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starr-fall-knight-rise · 4 years ago

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HASO, “Post Apocalyptic Utopia.”

I was actually able to write something today, which I didn’t expect. So I hope you all enjoy!”

A small delegation of Vrul scientists were waiting for them when the shuttle landed. Dr. krill looked around the city and noted the increased security from the last time he had been here, though that had been almost a year ago, so he couldn’t have said if that was a recent development or not. Behind him, Admiral Vir, Doctor Katie, and their resident microbiologist stepped out of the shuttle, followed closely by their select group of marines.

The marines had been ordered to keep a close eye on Krill, as it was a well known fact that the Vrul council had put a termination order on his head. They had said the termination order had been dissolved, but to say that he didn’t exactly trust their word, was a bit of an understatement.

Admiral Vir stayed close at his shoulder eyeing up anyone who got to close.

They had brought the marines for a reason, but a single human would have been enough to scare of the Vrul if they were to try, and Admiral Vir, as important as he was in intergalactic government, was even more of a deterrent.

They were met a few feet later by the council members, no one that Krill recognized, so they must have been council assistants.

“Dr. Krill, we were not sure you would answer our call.”

“Is that because of the termination order on my head, or because the Vrul council seems to have a disdain for my work?”

They stepped back a little shying away from his bluntness, but he stood his ground. Perhaps it was a little mean to behave so human-like in front of them, but he had to admit, it gave him no end of pleasure to see the squirm, all except for one.

One of the Vrul scuttled forward and his movements were familiar.

Together both Krill and the Admiral recognized him as the psychologist who had stood up for krill the last time he had brought in on a termination evaluation.

‘I am pleased to see you have answered our call Dr. krill, I was worried the past issues with the council might drive you away.” he looked up and raised a hand to the human, “As well as you Admiral, I am always pleased to see the man who saved my life.”

The admiral saluted, “The pleasure is all ours.”

Krill nodded pleased to see at least one sensible Vrul in this entire place, “I am sure we are all very happy to see one another, but I doubt you would ave called us here for a simple visit?”

The psychologist nodded his head, “Yes, yes of course. Please follow me.”

They did as ordered, the humans sauntering along behind them as the Vrul walked and talked. Around them, the city was surprisingly deserted with few workers and even fewer pedestrians.

“Something strange has happened, something we are not sure what to make of.”

They turned a corner down the middle streat, heading towards the outskirts of the city.

“The morning before last, a…. Minor beta geologist by the name of Dr. Kell was allowed permission outside the city walls.”

“Beta scientist?” Dr Krill wondered

“He was one of those hard cases. His original tests showed promise, but it was later determined that he was closer to a beta than an alpha, though the council let him keep his teaching position at the institute as long as it was only the entry level classes, regardless, that is not the point. The point is, he was allowed outside the city on request to study surrounding soil samples. He was gone for maybe two or three hours before returning, dazed and catatonic. His helium sack had been ruptured, and shortly after being contained within an isolation chamber, he began to develop large yellow soars across his body. Those who came in close contact with him, including myself, have been put into isolation for a days duration, longer than it took for him to be infected.”

They stepped onto a small elevating platform which rose them high into the air along the wall. There were no rails, as Vrul didn’t fear falling, butthe humans clustered at the center to avoid the drop.

They made it to the top of the wall and were motioned over by the psychologist to peer over the edge.

“That of course is not even mentioning these creatures.”

Together they looked over the edge of the wall. The humans muttered in surprise, and Krill Felt his antenna vibrate slightly in unease and burgeoning horror. The creatures below him looked awful like deltas, with their six limbs and thickened bodies, but the way they moved was just so rong. They clambered over each other hauling themselves up against the wall as if they were trying to climb it.

There were no more than seven of them in total and their eyes glowed a glassy white. All over their bodies, he could just make out the sickly yellow pustules. One of the creatures attempted to climb over his brethren, and in so doing stepped on one of the bulging sacks causing it to rupture and spew a thick spray of a pollen like substance. The cloud expanded shortly but was too thick to spread properly and slowly dropped to the ground coating the others in the layer of yellow.

The human grimaced, “Do you smell that?”

The Vrul looked up at him in surprise, “You smell something.”

All the humans nodded. Adam shook his head and sneezed rather violently taking a step back from the edge before wiping his face, “Smells like…. I don’t even know how to describe it, organic but…. rotting .”

Ramirez peered over the edge, “Tree zombies.”

The little vrul psychologist looked up at them, “What is a zombie?’

Krill sighed, “here we go.”

“Its an old legend or folktale I guess. There have been a lot of iterations of it over the centuries, but the general idea is that some kind of virus infects a human and the symptoms cause them to become aggressive and violent. A bite causes them to spread the Virus, and so they become cannibalistic. The disease rapidly spreads through population centers and the entire world shuts down in an apocalyptic event while small pockets of humans attempt to survive. Of course, its not exactly scientifically possible with the diseases we know of, but.” Adam glanced back over the wall, “Obviously not the same thing, but…. A similar principal I suppose. Twenty bucks says that those sores are what make it contagious.”

Krill nodded slowly, “it would make sense why none of you who came in contact with Dr. kell were ever infected, because you were never exposed to the pathogen. I am assuming he was not showing signs of those yellow pustules by the time he showed up?”

The psychologist nodded. “No, he developed those late last night and is still under observation. That happened about the same time he started showing signs of aggression towards the staff.”

“Let me see the patient.” krill said and the psychologist nodded, motioning them forward and back down the wall to where they were keeping their observation room.

It had been set up away and secured from the other buildings, and as they walked in most everyone was dressed in hazmat equipment.

They were brought forward, to an outside observation room where they could see through two sets of thick paned glass to where dr Kell, or who they supposed used to be Dr, Kell, paced around the room scuttling this way and that towards anyone who moved outside of his enclosure. The entire inside of the room was coated in a delicate layer of yellow pollen.”

Krill ordered someone to give him a hazmat suit and he hurried into the crowd to take a look for himself.

Dr, Katie was able to bring her hazmat equipment from the ship and followed after him, walking around with Krill as they examined the subject.

Adam didn’t know much about Vrul related illnesses, but he still found the behavior of the vrul inside the enclosure to be rather unsettling.

He walked around the outside examining the creature as Dr. krill and Katie spoke with each other.

He tapped his fingers against his arms nervously. This was very strange as far as he knew no vrul had lived outside their cities in centuries if not millennia. So how could there be infection outside of the city…. Of course…. That was unless…

A sudden scuttling could be heard outside the door, and he turned around to watch as a small alpha Vrul stepped into the room. It hurried forward and stood at the edge of he room looking unsure and nervous. On occasion it glanced over at him with a wary expression, to the point where he thought it was going to get whiplash.

He nodded, “Do you need something?”

It jumped as he spoke clutching some files on its chest, “i uh… uh I wanted to speak with the doctors about…. About something I found.”

Obviously Vrul only had one gender, but there was just something about it that made him think female, so he went with it.

Usually Vrul chose based on convenience when working with species of more than one gender, but until she said otherwise she was going to have to do.

“You can tell me.”

She looked up at him with a skeptical expression.

Most vrul had a sense of intellectual superiority when it came to other species. It made them insufferable sometimes as humans had IQs closer to their betas than their alphas. Difference was your average human could handle abstract concepts where a beta could not. Though the vrul tended to forget this.

He pressed his lips into a thin line, “I think I can keep up, just humor me.”

She looked at him long and hard for a moment before moving closer, “I am Dr. Vess, head historian at the Vrul institute here in the city, and I have been examining some ancient documents which I think might shed some light on what is happening here.” She paused.

He nodded for her to go on.

“About four thousand years ago, there is a sudden drought of historical documentation. We don’t know much of what happened before then. We think before that time we had light travel expeditions to other planets which gave us the shoot-off species, the Gibb, but there is no historical information to back this theory. I did, however, find architectural blueprints for the wall. The most dangerous predator on our planet is only ten feet tall and can only jump two feet, but our wall is forty feet high and twenty feet thick with no doors. This is also the time when we began to develop our force field technology, which is why we are so ahead of the times. The force field that can surround this city goes as a dome into the air, and even penetrates underground. Based on everything we know, the structure of the wall is far too dramatic to have been built by those who live in the world that we do, unless there was something that happened to prompt the construction.”

Adam nodded slowly, “You think that these creatures…. Whatever they are, were an issue before the wall was built, but you have lived so long behind the wall that it was forgotten with the historical records because no vrul has bothered to go outside the city for the past four thousand years, and by the time they did they were leaving by way of spaceship.”

Her antenna vibrated, in what he had come to know as the Vrul version of a nod.

“It makes sense, as I said before there is no reason for them to have built the walls so high and so thick. Furthermore, I have been analyzing satellite patterns of the surrounding area.” She opened a map before him and he crouched down on the floor with her to take a look as she spread it out on the ground, “Circular clusters of trees, everywhere, at first I thought they were just the natural way in which our trees grow, but you can see patches of them in others places that do not follow this pattern, but looking over here in this book that I found on etymology, they seem to be similar circles made by certain types of hibernating creatures that live on this planet.”

He stared at the evidence eyes wide, “So you are saying you believe that these creatures, whatever they are have been hibernating for a couple thousand years and were only distrurbed when the doctor made his way outside the city, probably due to vibrations in the ground.”

She nodded her head, “That was another thing I had been meaning to point out. The city walls are set on a series of inertial dampeners. Now when we do construction inside the city, the foundation rattles a little bit but the housing around it does not meaning that the city does not disturb the ground around it. This includes when spaceships take off and land despite their engines generally being powerful enough to cause shock waves.”

“Well I’ll be damned.” Adam muttered, “You guys may very well be living in a post apocalyptic utopian hellscape and no one knew because the historical records beforehand were lost.” He lifted his head and turned towards where krill and katie were still working, “Doctor! Wou will want to come and hear this.”

***

He could hear the others speaking in sharp tones behind him, though he wasn’t really paying attention. His eyes were focused mostly on the creature inside the tank. Some of the actual council members had deigned to descend from their council chambers as this was actually turning into a more serious matter than they thought. The history of the vrul was apparently a little more complicated than the “Brave new world” hellscape utopia in which they lived. In fact, it appeared as if they were some kind of post zombie apocalypse.

It was both cool and rather frightening at the same time especially when you considered the fact that these creatures were still hibernating beneath the ground, and could rise at the slightest provocation.

Inside the room, the zombie Vrul bashed it’s head against the wall causing another one of it’s yellow sores to pop spreading its pollenthick against the glass.

He moved forward to where one of the doctors was standing and asked, “Is there an intercom into the room?”

The Vrul turned to look at him and then nodded slowly, “There is, why?”

“I want to try something.”

The doctor stared at him as if he had been audaciou enough to pull off his pants and start pissing on the floor.

“What!”

“Humor me doc, if it works then I might know a way to defeat these things.”

The doctor looked about ready to argue with him but Adam gave hima look and he quickly backed off.

Adam knelt down and had the doctor show him how to transmit something into the room. He scolded quickly through his music library before picking something he thought had a nice complex beat.

The doctor watched him curiously as he turned on the song.

The glass was too thick for much sound to penetrate back through, but as soon as the beat started the reaction was almost immediate, and rather violent.

What had once been Dr. Kell jerked in it’s spot, then agitatedly began to run in a circle before falling to the ground where it twitched and convulsed. He stopped the song before the doctor could order him otherwise, and he turned to look at the little creature staring up at him in confusion, “Rhythmic induced cataplexy, just like the rest of you.”

He turned to look back at where Dr. krill was standing an idea beginning to form in his head.

It was a very extreme idea. He doubted anyone would be willing to try it.

But he had to admit, it did sound pretty tempting.

Very tempting indeed.

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mostly-delusional · 4 years ago

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Maybe in another life

The story of why the moon changes shape.

'Once upon a time' is how every story is put into words. But this is a tale from before time itself. This is a story of an era when the universe was a colossal void filled with darkness, where time held no relevance and any form of life existed in a comparatively tiny, point sized orb.

The rondure was home to billions of shimmering souls. The Supernals. Their greyish-silver skin that glimmered along with their graceful movements would appear, in today's time, like nothing more than a phantom. But unlike ghosts, their bodies were very much solid, as human in appearance as possible.

Although there was no higher being that subjugated these entities, the one amongst them who was the beholder of unimaginable power was considered to be of more importance than rest of the population. Dierdre was the only one of her kind, her glittering derma coruscating wisps of silver light. Her magical abilities unmatched, even by their creator himself. And she had claimed herself as the queen.

It is often said that power corrupts people, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Dierdre had fallen victim to the seductive tendencies of the power she possessed. Her mind and heart were scorched as one, turned into nothing but a lump of malefic intents.

Among the billions that resided in that realm, two souls were set apart from the rest. Aelius, the sun and Cynthia, the moon. They were different, and everyone knew it.

Aelius was handsome from the depth of his amber coloured eyes to the gentle expressions of his voice. His presence was striking, but in a peaceful sort of manner. The usual silver dermis of the Supernals seemed to have adopted a golden tinge inside Aelius. His aureate skin set him apart from the rest of the population and brought unwanted attention.

Cynthia, on the other hand, exuded close to none of the silver light possessed by the Supernals. Despite of being exceptionally beautifully, she was...plain, when compared to the rest of her kind. The lack of radiance pushing her to the sidelines. Cynthia had spend an eternity in melancholy solitude. Without friends and family.

But soon, things had taken a different turn, when one evening she had ventured out to woods that occupied the outskirts of the city she lived in. Lost in her own misery, Cynthia had failed to notice Aelius sneaking past the massive trees and approaching the stone bench she was perched atop.

It was the beginning of an unusual friendship that left the Supernals questioning the workings of the world. The dull and lonely Cynthia had captured the attention of bright and handsome Aelius. The moon and the sun had brewed a bond that seemed highly unlikely to exist in a realm ruled by a queen of the likes of Dierdre.

Unbeknownst to him, Aelius had succeeded in capturing the attention of the queen, his enchanting beauty luring Dierdre into the tangled world of love. The queen who had once thought herself to be far above such petty emotions now yearned for the sun.

Alas, we always crave for things we cannot have.

The friendship between Aelius and Cynthia had bloomed into something more deep and sacred. In the echoing loneliness of Cynthia's soul, Aelius had managed to make a home for himself and drive away her sorrows in the best ways he could. At the same time, Cynthia had calmed the chaos that thrived inside him. Providing him a few moments of peace, away from the attention he had come to loathe.

The news of this blossoming romance had easily made its way to Dierdre. She was informed that the man she loved was often seen in the company of the outcast, Cynthia. And there were rumours that the pair was in love. Furious by the revelation, Dierdre called for an assembly, demanding the presence of every Supernal in the arena where important events took place.

Aelius and Cynthia were on top of the hill that overlooked the entire capital when a group of guards had dragged them all the way to the arena. They had struggled to free themselves from the deadly grips of the royal guards, Aelius constantly pleading with them to let Cynthia go. Inquiring about where they were being taken and why. But their captors had remained stoic and refused to answer any of the questions.

They were taken onto the raised platform which overlooked the rest of the arena, occupied by the shining profiles of the Supernals. The crowd murmured amongst itself, trying to decipher the reason behind the sudden gathering.

"My friends," the mass had silenced as soon as the first syllable had left Dierdre's lips. Even though no one was letting it on, the presence of the queen settled an uncomfortable chill in their bones. She had her hands slightly raised at her sides, her lips twisted in a satisfied smile upon the seeing commoners squirm under her gaze. "Our kind's existence in this realm has been everlasting and we have thrived with peace, love and harmony. We have always valued the brave, and cherished the loyal. As your queen, it is my duty to punish those who betray the crown or deny it any kind of service."

The crowd stirred, tension visible on every silver face. "Today, we have gathered here to look into the crimes committed by one of our own. The outcast...Cynthia." The named had rolled off her tongue as if it tasted like poison. "All of us were made aware of my affections towards the handsome and kind Aelius and that I wished to marry him. But the outcast violated my wishes by wooing him with her... unnatural abilities. As a punishment for her cri—"

"Cynthia has committed no crime," Aelius had bit out from where he stood, flanked by the royal guards. His voice echoed in the arena, eyes glaring into the Queen's direction, his usually gentle demeanor replaced by a cold and calm attitude.

The queen's head snapped to him, her eyebrows raised. "Even though interrupting your queen is worthy of punishment, I shall forgive you for this. My dear Aelius, pray tell us, what do you mean by that?"

"I mean," Aelius had began, his teeth grinding together with building rage, "that Cynthia committed no crime. She did not woo me. It was my decision to make. And I certainly do not wish to marry you."

Anger flashed in Dierdre's eyes but she had quickly masked it with a cold and sinister smile. "I'm sure you don't mean that, my love."

"I stand by every word I said. I will not associate with you in any manner. You are nothing but cruel."

The crowd had responded accordingly, numerous gasps echoing one after another in the arena. Aelius had soon realised his mistake, his eyes widened in panic, looking back at Cynthia who had frozen in her spot.

Dierdre was not known to have mercy upon her subordinates. Her methods of dealing with traitors could only be described as evil and no one lived to tell the tales of what they had experienced in the dark dungeons of the castle.

But this was not just about speaking ill of the crown or committing treason. Aelius had striked on her heart, shattering all her hopes of having a future with him. Not being able to see any sense in that moment, Dierdre had done the unthinkable. She had placed a curse on the entire race of her people.

It is believed that her rage had taken such huge toll on the realm that it had exploded into the void, scattering around like pieces of a broken vase, not to be mended again.

The Supernals were forced to give up their true form and were turned into massive balls of light known as the stars. The people closest to Aelius were stripped of their radiance and left as barren balls of dirt, spinning around in the emptiness, now identified as the planets.

The couple in question had themselves suffered a great deal. Aelius was to remain the biggest and brightest star, glowing in the center of the newly created universe. His body transformed into a huge sphere of unbearable heat. Cynthia was given a smaller form, dull and barren as ever.

"You shall live the rest of your lives with each other. Close but not enough. Within each other's reach, but powerless to actually claim your love."

Ever since, the sun and the moon have satiated their desire for each other through stolen glances. Their game of hide and seek causing never-ending pain to both of them. Aelius' family and friends revolved around him, wanting to comfort him but being unable to do so due to the fear of destroying themselves.

