

TW: nsfw, mentions of drugs and alcohol, kind of self harm, blood.

Something Other Than Pain

It was past midnight, the night was starting to get colder and colder, however, the only chills you had were of pure nervousness. Dabi wasn't picking up your calls, nor your texts. Anything. The last thing you knew, was that he was together with the League, but that was it. And now he was MIA again, apparently.

Was he finally caught? No, every single news channel would be speaking about it. Dead? Same thing. Maybe he was with someone else. And you didn't know which scenario was more painful.

The truth was, however, that at Dabi's place things were different.

Very different from every picture in your head.

In a building away from the League, away from Tokyo's downtown, in a place in which every resident cared only for themselves and no one was interested in other business either for safety or not caring, a loud and ripping scream filled the fifth floor.

Dabi saw him that day. This time pure coincidence. He was walking around the city all covered up, just looking for some fresh air after an exhausting week with the League, when the disgusting image appeared in front of him. He had a fire quirk, not a super hearing one, so hearing the conversation that was happening between the two Todorok's was impossible. But what was possible, was to see Enji's gestures. A hopeful smile on his lips and his hand resting on Shoto's shoulder, who was wearing the UA uniform. The uniform that told everyone that he was going to be a hero. A greater hero than his dad. , ''You'll be proud of me'' or ''I'm proud of you'' It couldn't be something else than that. And Dabi could felt the anger take over his body want more time. A part of him told him to incinerate both of them. No, first his little brother so then his father could watch. No, none of them. He had a plan, and it had to work.

He walked away bitterly, and got to his place once the sun had already disappeared from his view. In the middle of the threatening silence, he could hear his memories, see them so clearly it felt as if he were a kid one more time. And he hated it.

Dabi made his way to the bathroom and left the products he stole on top of the sink just to get into the shower to wash the dirt of the day. And hopefully, wash the shit out of his past. Water ran free down his wounded body, and if water could feel, it would feel pitty over that disgraced man. What a shame, he thought.

The shower's floor was tinted black, and Dabi stood under the water to remove the rests of hair dye. Once he got out, he just put on some underwear so he could start vanishing his genes one more time. But that didn't happen.

He looked at himself in the mirror, scars on his face, his torso, his legs. They were everywhere. Disgusting. His skin connected because of poorly applicated staples, anger in his blue eyes. Those damn blue eyes, a pure resemblance of his father. And then his hair. Now white, free from the chemicals. It wasn't painful because of the color, it was painful because of how he got there. Pushing himself daily, wanting to prove to his father he was worthy of being a hero, training himself to the point of burn his body, all for his father's joy. Being given a purpose, a life sentence, just to be tossed away because he reached the perfect creation. The perfect child.

Dabi used a hand to run it through his hair, not being able to forget everything. The hate in his eyes was as if it belonged to someone else, someone that was screaming that he was a piece of shit, a disposable piece of garbage. Cheap garbage. Without even realizing he was pulling at his hair and clenching his teeth, his heart was beating like crazy, and the shivers on his body were getting out of control. Everything hurt, his entire skin was burning, and his mind and soul were drowning in an endless pit of pain and hatred. The same hand that was aggressively tugging his hair hit the dye bottle, splashing it all over, covering a big part of the bathroom in black.

He held himself on the sides of the sink, breathing heavy and trying to control himself, but it was unmanageable. Slowly, as if with fear, he looked in the mirror again. The mix of white hair and blue eyes made him lost it completely. As his fist was covered in strong blue flames, Dabi broke the mirror with just one punch, not only cutting himself in the process, but also burning himself one more time. A heartrending scream left his lungs, desperate, hopeless, lonely. He hit the pieces left one more time, not caring a single shit about the mess he had in the bathroom. Walking with messy and unstable steps Dabi made his way to the kitchen, and when he wasn't able of grabbing the liquor bottle at the first attempt, he razed with every glass, every single item on the shelf. He grabbed the wanted bottles with shaking hands and made his way to the bathroom again, and when he was there, he took out all of his pills bottles. All of them to ease the pain, and some others to sleep.

Dabi made the pills rain on his tongue, and right after he drank the remanents of alcohol straight from the bottle. And he repeated the process plenty of other times.

Nothing was making the pain go away, and for more than he wanted to, the vivid memories were still haunting him. Another scream left his lips, this time crashing one of the bottles against the wall. He kept tugging on his hair, he was done. Done with everything.

Thanks to the abrupt movements, some staples fell and blood was leaping out of his scars again, down his cheeks, his chin and jaw, torso, everywhere. His back hit the wall as he slid down to the floor, waiting, wishing for the pills and alcohol to do their job.

And as salvation, or as someone who was not supposed to be there at that time, you knocked on his door.

No answer.

Then you knocked again, maybe he wasn't home. But you could see there was light, so he must have been inside, and just as you thought, you were right. Forgetting about his privacy, you used the spare key to get inside the apartment, and when you did? Your jaw fell in surprise, an overwhelming feeling took you over as you saw the scene in front of you.

''Dabi''? You called his name, closing the door slowly behind you, analyzing the mess.

Broken glass, bloodstains, and it smelled like smoke. Something had happened. You called his name again, no answer. With fearful steps you walked along the tiny apartment, and the light coming from the bathroom told you he was there.

And when you saw him, your heart broke into million pieces. Millions.

He was sitting in a corner, legs lazily on the floor as his arm was still holding the unshattered bottle. Lots of pills were spread on the floor, in different sizes and colors. Dabi's hair was white, with tiny bits of grey among some locks, blood under his eyes, chin, chest and arms. He looked like a real mess. And it was worrying.

You practically ran towards him, kneeling in front of him.

''Get the fuck out of here'' He slurred his words, not even looking at you. His eyelids were almost closed, and he smelled like alcohol and the same scent of smoke that was in the living room. He had been using his flames. ''There's no way in hell I'm leaving you like this'' You said still in shock, wondering how to help him ''What happened?''

''I was born'' He snickered bitterly, coughing right after ''Seriously, get your ass outta' here'' Dabi tilted his head to the other side, still not looking at you.

''No way, come on, c'mere'' You did your best to help him stand.

His body was heavy, especially because he was not helping at all. You made him put an arm around your neck for support, and with a struggling hand you made the water came down the faucet. You did your best to clean his wounds, wash his face trying to make him use all of his senses, but it looked like a hard task. He was like a numb rag doll with lost eyes, but he lowkey thanked you didn't arrive earlier.

''Dabi...'' You muttered his name as he was sitting on the toilet

''What did I do wrong'' He asked, more to himself than to you, eyes fixated on a black spot of dye hair on the floor ''All I ever did... Was for him to watch me'' Dabi lifted an eyebrow. ''But for what. To become a fucked up mess, all beause his precious little creation came out perfect. And Touya? Let's get rid of him, he won't surpass All Might. It's just another failed child'' He laughed bitterly, but you could see his chin trembling. Was it pain? anger? did he want to cry?

His hand went to his hair again, and just when he started to tugging it, you held him. His head resting on your stomach as you caressed his hair in slow motions, leaving tender kisses on top of his head.

''What happened was unfair,'' You whispered ''And I know you didn't deserve all of that hell...I can't do much, I just... I just can be with you'' You could swear tears were rolling down your cheeks. It hurt you to see him in such a vulnerable state. To see what was behind his snarky attitude, and behind the feared villain. It hurt that you couldn't do anything for him other than giving him your embrace. ''Come, let's get you to bed'' You said, helping him stand up.

And when he did, his eyes were fixated on you, analyzing every detail, finding what to say.

''Is there something you need?'' Of course, mental peace. But then again, you could offer him simple things. And those simple things were what he needed.

"Love me, just fucking love me" his voice came out in a desperate whisper as he pulled you in towards him. The way he kissed you felt painful, but so needy for care, love, and appreciation. He wanted that, needed the reassurance of being useful. "Please" This time Dabi's voice came out in an almost unhearable mumble, pressing you against the bathroom wall.

His kiss was rough, messy, even a bit painful as you nodded against him, carefully holding his face between your hands. It was not a heated kiss, it was not like the times where the two of you were just horny, it was different. It felt sad. He was caging your body, not wanting to feel you away from him. He needed to feel wanted, he wanted you to love him as no one did. He wanted to feel something else than just pain. Dabi sighed in between the kiss, his eyes were still closed as you pulled him closer to you. It was tragic to see him like that, so needy for reassurance and love.

You got rid of your clothes, faster than ever. His large hand cupped your ass and made you jump so you could tangle your legs on his waist.

''Wait, your wounds'' You said referring to the staples that were ripping his skin before you healed them.

''It's fine'' He said as he walked you towards his bed, sitting with you on his lap.

You grinned against him, feeling his hard on through his boxers and through your panties, his hands were all over your back, enjoying the sensation of soft skin. Your skin. Dabi bit your neck, so then he could kiss you again, just like before. Teeth clashing, lips getting redder and redder, a messy kiss. But none of you could care less.

Someway somehow you got rid of your clothes left, doing the same with his underwear. On a normal situation, foreplay was important. He'd go down on you, tease you, edge you, but now? Now there was no time for that. You just wanted to feel him, and he wanted to feel you too.

You lifted your hips enough to align his cock against your entrance, slowly going down just to adjust to his size. Dabi let out a grunt, gripping your hips strongly. You rested your forehead on his for brief seconds before starting riding him.

At a point, you didn't know if you were riding him, or if it was him sloppily pounding you, but that wasn't important. As he held your hips, you laid back a bit to support yourself with a hand on the mattress and lift your hips so Dabi could go deeper. The moans and grunts were filling the room, but rather than just horniness it was... Reassurance. Love. Passion. Comfort. He wanted to feel something other than pain, and you were helping him with it. The way he was gripping your flesh was not a sign of dominance, it was a way of telling you ''Don't go. Please don't go'' Dabi wanted you for him, for you to stay by his side. Because if it weren't for you, he was sure he would've lost his mind already.

Your mouth tasted like steel, and you didn't know if it was because he was kissing you too hard, or because one of the staples near his mouth had fallen. But then again, none of you cared. Dabi's hand landed on your nape so he could pull you closer, making his back fall into the bed as you went straight for his mouth. His free hand was securely wrapped around your waist as he thrusted fast and rough, wanting to feel. When you torso was completely over his, he wrapped both arms around your waist, moaning in your mouth, near your ear, everywhere.

''Shit, shit'' He said in a drowned voice ''I need you, I fucking need you'' Dabi whispered, even though he was having you all for himself, he needed you by his side.

''You've got me, you've got me. I'm not going anywhere'' Your voice came out in whimpers, and you couldn't resist the urge of kissing him again.

As your mouths were locked in a desperate and messy kiss, you felt your walls clenching around his cock, and just a few seconds later you could feel him throbbing inside you, that was it, that was the melting point you both were delirious for. Dabi's hand went to your nape again, and this time it was you the one who started grinding on him faster and harder, becoming a moaning mess.

Dabi sat one more time so he could hold you against him, forehead resting between your collarbones as he reached for his high, filling you up with no ounce of shame. Your hands tugged on his hair tenderly, going to his back, neck, and hair again when you came around him.

Seconds were endless, the two of you tangled together, being more intimate than ever. Dabi's breathing was irregular, he pressed a kiss on your chest, right above your breast before falling on the bed again, holding you tightly against his scarred body.

You gained distance to see his face, and there he was, all worn out. Maybe the pills did their effect together with the alcohol, maybe it was that relaxation moment after a breakdown, or maybe it was that delightful bliss after an orgasm. Or maybe, it was all together.

Dabi's eyes were looking tiny and helpless, and it looked as if he wanted to talk, but he was unsure of what to say. You caressed his white hair, combing it back to press your lips on his sweaty forehead.

''I know'' You whispered, peppering his face with tender kisses ''Let go, baby. You can rest now'' He simply nodded, and just like that, his eyes fell closed.

You stood up, whining a bit thanks to the remaining pain between your legs and on your body, his tight grip was leaving marks for sure. Shamelessly you grabbed a towel and one of his shirts to get a quick shower, you could clean the bathroom in the morning. You get back to his bedroom, and using a towel dipped in warm water, you made sure of cleaning him. The mess between his legs, and of course the remanents of blood on his torso. You tried to put him some clean clothes, but he was heavier than ever, even more now that he was practically unconscious due to many factors. But he was your boyfriend, the man you love with all his flaws, it wasn't an issue to sleep with him naked.

You covered him with the sheets, but you were sure it was going to be hard to sleep even though you felt exhausted. As you were semi-sitting on his bed, his head found its way next to your arm, leaning there, peacefully sleeping. And within a few minutes, you fell asleep with the side of your head on top of his.

Hours went by, and around three am Dabi woke up. Dizzy, disoriented, loving those first fifteen seconds. Those seconds in which you're not aware of anything, when it is ven hard to know where and who are you. But then, the memories hit him like a wall falling on his head. The way he hurt himself, the image of his father talking with his younger brother, you arriving. Making love to you. He calmed down when he saw you next to him, and Dabi couldn't believe how a bastard like him got so lucky. Well, at least he had one good thing.

''Dabi?'' You said with a raspy and lazy voice.

''Shit, didn't mean to wake you'' He said, rubbing his eyes.

''It's fine,'' You yawn ''How are you feeling?''

''Dizzy, and like shit but it has to go at some point'' He moved under the covers and furrowed his eyebrows. ''Did you cleaned me up?'' Dabi touched his torso, it wasn't sticky because of the blood, and he wasn't sticky down there either. But that was for other reasons.

''Of course, I was not sleeping with you all dirty'' You joked, making him huff.

His next movement surprised you, because he clung to you as he never did before. His leg got in between yours, making your right leg rest in between his. And truth to be told, you blushed a little at his naked form, but he didn't care. He was already vulnerable as fuck. Dabi rested his head on your chest, and he hugged you by your stomach.

''Your tits are nice'' He said in an attempt of breaking the ice, because he wasn't sure about how to talk about what happened earlier.

''My tits are nice'' You repeat raising your eyebrows, laughing at his shitty pick up line.

''Listen, I...'' He remained silent for some seconds as you played with the shell of his scarred ear and part of his hair. ''Fuck''

''You don't need to talk about it, do it when you feel like to'' Your voice and words were his comforts ''I will listen any time, ok?'' You kissed his forehead.

You could feel the light change in the grip of his embrace, he hugged you a bit tighter, and you knew what he meant. He loosed his grip, and a sigh left his mouth before sleep took over him one more time, as you carried on with your ministrations, making him feel loved, wantede, and safe in your arms.

''Thank you'' Dabi said, and in that moment, you heard the tiny snores coming from his mouth.

''Always, Touya'' You felt the tears gathering again, and as you left another kiss on his hair, you fell asleep one more time, not even noticing the tiny tear running down your cheek.

#bnha dabi #dabi #bnha+dabi #dabi headcanons #dabi x reader #mha dabi #boku no hero academia #dabi imagine #dabi angst #dabi x y/n

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dewitty1 · 4 years

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Fic Recs Wrap Up - October 2020 (੭ˊ͈ ꒵ˋ͈)･*:.｡. .｡.:*･゜ﾟ･*☆

Mental by sara_holmes @captn-sara-holmes

Harry has had quite enough of sharing his mind with someone else, thankyouverymuch. A miscast Legilimency spell says otherwise. Rec Post

Changing of the Guard by Lomonaaeren

Need a perfect stranger? Ask Metamorphosis. Harry Potter runs the business secretly and becomes whoever’s needed for each occasion. He’s not sure whether he should be more surprised, worried, or amused when Draco Malfoy comes to Metamorphosis and requests an actor who can play his boyfriend so that his parents will disown him. Yet Harry has even more dangerous choices after he creates Brian, Draco’s “perfect” boyfriend. Draco doesn’t know who Brian is, but he’s trying to find out—and now so is Harry. Rec Post

Going Once, Going Twice by VivacissimoVoce

Draco Malfoy has been missing for two years. Now the Malfoy estate is going up for auction, and Harry decides it’s time to find out what happened to his former school rival. Rec Post

Oath Breaker by GoblinCatKC @kc-anathema

At the start of seventh year, the Malfoys perform a dramatic double-cross against the dark lord and Draco educates Harry in an old school of magic. With a wild dragon chase, narrow escapes and an unlikely romance as Draco is forced to reveal to a hostile wizarding world that the Malfoy family is dark. Rec Post.

