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artdev · 3 years

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I’m probably gonna get attacked for this lol

Tommy Character Analysis

From a sane yet angry child

The character of Tommyinnit is one of the worst characters on the entirety of the Dream SMP. Yes, the other characters have their flaws, and they have all done some very horrible things, but Tommy has continuously made bad decisions. These decisions have done nothing good for himself and have caused suffering for the other members of the SMP. In this essay I will provide reason to the fact character Tommy fucking sucks and every other character, yes including Dream, are so much better and have redeeming qualities to their characters. I will give a disclaimer: this is about THE CHARACTERS not the CONTENT CREATORS

Tommy’s First Days on the SMP

Tommy’s first day on the SMP was the last day of peace that server would ever see. From the get-go Tommy did nothing but cause nothing but problems for the original people on the server (Dream, George, Sapnap, Bad, Sam, Ponk, Callahan, and Alyssa) which resulted in a ban from not only from Dream, after refusing to obey under his exile he was put in, himself but also from George. The bans were lifted but everything spiraled from that point on. Tommy was the spark that started the disc war. This was a war that spanned over a series of months because Tommy would not stop killing Dream, so in return Dream confiscated tommy’s discs as a punishment, it was Dreams server, so he was not going to let Tommy go around causing problems without consequence.

Quick history

L ’Manburg

L’ Manburg started out as nothing but a drug caravan, started by Wilbur and tommy, would grow into a large country separated by large black walls keeping everyone out and let only a select few in. After a war Tommy did the only selfless thing, he would ever do in his whole time on the SMP. He gave up one of his discs for L’Manburg’s independence, after losing a dule with Dream. In all this tommy keeps up his thieving and antagonizing ways.

The election

The election was Wilbur’s attempt to regain power and respect within his country, there were multiple parties, POG 2020 (Wilbur and Tommy), SWAG 2020 (Quackity), Schlatt 2020 (JSchlatt). POG 2020 was the overall winner but was beat out by 1% by Schlatt and Quackity who had formed a coalition. With Schlatt as the president and Quackity as the Vise President the country is changed to Manburg, the walls are torn down, and Tommy and Wilbur have their citizenship is revoked and are banned from Manburg.

Pogtopia and Manburg v Pogtopia

Pogtopia was the ravine that served as a base for Tommy and Wilbur after the election. This is when techno (my fuckin beloved) had joined and sided with Tommy and Wilbur with the promise of chaos and war. With techno on their side, they start to build up and prepare for war. The war between Pogtopia (with the old residents of Manburg) and Manburg (pretty much everyone else on the server). The war ended with Schlatt having a heart attack in the remains of the destroyed drug van, Tubbo becoming president of Manburg, followed by Wilbur blowing up the country, with assistance from techno, and his grand death at the hands of his father.

Exile

Tommy was sent into his third exile by Tubbo after Tommy once again was causing problems for Tubbo and the new L ’Manburg. Tommy was sent thousand and thousands of blocks away from the greater SMP and he was not allowed to return unless he wanted to die. After spending months in exile with Dream coming by every day and taking Tommy’s things, and tommy almost taking his last canon life, tommy had escaped exile and went to the closest place he could go. Tommy set up a base under Technoblades retirement home and was soon discovered by Techno. Despite Tommy stealing Techno’s items and just being a annoying ass bitch, Techno let Tommy stay. With the help of techno tommy was able to sneak in and out of L’ Manburg.

Final L’ Manburg War

After a confrontation in the remains of a now destroyed community house, Tommy had sided with Tommy, another declaration of war, with Dream and techno going to blow up L’ Manburg. Tommy planed with the other members to gather resources to face off the most powerful people on the server. In the end L’ Manburg lost and was destroyed with nothing left but a sizable crater in its place.

The end of the disc war and drams imprisonment

The end of season two of the SMP was the end of the disc war, after tommy and Tubbo meet up with Dream at the top of a large mountain, where the three fought to get the discs. Dream eventually leads the two brits to a bunker where Dream had been collecting the attachments on the server, like Tommy’s cow henry, Ghostbur’s sheep Friend, and open slots for other pets and Skeppy. While Dream was going to kill Tubbo he was stopped when the entirety of the SMP, lead by Punz, came through the nether portal that led into Dream’s base. They surrounded Dream and caused him to surrender, and landed him in pandoras vault, a large prison built by Sam under Dreams request. Whist Dream has been in prison Tommy has visited a few times and has done nothing but was nothing but an annoying child to an already suffering man. During what was supposed to be Tommy’s last visit he ended up being locked in the cell with Dream due to a potential security breach in the prison, meaning tommy was stuck with Dream for what was only supposed to be a week. Tommy was stuck with Dream for more than a week, like was stated in the terms and conditions of the prison, this extended time alone with Dream was bad for the both of them and it led to tommy losing his last canon life. Tommy was revived by Dream three days later and was freed from the prison shortly after, now out and full of fresh trauma.

Present events

After being revived and released back into the world tommy swore that he would kill Dream. As of tommy’s most recent lore stream there was an attempt. Tommy armed with invisibility and fire res pots, under the cover of Ghostbur paying Dream a visit, snuck into the prison to kill Dream. When tommy finally go to Dream’s cell, he got to trigger happy and took out the axe to soon which ended in tommy being caught by Sam and left Ghostbur stranded with Dream on the other side of the lava. Now that Dream had Ghostbur he would be able to bring Wilbur back and that exactly was happened, Wilbur is now back and as crazed as ever with 13 and a half years of isolation on top of that.

Tommy and His Trauma

I will not ignore Tommy’s trauma, nor will I downplay what he’s been through, cause truly been through a lot. That being said his trauma should not be used as an excuse to blow off what he’s done, if one is going to do that you better danm well not go around and ignore others trauma. Tommy has been through some horrible things, his exile, Dream’s manipulation, being beat to death in prison then being revived, losing not only a brother figure but also a place he called home, as well as the manipulation from Wilbur, these things can really do some damage to a kid or an adult. Tommy though uses his trauma to excuse any wrong thing he does. There are characters on the SMP with similar trauma, Jack Manifold was the first character to come lose all his canon lives but he came back out of spite, both Tommy and Jack went through something similar. Jack, however, doesn’t use this trauma to make excuses for being a massive prick. Jack uses what he’s been through as motivation, while it’s one of his motivations to do something bad, but he doesn’t use it as a hindrance. Now let’s look at someone has experienced the same things as Tommy, Tubbo, Tubbo went through almost everything Tommy went through plus more. Tubbo was manipulated by Dream, saw his country get blown up TWICE, hell he had to mourn the death of his best friend on TWO SEPREATE OCCASIONS, he was killed by someone he thought he could be trusted, was manipulated as well as verbally abused by Schlatt when working in his cabinet. Tubbo has gone on to build his own little town, start a family, he had run a country pretty danm well and created NUKES. Tubbo doesn’t let what happened to him hold him back from doing great things or keep him stuck in his old ways, Tubbo was able to break from what he originally was, a side kick, and has done wonders.

Tommy and His Relationships

Keep in mind this is not about whether Tommy cares about people it’s about how he acts and how that affects others. Tommy cares people so I cannot shame him for that, but despite that he still causes problems for said people.

Tommy and Dream

Tommy and Dream have never gotten along, anyone with fuckin eyes can see that from a mile away, they are always at each other’s throats and always butting heads. Dream is normally pretty levelheaded, until Tommy comes around. When Tommy was trapped in the cell with dream that was bad from the start, but the extended time was even worse. Tommy has always been an aggressor towards Dream, during the war for L ’Manburg when Dream was meeting with Wilbur, Tommy lashed out at Dream and put the independence of this new nation on the line to try and fight Dream. Now on to more recent examples, Tommy’s death. When Tommy was trapped with Dream in the cell Dream was pretty stand offish, if anything he was excited at first, being stuck in a cell with no one to talk to is pretty fuckin lonely. That excitement was sure to be short lived. Tommy is quick to start antagonizing Dream, hitting him, hurling insults at him, and just being all around unpleasant, Tommy would also take things like Dream’s clock and books and throw them into the lava just to upset him. Tommy also killed the one thing in prison that Dream had, a cat that he named hope, another thing Tommy took away just to show “what happens to things you care about”. All these things would build up over time which lead to Dreams burst of anger and caused Tommy’s death.

Tommy and Technoblade

Time to get absolutely PISSED. Techno was never a person to Tommy, he was just the Blade, a weapon to be used till he was not needed. Ever since Techno first logged on Tommy though he had scary dog privileges, getting mad at techno for when he went and assisted Wilbur in the destruction of L ’Manburg when techno had made it clear he was not a fan of government. After Tommy had fled from his exile he went to hide under Techno’s home without Techno’s knowledge, before he was discovered by Techno, he would steal from him and use them in useless ways, such as decorating his hidey hole with gold blocks or how he stole Techno’s gapples and ate them when he didn’t need to, practically wasting them. Once he was found by Techno, Techno let Tommy live with him despite being a leach, he let tommy eat the gapples, and even assisted in getting tommy in and out of L ’Manburg, he even hid Tommy from dream and lied to one of the most powerful people on the server to keep tommy safe. Techno was very patient with Tommy and what does Tommy do? He goes around and goes back to Tubbo, the man who exiled him in the first place, actively backstabbing Techno, and when him and Dream team up and destroy L ’Manburg for the second time he has THE GULL to get mad and shame Techno for it, it’s fucking awful.

Tommy and Tubbo

Tommy and Tubbo are great friends, I can’t lie about that, but he still manages to make shitty decisions that affect him. When Tubbo was president of the New L ’Manburg Tommy started causing trouble, all starting when he (and Ranboo) burned down George’s house, forcing Tubbo to put his vice president under a probation. Even after being put under the probation, he still caused problems. Tommy made Tubbo choose between the safety and freedom for his country or his best friend staying, in the end it was tommy’s fault for being casted into exile, he just wouldn’t behave and follow the rules. He also constantly pushed Tubbo’s trauma to the side to put a spotlight on his own, making him the center of attention, ignoring someone who’s supposed to be his best friend. Now, I will say, he did do something good for Tubbo, during the final disc confrontation he gave Dream the disc’s they were fighting so hard for in return for Tubbo’s safety, I have to give credit when credit is due.

To The C!Tommy Apologists

I know people are going to come after me for this, to any Tommy apologists reading this, please just can it /nm. In canon tommy is about 20 something? You can’t keep using “Oh HeS a ChILd!’ CC!Tommy is a child. Yes, I understand he’s traumatized, so is every other character on the SMP, he isn’t special. Also, PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD LEAVE US DREAM APOLOGISTS ALONE. All your arguments are so similar and you all thing dream, who is obviously mentally ill, deserves the everyday beating which is incredibly fucked up. Now I know not ALL Tommy apologists are like this but it is a lot of them, regardless of what dream did, he does not deserve to be rarely fed and he does not deserve the constant torture. Also please stop wit the whole ‘dream is obsessed with tommy’ shit, I can’t remember the tag for it at the time of writing this, but it is the creepiest thing I’ve seen and everyone portrays dream to be some yandere stalker and its just not poggers to be honest, and it comes off as very predatory which is ALSO not poggers. To any tommy apologists friends I know IRL this is not directed at you and just know I love y’all.

#dsmp fandom #c!tommy #c!tommy negative #dream smp #dream apologist

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zeldas-cigarrette · 3 years

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Blue velvet. (1)

⎯ zelda spellman x reader

⎯ word count : 1,2k

⎯ warnings: grieve

⎯ ❥ author’s note : I tried something. I’m not sure how this is gonna turn out but I’m planning more parts and I hope some of you like it:) xx

Part two

❀ ❃ ❀ ❃ ❀ ❃ ❀ ❃ ❀ ❃ ❀ ❃ ❀ ❃

✿ ✼ ✿ ✼ ✿ ✼ ✿ ✼ ✿ ✼ ✿ ✼ ✿ ✼

You have been friends with Zelda for as long as you can remember, you loved her a lot but you never knew how to communicate it and when Hilda called you the other day and told you what happened to Sabrina, you hurried to their mortuary as quick as possible. The journey from Europe to Greendale took you only two days, but it felt like years. You wanted to comfort Zelda as soon as possible. You knew how much she loved Sabrina and how devastated and empty she must feel.

When you reached the Spellman property your heartfelt heavy as if it would slip into your pocket any second. You took a deep breath before you knocked on the front door. Hearing the birds chirp and seeing how bright the sun shone felt cynical despite the fact in how much pain the household of the Spellman’s must be. Seconds later the front door opened and Hilda, the usually quirky and happy Brit, stood in the door frame. „Hilda...,” your breath hitched when you looked in her eyes. They were filled with sadness and hopelessness, you never saw her in that state and with that, you couldn’t imagine in which state Zelda must be. You wrapped your arms around the smaller blonde woman and tried to soothe her with your words, but it only made her tear up. She pulled you into the house and before you could react she took you jacket and put it on the hook.

„How are you Hilda?” you ask keeping your voice down. You could imagine her response, you could understand. „I- I mean it’s been two weeks since-“ her soft voice stopped while she tried to suppress tears slipping out of her eyes. „I get it, she was your niece and you have every right to grieve. Sabrina was such a smart and good-hearted girl, I miss her too,” you whispered and took her hand in yours. The blonde nodded and you followed her in the kitchen. It was neatly cleaned, it looked as nothing happened, while the family’s life was so cruelly destroyed everything seemed to go its normal way. „Zelda is upstairs in her room, she barely leaves it,” Hilda explained while filling the kettle with water.

„I’ll go upstairs and see how she’s doing,” you declared and turned towards the door. „Be careful, she hardly wants anyone in her room except Mambo and me sometimes,” she proclaimed. You wondered who Mambo was but you didn’t want to ask, fearing it was the wrong moment. You noted in the information before heading up to the red-headed witch’s room. You took a deep breath before knocking on her bedroom door, you wanted to be sensitive but you were afraid of failing.

There was no answer for your knock so you decided to just go inside, trying to survive. You knew exactly how furious Zelda can get, but you hoped when she sees you she’ll relax. Stepping through the wooden door frame you came to see a curled up Zelda hiding underneath a blanket. „Zelds...” your voice was soft scared she’d twitch away. Just a slight whimper let you know she was awake. Slowly and very carefully you walked over to her bed, sat next to her and placed your hand on her back. Only the unsteady breathing of hers could be heard. You’ve never seen her like this since the death of her parents, Zelda had built back her walls, earned back her tough facade.

Her face was covered with her red locks they were spread on the pillow. „Y/n, what are you doing here?” the witch slightly raised her head and eyes you. „I came to see how you were doing.” Your hands comfortingly travelled up and down her back, trying to soothe her. The older women hugged your waist burying her face in your lap. „I am so sorry Zelda, I know how hard it is for you, you loved her so much,” your fingers untangled her hair. There was no word spoken, neither did she move, the woman fell asleep on your lap. Her soft snores confirming that she had a peaceful rest. Not even the loud thuds that came from downstairs could wake her. You didn’t need Zelda to talk, she will if she’s ready.

˚ ༘♡ ·˚ ₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

You carefully placed Zelda’s head on her pillow again before you headed towards the kitchen, where Hilda and her nephew Ambrose sat. „She’s asleep,” you sighed and plopped yourself on one of the chairs. „How did you do tha-“

„I don’t know Hilda, she fell asleep on me,” you cut her off before placing a hand above hers. „She’s restless and she’s grieving. But it won’t work if there’s nobody to talk to, I will try to be there for her,” you reassured her.

You knew exactly how hard it could be to grieve over the loss of someone you love. Two centuries ago your dad died, it took you decades to get over it but it felt like a thousand years. He was that happy-go-lucky guy that everyone just loved, his appearance made clear that he was a softie. Your dad always sat in front of his house, reading the comic section in the newspaper, cackling over the sketched scenes.