In all these years spent apart, Aelius had found a way to express his love to Cynthia, even if it was from a distance. He provided her with his light everyday, his warmth washing over her, assuring her that one day they will reunite. Not right now, but maybe in another life.

Cynthia basked basked in the sunlight, but even that would not be enough most days. There were times when only some part of her could feel the presence of Aelius and once in a while he vanished from her view completely. But there were also days when she could clearly look at him, feel his presence all around her. Those days gave her hope that maybe not all was lost. And maybe they could be reunited again.

Prompt list

English is not my first language and this is unedited, so forgive me for any mistakes. I'll re-read it soon and maybe change certain bits.

Feedback is really appreciated <3

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giorgiastastes · 5 years ago

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El hoyo (2019)

"The message needs no carrier" (spoiler: it actually does)

"There are 3 kinds of people; the ones above, the ones below, and the ones who fall. "

I've just watched this small masterpieces and here's my own interpretation.

Obviously the whole movie is a big metaphor. Both an analogy about our society and one about the Afterlife are present.

First of all, in my view, the place they're kept into is like a Purgatory between heaven and hell. The protagonist entered there voluntary because after the six months trial he would have expiated his sins and would finally be ready to enter Heaven. The old man is an accidental killer, therefore he doesn't deserve Hell, but definitely can't go into Heaven either, and his punishment is longer than Goreng's because he did in fact end a life.

Also Goreng is referenced multiples times as the Messiah, and his travel towards this purge tower is quite similar to Dante's one.

Each prisoner wakes up the first day of the month in a different position, which represents our birth. Some are born in better environments, families and countries and all of it is just luck, fate.

Then, since everyone knows that each of higher floors will likely take advantage of their position, our selfishness takes the best of us.

The higher floors know that the lower ones will literally eat their leftovers, while the ones under know that they better take as much as they can, otherwise they won't be able to survive. There's no altruism or generosity in the society.

You're placed high, you sh*t on who's below. You're below, you dream to reach above.

Each of the characters represents something.

The first roommate, the old man, is someone who's very aware of their surrounding, who's tired of fighting and knows very well how the world works because he's been in a better as much as a worse situation.

The lady coming from the Administration is a middle class representative, trying to change the world but also completely unaware of what's happening right under her nose.

The fact that she keeps on saying that a baby cannot be there and there are 200 floors is just further proof that we blindly lie to ourselves that things can't be that bad, that the world isn't that evil and the rules are respect, being delusional of course, to help us sleep at night. That's why when she hits lower than what she was told was possible, she killed herself.

She's also a vegetarian, with a big love for animals. She obviously represents both an activist that is trying to tell others that they shouldn't eat more than they need, because that means that who's lower won't have anything left, which is such a big innuendo to climate change, but at the same time she's also a privileged person who's never been lower than a certain point and thinks that anyone can easily "just eat less" without caring about other's issues (it reminded me of some vegans who cannot accept that veganism is not accessible or sustainable for the majority of the would population)

The last roommate, the one with the rope represents a religious person, who endures the hardship without giving up because of his faith.

Another pragmatic sequence in my opinion was the one where the two, while descending the tower, met an ill man with a companion with the Down Syndrome (I'm sorry if I'm sounding insensitive is just that I don't know how else to better describe the scene to make it recognizable to you) who said that he will proceed to suffocate his cellmate to also eat what went into his stomach even while being no more hungry himself, I mean, can you better descrive greed than this sentence?

Now, coming to the final scene, which left many of the viewers disappoint or confused, here's my idea.

The deranged girl who claims to have a daughter is definitely crazy, but not completely gone. I do believe there is a baby there, and the Administration is probability unaware of that because there's someone higher than them, and they're being lied to, also. But I don't think the protagonist actually saw the little girl.

I think that he reached such a place of histeria that he convinced himself that the baby was alive, hallucinating, to have a last strand of hope as he was dying. Notice how the baby is perfectly clean and well nourished, that would be impossible. The little girl is long gone and dead God knows in which floor but he convinced himself that he saw her as a way of also hoping that some kind of humanity is still left, that they wouldn't kill and eat an innocent and innocuous creature. But that's not the case.

Notice how he reaches the 333th floor and then walks like he doesn't even have a scar. Now multiply that number for each room residents, which are two. He's dead and has now reached Hell. There he finds his first roommate who's also in Hell since they both damned themselves letting their selfishness take over. The lady is obviously absent, since she never hurt a thing or specifically ate someone's flesh.

The baby was all part of his imagination and she doesn't reach the 0 level, simply because she was never there in the first place.

The girl could have been the message if she reached the top, since it would have proven how flawed the system is, but she never will. Some people claimed that it is not possible to reach the top because of how fast the platform goes, that it will just crash on the ceiling. I do not agree. There's no point in letting the platform crash each time so it will probably slow down enough to reach level 0, in facts we don't even know how tall level 1 is.

Someone also claimed that it's impossible that no one else ever reached the top through this method, which means to go all the way down to then come back up. First of all, it could have happened and that person could have been sent back down, but what I find most reasonable is that no one knows how deep the hole is, probably up to hell, and no one is brave enough to do it because no matter how bad your situation is, you're still afraid of having it worse. It's a suicidal mission which led to crazyness and then death even our brave characters.

Another reference I've loved is when it's mentioned that usually the poorest kill each other's to survive, while the richest have the highest rate of suicide. Why is that? Easy, they have nothing to endure, to live for, they have everything, they're not longing for the hope of food plus there's frightening in knowing that the next month it can only worsen.

So now the question remains: What is the ending then if the baby doesn't reach the top? The finale guys was right in front of our eyes, around the middle of the movie. Remember when the chef complains to other cooks about the hair in the pannacotta? That's the real ending: the pannacotta reaches the top (further proof that the platform won't crash) as the message but instead of being interpreted as a statement of insurrection, the level 0 workers believe it was sent back because there was a hair in there. This is the ultimate slap in the face, the final proof that those people are so out of touch, so blind towards what's happening downstairs that they think that was the issue, the hair in the pannacotta, without realizing that people are literally eating each others down there.

So, there was actually a satisfying finale which gave us answers, it's just that the finale was not at the end as usual.

#el hoyo #netflix #the platform #il buco #el hoyo Netflix #the platform Netflix #the platform netflix review

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aeipcthys · 4 years ago

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╰ ❛ 💉 — › brenda song. cis-female. she/her. ╯ have you met margot moore yet ? this twenty nine year old virgo has been living in the seattle area for one month. she makes a living as executive assistant to the chief of surgery, which is best suited for their observant, loyal, picky, and judgmental personality. hold on by wilson phillips is one of their favorite songs.

trigger warnings: mental health, mental illness, bipolar disorder, racism, microaggressions, gambling addiction mention, addiction mention

full character page here

BASIC INFORMATION

Full Name: margot moore

Nickname(s): moore

Age: 29

Date of Birth: august 23, 1992

Hometown: lake placid, florida

Current Location: seattle, washington

Ethnicity: hmong, thai

Nationality: american

Gender: cisgender female

Pronouns: she/her/hers

Orientation: she has only ever slept with men. that being said.......how y’all doing

Status: technically in a relationship

Religion: christian

Political Affiliation: democratic socialist

Occupation: executive assistant to the chief of surgery

Living Arrangements: she wants a roommate so if someone breaks into her apartment she won’t be the only target

Language(s) Spoken: english, hmong

Accent: american

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE

Face Claim: brenda song

Hair Color: brunette

Eye Color: dark brown

Height: 5'2

Weight: 113 lbs

Build: slim

Tattoos: anchor, writing on her finger, cross on her knuckle, writing on her wrist, bee on her wrist, cross on her side, symbol on her wrist

Piercings: ears, cartilage

Clothing Style: cute, fashionable kind of thing

Usual Expression: resting bitch face probably

Distinguishing Characteristics: laugh

HEALTH

Physical Ailments: none.

Neurological Conditions: has a form of bipolar affective disorder, doesn’t talk about it much, and is strict about her medications

Allergies: none.

Sleeping Habits: sprawls out across her bed when she eventually passes out with the tv on

Eating Habits: vegetarian except when she’s not

Exercise Habits: she actually attends those soul cycle kind of classes, and is really into it, but she would definitely make fun of them to everyone else

Emotional Stability: 9.14

Sociability: chatty, definitely can be nice, often judgmental but with good intentions, will gossip with you

Body Temperature: runs cold yet often wears outfits she’ll definitely be cold in

Addictions: stupid dumb men

Drug Use: we’re not necessarily opposed, but not a regular thing

Alcohol Use: bottle of wine everyday when she gets home kinda thing

PERSONALITY

Label: tbd

Positive Traits: observant, loyal, analytical, hard-working,

Negative Traits: picky, judgmental (with love), cynical, bossy

Fears: people in mascot costumes

Hobbies: being tupperware for other people’s messes (i stole this from an astrology site but legit her okay), girl can internet stalk the HELL out of someone for you if need be

Habits: eavesdropping on conversations, accidentally cutting people off when she has a better idea, zoning out when a whole lot of boring is coming at her

FAVOURITES

Weather: if it’s not humidity, she’s cool

Colour: shades of peach

Music: anything she can dance to in her apartment or every once and a while something at her desk that would make lachlan uncomfortable

Movies: no movies, movies are long

Sport: uh

Beverage: wine

Food: too many things have been described as her favorite to keep track

Animal: no thanks

FAMILY

Father: cye moore

Mother: mai moore

Sibling(s): elias moore

Children: none.

Pet(s): n/a

Family’s Financial Status: middle class

EXTRA

Zodiac Sign: virgo

MBTI: estj

Anything Else:

BIO

Margot Moore grew up in Lake Placid, Florida...a very tiny place in the sunshine state. Lake Placid had a population of just about 2,000 people, and Margot felt the smallness of it all ever since she was young.

Her parents, Cye and Mai, were good and loving parents to Margot and her brother, Elias. Both her parents were immigrants to the United States, so they were among the many who worked tirelessly to provide a good and stable life for their children. Her father worked his way up to being a branch manager at a manufacturing company, and her mother worked at a bank. All in all, her life could be described as pretty normal.

However, growing up in Lake Placid wasn’t always a walk in the park. Lake Placid was a largely white town, and because it was small, everybody knew everybody. Which meant people talked. You never wanted to be on the wrong side of that talk. As she got older, Margot started to see that she looked different from a lot of her classmates. Her classmates noticed it too.

TW racism, microaggressions She began to experience racism and microaggressions at the hands of people who were her friends. A lot of it was unconscious, but there was a definite bias. Margot’s parents knew it too, but they didn’t want to rock the boat. They encouraged Margot to ignore it. To try and blend in as much as possible. So, that’s what Margot learned to do. She tried her best to just blend in with it all. She didn’t talk much about her family’s culture or traditions. She tried to make herself look more like her friends, even dying her hair blonde for a period of time to try and make herself into the ideal standard of beauty.

TW mental illness, mental health, bipolar disorder During this time, Margot also began to struggle with other things. Her mood swings were unpredictable. She experienced racing thoughts and an inability to focus. She started sleeping less and making some risky decisions. At first, Margot didn’t want to get help. She didn’t see a need. But when she started to fall back into a depressive episode during her junior year of high school, her parents said enough was enough. Margot started going to regular therapy appointments and met with a number of psychologists. She was diagnosed with a milder form of bipolar affective disorder, and she has been on medications ever since.

Margot has done extremely well keeping up with therapy and her medications. Therapy is the one thing she’ll never reschedule. Not even for work. Old habits die hard for Margot, though. It’s hard for her to talk about her mental illness because in her mind, this is just another thing that separates her from everyone else. And remember what her parents always said: assimilate.

Margot went on to college, and she had a strong desire to get herself out of Lake Placid. She decided to study business at the advise of her dad at the University of Central Florida, but it wasn’t something she was exactly passionate about. It was a thing to do while she enjoyed her college years. She wasn’t bad at it, she just didn’t give as much effort as she probably should have.

Out of college, Margot had little money of her own, but she was determined not to go back to Lake Placid to live with her parents. She started temping at an agency, and she would get moved around from business to business, mostly doing administrative work or bookkeeping. It wasn’t overly exciting, but it gave her some money to live off. Plus, Margot lived off of learning about each place she worked at...all of the office gossip and drama.

Somewhere in her post-grad life, Margot met Holden. Holden was, in fact, an idiot who probably had a (TW gambling addiction, addiction) gambling problem that Margot funds. Margot and Holden just kind of ended up together. It wasn’t that they were madly in love. They just kind of...stuck. Margot was the one who pretty much kept them alive. She for some reason has a soft spot for the dumb ones...it was the only thing that kept her from kicking him to the curb through the years. Their relationship isn’t solid, or even necessarily exclusive...it just kind of exists. And no one understands it.

When she was about 24 years old, Margot started temping at a private practice in Florida. This is where she soon met Lachlan Covington and Andrea Martinez. Both the doctors worked at the private practice, and Margot started actually liking her job. Of course, it was a temp job, so she had to work her magic. Sure enough, she was eventually able to persuade Lachlan into taking her on as an assistant.

Margot has been working for Lachlan ever since, and she’s built up a good friendship with Andrea. She was shocked when Andrea left for Seattle, and high key disappointed to see the couple split up. She always hoped they would be endgame. Margot stuck by Lachlan, but she often told him that he needed to get Andrea back. Because he did. Eventually, Margot watched Lachlan leave too. She initially had no intention of going with him, considering her life was all in Florida. However, after a few weeks him being gone, she realized how boring most of her other co-workers were. When he reached out to see if she’d come to Seattle, she said yes almost immediately. (She tried to be casual about it though). She assigned herself the title of executive assistant, just because she thought it sounded more important with the word executive in it.

Margot didn’t exactly break up with Holden before she left, and by the sounds of his texts, he may still think they’re still together. She’s just kind of letting that be for the time being. After all, they’ve been together for so long.

Margot is liking Seattle, but she hates living alone and is still trying to get her own lay of the land. She likes to have resources...people she can go to when she needs something, people she can squeeze information out of, the good restaurants she can order from and charge to the hospital credit card when Lachlan’s inevitably working late and she stays in solidarity...that kind of thing.

PLOTS

y’all know me open to anything

probably looking for: roommate!!! folks she always goes to for info, people to gossip with, a friend she often grabs lunch with, that one doctor she hates and always tells them that lachlan is in a meeting when really he’s completely free

#traumaintro #she was not meant to stand still ( margot moore. )#sup #( character intro. )

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baekchelor · 5 years ago

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ａｓｈｏｒｅ[iii]

pairing: bodevan cash x reader genre: Doctor! AU, Romance, Angst summary: After a fall out with your fianceé, and an opportunity to chase your dreams, you embark into a medical mission trip to Namibia where you run into self-taught doctor Bodevan Cash. Love ensues. word count: 3.8k

❝the sea beckoned to me, and all reality was lost —swept away in the entrancing song of the tide. ❞ ―meredith t. taylor

TWO ｔｗｅｌｖｅｄａｙｓ

◄ ｐｒｅｖ

Bodevan's eyes looked like the morning sky every day after the first one you met them. Per diem, Bo's mood was bright as the sun too, although you did notice the tears confined on his bottom lid once ―when he concluded nothing else could be done and called 20:16 as Moharerwa's time of death. Bo summoned you to the OR after practising the caesarean section, as the doctor responsible for keeping Moharerwa's baby alive. Meanwhile, you were transporting the newborn into the incubator, Moharerwa went into cardiac arrest, and despite all his efforts, Bo couldn't keep her alive.

She did, briefly, meet her son, and the few minutes were enough to announce his name was Bodererwa. She thanked Bo and expressed her gratitude by naming her infant with the first two syllables of Bodevan's name.

Baby Bodererwa wasn't the only patient under your care. You treated an Irish girl who suffered from nausea and developed rashes. Rellian (Bo's younger brother) and you bonded over an uncanny case of seizures, muscle weakness and vision loss, you later diagnosed as Tay Sachs Disease. Tjiruru, a Himba man on his forties, came in with an acute case of Hepatitis C. Later, Tjiruru brought his sister, who two weeks ago, at Henties Bay's clinic, was prescribed with azithromycin for bacterial pneumonia. Bodevan figured out the medicine killed pneumonia's bacteria and caused other bacteria (that usually lives in a symbiotic relationship with the body) to produce toxins AKA Tjiruru's sister illness.

On day eight, you met, for the very first time, Danny Dupont. He was from Australia, with Kiwi heritage, and the reason why Bodevan got himself a kind-of-nurse.

Danny was diagnosed with viral cardiomyopathy, which caused his heart to fail. He came to Namibia because he didn't want to spend the rest of his days trapped in a hospital, waiting for a heart transplant. During a Safari across the Skeleton Coast, he fell in love with Peera, his tour-guide. Peera became Danny's reason to live, so he accepted to spend most of his days laying on a hospital bed if it meant he would win more time to enjoy alongside Peera. So she asked Bodevan to train her as a nurse, and Danny requested Bodevan to treat him. Now Bodevan has an Organ Donation Program running on the Himba village so, in case of any death, he can get a heart for Danny.

Today, Peera will host a "western" Birthday Party for Danny. It will be held at the hospital because Danny can't leave his cot, but Reillian will microwave a cake in a mug for him ―he saw the receipt somewhere on Pinterest―, and Bodevan managed to buy a few candles and balloons.

Also today, you're running late for your rounds. Dr Gandy video called early this morning, not to inform you about old patients, but to have breakfast with you. It was 2am for Ethan, but he ate pancakes and orange juice, the same receipt he asked room service to bring to your cabin, with the bacon crisped just like you like it, and with blueberries marmalade instead of syrup. You talked bout your medical experiences in Namibia, and that he will keep the Hamptons' beach house and Harper will have the pent-house in Soho. Ethan also said he misses you like crazy.

Guilt substituted the sugar in your coffee, souring the moment, and making clear that you wish you could say the same to Ethan. And you did, of course, you did, you lied. Truth is, Danny and his heart transplant, Bodererwa and his chances of survival, and every patient you've treated so far, keep your mind busy to the extent that, when you collide on bed, the only thought on your mind is to finally be able to rest.

Or so you tell yourself. Considering that dreamland and the pillow talk with your subconscious revolve around a particular wonderful being named Bodevan Cash.

"Morning!" all smiles, you greet as you walk into the teepee. You've grown to love the place.

"Morning, Intern!" and you've grown to love the nickname he calls you. Bodevan is teaching you about surgery, and yoga, and Hambi language, and about why the globe's entire population should be Maoists.