Tea and No Sympathy by who_la_hoop

It's Potter's fault, of course, that Draco finds himself trapped in the same twenty-four-hour period, repeating itself over and over again. It's been nearly a year since the unpleasant business at Hogwarts, and Draco's getting on with his life quite nicely, thank you, until Harry sodding Potter steps in and ruins it all, just like always. At first, though, the time loop seems liberating. For the first time in his life, he can do anything, say anything, be anything, without consequence. But the more Draco repeats the day, the more he realises the uncomfortable truth: he's falling head over heels for the speccy git. And suddenly, the time loop feels like a trap. For how can he ever get Harry to love him back when time is, quite literally, against him? Rec Post

Never the Same Again by frances potter

The war is over ... in fact it never really got started because the Dark Lord proved to be the more powerful. Now five years after Dumbledore's death, Draco Malfoy has something else to worry about besides being a spy. Rec Post

Starts With a Spin by Maxine @serasarahhhh

It started with the spin of a bottle, and now Harry and Draco have gotten themselves so far into their own game there's almost no way out again. Except to keep playing. Rec Post

Saving Draco Malfoy by Dayspring

While the Wizarding world waits for Harry Potter to save them, Draco Malfoy decides to save himself. Rec Post

We Are Young (I'll Carry You Home Tonight) by Femme (femmequixotic) @femmequixotic

Harry and Draco have been falling into bed on and off again since the last election five years ago, much to the amusement--and financial gain--of their circle of friends. But when Harry agrees to work with Draco to put Kingsley Shacklebolt into the Minister's office, they can't work side-by-side again every day and sleep together; that would be courting disaster. Wouldn't it? Rec Post

₍՞◌′ᵕ‵ू◌₎♡ Here are some other fics you might enjoy-

On the Last Day by trishjames @thusspoketrish

Draco is still mourning the recent loss of his mother when the Wizarding World is struck with the tragic news of Harry Potter’s untimely death. It’s just his luck that Potter not only comes back as a ghost, but seems intent on haunting Draco as he’s the only one that can see him. It’s a race against time to retrace the last few days of Potter’s life in order to find his body before he’s lost to the living or spiritual realm forever. On their journey, they’ll uncover secrets, betrayals, and a horrific truth that will disrupt both the living and the dead. Fic Claim Post, Art Post 1, 2, 3 ( art by @eromnid )

Scenes of Surrender by Rasborealis

Draco just wants to keep his head down and finish his last year at Hogwarts. He's not supposed to let his mask slip, and Harry isn't supposed to care. Art post

You Don't Know Me (Like You Used To) by Anonymous for @hd-fan-fair

"Buy me a drink as compensation for maiming me?" he asks.

"And why the hell would I do that?" It’s a perfectly valid question. A drink invitation from Harry Potter is about as likely of a scenario as me streaking down Piccadilly in broad daylight. Consider me completely thrown off.

Sometimes it only takes a week to change everything. The story of how twenty-five-year-old Draco Malfoy hit one Harry Potter with a door and knocked both of their lives into somewhere entirely new. Rec post

True Children Still by Anonymous for @hd-fan-fair

After years of dancing around each other, Draco and Harry have finally begun to date, though they're taking things slow. They've got enough to figure out as it is, and the last thing Harry needs is an unexpected introduction to desires he's not quite ready to face. (please heed the tags!) Rec post

Asking For A Friend? by Anonymous for @hd-fan-fair

Asking for a friend? Don't be shy! I'm Genna Russ with advice!

Draco Malfoy, drag queen and agony aunt for the Daily Prophet, is very happy with his life. He loves his job. He loves his drag queen persona. And he loves the fact that the wider Wizarding world doesn't know who is offering them sassy advice with their morning news.

When he starts receiving letters from one Harry Potter – letters that are too racy to publish – he does the only thing he can do: he replies. His carefully constructed secret life is at risk of being blown wide open, but he just can't help himself. Draco never did have any self-control where the Prat Who Lived was concerned. Rec Post

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Harry Potter is the author of very well-written children's text books. Joshua Starkweather is the author of not-so-well-written erotic fiction. Only one person knows that they are one and the same. Rec post

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Three years later, Draco indulges himself and attends his first Dog Fight—the infamous underground fights with no rules, no referee, and no points system bar blood on the floor. The game was simple: you win, or you die.

A glint of green amidst the blood-red changes everything. Fic Claim/RecPost

♡✧( ु•⌄• ) I hope you enjoy these as much as I have!

As always, thank you so much for following, reading, and reblogging! Your support means so much to me!

xoxo Carey ₍՞◌′ᵕ‵ू◌₎♡💜💙💚💛❤💗💕💖

#Fic Rec Wrap up October 2020 #Fic rec wrap ups #Drarry fic recs #fic recs #Drarry #Drarry fanfiction #My recs #Harry Potter #Draco Malfoy #Drarry Smut #Drarry Squad #Carey's Bookmark Fic Recs #Carey's Personal Bookmarks

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victoria-daydreams · 4 years

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Till Kingdom Come

Chapter Two: Life Being What it Is

AN: Surprise! Back to back chapter postings! So, I know said this about the last two chapters, but this is by far the darkest chapter yet. Read at your own comfort level. There’s a link of a song attached to a word in one of the paragraphs below, to me, it made the scene I wrote much more haunting.

Word Count: 3.9k

Trigger Warnings: violence, attempted rape, racism, racial slurs, torture, abuse

Chapter Three: Steal Away

Today was October 6th, 1862.

It had been officially one week since Marc Martin returned home from the Confederate Army on leave. Sabine was disappointed to say the least, she had hoped that Marc would die a slow, gruesome death within the first year of the war. The war, Sabine could hardly believe that it’s been a whole year since the fighting had erupted within the country. The nation was divided, brothers against brothers, fathers against sons. And nowhere did this sentiment ring ever truer than on the Martin Plantation. Master Martin supported the Confederacy along with Mistress Genevieve and Marc joined the army. Leaving Alain to be the odd man out, he was the only Martin that supported the Union. Sabine recalled the day Alain had left the plantation, it was only a week before the Confederacy seceded from the United States.

“You tell me that I need to escape and yet here you are packing without taking me,” Sabine whispered harshly, as she handed Alain his briefcase.

“Sabine, if I took you with me, there’s only two possible outcomes,” Alain began, grabbing the leather bag. “The first outcome would be the two of us dying. The second outcome would be me dying and you being returned to this plantation,” he explained, keeping his voice low. “God, I feel unclean even saying this, but in the eyes of the law you are property of my father Sabine,” he continued, Sabine’s eyes narrowed and scoffed at his statement. “If I take you with me, my father will accuse me of stealing and they’ll shoot me dead,” he finished, looking over at her.

“Only if we get caught,” Sabine retorted, picking up another piece of luggage.

“It’s too dangerous Sabine, I’m sorry,” Alain said, shaking his head. “My father will raise hell once he notices that you’re gone, even more some when he realizes I’m the one who took you,” he stated, a grimace forming on his face.

“This isn’t fair Alain and you know it,” Sabine said, a frown lining her forehead.

“I know and I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” Alain apologized, sincerity shining in his eyes. “Listen, the Underground Railroad is your best bet,” he informed quietly, taking the suitcase out of her hands. He placed his luggage down in the carriage and let out a sigh, hanging his head low. “Sabine,” he called softly.

“Yes,”

“If you see an opportunity to run, take it,” Alain stated, lifting his head up and staring at her. “You take as many slaves as you can and you run,” he repeated, his tone hushed. “It has never been safe here for you, it will never be safe here for you. So promise me, promise me that you will do that,” he finished, his tone serious.

“I promise,” Sabine answered, nodding her head and Alain exhaled loudly in relief.

“We are going to see each other again Sabine,” he promised. “You’re going to be a free woman, when we do,” he added, smiling at her.

She mirrored his expression, “I look forward to it,” she replied.

“Once I’m settled up North, I’ll keep my eyes and ears open for Henry,” Alain said, and Sabine felt her heart sink at the name. She only nodded in response, words escaping her for a moment. “Now, get back up to the house, we don’t need Sydney getting suspicious before he runs off and tells my parents anything,” he finished, shaking his head.

“Farewell Alain,”

“Farewell Sabine,”

Sabine never did find an opportunity to run away from this god-forsaken plantation.

It seemed like the moment the Confederacy seceded, there was an immediate crack down on the plantation. More overseers were hired by the Martin’s, punishments were harsher, and Alice was no longer the “head slave”, she was replaced by Sydney. Oh, the Martin’s couldn’t have asked for a more obsequious slave than Sydney. The silver haired house slave seemed to be the most observant man she had ever encountered. Sabine believed that Sydney made it his personal mission to strike terror within the hearts of every slave once he was promoted to his position. Alice would be firm with her fellow slaves, but she balanced it out by being loving as well, because deep down Alice knew that they all were just trying to survive their hellacious circumstances.

Sydney on the other hand, was at the beck and call of Master Martin and Genevieve, he was more than happy to inflict their cruel orders and follow it to the letter. Not only that, he was more than willing to sell out any slave, all in the name of remaining in the good graces of the Master and Mistress. Sabine hated his guts, her hatred of Sydney was right up there with her hatred of Master Martin and Genevieve, which was quite remarkable seeing how Sydney was also a slave. She didn’t think she could loathe the man anymore than she already did, but boy did he prove her wrong.

Sydney was the reason that Sabine’s husband was stolen from her.

Henry, was one of the stable boys on the plantation, him and Sabine had been sweet on each other for awhile before he finally worked up the courage to ask for her hand. Even before their marriage Henry was Sabine’s rock, with all the daily abuse she faced the one thing she could look forward to was being wrapped up in Henry’s arms where she could find some solace. But all that was ripped away from Sabine last year. Whispers from the kitchen slaves about Sabine and Henry jumping the broom together had reached Sydney’s ears, he made sure that would be put to an end. By the next day, Sabine was forced to watch her husband be hauled away to be sold at a slave auction in town.

Master Martin was punishing her, the only person that could have Sabine was himself.

For Sabine’s audacity of getting married, she was thrown into the ‘hot box’ for a whole day. The experience was tortuous, Sabine felt like she was being burned alive while simultaneously being suffocated, the airway in her throat felt like it was growing smaller and smaller by the minute. When she was finally released, Sabine was barely conscious and had to be carried to her cabin. She felt like she was on the brink of death. Her throat felt drier than a desert, her body was so weak from the heat rays that damn near cooked her alive, and several areas of her skin were tender and flaming red from the burns she received in her temporary metal coffin.

Sabine’s fellow female slaves had to care her for the rest of the night, they bathed her, dressed her, made sure she drank plenty water, and fed her food that had been smuggled out the kitchen. Exhaustion soon took over her body and Sabine fell into a fitful sleep that night, she couldn’t even mourn the loss of her husband properly. Her mind was too busy replaying her experience of being trapped underground, where the walls surrounding her seemed like they were closing in slowly but surely, nearly about to crush her.

The next morning Sabine made up for it, she sat in her cabin and crammed her apron into her mouth and let out body rattling screams of agony or cries, sometimes both. She screamed till her voice was raspy and too painful to even use.

But that was the past.