Quickly, you shook off the unwanted memory staring in the empty mug in front of you, only seeing little rest of the tea in it. Only a slight crescent of the sun was visible on the clouded sky. A loud thud on the door made you jump. „That Must be Mambo,” the blonde witch remarked and scurried into the hallway. „Who is Mambo?” your question was addressed to Ambrose. „Aunt Zee wouldn’t tell us, but they’re kind of a thing,” the boy replied and scratched his back with his magic wand. An unpleasant sting in your chest made you flinch for a second but you managed to gather your emotions again. „Are you currently at least okay?” you asked him when you saw his pained expression on his face.

„Well, it’s alright I guess. Deep down I’m still hoping that this here is all long and cruel nightmare from which I might wake up any second,” The warlock explained. You nodded knowingly of how hard it must be to grieve over your Cousin, the one with whom you’ve spent years of your life living together. Though the girl caused trouble, he had to solve it and in the end, both of them were able to peacefully sleep in their beds again.

When the beautiful woman who was known as ,Mambo Marie’ entered the kitchen you couldn’t avert your gaze. It was like a star just lit the room. No wonder why Zelda loves her so much. „Hi, I’m Y/n” you reached out your hand.

The woman with the perfect brown skin gladly took it before she introduced herself. „My name is Mambo Marie.” Marie’s voice was like a rain shower on a summer day. The presence of the witch released the tensed atmosphere and for a moment it felt as everything has got back to normal.

˚ ༘♡ ·˚ ₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

Sounds of frogs were audible when you laid in your bed at the mortuary. All of your thoughts belonged to Zelda and you knew why you two only had contact over the phone. You loved her too much, you got jealous whenever she told you about a new significant other and when you saw that stunning witch earlier it only endorsed your distance.

Slowly but surely your eyelids got heavier and you fell into a sound sleep.

#caos #caos imagine #chilling adventures of sabrina #greendale #fanfic #fanfiction #hilda spellman #madam satan #sabrina spellman #sapphic #wlw #wlw love #zelda spellman #zelda spellman x reader

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zot3-flopped · 2 years

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Dumb Sea Monster truly, really thinks Sony has its hooks in Louis and is keeping him from succeeding/doing PR. What is she going to say when yet another years rolls by and he's still not getting any press? How many "sunset clauses" can he have? Twenty or 30? Will she ever just GET IT that he's just not interesting, not a good singer, and only appeals to teenage girls?

You are so ignorant! How do you know that it's not a 1000 year contract? Like in the year 3000 Louis will be remembered as a legend. He will be known as the star who couldn't burn bright because Sony trapped him in a life long contract. He was the vocalist of his generation but he lost his voice when he was bitten by harry styles just before his X factor audition. Then all he could do was croak and screech but even with that unpleasant voice he fought bravely against the industry corporates. He ended homophobia by point at a pride flag and gently touching a flag once (liars will say he was being tricked but don't listen to them). Rob stringer never let Louis be nominated for Grammy's or Brit even tho he's the songwriting genius. It's Jeff's fault that he smoked and drank and swore. It's Irving's fault that's gp had zero interest in him, not because he had a personality of a bag of flour. It's James corden's fault that he had to wear those ugly clothes but since he's Louis he made them the trendiest outfit. Harry, Adele, Beyonce, Stevie nicks, Mick jagger and every industry giants along with the spirits of bowe, prince were all out to get Louis Tomlinson but he became the artist of his generation against all odds. Ohh and he will leave behind a generation of stunt kids, grandkids and great grandkids who were all in contact with Sony to closet him till the day he died.

#love this!#sea #harry styles #louis tomlinson #rads

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radiosteve · 5 years

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Need Your Loving Tonight Ch.5

Summary: Going back to Roger’s apartment suddenly seems like a bad idea when a wave of nervousness sets in, bringing back unpleasant and old memories. It isn’t until Roger begins to spew reassuring compliments that the tension begins to unwind. What happens next could lead everything down a new path or reverse back into a painful past.

Note: Here is chapter five! I’m not sure if I really like the direction I took this chapter, but i think it makes the most sense in the grand scheme of the story. And for everyone waiting for Deaky to finally come in, that will be within the next few chapters. The italicized part is a flashback and I think there’s one line that is supposed to be the reader’s thoughts. The photo is one that I found on google. I do not own any rights to it. If you want to be added to the taglist send me a message or an ask and I’ll add you! (I’m on vacation until Saturday so my response may take a while but I’ll try to answer everything asap)

Warnings: Some language, cheating, smut

Pairing: Roger Taylor x Reader, John Deacon x Reader

Words: 4.2k+

May 9, 1970

As you climbed the stairs to Roger’s apartment, your newfound confidence quickly dwindled. So heavily lost in your thoughts, you nearly missed a step on the way up, placing your hand on Roger’s back to steady yourself. He gave you a swift glance back and held out his hand for you to take. The small gesture filled you with relief, in hopes that he didn’t think of you as just another notch in his belt. With your hands still intertwined, Roger led you to a door labeled 8C and fumbled to get the key out of his pocket with just one hand.

You pulled your hand from his grasp as he struggled to unlock the door and he gave you a small, close-lipped smile. Walking into to Roger’s apartment was like a bad sense of déjà vu. You’d been there a million times with the band, but you’d never been left there alone with Roger. And of course, you’d never been there with the same goal in mind that you had right now. You followed Roger as he shuffled through the door, dropping some of his stuff onto the counter before turning back to you.

“A cup of tea?” he asked, an edge of anxiousness present in his voice. But you just brushed it off and took it the quiver in his voice as a projection of your own feelings. After all, how could the Roger Taylor be nervous to be around you.

“Yeah, that’d be great,” you nodded as you sat on the stool by the edge of the counter.

“Extra milk, right?” Roger asked, despite already knowing the answer. He had sat across from you at breakfast the morning you discovered that Brits like to put milk in their tea. He joked about you being a ‘silly little American’ and you ended up pouring a shit ton of milk in your tea just to spite him. Luckily for you, things worked in your favor and you thought that it tasted so good. It soon became your go to way to make tea for yourself. Roger enjoyed that breakfast, even though you left to go home with Tim afterwards. Just the look on your face as you watched him reach to grab the milk for his tea made his heart pound. With your wide eyes, wrinkled forehead, and gaping lips, Roger couldn’t help but chuckle.

You hummed a yes as Roger set the kettle on the stove and peered over in your direction. You stared blankly at the counter that you rested against. Roger watched as your fingers tugged at the cuticles on your nails, a nervous habit of yours that Roger carefully picked up on. But Roger knew that picking at your cuticles was just the first stage of your stroll down Panic Street. Stage two was usually when you would start biting at the cuticles instead of picking at them. You always joked about never being able to get a good manicure because you knew it would be ruined before the end of the day. Roger always imagined being the one to help you kick the habit one day. He was pulled from his head when he heard the kettle begin to whistle from stove. But with a look over at you, Roger could tell that you were still consumed by the worrying thoughts within your mind.

The lights in the room were so dim that you could hardly see a single one of your classmates that surrounded you. The only thing that gave you any real indication that you weren’t entirely alone was the steady chatter that filled the room and the faint music that came from the record player in the corner. You were by no means dressed for a party, but you couldn’t care less. Despite the awkward glances at your corduroy pants and knit sweater, you pushed through the crowd of your peers, making your way to the staircase. You came to this stupid house party for one reason and one reason only. Daniel.

Climbing the stairs consumed you in panic as your fingers dug into the flesh surrounding one of your fingernails, trying desperately to pull off the dead skin in order to find some sense of relief. As you reached the top of the steps, you heard the noise as clear as day and stopped dead in your tracks. The voices from downstairs, the soft music, and your footsteps on the hardwood floors all ceased to exist. The only sound that your ears could pick up was Angie Cornstone’s high pitched moan from the door down the hall. The blood drained from your face as she moaned louder, the sound ringing throughout your head.

“Daniel.”

With your heart sunken into the pit of your stomach, you treaded to the end of the hall, hesitantly placing your hand on the doorknob. Before you could change your mind, you twisted the knob and flung the door open to reveal what you already knew was happening. The sight of your boyfriend with his body pressed flush against your classmate made you want to vomit right there in the doorway. As soon as they noticed you, Daniel tore himself from Angie and she began to pull the front of her shirt back to its original position.

“Y/n, it’s not what it looks like, I swear,” Daniel pulled his shirt over his head and tried, unsuccessfully, to adjust the bulge in his pants.

“Really? How stupid do you think I am? I can’t believe you,” the blood rushed to your face, turning your cheeks a bright red as you spoke. “Actually, I shouldn’t be surprised. It was only a matter of time before you moved right along to the next girl. But do you know how embarrassing it is for me to get a call from Eric Richardson at midnight because he saw my boyfriend sneak upstairs with my lab partner from last year?�� He moved his mouth as if he was going to speak, but the only thing that came out was a gargled sigh. “We’ve been together for over two years, you know that?”

A look of embarrassment flashed across Angie’s face that told you everything you needed to know. He’d been sleeping with her continuously throughout those two years. And if it wasn’t her that desperately clung to his bed sheets, then it was some other girl that was just as easily seduced by Daniel’s charm as you and Angie were. You knew it, could see it from the guilt that radiated around her body and the way she refused to meet your gaze. You knew but you needed to hear it, to make it real.

“How long?” your eyes darted between Angie and Daniel, but he knew you were asking a question much larger than the two words that left your lips.

“Everything started about three months after we first began dating,” he mumbled to the floor, but you heard it as if the entire world fell silent. The shattered remains of your heart ground themselves into a fine powder with the last of his words. At the three-month mark of your relationship, you told him that you loved him. And, fuck, you meant every word. That was the night that he took you up to his room for the first time. The same night that he laid you on his bed and danced his fingers across your skin. He showed you a whole new reason to love being in love. But the fog that clouded your head that night no longer consumed your thoughts as you stood before that same boy, disillusioned by the discovery that what you perceived as making love was actually just a quick fuck. Suddenly the words bubbled to the surface before you could stop them.

“Why did you do it?” your voice broke as the tears threatened to spill from your eyes, holding back as best as you could. Daniel didn’t deserve the satisfaction of knowing that he broke you, even though you were sure that he was already more than aware.

“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. I was going to dump you that night but then you said you loved me, and I didn’t want to break your heart. So, I just kept going and hoped I’d be able to put you down easy one day. But it got harder and I just couldn’t take only being with you anymore. It really wasn’t my intention for you to find out and get hurt like this,” Daniel acted as if he was looking at you as he explained but you knew his gaze was directed somewhere behind your head. He knew that after two years of lying, one look in your eyes would consume him with guilt that he’d built up. And that just wasn’t something he wanted to deal with, so he took the selfish route and avoided your harsh stare, trying to convince himself that he’s innocent.

“Didn’t want to break my heart?” you squeaked out, taking a step closer to the door. The tears now clouded your vision and the faces in front of you began to blur. “Look how well that turned out for you,” you slammed the door shut and let out a shaky sigh as you marched down the stairs, pushing through the bodies of you classmates that blocked the front door. With your fragile heart pounding in your chest, you grabbed your bike and rode it to the only place that you could think of, the beach.

“Are you alright?” Roger spoke softly, not wanting to startle you. You looked up and your head cleared of the memory that you wish you could forget. The sadness that filled your eyes as you gazed back at Roger made his heart nearly split in half. Whatever you were thinking about must have hurt like a bitch. You nodded, answering Roger’s question and picked up the mug that he had placed in front of you. “I know you two weren’t dating, but he really didn’t deserve you. I hope you know that,” you felt confused before realizing that Roger was talking about Tim. God, that felt whole thing felt like it was days ago, but in reality, it was only a few hours ago. Being lost in your thoughts really makes time fly, I guess.

“Thanks,” you said quietly, knowing you should leave before your stupid heart goes for it and finally gets what it wants. His eyes were still locked on you and you couldn’t help but notice. You shifted your gaze to look at him, feeling a little rush of electricity pulse through you once more.

“Y/n,” he nearly whispered it, making you long to reach out and touch him. But you held back, your brain acting as the biggest cockblock between Roger and your heart. “I’m serious. You are one of the funniest people I’ve ever met. Not to mention the smartest, don’t tell Brian I said that though. But honestly, who studies math because they actually like it? You have to be super smart to do that,” Your lips turned into a soft smile as he rambled on, making you forget about everything that put you in a foul mood. “And you’re so talented! I’ve seen you play the drums when you think no one is looking. The energy that you put into it makes your performance so vibrant and powerful. And you’re even better at the piano. It’s almost like you were born to play it. God, I could listen to you play piano for hours,” Roger never once let his gaze fall from yours as he continued to speak. “And you’re so fucking beautiful,” the smile that rested on your face quickly fell as the words left his lips.

“What?” you breathed out as shock overtook your expression, but Roger just ignored you.

“From that first day I saw you at my audition, I knew you were the prettiest girl I will ever meet, prettiest girl in the whole world. I honestly don’t know how Tim was able to sleep with other girls when he had the most gorgeous woman in the entire world just a few blocks down the road. No one else could ever compare to you and it’s a damn shame that he didn’t realize it,” a silence drifted throughout the room as he finished talking. You set your mug back on the counter, pushed your stool back and moved to stand in front of Roger. His eyes never once left yours as he took uneven breaths, waiting for you to say something.

“Rog,” you whispered, ignoring the crack in your voice. “Tim may not have deserved me, but you do,” the words fluttered from your lips like the butterflies erupting within your stomach.

“Prove it,” Roger could barely hear the words escape his mouth over the blood rushing to his head. You hesitated for a moment before taking a step closer to Roger and looking up into his wide, blue eyes. The confidence that you felt when you asked Roger to take you home resurfaced. And despite your brain yelling at you to stop and take a step back, your heart told you to close the gap that stood between you. So you did.

Your lips fell softly onto Roger’s as he took a sharp breath through his nose. Even though your eyes were closed, you could tell that Roger’s were wide open and filled with shock. You pulled away from the kiss almost as quickly as it had begun. Your eyes fell on the ground as if you were embarrassed to have acted on your desires. Roger took a moment longer before remembering how to properly function and snapped out of the trance you had set him in. You kissed him, he thought. You had finally done the one thing that he’d wanted to do since he met you. His gaze landed back on you and your now rosy cheeks.

He reached forward to cup your blushing cheeks in his hand, feeling the heat radiate off them. You trailed your vision up from the ground, finally meeting Roger’s eyeline. His eyes were filled with emotion and your heart pounded, hoping that it was a good thing. He leaned back into you, grazing his lips over yours as you moved your hands to rest on his chest. He couldn’t take it anymore as he finally pressed his lips back to yours, relishing in the feeling that came with it. He pulled you flush against his body, earning a smile from you as he continued to kiss you. Roger took your smile as an opportunity to slip his tongue between your lips, craving to touch you in every intimate way he could imagine. He tasted like cigarettes and the honey from his tea, while you tasted like cherry chapstick and spearmint. Your hands moved to Roger’s neck as his dropped to your waist, pressing you against his kitchen counter. The two of you battled for dominance with your tongues before you ultimately lost, letting Roger take control for the time being.

He picked you up and you wrapped your legs around his waist, never once letting your lips leave his. Carrying you through the door to his bedroom, Roger hastily placed you on the bed before standing up to take his shirt off. Your eyes trailed up his chest before landing back on his eyes, leaning up to encompass his mouth with yours. He knelt onto the bed, pressing you back so he could lay you down. Roger’s lips left yours as he began to work his way down your neck. His mouth left a trail of kisses as small moans escaped you. He took your moans as a sign of encouragement as he tugged on your shirt, telling you that you should take it off. You nodded at Roger’s request as he propped himself up enough for you to remove your shirt. Even after you took it off, Roger remained in place, hovering over top of you. His eyes traced down your torso and you watched him while you tried to catch your breath. You tried to process everything that was happening and hoped that it wasn’t just some extremely realistic sex dream. Roger’s eyes finally reached yours once again, and you stared back at him in wonder.