The boy is erudite. He was homeschooled, and his parents did a hell of a great job. To the point, Bodevan received college acceptance letters from numerous Ivy League schools. "I've got something to show you. Come here."

Bo hands you a pile of old letters. Right away, you know what they are, and you can't help but stare at each of them with your mouth agape.

"Holy Cow," your wide eyes travel to meet his. "Why didn't you go to any of this? Harvard is the best school for medicine out there."

"I never pictured myself as a Doctor," he says, while you check the charts for today patients. "I just wanted to go to college, be a normal guy. But when mom died, well...life has a funny way of trampling dreams, huh?"

"Yeah, it does," you murmur softly. "Sometimes, I just feel as if life controls me, instead of it being the other way around."

Bo looks at you knowingly, but careful of his own words, "Why do I get the feeling you're talking about your marriage?"

"I love Ethan. I'm just... if you've asked me what I wanted to do at my twenties, I would answer joining Doctors Without Borders, not getting married," you answer quietly, surprised at what has just left your lips. Hearing the inner thought that had been plaguing you for the past months being said out loud unnerved you.

"Was he upset about your trip here?" asks Bodevan.

"No. He encouraged me to do it, he even paid the ticket. I guess only because I was upset about him being married before. I know Ethan. He did this to erase the guilt from his system, to try to indulge me," you tell, fiddling with your white coat.

Bo eyes you in surprise, startled, "I-I didn't know he was married."

"He is married. They'll sign the divorce papers in two days. He never really told me, I just found out because his wife made an appearance at the hospital we both work at."

Bo remains silent for a while.

"I'm sorry. I have no idea why I'm telling you all this," you intervene awkwardly, suddenly feeling ashamed. He probably thought you were an idiot for sticking with a man who blatantly lied to your face. And you were likely making it worse by ranting on about your fiancé whom you swore a thousand times before that you were madly in love with.

But Bodevan just smiles. "No, it's alright. It helps to let things out. But if I were you, I'd tell him how I felt. If you're going to be spending the rest of your life with him…"

You sigh. He is right.

"Forget about it. What about you?" you pipe. "Any significant others?"

"N-no," he is all shy again, averting his blue orbs to the floor, as far from you as possible, and stuttering.

"But I assure you, he has ladies lining up for a shot," Peera quickly meddles, grinning. She's grabbing serum and a needle from the cabinets, probably for Danny.

You raise your brow, teasing, "Oh? Even with that 70's hairstyle?"

Peera gasps, clutching her chest dramatically. "I'm offended! I think it looks quite sexy on him, or so I heard..."

You giggle as the girl wiggles her eyebrows, Bodevan flushing red.

"I was kidding. It does," you confess.

"D-Does what?" asks Bodevan.

"Look sexy."

For a second, you don't quite realize what you'd said. But as Bo smirks, a bell goes off in your head. You feel your cheeks burn and you hastily look away from him, embarrassed. What is wrong with you?

You clear your throat, gaze hiding from Bo, "I should start my rounds."

These past few days were what you could only describe as confusing. And you had a feeling the confusion started when you accidentally told your mentor that his eyes looked like the morning sky.

It didn't help that during one of your night shifts, you dozed off on his shoulder, only to wake up sensing the weight of his head resting on top of yours, his breath on your hair, your lips near his neck.

It didn't help that over your clumsy attempts of getting into crow pose, you noticed how lovely his crooked smile was, and how when he chuckled, his eyes crinkled up at the corners.

And it certainly didn't help that you woke up to skies as clear and blue as Bodevan's eyes.

Nevertheless, you kenned something was seriously wrong when Bodevan touches your hand, and you actually feel sparks fly ―although that's medical impossible and you are a doctor, you should know. Or that when he, for some miracle, looks you in the eyes, your heart somersaults ―another impossible medical matter. Or that when he leans in to whisper some of his intellectual jokes that most of the time, you don't understand, goosebumps wash over your skin.

Something is happening, something is definitely happening, you just refuse to admit it to yourself.

At downfall, Peera and Danny urged you out of duty so you could go back to the cabin and get changed. With pleading brown eyes, Peera asked you to wear something special. She's been saving money for a while ―turns out Bodevan not only built a miracle in the middle of nowhere. In like manner, he helps the Hambi to sell handicrafts and jewellery at a souvenir store―, and the past weekend, Rellian drove her all the way to Henties Bay to buy a beautiful emerald dress. Therefore, you stopped by the hotel boutique and used Ethan's credit card to buy a gown made by a fluttering pink fabric.

When one of the hotel vans dropped you off at Bo's clinic, you're welcomed by the melody Bodevan and Danny are crafting through their guitars. They are singing Guns N' Roses' Patience, and although the one with the good voice is Danny, you can't seem to drag your attention away from Bodevan. He is wearing a suave, intricately patterned mustard jacket, buttoned low so that his chest peeks through. You hate that he looks so good in it.

A wide smile spreads across your features as you cheer for both guys once they've strummed their last chords. And then, the smile is stolen away when a tall, leggy blonde [you've never seen before] is suddenly leaning next to Bo, a flirty smirk on her lips. The girl whispers something to his ear, Bodevan goes beet red but nods anyway. To your annoyance, he follows her to the drink station Peera put together ashore.

Bitting down on the inside of your cheek, you watch Bodevan lean close into her, turning on the charms he ignores he posses. You force yourself to turn away, squeezing yous lids shut to get rid of the disappointment that is dawning your heart.

Why the hell are you getting this affected by him? He is your mentor, your peer. You've known him for a grand total of six days. Most importantly, you are engaged.

A hand carefully resting on your shoulder, pulls you off your thoughts. You turn, only to come upon Peera. "Her name is Elise. She's been trying to get in his pants since he fixed her sprained ankle a week ago."

"She hasn't managed," comments Rellian, handing you a red cup filled by what you presume to be wine. Chardonnay. 80's music blasts from the speakers shove over Bodevan's desk, and Rellian offers you a hand, "Do you want to dance?" His voice is bright and warm, and his enthusiasm washes over you. It is challenging to pint-point him as the angry teenager Bo told you about.

"Absolutely," you take his hand easily. "I should warn you, though, I'm not very good."

"That's fine. We'll take it slow." Rellian's grin is so inviting that you can't be worried about your poor dancing skills, so you happily follow him out to the beach. The song is an upbeat one, which suits his mood.

"It seems you've fully recovered from Bodevan breaking your heart a couple minutes ago," he jokes

"It's a shame he didn't do any damage," you shoot back, obviously kidding. "If I was heartbroken, I wouldn't have to dance with you."

Rellian laughs, "I'm glad you're as funny as everyone says you are. I hear you're my brother's favourite, too." It sounds as if it is common knowledge. "And that your engagement is troublesome―"

"I wouldn't call it troublesome," part of you is sick of people saying that. Another part yearned for it to be different, although you know people speak the truth. It is troublesome. Sighing, you confess, "Ethan lied to me. He is married, about to get divorced but married still. We' have been engaged for over a year, and I just found out about it a month ago."

Rellian stops dancing for a moment, shocked at what he's just heard. He quickly picks back up, studying your expression for a moment. "I didn't realize that was what was going on," he says softly, apologetic. "I mean, you know I want my brother to get the girl, but I didn't want you to get hurt."

"Thanks," you shrug. "I feel stupid more than anything."

Rellian pulls you in a little closer, yet keeping a respectful distance. "Trust me, Intern, any man who passes up the chance to be with you is the stupid one."

"Bo just passed me up..." <<Oh my god. What is wrong with you?>>

"That's how I know," he replies, followed by a thread of giggles. On cue, you glance over Rellian's shoulder and find Bodevan dancing with Elise.

Seven glasses of wine have paved their way through your system, Rellian keeps throwing jokes as you swing your figures to the beat of the music, when you hear his voice beside you, "My lady?" Rellian freezes in the spot, a knowing smirk appearing on his features. Complicit glances are exchanged, and finally, you turn on your heels to find yourself face to face, lip to lip, with Bodevan Cash. "May I have this dance?"

That feeling, that indefinable something, courses through you. As dejected as you'd felt, as embarrassed as you'd been, when Bodevan offers that moment, instead of to Elise, you have to take it. Because the song is slow, and it is Guns N' Roses, and the waves are crashing on the shore...And you're drunk.

"Of course."

Bodevan, clearly drunk as well, entwines your hands together and walks you near the seaside, where the water can dance as well, underneath your feet. He doesn't seem uncomfortable, or as if he fancied to dance with someone else rather than with you. On the contrary, Bodevan holds you so close you can smell his cologne and feel his stubble against the skin of your cheek.

"I was wondering if I was going to get a dance at all," you comment, trying to sound playful. Bodevan succeeds to pull you even closer.

"I-I needed to drink up my courage, so my second-thoughts are over. Now I'm brave enough to enjoy the rest of the night with you." This time you can blame it on the alcohol, but as both always do near each other, the two flush furiously. Sometimes Bodevan's words are like single lines of novels or movies. After dating Ethan for so long, it is weird to flirt with a guy that turns beet red on the cheeks, shy to speak bluntly. Ethan does it without an effort, he always speaks his mind, whether to compliment or with the sole purpose to hurt. They are poles apart. In every way possible. Bodevan didn't go to Dartmouth like Ethan did, Bo acquired his vast knowledge out of countless books. Still and all, he is as good a doctor as Ethan Gandy.

You are kneen on different and too stubborn to accept it, but the racing on your pulse betrays you.

"You look lovely, Intern. Much too beautiful to be on the arm of someone like me."

"Someone like you? This has been perfect, Bo."

"Agreed," he giggles. "Let's do this next year. Danny will have a new heart by then."

You look at him. Next year?

"Would you like that?"

"I won't be here next year, Bo..."

He stops dancing. "Why wouldn't you?"

On a dime, it hits him. Thank God, because you don't really want to say out loud the reason why this won't happen next year, at least not with you present, is that you'll leave in a couple weeks, get married and never come back. Despite the words ain’t articulated aloud, you know Bo has heard them, and you know he espies the water welling up in your eyes and how hard you're trying to hide them.

"Intern."

You gaze down at the wet sand. The water suddenly feels cold.

"Intern, look at me," he says gently. "I'm such a nincompoop. I had just discerned tonight is all we have and I-I misused half of it by dancing with Elise." His voice is hoarse, frustrated. "I thought you felt secure in your standing." What? You are missing something here. Bodevan sighs, not relieved, but hugely nervous. The following words are said as his ocean orbs are settled elsewhere, anywhere, but your face. "Honestly? From the beginning, I've really only looked at you, wanted you." Bodevan manages to meet with your eyes, and his gaze is emotional, and blue and so deep that it overcomes you. So, for a moment, you duck your head. "I'm having a hard time accepting that you will leave... It's fine though, you'd be surprised how infrequently I get what I truly want."

You've treated with patients for years now, you've been trained to tell when they lie, how they're really feeling, find out their buried truths. And you can tell Bodevan is hiding something, some sadness he isn't prepared to share. But he shakes it away and resumes the talking, starting to sway to the music again. "But we have tonight, haven't we?. . ."—Bo looks at your eyes. Unwavering. —"There's only you, and me, and this beach. Tonight."

It takes you a moment to attain the correct rhythm of your breath and heart. You could understand the feeling— that it is unlucky, a kick in the ass from fate. Deep, deep inside you, you feel like that daily as well.

"We do," you whisper into his neck. "We have tonight." His lips are at your ear, kissing your earlobe. The arm resting on his back draws him nearer, and he mimics the action until you're physically closer to each other than you'd ever been.

You jump over a wave, and a chuckle bursts out when you turn around and notice Bodevan chasing you out of the sea. The level of alcohol is higher in your system, and your fancy dress is soaked by saltwater.

Bodevan runs faster, and as you're about to reach the back entrance of the teepee, he reaches for your hand, dragging you against his chest.

Before you can speak, he has you up against the wall, his body covering yours entirely. Bo is breathing heavily, panting, and you're just as breathless, not only because you'd just run like a madwoman. Bodevan's proximity to you and the way you can literally feel his chest rise and fall against you with his unsteady breaths is making your brain melt —even though you know, that is medically impossible too.

“What's wrong—”

He hisses and brings his hand up over your mouth. You halt, your breath stopping as you hear Peera and Danny's grunts and moans and pants.

With a crimson streak across his cheeks, Bodevan shuts his eyes and swears softly, not removing his hand from your mouth. You keep very still, trying to stay calm by breathing in and out through your nose.

"How do we proceed?"

"The hotel van will pick me up soon."

The pants grow fainter, but you're still able to hear Peera moaning Danny's name. You don't want to disturb them, or announce your presence outside, mere meters away from they having sex. This is their special night, and who doesn't enjoy a dose of birthday sex?

Bodevan doesn't let go of you for another 5 minutes. He just stands there like that, his forehead pressed against yours. Only when you are blinded by the lights of the van approaching, he quickly drops his hand.

"Peera and Rellian will take over tomorrow. We both have the day off. So see you M-Monday."

You swallow, "Do you want to come with me? I have wine in my cabin's mini bar—"

"Alright," mutters Bodevan, shaking his head at his very own embarrassment. "I-I would love to."

"Okay."

He smiles.

Breathless. That's how you'll describe your symptoms at this precise period in time. And you had been standing still for the past 15 minutes.

Why is he making you like this?

You catch his eyes widen in surprise as you grab his hand and lead with to the insides of the van. You greet the driver and set off.

After you’ve reached Shipwreck Lodge, and you fidget with the keys to open your bedroom door, you remember Elise and their shared laughter, their noses almost brushing as they talked, and how Bo dismissed the whole thing. Uncertain about the weird feeling stirring in your stomach, you say, "So you really don't like Elise, huh? She must have been upset to see you running away with me like that..."

Bodevan raises his eyebrows, "Oh, it's no problem at all. I don't care about her. A certain other girl caught my eye, you see. And I can't ignore her. Not when she robs my attention with every small detail."

Your heart hammers in your chest. "Oh. Good for you."

Bodevan shakes his head. "Not really. She's engaged."

You almost believe he will talk further, because of the way he glances at you, his eyes sparkling with things unsaid and his lips parted. Or maybe he is about to kiss you...

But he just drags his stare back to his converse, and you grab two cups and pour white wine, hit play on your Guns N’ Roses playlist and invite him to sit down with you at the edge your mattress.

You aren't sure how long you lay there, talking to him. At some point, your eyes start drooping, as are his, and you fall asleep like that beside him, bodies over the undo bed, feet tangled together, and your hair sprawled across his chest. Without even noticing that at some moment during the night, your engagement ring fell from your finger, leaving it empty.

ｎｅｘｔ►

#sorry for taking longer than usual #IT REALLY IS HARD TO WRIT E BO #ashore #ashore:two #George mackay #George mackay x reader #bodevan cash #captain fantastic #1917

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thecleverdame · 5 years ago

Text

Sleepy Hollow - Chapter One

Series Master List

Pairings: Sam x Reader, mentions of Dean x Jo

Summary: In 1799, specialized police constables Sam and Dean Winchester are sent from New York City to a small town called Sleepy Hollow to investigate a series of murders. Approached by the town’s council, the Winchesters discover the local residents believe that the murders are the work of a deadly Hessian horseman whose head has been mysteriously chopped off. With help from the beautiful Y/N Van Tassel, Sam Winchester’s investigation takes him further through the dark wood where more murders have been occurring. What Sam does not realize is that the mysterious Horseman is being controlled by someone in a sinister plot to kill the most suitable men in the village.

Warnings: Canon-level violence, murder, smut, horror, gore and a little fluff for good measure.

Words: 40k

Beta: ilikaicalie

This series is completed. You can read it on my Patreon for a monthly pledge of 2.50. This pledge includes early access to all my stories and Patreon exclusive content. >> CLICK HERE <<

New York City - 1799

Despite it’s rapidly growing population, the city is unnaturally quiet at night. It’s nothing more than the looming silence of empty cobblestone streets, bordered by stately buildings.

Through the fog, there’s a rapid clanging bell in the distance. Two constables clamor around the corner with their lanterns held high. They both pause to look at each other, listening before following the sounds and disappearing down an alleyway.

For a moment the quiet slosh of the Hudson River is the only sound. Both policemen stand silent waiting for the bell that begins ringing once again, louder this time. They draw their pistols, inching toward the embankment.

“Where are you?” calls one of them.

“Here! Over here!” comes the disembodied voice of a man. They scurry to the river's edge. There’s a man indeed, waist deep in the water with his back to them. He throws his alarm bell aside, struggling to pull something from the murky water. “I need your help with this!” the man calls out. Both policemen hesitate, wary as they watch the scene before them. “Constable Winchester? Sam Winchester...is that you?” Sam stands up to his full height and turns, eyes piercing in the night. Brow furrowing he nods in confirmation. “None other, and not only me.” He goes back to pulling at a heavy object in the water. “I have found something.”

Acting on his own, Sam drags a bloated corpse from the water, dragging it up the bank. He scoffs, shaking mud from his boot.

“It appears to be a man, or rather was lately a man. Thank you for your help,” he mutters wiping his hands with a handkerchief.

New York City Watchhouse - Jail

The jail is dank and cavernous, it’s Sam’s least favorite place to be stuck in. The walls never fail to bring a sense of impending claustrophobia. The body he pulled from the river is laying in a wheelbarrow manned by the two officers that found him at the river. He watches as the high constable lifts the blanket off the corpse.

The high constable takes one look and waves his hand. “Burn it.”

“Yes, sir,” replies a junior policeman, moving to take the corpse down a ramp toward the incineration room. “Just a moment, if I may….we do not yet know the cause of death,” Sam interjects, appealing to reason. “When you find 'em in the river, the cause of death is drowning.” The high constable chuckles, cocking an eyebrow at Sam. This isn’t their first interaction and he prefers Dean to the younger Winchester who always seems to insist on pressing his luck. “Possibly so if there is water in the lungs, but, by pathology, we might determine whether or not he was dead when he went into the river,” Sam explains calmly. Everyone in the room looks to Sam, aghast at the very suggestion. “Cut him up? Are we heathens? Let him rest in peace - in one piece as according to God and the New York Department of Health.”

Sam is about to protest, balling his fists in frustration, but thinks better of it and stops himself. He’s been down this road before and knows arguing will get him nowhere.