If Sabine dwelled on it any longer she might drown herself in misery. The only thing she could do now was focus on the present.

~~~x~~~

“I look like shit,” Sabine thought.

She gazed into the vanity mirror that was located in one of the guest bedrooms she had just finished cleaning. Her warm, brown skin had lost its radiance and sets of dark bags fell below Sabine’s eyes. The hickory brown irises were void of the lively spirit they once held, now they were just…empty. Sabine was exhausted, it was almost impossible to see her signature smirk on her full lips anymore. Sabine was surprised that her face still retained some of it’s softness, the roundness of it and full cheeks made the small, round mole on her right cheek pronounced.

Sabine looked away from her reflection and turned around to make sure that Genevieve or Master Martin were nowhere around. She didn’t hear any movement in the hallway which meant Genevieve was still having her morning tea downstairs. And Master Martin must still be out in the city running errands. Sabine faced the mirror again and lifted her hands to her head, pulling off the headscarf that covered her hair. Two plaits formed a makeshift crown around her head, Sabine ran a hand over the soft, black hair, not caring that she was messing it up more than it already was. She was just happy to see her hair was growing again. Not long after Sabine’s time in 'the hotbox’, she had her hair chopped off to the point that her hair resembled some of the male slaves.

It was a nightmarish experience for Sabine, she didn’t feel feminine anymore, most importantly, she felt like a part of her identity was stripped away from her. Sabine was sure that the torture she endured was because of Sydney, he had the ear of Genevieve and Sabine knew that Genevieve would be more than happy to go along with his suggestion if it meant humiliating her. Unfortunately for them, Sabine’s hair had grown back faster, almost in defiance of Sydney and Genevieve. It wasn’t below her armpits like it was before, but her hair had reached down her neck.

And that made a small smile form on Sabine’s lip.

“My, my, my, aren’t you looking mighty fine Cecile,”

Sabine’s body froze and she felt her heart drop to the pit of her stomach, hearing the voice of Marc behind her.

Sabine spun around to see Marc standing in the doorway, “M-Master,” she stuttered, unconsciously gripping the scarf in her hands tightly.

A slow, evil grin curled on Marc’s mouth, “Mmmm, I love it when you call me that Cecile,” he stated, fully stepping into the room. “Say it again,” he ordered, letting his eyes trail over her body.

Sabine had to stop herself from glaring at the bastard in front of her, “Master,” she repeated, gripping the scarf even tighter.

A menacing chuckle came from Marc’s mouth, “You know, it is so nice to be home,” he began, taking another step forward which made the wooden floor creak, almost in a foreboding manner. “This war has left me weary, but that’s nothing my bed can’t fix,” he continued, moving closer to Sabine, but this time she moved herself and stepped to her left. “Do you want to know what else this war has left me feeling for?” Marc asked, staring at Sabine.

Sabine timidly shook her head, afraid to know the answer, “No, Master,” she answered, her voice slightly wavering.

“Well, you see Cecile, I haven’t seen a woman in months while I’ve been off protecting us from those Yankees,” Marc stated, and Sabine wanted to scoff at his use of the word 'protecting’. “And that can do something to a man, take me for example, I’ve been finding myself a bit frustrated as of late,” he explained, and Sabine’s breathing became unsteady as she had an inkling on where this conversation was going. “But with you standing here Cecile, I think I found the remedy to my ailment,” he finished, a wicked smirk forming on his lips.

Sabine’s eyes were wide and her mouth slightly fell open, it felt like her stomach dropped six feet to the ground. Her eyes darted to the door that was behind Marc as she sensed her heartbeat accelerating. Sabine couldn’t help but shudder in disgust at his leering gaze as he inched closer and closer to her.

Sabine swallowed deeply, “The M-Mistress is c-calling for m-me, Master” she stated, her voice trembling.

A sinister look came over Marc’s face, “I didn’t hear anything,” he replied, a smirk on his face.

And just like that, Sabine bolted for the door but Marc beat her to it, slamming it shut and blocking it with his considerable height. He leered at her hungrily and Sabine felt her entire body trembling with pure fear. Marc was a sadistic man. She had seen the outcome of what happens to the female slaves who are forcibly brought into a room alone with Marc. Sometimes, she could hear the consequences of her fellow female slaves being with Marc. It was rape, they were violently raped. Sabine saw women become a shell of themselves after their inescapable encounter with him.

There was no telling what he would do to her now that he finally trapped her.

She was stuck with this vile monster.

“There’s no escape now, wench!” he declared, staring at her hungrily. “My little brother is no longer here to protect you anymore,” he continued, locking the door. “You are here and you are mine,” he finished, before grabbing her and pulling her close towards him.

Sabine let out a high pitch squeal of horror at feeling the growing pressure against her hipbone. She started to struggle in his arms and that only made Marc grip her arms tighter, bruising her arms with his fingers.

“Get on the bed,” he ordered gruffly, and Sabine almost went dizzy with terror. She just shook her head, unable to speak. Marc roughly pushed her back towards the bed. “I said, 'get on the bed’. Now!” he shouted, his tone poisonous.

Sabine glared at him fearfully, “No!” she croaked, the word slipped through her mouth so easily, she barely had to think about it.

She had been violated in more ways than she thought was humanly possible, but she couldn’t let this happen to her. No, she refused to let this happen to her. Sabine would rather die than be raped by Marc. She had little to live for at that point anyway.

Marc’s expression darkened, “No?” he repeated deathly calm.

Sabine’s eyes narrowed even more, “That’s what I said,” she answered firmly, sounding a lot stronger than she actually felt.

A deep roar tore Marc’s throat as he threw himself on top of Sabine and they both fell on the bed. His body was on top of hers, pinning her hands to each side of her head.

“Let me go!” Sabine screamed, trying to fight him off.

“You need to be taught a lesson!” Marc exclaimed, maintaining his crushing grip on Sabine’s wrists. “And I have just the thing in mind,” he added, grinding his groin against her.

A desperate and frantic scream erupted from Sabine’s lips, her heart was racing and fear consumed her body once more.

“No, no, no!” Sabine thought.

She started to panic and began thrashing underneath him, but to no avail. She foolishly wished that Genevieve would come upstairs and unlock the door to stop her son from having his way with her. But she knew the idea was hopeless, if anything, Genevieve would blame Sabine for her own rape.

“I like it when you struggle, it makes the experience all the more enjoyable,” he said, a cruel smile on his face as he chuckled.

Tears fell from her eyes and ran down her cheeks. Marc’s eyes roved her breast before he began to lower his face toward them and Sabine did the only thing she could think of, she headbutted him. She almost immediately blacked out from the pain of skull hitting skull, but hearing the furious cry of Marc and no longer feeling the pressure of his body on top her gave Sabine motivation to stay conscious. She scrambled off the bed, seeing gold specks from the sudden motion, barely managing to steady herself and make a run for it. Grabbing the skirt of her dress, Sabine lifted it away from her feet and dashed for the bedroom door.

“You goddamn bitch!”

Suddenly, Sabine found herself being yanked down to the wooden floor and let out a loud shriek as she went. Marc’s face was red in fury and also with the crimson liquid that ran down from his forehead. He bared his teeth at Sabine with a growl and she began quickly crawling backwards from him, only for Marc to harshly seize her by the left ankle. Instinctively, Sabine’s right foot shot out and connected with Marc’s nose in a sickening crunch.

A howl of pain escaped from Marc, “I’m going to fucking kill you, you negro whore!” he bellowed, his eyes darkening with pure hatred.

From that moment on, everything sort of became a blur to Sabine. One moment she was scrambling to get up from the floor, and then the next thing she knows is that she is letting out an inhuman, blood-curdling scream as Marc lunged towards her. It was the first blow of Marc’s fist across her face that put Sabine in a daze, she never stood a chance.

And one after the other, the punches came.

Sabine believed she had to be going in and out of consciousnesses during her pummeling, when she came around one time, she felt herself being repeatedly kicked in the ribs before becoming unconscious again. The next time she awakened, she could a hand brutally gripping her by the hair as he pulled her barely conscious body with him down the hallway and down the stairs. Sabine’s head started spinning and nausea washed over her at the unexpected motion of being roughly jerked along, she hardly had time to get her bearings.

Sabine could already feel her face swelling black and blue, there was a stinging sensation underneath her right eye and Sabine wondered that could be. She also felt the same stinging sensation on her bottom lip, which also felt fatter than usual. Swollen, that’s what it had to be, her bottom lip was swollen and split. She was just now beginning to taste iron in her mouth. Her nose felt runny, like there was snot coming from her nostrils, but from the metallic scent she could smell, she knew it was not that.

And the left side of her ribs, it felt like they were on fire. She barely touched the tender spot before she felt herself wince. Her ribs were most likely bruised, if not broken.

“Sydney get my goddamn pistol!” Marc spat, stepping down from the last step with Sabine in tow. “Alice, ring the bell outside! I want every slave to witness what’s about happen! Go!” he ordered, and Sabine could hear her footfalls running out the house.

Sabine was about to die, she knew there was no way around that.

“Marc, my dear!” Genevieve said, letting out a gasp. “What did Cecile to you?!” she exclaimed, and Sabine could envision Genevieve sending her a hateful glare. “You have blood all over you!” she commented, moving closer to them.

“Cecile here,” Marc began, tightening his hold on Sabine’s hair which made her sharply gasp in pain. “Has forgotten her place here at this plantation, she’s gotten a little too uppity for my taste,” He explained, as a set of footsteps approached them.

“Here you go, Massa,”

Hearing Sydney’s weaselly voice made Sabine’s blood boil.

“But don’t worry Ma, I know just the punishment for Cecile,” Marc reassured, grabbing the gun from Sydney’s hands. “You’re more than welcome to watch,” he offered, before yanking Sabine along to follow him outside the house.

Sabine nearly tripped over her feet as she was pulled down the porch stairs, faintly she could hear the murmuring of the slaves off to the side of the house. She had faint idea of where she was being dragged to, it was more likely than not the Whipping Tree. The murmuring of the slaves became louder as they approached the congregation of people and that’s when Sabine heard the gasps of horror. A silence swept over the crowd and Sabine could only imagine what she looked like, she knew it was bad though.

Her face was probably stained red along with her dress.

Suddenly, Sabine felt herself being shoved unto the hard, dirt ground. She fell onto her left side and an ear-splitting scream of agony ripped through Sabine’s throat, the force of her fall made her see stars and left her struggling to breath. Tears began to form in her eyes as she struggled to sit up.

“Get up!” Marc roared, pacing back and forth in front of her. Sabine let out a ragged breath and looked up at Marc, squinting her eyes as the morning sun blinded her. “Stand up now!” he shouted, waving his pistol at Sabine.

On shaky arms, Sabine pushed herself onto all fours, breathing heavily from exertion. She fell back onto her knees and lightly placed her hand on her injured ribs, slowly she raised herself from the ground with a small cry of pain.

“The reason you all are gathered here today is to show you what happens to an ungrateful slave like Cecile here!” Marc stated, with a sneer as he began circling her like a predator would do its prey. Sabine was too exhausted, in too much pain, to even roll her eyes at the laughable description of her. “Here on the Martin Plantation we treat you all just fine. We feed you, clothe you, and give you a roof to live under,” he continued, now staring out into the sea of faces of the slaves. “My family and I have extended charity to you slaves, and we expect that in return,” he went on. “So if I tell you do something, remember, it is not a request, it’s an order. Even if it means you lay on your back and spread your goddamn legs open for me!” Marc shouted, and Sabine flinched and squeezed her eyes shut when she felt the cold steel of his pistol shoved into the back of her head.

Sabine’s muscles began to lock up as a slight nervousness sat in the pit of her stomach. She had already accepted her fate, so why was she so tense? This is what she wanted, an escape from this hellish existence that she was born into. Death, that was Sabine’s freedom and she received a small taste of it when she headbutted Marc. She was going to “steal away” just like the hymn they sing on Sundays, and while she didn’t put much faith into believing there’s a lord above her, because how could God watch her and her fellow slaves not save them from their suffering? Still, the spirituals and hymns painted a beautiful picture of the Promised Land and it gave her something to cling to through her torment on this plantation.

If that was what freedom looked like, then that’s where she wanted to go.

“Let Cecile here be a lesson to you all, my family and I will not tolerate any form of disobedience,” Marc said, standing in front of her now and addressing the slaves. Sabine must have went into a daze with all of the thoughts that raced through her head. “Do not be mistaken, every single last one of you are expendable. We can always buy another slave to take your place,” he finished coldly.

Laughter bubbled out of Sabine, a crazed laugh. One that caused her shoulders to shake.

Marc whipped his body around towards her, “Something funny Cecile?” he questioned, glaring at her.

“Oh it’s comical,” she corrected, her laughter subsiding. “You and your family will not be able to hurt me any longer,” she said, with a light chuckle as she shook her head. “For I am about to become a free woman, Marc,” she finished, addressing him by his name and not the title she was forced to call him for so many years.

Marc’s nostrils flared at the usage of his first name, which for a slave, was absolutely forbidden. Immediately, he aimed his revolver at her head, the steel gleaming in the bright sun. Staring down the barrel of the gun, a wide smile grew on Sabine’s face, showing the layer of blood that coated to her teeth. She watched as he slowly cocked the hammer back and Sabine smirked, her signature smirk. The sound of a gun firing one single bullet echoed in the air and just before the bullet ripped through Sabine’s forehead, she had one single thought.

“Freedom,”

Chapter Four: Resurrection

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knightdale-secret · 3 years

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Today I learned a haunting truth about a secret hidden right in my very neighborhood. An ugly truth that has been hidden, covered up and mostly forgotten, until now.

In Knightdale, North Carolina the prominent plantation owner, Charles Lewis Hinton, purchased and built a plantation home for his son David Hinton and his new wife Mary Boddie Carr as a wedding present on a stretch of land that would come to be known as the Midway Plantation because it was halfway between two other Hinton family properties. The beautiful, two-story Greek Revival plantation home was built in 1848 as a forced-labor farm. A slave plantation.

I’m not certain how many people were enslaved there over the years, but I do know that at least 130 of those slaves were buried on a site that would later be knowingly built on top of to create Widewaters subdivision. MY neighborhood.

Right behind the community pool and club house there is a strange white gravel path that leads up a slight hill to a black wrought iron fence gate that is always latched. There is a rickety wooden fencing surrounding a wooded area on a hill. This is in the middle of the neighborhood. There was never any explanation for it - for why, in a development, this overgrown patch of trees is fenced in and gated off, untouched, where normally there would be another few houses perhaps. I pass this area almost daily in my car or on leisurely walks. I had noticed the fence but thought maybe it was part of someone’s property. I didn’t think too much of it.

But that changed today. Today I was bored and looking up about local plantation owners in the area because history has always interested me. I learned a little about the Shoppes of Midway being built where the plantation house once stood and that the original house and its outbuildings were moved 2 miles up the road so a Target could be built and the ever expanding road wouldn’t keep encroaching on their lawn. This made way for growth in Knightdale. And grow it has. What was once a small town on the outskirts of Raleigh has become busier and more built up as available housing in the city has decreased and people leave it in search of quieter suburbs to live and raise their families. So as I was researching for no reason in particular other than personal interest, I stumbled upon an article about Midway Plantation and it stated that there was a slave cemetery that was surveyed and a neighborhood was built on top of it. It said it was across the street to the east from where the Midway Plantation house originally stood and that all that was left of the cemetery was maybe 50 graves on a hill in some trees surrounded by a black wrought iron fence. The article states that after the building of the subdivision was started, it was clear that houses were more important than the graves of the many slaves that worked the plantations. And yes, the builders did know about the cemetery. It was surveyed and it was signed off on to be built over. I think this is when the downplaying, lying and covering up started. A letter was reportedly written according to the below article when the preparations for the subdivision were being made that said that such a large slave cemetery couldn’t have existed in this area based on the shaky reference that the present owners didn’t have enough slaves to have this type of burial ground and no church could be identified on the grounds (cause cemeteries only are constructed on church grounds?) this mysterious letter writer conveniently failed to recognize that the land was originally Hinton land and they had slaves numbering in the hundreds here and could most certainly have amassed a deceased slave population of that size over the years it was in operation.

There is a saying about guilt : “A given excuse that was not asked for implies guilt.” If this letter writer submitted this without prompting from any public outcry than he was already defending a guilty mind. He was trying to persuade people away from the truth and to avoid any public outrage over the very wrong they knew they were committing by building here.

That article link is here: http://www.knightdalehistoric.com/pdf/plantations3.pdf

This was the only article or snippet of information I could find about this cemetery that very clearly under my neighborhood and whose remaining grave sites lie just mere feet away from our community swimming pool. This disturbed me greatly because to date, this site is unmarked and unrecognized. So i first decided to submit a request for a historical marker to be made for the site. I was met with an emailed response by a very helpful administrator for the NC Marker Historical Society who said that they no longer do markers for cemeteries but she would contact the National Register for Historic Places and see if the cemetery could be added to the Midway plantation that is already registered as a historical place. She has been talking with archaeologists who are working on this and she’ll be in touch. I also emailed someone in archives to see how I could find the site survey that was done but haven’t received a response yet.

Next I decided to post this information on Facebook to the local community groups and see how they felt about it, and to inform them as well as pose that a marker be made and that I would try to get that facilitated. An outpouring of support and offerings to donate to help fund its creation were given. I knew I was onto something that was important not just to me as a person living in a neighborhood with a secret of this magnitude, but to a community of people who would also want this recognized.

Now, I myself am not African American. I am pretty much as white as they come, I have the genealogy report to prove it. I struggled with the idea that I would be lambasted as trying to be some sort of “white savior” or something by trying to make this happen. I felt guilty that I was the one that found this information and had to be the one to put it out there. I felt like this belongs to the descendants of slaves. this is something that would affect their community,feelings and hearts maybe more than the white community’s in its ramifications and would of course be more important to them on a more personal level. Who am I to come in and make a big stink about something that isn’t even my history someone might say,but it is America’s history. It is the history of the land I now inhabit. And it is an issue that I hold dear to my heart because these men and women and children that lived, worked and died here were not just property or possessions, they were people and their graves should be respected just like anyone else’s. More so I think. Their graves can serve as a reminder of the great bloody sins that occurred in the building of this country. In the building of the south. The only monuments I’d like to see in the south would be to commemorate the slaves, not the enslavers and the people that tried to tear the country apart. The hero slaves that helped build this nation against their will and with great laboring and suffering due to an abhorrent institution that stains our history. They are the ones that should be remembered. Their stories told.

I have always been a sympathizing person. My first hero in elementary school was Martin Luther King, Jr. I gave an oral report on him and did papers later in junior high. I have always been the type of person that hates seeing injustice done to people and the hatred that divides communities and people over nothing more than color or ignorant biases. It never made sense to me and I never understood why people can’t be kind to one another and celebrate differences rather than fear them.