“Just like I said, you’re fucking beautiful y/n l/n,” Roger breathed out and a smile broke out on your face. You pulled Roger down to reconnect your lips once more before slowly reaching down to rest your hand over the growing bulge in his pants. You felt it rub against your thigh and it made you even wetter than you already were. He groaned as your fingers squeezed lightly through the fabric of his jeans. Craving more friction, Roger undid the button and zipper, pulling his pants down his legs before kicking them off the side of the bed. You followed his actions, leaving you only in your bra and panties while Roger was just in his boxers. His fingers traced along the inside of your thighs before coming up to rest on your clothed core. You moaned his name as Roger rubbed small circles along the fabric.

As Roger continued to press his fingers against you, your hands snaked behind your back to unclasp your bra. Roger’s eyes widened again as the sight of your uncovered breasts came to his attention. You pressed your chest against his and began to leave rushed kisses all over his neck. It wasn’t long before you found a spot on his neck just above his collarbone that made him moan and gasp as you kissed it. You began to suck harshly, wanting to leave a dark mark against his skin, to know that this was real. As you continued to leave hickies on Roger, he removed his hand from your panties and replaced it with the steady grinding of the bulge in his boxers. A gasp and moan fell from your mouth as you tilted your head back before attacking Roger’s neck with your lips once more. You caught him by surprise and managed to flip Roger over, putting yourself on top. He looked up at you as you sat on his upper thighs, right below the bulge in his boxers. Roger stuck his fingers into the waistband of your panties and tugged them down as you lifted your body up to help get them off your legs. You then reached in front of you and pulled his boxers down, allowing Roger’s cock to spring free. You licked your lips as you leaned down to place your mouth on the head of Roger’s length, but he stopped you.

“As great as that would be love, I need to be inside you,” you could tell that it took every ounce of strength within Roger to decline your impromptu blow job. A smile came to your lips as you leaned down to place a passionate and rough kiss to Roger’s lips. The tip of his dick brushed across your stomach as you kissed him and you could feel the precum rub against you. You broke away from his lips as you used your knees to lift you up enough to sink down onto Roger’s length. Desperate moans filled the room before being quickly replaced by the sound of skin slapping against skin and heavy breaths. Your hips rolled against Roger’s in perfect harmony as he pounded into you from below. As it turns out, drummers are good at keeping time for things other than just music.

Both of your thrusts contained a passion that neither of you knew existed while you continued to move your bodies as one whole. Roger shifted so that he sat upright beneath you, pounding his cock into you from a new angle. A moan ripped through your body as your walls clenched around Roger. You both began to move sloppier as Roger’s hands moved up to massage you breasts and his lips found their way to suck dark spots across them. The sensation of Roger’s hands, mouth, and cock combined sent you over the edge. You felt your orgasm peak as you screamed out Roger’s name and dug your fingernails into his back. His hands quickly shifted down to your ass, holding onto to you as he reached his own high. Roger spilled his cum into you before laying back against his bed with your body pressed against his chest. After you’d calmed down enough, you rolled off of Roger and laid next to him, placing your head against his chest before you both drifted off to sleep.

May 10, 1970

When you woke up, your head was rested against a pillow next to Roger. His bright eyes were lazily opened and gazing at you as you turned your body towards him. He leaned forwards into you, placing a gentle kiss against your lips as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Last night was incredible,” he spoke softly. His voice sounded a little hoarse, but you didn’t mind.

“It was,” you confirmed, a gentle smile overtaking your features. “So, when are you going to take me out on a real date Taylor?” a teasing tone masked your gentle voice as the smile on your face grew larger. Roger’s heart stopped. He liked you, he like you a lot. And that’s why he didn’t want to date you.

You always refused to tell him the story, but he knew you’d been hurt badly in the past. One night he got Brian drunk enough to tell him just how it happened, and his heart stopped beating in his chest immediately after. You had met you’re a boy in your freshman year of high school and gave him everything; your heart, your love, your virginity. Unfortunately for you, he was a liar and a douche and used you for over two years before you walked in on him fooling around with some other girl. You had been cheated on, and Roger knew as well as anyone else that he was not the most faithful when it came to relationships.

He wanted to believe that it would be different with you. That he would be so consumed and in love with you that he wouldn’t even look at another girl, let alone cheat on you with one. But there were always doubts that flew throughout his head. The what ifs. What if this and what if that. He didn’t want to break your heart; he couldn’t break your heart. Because he knew it would be much more than a simple crack down the middle. No, no. It would be stomping on it, shooting at it, grinding it down until it gets picked up in the wind. And by breaking your heart, Roger would end up breaking his own. So, he had to muster up the best excuse he could think of to avoid executing his worst fear.

“As lovely as it would be to take you out, I’m not sure if it’s a great idea,” Roger clenched his teeth with every word he spoke, mentally cursing himself for it because he was acutely aware of how damaging it is to clench your teeth. The smile fell from your face and you worked quickly to conceal the hurt that took its place, but Roger noticed. “I mean, you’re one of my best friends and I don’t want to ruin our friendship,” it wasn’t a complete lie, but Roger knew that his words were far from the truth.

“Right,” you sighed as you shifted to lay on your back and stare at the ceiling. “Well I should get going then,” abruptly, you sat up and started to get dressed. Roger mirrored your actions, trailing behind you as you grabbed your things and moved towards the front door.

“I can give you a lift home,” Roger suggested, hoping to alleviate the tension between you, but you just shook your head.

“No, that’s alright. I need to stop at the grocers to pick up some stuff for Sally anyways. I can walk,” you forced a tight smile onto your lips as you opened the door and took a step out.

“You did it again,” Roger rushed out before leaning against the doorframe, trying to hide how desperate he was for you to stay. You furrowed your eyebrows at his words, genuinely confused. “You used the British word instead of the American one. You know, grocer,” the smirk that appeared on his face quickly left when he saw how much his comment affected you. You looked close to tears before you choked out a few last words.

“Right,” you were so confused by Roger. He acted like he was head over heels in love with you, noticed little things about you, but then acted as if none of it even mattered. As if him remembering all your little quirks and pointing them out to you wasn’t something that someone did when they were in love. Roger pushed you away when all you wanted was to be held close. “I guess things are always changing.”

You turned away from Roger and started to walk down the hallway of his building. After a quick glance and a wave over your shoulder, you headed down the stairs and out towards the street. The tears in your eyes began to spill as you took a left turn at the corner, heading towards the only place in London that could make you feel the same as you did when you were on the beach. Brian’s apartment.

Taglist: @Retromusicsalad @bohemiansweede @deaconsroger @queen-crue @ohtheseboysilove @queeniesteiins @kemeryyyy @onceuponadetectivedemigod @ixchel-9275 @luvborhap @ziggymay @deakysmisfire

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imaginepirates · 5 years

Text

Bird

This is my first time writing for Salazar. It's based off one of my imagines about how he doesn't scare you, even in his ghostly form. Also, I'm dearly sorry to anyone who speaks Spanish.

@fablelady @bonjour-frens @mozelym

@tesserphantom

~3450 words

~~~~~~~

The sun dipped below sea-level, leaving pink trails across the sky. You looked out over the white tiles of the roofs around you, trying to catch a glimpse of the water. A warm breeze wafted through the shutters of your room, bringing with it the sweet scents of flowers.

Your coastal town harboured less than a thousand souls. The village mostly had its trade in the fishing industry, but there were plenty of artists and musicians about. The coast was the perfect place for inspiration.

It was a romantic sort of a place, with pale colored houses and bright flora. You knew most of the people on your street, like the baker and the washerwomen. There was a small market with men and women who sold goods made by hand, but you only knew a few of them.

The town was still poor. If someone wanted enough money to raise a family, they needed to sail somewhere else. Whatever they could sell at other ports, they did.

That was how you and your father lived. He sailed off with a catch of fish and returned with money. It was good pay, but it left you alone.

Tonight was another night by yourself. You wandered down to the docks to check if he'd returned, but there was no sign of your father's boat. He wouldn't be back in the morning, either, you knew. You checked anyway. Every morning and every night. You knew that at some point, he would return, and you'd be there waiting. You always were.

In his absence, you cleaned the house and worked odd jobs. Some of the tasks you might have shared with your mother, but you didn't have one, so you worked alone. It didn't bother you much, but you noticed every pitying look. You didn't even have a sibling.

Most people had known your mother before she was taken. You lived in Cuba, which was owned by the Spanish. The British tried to claim Cuba for themselves on multiple occasions. Once, a soldier had taken your mother. He could have done anything to her. She never came back.

You hadn't known her, but the memory weighed on your father. He said you looked too much like her. He tried to be a good father to you, but you knew he couldn't look at you without seeing her. It hurt him, and it showed.

The Brits had attacked since then, too. Once, when you were still a small child, and another time when you were older. You remembered that one, and what had happened, but you recalled feeling terror on both occasions. You didn't want to lose the only family you had left.

The morning brought no sign of your father. You threw on a worn, rust colored dress. You liked the lace adorning the color, sleeves, and bottom. It was not by any means a nice dress, but it made you feel prettier somehow.

The walk to the baker's was uneventful. You were to sweep the entrance room before customers got there. Then, you'd move on and see details into dresses at a seamstress'. What pay you earned, combined with your father's, would get you through the day.

The week. The month. Until your father showed up again. You could make the money last. You only hoped he had what he needed. He wasn't so fortunate as to always have fresh food. Time at sea was unpleasant, to say the least.

You thought of how you missed him while you worked. How you could convince him to stay home longer next time. How you could make him understand how much you wished him home.

You walked home to do your daily chore work. You would dust, mop, and sweep. If you felt up to it, you could bake a fresh loaf of bread, but it mainly depended on how much flour you had left. Then, you'd wash your clothes. You didn't have to worry about your father's.

Upon returning home, you sat on your bed and cracked open a book. A minute or two of reading wouldn't hurt.

A loud sound echoed off the walls of the city, followed by a shaking. The floor to your house rattled ever so slightly. You stepped outside to peek, and you found a large hole through your neighbor's wall.

Screams followed soon after. You knew what it meant; someone was attacking your town. Instinctually, you ran to hide inside. You climbed into a cupboard, squeezing your body in tight to fit.

Minutes later, things went silent again. There was an eerie quality to the lack of gunfire, to the non-existent screams. You guessed people were in their homes, sobbing as softly as they could.

You held your breath. If it was anything like the last time the British attacked, you were afraid you'd walk outside to dead bodies in the streets.

But you didn't walk outside into anything.

You heard the door forced open and the men entering. Before you knew it, the door to the cupboard was being flung open, and you were dragged out.

All it took was the slightest relaxation in the hand of your captor. As his grip on you loosened, you bolted. Unfortunately, there was nowhere to run. You found yourself stuck in a room with no way out.

A figure stalked in. He was much taller than you, and he wore a faded uniform. It was as if he hadn't taken it off in years. And judging by his looks, he hadn't.

You hadn't met any ghosts in your time, but this was what you imagined one to be. His skin was cracked like old paper, and his hair was an oily mess of black. There was a crazed look in his eye, one that told you he was not among the sane.

And whatever blackness oozed from his body came straight from hell.

He lurched out, black slime dripping from his coat and skin. It was like he was moving underwater; his hair floated behind him, and each step he took was jerky, like he hadn't walked in a long time.

You had yourself pressed up against a desk. There wasn't even a window to fling yourself out of in a desperate attempt for escape. "What do you want?" You whispered.

His hand reached toward you, and you shrunk away from his touch. "The compass." His fingers curled around a lock of your hair, and it slid over the cracked skin.

"What compass?" You asked. You owned a compass, yes, but it wasn't of much note. You had two, actually. One was regular and pointed north, but the other was strange. You'd held it once; it was broken, but your father insisted it worked just fine. Secretly, you thought he was a little crazy.

"We know you have it." There was a distinctive Spanish accent in his voice. It was the accent you'd grown up around your entire life. Somehow, it put you more at ease.

"My father took both compasses with him to go sell fish. You won't find either of them here." You tried to loosen the white-knuckled grip you had around the edge of the desk, but you realized it was holding you up. The strange man was bent over you, and in leaning back to keep your distance, you had to hold onto the desk.

"You lie," he accused.

"I do not lie," you hissed. "You are in the wrong place. I'm sorry. Please, leave. Come back when my father is back; he might be willing to deal with you."

The man eyed you. "Who are you? Do you not fear monsters?" Something like ink spilled from his mouth. It made you shudder.

"You aren't the worst monsters I've seen."

He smiled. You didn't think you'd ever want to see such a thing again. "We will see about that, niña."

Grabbing you by the arm, he pulled you off the desk.

"What do you think you're doing?" You screeched as he pulled you down the hall. "Let go!" You tugged at his hand, but it was futile. His grip was as hard as steel, and looking at the color of his skin, you surmised he might be made of such.

"You're coming with me." He said it as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

"Absolutely not! Why would you need me? I'm not a stupid compass!"

He whirled on you, which was quite alarming given his hair. Bright eyes bored into yours. You were uncomfortable with all his men in the room watching.

"How do I know your father will deal with me?" He stared at you, and continued when you said nothing. "I don't. I need a bargaining chip."

You did not like the sound of that. Yet no matter how hard you struggled, his grip wouldn't break. You screamed and tore at him, but he ignored you and dragged you on. You could only imagine you were being taken to his ship, and you tried not to think of what awaited you there.

It was so much like your mother. You became frantic, and you were embarrassed to find tears rolling off your nose. You wiped them away with your free arm. You had no intention of letting any one of the men see you as weak.

Nobody came to help you. Everyone was boarded up inside their houses, trying to ignore the activity outside. You'd known some people your entire life, but they didn't so much as raise a finger.

The ship looked as broken as its captain. She stood with wooden beams sticking out at odd angles, and the sails were torn to shreds. How she moved, you didn't know. You supposed the same power kept the crew moving, too.

Though you had stopped crying, you were still afraid. The monstrous ship hulking before you was unlike any other you had seen. And to your horror, it dripped the same slime as the crew.

There were no lifeboats on the shore when you got there. The ship waited out in the harbor without proof of anyone leaving it. Some of the men were so close to falling apart, you wondered if they were even capable of rowing an oar.

At the edge of the water, there was a hesitation. An unspoken something that drifted through the air.

And just like that, it vanished.

Hands wrapped around you, and you felt yourself hoisted into the air. You gasped, and nearly puked when you noticed the slime dripping over your body. You dared not look at his face, but you knew by the sleeves of his uniform that it was the captain carrying you.

The ocean blurred beneath you. It might have been something magical if it hadn't been terrifying. The crew could run over water, you realized. They didn't sink. Apparently, the laws of the universe didn't apply to such beings.

You closed your eyes for only a moment before you felt yourself being let down. You were afraid that you were being dropped into the water and left to drown, but your feet caught you on solid wood.

The captain steadied you, grabbing your shoulders to ensure you wouldn't fall. You looked out, back to your village. It stood where you had left it. The ghostly men would've had to run extremely quickly over the water to have gotten to their ship in the time they did.

Suddenly, home seemed incredibly far away.

When you turned again, men were already moving to grab you. You flinched away, but their hands wrapped securely around your arms, pulling you with them.

"Who are you?" You shouted back at the captain.

He smiled again, and you tensed. "Captain Salazar," he said, "Terror of pirates."

"Are you dead?" You asked impulsively.

He only smiled wider. You turned away sharply, and it made you glad to be taken to the brig. There, at least, you didn't have to see the blackness dripping from his mouth.

When Salazar felt generous, he allowed you to walk around the deck. It wasn't pleasant; the crew jeered at you, and Salazar himself made jests. He often called you a frightened little girl. It annoyed you, and it stung, but that made it no less true. You were a frightened little girl.

You didn't dwell on it. Instead, you took what comfort you could out of the rolling sea. That was to say, the comfort was minimal. To see such an unending expanse of water, and to know you were farther from home than you'd ever been before unnerved you. And to think the waves were your father's only companion during his days.

It was on a day when you were feeling particularly lonely and miserable that Salazar felt particularly cruel. As you avoided being hit by a pail of water, he called out.

"Look how she flits around deck, like some bird that cannot fly. Perhaps I should take to calling you pájarita."

The crew found humor his words, but you only felt loneliness. Pájarita. It meant both 'small bird' and 'paper bird'. The perfect word to describe you. Fragile and incapable of escape.