Two new officers interrupt the conversation, dragging a bleeding, semi-conscious man into the room. “What happened to him?” the high constable asks.

“Nothing sir,” the officer shrugs as if the man hasn’t already been beaten within an inch of his life. “We arrested him for burglary.”

Sam watches as the two officers throw the man up against the bars of the jail cell, while another opens the cage door. With their leather batons, they begin to beat the man until he’s locked up in the cage. There’s little justice in the world at large but even less in this place. A sad irony that’s not lost on Sam.

Using this moment of distraction to his advantage, Sam follows the corpse into the next room.

The Next Morning - Flat of Sam Winchester

Dean bounds up winding stairs to his brother’s top floor apartment. Sam has turned his residential flat into a makeshift office and in true style, Dean finds him engrossed in a book, furiously taking notes, sketching the outline of what is undoubtedly some new invention.

“I knocked, you must not have heard me.” Dean quips.

“I heard you,” Sam grins, glancing up from his papers with a pencil tucked behind his ear. “But you always find your way inside with no help from me.”

“What is this?” Dean approaches the desk, bending down to look at Sam’s drawing. It’s all intricate lines and careful measurements detailed in the margins.

“It’s an apparatus for magnification,” Sam taps the paper. “It’s going to change the way we look at crime scenes. I’ll be able to identify the details of a wound and in turn, give a better idea of murder weapons and a true cause of death. Not the guessing game the police would have us play.”

“Impressive.” Dean nods in approval. In reality, he has no idea what he’s looking at. This is Sam’s territory, experiments, and contraptions. “Speaking of the police, we’re going to be late if we don’t leave soon.”

Sam sits back on his stool and sighs. This is what they do now. True cases of the supernatural are rare. An encounter with a ghastly spirit usually turns out to be a combination of ignorance and old world superstition. Almost everything they come across has a scientific explanation, so Sam’s resigned himself to furthering the accuracy of everyday police work.

Sam and Dean live to disprove and debunk. Their reputation has grown throughout the city of New York. After years of working in private service, they were approached by the city council to consult on the backlog of criminal cases the police were ill-suited to solve on their own. That was a decade ago. Now, past adventures with ghosts and ghouls seem like a distant memory.

Since those first days they’ve long been deputized into the department. Now full fledged Constables they are able to skirt many of the normal rules and regulations that govern most civil servants. The Winchesters get the job done, which has afforded them a certain freedom to work using uncommon methods.

They deal in the dark side of men, flesh and blood, mystery and murder.

City Watchhouse - Court

Sam and Dean march along the street leading up the watchhouse. It’s in the heart of the city, a thriving metropolis alive with horse-drawn carriages and men, women and tradesmen, all a whirl of activity.

“You do not have to come with me.” Sam turns back to his brother. “I could end up waiting eons before they allow me to present.”

“I’ve nothing else to do with my day and Johana is upset with me. I prefer your company.” Dean places a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

They stalk past the men held in chains and gibbets, lined up in front of the watchhouse. Sam takes a breath and bounds up the stairs. When they enter the courtroom, there’s a man already presenting.

Sam loathes this day. It’s the bi-monthly assembly open to the public. Applicants, mostly cranks and eccentrics, present their devices for fighting and solving crime. It’s a joke and only serves to discredit the work he’s doing, important, necessary work.

In the front of the room is a row of city officials, the Burgomaster in the center, flanked by the high commissioner and various magistrates and aldermen. Most of the applicants are crowded onto one side of the room, waiting their turn. Sam joins them holding only his notes. “...and in a few weeks, the plague of pickpockets will be a thing of the past!” A sickly looking man with yellow teeth has the floor, presenting what can only be described as a combination wallet and mousetrap. He holds out his invention, demonstrating how to set the trap spring. “Give me a dozen constables, undercover in an average gentleman’s dress…mixing with the crowds where pickpockets are rife!” The man dramatically pockets the wallet. He then produces a fake hand-on-a-stick and demonstrates the business. “A stealthy hand dips into the gentleman's pocket...and…” There is the sound of the trap snapping shut and the yellow toothed man withdraws the fake hand, its fingers chopped off. The officials wince, as Sam suppresses the urge to groan out loud.

“Thank you. We will take your device under consideration, Mr. Vanderbilt... Next!” The Burgomaster calls out. A large man starts dragging a man-sized cage-like contraption to center floor, while Sam tries to get the attention of the officials.

“Gentlemen!” Sam raises his hand stepping forward, towering over everyone else in the room. “The Millennium is almost upon us. In a few months, we will be living in the nineteenth century!” “Wait your turn, Constable Winchester,” the High Constable cautions.

Sam scoffs, unable to hide his disdain. “These devices are unworthy of modern civilization.” “Quiet!” the Burgomaster warns. “Next, I say!” “Thank you, sir!” The large man spreads his arms wide. He turns proudly to his man-sized cage, whose front lowers on hinges for easy access. The floor of the cage is a steel plate. A writing board for signing confessions is attached to the inside of the cage. “I present to you, The Tomkins self-locking Confessional. This device is cheap at the price and will last for years with just an occasional wipe with a damp cloth. It will close and lock when the villain steps on the floor plate.” “Ridiculous,” Sam mutters to himself, dropping books and papers around his feet. Stepping forward he glances over at Dean who’s hand is over his eyes in embarrassment, he knows what’s coming. “Arrest that man!” “Arrest him?” The High Constable looks around in confusion. “What are you playing at?”

“I accuse him of murder.” Sam thrusts a finger at Mr. Tomkins who stares at him in horror. “What the devil are you talking about, you loon? I haven’t killed anyone!” Sam takes two steps toward him and gives him a violent shove in the chest. The large man staggers back into his cage, which self-locks, and at the same time a head clamp descends from the top, gripping his head. His arms flail about as he yells.

Sam slaps a page on the writing board, offering his own pen. “Sign here!”

“The release handle.” The man inside the cage groans and points to the lever.

“Not until you confess.” Sam raises his chin, looking around the room. There’s a muted uproar from the onlookers but Sam holds his ground, waiting for the man to sign the paper before pulling the release handle. Retrieving the paper Sam holds it high in the air. “I have here a confession to the murder of a man I fished out of the river last night!”

“Stand down, Winchester.” The High Constable stands up, slapping his hand on the table in front of him.

“I will not sit down. I stand up for sense and justice. Our jails overflow with men and women convicted on confessions worth no more than this one. Shall we send even more innocents to the stocks?” The High Constable bangs his gavel until he gets silence for the Burgomaster to speak. “Constable Winchester,” The Burgomaster narrows his eyes. “This is a song we have heard more than once from you and your brother, but never with this discordant accompaniment. Where is your brother?”

“Here,” Dean raises a hand, stepping forward to join Sam.

“I have two courses open to me. First, I can let you cool your heels in the cells until you learn respect for the dignity of my office.”

Sam forces a smile, nodding in tacit agreement. “I beg your pardon. I only meant well. Why are we the only ones who see that to solve crimes, to detect the guilty, we must use our brains? To recognize vital clues, using up-to-date scientific-”

“Which brings me to the second course. Constable Winchester, there is a town upstate, two days’ journey to the north in the Hudson Highlands. It is a place called Sleepy Hollow. Have you heard of it?” “I have not.” Sam’s interest is piqued, as is Dean’s, both men listening intently. “An isolated farming community, mostly Dutch. Three persons have been murdered there, all within a fortnight...each found with their head lopped off.” “Lopped off?” Sam steps forward, eyes narrowing.

“Clean as dandelion heads, apparently. Now, these ideas of yours, they have never been put to the test?”

“You have never allowed him to put them to the test,” Dean chimes in.

“Just so, granted. So you take your experiments to Sleepy Hollow and deduce, er, detect the murderer. Bring him here to face our good justice. Will you do this?”

“We shall.” Sam looks to Dean, both already in silent agreement. “Gladly.” “Remember, it is you, Sam Winchester, who is now put to the test.”

#sam winchester fanfiction #sam winchester x reader #Sam Winchester Fanfic #sam winchester au

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reading-writing-revolution · 5 years ago

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This is truly magnificent analysis. It's a bit of a long read, but it is ABSOLUTELY magically clarifying. I'll include my thoughts in a follow-up because this is perfectly in line with something I've been thinking about for a while.

Buckle up, this one is a bit of a roller coaster.

Let’s talk population density.

Do you know the population density of the zip code you live in?

What about the population density of where you spent your formative years?

That’s a bit of a rhetorical question, because I’m guessing the answer is no. I certainly didn’t, so I’d be impressed and surprised if I asked someone this question in casual conversation and they rattled off the number to me.

I’d never thought about population density until I traveled to India in 2018. We flew into Mumbai which has a population density of 75,000 people per sq. mi. To give you some perspective, NYC has 27,000 per sq. mi. (post originally said 10,431people but that is per sq. km. not mi.) and as most of my friends are familiar with King of The Hammers, in Johnson Valley, when Hammertown doesn’t exist, it has a population density of 15.2 people per sq. mi.

Mumbai has the highest population density of any city in the world, and until you’ve experienced it, it’s hard to describe. If you have ever been in the first 10 rows of a sold-out standing room only concert, that is as close as I can relate to how people move through the streets of Mumbai. There is literally no such thing as personal space. Not for you, not for your vehicle. I think one of the most fascinating things our entire group realized in Mumbai is whatever you do, do NOT stop. Merge in, merge out, but sudden stops cause pile ups of humans, vehicles, etc. Everything is in fluid motion, when you step into the stream you go with the current, when you need to leave the stream you move to the edges and hop out. What was also interesting was the lack of rage or frustration we saw, and the lack of accidents! I don’t think I saw two people yell at each other the entire time we were there. Same with car accidents, I saw one slight bumper brush. Nothing worth stopping over, as every car had marks from similar encounters.

You would think with so much closeness fights would break out often, accidents would be on every corner. But something strange happens. There is no space for the individual in that type of population density. If you wanted to stop and be mad or outraged, you would literally be trampled. So you move with the flow, or you step outside of it. One person cannot go against the current and be successful, individual needs simply cannot matter for society to function in that type of population density. This is different from NYC where you do see individuals disagree on street corners. Because even as dense as NYC is there is room for the individual. Even our most densely populated cities are nothing compared to other countries. America has space and the individual has rights.

When this country was founded the population density of even our biggest cities was a fraction of large cities in Europe. Which is why our constitution so heavily outlines the liberties and freedoms of the individual compared to places like England where their population density even today is 10 times that of the United States as a whole.

Ever since news of the pandemic broke I’ve found myself fascinated with population density in the US. This fascination started because it seemed obvious to me that the transmission of COVID would happen far faster in our highest population density areas of the country. Wikipedia has a list of cities by population density. Here’s how the top 20 most dense cities breaks down: 9 in New Jersey (NYC metro area),4 in CA (LA metro area), 3 in NY (NYC metro area), 2 in Florida (Miami metro area), 1 in Mass (Boston metro area), and 1 in Kentucky (Louisville). Except for Kentucky these population dense areas directly correlate to the highest areas of infection in the country.

But my fascination with population density didn’t stop at the pandemic. I wanted to understand population densities of different areas. I started looking up places I’d lived and visited that felt both dense and sparse population wise. It should come as no surprise that cities are always the most dense and rural areas are always the most sparse.

Then as the mask debate started unfolding in my newsfeed, I found myself loosely assigning a population density to people as they made their stance on masks known. Those that lived in higher population densities were usually more for masks than those who lived in less population dense areas.

Again, this made sense. Those that live in cities encounter more people in a day going about their routine. If they live in high-density housing, they share elevators, stairwells, mailrooms, lobbies, etc. The needs of the individual matter less the higher the density, so fighting the mask goes against the stream. You can do it, but it’s not easy.

Those I know that live more rural were less inclined to want to wear masks. I’ve found a general rule of thumb in casual conversation is if you can walk to your nearest market (even if it’s a gas station or 7/11), you understand the need for a mask. If you MUST drive to your nearest market, you likely don’t have to encounter many people in a day if you choose not to, and masks feel like just another unnecessary restriction imposed by the government. The individual has more freedoms and rejects government oversight more the lower the population density.

At some point this year I saw some people sharing an image of the US broken up by red states (Republican) vs. blue states (Democrat), compared to a map of COVID cases. At the time, the blue states almost directly correlated to where the highest COVID outbreaks were happening. The conclusion those sharing this map were trying to draw was that COVID was political and made up by the political leaders of blue states. It was largely those living in unaffected areas sharing this map and drawing these conclusions.

What I took from these images was that the higher the density the more likely an area was to be run by Democrats. Which lead me down a rabbit hole. Apparently, someone named Dave Troy noticed the same thing, and wrote an interesting article based on the 2012 election between Obama and Romney. 98% of the 50 most dense counties voted Obama. 98% of the 50 least dense counties voted Romney.

And this Dave guy sounds like someone I would enjoy having a discussion with. Because this data drew him to the same question I had. Where is the crossover point in population density between those that vote Republican vs. those that vote Democrat? The data says that at about 800 people per sq. mi. people switch from voting primarily Republican to voting primarily Democrat. Below 800 people per sq. mi. there is a 66% chance that you voted Republican in 2012. The data doesn’t appear much different in the following years.

So why does this matter? Because how you were raised and how you live has a huge impact on what matters to you from your politicians and your government.

Those I know that grew up in less dense areas had to be self-reliant. When calling 911 means you’re likely waiting 20 minutes or longer for police, an ambulance, or a fire truck. You have to be able to defend yourself, handle your own first aid, and rely on your neighbors to help in critical emergency situations. When I tell people in Southern California that where I grew up had volunteer firefighters and EMTs they don’t believe me.

The more rural you are, the less you rely on government entities for your day-to-day needs. The most rural have well water, septic systems, take their trash to the dump, if it snows, they have a vehicle that can plow, and the truly rural use propane for power and heat. They are not reliant on most services provided by the public utilities. They use guns as tools to protect their animals and their family from prey and from vermin. They do not really encounter homeless people, as even the poorest can usually find a shack to live out of and require a vehicle to get around. These people in less dense areas do not depend on the government to solve their problems. They’d prefer government stay out of their lives completely. Less taxes, less oversight, less being told what to do. To the rural, it seems like every time the government interferes in their life, they lose another freedom, and their quality of life diminishes.

Those I know that grew up in more dense areas are used to calling 911 to handle emergencies. Their streets are swept in the summer and plowed in the winter. Their trash is picked up on the same day weekly. They don’t have space for cars and tools, so they tend to take public transportation or walk. They call someone when something breaks that requires tools they don’t own. They are used to encountering the homeless on the streets as part of their daily life. The truly poor and homeless usually end up in cities as the services to help the sick, mentally ill and the poorest among us are more available in dense areas. So the wealthy interact with the poor in cities far more than they do in rural areas. Those in higher density areas are willing to pay for government services because they are a regular part of their daily lives and make life more manageable. Without these services, the quality of life they know would not exist.

This got me thinking about some research I did a few years ago, when I learned that the average American only lives 18 miles from their mother. Those in NY and PA only live on average 8 miles from their mothers. From Kentucky to Louisiana the average is 6 miles. Less than 20% of Americans live more than a few hours drive from mom. The further you move from home depends greatly on your education and income. For the most part, the wealthier you are, the more you can pay for child and elder care, making it easier to travel further from home. Also, the more educated, the more likely you are to travel to utilize your education in a specialized career field.

So what does this have to do with population density? Most Americans never leave the population density we were raised in. Why does this matter? Because that means most Americans can’t understand or relate to the needs of those that live in population densities that differ from their own.

My friends that have been raised in cities see guns primarily as a source of violence. My friends that live rurally see guns as a necessary tool for their way of life. My friends that have been raised rurally don’t understand the need for taxes and government services, where they come from you take care of your own problems. My friends that live in cities, could not imagine a life without public utilities and governmental oversight of social problems.

Neither are wrong. Their needs and perspective are just vastly different.

I also realized that I’m probably in a small percentage of the American population. I have spent the last 20 years living more than 2500 miles from my closest family members, which puts me into the 20% category plus I was raised and lived in both high density population areas and low density population areas throughout my life.

Here’s my life by population density:

Age: 0-10 Zip: 14613 Pop Dens: 7323.5 people per sq. mi.

Age: 11-18 Zip: 14468 Pop Dens: 345 people per sq. mi.

Age: 18-22 Zip: 14850 Pop Dens: 5,722 people per sq. mi.

Age: 25-32 Zip: 92606 Pop Dens: 4,913 people per sq. mi.

Age: 33-43 Zip: 91773/91750 Pop Dens 2,163/1245 people per sq. mi.

I went to inner city schools as a young child. I was upset that my mother could not put my hair in corn rows with the pretty beads like my friends wore. I learned civil rights songs taught to me by our bi-racial music teacher and came home and sang them for my disapproving father who was raised in Shinglehouse, PA with a population density of 26.5 people per sq. mi.

Then at the age of 11 my family moved out of the city and into the country. We lived on 20+ acres of land and the population was 98% white. I didn’t walk to school anymore, heck, we didn’t really walk to our neighbor’s house because country roads don’t have sidewalks.

Then I went away to college for 4 years where I lived part of that time on the 11th floor of a tower, with a shared elevator, lobby, and I didn’t own a car. I walked everywhere, took the bus or would grab a ride from my few friends with cars if it wasn’t feasible to take public transportation.

After college I moved to Southern California. I spent my first 10 years as an adult mostly living in condos and townhomes in wealthier higher density areas, where I would say the majority leaned slightly left, but there was a fiscally conservative undertone. But I spent most weekends taking my Jeep to lower population density areas to live a life more closely to what I had on the farm growing up. Less government oversights. No one ticketing my Jeep for a few stickers as a commercial vehicle, etc.

Currently, I live in Los Angeles County, one of the highest populations in the country. But I live in one of the lowest density zip codes within that county. We have horse property and rodeos, and one of the only country bars in Southern California. Our population is almost completely split down the middle between left and right. I don’t have a sidewalk but a half a mile down the road they do. I can walk to the 7/11 and the subway around the corner but need to drive to the closest grocery store.

I’ve come to realize that just about every polarizing debate I see my friends having; I can see both sides of the argument. And I’m starting to suspect it’s because I’ve lived in both their worlds. I can relate and understand their needs and where they are coming from because I’ve experienced each of their way of life to a certain extent. Most in this country are raised one way and live that way for life. And how we want to live really comes down to the population density in which we have existed.