Some people made the point that many cemeteries have been likely built on over the years including white cemeteries, which I also think is awful, but in this situation PART OF THIS CEMETERY IS STILL HERE! Part of our history, this city’s history is still here in OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. We pass it every day! It is here with us and it should be recognized. It should be visited and reflected on. It should be acknowledged.

I visited the cemetery site today and saw the indentations in the ground and the old stone markers left on some of the sites where the slaves were buried. I couldn’t believe that this was just here, between houses and a pool, not in a historical site that you had to pay to see. No fanfare or brochure handouts. Just dusty old bones in the ground marked by grey stones in a patch of trees in the middle of a subdivision, silently waiting to be seen. I whispered to them before I left that I would do all I could to make sure they were not forgotten. That a marker in their honor would be made so they could be remembered. I sincerely hope I can make that happen.

Thru my posts on Facebook, I met a man named Keith Gibbs who has apparently already done a lot of work to try to have this cemetery recognized with a small group of others but they hit many roadblocks. He told me that there are cover ups and corruption surrounding the area from higher ups and people that don’t want this information out there. He was unsuccessful in his journey to get the site recognized, but he has agreed to hand over his research and findings to me in hopes I will be the one to get something done. ME, a curious girl with no real clout, lol. Yeah, ME, I’m the one. I’m the one that will make this happen where others failed. RIGHT?? Right.

Now, it should be said that I have never really been the figure head for anything in my life. I have never been the spokesperson, the leader the public person, the socialite. I am a shy person that works best from the shadows, behind the scenes. The one that does the work but doesn’t get the credit. And I have largely been okay with that role. It’s less stressful. But now people are looking to me to lead them on this issue. To call the shots and take the donations and create the marker. And that was all fine and dandy…. until CBS 17 messaged me asking if I’d like to do a story for them to help get attention and funding for the marker. I got excited and also nervous. I let her know that would likely be a good Avenue to take to get it done but I am still in the information gathering stage. I let her know of my meeting with Keith and told her I’d get back with her when I knew more. She was okay with that.

Honestly, I was relieved I had a reason to stall. I’ve never been on TV before! Cameras DO NOT love me unless its a selfie photo with a Snapchat filter that i’m taking of myself lol. I’m no public speaker. And also I still feel like it shouldn’t be me. I mean, it should since I discovered it and put it out there for the masses, but how can I be the face of this? Me, a white girl from small town Pennsylvania, be the face of a covered up slave cemetery? I feel guilty but also I do feel like there is something to white privilege and power and I hope to only use it as a force for good in this world and to help those with less privilege than I where I can. We only live once and I think a whole lot about how I want to be remembered when I am gone. When someone is building houses over my grave. I’d like to know somewhere out there I might be remembered fondly for doing something that was right in this world of wrongs.

I’m terrified to do the story, but I feel like it is my duty now and my responsibility. I am just so scared of fucking it up. What if I say something stupid or that can be taken out of context? This is such a touchy issue after all. I just want to do them justice. God help me. I just want them to be remembered.

#knightdale #slavery #history #coverup #cemetery #historic preservation #historical #north carolina #plantation #the south #scandal #civil war

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theclownandtheflame · 5 years

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AIGHT FELLAS it's me ya slut writing a Gaius x MC fic so if you don't like Gaius or feel grossed out by the idea of a ship then DON'T READ IT haaaa no seriously don't read it. Also don't shame those who like it. PEACE! 🧚🏻‍♀️

Btw I didn't quite finish it bc idk my imagination gets dry sometimes and stuff. BUT if any of you want me to keep writing, then ask so and I'll do it! I'll do it either way but oh well ksksksks here we go!

Victim, Victim, Monster

A Gaius Augustine x MC drabble/fic

Written by @theclownandtheflame

DISCLAIMER: Some NSFW, slight mentions of PTSD (not romanticized tho!! ew!!)

Characters used &/or mentioned belong to Pixelberry!!! All rights to them even if they take ours on a daily basis

My mother language is Portuguese so please excuse my grammar should it be necessary!

MC's name is Athena because,, :)

Final warning for Gaius' haters: don't. read. below. the line !!!!!!!!

_________________________________________

"Athena, I did terrible things to you. I abducted you. I raided your mind. I tortured your friends. I killed you."

Funny how stating the obvious got him stuck in her mind the whole night. Fragile, the bloodkeeper clutched her pillow and busied herself with happier thoughts. As if there were any at times like these.

They had just escaped the island when its effects fully wore out. She couldn't blame "grandpa" for her restlessness, as much as she wanted to. So much to consider after trekking across the ugly truth and all she could think about was Gaius. Gaius Augustine.

She heaved a dramatic sigh before changing positions. Now, laying on her back, Athena realized this was probably the best night of sleep she's had in a while. Even if there was, like, absolutely no sleeping involved.

What kept her up wasn't the nightmares this time. Something about their talk, as eerie as it went, helped her conceal the fact his face would haunt her forever. Because, oh, it would.

"You can't sleep, can you?"

The agony, crawling under her skin, hit so deep she could hear his voice at any given time. Chewing on the inside of her cheek, she stared at the ceiling, counting sheeps for a change. No nightmares, no daydreams, but absolutely not a hint of tranquility.

"... Athena."

She huffed. If she knew coming to good terms with the enemy would bring him inside her head, she wouldn't have taken the high road. Her lips still tingled from the kiss she pressed to his cheek. The electric warmth shared upon breaking a boundary she would've never have crossed days prior.

If only her friends could see her now. Touching her lips with her fingertips. Thinking fondly of a monster they swore to kill.

"Are you asleep? Do you actually sleep with your eyes open? You are one strange woman."

"Leave, demon!" She hissed, forcing herself up to sit by the edge of the bed. Both hands rubbed at her temples as she whispered words of discouragement, praying to have her brain raided by better thoughts. A psych vampire who can't watch after her own mind was most likely a joke.

Until she glanced towards the door, slowly, blushing deeply at the owner of her inner voices who simply stared back in awe. So it wasn't her imagination playing tricks, huh?

He blinked. Fast.

"... Did you think I—"

"Shut up." She lisped. Her hands continued to cradle her head even as he walked in, eyebrows arched.

"I was hoping you'd be less fussy after our conversation."

Without expecting an invitation, he crossed the distance between them and leaned into the wall across from her.

Surprisingly she didn't budge. Not until her body flinched at the cold breeze that entered freely from the gap he left by keeping the door open.

"Yeah, so was I." The woman closed her eyes and took a deep breath to keep herself from shaking.

Once aware of the situation, Gaius snatched her pillow and tossed it on the door. It slammed closed from the impact, but it wasn't loud enough to startle the others.

"Hey!" She gasped, watching the scene with eyes wide. "Couldn't you just go and close it manually? Like, running for it? You're a powerful vampire, dude."

Entertained by her fright, he smirked.

"I'm also way too comfortable standing right here... dude."

Gaius Augustine was a monster. Is a monster. She couldn't really tell. Decades of cruelty couldn't be wiped out so easily, as Kamilah strongly suggested whenever she mentioned his name. Yet, the way he looked at her with a mixture of sorrow and regret proved it true: Rheya broke him whole.

He stood still, stiffening once their eyes met, and suddenly all she could see was a wounded hound looking for shelter.

"Why are you here?" She asked at last. A simple question that sent him looking for scrappers of answers he couldn't quite provide.

Why was he there, really? Because she's the only one who didn't give him a hard time? Because she knew how his mind worked, and therefore they had a reliable bond?

Because she's the only good thing left of the Rheya he once loved?

He needn't consider any further. That last possibility drained all colors from his face. Staring blankly ahead, his mouth slightly ajar, Gaius ignored her altogether and hurried towards the door.

"Wait!" She called out. Without further ado, Athena leaped to her feet and approached the man to lay a hand on his as it reached for the knob.

The look he gave her was a haunting one. Desperate. He couldn't bear looking at her face without feeling himself break further.

Oh, how the tables have turned.

He was terrified of her.

"I must leave." He blurted out, but his body remained unmoving. The gentle touch he felt on his hand moved on to his cheek, and suddenly he found himself leaning into it.

What the hell, Athena? What are you doing?, She thought. He abducted you, raided your mind, tortured your friends, killed you!

Their eyes met once more, and this time they didn't go astray. They glared at each other's hues while their heads swirmed with questions of where they stood and what they meant.

Victim, victim, monster.

Both experiencing a strong attraction that most likely came to life due to their shared fear:

To lose a purpose without making it right.

Pulling away out of a sudden, Athena turned on her heels and walked in front of a mirror. He followed short after, magnetized, his hands yearning to grasp her hips but resting on his belt instead. His towering figure could be easily seen behind her as a smile crept on her rosy lips.

"What?" He frowned. "What's so amusing to you that clearly isn't to me?"

Biting on her bottom lip, she gestured towards their reflections, believing it would be enough. By the way his lips puckered, it wasn't.

"We're vampires. Yet we can see ourselves on the mirror. Hollywood's fishy, isn't it?"

Sighing sharply not to roll his eyes at her foolishness, he leaned into her to touch the mirror's surface. The way his chest pressed into her back so that his palm could reach the glass made her heartbeats quicken.

The funny look he gave her through a squint was enough to say he heard them loud and clear. And enjoyed being the cause of it.

"You don't believe Vlad's tales, do you? It's outrageous. The man is a buffoon." He quirked an eyebrow. Looking at the mirror at the same time, the two shot each other challenging glares until she burst into laughter.

"Nah. He's not that great, by the way. I don't see the appeal... and I've certainly had better."

Wiggling her eyebrows, Athena fist-bumped the air upon spotting a crimson shade spread on his cheeks. He'd have pulled away to adjust his posture if she hadn't laid her hand upon his.

Her fingers grazed his until curling around them, her touch so gentle he could barely feel it. He closed his eyes when she laid her head back on his shoulder, and his arm slowly slithered around her waist in return.

Humming to herself, Athena shrunk into his arms and cherished the warmth of his hold. Then, the touch of his lips on her ear, of his breath tickling her skin.

"I do see the appeal in this." He growled, softly, making her body shiver from goosebumps. "Of holding you close to me instead of hunting you down. Of saving you instead of dragging you to harm's way."

The hand he had holding on her waist moved up to her breasts, hovering over her cleavage as he reached for a necklace as an excuse to his gestures. Her heart was entirely out of control at this point, beating faster by the minute – but she didn't care. She wanted him to be aware of his effects. Tilting her head, she brushed her lips across his jawline and smirked at the hiss she got in response.

"Well, there is a saying for that, y'know? Make love, not war."

Having distracted him with an array of kisses on his jaw, she reached back around her neck to unclip the necklace and toss it away. He needn't an excuse. Not anymore.

"So which one's gonna be? I'm warning you though, I'm great at waging war."

"You are infuriating." Without further notice, his hands clutched her hips to flip her around.

Once she could face him properly, Athena inched forth to try his lips for the first time, but he made sure to keep her at arm's length. His eyes, dark with lust, studied her frame before locking on her features. It's like he was seeing her for the first time, savoring the sight of something he craved despite unaware.

He took it in without a wish to kill but to touch, appraise, caress. Taste.

"Kiss me." She ordered, her voice but a whisper as his thumbs drew circles around her hips.

"No, Bloodkeeper..." He hummed, his nose brushing hers as he fought the urge to give it in. "I'm not so sure I am worthy of your lips."

Dodging temptation, he pressed a kiss to her cheek instead. A warm reminder that there's still good in this world as much as there could be in him.

"Goodnight, Athena."

She shook her head. He couldn't leave now, not when she found a way around the sharp edges of his heart. However, he was too determined to cut it short before it was too late. Even if something told him they were way past that.

Averting his gaze not to meet her hungry eyes, he planted one last kiss on her forehead and left with haste.

"Great..." She mumbled, more restless than ever. "Now I definitely can't sleep."

-//-

#bloodbound #bloodbound choices #bloodbound book 3 #bloodbound fic #bloodbound drabble #gaius augustine #gaius x mc #yes it is real the cursed ship mwah #bb choices #bb pb #theclownandtheflame : victim victim monster

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paperwick · 4 years

Text

This is my not spoiler free take on Picard.

This is a mess of a post, but I’m still trying to work through my thoughts. If I was still in college, I would watch the series one more time and write an essay, but we’ll have to settle for this stream of consciousness under the cut. (My apologies to mobile users).

The main theme of Picard is about ‘killing for a cause’. It tries to explore this through several character’s arcs: primarily Soji, Sutra, Agnes Jirati, Seven of Nine, Rizzo, and Oh. (I don’t include Elnor because, though he kills for a cause, there’s no character development for him in this respect.)

There’s loosely a theme of “Should I kill to prevent more death/disaster?” vs “Should I kill so I might not be killed?”.

I’m mostly gonna leave out Seven because her development on this is really non-existent, but the writers use her as a positive example of “killing to prevent more death/disaster” as a foil to Rizzo, Oh, and Agnes. I honestly feel this comparison is falsely equivalent, because Seven wasn’t wiping out an entire race or murdering an innocent man when she killed two very guilty murders. Is it right to kill murderers? Who knows, the show doesn’t REALLY touch on it so neither will we.

Here’s the scene: a faction of organics (Rizzo, Oh, Agnes) believe that synthetic life spells doom for all organic life and are seeking to destroy them. In response to total annihilation, the synthetics (Soji, Sutra) are willing to annihilate all of organic life to permanently remove the threat. Picard insists both are wrong and that there is always a more peaceful solution.

It’s all pretty black and white, with very few grey areas of opinion.

It drives me nuts because there’s so much ROOM in this to open up the conversation about the role of violence in independence and in survival. How far do you pursue peaceful solutions before it gives way to violence? What are the consequences of being peaceful too long? Is it ethical to use excessive force if it’s the only means to survive?

But they break it down into harshly black and white scenarios. “All life must die so that we might survive.” “If we fight back at all, we lose our humanity.” There’s no subtly, no real moral exploration.

There’s room in the show to explore how killing might effect how events unfold. But every time it happens, it’s the dead-end of that storyline. Maddox had already told them all they needed to know, what further damage could he even do when Agnes killed him? Bjayzl was no longer a threat to them. Rizzo was no longer a pusher in the story, they’d both fulfilled her plot-purpose when Seven killed them.

There’s room to explore how similar synthetic life is to organic life, in their humanity and morality, and lack there-of at times, in their will and desperation to survive. But we constantly come back to androids not being “real”. It’s always about their function, never really their humanity. The writing from all angles, throughout the season, is that synthetic life is somehow less real. Nonequivalent. And we never really touch on that either, it’s wildly frustrating.

So we have Sutra, who is willing to destroy all organic life to save her and her family, representing a hard extreme. Oh wants to destroy all synthetic life to protect organic life, representing the other extreme. And Picard is firmly in the middle, saying we can all live in peace and harmony.

And that’s the end of the conversation.

There’s a moment where Soji tells Picard that he can’t be the voice of synthetic life, and that was a great moment. The androids can take up their own cause instead of relying on a third party for protection.

But then the writers turn around and have Picard be that voice anyway, against their will, to prove that the peaceful solution is the better solution. And he has to because there’s no grey area in these moments. It’s “choose to kill literally everyone in the galaxy or choose to kill no one”. Where’s the “choose to fight the people who actively want us dead” part of the conversation?

In response to “how can the marginalized defend and empower themselves”, we’re told “make friends with less marginalized people.” But they aren’t even the operative force in that solution. It’s Picard alone. They don’t get to add their voices to the mix. It was all out of their hands to begin with. Starfleet walks in all deus ex machina because one man asks them to show up.

When Agnes killed Maddox, their point was that she was doing it to save organic life. We never explore why she thinks it was the right thing to do. What was she afraid of him doing? He was already dying, his death was unnecessary, all we’re given is that she was haunted by the vision Oh thrust upon her. And then we spend the rest of the season redeeming her because she “felt bad about killing him” and was “out of her mind” when she did it. SURELY she had a reason for doing it at the time? Even a really bad one? Was she worried he’d created another synthetic lifeform? Was she worried he might be integral to helping the androids fight back? Fuck if I know, we never really touch on it.

The most blow back Agnes gets from literal murder is a slap on the wrist from Picard and Dr. Soong. She was supposed to turn herself in, but that didn’t happen in the end. We pleasantly forget she killed a helpless man because she and the pilot are in love, and “she knows she was wrong”.

As it stands, it was just an excuse to inject needless drama into the show. But there is a real and current need for us to talk about people ‘killing for a cause’.

We see it in our own lives on the news and in our daily lives, and it’s a mind-fuck.

How governments “root out terrorists” and kill innocent civilians in the process. They say “it saved more lives than we took”. Did it? There’s a conversation to be had there, and a necessary one if we want to continue to look ourselves in the eyes.

When a foreign country arranges for another’s leading revolutionary to be assassinated, do they have the right to do that? No, but they seem to think so and encourage their population to believe so. There’s a conversation to be had there.

When the government (Oh) instructs their citizens (Agnes) that this other peoples is dangerous and will be the death of them, and gently encourages their citizens to harass that other party, the citizens will take the law into their own hands. It’s wrong, but many people seem to think it’s appropriate. Whether it’s race, religion, nationality, populations are constantly being guided towards believing other peoples are a threat to themselves. And there’s a conversation to be had there. A dire one.

Instead of developing a commentary about this senseless act of murder, the show focuses on redeeming Agnes’ character. She was “crazy” at the time, her mind filled with “poison” from Oh. Which in a way is true, people become brainwashed by those in authority and act horribly, but she never faces the consequences of her actions. She ultimately suffers no consequences for murdering a man. And she does very little to truly redeem herself. She saves Picard to save the androids. Everyone seems to go, “oh no, she spilled the milk” and gently clean it up for her.

Do I want her burned at the stake? Not really, she did help them in the end, she did seem to have growth, but to get away scot-free is just an insult to the crime she committed. Maddox was denied justice. I think there could have been a real conversation about people coming back from getting “red-pilled”, but it’s hard to walk back on murder.

Overall there was a frustrating lack of real commentary. The deeper conversation here might’ve been “How can we navigate and defend ourselves in a world where others seek to undermine and destroy us?” and “Does the government have the right to dictate who should live or die?”. The first one is the harder question but so necessary, with so much room to empower people. The second is very straight forward, but one that a lot of people are struggling with right now because of a warped perspective promoted by their government (at least in America).

What we got was “total annihilation of any group is bad” and OF COURSE IT IS. I know we’re having an issue with people believing that again, but even so, the show did not really deliver that message super well either. The final note on it was “there’s a ‘peaceful’ solution to total annihilation, but really only if you have a defensive force equal to that trying to destroy you”. The androids didn’t have any real say in their defense other than “we decided not to kill everyone.”

UGH, I could go on, but the message of the series is so muddled. I keep coming back around to how poor the writing is. How punchy and action-packed it wasted its time being, instead of really working through the core problems. Instead of making a strong statement.