~~~

Shouts echoed above you from deck. Whatever it was, it couldn't be good. You felt the ship change course dramatically. It was like the ship was turning completely around. What for, you could only guess, and your imagination was too fond of wandering down treacherous routes.

When the cannon fire started, you screamed. You were terrified that a hole would be blown right through you. The cannons were so close. You felt them fire overhead.

There were other screams that drowned out yours. They came not from Salazar's crew, but from whomever he fought. There was terrible shrieking followed by dull thuds, and you thought you heard men screaming for mercy.

You were going to be sick. The smell of the brig, combined with the noise and the shock of being hit by cannon fire was too much.

Mostly, it was the memories that hurt. And the fact that you were alone, with no semblance of comfort.

Thankfully, it ended quickly. You sat in your cell, staring into nothingness. You vaguely wondered if you could strangle yourself on the bars to your cell.

Footfalls echoed on the stairs, but you paid them no mind. When the door to the prisons flung open, you still didn't look up. Your cell opened, and you were dragged to your feet, but you hung limply from the hands that held you.

Salazar studied you; you could feel his eyes. More gently than you thought possible, he laid you back down. Then, he stormed out. You only moved your eyes when he began yelling, but you couldn't imagine what about.

He returned shortly, and when he did, he lifted you off your feet. It shocked you into changing your expression, though you couldn't convince the rest of your body to move.

"Good." He looked down at you. "You're alive. I told them to put you in my cabin and keep an eye on you." He carried you back to his cabin and laid you on the tattered remains of a bed. "I'm glad you're not hurt."

Glad I'm not hurt because if I was, my father wouldn't trade with you. You kept your thoughts to yourself.

Hearing your silence, Salazar asked, "You aren't hurt, are you, pájarita?"

He said it tenderly, as if he might actually care. You looked up at him again, staring into black eyes. They looked, to your shock, a little more sane.

You shook your head.

"Good."

"Are you?" You rasped. "Hurt?"

He stared at you a moment. "They can't hurt me."

You nodded. Then, "Please. Please never do that again."

"The cannons frighten you?" He wasn't mocking.

"They remind me of darker times."

To your utter disbelief, he set a hand on your shoulder. There was no weight to it. Perhaps he thought you were made of glass. "I'm sorry. We've all had darker times."

From then on, you never engaged another ship. You saw many on the horizon, and the dark looks Salazar cast them, but you never got close.

You were allowed to wander the deck. Salazar kept you in his rooms. He, for one, didn't need to sleep. Apparently, it wasn't a requirement for whatever kind of creature he was. You, however, did, and you used what was left of his bed.

He ceased bothering you. No more taunts, no more condescending tone. It was gone, and shakily, you could rebuild some of your strength.

The battle had left you shaken. You jumped at loud noises, you flinched when people bumped into you, and your limbs were limp. Most of all, you felt empty.

Salazar always had you in his sights. You thought he liked keeping an eye on you. And even behind the horrid appearance, you began to catch glimpses of the man he used to be. Or so you gathered.

He gave you as much privacy as possible while still keeping you as a sort of prisoner. You figured you didn't pose much of a threat.

You awoke one morning to an argument outside your door. There was shouting, but the early-morning fog in your brain didn't let you process it for the longest time.

Then, you heard it. "We should throw her overboard!"

"She's of no use!"

"Feed 'er to the sharks!"

Shouting ensued. You began to grow afraid again. The crew could easily overpower you and do with you as they wished. For an awful moment, you thought Salazar might let them. No captain would risk a mutiny for some little girl.

A voice cut through the crowd. "The girl stays here."

Salazar nearly slammed the door as he entered your room. His room, really. There was a fire in his eyes, but it wasn't directed at you.

"You didn't have to do that," you said. "Why?"

"I still need you for my bargain."

"What's the compass got to do with you?"

"It will lead me to the man I want vengeance on most."

"That's not how a compass works."

"This one does."

You hesitated. "It shows you who you most want vengeance on?"

"It shows you what you want most."

You felt like you'd just been slapped. What you want most. Your father... he must look at it every day. It must point somewhere he can't go, to some other continent. It must point to your mother. How hard it would be.

"Is that really what you want most?" You whispered. "There's a different side to you, a man who wants to escape his shell."

He glared at you through narrow eyes. "You know nothing of me."

"I think I do." You were beginning to understand. "You wouldn't protect me if there was no goodness in you. I would still be in the brig, slumped over in my cell. Whatever this is," you waved your hands at him, "it feeds off your hate. If you let it all go, I think you'd be released."

A sudden darkness made itself known in him. He looked at you with that gaze again, as if he were dealing with a very small child.

"Don't. Don't you do that to me."

If he was surprised, he didn't show it.

Without thinking, you stepped forward. Your arms wrapped around his back of their own volition. You were short enough that your head rested on his chest. Despite the sticky quality of the action due to the black substance, the hug wasn't completely unpleasant.

"You really aren't afraid of me, pájarita."

And really, you weren't.

He stepped back from you suddenly, like he'd been stung. His hands obscured his face, hiding it from you. He looked like he was in terrible pain.

Gently, you pried his hands from his face. When he looked at you, one eye had changed. In fact, a whole section of his face had turned back into skin. You brushed over it with your fingertips.

"You're changing me," he rasped.

"No. You're changing you."

"It would not have happened without you." His still flaking fingers groped at the new skin. "Stay with me, pájarita, and take this curse from me."

You smiled sadly. "You know I can't do that." Your fingers found their way back to his face, tracing the patch of skin. He shuddered at the contact; you figured nobody had touched his skin in a long time. You almost wanted to stay. Instead, you whispered what reassurance you could.

"But I'll be here until you take me home."

#pirates of the caribbean #potc #x reader #drabble #request #writing #armando salazar #potc5 #salazar #fanfic #dmtnt

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theperfumewarehouse · 2 years

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fitzwilliamburke · 6 years

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location: Eastern Squad offices, floor 66 time: 8:05am, the morning after Hattori’s retirement party ( solo )

“Burke.”

It’s eight in the bloody morning. Eight in the bloody morning and he’s sporting a hangover the size of Missouri from the party at Leaping Lizards the night before and suddenly, for no apparent reason whatsoever, Snow is howling his name from the door of his office, practically storming over to the desk where Fitz is just trying to get his head on straight in peace.

‘Yes, Chief?’

“I’m sure you’ve noticed that something is horribly wrong,” Snow says, his face sober, sombre, as he closes the distance between them and takes a seat across from Fitz. He feels a little like a psychoanalyst, all of a sudden, sitting across from the Chief like this, with him looking like someone’s gone and murdered half his family and-- oh, Merlin, has someone gone and murdered his family? Fitz certainly hopes not, he was hoping for an easy day, at least until the hangover tonic he’s taken starts to do the trick.

‘Is there?’

“What, you haven’t tried to get a coffee?”

‘I’m a tea man, Chief.’

“Of course you are. Damned Brits. Right, well, thing is: someone’s stolen our damned coffee machine, Burke. The LuxBrew 3000. Do you know how much my wife spent on that? Anyway, look, I need someone to get it back and you’re not out on any cases, so I’m giving this one to you. I’m sure it’s the Central Squad, revenge for whoever set those damned doxies loose last night, but they swear up and down they spent the whole morning clearing out their offices, so we can’t rule out the others. Midge says it was still there at 4 this morning, so there’s a chance someone is storing it in their office. You get it back to me by one, you hear?”

‘Ah, it’s just, I’ve got all this paperwork to get through,’ he replies, gesturing one hand vaguely towards the stack of unfinished paperwork he has absolutely no plans to get through today. A convenient excuse not to go on a wild goose chase round the entire MACUSA building looking for a bloody coffee machine.

“There’s something in it for you,” Snow says, and Fitz can already tell from the look on his face that whatever it is, he thinks it’s good. Thinks it’s something Fitz won’t be able to resist. “I’ll give you Friday off. No questions asked.”

And, well, it turns out that after all this time, Snow knows Fitz pretty damned well.

A coffee machine, he thinks. Not a problem. A Friday off for nothing. It’s not an offer he can turn down, especially if it means he’s got a perfectly good reason not to get any real work done for the remainder of the day.

‘Alright, Chief,’ he says, sitting up, taking his feet off the desk to look the other man eye to eye. ‘You’ve got yourself a deal.’

location: Central Squad offices, floor 67 time: 8:15am

“You know just as well as anyone else that we’ve been cleaning doxy shit off every square inch of this place since seven thirty in the fuckin’ morning,” Kennedy Stokes sighs, one hand on her hip in the space between the lift and the Central Squad’s main office area. He can see, looking past her, that she’s probably not lying -- there’s still the unpleasant lingering scent, and he can see spots they missed on the back wall of the equally unpleasant gray-teal color of fairy excrement. The pranksters in his own office had really outdone themselves, but Stokes and her ilk seemed to be facing the day with a rather grim sense of defeat, uncharacteristic of any auror who had a trick up their sleeve -- especially a trick like a stolen coffee machine.

‘Then I’m sure you won’t mind if I take a look around,’ he replied, glancing over her shoulder. He couldn’t very well check every desk drawer, or every cabinet in their breakroom, and if they were disguising their guilt this well he imagined it’d be hidden somewhere better than just tucked away somewhere, but he’s at least got to pretend he’s trying hard, here, in case Snow starts asking around to see if he really deserves that Friday off.

He’s made plans, already, spent the last ten minutes and the lift ride up here dreaming about what he might do with a day off, imagining the possibilities, settling somewhere between seeing a show and abso-bloody-lutely nothing. An entire weekend, even, he could get out of town, if he wanted, maybe go to a quiet beach somewhere and find someone cute to--

“You’re not gonna find anything, Fitz. But alright, sure, be my guest, I guess.”

She moves to let him pass, returns to the stack of files she has been working her way through cleaning off, charming flakes and swathes of the sticky substance off of the pages that had been left open on various desks overnight -- an unexpectedly fatal mistake. Her attitude alone is a pretty clear indicator that if the Central squad is behind this, she certainly wasn’t a part of it: she’s too quick to let him in, too resigned to the fact, and he’s known Stokes for a number of years now -- she’s not that good of an actress.

A quick sweep of the office (it does smell like doxy shit, noxious and cloying, the scent lingering even where those present have managed to scourgify most of the actual residue away, and he’d rather not linger for any longer than he needs to) mostly confirms his suspicions -- it it’s Central, he’s not going to find the evidence he needs here. No LuxBrew turns up under an upturned trashcan or in a desk drawer or anything that might make his damned job any easier.

Not a great start to his day, he thinks, and makes a note to check back in when the office is finally clean, maybe with a Bubblehead Charm to make his search a little easier.

location: Pacific Squad offices, floor 69 time: 8:35am

Every single auror in the Pacific Squad office is hungover.

That isn’t an exaggeration, he notes. He’s never seen so many sour looking faces, but it’s clear they all celebrated a little too hard last night, and while the rowdier of the crew might have had the wherewithal to snatch the machine before the worst of the hangover hits, his tempting offer of one of his special hangover tonics to whoever can turn the machine over turns up no results among the miserable faces before him.

There is no LuxBrew in sight.

He’s going to need to take a different approach.

location: Department Lobby, floor 50 time: 8:45am

The gentleman behind the front desk had been easy enough to persuade to let him see the security logs. An easy smile and, when that didn’t work, the invocation of Snow’s wrath, and he’d been granted access to the book in which every out-of-hours entry into the MACUSA building was logged, which he was now combing through, looking for any familiar name between the hours of four and seven-thirty, when the night-time sign in books gets put away for the day.

Unfortunately, a third of the people who work in the building get to work early, and so there’s not an insubstantial list of names to go through towards the latter hours listed.

He’s got coffee on the brain, by now; he won’t drink it, ordinarily, but he’s been thinking of it so much he can almost smell the phantom scent of it as he pours over the log, running through the names one by one, cross referencing them with the list he’s made in his notebook of every auror on every squad in the building who might be under suspicion. Seriously, he can smell it, almost like it’s right under his nose--

A clink of ceramic on marble. He glances to the side, sees the chipped white coffee mug with the MACUSA logo printed on its side, filled to the brim with black coffee.

“Morning, Burke,” says a voice, and he glances up from the security log to see a face he hasn’t seen in some time: Ishmael Hanson, an old classmate from the Academy, still as smug looking as they’d always been. Files tucked under their arm, the other elbow up on the marble countertop where Fitz is standing and working, they look amused to see Fitz standing here squinting at the visitor log. “Looking for someone?”

‘Working a case,’ he answers, tense, distracted. He’d much rather get this over with than chat to Hanson for any amount of time.

“Wow, this early? That doesn’t seem like your usual work ethic. Need a hand? A coffee maybe?”

‘More of a tea man, Hanson,’ he says with a sigh as he turns his eyes back to the never-ending list of names. There’s one -- Aurora Powell, Pacific Squad, came in just past six, that could be a lead...

“Well, suit yourself.”

And then he realizes, a second after Hanson is gone: he knows that smell. The stench of it on Snow’s breath every damn morning, the odor whirling through the Eastern Squad offices every morning from eight until just past noon, the way it’s seeped into the very walls of the breakroom. It’s not just coffee. It’s LuxBrew coffee.

location: Mountain Squad offices, floor 68 time: 9:05am

They’ve barricaded themselves in, the bastards.

They must have re-sealed the wards after the second Hanson was back inside, because for all his spells, all his ward-breaking charms, all his literal physical banging at the damned door, the thing won’t budge, and what’s worse, one of the wards sent of a flurry of sparks at his feet, scuffed his shoe up right at the toe when he’d tried kicking the door in.

Lincoln’s know for his specialty in locking charms and blocking wards, and the squad seems to have put him to good use. Locked door means they’ve got something to hide. Locked door means Hanson knows Fitz is onto him -- or that Hanson was intentionally baiting him with the coffee downstairs just to watch him squirm.

This isn’t bloody worth it.

He’ll have to find another way in, a way to break through the wards or get into the offices another way. He’s positive the damned thing is in there, he can feel it.

He can smell it.

location: Evidence and Seized Property Storage, floor 52 time: 9:35am

‘Milly, love, it’s just a bloody piece of paper,’ he insists, leaning on the high desk at which the old house elf sits across from him. One spell -- he’d found the case number and everything, thanks to Fay, but she’d been caught up in other work, and he’d been forced to schlep his way down to floor 52 on his own, to del with the temperamental and notoriously stingy house elves who watched over the labyrinth of old evidence himself, much to his chagrin. One spell, which could allegedly unlock any door, undo any ward, and take down any magic barrier, and it was all he needed to get into the Mountain Squad’s barred offices and take a look for himself for any evidence to confirm his strong suspicion that they were the culprits here.

“You need form 1-A-456 to remove any evidence unrelated to a current case from Evidence Storage, auror Burke,” she replied, her voice graveled with age but still with the telltale squeak that every house elf he’d ever encountered had.

‘This is related to my case. It’s got a spell on it I need to use.’

“I don’t make the rules, I just follow ‘em.”

Her voice is decisive, her gaze even, daring him to contradict her and the careful order of bureaucracy, and he withers under it. It’s clear there’s no way he can cheat his way Milly -- she takes her job far too seriously, he knows, to let him get away with it. He could fight this battle for the next two hours, eat up half the time he’s got left to find the damned machine, or he could concede to the order of things, have her help him find one piece of paper amidst the towering labyrinth of evidence storage.