I truly believe our population density experience matters more to our political views than education, income, race, gender or sexuality.

As a society we are so wrapped up in left vs. right. Liberal vs. conservative. We figure out which we identify with and lump every social/political issue we agree with into “our” category, and everyone we disagree with into “their” category. I don’t see this really helping us hear each other any better. It more results in people trying to prove why they are right.

Since I’ve started considering people’s population density experiences in life (if I know them and have a reasonable idea) I have found a new filter with which to view information that is far more conducive to understanding their point of view than the filters we currently use.

Mark Twain once wrote, “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime.”

And while I think there’s some truth to that, travel in Mark Twain’s day and age is different than how we travel today. For instance, when I go to Baja, I like to stay in the small towns and eat at the local restaurants. But I have many friends that only go to all inclusive resorts, or stay in tourist areas, never venturing outside of the luxury they are there to enjoy. They don’t spend time in the rural areas seeing what life is really like. Traveling with ULTRA4 and for off road has kept me outside of most tourist areas. Where there’s only one place to stay and you have to explore local eating options. Seeing the countryside and how people live both in US and in Europe. I prefer to travel this way.

Many of us with the means to travel prefer to vacation how we live. The more rural we live day to day, the less spending a week in NYC sounds like fun. But going camping in the woods likely appeals to us. And those that live in cities, tend to not choose wilderness adventures for their downtime. The travel to help us see how other people live that existed in Twain’s time doesn’t really happen in our service oriented society where restaurants and hotels are abundant most places. We can eat at the same restaurants and sleep at the same hotels from one side of the country to the other. We’ve stopped getting outside of our own bubbles even when we travel.

I don’t know what we can do that would expose us to other ways of life like travel in Twain’s age did. But we probably need to figure it out to stop the divide from separating this country further.

From the beginning of 1900s through the Vietnam War between 7 and 9 percent of Americans were in military service. Today less than 0.5% of Americans serve in the military. That was one way that we used to expose Americans to life outside of what they grew up with. College is another way, but as costs have risen, more students continue to live at home and attend community colleges or local universities vs. leaving home to experience a different way of life between 18 and 22.

I find myself thinking about kids who go off to the army or away to college. They are forced outside their comfort zones. Some thrive there, some don’t. But they learn a different way of existing, at least for a little while. The type of travel Mark Twain is talking about. Part of me wonders if we shouldn’t offer some sort of service requirement for our youth between say 18 and 20 that requires them to get involved in something to help the country, away from where they were raised, military or civil service. If they were raised in a city, working on rural projects. If they were raised rurally, working on urban projects. Just to have a frame of reference for how diverse this country truly is and how different our needs are based on that diversity. But this is a topic for another day. You’ve already been too kind reading this far.

I don’t have the answers. But I’m glad I’ve finally put down some of the thoughts I’ve had floating around in my head regarding population density. Kudos to those of you that stuck it out.

If you’re like me and are curious about your own population density experiences, I’ve included a link in the comments where you can throw in zip codes and see what your exposure has been.

https://medium.com/@davetroy/is-population-density-the-key-to-understanding-voting-behavior-191acc302a2b

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atsixesandcevans · 5 years ago

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my only wish (this year)

Summary: The world is different after the events of the snap, and that causes both you and Steve to make major changes in your respective lives, unknowingly pushing yourselves towards each other.

Both unlucky in love, and both longing for something fundamentally missing in your lives, what happens when you – quite literally – crash land into each others’ lives?

Pairing: Steve Rogers/Reader

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: none

A/N: this was written for @capcountdownchristmas‘s challenge with the prompt of the song My Only Wish (This Year) by Britney Spears, though it ended up being only loosely based on that hahaha!

set post-endgame, except everyone’s alive and nobody’s sad :)

this will be a small series, I’m not sure how many parts there’ll be or when they’ll be posted but they are in the works, so please feel free to send me an ask if you’d like to be tagged in this or any other of my works :)

Read on AO3 || Masterlist

November 2023

The disappearances – people had started calling it the snap, though you weren’t entirely sure why – had changed you. Changed everyone, really, in one way or the other. Every single person in the world either lost someone to the whims of the mad titan, or had been lost themselves.

You had been walking through Central Park when the screaming started. Panicked shouts of names, people disintegrating before your eyes. Your confusion morphed into dizziness, stumbling on your feet a little as you slowed to a stop. A gasp was caught in your throat as you looked down at your body that was half-gone already, fear swelling in your chest before everything went black.

When you woke up what felt like five minutes later, you were still in the park, but it felt… different, somehow. The sky seemed darker, the trees less vibrant. All around you, people were on the ground, matching confused expressions as they sat up, passers by rushing to help people up. Someone came and held your hand, pulling you to your feet, and you stuttered out a strained “what happened?”

The stranger’s confused but hopeful eyes scanned you for injuries, while they replied, “you’re not gonna believe me.”

Five years. They told you it had been five years since Thanos – whatever the hell that was – wiped out half the planet. You found it near impossible to fathom that half a decade had passed without you – without 50 percent of the world’s population.

Just like the rest of the world, you went on with your life as usual. At least, you tried to. You really did try, but each time you got up and went to the boring office job you hated, making the same small talk with co-workers you didn’t care to be friends with, every time you came home to your drab, empty apartment, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was fundamentally missing.

It seemed that the snap had put things in perspective for a lot of people; walking home at the end of the day, surrounded by couples holding hands, going on dates. Even your friends were in love; two of them had had a romantic epiphany in the midst of the grief surrounding the snap, and had been in a happy relationship ever since. You were happy for them, of course, but you couldn’t help the surge of jealousy that you felt whenever you saw them kiss or be romantic around you. You longed for what they had; someone for you to love, who loved you in return. Another person to share your little corner of the world with, someone to celebrate the highs and commiserate the lows of life with. You yearned for it, and held out hope that you’d have that someday, and yet every year that went by, every birthday, every Christmas spent alone made that hope dwindle further and further.

You were stood in front of the coffee machine in the break room at work a month or so after the snap was fixed when you had what you could only describe as a moment of clarity. It dawned on you that the only way your life was going to change was if you changed it yourself. It was then that you decided that you would live your life the way you wanted to, no exceptions.

So, the next morning, you handed your two-weeks’ notice to your boss, and started looking for a house in Brooklyn, where you grew up.

Luck was on your side, it seemed, because you quickly found a small, reasonably priced (for Brooklyn) brownstone house in the Clinton Hill neighbourhood. After a viewing, you used your savings to buy the place, and within a month you were all moved in, with a part-time job lined up at a nearby art gallery to keep on top of your finances while you pursue your passion for art.

You still felt the absence of deep human connection, but you could only hope that the changes you had made would only bring more good things your way.

Steve had been staying upstate in Tony’s house since the defeat of Thanos and he had returned the stones to their rightful places in their respective timelines. Upon his return, Steve passed his shield on to Sam, who he knew would do a great job in the role of Captain America, officially hanging up his suit and finally allowing himself to just exist, without the responsibility that being in the Avengers had brought.

For two months, Steve had been helping Tony with the rebuild of the compound, as well as figuring out what role everyone would play in the new Avengers. It was quickly decided that Tony, like Steve, would be retiring, to spend time with his family and watch Morgan grow up. Bucky and Sam would lead the team, with Wanda and Peter working alongside them to tackle the evils of the world. Natasha decided to finally put aside the Black Widow title, though she would remain at the compound as an agent, leading the training of the new recruits for both S.H.I.E.L.D and the Avengers, as well as acting as a kind of logistics support for missions. And Bruce would continue as he always did; conducting experiments and continuing to use science and technology to make the world a better place.

With everyone settling into their roles, Steve found himself feeling almost restless. He had agreed to remain a semi-active member of the team, offering advice and support to the active members, but ultimately decided that he would move back into his house in Brooklyn and rediscover who Steve Rogers was outside of the Captain America image.

And so, he made the move back to Brooklyn, with the minimal belongings he had with him upstate stashed in a duffel bag, and the motorcycle that was almost an exact replica of his old one that Tony somehow had hidden away at the back of his garage. He had handed him the keys with a shrug and a non-committal “let’s just call it a little retirement present, from me to you.” Steve still often found himself baffled by his friend, but he couldn’t deny the genuine affection that had developed between them over the years.

As Steve re-entered the city, he was reminded of just how much he loved living here; sure, it could be loud and dirty and crowded at times, and there were definitely too many hipster coffee shops around… but it was home. Despite the changes that had inevitably happened in the 80 years or so since he grew up there, there was still the same feel to the place, the old brownstone buildings lining the streets reminding him of the apartment where he lived with his mother, the kids that often played in the streets reminding him of all the times he was ill and wishing that he could be out there with them. His memories of this place were good and bad, sure, but for the first time in a while he found himself thankful for the body given to him by the serum; he finally had the physical wellness and the free time to able to go out and enjoy his city in a way he never had been before.

Steve walked with his hands shoved deep into his pockets as he made the walk from where he parked his bike to his front door. There were more cars about now than there were last time he was here, so he ended up having to park almost half a block away. As he passed the house next to his, he noticed that the small garden that was overgrown and messy was now neat and tidy, and there were potted plants on the stoop, as well as heavy curtains that replaced the tattered blinds that once covered the windows.

He was so preoccupied looking at the clearly now inhabited house and wondering who it was who had finally bought the place, that he didn’t notice you coming from the other direction, eyes glued to your phone screen as you read through an email from your boss.

The two of you collided, and Steve tripped on uneven ground, sending him falling backwards, landing on his back. In your attempt to remain on your feet, you ended up tripping over the same bit of ground, and landed on what you could feel was an incredibly defined chest, both of you releasing a soft grunt at the impact. Glancing up towards his face, ready to apologise, you were taken aback and your words caught in your throat at the sight of easily the most beautiful man you had ever seen; strong features, soft beard spread across what you could tell was an angular jaw, and long lashes framing eyes the prettiest shade of periwinkle blue.

You suddenly became very aware of how close your face was to his, and immediately felt a blush creep onto your face as you hastily moved to push yourself up and off him, rattling off a litany of oh god I’m so sorry and I wasn’t looking where I was going. The stranger smiled almost shyly at you, cheeks tinted pink, probably from the cold evening air, as he shook his head and got back on his feet, insisting “please, it’s my fault entirely, I should have been paying more attention. Are you okay? You’re not hurt, are you?”

You couldn’t help the way your heart swelled at his thoughtfulness; he was the one who had landed flat on his back with a whole other person on top of him, and he was asking you if you were okay?

Realising that he was still waiting for an answer, you cleared your throat before replying with a chuckle, “apart from a couple bruises to my dignity, I think I’m okay.”

His laugh shook his whole body, his face scrunching up in the most adorable way, and an inexplicable warmth spread through your chest at the sound, finding yourself desperate to hear it again.

You bit your lip to suppress a grin as he held out his hand in greeting. “I’m Steve, by the way.”

Taking hold of his hand, you noticed just how warm it was, despite being bare in the cold winter air, and introduced yourself, adding “I promise I don’t make a habit out of literally running into strangers outside my house.”

Steve cocked his head to one side, confusion across his face. “Your house?”

“Yeah, I live just there,” you said, pointing to the house he had just passed – the one that he was busy thinking about when he bumped into you.

A wave of understanding crossed his face before he let out a surprised laugh, nodding to the house next door, the one you had been passing not five minutes earlier. “I live next door.”

It was your turn to be confused. “You do? I’ve never seen anyone go in or out of that house in the two weeks I’ve been living here.”

Steve chuckled wryly. “Yeah, I’ve had some… business to deal with upstate, so I was gone for a few months.” He wasn’t sure why he wasn’t completely open about being an Avenger – or, ex-Avenger, now – but subconsciously, a part of him wanted to live as Steve Rogers from Brooklyn, instead of the persona he had been presented as for many years… and that same part of him wanted you to know him only as that version of him.

You nodded, though the expression on your face told him you were unconvinced by his bending of the truth. The two of you stood in silence for several moments, looking at each other with soft smiles on your faces, until you finally broke the silence. “Well, I um… I should probably head inside, it’s getting late.”

Steve nodded, though he couldn’t help the inkling of disappointment he felt. You both shared a soft goodnight with a smile before you moved past him and through the wrought-iron gate leading up to your door. It was as you were unlocking the door that you heard him call your name and you turned towards where he stood at the bottom of his own stoop steps. “Yeah, Steve?”

He looked oddly nervous, a shy smile on his lips as he fiddled with his keys, an almost imperceptible pink tinge to his cheeks. “I don’t suppose you’d want to grab a coffee with me sometime, would you? I’d love to make it up to you for knocking you over, and it’d be nice to get to know my new neighbour a little.”

His voice was hopeful, and you couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face. “Sure, I’d love to. But there’s really nothing to make up for, I was the one who knocked into you.”

Steve smiled wide, though he shook his head a little, getting the feeling that he wouldn’t win the fight with you about who bumped into who. “How does 11 o’clock Friday sound?”

You mentally checked your availability before grinning brightly at him. “Sounds perfect.”

#captain America countdown to christmas #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers/reader #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers fanfiction #marvel cinematic universe #marvel fanfic #marvel fanfiction #captain america #captain america fanfic #captain america fanfiction #steve rogers/you #christmas #fluff #beth writes

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quentinblack · 4 years ago

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Smoke and Mirrors

Chapter 6: Dean I - I Should Have Just Gone To Eton (link to full story on FF.net)

Featuring: Dean Thomas, Justin Finch-Fletchley

Word Count: 4K words

Dean looked around desperately at the various signs signalling all of the different departure gates as he walked through the main entrance.

Gatwick Airport was an absolutely massive place and he’d never been to an airport by himself before, so he was finding it very difficult to navigate.

It was all a lot easier travelling internationally by portkey, but that was too risky – at least this way there would be no trace of him.

Professor McGonagall had sat down with each and every muggle-born student before the end of the last year and explained the likelihood of what was to happen.

Dumbledore was dead, which meant it would not be long before You Know Who moved against The Ministry – and who knew what might happen to the muggle-born population of Wizarding Britain. She had taken the bold decision to wipe the records of every single muggle-born student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, so that they would be protected as best they could be if You Know Who and his followers were to purge or take control of the school over the summer. It was almost as if she knew something they didn’t.

Dean had been one of the most outspoken students in the initial meeting with his Head of House. He had been adamant that he wasn’t going anywhere and would return to school. He wasn’t a coward. He was a Gryffindor!

But he had read and heard of terrible things happening over the summer. The Daily Prophet was ramping up disdain for muggle-borns – and whilst watching and reading the muggle-news there were many events that were very evidently influenced by dark wizards and Death Eaters, even if the muggles themselves were blissfully unaware of that fact.

It was his Mum who had made the decision for him in the end. At first she had been very strong-willed and stubborn that he was to go. This tactic didn’t work on him, but when she started crying and guilt-tripping him instead he quickly relented.

He couldn’t let her down so he agreed to go and live with his step-sister in America until it had all blown-over, although deep down he knew it would only get worse – and soon Wizarding Britain would be in open war with You Know Who and his army of Death Eaters, Dementors and worse. He just wished he could have done his bit and been part of it.

It hadn’t been too much hassle to sort out his departure. He’d had to get a passport and a VISA, but that was no bother really. Bruce had managed to do most of it for him. Bayley was based in Los Angeles for work and had a spare room in her apartment, so he would go and live with her and see what happened. She said she would be able to get him a job and he was reasonably excited about the move. At the very least it would be a nice new start.

The check-in process at the airport had been simple enough. Dean had only taken a small carry on-bag so he didn’t have anything for the hold.

He put his suitcase onto the security conveyor belt to go through the X-Ray, then as it slowly made its way in, Dean wondered what the border officer was seeing on the reading on his screen. That small suitcase he’d picked up from Wiseacre’s in Diagon Alley had about two full 15KG hold bags worth of stuff in it. It was a real test of magic vs muggle technology.

Who would win in this battle of airport security scanners and undetectable extension charms?

It seemed that the wizards had taken the victory as the stern staff of the airport barely raised an eyebrow when his bag went through. The metal detector failed to go off when he walked through it with his wand in his jacket pocket. Of course his wand was made from cedar and the heartstring of a Ukrainian Ironbelly dragon, so it shouldn’t have gone off anyway, but that didn’t dispel his nerves when he walked through it.

He had to remind himself that it was, after all, a metal detector, not a magic detector – and even if the airport staff had have found his wand, they would’ve just thought he was just an oddball that was carrying some weird kind of stick.

Dean retrieved his bag from its tray and after putting it with the other collection of discarded trays he strolled through to the departure lounge.

There was still at least an hour before he would be able to board the long-haul flight, so to kill some time he thought he would wander through Duty Free. He soon regretted that choice though.

As soon as he walked in he was flanked by massive posters and cardboard cut outs of the muggle band Oasis. It all seemed to be advertising a new album being released called ‘Be Here Now’ and the poster showed what looked like a massive country house, with the members of the band dotting around outside standing in-front of a moped, whilst a white car was sitting at the bottom of a swimming pool.

Dean never had much time for Brit-pop bands like Oasis, Blur or The Stone Roses. His best friend, Seamus, was very much a fan though and often loved blasting their songs in their Gryffindor dormitory. He could just about make out the lyrics of what must’ve been a new single.

A cold and frosty morning there’s not a lot to say,

About the things caught in my mind,

As the day was dawning my plane flew away,

With all the things caught in my mind,

And I want to be there when you’re

Coming down,

And I want to be there when you hit the ground,

So don’t go away, say what you say,

But say that you’ll stay,

If the racket of the music wasn’t enough of an annoyance - the one thing that Dean hated most about muggle shops was the staff’s tendency to constantly badger you. Within a minute of browsing the aftershave section he had been harassed by four different people trying to shove samples in his face.

There was Armani, Versace, then Dior and Issey Miyake and Hugo Boss too. He was sure there was one that he would’ve really liked, but having test strips shoved in his face every time he tried to look had put him off going anywhere near them.

A pretty young red-headed girl advertising the latest Chanel release stopped him in his tracks though. She had piercing brown eyes, just like Ginny’s. The girl blushed slightly when she noticed that he was staring at her – he snapped himself out of it, feeling quite embarrassed.

He’d moved on from Ginny now.

Well, mostly.