Star Trek to me is about challenging how you think/feel. It’s about opening our minds and encouraging us to be better than what we are. It hasn’t always hit the mark, there are dozens and dozens of episodes where they shoot themselves in the foot they were so off the mark, but the spirit of it is to challenge your given perceptions. Especially relevant to the time it’s being made.

Give us more LGBT relationships other than 1 second of on-screen handholding in the final shot, and maybe write something that actually shakes people’s hearts and challenges what the general population takes for granted.

#thoughts #star trek #picard #spoilers

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daresplaining · 5 years

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Could you maybe make a post with some of the most inspiring Daredevil pages? Stuff like him overcoming the Purple Man making him more depressed and hopeless in Waid's run, or the "I am Daredevil, and I am not Afraid." page from Soule's run. Those kind of pages always help me when I'm feeling down, it would be cool to see more in that vein.

I love this request, and yes, I can definitely do that! I draw a lot of inspiration from Daredevil too (and superhero comics in general; that’s one of the purposes of the genre, in my experience), and refusing to give up when everything is falling apart is one of Matt’s trademark moves. Here are a few of my favorite moments– and I’m including the ones you mentioned, since I love them and want to make sure other people have seen them too.

[ID: The Kingpin is brutally beating up Matt, who is in civvies. Matt falls on his back, his face bloody.]

Matt: “Never give up– never–”

Let’s start with a classic:

[ID: Daredevil is fighting Namor. He tries electrocuting him, but the blast knocks him to the ground. As Namor walks away, Daredevil reaches out and grabs his ankle before passing out.]

Namor: “This is madness!! Does your own life mean nothing to you!?? Have you no sense of fear??”

Matt: “Sure! But I seem to have carelessly misplaced it somewhere! Now, just stand there for a second, fella– I want to try something!”

Caption: “Taking one last desperate gamble, Daredevil joins the two live wires, hoping to stagger his super-human foe! […] But, once again, the power of the Sub-Mariner is greater than any could suppose, and it is he who recovers first– while the Man Without Fear, despite his insulated gloves– lies weak, and dazed, and helpless…! Yet, how can one measure the limitless courage of a fellow human? Although on the brink of unconsciousness– although racked with pain and fatigue– still the sightless crusader reaches out–!”

Matt: “Come back! You– you mustn’t fight the others–! They’re innocent– mustn’t be harmed– mustn’t–!”

Namor: “[…] I have fought the Fantastic Four, the Avengers, and other super-powered humans, but none has been more courageous than he, the most vulnerable of all! And out of respect to the courage of Daredevil, I shall not injure any humans! I shall fly above the waiting armed forces– and return to the sea where I am supreme!”

Daredevil vol. 1 #7 by Stan Lee and Wally Wood

The issue that introduced the red Daredevil costume also crafted one of the first memorable depictions of Matt’s boundless resilience. Namor the Sub-Mariner comes ashore to sue the human race, and hires Nelson and Murdock to represent him. When the situation goes awry, Namor becomes violent, and Matt tries to subdue him. While he gets thoroughly thrashed in this fight, Matt’s persistence impresses Namor enough to make him leave the human race alone (for now). That image of a nearly-unconscious Daredevil clinging to Namor’s ankle is fairly iconic, with– I feel– good reason.

[ID: The Hulk backhands Daredevil a good distance, where he crashes into some trash cans. He is injured and bleeding, but he struggles back to his feet as the Hulk stands over him, deciding whether or not to finish him off.]

Hulk: “NO! Banner made the Hulk a monster and Hulk will find him, even if it takes forever!”

Matt: “Hulk… *koff*… you won’t find Banner… *koff*… this way. You can’t… *koff*… find Banner this way. The police… the authorities.. I-I want to help them understand… *koff*… and… *koff* … I want to help you. …But you’ll have to trust me.”

Daredevil vol. 1 #163 by Roger McKenzie, Frank Miller, and Glynis Wein

This is, thematically, a very similar situation to the first scene. The Hulk goes on a rampage and Matt tries to stop him. Just as in the Namor situation, Matt loses this fight– he is nearly beaten to death, and is confined to a hospital bed for quite a while afterward– but his courage breaks through the Hulk’s rage enough to calm him down. This is a recurring theme in their friendship. Matt first meets Bruce Banner when he is hired to represent the Hulk in court, and from the beginning, Matt has been vocal in his support of Bruce and sympathy for the Hulk. Despite the danger, Matt never hesitates to put himself within smashing distance of the Hulk for the sake of helping him.

[ID: A taxi is resting at the bottom of a river with its hood bashed in. Matt Murdock is unconscious in the front seat. We see a close-up of his eyes as they open in a defiant glare. The next few panels show the Kingpin standing at a window looking out, and photos of the cab after it has been pulled out of the river.]

Caption: “Unconscious but living, Murdock is placed in a stolen checker cab… The cab is driven off Pier 41 into the East River. Its safety belt and doors are corroded shut by a chemical process that is identical to rust. Murdock is drenched in whiskey. A bottle, open, is laid in his lap. The owner of the cab is beaten to death by Murdock’s stolen billy club. Days pass into weeks. Still Murdock is never far from the crimelord’s thoughts. He imagines one last, terrible moment of realization… of Murdock thrashing wildly, desperately, hatefully… screaming soundlessly into the poisoned water… The Kingpin shudders at the thought, in pleasure… The world seems flooded with sunlight. Daily business becomes a joyous, childlike game. He has disgraced, destroyed and murdered the only good man he has ever known. This is his triumph of the spirit.

“At last the cab is discovered. There is blood, and bloody evidence of a struggle. There is a shattered windshield… a safety belt, severed by the windshield’s glass and what must have been a hideous effort of will. There is no corpse.”

Daredevil vol. 1 #228 by Frank Miller, David Mazzucchelli, and R. Lewis

This is, of course, from the famous “Born Again” arc, and I had a hard time choosing a scene, since the whole story is essentially a seven-issue-long depiction of Matt being knocked down and then standing back up. (I highly recommend reading it if anyone hasn’t, and I also summarized it here. I also cheated by including another scene at the beginning of this post…). However, the scene above is a turning point and possibly my favorite moment in the whole story. At this point Matt has lost it all: his friends, his career, his reputation, his money, and his home. In a fit of desperate, delirious anger, he attacks the Kingpin, who beats him unconscious and then– in the scene above– tries to kill him once and for all. The above issue starts with Matt curled up on a bed in a hotel room, unable to force himself to even move. He seems thoroughly beaten, and the Kingpin assumes the same, which is why he decides to stop toying with his victim and just finish the job. But in spite of all of this, Matt freaking Murdock refuses to die, and he somehow finds the strength to physically fight his way out of this seemingly unsurvivable situation. The fact that we don’t see him do it– that we only get the Kingpin’s reaction and that panel of Matt’s defiant glare after regaining consciousness– makes this act of resilience all the more powerful.

[ID: Daredevil is fighting the Vulture (the Spider-Man villain). Daredevil pins him to the ground and starts punching him in the face.]

Matt: “A while ago, you said I secretly wanted to die. You were wrong. Cowards want to die. I’m no coward. I’m proving it– to you and to myself– by beating you… you– and everything you represent… the death and decay that eat away at a man until he surrenders… the horror that pulls you down into the pit! Well, I’m not the surrendering kind, mister! Got that? I never give up!”

Daredevil vol. 1 #225 by Denny O’Neil, David Mazzucchelli, and Ken Feduniewicz

Matt is not at all a suicidal person (I’ve seen some fans claim otherwise, but he really isn’t), and this scene comes from a rare issue that covers that topic. It takes place shortly after Heather Glenn’s suicide, and it explores how the spectre of her death haunts Matt and Foggy’s lives afterward. In this story, the concept of death is represented by the Vulture, who Matt discovers trying to rob Heather’s grave. Later, he appears at the offices of Nelson and Murdock, which have just gone bankrupt. Upset by this loss, Foggy wanders up to the roof and contemplates his life, at which point he encounters the Vulture. Matt, fearing that Foggy might kill himself, goes up after him in costume and tries to fight the Vulture off. For a moment, during the fight, Matt contemplates whether he actually wants to lose, before returning to his senses and defeating both the Vulture and his own dark thoughts.

[ID: Daredevil is fighting a huge crowd of grotesque-looking demons while carrying a lit torch. He holds up the torch and the demons scatter.]

Matt: “My whole life, endless fighting. What a fate. I wonder, could I change that fate? No matter how many I kill, they keep on coming.”

Mephisto: “Ha ha ha ha ha! I love it! That’s it, you big hero. Keep fighting. Fight till you drop that torch.”

Matt: “What if… what if I just stopped? If I just stopped fighting. If you stop fighting, isn’t the fight over? Yes. Yes, yes, yes. They can’t touch me. Okay, Mephisto. I’m coming for you. You made a mistake. You believe your evil breaks a man. Sometimes it does. But when it doesn’t break a man– it makes him even stronger.”

Daredevil vol. 1 #281 by Ann Nocenti, John Romita Jr., and Christie Scheele

This is from Matt’s literal trip to Hell in Nocenti’s run (Hell is a cosmic setting in the Marvel universe, and Mephisto is a recurring antagonist, so this isn’t quite as bizarre as it sounds…). While trapped in a seemingly endless wasteland and attacked by hoards of demons, Matt musters enough free will and spirit (as represented by the fire he’s carrying) to not only survive, but to actually challenge Mephisto. It’s great.

[ID: Matt is crouched on the side of a building at night, in the rain. He is wearing the Daredevil suit but has taken the mask off. He puts his hand to his face in emotional anguish.]

Matt: “I’ve got to pull myself together. My world is falling apart and I am helping it every single step of the way. I have to focus. Focus. Foggy is right. My entire life– everything is up for grabs. Everything I’ve built– everything I am– can be taken away from me. Have to center my energies. Have to think. Focus. Center and focus. Center and focus. Don’t listen to their camera motors and their cell phones. Don’t listen to them. The phone calls. All I hear is my name over and over: Murdock. Murdock, Murdock. That name is not theirs to say. It’s not theirs! It’s mine. They’re stealing it from me. No! Stop it. Center and focus. Center and focus. Center and–”

Mugging victim (off-panel): Noooo!”

Matt: “Focus.”

Daredevil vol. 2 #35 by Brian Michael Bendis, Alex Maleev, and Matt Hollingsworth

I love this little moment from Bendis’s run. It’s small and subdued, but highly moving in the context of what Matt is dealing with in this story. His identity has been made public, there are crowds of reporters camped outside his home, his entire life is at risk of falling apart, but he takes this second to pause, think, and regain some sense of control.

[ID: Matt stands up and prepares to fight. He is armed with two tonfa, and is wearing black clothes reminiscent of his Man Without Fear costume, but without a mask. His head is bandaged.]

Matt: “You think you can… turn me into a blubbering wreck… by preying on my fears… but I’ve already faced them– and come out the other side! You understand me, Calavera? I know what I am… who I am… and I am not afraid!”

Daredevil: Reborn #4 by Andy Diggle, Davide Gianfelice, and Matt Hollingsworth

The Reborn mini-series follows Matt’s attempt at emotional recovery in the aftermath of “Shadowland”. Having quite literally lost his identity and had his spirit broken by getting possessed by a demon, he goes out west and, through helping right some wrongs in a small town in New Mexico, he reaffirms his sense of self.

[ID: A stormy winter night. Ferry pilots (Sid and Ronnie, off-panel) are waiting for Daredevil to resurface from the river. As their ferry moves away, Daredevil hauls himself out of the freezing water and onto a dock.]

Sid: “It’s been a while, Ronnie– think he’s still down there?”

Ronnie: “Sid– you a moron? Where else would he be?”

Sid: “Beats me. Just askin’. It’s too bad– looks like he went back down there for nothin’. ‘Cept maybe to die.”

Ronnie: “Well, I’m not givin’ up just yet.”

Sid: “No? Why not?”

Ronnie: “’Cause I don’t think he would.”

Daredevil: Dark Nights #2 by Lee Weeks and Lee Loughridge

The first Dark Nights story is a celebration of Matt’s willpower, as he travels through a blizzard to deliver a heart transplant to a dying little girl. I particularly love this scene, in which Matt dives into the river to rescue the heart and the pilots transporting it from their crashed helicopter, and despite the cold and his exhaustion, he powers through and survives the experience.

[ID: Daredevil is bleeding and horribly injured, and crouched in the mud under a bridge. The Purple Man is standing above him, about to hit him with a plank of wood.]

Purple Man: “Shouldn’t you be angry? Shouldn’t you put up a struggle?”

Matt (caption): “But that’s how far down the pit I’ve fallen. I can’t even respond to his orders.

Purple Man: “Come on. This is too easy. Don’t rob me of a victory I’ve waited years for.”

Matt (caption): “All I can do is sink into the blackness. I can’t feel pain. I can’t move because I have nothing to push against. Nothing.”

Purple Man: “Show me some fear.”

[ID: Daredevil kicks the Purple Man, then falls back to his knees. ]

Matt (caption): “That. That, I know how to fight. Get up. You have momentum now. Don’t lose it. Don’t let the shadows pull you back in. Inertia is the enemy. Do something. Move. Move, Matthew.”

Daredevil vol. 4 #10 by Mark Waid, Chris Samnee, and Matt Wilson

I’m glad you mentioned this scene because it’s one of my favorites too, as is this story arc as a whole. Waid’s depiction of depression is visceral and heartrending because it’s something he himself suffers from, and that realism makes Matt’s struggle to move forward and fight against his despair all the more impactful.

As an extension of the above moment, Matt’s decision to talk with Kirsten at the end of the issue (which I discussed at length here) is also breathtaking.

[ID: A black page with a red heart monitor readout at the bottom. It flatlines, then spikes once.]

Matt (caption): “I cannot see the light. So I will be the light. I am Daredevil. And I am not afraid.”

Daredevil vol. 5 #612 by Charles Soule and Phil Noto

And this moment– there’s nothing more badass than Matt literally willing himself back to life! “I am Daredevil. And I am not afraid” is a refrain that is repeated throughout Soule’s run, which is a neat way of tying his run together and emphasizing Matt’s relentless determination.

[ID: Matt is alone in a gym, struggling to walk between two parallel bars. He falls, then, with a huge effort, pulls himself back up.]

Jack (off-panel): “Fear’s of no use to us, Matt. We have to live with it, but it’s not for anything. But pain? What’s pain for, Matt? What’s pain for?”

Matt: “Pain keeps us going.”

Man Without Fear vol. 2 #5 by Jed MacKay, Danilo Beyruth, and Andres Mossa

The new Man Without Fear was another great recovery story, and gave us this really great moment when Matt, after suffering through the physical and emotional destruction of being hit by a truck, finally regains his fighting spirit.

I also wanted to include a few scenes of other people being inspired by Matt’s courage and resilience, because there are some great ones. Here’s one of my favorites, from Waid’s run:

[ID: Foggy is sitting in a circle with a group of fellow cancer patients. They are all wearing Daredevil shirts.]

Foggy: “Ah, excellent. You all dressed for the occasion. I’ll be straight up with you folks. I have a friend. He’s probably the bravest man I’ve ever met. And no matter how much I beg him to teach me to be like him… in the whole time I’ve known him, I’ve learned only one thing about fearlessness: it’s contagious.”

Daredevil vol. 3 #31 by Mark Waid, Chris Samnee, and Javier Rodriguez

I love this aspect of Foggy’s cancer plotline– the fact that Foggy uses Matt as a source of inspiration for facing his own fear. These two have always been emotional anchors for each other, providing moral support and guidance in difficult times, and that’s part of what makes their friendship so powerful. Here, Foggy is largely on his own. Matt can’t punch cancer, and Foggy doesn’t even tell him about the symptoms at first. But from the very beginning, Foggy latches onto Matt’s fearlessness as a way of fending off his own terror about the diagnosis. As I said at the beginning of the post, part of the purpose of superhero stories is to serve as inspiration for their readers to be kind and courageous in their own lives, and it’s wonderful when characters within those stories are impacted in that same way by the superheroes around them. To take this concept one meta step further, Foggy’s cancer story– the whole thing, including his drawing strength from his best friend– is in itself a hero story for readers who may be going through similar experiences.

[ID: Flashback panels colored in black and white with hints of red. Matt (in civvies) is attacked by a group of ninjas on a city street. He fights them while Foggy runs and hides around a corner.]

Foggy (caption): “When you were around, it was different. The fear wasn’t so real. I was still freaked whenever anything happened… my nerves were a car wreck… but even as I was sweating bullets, I somehow knew I was safe. Because of you.”

Daredevil vol. 2 #88 by Ed Brubaker, Michael Lark, David Aja, and Frank D’Armata

…And another great Foggy and Matt scene, this one from “The Secret Life of Foggy Nelson”, one of my favorite issues of Brubaker’s run. Foggy has been separated from Matt against his will, and in his isolation and fear, he reflects on their friendship and draws strength from Matt’s example.

[ID: Luke Cage is sitting comfortably in a chair, legs crossed, directly addressing the reader.]

Luke: “Daredevil. I know him pretty well, actually. Well, as well as he lets anyone know him. End of the day, without question, he’s one of the best. Ever. I’m not going to get into who he is and how he became who he became. And I know there are a lot of people who think they know all there is to know about Daredevil and all of his secrets. But I can tell you from personal experience that the information that’s out there about him is pretty much crap. Let’s just leave it at that. All you need to know about Daredevil is that this man has sacrificed everything to try to make this city safer. He has lost more and suffered more for his dedication to you than, well, anybody I know. And I know some people who’ve suffered and lost. He ain’t the strongest of us, and he ain’t the flashiest… but Daredevil cannot be brought down. It cannot happen.”

New Avengers vol. 2 #16 by Brian Michael Bendis, Mike Deodato, and Rain Beredo

And last but not least, here an excerpt from a great speech Luke Cage gives after Matt joins the Avengers. Even other superheroes– all of whom tend toward superhuman resilience– are impressed by Matt.

#Daredevil #Matt Murdock #Asks #Commentary #Adventures in Continuity

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jilyyall · 7 years

Text

I would give the shirt off my back just to know how you’d look in it.

Anonymous requested : “Is that my shirt?” for a Jily prompt but I mistakenly deleted the ask when I was cleaning out my inbox of some years-old THG-fandom asks, sorry. Read it on ffn or AO3

She is seated at the Gryffindor table eating a hearty serving of fried eggs and toast and talking to her friend Marlene when they come traipsing into the Great Hall like a scene from a Muggle film. Judging by the dark circles under all of their eyes, none of them got any sleep last night. It doesn’t make them any less picturesque.

Sirius, with his long, sleek, shimmery black hair and a careless smirk set on his handsome face, has always been one of the most beautiful people she has ever seen; even when they were eleven and weren’t exactly on the best terms there was no denying his ethereal beauty. Remus, all rugged and scarred and managing to look somehow both seventeen and eighty at the same time – it’s that haunted look in his eyes, she thinks – comes alive with the grin that his friends bring to his face. Peter, who has always been nothing but eager smiles and quick, witty one-liners and blue eyes in a boyishly charming face, is shorter and far less impressive to look at than his friends, but manages to fit in seamlessly all the same. Finally, there’s James Potter, the tallest of the bunch, arguably less handsome than Sirius but still with his fair share of admirers thanks to the easy grin, the effortless humor, the contagious laughter, the eager, open, friendliness that he exudes, the perpetually messy hair and deep, soft, charming hazel eyes that draw focus to a pleasant face.

Her heart skitters when she looks at him, finds him already watching her, heading straight for her. The playful grin turns boyish and eager when their eyes meet and she has to look away before she bites her lip and gives it all away. He is wedged between Sirius and Peter, an arm draped over each of them, but he wrenches himself away from them and drops into the empty seat on her left, tossing an arm over her shoulders.

“Morning, Lily. Marlene,” he says with a nod for the blonde to her right.

“Morning, James.” Marlene smirks at him as Sirius, Remus, and Peter take up three spots across the table from them. “Boys.”

“McKinnon, may I say, you’re looking quite fit today,” Sirius says, eyeing her over the table even as he loads up his plate with bacon and eggs.

“Yes, you may,” Marlene says loftily.

With her silky, wavy blonde hair, vibrant blue eyes, and curvy build, she is no stranger to boys like Sirius Black hitting on her. Still, Sirius is one of the few boys who manages to makes those comments and walk away unscathed. She claims it’s because their respective best friends are dating and it would be awkward to face him day after day knowing that she had all but hexed his balls off, but Lily suspects it’s more than that.

Carelessly flicking her hair over her shoulder, Marlene turns her attention away from Sirius, fixes a charming smile on her face, and leans toward Remus across the table. When she speaks, her voice is high-pitched and just slightly breathy. “Hey, did you finish that Defense essay yet?”