‘Alright, alright. Have you got the bloody form?’

location: Mountain Squad offices, floor 68 time: 11:50am

He had nearly given up. He really had. Somewhere between form 1-C-568, which he’d needed approved by three other aurors in order to even access form 1-A-456, and the fifth trip upstairs to get Snow’s signature on a newly-conjured page, he’d nearly said fuck it and decided that one day off wasn’t worth it for all of this.

But he had it now, the piece of paper tucked delicately into an evidence bag, the bag gripped in his hand. The handwriting is poor, hard to read, but he remembers the events surrounding the Scranton robbery well enough that he can make it out, still. Advanced lockpicking charm. If anything will get past Lincoln’s bolted door, it’s this.

He stands back, a bit, not wanting his shoes to become the victim again if this goes arse-end-up, and readies his wand, glancing at the paper one more time to make sure he knows the spell.

‘Sera Apertus.’

There’s a pop, then a hiss, then a few more sounds he can’t quite identify, the sounds of wards breaking and locks sliding out of place, whisper-quiet, and damn, he’s impressed that the charm worked just the way he’d hoped it would. The door stands in front of him, still closed but unlocked, now, unprotected.

He reaches his hand out cautiously, wand still at the ready just in case the charm missed anything, any unexpected curses or jinxes lingering around the general area of the doorway, but nothing happens when his hand touches the brass of the door knob, nothing happens when he turns it except that the door clicks and swings open, letting him in -- finally -- to the Mountain squad office, and to the surprised faces of the handful of aurors inside as they turn around to see who has made it through their wards.

Wand still at the ready, he faces them down, the culprits, the coffee thieves, the loathsome pranksters who caused him hours worth of strife, and who were now going to win him his well-earned Friday off.

‘Where is it, then?’

location: Interrogation Room 14, floor 64 time: 12:10am

He has just under an hour. Just under an hour to break Ishmael Hanson, get the coffee machine, and get back to the 66th floor.

He sits across from them at the interrogation table, a mug of tea in front of him. It’s not very good tea, but with everyone in the Eastern Squad looking for non-coffee caffeine this morning to stunt their lingering hangovers, it’s the best he could find. He makes a mental note to remember to bring in a box from home, hide it somewhere in one of his desk drawers for occasions like this.

Well: he has, by his calculations, thirty five minutes to break Ishmael Hanson, ten to get the LuxBrew from wherever it’s stowed, and then five to get back to Snow before the deadline’s passed and he’s missed his shot at an entirely luxurious Friday far, far away from this chaos. He’s going to need it, when all this is done.

‘Where’s the coffee machine?’ he says, and across the table from him, Hanson grins.

“What coffee machine?”

‘The one you stole from the Eastern Squad break room, Hanson. The one you were drinking coffee from this morning in the lobby. The one your squad mates confessed to stealing, last night, after the retirement party, before they confunded poor Midge and bribed her into telling Snow the machine was there when she cleaned. Where is it?’

“Ah, that coffee machine.”

His grip tightens around the mug of tea in his hand.

“You’re the big detective here, why don’t you tell me what you think happened, where you think it is?”

‘I think you’re an utter prick with a death wish, goading me because you know I’m a better auror than you. I think the LuxBrew is up your bloody arse, or at least, it will be if you don’t tell me what you’ve done with it.’

Hanson presses their lips together, a silent my lips are sealed gesture, and Fitz very nearly throws the mug at them. It wouldn’t even be a waste of tea, he thinks, blithely, since it’s such bloody awful tea.

He stops himself, though, and it brings his anger to up against a wall, his frustration escapes and leaves him exhausted thinking about the furious running up and down from floor to floor, the back and forth, the hours of unnecessary paperwork, the scuff on his shoes.

He has thirty four minutes to break Ishmael Hanson.

He can’t do it.

So he does what he’s always done, as the tension seeps out of him and leaves him hollow. He finds another way.

‘You’ve got to tell me, Ishmael. You’ve seen what Snow’s like when he hasn’t had his coffee. Imagine that, but in perpetuity, for the rest of my life. I won’t survive it. None of us will.’

Ishmael, finally, looks like they’re considering it for a moment.

“What’ll you give me for it?”

location: Eastern Squad break room, floor 66 time: 12:58pm

“What do you want?” comes Snow’s gruff voice from behind the closed door to his office, and Fitz can’t help but think he sounds like he’s likely more hungover than the rest of them, even still, even now.

‘Brought you something,’ he says through the door, and he can hear Snow behind the door rushing to get up at the sound of his voice, making his way out from behind the desk to where he can open the door and stick his head out.

“Burke. You found it? Please tell me you found it.”

He holds out the mug of fresh, pungent, LuxBrew coffee in one hand, offering it out to the chief, letting a smug grin of self-satisfaction cross his face. Sure, it took him half the bloody day to get through it; sure, he was going to need to take his shoes in to get the leather repaired; sure, he didn’t even give a damn about coffee; but Snow had been right: he was the right man for the job.

And it only cost him a month of Hanson’s paperwork to prove it.

#( &. breakroom break in )#it took me ages but FINALLY here it is: the overdramatic coffee machine case #be warned it's basically a novella under here

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onceuponaprincessworld · 6 years

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CaptainSwan Soulmate AU Recs

Hello CS Fandom and Happy New Year! I ‘ve decided to start this year with a list of some wonderful Soulmate fics. Hope you enjoy!

If you are intrested you can find my other lists here.

Mutlichapter

Complete

Countdown, @paranoiaqueen

What if you could have a countdown until you met your soulmate? Emma Swan thinks it's all b.s. and that she doesn't need some guy in a lab coat to tell her who to love but then she meet a dashing Brit in a pub. He has a messed up timer, one with no match. Killian Jones was a man with no countdown until he'd leave her. But can she open herself up to love?

The Music of the Heart Soulmate Finder, @whimsicallyenchantedrose

Emma Swan is skeptical of the newest rage in the dating world--The Music of the Heart Soulmate finder. When Mary Margaret convinces her to get one for herself, will it point her to her own soulmate? Will she have the courage to open her heart to the possibility of True Love?

foxtrot uniform charlie kilo, @swanisms

In order to get into the soulmates exclusive apartments outside of uni and escape their shitty roommates, Killian and Emma pretend to be soulmates.

My Thoughts Are With You, Shut_up_im_reading

Emma never thought she would need or even want a soulmate. She was happy with what she had… until it was gone. Neal left her, taking all she had and leaving her with nothing so when she meets her soulmate she’s not interested. But when she can hear him in her mind it’s hard to ignore one plan and simple fact. Emma Swan and Killian Jones are meant to be together.

Amaranthine, @caprelloidea

In which soulmates are rare, and those that have them stop aging at adulthood. Rarer still – and dangerously conspicuous – are those that have special abilities. Immortality and powers alike fade when soulmates come in close proximity with their other half. In which Emma’s touch heals, and Killian’s kills.

More Than All the Stars, @cutieodonoghue

In a world full of soulmates, Emma Nolan doesn’t know who hers is. Enter Killian Jones, attempting to stop his brother from proposing to his soulmate, only to be thrown a curveball when he’s sent to spend Christmas on a farm with a bunch of strangers. (soulmate modern au)

Wip

I See The Light (Now That I See You), @bisexual-killian-jones

Emma was twenty-six when she could finally see colors, after she had lost faith in it ever happening to her. She just wasn't quite expecting it to be him. AU where you only see black and white until you meet your soulmate.

One-shots

Soulmarked, @phiralovesloki

Emma Swan just wants to be loved for who she is, and not because someone feels obligated to love her. It's just her luck that she has a soulmate somewhere out there, while she's already in love with someone else.

You’re the Tune that Stuck, @lifeinahole27

A soulmates au where you can have any number of things happen to reveal you have a soulmate. In this one, Emma suddenly hears the songs that her soulmate are either listening to or have stuck in their head.

first day of my life, @piratesails

Killian has never been one to give in. No matter how shitty the hand he’s been dealt. Because, really, Times Square on New Year’s Eve just as the ball’s about to drop? Bloody hell, you’ve got to be kidding him.

Soulmate AU where you get a tattoo telling you the time and place you’ll meet them.

Forget-me-nots on my Skin (Forevermore), @lirapheus

Soulmate!AU in which you see the world in black and white until your soulmate comes into your life, a burst of colour among the dull crowds. And once you touch your soulmate, the whole world comes alive.

Killian Jones is an English tattoo artist who moves to New York after his brother's death. Emma Swan is helping Mary Margaret with her flower shop in The Big City. (She has never been a flower person, but she needs to pay the rent.)

Missed Connections, @captainswanluver

Emma Swan doesn’t think she’ll ever see the handsome stranger she spilled coffee all over again. Killian Jones doesn’t believe he’ll ever see the beautiful blonde who ruined his shirt. So they couldn’t be more surprised when their paths keep crossing, only to find that something keeps standing in the way of them making a lasting connection. But when you keep meeting the same person over and over again in a city of 8 million people, is it mere coincidence or fate?

Zemblanity, @lenfaz

William Boyd coined the term zemblanity to mean somewhat the opposite of serendipity: "making unhappy, unlucky and expected discoveries occurring by design". A zemblanity is, effectively, an "unpleasant unsurprise". It derives from Novaya Zemlya (or Nova Zembla), a cold, barren land with many features opposite to the lush Sri Lanka (Serendip).

The Time Tattoo, @onceuponabadass

What would you do if you knew when the most important moment in your life was going to happen? For Emma Swan that moment was 23 years 22 days 8 minutes and 15 seconds away... and it was only getting closer.

Dumbledore Guy, @seeknot2alterme

When Emma was born she was marked with, in her opinion, the worst soulmate mark anyone could ever have. People are born marked with the first words their true love would ever say to them, and Emma's happened to spoil one of the greatest plot twists of all time.

Scar of the Heart, @curiousthingdarkness

Emma Swan hunts alone. Except on nights when Killian Jones, fellow demon hunter and pain in her ass, insists on joining her. When dealing with a particularly troublesome beast, they discover that perhaps there is more to each other than meets the eye.

Like Rum On The Fire, @nightships

Emma Swan grows up learning to never expect the spark of true love on her skin and lives in Boston as a bail bondsperson. Killian Jones never expects to feel love again after he loses Milah, but finds his revenge may lie in the hands of the Savior. Both of them are surprised when he breaks into her home on the night of her birthday.

how close is close enough, @swanisms

There’s something to be said for the way a soulmate fucks.

The movies, the novels, the articles, the “Soulmates Are Great, Get Yours Now!” sales pitch is that love-making isn’t truly love-making until it’s your One True Love. Too optimistic, “Once Upon a Time” to consider that making love to your soulmate could be the last thing you want.

Fucking them, however, has its perks.

Skin Deep, @captainodonewithyou

There is a soulmate tattoo headcanon popping around on tumblr about soulmates having tattoos of the last words their love will say to them. My friend told me to write it, and I did. Captain Swan angst ahead. (pirate)

Spoilers, @thejacketandthehook

Emma Swan has a soulmate tattoo on her ribcage that gives her pretty big spoilers for the Harry Potter universe.

and you’re mine, @belovedcreation

soulmate au where instead of your soulmates first words to you written on your skin it’s their last words you ever hear them say so you don’t know who your soulmate is until you lose them.

Is There Anyone Out There ('Cause it's Getting Harder and Harder to Breathe)?, LovingCSFanfiction

Not everyone finds a soul mate, but those lucky enough can see color. It’s not a terrible life if you never find a soul mate. You can still fall in love and live a happy and healthy life. You can still have a family and want nothing more than to have them be the last person you see at night and the first person in the morning. You can still have an unexplainable bond with them. Having a soul mate is just the little extra oomph to the relationship, and you don’t know the oomph if you’ve never had it. So, you’ll find someone you love and not know what’s missing, and everything will be okay. That is exactly what Emma Swan did when she married Neal Cassidy at 18, and exactly why it became a problem when she met her real soul mate, Killian Jones, 10 years later. CS Soul Mates AU.

like the sun, kathleenfergie

“What gave me away this time?” he asked.

“Well, you’re always English and your eyes never change. It gets easier every century,” she explained.

True Love Leaves a Mark, @sotheylived

Emma learns that the tattoo she’s had written directly above her heart for more than ten years may have come from something other than a long night of drinking.

danced in the dark (under september stars), @thejollypirate

For a person to have a soulmate, their compass needs to point toward them. That sounds simple enough, right? Yeah, well it's not so simple when it comes to Emma Swan's life. Between feeling she doesn't deserve a soulmate to perhaps finding a man who could fill in that gap of missing love, there's just one little thing that's a problem. Her compass only points north - broken.

(the one for you and me), @swanisms

And, most importantly, she’s praying to whatever gods there are that might hear her plea - even though they’ve never listened before, not when she needed them most - that this is not the time of the year that her soul mate decides to come out as a closeted Christmas nut and start blasting it in her head, where she won’t be able to find any escape. (Holiday Soulmates AU).

Stardust in Your Skin, midwestwind

Emma Swan may believe in magic and curses and fairy tales but she absolutely does not believe in soulmates.

marked, lantanapetals

captain swan; soulmate tattoo au.

give me a shot at the night, birdbox (Bella_Barbaric)

Emma stares at her wrist in her lap, her breathing getting shallow; she even tries, stupidly, to scrub the letters off but like David's and Mary Margaret's they're stuck fast. Forever. She has a soulmate. Somewhere in London, her soulmate is walking around—and probably just found her own initials tattooed onto their wrist. She might be within days of meeting them.

Only One Way This Could Go, @wingedlioness

I need a fic where Emma and Killian are soul mates and everyone knows (because their soul mate identifying symbols are like super visual), but they act like rivals and say they “don’t want to be forced together”, but are actually secretly dating after a drunk hook up.

Written in the Stars, @herfairy

Emma Swan wasn't an expert on love – mainly because she didn't believe in it and no soulmate was going to change her mind.

Two-Shots

I Will Learn to Let You Go, @lifeinahole27

Killian Jones, having lost his own soulmate years before, spends his free time finding the soulmates of other people. It’s what he’s good at, and he gets paid well to do it. Finding the soulmate of his latest client may prove to be the worst job he’s ever taken on, though. It’s not because Emma Swan is hard to find, but because he finds himself falling in love with her.

#cs ff #cs rec fic #cs rec ff #CS fic rec #cs ff rec #CS fanfics #cs fanfiction #cs au #cs rec list #my rec list #Captain Swan #captain swan fic rec #captain swan fanfiction #cs soulmate

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ruminativerabbi · 3 years

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The Fate of Nations

We are all familiar with the phenomenon of powerful nations that appear invincible and eternally set in place suddenly—and at the moment inexplicably—vanishing, some from the power roster of major players and some from the forum of nations entirely. The Roman Empire, the British Empire, the Austro-Hungarian Empire and the Soviet Union are all good examples. A mere century ago, the Brits ran more of the world than any nation ever had, holding sway over a full 23% of the world’s population and controlling an even more unbelievable 24% of the earth’s land mass. Today, they’re down to fourteen mostly-tiny colonies (now called overseas territories), three of which have no population at all. On the other hand, the Soviet Union—once one of the world’s two superpowers—didn’t so much shrink as simply stop existing, a turn of events that would have seemed impossible to imagine back when I was a child at P.S. 3 and we would practice hiding under our desks with our hands clasped reassuringly over our heads in case of a Soviet nuclear missile attack.

Yes, of course, there are also once-sovereign countries that stop existing as independent entities because they were absorbed into other countries like Wales, Sikkim, or Hawaii. And then there are nations that stop existing merely because they managed to morph into alternate versions of themselves, somewhat in the way Czechoslovakia turned into the Czech Republic and Slovakia in 1993. But the story I wish to write about this week is about a nation that broke apart neither as a self-defeating response to an all-powerful enemy gathering menacingly at the gate nor because the nation abandoned its own will to exist as an independent entity, but because it dissolved the glue that held its peoples together by abandoning its most foundational principles, thus losing its national will to self-define as a single country founded on an immutable set of shared ideals. You can trust that I speak here of what I know: I have spent my entire adult life studying this story and trying to internalize the lessons it has to offer those who take the time thoughtfully to contemplate its details.