He held no real ill-will to her or Harry, but he was quite disappointed at how it had all worked out. He thought everything had been going pretty swimmingly with her and he didn’t really know why they’d argued as much as they did by the end of it.

Dean had always tried to do right by her. He’d hold doors open for her, stand-up for her if anyone ever spoke out of line to her in-front of him and always insist on paying on every date they went on. She had called it controlling and patronising, but he was just trying to be nice and he knew that she didn’t have a lot of money so he didn’t like letting her split the bill like she would often suggest.

During one particularly-heated row she’d told him that she wasn’t a damsel in distress that needed saving, yet on numerous occasions she’d spoken in awe of how Harry had saved her in the Chamber of Secrets. Dean had pointed this out to her, which to put it lightly, had not gone down too well.

One of the last straws of their relationship had been when Cormac McLaggen inadvertently fractured Harry’s skull by hitting him with a bludger by accident. Dean hadn’t quite realised how serious the injury had been at first and he’d had to laugh at Cormac’s gross incompetence – as he’d flown past Ginny he’d made a joke about how You Know Who had spent years trying to kill Harry, yet after all that Cormac McLaggen might beat him to it if he wasn’t careful.

Ginny hadn’t seen the funny side, yet even Ron and Harry himself had cracked a laugh when he’d mentioned what he’d said later in their dormitory. It didn’t matter what Ginny thought now though. He might well never see her or any of the others again.

Perhaps it was for the best.

It took great effort but as he made his way through the store he managed to duck and dive out of the way of a man trying to sell him a ginormous toblerone, then dodged another trying to sell him a bottle of ludicrously expensive vodka. Dean couldn’t have even bought it if he had wanted to, as whilst he was considered of age by wizarding standards at 17 – it would still be a few months before he reached the legal age to drink in the UK as a muggle.

As he escaped Duty Free he saw a big stack of newspapers on a side-wall. The headlines all read ‘BROWN BLOWS BILLIONS ON BENEFITS AS LABOUR ANNOUNCE FIRST BUDGET’ and with it there was a still picture of a white man in a suit, with dark hair, who Dean guessed was in his mid to late forties, who was addressing a collection of journalists whilst standing in-front of a red banner that read ‘NEW LABOUR - NEW LIFE FOR BRITAIN’.

Dean didn’t care much for muggle politics. He turned the newspaper over to see what was on the back-page.

‘INTER MILAN BREAK TRANSFER RECORD TO LAND SAMBA STAR RONALDO’

That was more like it. Dean pulled up a seat nearby, then eagerly read the article which described in detail how the Italian super club had spent an incredible 19.5 million pounds to buy the brilliant Brazilian from Barcelona.

He lowered the newspaper from his eye line slightly to check the departure board and see if his flight was boarding yet.

“Oh, I sayyy…surely it can’t be…Dean Thomas?”

Dean didn’t immediately recognize the very ostentatious voice addressing him, but then he saw for his own eyes someone he’d shared the Hogwarts castle with for the best part of six years.

“Alright Justin, mate?”

“Dean! My goodness. It is you! What a surprise to see you here! I almost didn’t recognize you there for a second.”

Justin Finch-Fletchey had briefly broken away from who Dean assumed must be his parents. A very prim and proper white man, with old-fashioned spectacles and greased back hair, who Dean guessed was probably around forty-five and Justin’s father, followed his son but looked a bit hesitant.

“A friend of yours, Justin?” he asked, squinting curiously at Dean.

“Yes, Father. From school. You must excuse me for a moment. We have much to discuss,” Justin replied confidently, yet still very politely.

“Yes. Yes. Of course. Don’t forget though, Justin… first class boards first so we mustn’t dither too long.”

And with that his Father headed back towards his Mother and they headed to what looked like the Ralph Lauren boutique store.

“So… you’re upping sticks too, huh? Always knew you were a smart man,” Justin said in a slightly condescending, yet very light-hearted manner, patting Dean on the shoulder slightly as he winked.

“Yeah, well… I thought it was best to be on the safe side. Nobody knows what will happen if You Know Who does kick off a war. And with Dumbledore gone, well, not even Hogwarts is safe anymore so-

“Hogwarts was never bloody safe anyway! Especially for us. I was nearly killed by a murderous snake for Christ’s sake. If it hadn’t been for that irritating ghost I would have been,” Justin scoffed, quite understandably still annoyed at his petrification in their second year.

Dean had dodged a bullet that year to be fair. The basilisk had made short work of many muggle-borns in the school, even several in his own year, but he’d somehow managed to avoid the potentially lethal glare of the giant serpent, more through luck than any kind of skill or planning.

“I wouldn’t have minded it that much,” Justin began. Dean knew that some kind of rant was coming.

“But that old fool Dumbledore didn’t even have the humility or self-respect to go to the Ministry of Magic for help. He was too concerned about the school’s reputation that he left several students petrified indefinitely. You can’t tell me that St Mungo’s couldn’t have cooked up a remedy within a few days? It was farcical! Never would have happened if it had been going after the purebloods. It beggars belief that a society can have such a ridiculous order based entirely on social class.”

“Yeah, terrible…” Dean managed to mutter out.

He’d never spoken to Justin that much particularly, perhaps that had been a good decision as he seemed to have all the self-awareness of a goldfish.

Dean thought it best to try and change the subject. He had never been particularly close to Albus Dumbledore, but he wasn’t exactly going to stand here and let Justin shit-talk a dead man he had at least held a lot of respect for. It did also seem a bit rich for him to be criticising their former Headmaster, when Justin himself had been a member of a group named Dumbledore’s Army for several years.

“So where are you heading then?” he asked neutrally.

“We’re flying out to Los Angeles. Father has got a transfer at work to the San Francisco office, so we’ll be based there for now. I might also shadow my Uncle if I get the chance. He works with the Foreign Office in Washington. He’s quite high up, you know,” Justin said very proudly, perhaps not all that aware of how he could be misconstrued as boasting.

“Oh that’s cool,” Dean said, doing his best to sound as interested as he could.

“How about you, lad? You heading to The States as well?” Justin enquired.

“Yeah, Los Angeles too,” he replied, trying to play down the fact that they were probably going to be leaving on the same plane. It really was a small world after all.

“Ohhh snap,” Justin said, presumably thinking he sounded quite cool, but in his posh-voice he actually sounded as far from cool as it was humanly possible to be.

“Yeah ha-ha… my sister lives out near Santa Monica so I’m going to go and live with her,” he added half-heartedly.

“Santa Monica, ehh? Right near Bel-Air? Why, you’ll be just like that coloured chap in The Fresh Prince!” Justin chided, positively under the impression that he’d just cracked the funniest joke anyone had ever heard. Dean didn’t really see the funny side, but chose to ignore the slightly offensive gag.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, doing his best to muster an awkward laugh and hide his annoyed demeanour.

“I’ll be a little sad to leave, you know. I won’t miss Hogwarts that much, nor the magic. No…I fear that was all a big waste of time now. I should have just gone to Eton like Father had planned. But it will be a shame to leave Oxford. We’ve got a really lovely house there. Of course, we won’t be downsizing in San Francisco, no if anything quite the opposite with house prices over there, but well, you can’t beat home. Where was your parent’s house?”

“Surrey,” Dean said quickly, which wasn’t technically a lie. Surrey was where people from Croydon told people they lived when they wanted it to sound fancier. If they wanted it to sound a bit cooler than they’d say they were from London, although anyone who lived in ‘proper’ London would fiercely argue that Croydon wasn’t really London at all.

“Lived there with my Mum and step-dad as long as I can remember. It’s a shame to have to leave them, but I guess it’s for the best.”

Dean didn’t fail to notice Justin’s slightly raised eyebrow when he’d said that he had a step-dad. He didn’t care what Justin thought of him though.

“Hmm, yes. Not to worry though, Deano. It’s a good time to be leaving Britain anyway really… with Labour back in power the country will soon be bankrupt anyway. It’s a disgrace how much they’re going to spend on welfare. Bloody lefties. You know, it’s actually the wizard’s fault that they got in anyway.”

“You think?” Dean asked in bewilderment.

He knew enough about Wizards to know that they didn’t care in the slightest about muggle politics, let alone know or care enough to actively influence who the Prime Minister was.

“Well yes, it’s obvious really, isn’t it? The Conservatives had no chance of winning the election given everything that’s happened in the last few years. They had enough on their hands with the bloody Irish, but look at all the extra problems they had from the wizards. Mass murderers on the loose. A government funded bridge collapsing unexpectedly. Those bloody Dementors roaming the country making everybody miserable. Poor old John Major never stood a chance! Of course there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t exactly come out and tell everyone that it was actually the incompetence of the wizarding government causing all of it.”

Dean wondered what would have happened if a British Prime Minister had gone on TV and announced to the public that wizards were behind all of the country’s problems. He guessed it would make a change from them blaming all of the foreigners and unemployed people.

“With any luck they’ll all wipe each other out if there is a war,” Justin scorned.

Dean couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“You don’t mean-

Justin reacted quickly to Dean’s incredulous response.

“Of course I don’t mean everyone at school. I mean you know, The Death Eaters and the Ministry forces. Almost as bad as each other if you ask me. Everyone else is far too young to be getting involved in a bloody war. Michael and Terry are both adamant they’re going to fight in any battle that they can,” Justin said as if it was the craziest thing he’d ever heard.

Dean had never been that fond of Michael Corner. It was nothing he had done personally, but he’d been Ginny’s ex-boyfriend, so Dean had to hate him on principle. He was emboldened by Michael and Terry Boot’s courage to fight though.

“I had a lot of fun at all of those DA meetings of course,” Justin mumbled.

“It was good to learn more spells from Potter and his friends for self-defence. But that night the Death Eaters raided the school and Professor Snape killed Dumbledore, well. That was it for me. It’s one thing training up for it and all, but I’m not willing to put my neck on the line to stay a part of the magical word. If everyone else wants to throw their life away, well more fool them. Some would call it bravery, but I say it’s just naivety. We’re not even 18, Dean. The days of teenagers being needlessly slain in pointless wars should be left behind in the 1940’s. We’ve made the right choice, pal,” he said solemnly, once again patting Dean on the shoulder.

It was at that moment that Dean suddenly began to question whether he had in-fact made the correct choice.

“You know, Zacharias Smith was even trying to recruit me for some kind of secret resistance movement his uncle is involved in,” he scoffed. “Told me to keep it all very quiet of course, but well, I suppose given the circumstances telling you won’t do any harm, will it?”

“Resistance movement?” Dean asked curiously. He hadn’t been asked to join any resistance movement.

“Yes. His Uncle is an Auror, isn’t he? On quite good terms with that Mad-Eye Moody fellow. He said they’re setting up a top secret resistance movement, recruiting some muggle-borns for some highly classified unofficial operation if You Know Who gets in power. Sounded like a bloody suicide mission to me. Well, as you can imagine, I practically laughed in his face at the idea. What sort of braindead moron would sign up for that?” he scorned.

“Yeah. Right…” Dean replied, but his head with racing with ideas. This was it. He’d wanted to stay and fight, but it wasn’t as if the Wizarding world had an army you could just sign up to when you were 17 like the muggles did. But if this resistance movement had been interested in recruiting Justin, then they’d surely take Dean too.

Dean looked past his old class-mate and saw that Justin’s parents were heading out of the boutique shop with several bags of clothes that they must’ve bought in there for some serious money.

“Ah, well, I suppose I best be off,” Justin murmured, having noticed this development himself.

“I’ll be sure to pop down from first class and come and see you during the flight,” the youngest member of the Finch-Fletchley clan said elegantly, as he reached out to shake Dean’s hand.

“Can’t wait, mate,” Dean replied, trying his best to sound as enthusiastic as possible. Justin’s handshake was almost like a metaphor for his whole character, half-hearted and weak.

“See you in a bit,” Justin said as a parting comment, which Dean mumbled a polite agreement too, although if Dean was honest he would’ve been pretty happy if he’d have never seen him again for the rest of his life.

As it would happen, Dean never boarded that flight bound for Los Angeles – and it would be four years before Dean, or anyone else in the Wizarding world would see or hear from Justin Finch-Fletchley again.

#hp fanfic #hpfanfiction #hp #hpff #hpf #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter #harrypotter #dean thomas #deanthomas #gryffindor #justin finch fletchley #hufflepuff #fanfic #fanfiction

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tfw-no-tennis · 4 years ago

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mtmte liveblog issue 14

oh boy Here We Go, its time to die

ngl I've been putting this off bc I'm not ready to be destroyed hhhhhh

oh god. overlords giant fuckgin face on the cover. I regret everything

ohhh some good ole functionist flashbacks

is this momus the same guy as senator momus from the shadowplay stuff? lemme say...class traitor

and then some garrus 9 flashbacks, ft chromedome’s snarky interjections. my man you are Not gonna be on the ups much longer oh lord

this is reminding me that I really do need to read the wreckers stuff

chromedome, stop posing jauntily, I'm trying to prepare myself for emotional devastation and you aren't helping

cd bringin that emo theater kid energy

and here's megatron! well, flashback megatron, but still

megatrons head looks so fuckin weird there

love the thematic (and extremely plot relevant) use of ‘til all are one’ here

WHY is megatrons bucket helmet removable. I hate it

also overlord is so big gay for megatron its unbelievable

the name ‘heretech’ is A Lot lmao. right up there w/rigor morphis in the puns category

cd hhhhh this is why you don't talk to your captives in this sort of situation...even to make snappy comebacks, but especially not to TELL HIM YOUR PLAN....now overlords all worked up over megs being alive and yall are screwed

ah, some good old weird birth/re-birth vibes going on here, classic jro

like he literally tells megatron ‘congratulations...its a superwarrior’ god hvbdkhjfbjsf what is it w/jro and pregnancy/birth/reproduction themes

but also like I Kinda Get It bc that IS a pretty intriguing thing to explore w/an alien species like the transformers, who are living machines...ok ill strap on my biologist boots later and get into that when its more relevant lmao

cd is breathtakingly un-genre savvy here. my man you should have never gotten involved in this oof

overlords weird ab guns are weird

uh no! now overlord is in the drivers seat, and smiling unsettlingly with his creepy lips

its brainstorm!!! I love him

SOUNDWAVE I love soundwave sm he’s just the coolest and best

is that trepan that overlord grabbed? I'm assuming it must be but I have a terrible memory for these things so I don't really remember what he looks like lmao

IS THAT PHARMA

also damn cd rlly b out here committing war crimes/crimes against humanity (crimes against cybertronians? that phrase doesn't really carry over well). the fact that the secret government lobotomy & brainwashing labs populated the ‘good guys’ side is....hhhhhhwow

cant believe cd’s real name is tumblr

also I love the misdirection from cd not disclosing his ‘real’ name, which leads the reader to think that he’s secretly a different established/important character...but nope!

ahhhh and the reversal of cd and overlords positions in-panel so we can tell that Things Have Gone Terribly Wrong even before we zoom out to see cd in the chair instead of overlord...nice

love how prowl & co made up the whole ‘whiteout vacuum’ thing to lie to the people about overlord...yall really do be breaking moral laws left and right huh

the continuing hilarity of prowl referring to rewind as chromedomes ‘friend’ despite knowing full well they're married...and now that it’s been revealed in-story that they’re married, its just str8 up funny instead of funny AND meta

is tarn a phase sixer???? genuinely I don't remember lmao

I feel like I could write an essay abt how interesting it is that prowl is so insistent on figuring out the whole phase sixer puzzle and making autobot phase sixers, despite the war being over (and with the autobots having won it, too). like, that's yet another fascinating psychological reaction to the never-ending civil war ending

and the way that prowl is able to rope multiple people into this scheme, which shows that he’s not the only one who thinks that way

aw, bumblebee still has a few morals, unlike most of the rest of anyone. too bad it certainty didn't help anyone in the case of repairing overlord

like, cd is RIGHT, they don't need their own phase sixers - and especially cause like...they won against the cons without any phase sixers already, so whos to say they cant win again the same way? smh prowl

god I love the exchange here....prowl subtly threatening chromedome, while also calling cd his friend and probably meaning it genuinely, and chromedome looming menacingly over prowl then pinning him down and messing with his head...ooooof.

also that panel of cd shadowplaying prowl and prowls face is just super blank...sinister as hell, i love it

also also, I'm actually really glad that that plot thread of ‘cd was complicit in what happened to dominus and rewind doesn't know’ didn't end up happening

I also find it a little funny that this very intriguing scene didn't end up going anywhere in mtmte, but from what I've heard the whole ‘cd rearranged prowl’s brains’ thing had big consequences for prowl in exrid or w/e, which is interesting

brainstorm wearing a version of perceptors targeting reticle eye thing...hello....

also I like the fact that they subtly establish when this is taking place by showing brainstorm working on the humansonas, which means this was before the last issue

drift brainstorm chromedome shaking hands meme: making stupid decisions bc they listening to prowl for some reason

drift, this is Not the way you should be going about showing your dedication to the autobot cause

brainstorm is on a totally different wavelength than cd and drift hvbfdskhfdskjf brainstorm is just here to have a good time and maybe cause some chaos

the tablet saying ‘project: end in tears’ TOO REAL the tears are from ME. AUGH

hhhhhhhhhh the fact that cd did all of this bc he wanted to protect rewind from the war maybe restarting....ouch :( love makes you do stupid things sometimes

I cant get over how h*rny overlord looks...like I cant even describe it, its not necessarily that overlord himself is h*rny, or even that he’s drawn h*rny in the sense that he’s sexy or provocative...he just has those Vibes. this makes no sense except in my head ok

overlord escaped....no way! who could've seen that coming! probably anyone with a brain who isn't blinded by trauma and/or a misplaced sense of duty/love....Ls

AND HERE’S OVERLORD, READY TO FUCK EVERYTHING UP. GODDD

never over the panel of overlord grinning maniacally and cracking his knuckles with the text ‘next: massacre!’ cheerily overlaid

GODDD this issue god....I mean we haven't gotten to the soul-destroying parts yet but this stuff is so intriguing...the nuance is THERE! and this is basically what we’ve been building up to for all of mtmte so far, and Oh Boy is it gonna be a big one, you can just tell....