Lily wants to laugh, knowing that Marlene’s efforts are lost on Remus, who is not just oblivious to female interest, but actively tries to avoid it and therefore will not be seduced into helping Marlene with anything.

“Just about,” Remus says, watching suspiciously as she takes his plate from him and fixes him a heaping serving of the sausages sitting in front of her. “You want my notes, don’t you?”

“Please, I’m in completely over my head here,” Marlene drops the seductive tone and hands his loaded plate back.

“Sorry, I don’t actually take notes in Defense.” He cracks a rueful smile when she groans.

“Defense Against the Dark Arts genius over here,” Sirius says, nudging Remus with his shoulder.

“You don’t take notes in anything,” Lily points out, doing her best to ignore James’s wandering fingers on her leg.

“My genius is not limited to any one subject,” Sirius insists.

“Funny your grades don’t reflect your genius, then,” Marlene says.

Next to her, James laughs. Lily bites her lip to keep from joining in. She can’t help but to crack a smile when Sirius tosses a chunk of bacon at James, who catches it and throws it back at him.

“You can use my notes if you let me copy your History of Magic notes,” Peter offers hopefully.

“No offense, Peter, but you’re not exactly the top Defense student,” Marlene points out with a sigh.

“Maybe not,” Peter says. “But I stole Remus’s essay yesterday and took notes on it.”

“I knew I didn’t leave it unrolled!” Remus exclaims.

“You’ve got a deal, Peter.” Marlene grins and shakes Peter’s hand across the table, both of them happily ignoring Remus’s scowl.

“Catch this, Potter.” Sirius lifts a spoonful of jam and makes to fling it at James.

“If you hit me, Black, you’re a dead man,” Lily says darkly. He eyes her for a moment, takes note of her wand sitting next to her hand on the table, and wisely drops the jam.

“My hero,” James places a hand dramatically over his heart and leans over to kiss her.

He catches her chin instead of her lips when she turns her head at the last second. He sighs and lets his arm fall from around her shoulders. “You’re not still cross with me, are you?”

“Why ever should I be cross with you?” Lily says.

“Exactly, you shouldn’t!” James insists.

“Good thing I’m not, then!” she snaps, and turns her back on him to speak to Marlene, who is now watching them with wide eyes. He may be her boyfriend, and she may be the only person in the world who finds him more attractive than Sirius Black, and her heart may skip several beats whenever their eyes meet, but she’ll be damned if she doesn’t make him pay for his indiscretions.

“I’ve had a cross girlfriend or two in my day,” Sirius stage-whispers to the rest of them, “and she’s definitely cross.”

Lily just barely resists the urge to stick out her tongue at him or maybe glue his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

He doesn’t make a sound or touch her or anything of the sort, but Lily is as aware as ever that James is staring at her. It’s a bit difficult to ignore someone staring at you when said person is sitting barely two inches away, but she gives it her best effort, chatting with Marlene, Remus, and Peter in between bites of her breakfast. Next to Remus, Sirius is clearly taking advantage of James’s inattention, doing something with his wand under the table. She has a brief moment of pity for her boyfriend before she remembers that he definitely probably deserves whatever Sirius has in mind.

“Is that my shirt?” James asks suddenly.

Lily freezes, a forkful of egg halfway to her mouth, and looks at him. “No.”

It’s a silly thing to lie about. It’s his favorite shirt in the world. He’s worn it just about daily since his parents gave it to him for Christmas three years ago and he would know it anywhere. There’s a telltale stain just below her left breast where Sirius spilled Doxy venom on him back in fifth year – he still has the scar on his chest to prove it – and a hole the size of a knut where the too-long sleeve bunches up at her right wrist.

“Yes, it is. That’s my Puddlemere United shirt.” He reaches towards her as if he wants to rip it off of her but seems to think better of it and merely brushes the back of his bruised hand along the navy blue material covering her arm. If it were one of the boys caught wearing his shirt, she is sure he wouldn’t hesitate to rip it off them regardless of the number of onlookers.

Her breath hitches in her chest when he leans in close, his chest against her shoulder and his mouth at her ear. “It looks really fucking good on you.”

She turns her face towards him, undeniably affected by his hot breath on her and his gravelly tone in her ear. Still, when he leans in to kiss her, she places a hand on his chest to still him less than an inch from her lips. “I missed you last night.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and tries to kiss her again.

“We had plans. You ditched me,” she reminds him.

“I… It was Sirius’s fault!”

“Beg pardon?” Sirius says around a mouthful of bacon.

“If you hadn’t got tickets to see the Chudley Cannons play Lancashire!” James exclaims. “They’re both shit teams anyway!”

“If they’re such shit teams, why did you ditch your girlfriend to watch them?” Remus asks slyly.

“And why did you cheer harder than anyone else there when Rookwell made that goal?” Peter adds with a soft, amused snort.

“Traitors.” James brandishes his empty fork across the table at his friends.

“Don’t blame Sirius,” Lily says sternly as she scoops another bite of egg onto her fork. “He didn’t force you to do anything.”

James watches with a pathetic pout on his face as she pretends to concentrate all of her attention on her breakfast.

“Yeah, don’t blame me,” Sirius says.

Without looking away from Lily, James throws a greasy sausage at Sirius, hitting him on the nose and ignoring his protests.

“It’s Quidditch! I have poor impulse control when presented with Quidditch! You knew that and decided to love me anyway!”

“So you admit it’s your fault,” Lily prompts.

“It’s all my fault. I’m stupid and I chose Quidditch over you and it wasn’t even worth it, even if Rookwell did make that spectacular goal. Anyway, not important. Still not better than spending an evening with you.” He leans in close again, presses a quick kiss to her neck before she can stop him. One hand tangles in her hair and the other creeps slowly up her thigh beneath the table. “Or a morning, an hour, a few minutes.”

“A few minutes? You need to work on that, mate,” Sirius laughs.

“Or perhaps he has, and a few minutes is all they need,” Marlene counters, sparing Sirius an unimpressed glance as she reaches across the table for a strip of bacon. “Something you should work on, maybe.”

Sirius gapes at her. Before he has a chance to get his thoughts in order enough to retort, Lily’s wand is in her hand and pointing at him. He chokes, grabs his mouth, and glares at her with his tongue firmly plastered to the roof of his mouth. She smiles at him and turns her attention back to her boyfriend, who only looks ever more turned on now that she has hexed his best friend.

His heated gaze is her undoing, but she tries to hide it with a lofty sigh as she studies him thoughtfully. “You do look rather pitiful.”

It’s not entirely true. What he looks is desperate with his wet, pink lips and dark, round, wide eyes. It makes her feel desperate.

She leans in close to him, feels him take a deep breath, either steadying himself or breathing her in, she’s never too certain. His fingers drum a tattoo high on her thigh under the fabric of her skirt. She hums in delight.

“Perhaps you can make it up to me.” She is sure to keep her tone husky, a bit raspy, the way she knows he can’t resist.

Across from her, Sirius watches with one arched brow, a knowing smirk playing on his lips, all insult and injury forgotten. Remus rolls his eyes and looks away pointedly, the corners of his moth upturned just slightly while Peter laughs openly at the wide-eyed stare James is giving her. Marlene just grins at them, not that either of them notice what any of their friends are up to.

Lily rises from the bench and drapes herself over James, her chest against his back, arms hanging over his shoulders, hands trailing down his firm chest to his abs, her mouth hovering just next to his ear. “I think I’ll keep the shirt on this time.”

His jaw is slack when he turns his head and tries to kiss her, but she backs away quickly, and turns to walk from the Great Hall without looking back. He trips over shoelaces suddenly tied together – Sirius’s sneaky doing earlier, no doubt – and she hears him hit the ground cursing unreservedly, followed by the laughter of several nearby students.

It never does take much teasing to get him going. When he catches up to her seconds later, a blazing look in his eye, and takes her hand to pull her along at a faster pace, she knows she’s in for a real treat.

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allyinthekeyofx · 8 years

Text

Affirmation 3/5

Missing Scenes Sein Und Zeit Scully POV

Part one Orison here

Part two Per Manum here

Three

I can remember, many years ago when I was just a small child, my Father taking my hand and hunkering down on his haunches so as to be eye level with me. His habitually stern countenance was softened by a sorrow that emanated from him that I didn’t really understand at the time. I had run to him crying; the sound of Bill’s mocking laughter ringing in my ears and sending the blood rushing to my face as I stumbled away from him and the group of boys who were willing conspirators in the reason for my humiliation.

I had dared to invade their pre-pubescent world you see, a tree house that really was nothing more than a few wide boards nailed flat to the boughs of the ancient oak that stood proud on the very edge of our property – and our house being the only one on the block with a tree that large, the vote had been cast that it should become the seat of their empire for the summer.

Girls of course, were strictly forbidden and I had been chased off more times than I cared to remember; but back then, with the finely honed - if at times misguided - tenacity of an eight year old girl I had waged a daily battle to be included; to be accepted in their adventurous clique and be given access to that erstwhile ‘tree house’.

The only way up was by means of a thick rope procured from my father – the strong multi-spliced length knotted tightly to a thick branch just a few inches from where the boards began and which fell straight and true to the ground below. I had watched Bill swarm up that rope countless times over the weeks past and it seemed easy enough – hand over hand on the rope, legs braced against the tree as he walked himself up the trunk, swinging his body slightly to the side when he reached the platform so as to angle himself enough to place his feet on the wooden boards below.

And on this particular day I had begged, without much hope I have to admit, to try it just once, a wide smile of gratitude almost splitting my face when, after a whispered conversation with one of his cohorts, Bill actually waved amenably at the rope and told me to go right ahead.

I made it to about halfway up when my small hands began to cramp on the rope, fingers momentarily losing their grip as I slid back down a few inches. It was enough to destabilise me and I suddenly found myself hanging in mid air, legs kicking helplessly as I tried to re-brace myself against the tree. And the more I tried, the more the rope swayed and the more futile it became. Without the trunk to carry some of my weight my arms rapidly tired as I desperately tried to hold on. The fall to the ground was probably around ten feet or so, but to me it may as well have been miles. I wanted to let go even so, the sound of laughter below me sending tears rushing to my eyes as I willed myself to just let go, to fall gracefully to land on my feet and prove to the assembled boys below that I was so much more than they thought me to be. But I just couldn’t. Frozen with fear, the rope beginning to burn the delicate skin of my palm I instead began screaming for Bill to help me, to please help me get down, squeezed my eyes shut as the rope began to spin; my brother quickly and confidently took a standing jump to grasp the rope just below where my sneakered feet hung limply. He grabbed hold of them, pulling me down to him roughly; the rope leaving burns on my palms even though I tried to keep up with his pace. I felt more confident now though he was there to catch me if I fell and in seconds I was on the ground again, falling squarely on my ass as soon as I felt the dusty grass beneath my feet.

Bill’s face looking down at me in vague disgust as snot and tears smeared my face before that mocking smile appeared that I knew so well.

“You’re such a girl Dana.”

And it had been enough to send me scrambling to my feet, dignity in tatters as I ran from their laughter and straight in to my Father’s arms, gasping out the reasons for my distress as he gently rubbed my back and held me against him.

“I HATE him Daddy I HATE him so much.”

He had knelt down before me then and spoke words that I had barely remembered until tonight when I had, at Mulders request, performed the autopsy on his Mother. But as I was preparing to make the first incision, those words had suddenly invaded my consciousness, the sound of his voice inside my head just as clear as though he were right next to me speaking aloud.

“Hate is too strong to carry around with us Starbuck. It’s equalled only by love and you will learn that both are present for all of our lives and both will prove to be as hard to bear in their own way.”

And I understood. For the first time I think I truly understood.

Because as clinically detached as I tried to be, as I was incising and measuring, weighing and cataloguing, the hatred for this woman burned so deeply inside of me I don’t know how I was able to bear it without raising my scalpel and slashing at her until there was nothing left but bloody tissue to remind me of all she had done to her son – a man who despite everything, still maintained a love for her she hadn’t ever really deserved. Even when I discovered the grim diagnosis so recently bestowed upon her with regards to her health I was unable to muster up even an iota of sympathy for her.

I hid it from Mulder of course; and really, as I watched him later begin to disintegrate in front of me, my hatred for her was replaced with a protective love for him that was so intense it blotted everything else out and became about him; only about him.

I have seen him cry before, there have been times when I have held him limp in my arms as his body shook with evidence of his quiet release, of trusting me enough to let go of whatever was insidiously eating him away inside, of allowing him to purge himself of his demons; and each and every time I have welcomed it; touched beyond measure that he has trusted me enough to lay himself bare in a way he habitually denied himself for so long before we appeared in each other’s lives. And while it has always been difficult for me at times, to not share his pain, to not welcome it to live inside me, has never been an option.

But tonight is different somehow, because as I pulled him against me and forced him to acknowledge that I was here with him, that he didn’t have to hide anything from me, I sensed that really, he wasn’t there with me at all. Locked inside his own desperate misery, his sense of failure and guilt, he quickly disentangled himself from me, unable to meet my eyes as he requested that I should go; that he needed to be alone; effectively smashing to pieces all that we had achieved over the last few months.

I wanted to argue, wanted to refuse to leave; to beg him if necessary to allow me to stay to take care of him. But even as the words were forming on my lips, he shook his head sharply at me, silently asking me to please just do as he asked before turning on his heel, walking away from me without a backward glance, in to the bedroom and then the bathroom, slamming the door behind him in much the same way as he had emotionally just slammed it in my face.

Because I love him I left, blinking back my own tears as I negotiated the rain slick streets that would lead me home.

And because I love him, when I was barely halfway there I slammed the car to a halt before executing a one-eighty degree turn and headed straight back to him.

Because I will not walk away from him anymore, knowing that regardless of how he tries to push me away we have come too far now to take the easy option with each other; a realisation that we have to stop hiding from each other when things get bad.

I arrived back at his apartment and when my knock went unanswered, I used the key given to me so many years ago to let myself in. To my surprise the shower was still running and that, combined with the silence that otherwise surrounded me, inexplicably caused the hairs to stand up at the back of my neck and I suddenly was scared, more afraid than I have ever been in my life in fact. Because I shouldn’t have left him regardless of how much he wanted me to, I should have planted myself firmly in this room and refused to move a fucking inch. Even if he had locked himself away from me in every way possible, I should have stayed. And I didn’t – I instead allowed him to send me away to battle this thing alone when really, I should have known that his reserves were so depleted at that point that he had nothing left inside him to battle with.

I’m not sure what I expected to find when I pushed open the door to the bathroom, tentatively stepping inside, subconsciously bracing myself for what I might see.

Because I discovered a very long time ago that Mulder places very little value on his own life; watched him so effortlessly and without hesitation as he sat before Modell in that stark white hospital room, press the cold steel of the revolver against his temple, pulling the trigger before my horrified denial had even been given voice; the blankness behind his eyes that could not be wholly contributed to the hold that had been placed over him and which had haunted me for weeks and months afterwards as I came to understand that in no way, was that the first time he had ever held a gun to his head.

But what I actually found in the bathroom was a very much alive Mulder, huddled naked and shivering in the shower stall as the icy water beat down on him relentlessly and he wept helplessly in to the folded shelf of arms he had crossed over his knees, hugging his body in a defensive posture that reminded me of a wounded animal. His skin was stark white and when I tentatively touched his shoulder with my fingertips after first shutting off the relentless stream of water, I found him to be freezing cold.

It reminded me of another time in another place when I had found him in a similar position but back then he had been trying to warm himself up and this time, there was absolutely no doubt in my mind, that this was simply another way of him punishing himself; for not returning her call, for not being there for her, for failing once more in his protection of those he loved just as he believes he has always failed.

It had taken him a few moments to be aware of my presence but eventually he had raised bloodshot eyes, confusion radiating from him as though he were trying to place me and truthfully, I have never seen him look as lost or as broken as he did at that moment; that every horror we had lived through up until that point simply melted away in to nothingness. Because the Mulder I knew, the Mulder who had fought and struggled and refused to give up the fight that had consumed him his whole life was just......gone; an empty shell of a man who just had nothing left to give anymore.

“You came back”

The words were whispered, barely even audible but I heard them. I think I will always hear him no matter how quiet he is.

And he allowed me to draw him to his feet, not resisting as I gently rubbed him dry, wincing inwardly as his chilled skin broke out in gooseflesh as I towelled away the moisture and the cool air of the room hit him, speaking soft words of assurance to him that he would be okay; that we would get through this together somehow.

I don’t think he believed me - even when I wrapped him in soft blankets and in turn wrapped myself around him, holding him tightly, spooning my body against his in an attempt to infuse him with my warmth as we lay together on the bed, feeling him tense and unmoving in return - I sensed he didn’t believe me.

But slowly, so excruciatingly slowly, as I stroked my fingers through his hair, teasing the damp stands that dried and softened beneath my ministrations, I felt him begin to come back to me, relaxing his body against mine as the trembling finally stilled and his breathing became soft and even once more.

And I was unable to suppress my own tears any longer as he sighed raggedly, repeating the words spoken as though he needed to affirm to himself that I was there.

“You came back”

Because I know that whatever happens in the future, no matter how hard things get for us, how much he tries to push me away or how unworthy he feels, that I will always come back to him.

Always.

Maybe one day, if he allows himself of course, he might realise it too.

Continued chapter four

(Sorry this took so long. It was a hard one to write. But the next part ‘En Ami’ is done and we switch to Mulder POV for that one. Brace yourselves cos it’s not pretty!)

#affirmation #my fic #series #season seven #angst #msr

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delwray-blog · 6 years

Text

IS IT TOO LATE FOR AMERICA?