When King David died, he left a fully unified kingdom to Solomon, his son and chosen successor. And Solomon starts off well, taking the reins of leadership, dealing firmly and well with those who opposed his ascension to the throne, becoming wise beyond the telling of it through his studies and his willingness to learn from the greatest sages of the day, and successfully constructing the great Temple in Jerusalem with which his name would forever be associated. And then things begin to go agley.

The Torah says explicitly that the king of Israel may not create a personal cavalry and specifically that he may not travel to Egypt to purchase the horses that such a fighting force would require. But that is exactly what Solomon did, putting together a personal militia consisting of 1400 chariots, 12,000 horsemen and horses—a force so astounding that the Bible even pauses to note what the price of a horse was in those days (150 shekels) so that readers can figure out the total for themselves and be suitably astounded.

The Torah, in my opinion more than wisely, says that the king must not amass a personal fortune in gold and silver. But that is precisely what Solomon did, and to such an extent that Scripture pauses to note that even the drinking vessels in the palace were made of pure gold and that the king’s throne itself, made of expensive and hard-to-procure ivory, was overlaid with pure gold.

The Torah makes a particular point that the king, although not restricted to a single wife, may not “multiply wives, lest his heart turn away from the worship of the one God.” The idea seems simple enough: if the king is left to marry as many different women as he wishes, he will inevitably marry foreign women devoted to the worship of their national deities who will seduce the king as well into their worship. But that is precisely what Solomon did, allowing his libido to override his allegiance to the Torah and eventually taking the astounding number of 700 wives. But those hundreds upon hundreds of women were not enough to satisfy the king’s apparently unquenchable desire for female company and so he took, in addition to his wives, another 300 women as concubines for a grand total of one thousand women. And the result was just as feared: Solomon, eager to please each wife by appearing to embrace her native culture was slowly seduced into the worship of foreign gods. (I know all this runs directly counter to the stories we tell children in Hebrew School about King Solomon, but I assure you I am not making any of this up. Feel free to read the tenth and eleventh chapters of the First Book of Kings to check my references.)

And so the picture slowly emerges of a nation becoming loosed from its moorings, one in which the mantle of leadership has passed to a well-meaning soul who lacks the inner fortitude and moral courage to resist being seduced by his own libidinous yearnings for wealth, power, and a never-ending supply of bedmates. It is not an appealing portrait, nor was it meant to be. Indeed, so intensely unpleasant is the story as told that it became commonplace later on to imagine that Kohelet, the Book of Ecclesiastes, was written by Solomon in his old age as a way of renouncing the follies of his own younger years. But the author or authors of books in the Bible that tell Solomon’s story in detail know nothing of Kohelet and simply draw the portrait with which they wish to present their readers as clearly and simply as possible.

And what happened next was the same thing that happens to any objects in the physical universe when the glue that has successfully been holding them together hardens and dries out, thus becoming unable to hold those objects together any longer: they fall apart and become related to each other solely in the context of shared history but not the context of daily reality.

Solomon was the last king of a unified Israelite nation, which had, in the end, only three monarchs on its throne: mad Saul, heroic David, and self-doomed Solomon. There was no next chapter: after Solomon died, the united kingdom dissolved and was replaced by two successor states, Judah in the south and Israel in the north. I suppose different people in ancient times interpreted this in different ways. But the great historian/s whose work became our Book of Kings had their own way of interpreting the events that led to the dissolution of the unified kingdom: “Therefore the Lord said to Solomon, Since you have not kept my covenant and my statutes, I shall tear the kingdom away from you and give it to one of your servants. For the sake of your father David’s memory, however, I will leave the kingdom intact for all of your days and tear it instead from the hand of your son.” And that is exactly what happened: Solomon’s son Rechavam (for some reason called Rehoboam in English Bibles) reigned over the kingdom of Judah in the south which was inhabited by members solely of the tribes of Judah and Benjamin, while Solomon’s servant Yeravam (called Jeroboam, equally weirdly, in English Bible) became king of the northern kingdom of Israel inhabited by the ten northern tribes.

What happened next I’ll write about in detail some other time, but the lesson of this part of the larger narrative is clear: nations survive neither when they create enormous armies or amass great wealth nor when their rulers live lives of excess and luxury beyond the imagination of most of the populace, but solely when they remain true to the ideas and principles upon which the nation was founded in the first place. The Israelite nation had several basic national principles in place by Solomon’s day, but monotheism—the belief in the one God—was the foundation stone upon which all the others rested. So it was inevitable that when Solomon succumbed to the worship of alien deities as a way of propitiating his many wives (and also, presumably, because his personal militia and his vast wealth made him feel invincible), he would soon become personally responsible for the dissolution of the union with his own dissolute ways. Countries, Scripture teaches us, live by their ideas, by the virtues they wish their nation to embody on the geopolitical level just as they personally embody them on the individual one. Nations, even enormously powerful ones, do not get to endure forever merely because they have a lot of money or guns: they survive because they remain true to themselves, because they don’t abandon their most basic principles, because their growth forward into the future is guided by the same principles that guided the nation when it was first founded.

As we make our way through these next weeks, it would behoove us all to devote some time to Solomon’s story. Yes, surely it is true that people suffer in our world because they personally lack the power and the wealth necessary to keep the forces of darkness at bay. But that is simply not how things work at the national level: nations, including immensely powerful ones, survive in this world based on the degree to which they keep faith with their finest national ideals and with the virtues their founders set in place as the principles intended to guide the nation forward into the future.

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avanneman · 7 years

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Hey, Netflix! “The Crown” sucks!

Is there anyone in the world so pathetic as Elizabeth II? Aside from us 300 million-odd schmucks who will soon be under the thumb of El Hugo Chávez del Norte. But, seriously, one has to feel sympathy for a ninety-year-old broad condemned to wander the earth pretending that she’s important.

It wasn’t always that way, of course. Once Elizabeth was young and reasonably beautiful, and somehow taken “seriously” by millions of people. Netflix, in cooperation with someone or other, is taking us back to those years via The Crown, which, in its first season treated us to a near-granular take on Liz II’s early years on the throne, the “Churchill Years,” more or less, because Winston returned to the premiership in 1951 and managed to hang on until 1955, though he was really too old for the job in the first place.

I have a pretty strict rule against aristocratic shit—I have never watched a minute of Downton Abbey—but with Trump headed for the White House and Pretty Little Liars still on hiatus, I was desperate for distraction. Besides, an intelligent depiction/deconstruction of the decline and fall of an ancient and outmoded institution might have some dramatic possibilities.

Episode 1 gave some hope, though not a great deal. We begin with the old King, George VI (Jared Harris), getting pumped up and girded for battle—actually, Liz’s wedding—by swapping smutty limericks with the royal somebody—probably “Tommy” (Pip Torrens), his private secretary, who will gradually emerge as a major behind the scenes playa in Buckingham Palace intrigue.

But that’s all to come. Right now, Princess Liz (Claire Foy) is marrying Prince Phillip Mountbatten (Matt Smith). It’s 1947, so long ago that the British Empire still looked like the British Empire. India, though clearly departing, would not be gone for another two years. Western colonialism and “civilization” were still considered to be one and the same, and, just as American slave owners were actually surprised when their slaves ran away during the Civil War, Brits believed that everyone, except for a few ungrateful wretches, liked being subjects of the British Crown. Who wouldn’t? We’re so lucky!1

Later, things get a bit ugly when we’re shown George VI undergoing an operation, and a royal lung (the left one, I believe) drops horribly in a pail. George is operating on borrowed time, but nobody does the stiff upper lip thing like the King of England, or so we’re encouraged to believe. It’s time for him to start grooming Liz for the royal responsibilities that will soon be descending on her pretty little head—quite unobtrusively, of course, because no one does “unobtrusive” like a royal. In particular, he shows Liz the royal dispatch boxes, labeled simply, and proudly, “The King”, which the Cabinet carefully packs with royal reading matter. “They put the ones they want me to read on top,” he explains, “and the ones they don’t want me to read they hide on the bottom”, implying that he reads them all.

Well, not to put too fine a point on it, this is pure balderdash. George VI, again not to put too fine a point on it, was a dummy, pure and simple. He didn’t read the dispatch boxes. Queen Victoria was famous for it, but George VI was no Queen Victoria. He was, quite carefully but quite deliberately, kept out of the public eye for fear he might say something stupid—which he unquestionably would if allowed to speak at all.

Liz, at this point, has spent most of her time indulging in the most royal of prerogatives, horsing around—though mostly with a royal equerry rather than an actual horse—but the sight of the royal dispatch boxes seems to sober her—though I don’t remember her actually reading anything. Still, she comes through like a thoroughbred when she and Phillip are sent on a royal tour to Africa, wowing the locals, or so we are led to believe, who are of course thrilled to spend hours sweating in the sun in order to watch a young white woman ride around in a big car. The Mau Mau Uprising, the most recent in a long list of rebellions against British rule, was taking place at about the same time, suppressed by British in their traditional ruthless, racist manner, but we don’t get to hear about that.

We don’t get to hear about a lot of things. While The Crown purports to give us the inside story of life at Buckingham Palace2, it’s a gossip’s notion of the inside story, the notion of someone who takes all trappings of royalty seriously, who thinks that all this petty backbiting and maneuver are important because the people involved are “royalty”, or at least “close to the throne”.

To give us a break from all of this, The Crown throws in a good deal of “inside politics” as well, though sucking up pretty fiercely to Churchill, who was well past his prime—77 and half senile when he took office, and in his thinking about half a century out of date. For his service in rallying Britain in the early days of World War II Churchill did as much as any man ever did to “save” civilization, but by 1945 he was a man without a purpose, rather like the royals themselves. And, in the end, rather like The Crown itself. Funny how art imitates life, isn’t it?

Afterwords Frederick Engels, writing in the nineteenth century, predicted that in the event of a general European war, there would be “crowns by the dozen rolling in the gutter and no one to pick them up,” which is exactly what did happen after World War I all across Europe, and what should have happened in Great Britain as well. But, because Britain had been the richest nation in the world, and because she was on the winning side when the general war did come, the British crown “unnaturally” remained intact. And so, for a hundred years and counting, these people have been walking about, riding horses, waving at crowds, living in palaces, riding in yachts, shooting at grouse, as if their lives had an actual sense and purpose rather than constituting a grotesque dumb show—supported largely, I guess, by both the media and the “people” as a sort of sedative against the ennui of actual existence. Perhaps the saddest thing is, this “royalism” is almost as prevalent over here as it is over “there”.

Years ago, Ringo Starr endeared himself to me by saying “I don’t think we need kings and queens in this country any more.” Yo Nextflix! Why don’t you try being as smart as Ringo?

For still more bile, check out Christopher Hitchens, aka “Mr. Bile”, explaining just how big a prick George VI was. And don’t even get him started on Edward VIII! Don’t even get him started!3

This sort of thinking was standard in Britain’s “white” colonies like Canada and Australia, even though they functioned as independent nations. Memoirs of Canadians and Aussies who grew up in the fifties attest to the sense of shame and humiliation they experienced in the sixties when they finally realized how much they had been exploited by the “mother country”. ↩︎

Buckingham Palace doesn’t even look like a palace. There’s nothing extravagant or playful about it. Instead, it looks like the mausoleum of a particularly unpleasant Roman emperor. ↩︎

Eddie, Georgie’s older brother, had to resign the throne because he was determined to marry American slut charmer Wallis Simpson, becoming the Duke of Windsor. As Hitch is pleased to tell you, Winston Churchill made a complete ass of himself defending Edward. The Duke shows up in The Crown rather as the royal family’s acerbic gay uncle, making vaguely smutty wisecracks about this and that and “explaining” that royalty’s “magic” lies in its mystery. The Duke’s “abdication”, as it was called, was “the biggest story since the Resurrection” in the estimation of quintessential newsman H. L. Mencken. Mencken, a bit of an Anglophobe due to his German heritage, must have enjoyed the whole thing enormously. ↩︎

#The Crown #Elizabeth II #tv

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kristinsimmons · 6 years

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Raj of the NHS – How doctors from India and Pakistan saved the NHS

By ROHIN FRANCIS

India and Pakistan celebrate 71 years of Independence today. The British National Health Service owes them a debt of gratitude.

Great Britain’s national dish is famously chicken curry, but South Asia’s impact on this Sceptred Isle extends far beyond food. It is a testament to how ingrained into the British psyche the stereotypical Indian doctor has become that in 2005 a poll of Brits found the doctor they’d most like to consult is a 30-something South Asian female. In 2010 the BBC even ran a popular TV series simply entitled ‘The Indian Doctor’ following a story played out across the UK in the 1960s and 1970s, that of a humble family physician from the Indian subcontinent finding his feet in a country that asked him to come over and save the still-young ‘National Health Service’.

In 1948, India and Pakistan were not yet one year old when the NHS was created. Over subsequent years, recruitment drives encouraged young doctors to make a new home in the UK. Tens of thousands answered the call and it is no exaggeration to say the NHS would not have survived without them.

Now a swollen behemoth comprising some 1.8 million staff, the NHS is the world’s fifth largest employer. It is estimated to have a bewildering shortfall of 100,000 staff. Unsurprisingly almost 40% of Tier 2 (skilled) visa applications to the UK are to take up positions in the NHS. Yet over the last 13 years, South Asian doctors have been made to feel less welcome. In the first four months of 2018 alone, 400 visa applications from Indian doctors were rejected.

Before Theresa May became Prime Minister, she introduced a rigid cap on immigration from outside the European Union and in recent years the NHS has recruited many thousands of doctors, nurses, physiologists, radiographers and numerous more healthcare workers from the EU. With Brexit months away and migration from the EU dwindling, the UK is once again turning to South Asia. In response to the growing need for healthcare professionals, one of the current Home Secretary’s first actions after his appointment was to exempt non-EU doctors and nurses from the immigration cap. Nevertheless, the health service remains desperately short-staffed.

The NHS started its life in July 1948 with the noble intention of providing health care to every British citizen, free at the point of access. This ambitious plan ran into problems almost immediately. British doctors, typically affluent white men, were reluctant to relinquish time spent in lucrative private practice nor were they keen to work in deprived areas of the country. Confusingly, in 1957 the government also cut the number of medical school places, apparently ignorant of the rapidly-expanding post-war population.

This combination of factors meant that by the 1960s, the NHS was already in danger of collapse. Waves of British doctors, fed up by their reduced pay and NHS working conditions, emigrated to the USA, Canada, and Australia. The chairman of the British Medical Association’s Committee for Planning estimated that the yearly emigration of British trained doctors amounted to between 30 and 50% of the annual number of domestic medical graduates.

It is an ironic twist of history that the man who ushered in an influx of Asian doctors would later go on to foment anti-immigrant sentiments with infamous inflammatory speeches. Enoch Powell, best remembered for his xenophobic ‘Rivers of Blood’ speech, was health minister at the start of the 1960s and proposed looking to South Asia to fill the NHS’s gaps. He oversaw the arrival of 18,000 junior doctors from the subcontinent, commenting that they “provide a useful and substantial reinforcement of the staffing of our hospitals and who are an advertisement to the world of British medicine and British hospitals”.

Ten medical schools had been founded by the British during their colonial occupation of India and as others sprung up, there were soon thousands of medical graduates, trained in English and in a similar manner to British medical schools. Great Britain also looked to the west for its nurses, imploring considerable numbers to come from countries like Jamaica, Trinidad, and Guyana, just as independence was sweeping through the Caribbean

There was a steady influx of South Asian doctors from the 1960s until the 1990s. Their experiences were varied but also striking in their common themes. Bright-eyed junior doctors set foot in the land of their former colonial masters, determined to make waves as renowned cardiologists or surgeons but instead faced institutional racism and career dead-ends.