#so im not dead yet but i will be soon. once You Know What hits #lj rereads mtmte

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critical-analysis · 5 years ago

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UnDeadwood: Deadwood’s Real and Fictional Dead Bodies That Could Show up in the Game

UnDeadwood is kind of a funny thin, as it's operating on multiple layers of pre-exissting material. The world and many of the NPCs are taken from the show Deadwood, which aired on HBO in the early-mid 2000s. It took place in the South Dakota city of Deadwood, which at the time was not yet incorporated, so it was a relatively lawless place, where people came to seek their fortune in the gold-rich land. The show itself is based on true characters and true events. While its major storylines are, for the most part, mostly fiction, certain real events are dramatized and many of the character are based on real people. With UnDeadwood utilizing both the setting and many of the characters, what do both the events of the show and the real people these characters are based on mean to the story?

Obviously, I'll be discussing spoilers for all three seasons of Deadwood and the recent movie, so if you haven't seen it all and you don't want to be spoiled, maybe stop reading here and come back once you're all caught up.

Also, I do have many sources I want to cite, but I simply didn’t have time to add them in since I wanted to get this posted before it was too late. So I will be adding in sources sometimes later this week. If you’re very interested in seeing the sources, then keep checking back. I’ll make an update post when I’ve added them.

In today's part (the second part will be posted on Thursday or Friday), I'll be doing a quick overview of the Deadwood, both the show and the settlement, but I'll mostly be focusing on things that might be important in light of the most recent episode - episode two - particularly the bodies that might be in the cemetery, how they got there, and other things involved the dead of Deadwood.

The series starts in 1876, only about half a year after the camp of Deadwood was founded. Many people were flocking to the west in general, some hoping to get rich by striking gold, and others hoping to move to these camps and upstart towns to take advantage of these frontier settlements by starting shops, saloons, or offering their services in fields like medicine. Wealthy and poor alike went West, with poor people hoping to change their circumstances and wealthy people looking for both more wealth and a little adventure. Deadwood, as well as some other settlements, also drew its share of outlaws, as it hadn't even been annexed into the Dakota Territory, so the laws of the territory, and of the US, largely didn't apply. The Lakota people had originally been guaranteed the land of the Black Hills, putting it outside of US laws and territory, but once gold was discovered in the hills, white people moved in and settled, leading to a great deal of conflict with the native people which, sadly, ended in the US taking the land and annexing it into the Dakota Territory.

The series ended after three seasons, without a satisfying conclusion considering writer David Milch had not been expecting it to not be renewed when he was writing the season finale (though the book The Revolution was Televised describes a much more complicated misunderstanding that led to the lack of a fourth season). I'm not sure of the exact year in-story that the third season took place in, but I imagine it was probably 1879 or earlier, and the show had not yet depicted the great fire that occurred in the fall of 1879 that destroyed much of the town and led to many of the people who lived there to leave town. The movie, which was released earlier this year, picks up the story in 1889.

Deadwood was notorious for the amount of crime and, in particular, murder that happened there. The graveyard was quite full for this reason, among others. That's the first thing I want to talk about, since Undeadwood is dealing with the undead, and in this past week's episode they discovered two graves (who knows if there are more) without bodies in them.

Murders were relatively common in Deadwood, especially if we're going by the more popular mythical idea of the town than the reality. While experts and historians say that the crime in Deadwood in recent years, even as the population is significantly lower than its height in the 1800s, is higher than its ever been, even in the days of the Old West, it's commonly said that at its height there was one murder a day in Deadwood. Which means that there would be lots and lots of people buried in that graveyard from violence alone.

However, the violence in the town might not generate as many graves as you might think, as in the series the bodies of murdered people were often fed to Wu's pigs. While there have been cases of bodies being fed to pigs throughout history, there's no evidence that shows it ever actually happened in Deadwood. So the cemeteries in the actual Deadwood might have been a bit fuller than the cemeteries in the fictional Deadwood.

But violence wasn't the only thing that put bodies in graves in the early days of the camp. In 1876 a small pox epidemic swept through the settlement, killing many. This was dramatized on the show, starting with the illness of the character Andy Cramed and continuing on with many unnamed characters taking ill and dying. In the show, Jane helped Doc Cochran nurse the ill, as Calamity Jane did in real life. It also wasn't uncommon for people to die of injuries sustained while working the claims. So that graveyard is going to be filled with bodies of various kinds, various ages, genders, and types. Some with bullet holes, some disease ridden, some mangled from injury. If the bodies in the cemetery are being reanimated, there's sure to be some horrifying sights ahead.

One of the people whose graves we now know is empty is Wild Bill Hickok. By the time Hickok arrived in Deadwood in in 1976, he was already an incredibly well known figure throughout the country, having fought in the Civil War and becoming famous as a marksman, performer, and gambler. He'd become known for not just his famous shootouts, some of which had seen him tried for (and acquitted of) murder, but the wild west shows he put on and took part in. Sadly, by 1976, even though he wasn't even 40 years old, and despite the fact that he was still a well known figure, Hickok had fallen on difficult times. Glaucoma had impacted his marksmanship so much that it was in steep decline, and he'd been arrested for vagrancy one more than one occasion. He married a woman named Agnes Lake and left to travel to Deadwood, joining a wagon train with Calamity Jane and Charlie Utter. He planned to find his fortune in gold and to continue trying to earn income through gambling.

Hickok hadn't even been in Deadwood a month when Jack McCall entered the saloon Hickok was gambling in and shot him in the head, killing him. McCall had been playing cards with Hickok the day beforehand and had been insulted when Hickok suggest he stop playing before he lose all his money, and offered him money for breakfast. While on trial, McCall claimed his motive was revenge, that Hickok had killed his brother. He was acquitted, then tried again after he was caught bragging about the murder. He was hanged in March of 1877. He was buried in Yankton, and when the body was exhumed when the cemetery was moved a few years later, the noose was still around his neck.

Which, honestly, as morbid as it is, would be great imagery for UnDeadwood, if Brian were to take some dramatic liberties with McCall's place of burial. While the show depicts him fleeing Deadwood in light of the town's growing anger after his acquittal, Charlie Utter and Seth Bullock are late shown to have tracked him down so he can stand trial for a second time, with the result of the trial and the execution not happening on screen. For what it's worth, Hickok's body was also moved from the original cemetery in Deadwood in 1879 and moved to a new cemetery called Mount Moriah, which was built on a hill near the town.

Deadwood was accurate in regards to Hickok's time in Deadwood in some ways and not so much in other ways. He was in Deadwood for such a short amount of time, and most of the accounts of his time there focus on his gambling and his death. There's no evidence that he was even close to successful in securing a claim, and much of the storylines the character took part in during the series were entirely fictional. It doesn't appear that he did any kind of law enforcement work, and considering the fact that his failing eyesight was having such a strong effect on his marksmanship, it's unlikely he would have been able to take part in a shoot out the like of that which occurred with Seth Bullock in the pilot episode. In fact, he probably never even met Seth Bullock, as Bullock and Starr arrived in the camp just one day before Hickok's murder.

But the depiction of the actual events of his death were accurate in a lot of ways. The show depicts the card games that occurred between Hickok and McCall and the growing resentment from McCall. Hickok usually sat with his back to the wall, so that he could always see the entrance. On the day of his death, such a seat was not available, so purely by chance, he sat in a seat with his back to the door, which allowed McCall to come up behind him without Hickok noticing. This is how events unfolded in reality, and they're accurately depicted on the show, as was McCall's first trial and his revenge defense.

Another body that could show up and be important is that of the original reverend, Reverend Smith. While the fictional Reverend Smith was based on a real person, not much of the real Henry Weston Smith made it to the screen. While the real Smith was similar to his fictional counterpart in that he chose to make the move to Deadwood himself without being assigned to the camp, and he was a man of god who truly believed in a preaching the gospel and had no need for material things, pretty much the entirety of Reverend Smith's story is fictionalized.

Which is both a shame and not a shame. The Reverend's story in Deadwood is a beautiful and unbelievably sad one as it leads up to his death. But his death in real life might be even more interesting, as he was the victim of a mysterious murder that remains unsolved today. In August of 1976, he had left his home to preach in a nearby settlement, leaving as note on his door. While many were concerned about the danger of traveling outside of camp without protection, due to both robbers who roamed the roads and the tensions that existed with the native people who had rights to the land, Reverend Smith said that the only protection he needed was the Bible. His body was found to the side of the road outside of town, shot to death. Because he wasn't robbed, the murder was blamed on the native people, but it was never truly solved, and many people within Deadwood having reason to not want a man of god preaching in their camp. Smith was buried in a hillside cemetery, and then he was also moved to the cemetery on Mount Moriah.

In the series, though, Reverend Smith suffered from a brain tumor which causes him to slowly deteriorate as he suffers from hallucinations, headaches, and physical impairment. In UnDeadwood, Al refers to him as being "like a brother". The two weren't close before Smith's illness, but as Al moved from villain into more "anti hero" status, the Reverend reminds Al of his adopted brother, who had seizures and fits like the ones Smith has. He cares for Smith at the Gem as the reverend becomes sicker and sicker, finally smothering him in an act of euthanasia, sending Smith away from his suffering to go with God.

There are also the bodies of the Metz family, who were slaughtered in the first episode by men working for Al Swearengen (though not on Swearengen's orders), as they were on their way out of Deadwood, having not been able to make their fortune and finding the camp too rough. The only survivor was a little girl, Sophia, who would go on to be raised by Alma Garret Ellsworth. So the family's bodies, including those of other children who didn't survive, could possibly also be among those in the graveyard, or among those that are no longer in the graveyard.

The Metz family massacre was an event that occurred outside of Deadwood in 1976, with the family being slaughtered outside of Deadwood in 1876. The crime was initially claimed on the native people, as is shown in the series, but it appeared they were robbed and word spread around town that it was the work of Persimmon Bill Chambers - though not on any orders by Swearengen or anyone else. Chambers' involvement remained rumors, though, as Chambers was never arrest or tried, and he disappeared, with papers claiming he was killed later the same year. Sources disagree on whether or not there were any survivors of the massacre, and those that do say there was a survivor say that it was an adult man, not a little girl.

Of particular interest, given the events of the end of this past week's episode, is Doc Cochran. In the series, Doc Cochran is a complex character who is ultimately one of the most truly good people in the camp. As the only doctor in town he treats the entire camp, from the girls at the Gem to the smallpox-stricken residents, to a traumatized Sophia after the death of her family, and pretty much everyone else at some point.

Historical records show no evidence of Doc Cochran having a real life counterpart. It's likely that his general existence and relationship to the settlement is a combination of multiple doctors who lived and worked in Deadwood in the first few decades of its existence (and interestingly, at least one of those doctors, Flora Hayward Stanford, who came to the camp to work in 1888, was a woman).

At the end of last week's episode, a hat was found in Wild Bill's grave that displayed the initials D.C., and as the group remembered that Doc Cochran had been unable to find his hat when they knocked on his door, the assumption was made that Cochran must has had some part in the strange happenings of the empty graves and the walking dead.

But there's more to support the idea that he's at least SOMEHOW involved in what's going on than the presence of a hat with his initials on it. In UnDeadwood, while talking to the group about whether or not he had ever seen anything like what had occurred in the shootout, Cochran describes seeing similar things during the war. According to his backstory in the series, Cochran served as a doctor in the war, having to treat the wounded and dying soldiers. He was traumatized by his experience. But the real kicked is a little bit of info that dropped when the leaders of the community were trying to put together a government and assigning jobs. It's revealed that Doc Cochran has been arrested for grave robbing. Seven times.

People hear "grave robbing" and think that it signifies the Doc is not a good person, but grave robbing wasn't entirely uncommon when it came to the medical profession in those days. It was actually a pretty common practice in the 19th century, when those working in the medical field were showing an unprecedented curiosity and making more frequent advancement than ever before, demand for bodies to study and experiment on was high, but the amount of actual, legal product was low. While grave robbing is undeniably a crime and a horrible thing to do, it was a pretty common thing at the time, and not necessarily indicative of whether or not someone was a good or bad person. Doc Cochran shows throughout the series and during the movie that he's a good, decent person, compassionate and ethical in his practices.

The main thing that separates Doc Cochran from the real grave robbers of the era is that, in most cases, grave robbers were never caught. Cochran must not have been very good at it, considering he was nabbed seven times.

So Cochran being connected to an empty grave is not unprecedented. What could this all mean, though? Having a past that includes grave robbing could very well connect him to something mysterious and otherworldly going on that involves graves being found empty. He didn't play dumb when the group asked him about whether he'd seen anything like it before. Instead he was open and honest about what he had seen during the war.

Perhaps what's going on in the game is a result of Doc Cochran's experiments having gone wrong. Perhaps he took bodies from the graves to experiment on, and maybe he took the unburied bodies of the bandits to examine/experiment on before they were scheduled for burial. Maybe wasn't attempting anything nefarious and it's just innocent experimentation gone wrong.

Or maybe it's a red herring. It's possible that while he did take the bodies, and maybe even possible that the bodies he took were or will be reanimated, that he has nothing to do with the actual raising of the dead. That he simply took the bodies for experimentation/examination, and something else happened that he had no part of that reanimated them. It's even possible that someone knows of Cochran's past with grave robbing (as is stated in the series, he was pretty open about sharing it, so it's probably at least somewhat common knowledge), and has stolen his hat, placing it in the grave in an attempt to frame him.

I personally hope that it's one of these options and that he's not up to anything nefarious. Doc Cochran is my favorite character from the show, precisely because while he's a tough and complicated person, he's genuinely good and compassionate. I think it would very much go against his characterization for him to be doing anything intentionally bad or wrong.

But I think that the fact that he does have a history of grave robbing is going to play into things in a major way.

Deadwood was an incredibly violent show, and while the actual Deadwood settlement might not have been quite as violent as legend says, there was a lot of death and suffering that took place there, even in its first year. There are plenty of bodies produced by the series that UnDeadwood can capitalize on for its undead hordes, so I suppose we just have to wait and see what bodies pop up and what from the show is going to effect the narrative moving forward.

Stay tuned for the Thursday/Friday essay, where I'll continue the UnDeadwood discussion, talking about the other characters from the show that we've seen so far, their historical counterparts, and how their stories might come into play in the game. Thanks for reading!

#critical role #undeadwood #deadwood #one shots and other shows

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popscenery · 5 years ago

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Passion Pit, »Take a Walk«

by Jessica Doyle

In the summer of 2010, when I took a leave of absence from my PhD program, my dissertation was a helpless non-thing without a subject. In December 2018, I officially got my PhD, because my dissertation was done: written, revised, defended, revised again, approved, copied, formatted, distributed, carefully archived, accepted as an actual work of scholarship. It is arguably my most important professional accomplishment of the decade, and also arguably entirely inconsequential. The claim that 90 percent of academic papers go uncited is mostly untrue, but it is true for my dissertation, and I have the gaping void of a Google Scholar search return to prove it.

Trust me: as bitter and self-deprecating post-graduate students might be about their research (see previous paragraph), none of us start out planning to write something inconsequential. Certainly the subject of my dissertation was not inconsequential at all. “Take a Walk” is not my favorite song of the past decade, but it is the song that kept reminding me that the topic was worth writing about.

My dissertation examined what makes starting and maintaining a business easier or harder for Latino entrepreneurs in different American cities. Take Miami as an example, where 47% of all businesses are Latino-owned. That’s much higher than the national average (12 percent) and higher than the percentage in other cities with large Latino populations: New York, Los Angeles, Houston. So what’s so special about Miami? Is it because the Cuban population that arrived in the 1960s were often landowners or merchants fleeing Castro, and made wealth-building a priority in their new city? Is it the geographic proximity to Latin America and the Caribbean? Is starting a business in Miami easier than elsewhere? Is it something about Miami’s economy in general, or Florida’s? Finally (and more to the point), if policy-makers in another city wanted to put in policies that would help local Latino entrepreneurs flourish, what would Miami’s example offer as guidance?

To make a 295-page story short: it is much easier to turn immigrants into successful business owners if they come to the country with business experience and/or capital already at hand; and if the local immigrant population doesn’t start with those advantages, then policy-makers should focus on providing business education and access to financing, especially the latter. Latino immigrants in the United States who want to start businesses are more likely than native-born white entrepreneurs to use their own cash (which takes a while to accumulate), credit cards (which charge higher interest rates than do bank loans), or loans from family or friends (which means that loved ones, rather than banks with larger cushions, bear the risks). I’d say read the whole dissertation, but in all frankness you’d be better off checking out the research being published by the Stanford Latino Entrepreneurship Initiative, including this report. (It’s more concise and their data is more robust than mine was.)

This all assumes, of course, that you want to encourage Latinos, or other immigrants, or anyone at all, to start their own business. A lot of us--including me; including Michael Angelakos, the artist behind Passion Pit--have immigrant entrepreneurs in our family lineage. In interviews to promote the album Gossamer, Angelakos described “Take a Walk,” the lead single, as about different members of his family. The first verse’s portrait is a classic rags-to-riches, grateful-to-be-in-America immigrant story: I love this country dearly / I can feel the ladder clearly. But in the second verse, the story shifts to a new narrator, and so does the tone: I watch my little children / Play some board game in the kitchen / And I sit and pray they never feel my strife. The final narrator is eventually undone...

I think I borrowed just too much We had taxes, we had bills We had a lifestyle to front

...yet still insists on his participation in the American dream:

Tomorrow you'll cook dinner For the neighbors and their kids We can rip apart those socialists And all their damn taxes You see, I am no criminal I'm down on both bad knees I'm just too much a coward To admit when I'm in need

Apparently at one point a Fox News reporter failed to hear the irony, and asked Angelakos if the song was anti-socialist. But Angelakos told MTV News, “It's about very specific family members, the male hierarchy, and how the men in my family have always dealt with money.... All these men were very conservative; socially very liberal but for some reason, they all came here for capitalism, and they all ended up kind of being prey to capitalism.” He told a different interviewer, “These are all true stories; this is my grandfather and so on.”

Angelakos’s ambivalence is understandable. (Several of the pieces that greeted “Take a Walk” identified it as a direct reponse to the 2008 financial crisis, an interpretation he rejected.) The idea that anyone can come to the United States, start a business, and work their way to financial security and political freedom is an old one--the history of immigrants employing at higher rates than native-born Americans goes as far back as the Census Bureau has been keeping track of such things. But even for the successful it has its costs. The narrators of “Take a Walk” are estranged from their families, anxious about their ability to keep wealth. The theme of risk runs through the song. No one worries about getting fired; they have market investments, business partners, endless complaints about taxes (as one might if one has to pay both ends of the Social Security and Medicare taxes single-handedly.) The risk allows the narrators to make comfortable lives for themselves and their family, and yet Angelakos isn’t convinced, looking back, that they were better off.