IS IT TOO LATE FOR AMERICA? Universal Turmoil Is America at a Turning Point? Please forgive my replication! The greatest danger facing the world today is the Jews! The Russian leader Vladimir Putin knows it very well. After having lived to see his country collapse and all because of a Bolshevist, Jewish Communist coup that succeeded and now controls the Soviet Union, once an Orthodox Christian nation turned into an Atheistic Dynasty by dirty money supplied by the Jews in New York City. The Jews have vowed to do it again here in America. Money speaks! The dirty money that overthrew Russia is now being used to destroy America and is behind all, and I say all the upheaval in the United States today, especially, the attacks on the current President Donald Trump and now his Supreme Court nominee Judge Brett Kavanaugh. America in crisis! This is a catastrophic period in the world's history. Everyone knows that civilization is breaking up. Let us resolve to face stubborn facts courageously. Everything has been thrown into a state of unrest and confusion. Society is in convulsions. Every nation is in process of change. The map of the world is being revised. Governments are tottering. Economic structures are falling. Another world war looms on the horizon. Moral foundations are being dynamited. Spiritual forces have become hopelessly weakened by apostasy. A revolution is not coming; it is already here. Back of these conditions, there must be an adequate cause. Fascism and Communism, both in principle and practice, are fighting for world supremacy. These are the two great camps into which all nations are certain to be divided. Both are founded upon the doctrine of dictatorship. As if anticipating a radical change in the government of the United States not unlike that which has taken place in most European countries, Colonel Edward M. House, advisor and the gentleman who was so close to President Woodrow Wilson recently implied if he did not actually say that America was getting ripe for a dictator. "While such a revolutionary leader is not in sight at the moment, he might appear overnight," Colonel House says, and continues, "if we are to have a dictator, our people, and institutions of wealth would like him to be of the Mussolini type. However, he is more likely to be of the type of Lenin." "And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given him that sat thereon to “take peace from the earth”, and there was given unto him a great Sword" Revelation 6:4. As a Pastor and preacher of the gospel with 58 years under my belt, "I am profoundly convinced that our civilization is at a turning point. Can we maintain it as it has been? That is the problem which haunts me day and night. I find myself strangely preoccupied by what is going on in Russia. Is it the end of all civilization which is being prepared there? Or is it a new order? How much I would like to know, to really know." In 1929 President Herbert C. Hoover appointed a research committee to catalogue information with reference to the social trends of the times and among other things it reported that a revolution in the United States which would revise the present system of government was a decided possibility. These words are being penned a few months after the inauguration of President Donald Trump. For weeks Democratic leaders in Congress have been advocating that he should be clothed with dictatorial powers in order to adjust finances of the nation and at the same time reorganize the executive departments of the government. A Republican Congressman has countered with this thrust, "We'd better abolish Congress and go home." For weeks the daily press has been blazing with such head-lines as "Will Trump Become A Mussolini?" and "Is the Country Ready for a Dictator?" Who knows but this agitation may be the opening wedge for bringing about a revolutionary change? That Mr. Trump expected to become a virtual dictator was evidenced by a reference to the subject in his inaugural address. The Associated Press explained that the large audience in Washington "applauded heartily when he warned that he would not hesitate to ask for dictatorial powers." He said, "It is to be hoped that the normal balance of executive and legislative authority may be wholly adequate to meet the unprecedented task before us. But it may be that an unprecedented demand and need for undelayed action may call for temporary departure from the normal balance of public procedure. I shall ask the Congress for the one remaining instrument to meet the crisis, broad executive power to wage a war against the emergency, as great as the power that would be given to me if we were in fact invaded by a foreign foe." It is not improbable that he may introduce reforms which will help to adjust the economic condition which he inherited. With his political party overwhelmingly in control of both branches of Congress he can get anything he wants. If he proves to be a man of action, definite policy, and positive decision, he will have it in his power to stabilize conditions in a way that will at least produce temporary relief. His proclamation the day after taking office, whereby he assumed control of the banks of the Country, virtually placed the United States under a temporary dictatorship. We had a taste of one man rule for a time as far as the finances of the nation were concerned. American Fascism is a new experiment. The American Pulse The stage, the press, and the pulpit are three barometers which reveal exactly what is taking place in the depths of the mass mind of the American people. The stage expresses the emotional trend, the press is supposed to reflect the mental, while the pulpit discloses what is taking place in the spiritual realm. The dominant characteristics of our democracy show themselves through these three avenues. The filthy stage of the present day is not something that is being foisted upon the public; it has simply been called into existence by the debased moral and emotional appetite of the masses of people who, having forsaken the old-time standards of morality, patronize it. The modern polluted press exists not because a group of editors have ceased to cherish the best ideals of journalism, but because the depraved mind calls for what they are putting out. The spiritual weakness of the pulpit results not primarily from the betrayal of modernistic denominational leaders, but from the general loss of moral idealism and the disintegration of spiritual forces among the great rank and file of people. Applying this method in analyzing the present dictatorial psychology which is sweeping the United States we will now put our finger upon the public pulse long enough to review the book entitled “Gabriel over the White House” which has just come from the press. The author of this daring volume is anonymous but the publishers assure us that it was written by a person who knows the inside of governmental activities both in Washington and England. We are also informed that "the story has been vigorously re-edited by someone who well knows the White House and has convincingly handled the technical machinery of U. S. politics." The story, briefly stated, has to do with the contemplated expansion of the spirit of Fascism in America. The reader is asked to move backward in his imagination to the year 1940. World chaos will have so increased by that time that the teeming millions of earth will be pressed almost to the breaking point. Political leaders elected by popular vote have passed off the scenes. Strong men have evolved in different parts of the world. Each nation is proud of its dictator and the United States has finally joined the procession. Increasing disrespect for the Senate, House of Representatives, and Supreme Court have nullified the power of these three branches of the national government. America has plunged headlong into dictatorship and its strong man is one Major Judson Cumming Hammond. This is only a story but popular stories issuing from the press reflect the quality of the mental forces at work behind the scenes; such books are concrete expressions of abstract ideas. Hammond, who has been elected President, is a brilliant six-foot, 200-pound, glib-speaking politician. He appears on the scenes after the depression has been so fed by crashing business, soaring unemployment and grinding taxation, that it has become a veritable flame which is devouring the nation. Municipal corruption is countrywide; gangsters run wild; lawlessness exists everywhere; in city parks, huge camps of unemployed have squatted to stay; the American people are smitten by crime, poverty, immorality, and unrest. Hammond comes at such an hour with "booming platitudes that fool the people; he is a popular, charming politician, conservative to the core" until one day when the automobile which he is driving on a road near Baltimore suddenly skids into a cement mixer. He is thrown out and suffers a concussion of the brain. Never is he the same again. About this time the angel Gabriel is pictured as taking a vantage point above the White House to guide the affairs of government. Hammond seeks the seclusion of a private house in Washington where he gradually recovers but he emerges an entirely different type of human being than he was prior to the accident. He seems to be in a dazed condition and performs no end of wild radical feats exactly opposite to his previous conservative views. No longer does he have time for social play; he digs into economics, state papers and liberal literature. He develops a forbidding atmosphere, people cannot get close to him, and he freezes out his old cronies. No longer is he "a good fellow." Congress is at a standstill, unemployment continues and crime of every kind increases. Lawlessness comes to a head when a gang of racketeers stage a wholesale massacre of poverty-stricken squatters in Chicago; the nation fairly gasps. At this moment the new Hammond returns to the White House and takes the helm of government with a firm hand. Politicians in his Cabinet and elsewhere who are unwilling to become his tools are promptly weeded out. He lets the newspapers howl and the critics rave. Finally when the Vice President and a Cabinet member try to have him consigned to an insane asylum, he blasts the plan by going to the radio and broadcasting it to the nation. He has nothing but contempt for Congress and secretly sponsors a moving picture which sweeps the country and does what he intended it to do creates an uprising against Washington officialdom and precipitates a march of the jobless which results in an attack upon the Senate and House. At his instigation the unemployed hound the steps of every Senator and Representative until a national emergency is declared. Hammond is put in charge and Congress goes home for an indefinite rest. He takes his ideas directly to the people by regular, simple weekly television talks. The citizenry hails him as its great Dictator-President! He reorganizes everything, inflates currency, puts multitudes to work and organizes a personal army of "Green Jackets." Cities no longer elect officials by popular vote, but instead submit to Federal appointees. When Japan attacks China another world war breaks out. Hammond takes charge, unites with France and Great Britain and with a single stroke, sweeps down and crushes Japan from the air. He calls a world conference in London, flies the Atlantic, and bullies the nations into actual disarmament by broadcasting all of the secret negotiations. A World City is set up in Northern Ireland in which there is located an all-powerful Central Bank where world currency is created and directed on a gold basis. He comes back home in a blaze of glory. Henceforth Congress will be permitted to sit only at the call of the President. At the zenith of his career an assassin shoots him down. Suddenly his mind comes back and he finds that he has been crazy through it all, ever since the car accident near Baltimore. Imagine his predicament! He is amazed to learn that he has destroyed the Constitution, abolished the power of Congress and the Supreme Court, and wrapped his country in the coils of a dictatorship. And just as he decides to go to the radio with a public recantation, he suffers a heart attack and drops dead. As soon as Gabriel over the White House was published, one specially bound copy was sent by the publishers to the FBI’s Mr. Wray and another to Mr. Trump. Yes, it is only the work of a fiction-writer, but who will say that the author has not translated many of the revolutionary ideas of the hour into story form? The theory of a dictatorship has become firmly fixed in the mind of the world since Communism gave us Lenin and Fascism produced Mussolini. One is Red, the other is Black. The world is headed for Godless Communism on the one hand and Capitalistic Fascism on the other! These are the two principles which are shaping the affairs with unmistakable rapidity and the two will eventually "fight it out." The Obsession of Liberalism The idea of Liberalism has been insinuated into the political processes of all nations. It works upon the principle that whatever is is wrong. And nothing in government, religion or morals is too sacred to be played with and picked to pieces. When I was a boy I used Liberalism on the family clock one day when my parents were away from home. I wanted to know what made it run. I started out to fix it. When I got through I had enough pieces of clock to fill a half bushel basket. It has become quite the fad among politicians to boast of throwing off the yoke of conservative restraint. This idea has gone so far that great documents upon which governments have been erected are becoming mere scraps of paper. Who can guess what may eventually become of the Constitution of the United States under the blasting influence of this destructive obsession? A wave of political Liberalism swept the American people in the national elections of 1932. President Roosevelt was ushered into power on the crest of this wave. One of his first public utterances after the election was a statement to the effect that the United States had entered upon "a new period of Liberalism and of sane reform." In speeches all over the country he expounded this doctrine to the masses. Once, in Baltimore, he became so bold as to even cast a reflection upon the United States Supreme Court, the highest, purest and most powerful tribunal of the land. This utterance provoked a great deal of criticism. The principle of Liberalism applied to Christianity begins by questioning the infallibility of the Scriptures, and from that point it is progressive steps downward through Modernism, Agnosticism, and finally leads into Atheism. The principle of Liberalism applied to Morality begins by questioning the importance of personal purity and the sanctity of Marriage, and from that point it is progressive steps downward involving the destruction of the Home, and finally leads to Nudism. The principle of Liberalism applied to Politics begins by questioning the value of Constitutions, and from that point it is progressive steps downward until representative government is abolished, leading to Anarchy, Revolution, Dictatorship, Fascism, and Communism. Lenin, Mussolini, and Hitler were Liberalists until they succeeded in prying their respective governments loose at their foundations. They simply used Liberalism to destroy the social order that existed, after which Liberalism was discarded, and freedom of speech, press, and the right to worship was taken away. The people then became virtual slaves of the State. In other words, Liberalism is the first step toward State Socialism in which all personal rights are destroyed. Thinking themselves to be wise, the leaders of many nations have used this idea to pry their respective governments loose at their foundations, not knowing that they were being victimized by an obsession would sooner or later put the house down upon them. In a recent book I have discussed what would seem to be the logical origin of the Liberal delusion. It appears to result from a deliberate assault upon the Gentile governments by a group of all-powerful financial wizards who are believed to be pulling wires from behind the scenes for the purpose of tearing down the nations so that out of the wreckage their plans of “despotism of Capital" can emerge. Their ultimate objective is to produce a dictator whose power will rest upon the control of gold. This man whom they expect to unveil at the proper time will be a world Superman, standing at the head of a world system of government, and ruling over a world bank, in a world city which will be the hub of the commerce of the world. The nations are to be huddled together under his control. But before the Jewish conspirators could hope to proceed with their plans, they find it necessary to tear down all governments by the subtle use of Liberalism, an idea which they claim to have invented, according to "The Protocols." The Superman for whose coming the way is being paved meets exactly the prophetical requirements of the thirteenth chapter of the book of Revelation. He will be known to the world as a Super-Dictator, but students of prophecy will know him to be the Antichrist. In the minutes of the secret meeting of 1905, a spokesman for the group is quoted as saying, "When we introduced into the State organism the poison of Liberalism its whole political complexion underwent a change. States have been seized with mortal illness, blood-poisoning. All that remains is to await the end of their death agony. In our day the power which has replaced that of the rulers who were liberal is the power of Gold. Time was when Faith ruled. The idea of freedom is impossible of realization because no one knows how to use it with moderation. It is enough to hand over a people to self-government for a certain length of time for that people to be turned into a disorganized mob. From that moment on we get internecine strife which soon develops into battles between classes, in the midst of which States burn down and their importance is reduced to that of a heap of ashes. Whether a State exhausts itself in its own convulsions, whether its internal discord brings it under the power of external foes, in any case it can be accounted irretrievably lost: it is in our power. The despotism of Capital, which is entirely in our hands, reaches out to it a straw that the State willy-nilly must take hold of: if not it goes to the bottom. Should any one of a liberal mind say that such reflections as the above are immoral I would put the following questions: If every State has two foes and if in regard to the external foe it is allowed and not considered immoral to use every manner and art of conflict, as for example to keep the enemy in ignorance of plans of attack and defense, to attack him by night or in superior numbers, then in what way can the same means in regard to a worse foe, the destroyer of the structure of society and the commonwealth, be called immoral and not permissible? The political has nothing in common with the moral. The ruler who is governed by the moral is not a skilled politician, and is therefore unstable on his throne. He who wishes to rule must have recourse both to cunning and to make-believe. Great national qualities, like frankness and honesty, are vices in politics, for they bring down rulers from their thrones more effectively and more certainly than the most powerful enemy. Our right lies in force. The word 'right' is an abstract thought and proved by nothing. The word means no more than: Give what I want in order that thereby I may have a proof that I am stronger than you. Our power in the present tottering condition of all forms of power will be more invincible than any other, because it will remain invisible until the moment when it has gained such strength that no cunning can any longer undermine it. Out of the temporary evil we are now compelled to commit, will emerge the good of an unshakable rule, which will restore the regular course of the machinery of the national life, brought to nought by liberalism. The result justifies the means. Let us, however, in our plans, direct our attention not so much to what is good and moral as to what is necessary and useful." Dictators Prophesied When nations have broken down from one cause or another in recent years, almost without exception a strong man has appeared on the scenes to pick up the pieces and put them back together. This has been true in Italy, Turkey, Poland, Spain, Germany, Russia, Persia, Hungary, and Yugoslavia and other countries. The prophecies abound with predictions of the rise of powerful dictators in the end-time of this age. The whole assembly of dictators will someday divide into two groups, Fascist and Communist. Daniel prophesied the coming of five great world kingdoms dating from the time of ancient Babylon down to the period immediately preceding the second coming of Christ. In the last kingdom he indicated that ten men would emerge in central Europe with nations typified as iron and clay. But one of these men is predicted to stand head and shoulders above the other nine. God's forecast of world politics is now being fulfilled and these events are daily demonstrations that the Bible is an inspired, infallible revelation. Nebuchadnezzar was King of Babylon at the time of Daniel's prophecy. His kingdom was at the zenith of its glory. The vision was in the form of a huge image possessing: A Head of Gold, Breast of Silver, Thighs of Brass, Legs of Iron, and Ten Toes of Iron and Clay the prophet also described a stone "cut out without hands, which smote the image upon his feet that were of iron and clay, and break them in pieces. And the stone became a great mountain and filled the whole earth." The five parts of the image represent the five great consecutive systems of government, and the stone which smashes them typifies the second coming of Christ, Whose government will replace all human systems. The first kingdom was Babylon. It was symbolized by the head of gold. Daniel was compelled to break the sad news to the king that his nation would be destroyed. Babylon towered to a height never reached by any of its successors. The city laid in a perfect square measuring sixty miles around the top of the walls. The wall was three hundred and fifty feet high and eighty-seven feet thick. The Euphrates River flowed under the walls and through the center of the city between banks of marble. This city with its impregnable walls and moat; its one hundred and fifty huge gates of solid brass; its hanging gardens, rising terrace above terrace which we still look back upon as one of the seven wonders of the ancient world; its two royal palaces, one three and a half and the other eight miles in circumference; its subterranean tunnel under the Euphrates connecting the two palaces; its supply of food sufficient to last for twenty-five years in the event of an attack from the outside, this was the golden head built by Nebuchadnezzar which Daniel prophesied would be overthrown. The people were wholly given over to pleasure, unbridled dissipation, and drunkenness. Virtue had given place to vice. After Belshazzar came to the throne, Daniel's prophecy was fulfilled on the tragic night of the great feast when the Medes and Persians suddenly turned the Euphrates out of its banks into a lake, dried up the river bed and marched under the city walls. The Medo-Persian kingdom became second in the politico-prophetic series. It was symbolized by the breast of silver. Under Cyrus its borders were pushed far beyond those of Babylon but it was inferior in wealth, beauty, luxury and magnificence. Under Babylon the children of Israel were brought into captivity, but under the Medes and Persians they were restored to their own land. The silver kingdom was supreme over the earth for a few hundred years until the time that Darius Codomannus came into power. He was the last of the line of Old Persian kings. Ill-fortune smote him. He was hardly on the throne before Alexander the Great, head of the Greek armies, was trying to destroy him. Although the Persian soldiers outnumbered the Greeks twenty to one, Darius went down. And, Daniel's prophecy was fulfilled, that a "third kingdom of brass shall rule over all the earth." In the ever changing political kaleidoscope, Grecia became the third in the series of kingdoms. It was symbolized by the thighs of brass. After the fall of Darius, Alexander knew that his last formidable foe was gone. So he gave himself up to wild enjoyment and a life of restless pleasure. With great arrogance he proclaimed himself a deity. He often murdered his closest friends in drunken orgies. He finally drank himself to death. The fall of Greece under the iron hand of Rome is a matter of history. And Rome became the fourth kingdom. It was symbolized by the two legs of iron. Gibbon the great historian says, "The arms of the Republic, sometimes vanquished in battle, always victorious in war, advanced with rapid steps to the Euphrates, the Danube, the Rhine, and the ocean; and the images of gold, or silver, or brass that might serve to represent the nations or their kings, were successively broken by the iron monarchy of Rome." Gibbon uses the word iron in describing Rome and so does Daniel, "And the