They were corralled into so-called ‘Cinderalla specialties’; overlooked, underfunded and distinctly unglamorous. Many found themselves in old age psychiatry, genitourinary medicine, and geriatric medicine. Modern geriatricians often credit the influx and enthusiasm of South Asian doctors for shaping the critical specialty it has become today.

The majority were given no option but to work as GPs (general practitioners) in deprived areas such as rural mining communities or crime-ridden inner cities. While dreams of ascending the ranks of their Royal College slipped away, Asians found themselves the only doctors willing to work in areas serving the very people the NHS had been founded to assist – the poor. Collected accounts of doctors working through these decades consistently name the ability to have a direct impact on impoverished communities as the most rewarding aspect of their job.

In 1961, one of the country’s most pre-eminent doctors, the 1st Baron Cohen of Birkenhead, addressed the House of Lords, stating “the Health Service would have collapsed if it had not been for the enormous influx from junior doctors from such countries as India and Pakistan”.

So dependent upon these doctors had the NHS become, that a transcript from the Ministry of Health fretted over the possible effect of an (albeit short-lived) war between India and Pakistan:

“…Dr. Elliott of the MPU is reported as saying that the NHS was in danger of collapsing, possibly within the next few months, because of diminishing manpower. The war between India and Pakistan might result in the recall to India and Pakistan of doctors from British hospitals which could, therefore, face paralysis within weeks … The same unpleasant thought had occurred to us and we have been considering what we can do.”

Yet analysis of correspondence to the British Medical Journal over the ensuing decades revealed a steady stream of objection to these new foreign colleagues.

By the 1970s South Asian doctors had become a familiar sight in the UK. In 1971 just over one-third of workers in the English NHS were from overseas. The fact so many Asian GPs had been allocated oversubscribed single-handed practices in isolated areas meant many faced overt racism. However, the majority became integrated pillars of their communities, respected as trusted doctors when general practice had not yet achieved the status of other medical specialties. The start of the decade also saw Bangladesh win independence from Pakistan, the UK vote to join the European Union and Idi Amin forcibly eject around 60,000 Indians and Pakistanis. Almost 30,000 of them made their new homes in the UK, again bolstering the NHS workforce.

In 1972, disquiet amongst the famously conservative British medical fraternity had persuaded the General Medical Council to cease recognizing Indian medical graduation as sufficient for registration to practice in the UK, establishing yet another hurdle for the new recruits, still so desperately needed the ever-expanding NHS.

When the 1980s arrived, 16% of GPs working in England and Wales had been born in India, Pakistan (including what would later become Bangladesh) and Sri Lanka. However, when examining inner cities this figure could rise to in excess of 50%. In 2003, 73% of GPs working in the underprivileged Rhondda Valley in Wales were of South Asian origin.

Racism and discrimination have been constant experiences for all overseas workers throughout the history of the NHS. Nurses, doctors, and other healthcare professionals found themselves unable to achieve positions of responsibility, earn equal pay and unsuccessful when applying for prestigious jobs. This has led to several professional bodies acknowledging and apologizing for this unfortunate legacy.

Today you are almost as likely to see a Dr. Patel as a Dr. Smith in the UK. There are 1724 Dr. Patels in the UK (in contrast to 1750 Dr. Smiths). Recent figures from the General Medical Council suggest around 29,000 doctors practicing in the UK graduated in India and 7,500 in Pakistan. Overall around a third of NHS doctors gained their medical degree outside the UK.

Jawaharlal Nehru’s legendary Independence speech ushered in the birth of two giant nations at the stroke of midnight precisely 71 years ago. He spoke of the tryst with destiny made by a colonized people, redeemed as they won freedom from the British Empire. At the end of the twentieth century, Britons voted the NHS as one of their greatest ever achievements and this monumental institution has ensured the United Kingdom and South Asia have remained intrinsically linked.

A perpetual political football, the NHS limps on with a drastic staff shortfall and continued dependency on imported labour. The first waves of South Asian doctors have retired and once again, home-grown medics are reluctant to work in the deprived parts of the country that are now on the hunt for young doctors. With Great Britain and Northern Ireland leaving the EU, it may well be a tryst with destiny that sees doctors and nurses from India, Pakistan, Bangladesh and Sri Lanka once again keep the NHS afloat.

Rohin Francis is a cardiology fellow and PhD candidate in London. He makes YouTube videos about medicine which have no clinical utility. He once drove an autorickshaw from Kathmandu to Kerala. He can be reached @MedCrisis

Raj of the NHS – How doctors from India and Pakistan saved the NHS published first on https://wittooth.tumblr.com/

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literateape · 6 years

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American Shithole #9 — Robert Mercer, Part One: Cambridge Analytica

By Eric Wilson

In what may prove to be the undercover investigation of the early 21st century, the BBC4 exposé on Cambridge Analytica has blown the roof off a story that had long gone dormant. The hidden camera footage is career-defining, and the transcript reads like the Darwin Awards for Espionage. It’s jaw dropping in scope and stupidity, and it feels a bit like you’re watching two proper devils talk shop in hell.

Posing as potential clients, journalists secretly filmed Cambridge Analytica officials describing how their company rigs world elections. I still can’t believe it — they probably can't believe it — but these sweet BBC geniuses basically Scooby Doo’d Cambridge Analytica. Enjoy your place in the annals of journalistic legend, you deserve it.

Well done, Shaggy!

The twitterverse was experiencing twittergasms, as word had gotten out on the segment before it aired. Perhaps it was more of a Twitterquake, as you could feel the tremors across social media in anticipation. In our age of big stories, this was bigger, and you could sense it on Monday morning before the news broke.

As far as the video is concerned, it’s a must watch — one where operatives from Cambridge Analytica, including CEO, Alexander Nix, describe the legal and illegal tactics they use to manipulate supposedly free elections all over the world. Note the calmness with which they speak, it really is captivating in its cold, calculative way.

A second installment of the BBC4 investigation aired a day later, and it brought to light Cambridge Analytica’s critical role in the success of the Trump presidential campaign. They were far from humble. In this hidden camera video Alexander Nix and other CA operatives actually take credit for Trump’s victory.

It would seem that if there is an election happening, Cambridge Analytica is there — working angles, using sex slaves as honey traps, blackmailing enemies, manipulating big data, all safely from the shadows. Well, it's not so safe in the shadows anymore, Nix.

The BBC isn’t the only one on the case.

While that was amazing work by the team at BBC4, American Shithole has its own crack team of investigative journalists, and our operatives — working deep undercover — were able to procure a top secret list of other gifts and services Cambridge Analytica reserved for its highest paying clients.

Dictators brought to power by Cambridge Analytica may also have received:

1. Buy 9 elections get 1 free* Customer Loyalty Card.

2. Subscription to Children’s War Refugee Monthly magazine.

3. Slovenian Sex Slave First Lady Platinum Upgrade.

4. Super PAC Mystery Sack!™**

5. First time dictators received a signed copy of Howard Zinn’s So, You’ve Bought Yourself a Country, Have You?

6. Handmade Russian lamp for presidential office desk.***

7. Children’s War Refugee Monthly complimentary pinup calendar.

8. The American President DVD case with a ripped copy of Wag the Dog inside.

*Please refer to your customer loyalty card owner’s manual for rules regarding free election eligibility. **Super PAC Mystery Sack!™ is a subsidiary of Mystery Sack! International and may contain foreign politics. ***Lamp must be on the desk facing the president at all times.

The one name I was expecting to hear more in the media this week was Robert Mercer.

Unfortunately, there was little to no mention of the Mercers, as Cambridge Analytica faced a torrential downpour of bad press, day after day. It’s been a fucking shitstorm in the blogosphere on both sides of the Atlantic (more on this later), but the lion’s share of the focus has been on the company and its senior officer, Nix.

It astounds me how this family of billionaires seems to so effectively manipulate their own media presence — even when one of their own companies is embroiled in a scandal involving election tampering, criminal behavior, and international conspiracy.

CNN’s Don Lemon barely mentioned the Mercers by name on Monday, during his interview with the Cambridge Analytica whistleblower, Christopher Wylie — while Steve Bannon, former Mercer lackey and Pigpen from the Upside Down, was mentioned at least a dozen times.

If you are going to talk about a company that was clearly influential in the Trump victory, maybe you should mention the asshole that owns 90 percent of the stock — mega GOP/Trump donor and serious contender for all-time Shitbag of the Universe, Robert Mercer. Or perhaps his daughter, who currently sits on the CA board of directors.

That is some Obi Wan level Jedi mastery right there. These are not the billionaires you are looking for.

But they are the billionaires we are looking for! Here they are behaving terribly, and we as dutiful wealth-worshipping Americans let them get away with it every single time. We let them game the broken system to serve their greed, and strip resources, and ruin communities, and rig fucking elections — and we worship them for the effort.

We allow them to continually commit crimes against humanity, and now we are allowing them to systematically dismantle democracy. Yet somehow we are blinded by their wealth, as if greed were some sort of cherished American virtue, this richness that absolves all sin.

The past few days I’ve looked for news stories on Robert Mercer; passing mentions at best, with very few interviews or articles focusing on the individual that owns the company that just may be responsible for both Brexit and Trump.

Yes, if you are a little late to this developing story, so was I, but you are reading that correctly.

Cambridge Analytica has also been connected to Brexit, possibly the worst development in the UK in a half-century — that is, if you don’t count the invention of modern-day reality television a development. Thanks, Brits, we took your reality TV, and after over thirty years we have reduced it to what is now a stupefying slog through a kaleidoscope of spirit-dampening white-hot noise and eye vomit.

But I digress.

If a billionaire’s company can orchestrate Brexit and the Trump presidency, via numerous illegal activities — and the billionaire gets away with it — this is a message to all would be tyrants that the upper echelon of the ruling class may do anything they please, with no fear of consequence.

We are talking about crimes with ripple effects so pervasive, so widespread and far-reaching, that it would be impossible to calculate the damage done, or the punishment deserved.

In this humble American’s opinion, anything less than a massive devaluation of the Mercer family, and jail time for both Robert and his diamond-bespectacled harpy of a daughter, Rebekah, would be an invitation to every two-bit, hustler, billionaire tyrant on the planet to treat entire countries like their own personal political stomping ground.

Not that they aren't doing that already.

This might make Robert Mercer the reigning Worst Person on the Planet. I cannot think of two events in recent history that have sown more discord, created more havoc than Brexit and Trump.

I get Mercer isn’t news sexy. I don't want to write about him either — it’s like trying to write negative copy about Mr. Rogers. By comparison, I was chomping at the bit to eviscerate Cambridge Analytica CEO, Alexander Nix. He so plays the part of the Bond Villain to perfection. I imagine he likely has a few rather unpleasant appetites as well. I could write jokes about him for days.

The real villain here though, is Robert Mercer, and by proxy or association, his ogress fishwife of a daughter, Rebekah. Look at the two of them. They look like they’re about to preside over the fucking Hunger Games.

So who is this charming prince, you ask? Tough to say, as he leads a largely private life.

The few that know the reclusive billionaire describe him as a quiet loner. I already see where this is going. He lives with his many cats. Uh-oh. He hates the establishment, and was thoroughly convinced long ago of all the craziest conspiracy theories involving the Clintons. Oh, boy.

And like all billionaires, his power has increased manifold since Citizens United, and Mercer has taken advantage of that, as one of the most generous GOP donors over the last eight years.

What we have is another crazy-rich asshole using his gross overvaluation to fund shadow companies that rig world elections. Including ours. I struggle to find the reasons why we value these billionaire cretins so?

Is this misguided misanthrope single-handedly responsible for the destabilization of the west? No. Hardly. It’s not for lack of trying though. Mercer's just plodding along, money-murdering everything decent in his path. He’s like Jason Voorhees in a suit.

No, Mercer has plenty of help. There's another name that always seems to turn up whenever you cast light into the shadows. Erik Prince is linked to Cambridge Analytica as well, and at this point I’m no longer surprised to see his name when investigating criminal activity.

I look forward to the day when our value system better reflects the compassion of the species we long to be, versus the greed of the humanity we desperately need to leave behind.

Mueller’s widening investigation now thankfully includes Cambridge Analytica, and that may finally shed some light onto why certain republicans seem willing to do anything to protect this president. The House Intelligence Committee majority republicans ending their investigation into Russian collusion, risks indictment of collusion itself. We need to discover what kind of pressure has been put on elected officials to get them to risk ruining their careers and lives the way Devin Nunes and the rest of the House Intelligence Committee majority republicans have, with their shameful cowardice.

This is good news, my friends. The brilliant undercover work by the BBC has done more to connect the dots between various forces at play, than any other investigation breakthrough so far. Everything is starting to come into focus — even with the Mercers doing everything they can to keep this out of the media — which means it will be harder for republicans that may have been compromised, to continue to support this morally bankrupt administration.

Also, it might be time to dust off your Myspace account, because Facebook is Face-fucked.

B.S. Report

I wanted to draw attention this week to a story already in the rearview. For whatever reason it was several days before I caught wind that Republican Leslie Gibson had, among other things, dismissed student activist Emma Gonzalez as a “skinhead lesbian.”

For obvious reasons, many in America (such as myself) feel very protective of these kids. I get really fired up about them. I pissed and moaned that I had missed the story, and I was ranting a bit on social media how this asshole Gibson needed a social media handshake, or a nice hello from the world.

It wasn’t an hour later that the universe calmed my sputtering fit. I was informed much had been put in motion, and that Gibson's words had encouraged a challenger for his run for congress (he was running unopposed), and not long after that, he announced he was dropping out of the race.

I thought this deserved more focus for the power of it. The raw power being rightfully transferred from a hateful, bigoted asshole — back to the people, where they would choose to give it to someone worthy. And that is what I am talking about, America!

#Cambridge Analytica #Alexander Nix #Robert Mercer #Facebook #Leslie Gibson #Emma Gonzalez

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theliterateape · 6 years

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American Shithole #9 — Robert Mercer, Part One: Cambridge Analytica

By Eric Wilson

Well done, Shaggy!

The BBC isn’t the only one on the case.

Dictators brought to power by Cambridge Analytica may also have received:

1. Buy 9 elections get 1 free* Customer Loyalty Card.

2. Subscription to Children’s War Refugee Monthly magazine.

3. Slovenian Sex Slave First Lady Platinum Upgrade.

4. Super PAC Mystery Sack!™**

5. First time dictators received a signed copy of Howard Zinn’s So, You’ve Bought Yourself a Country, Have You?

6. Handmade Russian lamp for presidential office desk.***

7. Children’s War Refugee Monthly complimentary pinup calendar.

8. The American President DVD case with a ripped copy of Wag the Dog inside.

The one name I was expecting to hear more in the media this week was Robert Mercer.

That is some Obi Wan level Jedi mastery right there. These are not the billionaires you are looking for.

Yes, if you are a little late to this developing story, so was I, but you are reading that correctly.

But I digress.

We are talking about crimes with ripple effects so pervasive, so widespread and far-reaching, that it would be impossible to calculate the damage done, or the punishment deserved.

Not that they aren't doing that already.

This might make Robert Mercer the reigning Worst Person on the Planet. I cannot think of two events in recent history that have sown more discord, created more havoc than Brexit and Trump.

So who is this charming prince, you ask? Tough to say, as he leads a largely private life.

And like all billionaires, his power has increased manifold since Citizens United, and Mercer has taken advantage of that, as one of the most generous GOP donors over the last eight years.

I look forward to the day when our value system better reflects the compassion of the species we long to be, versus the greed of the humanity we desperately need to leave behind.

Also, it might be time to dust off your Myspace account, because Facebook is Face-fucked.

B.S. Report

#Cambridge Analytica #Alexander Nix #Robert Mercer #Facebook #Leslie Gibson #Emma Gonzalez

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rawskruge · 6 years

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werds

The fact that chimps share 99% of their DNA with us is really impressive until you realize that string beans share 50% of it

mosquitos are like dirty used needles that can fly

the top 2000 m of the world ocean warmed about0.09 C degrees during the time period from 1970 to 2013. It also reports the UK’s Met Office calculated that if the same amount of energy had gone into the lower atmosphere, it would have raised its temperature about 36 C degrees!

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Understanding time:

- Oxford University is older than the Aztecs.

- In the span of 66 years, we went from taking flight to landing on the moon.

- There is more processing power in a TI-83 calculator than in the computer that landed Apollo 11 on the moon.

- The first pyramids were built while the woolly mammoth was still alive.

- The fax machine was invented the same year people were traveling the Oregon Trail.

- Everything in this 1991 RadioShack ad exists in a single smartphone.

- There was more time between the Stegosaurus and the Tyrannosaurus Rex than between the Tyrannosaurus Rex and you.

- If the history of Earth were compressed to a single year, modern humans would appear on December 31st at about 11:58pm.

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Asker or guesser:

We are raised, the theory runs, in one of two cultures. In Ask culture, people grow up believing they can ask for anything – a favour, a pay rise– fully realising the answer may be no. In Guess culture, by contrast, you avoid “putting a request into words unless you’re pretty sure the answer will be yes… A key skill is putting out delicate feelers. If you do this with enough subtlety, you won’t have to make the request directly; you’ll get an offer. Even then, the offer may be genuine or pro forma; it takes yet more skill and delicacy to discern whether you should accept.”

Neither’s “wrong”, but when an Asker meets a Guesser, unpleasantness results. An Asker won’t think it’s rude to request two weeks in your spare room, but a Guess culture person will hear it as presumptuous and resent the agony involved in saying no. Your boss, asking for a project to be finished early, may be an overdemanding boor – or just an Asker, who’s assuming you might decline. If you’re a Guesser, you’ll hear it as an expectation. This is a spectrum, not a dichotomy, and it explains cross-cultural awkwardnesses, too: Brits and Americans get discombobulated doing business in Japan, because it’s a Guess culture, yet experience Russians as rude, because they’re diehard Askers.

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the multiple benefits of organic farming — what Europeans call multifunctionality. For one, farmers benefit because instead of needing to purchase costly chemicals, genetically engineered seeds and synthetic fertilizer, they can largely work with the ecological systems of their own farmscapes to fend off pests and promote fertility. Organic farming benefits the rest of us too. These low-input practices promote biodiversity (key to food security), protect pollinators (key to one-third of the food we eat), reduce farm energy use while storing more carbon in the soil (key to fixing climate change) and foster clean water and air (key to, well, everything).

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tower of babble (from Harpers)

Donald J. Trump, a reality-television star erecting a mausoleum for himself behind the first-hole tee of a golf course he owns in New Jersey, first declared his candidacy for president of the United States in the atrium of Trump Tower, which he built in the 1980s with labor provided by hundreds of undocumented Polish workers and concrete purchased at an inflated price from the Gambino and Genovese crime families. “The American dream is dead,” Trump said to the audience members, each of whom he paid $50 to attend. During Trump’s primary campaign, he told his supporters that he knew “all about crazies,” loved “Wall Street guys” who are “brutal,” planned to “use the word ‘anchor baby,’ ” and preferred to pronounce “Qatar” incorrectly. Trump, who in 1999 cut his sick infant grandnephew off the Trump Organization’s health-care plan and in 2011 compared being gay to switching to a long-handled golf putter, pledged to repeal the Affordable Care Act and said he’d consider trying to overturn the legalization of same-sex marriage. Trump said that his book The Art of the Deal was second in quality only to the Bible and that he never explicitly asked God for forgiveness. At a church in Iowa, he placed a few dollar bills into a bowl filled with sacramental bread, which he has referred to as “my little cracker.” Trump, who once dumped a glass of wine on a journalist who wrote a story he didn’t like, told his supporters that journalists were “liars,” the “lowest form of humanity,” and “enemies,” but that he did not approve of killing them. “I’m a very sane person,” said Trump, who once hosted a radio show in which he discussed the development of hair-cloning technology, the creation of a vaccine for obesity, the number of men a gay man thinks about having sex with on his morning commute, and the dangers of giving free Viagra to rapists. Trump denied being the voice of John Miller, one of several fictional assistants he had previously admitted pretending to be, in a recording of himself telling a reporter that he had “zero interest” in dating Madonna; that he had three other girlfriends in addition to Marla Maples, with whom he had been cheating on his wife; and that he had an affair with Carla Bruni, who later responded by describing Trump as “obviously a lunatic.” Trump, who once offered the city of New York vacant apartments in his building to house homeless people in hopes they would drive away rent-controlled tenants, sent a bumper sticker to a group of homeless veterans whom he had previously declined to help and asked them to campaign for him. Trump, whose companies have been cited 24 times since 2005 for failing to pay workers overtime or minimum wage, said the federal minimum wage should go up, and then said it should not. Trump referred to 9/11 as “7-Eleven,” and called Massachusetts senator Elizabeth Warren “the Indian” and “Pocahontas.” Trump, who had previously labeled a deaf contestant on his reality-TV show The Apprentice “retarded,” and had described poor Americans as “morons,” said the country was on course for a “very massive recession,” one resembling the U.S. recession of 2007 to 2009, which Trump once said Americans could “opt out of” by joining Trump Network, a multilevel-marketing company that sold a monthly supply of multivitamins purportedly tailored to customers based on a test of their urine. Trump submitted his financial-disclosure form to the Federal Election Commission, on which he swore under oath that his golf course in Briarcliff Manor, New York, which was being sued by the town for causing flooding, was worth $50 million, despite having sworn in a previous property-tax appeal that it was worth $1.4 million; and swore that his golf course in Palos Verdes, California, which he was suing for five times its annual revenue, was worth more than $50 million, despite previously having filed papers with Los Angeles County stating it was worth $10 million. Trump claimed he made $1.9 million from his modeling agency, which a foreign-born former model accused of “modern-day slavery,” alleging that the agency forced her to lie about her age, work without a U.S. visa, and live in a crowded apartment for which she paid the agency as much as $1,600 a month to sleep in a bed beneath a window through which a homeless man once urinated on her. Trump sought to exclude a recording of himself telling the nephew of former president George W. Bush that he grabs women “by the pussy” from a fraud suit filed against Trump University, a series of real-estate seminars taught by salespeople with no real-estate experience, which was housed in a Trump-owned building that the Securities and Exchange Commission said also housed the country’s most complained-about unregistered brokerages, and whose curriculum investigators in Texas described as “inapplicable.” Trump announced that he would win the Latino vote, and tweeted a photo of himself eating a taco bowl from Trump Grill in Trump Tower with the message “I love Hispanics!” Trump referred to a black man at one of his rallies as “my African American,” and pledged his support for black people at a gathering of mostly white people in Wisconsin, whom he often referred to as “the forgotten people.” “I am the least racist person,” said Trump, who was sued twice by the Justice Department in the 1970s for allegedly refusing to rent apartments to black tenants, whose Trump Plaza Hotel was fined $200,000 by the New Jersey Casino Control Commission in 1992 for removing black dealers from card tables, who allegedly told a former employee that he hated “black guys counting my money,” who in 2005 floated the idea of pitting an all-black Apprentice team against an all-white one to reflect “our very vicious world,” and who was endorsed by leaders of the Ku Klux Klan, one of whom said, “What he believes, we believe.” Trump tweeted statistics credited to a fictional government agency falsely claiming that the majority of white murder victims in the United States are killed by black people. Trump tweeted a photoshopped picture of Fox News anchor Megyn Kelly, who Trump had said “had blood coming out of her wherever,” standing next to a Saudi prince, who tweeted back that he had “financially rescued” Trump twice, including once in 1990, when the prince purchased Trump’s 281-foot yacht, which was formerly owned by a Saudi arms dealer with whom Trump often partied in Atlantic City, and with whom Trump was implicated in a tax-evasion scheme involving a Fifth Avenue jewelry store. Trump disputed former Republican presidential nominee Mitt Romney’s claim that Trump magazine is defunct, showing as proof an annual circular for his clubs that was not Trump magazine, which folded in 2009. Trump republished his book Crippled America with the title Great Again. Trump told and retold an apocryphal story about a U.S. general who executed Muslim soldiers with bullets dipped in pig’s blood and proposed that Muslims be banned from entering the country. At the first primary debate, Trump praised his companies’ bankruptcies, including that of Trump Entertainment Resorts, in which lenders lost more than $1 billion and 1,100 employees lost their jobs, and that of Trump Hotels and Casino Resorts, a publicly traded company that Trump used to purchase two casinos for almost $1 billion, and from which he resigned after the company went bankrupt for the first time, but before it went bankrupt for the second time. “I made a lot of money,” said Trump. At the fifth primary debate, Trump defended the idea of retaliating against America’s foreign aggressors by killing non-combatant members of their families, saying it would “make people think.” At the eleventh primary debate, Trump told the crowd there was “no problem” with the size of his penis. Trump said that he knew more about the Islamic State than “the generals,” and that he would “rely on the generals” to defeat the Islamic State. Trump said he would bring back waterboarding and torture because “we have to beat the savages.” Trump offered to pay the legal bills of anyone who assaulted protesters at his rallies, denied making the offer, then made the offer again after a 78-year-old white supporter in North Carolina punched a 26-year-old black protester in the eye and said, “Next time we see him we might have to kill him.” Trump, who in 1999 called Republicans too “crazy right” and in 2000 ran on a Reform Party platform that included creating a lottery to fund U.S. spy training, said that the 2016 primaries were “rigged,” then clinched the Republican nomination for president, receiving more votes than any Republican in history. “I was the one who really broke the glass ceiling,” said Trump when his Democratic rival, Hillary Clinton, became the first woman to lead a major party’s ticket. Trump hired Steve Bannon, the editor of the white-nationalist website Breitbart, to replace his former campaign manager Paul Manafort, who ran a firm that once lobbied for the military dictator of Zaire, and who himself replaced Corey Lewandowski, who resigned from the campaign not long after he was filmed grabbing a Breitbart reporter by the arm to prevent her from asking Trump any questions. Trump selected as his running mate Indiana governor Mike Pence, who previously backed a bill that would allow hospitals to deny care to critically ill pregnant women, and who once criticized the Disney character Mulan as a “mischievous liberal” created to persuade Americans that women should be allowed to hold combat positions in the military. In his general-election campaign, Trump said he would consider recognizing Crimea as Russian territory, and called on Russia to hack into Clinton’s email account. Trump said that he doesn’t pay employees who don’t “do a good job,” after a review of the more than 3,500 lawsuits filed against Trump found that he has been accused of stiffing a painter and a dishwasher in Florida, a glass company in New Jersey, dozens of hourly hospitality workers, and some of the lawyers who represented him. “I’m a fighter,” said Trump, who body-slammed the WWE chairman at WrestleMania 23 in 2007, and who attended WrestleMania IV with Robert LiButti, an Atlantic City gambler with alleged mafia ties, who told Trump he’d “fucking pull your balls from your legs” if Trump didn’t stop trying to seduce his daughter. Trump, whose first wife, Ivana, accused him in divorce filings of rape, and whose special council later said rape within a marriage was not possible, said “no one respects women more than I do.” Trump threatened to sue 12 women who accused him of sexual misconduct, including one who recalled Trump trying “like an octopus” to put his hand up her skirt on an airplane 35 years ago; four former Miss Teen USA contestants, who alleged that Trump entered their dressing room while girls as young as 15 were changing and said, “I’ve seen it all before”; the winner of Miss Utah USA in 1997, who alleged that Trump forcibly kissed her on the lips and then told her, “Twenty-one is too old”; an adult-film star, who alleged that at a golf tournament in Tahoe in 2006 Trump offered her $10,000 and the private use of his jet to spend the night with him; and a People magazine reporter, who alleged that while she was writing a story on Trump and his current wife, Melania, on the occasion of their first wedding anniversary, Trump pushed her against the wall and forcibly kissed her before telling her, “We’re going to have an affair.” “What I say is what I say,” said Trump, who previously told a pair of 14-year-old girls that he would date them in a couple of years, said of a 10-year-old girl that he would date her in 10 years, told a journalist that he wasn’t sure whether his infant daughter Tiffany would have nice breasts, told the cast of The View that if Ivanka weren’t his daughter “perhaps I would be dating her,” told radio host Howard Stern that it was okay to call Ivanka a “piece of ass” and that he could have “nailed” Princess Diana, and tweeted that a former winner of his Miss Universe pageant, whom Trump once called “Miss Piggy,” was disgusting. “Check out sex tape,” tweeted Trump, who once appeared in a soft-core pornographic film breaking a bottle of wine over a limousine. Trump did not comment on reports that he used over $200,000 in charitable contributions to the Trump Foundation to settle lawsuits against his businesses, $20,000 in contributions to the Trump Foundation to buy a six-foot-tall painting of himself, and $10,000 in contributions to buy a smaller painting of himself, which he hung on the wall of his restaurant Champions Bar and Grill. “I’m the cleanest guy there is,” said Trump, who once granted the rights to explore building Trump-branded towers in Moscow to a mobster convicted of stabbing a man in the face with the stem of margarita glass, who was mentored by the former lead council for Senator Joseph McCarthy and the Gambino and Genovese crime families, who once purchased a nightclub in Atlantic City from a hit man for a Philadelphia crime family, who once worked with a soldier in the Colombo crime family to outfit Trump Golden and Executive Series limousines with a fax machine and a liquor dispenser, and who once purchased helicopter services from a cigarette-boat racer named Joseph Weichselbaum, who was charged with drug trafficking in Ohio before being moved to Trump’s sister’s courtroom in New Jersey, where the case was handed off to a different judge, who gave Weichselbaum a three-year prison sentence, of which he served 18 months before moving into Trump Tower. Trump told journalists he “made a lot of money” when he leased his house in Westchester to the late Libyan dictator Muammar Qaddafi. “I screwed him,” said Trump. Trump, who in 2013 said that he did “have a relationship” with Vladimir Putin, said in 2016, “I don’t know Putin.” Trump, who wrote in 1997 that concern over asbestos was a mob conspiracy, who in the 1990s spent $1 million in ads to bolster the theory that a Native American tribe in upstate New York had been infiltrated by the mafia and drug traffickers, who once implied that Barack Obama’s real name is Barry Soetoro and that he won reelection by making a secret deal with Saudi Arabia, and who in 2012 tweeted that global warming was a “hoax” created by “the Chinese” to weaken U.S. manufacturing, suggested to his supporters that the Islamic State paid the phone bills of Syrian refugees, that his primary opponent Ted Cruz’s Cuban father was involved in a conspiracy to kill President John F. Kennedy, and that U.S. Supreme Court justice Antonin Scalia may have been suffocated with a pillow. During the first debate of the general election, Trump said that Rosie O'Donnell had deserved it when he called her “disgusting both inside and out,” “basically a disaster,” a “slob,” and a “loser,” someone who “looks bad,” “sounds bad,” has a “fat, ugly face,” and “talks like a truck driver.” At the second general-election debate, Trump invited three women who have accused Clinton’s husband of sexual misconduct to sit in the front row; claimed that Clinton had once laughed about the rape of a 12-year-old girl, which audio showed not to be true; claimed that U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement had endorsed him, which it had not; and afterward suggested that his opponent had been on drugs during the debate. Trump, who said he could shoot someone on Fifth Avenue and not lose supporters, told his supporters that Clinton could shoot one of them and not be prosecuted. Trump told the audience at a Catholic charity dinner that Clinton “hates Catholics,” that she is “the devil,” and that Mexico was “getting ready to attack.” Trump, who once kept a collection of Adolf Hitler’s speeches at his bedside, told his supporters that the election was “rigged” against him, won the election despite losing the popular vote by a margin of almost 3 million, claimed that he had in fact won the popular vote, and then announced that he would be staying on as executive producer of The Celebrity Apprentice on NBC, which a year earlier had fired him because he called Mexicans “rapists.” “Our country,” said Trump at a victory rally, “is in trouble.”

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