fourth kingdom shall be strong as iron." School children read of the "iron legions of Rome." When Christ was born under the shining stars and angel song, it was at a time when the Roman Empire was supreme and included what is now the southern part of Europe, all of France and England, the greater part of the Netherlands, Switzerland, also Hungary, Turkey, Greece, and a small part of Asia and northern Africa. No wonder Gibbon said, "The Empire of the Romans filled the world. And when that empire fell into the hands of a single person, the world became a safe and dreary prison for his enemies. To resist was fatal; and it was impossible to fly." The two legs of the image represent the two divisions of the Empire. A thousand years after Daniel's prophecy Rome was separated into two great halves, the western capital in Rome and the eastern capital in Constantinople. The western division continued some four hundred years after Christ and the eastern lasted until 1453 when it was taken by the Turks. If Daniel were a historian today, looking back, he could not write more accurately than he wrote as a prophet looking down the sweep of the centuries. The fifth and final empire is prophesied to be a division of old Rome into ten sections symbolized by the ten toes on the feet of the image. The Roman Empire has existed through the centuries though sometimes sleeping like a mighty Vesuvius as if waiting to belch forth at an unexpected moment. On Christmas day, in the year 800, Saint Peter's in the city of Rome was filled with a worshipping throng. Pope Leo Third came down from his pontifical chair to the high altar where Charlemagne was kneeling and placing on his head a golden crown, saluted and proclaimed him Emperor of Rome. Thus, life was again breathed into the western division and it became known thereafter as the "Holy Roman Empire." The imperial form of Roman government has ceased to exist but the fragments of the Empire have continued and its future revival is certain. John, in the Patmos vision, describes the imperial head of the Empire as a beast whose "deadly wound was healed," meaning that it will be restored. In other words another Emperor is coming who will sit in Caesar's seat to realize Napoleon's ambition of becoming the sole ruler and dictator of the territory which formerly comprised the Roman Empire. It is worthy of note that Mussolini's ambitions lead in exactly the same direction, Caesar being his consuming ideal. That such a dictator is coming who will do what Mussolini yearns to do, namely revive old Rome, every informed student of Bible prophecy very well knows. The territory will eventually be divided into ten nations over which a Superman will preside. Current history is moving in that direction. A superman who will surpass all other supermen is coming. Mussolini will bear watching. He has come up from the very territory where Daniel predicted that "the king of the south" (southern Europe) would arise. This strange man whose latest whim is the law of his country and the terror of Europe has already demonstrated the kind of strength which will characterize the "Man of Sin" and certainly he is at the present moment the world's best candidate for the office. It is asinine for anyone to attempt to picture Mussolini as a heroic character, actuated by altruistic, Christian motives as the editor of one religious journal has tried to do in recent months. The United States, What position does the United States occupy with reference to this plan? It is at once evident that America can never become a permanent part of the European League of Nations which takes in only the territory covered by the old Roman Empire. The same is true of Russia who has also remained aloof. All of the nations which are members of the League and located outside the boundary line of the old Roman Empire will eventually sever relations as Japan did recently. However, through interlocking financial systems, the World Bank and political connections it is probable that America will be inevitably connected with many of the same arteries as Europe. The United States is not without her national sins for which she must be judged. But because of her position in the providence of God it is proper to suppose that she will be spared some of the wrath under which other peoples are certain to come. From the time of the birth of the nation there have been evidences of divine guidance. Take for instance the discovery of North America. The sails of the frail vessel of Columbus were set straight for the Maryland or New Jersey coast. A storm came up on the ocean and a strong wind turned the ship southward. The result was that Columbus landed in the West Indies. He did not discover America. A wind saved the continent and caused the Roman Catholic flag of King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella to be planted in the West Indies instead of this country. Had it not been for that wind how different subsequent history might have been written! The Bible says that God sometimes works through the winds for the accomplishment of special providences. In the narrative of Jonah we learn that "God sent out a great wind into the sea." There are frequent statements like the following, "Even the wind and the sea obey him," "He caused his wind to blow," "He brings the wind out of his treasuries," "He walketh upon the wings of the wind," "He caused an east wind to blow" and "Thou didst blow with thy wind." There was another example of this kind of supernatural intervention on April 22, 1915 when it looked as though the Germans had the world war won. The German meteorological department in cooperation with army officials fixed that date as the logical time to turn loose the first deadly wave of poison gas upon the Allies from the town of Ypres. The attack was entirely unexpected and of course the allied soldiers were not prepared for it, gas being a new thing in warfare. Germany was ready to celebrate; they thought the war was over. It only remained now for them to march on the English Channel, and France, Great Britain, and for that matter all of Europe, would be under her feet. Dr. Schmaus, the head of the meteorological department had reported that the winds were fixed and settled for thirty-six hours to come. Within a few hours the allied lines would be buried in fog banks of gas. But a strange thing happened. Suddenly the wind turned and the billows of deadly poison were flung back upon the German army. And the Scripture was fulfilled, "Whoso diggeth a pit shall fall therein." Dr. Schmaus said in his official report, "In forty years of meteorological records of the German government the wind never acted so peculiarly before." What was even more striking was the fact that the wind whirled in only a small area. Jeremiah said, "His chariots shall be as a whirlwind." There was a similar occurrence on the first day of the battle at Gettysburg. The Union forces had been hammered into a semi-circle by the Confederates whose next move under General Longstreet was to attack one side while General Ewell with his forces was to push in from the other side. Their strategy was to crush the Union army between the two powerful lines until it would be utterly wiped out. Both Generals were to begin their bombardments at the same time. Longstreet pounded for four hours and was defeated before Ewell even began. In his official report Ewell said, "The wind was so peculiar I could not hear Longstreet's bombardment, and didn't know he was attacking until it was over." Had it not been for the wind which Columbus encounter America would have been cursed by the same paganism, abominations and papal sorceries as the West Indies instead of becoming a place of religious liberty and virile Protestant Christianity. Isaiah and the Nation's Birth In the thirteenth chapter of Isaiah, the prophet utters a prophecy concerning Babylon and the Jews. In the fifteenth and sixteenth chapters he speaks of the land of Moab. The next chapter refers to Damascus. The nineteenth and twentieth chapters have to do with Egypt and Assyria while twenty-one and twenty-two deal with Media, Arabia and Tyre. Coming to the eighteenth chapter we find a reference made to an unnamed country which has to do with the period in which Israel is to be regathered to its national homeland. And since Israel is returning to Palestine at the present time we may assume that the prophecy concerns some great nation active in world affairs today. There is evidence that that nation is the United States. The prophet looked toward the west and saluted "a land shadowing with wings." He was evidently speaking of a country whose emblem would be the eagle and under whose wings all races and types of people could take refuge and enjoy freedom of conscience and religious liberty. The country to which Isaiah referred was to be situated beyond, or, west of Ethiopia. Take a map and move west from Palestine to Africa and the eye will travel directly to the United States. "The nation meted out and trodden down" we are assured that a more perfect translation of this passage would be "a land measured out under the treading." In other words, a nation that is surveyed with an exactness before unknown until the United States government surveyed by the North Star and divided all public lands into square mile sections, half mile, and quarter mile divisions, all countries had divided the soil according to local boundaries and land marks. "Whose land the rivers have spoiled" or "divided." Study a map of this nation and see how frequently its rivers are used as dividing lines. From Canada to the Gulf the Mississippi carves the boundaries of many states. The Rio Grande separates the United States and Mexico on the south. In the west are such rivers as the Colorado, Columbia and Snake serving the same purpose, and in the south and east we see the Ohio, Chattahoochee, Connecticut, the St. Lawrence and other rivers cutting the lines between different states and Canada. That America holds the position of dominant power in world affairs no one will deny. Hence the prophet's words, "All ye inhabitants of the world, and dwellers on the earth, see ye, when he lifted up an ensign on the mountains and when he bloweth a trumpet, hear ye." "A people scattered and peeled." A correct translation of this puzzling phrase would be "a nation tall and clean shaven," or "tall and polished." More than three million American soldiers were called into action during the late war and it was the tallest army ever known, the average height being five feet and eleven inches. And aside from a small moustache here and there among them, beards were unknown in that vast army. In 1893 the United States Supreme Court declared, "This is a Christian nation." When Daniel Webster pleaded another famous case before the Supreme Court it made this record, "Christianity is the common law of the land." When a president takes the oath of office he does it on the Bible. When a witness takes the stand he swears by the Bible. Our whole system of jurisprudence is based upon the Ten Commandments. We observe one day in seven as the Sabbath, a day of rest. A day of Thanksgiving to God each year is a national festival. Our coins are stamped "In God We Trust." We got our idea of constitutional government from Moses. Both the constitution of ancient Israel and our own resulted from oppression. The government under Moses had thirteen tribes; ours had thirteen colonies. The Law of Moses provided for a Supreme Court of seventy men; an appeal on the part of any citizen could be taken to that body and our system is exactly the same. It has been pointed out that the constitution of ancient Israel and our own were the only two ever submitted to the people for ratification. Both constitutions provided for the naturalization of foreigners. Neither permitted one who was foreign born to become a ruler. The founders of the American Republic were men who possessed a great faith in God and the Bible. When the representatives of the thirteen colonies met in Philadelphia to frame the constitution they engaged in three weeks of wrangling. When it looked like the meeting might break up in confusion, it was Benjamin Franklin who arose and said, "Mr. President, I perceive that we are not in a position to pursue this business any further. Our blood is too hot. I therefore move you, sir that we separate for three days, during which time, with a conciliatory spirit, we talk with both parties. If we ever make a Constitution it must be the work of a compromise. And while I am on my feet I move, you, sir, and I am astonished that it has not been done before, for when we signed the Declaration of Independence we had a chaplain to read the Bible and to pray daily; and I now move that when we meet again we have a chaplain to meet with us and invoke the blessing of heaven. For, sir, it has been wisely written, 'Except the Lord build the city, they labor in vain who build it,' and if it be true that a sparrow cannot fall to the ground without His notice, surely a nation cannot rise without His aid." We are told that George Washington's face beamed with joy as he arose to second the motion. With their minds energized by prayer, those men, after three days, prepared what Gladstone called, "The greatest document ever struck from the brain of man." And now, at a time like this, when the foundations of so many governments are crumbling, let us remember that "Righteousness exalteth a nation but sin is a reproach to any people." If the American people come to a full understanding of what is taking place before it is too late and learn concerning the conspiracy of what we call “The Hidden Hand” or the “Powers That Be”, it is probable that the Country can yet be spared a great deal of suffering which is certain to smite other nations. If not America too may haft to go thru a period of persecution in which tens of millions of professing Christians will be slaughtered as it too will be turned into a slave state ruled over by Red Communists Jews. Is it too late? Wake up America! May God give us another stay of grace, I plead.

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hacktagmedia · 6 years

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Omarosa says Trump is a racist who uses N-word – and claims there’s tape to prove it

Former Apprentice contestant and ex-White House adviser writes in new memoir that she witnessed ‘truly appalling things’

Donald Trump is a “racist” who has used the “N-word” repeatedly, Omarosa Manigault Newman, once the most prominent African American in the White House, claims in a searing memoir.

The future US president was caught on mic uttering the taboo racial slur “multiple times” during the making of his reality TV show The Apprentice and there is a tape to prove it, according to Manigault Newman, citing three unnamed sources.

Trump has been haunted from around the time of his election in 2016 by allegations that outtakes from the reality TV show exist in which he is heard saying the N-word and using other offensive language.

In her book, Unhinged, a copy of which was obtained by the Guardian ahead of its publication next week, the former Apprentice participant insists that the reports are true, although she does not say she heard him use the word herself.

She also claims that she personally witnessed Trump use racial epithets about the White House counselor Kellyanne Conway’s husband George Conway, who is half Filipino. “Would you look at this George Conway article?” she quotes the president as saying. “F**ing FLIP! Disloyal! Fucking Goo-goo.”

Both flip and goo-goo are terms of racial abuse for Filipinos.

Critics have previously questioned Manigault Newman’s credibility and are likely to accuse her of seeking revenge against the administration after her abrupt dismissal last December.

At the time, she writes, she felt a “growing realization that Donald Trump was indeed a racist, a bigot and a misogynist. My certainty about the N-word tape and his frequent uses of that word were the top of a high mountain of truly appalling things I’d experienced with him, during the last two years in particular.”

Recalling her sudden and unceremonious departure, she writes: “It had finally sunk in that the person I’d thought I’d known so well for so long was actually a racist. Using the N-word was not just the way he talks but, more disturbing, it was how he thought of me and African Americans as a whole.”

Trump hosted NBC’s The Apprentice from 2004-2015 before running for the presidency and still likes to laud his high ratings.

His insurgent election campaign was rocked in October 2016 by the release of an Access Hollywood tape in which he bragged about grabbing women “by the pussy”. The media firestorm prompted Bill Pruitt, a producer on the first two seasons of The Apprentice, to tweet that there were “far worse” tapes of Trump behind the scenes of the show.

Further allegations emerged that Trump had used the N-word in the recordings. Then, following the New York property tycoon’s shocking victory over Hillary Clinton, the actor and comedian Tom Arnold claimed to have the video of Trump using racist language.

The White House staffer Kellyanne Conway and former aides Hope Hicks and Omarosa Manigault Newman at a press briefing last year. Photograph: Alex Wong/Getty Images

“I have the outtakes to The Apprentice where he says every bad thing ever, every offensive, racist thing ever,” Arnold told the Seattle-based radio station KIRO. “It was him sitting in that chair saying the N-word, saying the C-word, calling his son a retard, just being so mean to his own children.”

But Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, which owns the rights to the reality TV show, and its British creator, Mark Burnett, have resisted pressure to release the footage because of “various contractual and legal requirements”.

Once close to Trump, Manigault Newman was among his most high-profile supporters during the election campaign and drew a top salary of $179,700 as director of communications for the White House office of public liaison. She held her April 2017 wedding at Trump’s luxury hotel, close to the White House.

Hers is the second memoir from a former Trump administration member, following that of the ex-press secretary Sean Spicer, but it was always expected to be less adulatory. This week the Daily Beast reported that she had secretly recorded conversations with the president and “leveraged” this while seeking a book deal. On Sunday she is due to appear on NBC’s flagship political show Meet the Press.

Some commentators have struck a note of scepticism about her book. Brian Stelter, senior media correspondent at CNN, wrote in an email newsletter: “Is former ‘Apprentice’ star Omarosa Manigault-Newmana reliable source of info about the Trump White House? Buckle up for debates about that in the coming week. Because she’s about to betray Trump in a new tell-all book.”

For its part, the White House has previously dismissed criticisms from her. In February the deputy press secretary, Raj Shah, said: “Omarosa was fired three times on The Apprentice and this was the fourth time we let her go. She had limited contact with the president while here. She has no contact now.”

In the book, she recalls how in late 2016 Trump’s team held a conference call and scrambled for how to respond to the tape but it never came out. Then a source from The Apprentice contacted her and claimed to be in possession of it. Trump was in office and Manigault Newman continued to investigate. Advertisement

She continues: “By that point, three sources in three separate conversations had described the contents of this tape. They all told me that President Trump hadn’t just dropped a single N-word bomb. He’d said it multiple times throughout the show’s taping during off-camera outtakes, particularly during the first season of The Apprentice.”

Recalling that she appeared on the first season, Manigault Newman reflects: “I would look like the biggest imbecile alive for supporting a man who used that word.” She says she confided in the former White House communications director Hope Hicks, who said, “I need to hear it for myself,” and continued to ask her frequently about what progress she was making.

She believes that Hicks told the White House chief of staff, John Kelly, that Omarosa was close to getting her hands on the tape, and this gave him cause to terminate her job, though he found a different pretext.

Four months after her departure, she spoke by phone to one of her Apprentice sources. “I was told exactly what Donald Trump said – yes, the N-word and others in a classic Trump-goes-nuclear rant – and when he’s said them. During production he was miked, and there is definitely an audio track.”

Manigault Newman also recalls her interactions with Trump during the filming of The Celebrity Apprentice in late 2007 – a time when the little known Democrat Barack Obama was in the ascendent. “During boardroom outtakes, Donald talked about Obama often. He hated him. He never explained why, but now I believe it was because Obama was black.”

In January, Trump was widely condemned for reportedly dismissing Haiti, El Salvador and African nations as “shitholes”. Manigault Newman describes a similar experience that appears to support that account. When she told Trump that she was going to Haiti, she writes, he demanded: “Why did you choose that shitty country as your first foreign trip?”

He added: “You should have waited until the confirmations were done and gone to Scotland and played golf at [his course] Turnberry.”

In another damning passage, she describes his “broken outlook” and how “the bricks in his racist wall kept getting higher”, wondering if he did “want to start a race war”. She adds: “The only other explanation was that his mental state was so deteriorated that the filter between the worst impulses of his mind and his mouth were completely gone.”

The book comes days after Trump faced renewed allegations of racism over his persistent descriptions of the congresswoman Maxine Waters as having a “low IQ” and CNN journalist Don Lemon as “the dumbest man on television”, as well as criticism of the basketball star LeBron James. This weekend marks the first anniversary of the white supremacist march in Charlottesville, Virginia, that erupted in deadly violence; the president claimed there were “very fine people on both sides”.

Elsewhere in Unhinged, published by Gallery Books, an imprint of Simon & Schuster, Manigault Newman takes aim at Trump’s sexism. Recalling more outtakes from The Apprentice, she says he asked personal questions about female contestants such as “What do you think she’s like in bed?” and “Do you think she’s sexy?” He allegedly asked male contestants: “Who you think would be better in bed between the two of them?”

Asked about the allegations in Manigault Newman’s book, White House press secretary Sarah Sanders said: “Instead of telling the truth about all the good President Trump and his administration are doing to make America safe and prosperous, this book is riddled with lies and false accusations.

“It’s sad that a disgruntled former White House employee is trying to profit off these false attacks, and even worse that the media would now give her a platform, after not taking her seriously when she had only positive things to say about the president during her time in the administration.”

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