Historically, if you were running for any sort of higher political office in the United States and were from a major party, you made sure to say nice things about small businesses and entrepreneurship, especially the immigrant kind. To some degree this is still true: Elizabeth Warren’s campaign platform includes a Small Business Equity Fund that would give grants to minority entrepreneurs. That said, I’m not sure the current dominant political energy on either the American left or right favors small businesses, who tend to hate tariffs. If you read the Green New Deal resolution, though it calls for a more equitable distribution of available financing to such smaller-scale lenders as community banks and credit unions, a lot of what it wants it can only get at a certain scale. It’s easier for a larger company to retool its supply chains to lower environmental costs than it is for ten small businesses to do the same. It’s easier for a firm with a thousand employees to absorb the cost of any one employee needing a higher wage to make rent, or a longer maternity leave, or extended absences due to illness, than it is for a firm with five.

And Music Tumblr in particular can be forgiven for not thinking highly of entrepreneurship. Most creative people--artists, musicians, writers--end up as entrepreneurs simply because decent-paying employment in those fields has never been easy to find. (In 2017, Angelakos spoke of dealing with venture capitalists and deciding to run his mental-health-focused initiative, Wishart, as a combination of for-profit and non-profit.) But no loan officer with a nickel’s worth of sense would approve a loan to enter a market so saturated that marginal revenue is typically zero or close enough, or where thousands if not millions of people seem thoroughly committed to proving themselves, in Samuel Johnson’s eyes, blockheads. Upon hearing, “You can do what you love, but the market won’t reward you,” a lot of people will reply, “To hell with markets, then.”

It all comes down to how you feel about risk. For a long time the dominant American thinking was that higher risk was the price entrepreneurs paid to have the chance to succeed on their own terms. (There’s an ongoing debate in the immigrant-entrepreneurship academic literature about whether any one particular group of entrepreneurs is “pushed” into entrepreneurship--as in, they only start businesses as the best of a bad set of money-making options--or “pulled,” starting businesses because they want to.) More recently has emerged the critique that not all experiences of risk are created equal, and that in championing immigrant or minority entrepreneurship we offload risk onto those people with smaller financial or even emotional cushions. The heightened experience of risk, and its attendant anxiety and feeling of constant scarcity, may be what Angelakos meant when he described his relatives as “kind of being prey to capitalism.”

I personally agree with that critique, and would throw in that the general perception of Latino immigrants as not-entrepreneurial denies them a road to acceptance (or bourgeois respectability, if you prefer) that their Swedish, German, Jewish, Italian, and more recently Korean predecessors have been able to walk. That was why I wanted to write about Latino entrepreneurship in the first place, and why I ended up writing about North Carolina’s Latino Community Credit Union and associated initiatives as a promising case study. But I would caution against crossing the line from wanting to reduce risk for vulnerable minorities to regarding asking them to bear any kind of risk as imperialist and offensive. Risk can’t be eliminated altogether, and there are costs to scaling risk to higher levels of human activity and trying to diffuse it. A small business committed to a bad idea does a lot less damage than a government policy committed to a bad idea, even if the latter is more equitable in the range and number of people it effects.

Writing a dissertation is a humbling process. I’ve never written and recorded a song, but I imagine that process humbles too. (When “Take a Walk” came out Angelakos was not shy about disliking it, though he seems to have grown fonder of it as time goes on: “I like that it’s so uncharacteristic of me,” he said in 2017.) You work and work and work, all the while knowing you have no control over how your audience will hear your message, or if there will even be an audience. You can never be sure that you read enough, or chose the right method of analysis, or treated your subjects with sufficient respect. You’ll never know if you’re actually on the side of the angels. If the “angels” are metaphorical--if you don’t actually believe in a god, or God, whose love is greater than your human tendency to error and self-deception and treachery--then the risk is even higher. And yet, without that risk, how would you ever be able to say anything worth saying?

#songs of the decade #passion pit #longreads #music writing

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two-are-the-trees · 5 years ago

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31 Days of Poe Day 2: “The Fall of the House of Usher”

“The Fall of the House of Usher” is one of those stories that I could never get out of my head from the time I first read it. It’s a story that demonstrates Poe’s absolute mastery of suspense and horrifyingly gloomy atmospheres, and the complexity of the characters and the events which take place leave questions that are too fascinating to ignore.

The narrative follows a man who revisits his childhood friend, Roderick Usher, at his family estate after many years. Roderick suffers from an inherited sensory sensitivity and he implores his friend to come and visit in order to alleviate his anxieties. When the narrator arrives at The House of Usher, he finds it in a repulsive state of decay and Roderick looking sickly and agitated, due to the fact that his sister and only living relative, Madeline, is close to death. After Madeline does die, an even stranger atmosphere seems to fall over the household, with Roderick acting more distraught than usual and mysterious sounds echoing through the mansion. As the story progresses, the narrator begins to suspect that deep and dark secrets surround Roderick and the Usher family.

“The Fall of the House of Usher” is all about build up and mood. Poe’s language and descriptions are gorgeously dark and rich, even from the very first sentence: “During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher.” The story is dripping with heaviness and dread which leads to a slow building, existential kind of terror. The atmosphere perfectly reflects the themes, which are some of Poe’s most complex and mysterious, including family legacy, the inevitable passage of time, mortality, grief, mental illness, incest, the fall of aristocracy, and more.

Would I recommend “The Fall of the House of Usher”? Absolutely. This is one of my favorite of Poe’s works and I think it deserves to be recognized with some of his more famous tales. I think this story is taught a lot more in college courses than in high school, which unfortunately means that a lot of people miss out on it, so if you haven’t read it yet, you simply must. It has appeal for a wide variety of readers, whether you like it for the mystery, the slow building creepiness, or the sublime setting and prose. I would also recommend watching the animated adaptation of this story, which can be found in the anthology called Extraordinary Tales on Netflix. This particular segment is narrated by Christopher Lee, who’s voice is a perfect fit for the somber tone.

For more analysis (which includes spoilers!!!) please read below the cut!

As I said before, a lot of the genius of “The Fall of the House of Usher” is exemplified in the first few pages, describing the dismal House of Usher and the surrounding land with beautifully disgusting detail. Poe’s way with setting the scene really shines here as he is able to repulse and yet at the same time draw the reader even deeper into this environment of gloom and disintegration. The way the narrator expresses his disgust at how far the house has fallen is like reading a description of a human corpse; and it actually kind of is, as Poe adds a lot of personification to this house, such as describing the windows as eyes (precursor to Monster House, anyone?).

This opening scene is a wonderful introduction to Roderick Usher, and by extension, the history of the Usher family as well, as the exterior of the house is just a symptom for the larger malady. We get the story of a once great family that has utterly disappeared from society, and its last two vestiges are rapidly approaching the grave themselves. The Usher family is utterly fascinating, as it is apparent not only to the reader, but the characters themselves that everything the family tried to do to maintain their longevity and prowess actually directly lead to their downfall. It’s made very clear that the family practiced frequent incestual marriages in order to keep the Usher bloodline as pure as possible. This is, however, what probably caused the maladies that both Roderick and Madeline suffer from, and what probably caused the entire family to slowly die out from lack of genetic diversity. This element gives a heavy air of tragedy to the character of Roderick, as it seems he has inherited the physical, mental, and dynastic ailments of his entire family.

Madeline is also an interesting presence in the story. I say presence because we never see her speak or interact with the characters, and yet she looms over the entire house, like a living ghost. The narrator only gets glimpses of her, and she remains largely a mystery to him. This makes the character of Madeline a perfect symbol for the darker and more mysterious aspects of the Usher legacy. Roderick is seemingly haunted by her and, while at first, this appears to be a familial devotion to his sister, by the end of the story we know that his growing agitation means something more.

When reading this story for the first time, and again during my most recent reading, this strange relationship between Roderick, Madeline, and the rest of the Ushers stood out to me the most of any story element. It’s like these two siblings are trapped underneath the giant weight of their family legacy and all they have left for comfort in the world is each other.

This begs the question though; why DID Roderick leave Madeline in her coffin if he knew she was still alive? The most common theory, and the one I subscribe to as well, is that Roderick and Madeline engaged in an incestuous relationship and Madeline herself represents that part of Roderick’s life that he wishes to shut away out of shame. There are scores of moments that point to this possibility, like the family history of incest or the romantic poem that Roderick recites as he is thrown into despair at Madeline’s worsening condition. There are many different levels on which to read this relationship as well, whether you want to look at an incestuous relationship as the ultimate failure of the aristocratic class or, for a more modern approach, as an inappropriate part of the psyche that causes moral anguish.

I think there may be even more to Roderick’s shame and fear regarding this incest, however, as the looming figure of the House of Usher brings to mind the idea of an oppressive legacy. Rather than Roderick and Madeline falling in love despite their circumstances, I’m more inclined to believe that Roderick and Madeline were pressured or, perhaps, even forced, into an incestuous relationship in order to preserve their family bloodline. Both Roderick and Madeline seem like shells of their former selves and they hardly ever interact with one another despite supposedly being very close. It’s almost as though they have undergone some kind of trauma. Roderick’s worsening agitation could very well be a symptom of his guilt and shame at having to engage in incest against his will, and Madeline’s presence would indeed be quite literally haunting him. Her death, while very painful for him, would also represent an end to this constant reminder, which is why Roderick cannot bear to release his sister from her coffin once he knows she is still alive.

This would also explain Roderick’s absolute terror as he hears Madeline breaking out of her tomb and climbing the stairs to reach him. In this moment, Madeline is not just Madeline. She is the physical form of all of Roderick’s guilt and responsibility come to confront him and take him down with her. And as they go down, dying together, the house and the rest of the family legacy goes down with them as the entire mansion crumbles before the narrator’s eyes. It’s a haunting representation of how an obsessive family legacy will inevitably cause its own downfall. I like both the class interpretation and the psychological interpretation of this. On one hand, the Ushers represent the weakness and eventual futility of aristocratic family purity, as it can never last in an ever-changing world with new populations and new class structures. On the other hand, the Ushers demonstrate that familial pressure and trauma passed down through generations will only lead to destruction unless the cycle of abuse is broken.

So, what do y’all think? Is there another interpretation for Roderick’s actions? What do you think about the relationship between Roderick and the narrator? If you have something to discuss, please add your comments to the post or send me an ask! You can also use the tag #31daysofpoe to write your own response post!

#31daysofpoe #gothic literature #halloween #gothic #edgar allan poe

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killforyouliveforme · 6 years ago

Text

Penguin/OC Imagine: Oswald Cobblepot/Reader Imagine: “Mistaken Identity” Chapter 1-3

As requested for @kpopgirlbtssvt

Mistaken Identity

Requested by kpopgirlbtssvt

Summary:

You were at the wrong place at the wrong time, and because of your ill-timing, you’ve been kidnapped by Oswald Cobblepot. Unfortunately, you’re not freed to leave. But Fate has a way of making things right.

Chapter 1: Mistaken

Breathe, you tell yourself. Breathe…Stay calm.

This mantra you’ve been repeating in your head is one you’ve repeated many times in the past.

Granted, they were for situations that required a deep breath before you spoke to your boss about getting paid time-off, or even a raise that you and every co-worker associated knew was well-deserved.

It was the soft mantra said minutes before you went on a blind date, or you received one too many texts that read ‘hey, we need to talk’.

It was only ever reserved for those moments that seemed to be a little too pressing, and often times, the panic you felt was self-inflicted. Exacerbated by years of anxiety—most of it had gradually stacked as you lived as a Gothamite.

Gotham had a certain reputation, even as a city.

It was full of crime, corruption; it was full of scary people who would do scary things to others. Full of people who wanted to hurt and harm…Well, the city wasn’t only filled with those irreputable thugs. What population was left that had not been tainted was the 10%, of which you solely belonged.

Innocent, modest, inwardly contained, you barely had a violent bone in your body; even the idea of hurting another person would send the worst, repulsive signal from your brain to your stomach; it left you queasy, barely functional.

So why, you wondered helplessly, why were you snatched from the middle of Gotham’s busiest streets during one of the busiest days of the week (Ironically, a Wednesday, who knew); blindfolded and wrists and feet bound by what felt like rope, and thrown none too gently into the back of a vehicle? Why was this happening?

What could you have done?

Breathe, you told yourself. Breathe…

The mantra used in small social situations was now used to delay what would best be described as a hurricane of overwhelming emotions to include fear, regret, a little irritation for all your efforts of staying away from danger—but mostly fear.

“If you don’t stop moving,” said an annoyed thug. “We’ll be doing more to you than just looking at ya.”

You weren’t moving to begin with. They just wanted to scare you a little more.

Unfortunately, they were successful.

What fear you’d been managing to suppress ran down your spine, causing your entire body to shiver; your bodily reaction had nothing to do with the weather outside or the temperature within this engine-rattling vehicular prison…Those thugs around you seemed to gather that all too quickly.

“What should we do to her?” Another thug chuckled; his voice was grainier, huskier than the last.

“Well, that’s a matter of opinion.” The former spoke—you were blindfolded, but you could practically see his dirty smirk. “The boss said we just needed to snatch her—never said anything about…Well, you know.”

“I think she can hear us,” said a third voice. This man, you assumed, was probably the more logical of the bunch. Calmer at least, less aroused. “And she’s smart enough to know what we’re talking about.”

“I figured we’d scare her less if we pretended she wasn’t smart.”

“Whatever.”

Breathe…Breathe…In, out, in, out…That’s it…

“Pull over.”

“Why?” asked the calmer thug.

“Because it’s been a couple days.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“You’ve been looking at her too, you know. Don’t try to high-road me.”

“If you touch her, the boss is going to know.” The calm thug told the other two. “I doubt he’ll like that. We were told to kidnap, and—if needed—maim, but she’s been pretty calm for what it’s worth. So, if I were you, I wouldn’t touch her.”

“She’ll be a tasty little peach—I don’t like them fighting anyway…” The first thug that spoke seemingly made a gesture, one of which you could have assumed was nonverbal for fucking.

The calmer thug said pointedly, “If you do, she’ll only raise hell for us later.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The Boss says she’s got ‘friends in high places’. Higher, I imagine, since he’s going through all this trouble of getting her out of that office, into his. If she takes the Boss’s deal, and he lets her go, we’ve got a bit of a mess on our hands.”

“She’s not going to take his deal.”

“What makes you think she won’t?”

“She’s got every clown working for her, all this money at her fingertips, and Penguin thinks he’s going to make her back down?” laughed the first thug incredulously. “I doubt it. So, odds are, she’s gonna die anyway because Penguin isn’t taking ‘no’ for an answer. We might as well get our licks in—and you know, other things.”

There weren’t any arguments that came later.

But apparently, the situation had been de-escalated by a simple firm look given to the two inappropriate wankers, casted by the eyes of the only thug who seemed aware of the future unfortunate consequences if they did what they were thinking of doing.

Of that, you were grateful.

If not more confused.

Penguin. That was who had orchestrated your kidnapping. He was the reason you were in this situation. But the conversation had asked more questions than it had answered.

It was a case of mistaken identity, you realized. They, including their boss, thought you were this high roller woman, some big-time person who did what she wanted, when she wanted, and if the odds weren’t in her favor, she could change them so they fell in the palm of her hands.

They knew of her, clearly. They’d never met her; otherwise, why were you in this position in the first place—if that was the case?

“You’ve got the wrong person,” You whispered helplessly. Damn, your nerves made you sound so weak. “You…Please, you have the wrong person!”

“SHUT UP!”

A hard slap across your face silenced your other pleas.

You stayed quiet for the remainder of the trip.

Chapter 2: Imprisoned

Ten or twenty minutes passed and it wasn’t until the vehicle had come to a harsh and abrupt stop that a hand wrapped a vice-like grip around your bicep, propelling you forward so you stumbled out and off the high platform. Presumably, the calmer and more gentleman-like thug had been ready to catch you as you nearly fell into his arms with a disgruntled huff.

“Would you watch what the hell you’re doing!” He shouted.

“She can walk,” the other two grumbled among themselves.

You were escorted; one held your bicep; the other had a hard grip around your wrist, pulling you left and right until you presumably had stepped into whatever room it was that they’d been instructed to bring you inside.

“Untie her. Once you’ve done that, leave us.”

This voice was different. Calmer than the rigid suspects that had brought you here, and even more so: civilized, and gentle. Yet firm.

As they’d been ordered to do, the thugs (roughly) cut your bindings from your wrists, and the loose ropes that had made your walk stiffer and more of a task than it could have been. The blindfold still remained; you didn’t try taking it off.

A door closed.

“What do you want?” You asked quickly. “What did I do? What—”

“Shh.”

Penguin’s footsteps were easy to pinpoint. They were unique as everyone, including you, knew he walked with a limp. Allegedly, it had been given to him by one of his previous employers, one of many he’d betrayed. Whether it was well-deserved or otherwise, you hadn’t the privilege of knowing, or, for that matter, understanding.

You suddenly felt hands around your head, and you flinched at the contact. He didn’t seem to register your reaction as anything but startling, and as the blindfold was untied and removed from your person, you steadily blinked.

Your vision was blurry; your senses, off kilter. There was a certain relief that came from being able to see again, being able to take in your entire situation—but the dread followed the moment you saw Penguin.

For some reason, not seeing him but hearing his voice had been an ounce of relief more. It hadn’t made it real. But seeing the Penguin, dressed in his reputable flamboyant suit, even carrying with him his cane with the iconic Penguin’s head atop its connected glossy extension made your situation—and your reality—that much more dire.

He looked at you, perplexed.

For his confusion, you took the opportunity.

“What do you want with me?” You asked fearfully; your hands shook, even as they sat in your lap.

The both of you sat in an office, it appeared. His office, presumably, within his own home. If not for your fear, you’d have actually felt welcomed here; the natural ambience of the homely appearance, despite the large capacity to fit at least fifty more individuals, and likely house at least ten people before reaching maximum occupancy.

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” You continued—although Penguin looked just as confused as you did. “I didn’t do anything to you, I couldn’t—I wouldn’t.”

“Who are you?” Penguin asked, staring at you.

Well, that took you by surprise. Quietly, you said your name. It sounded strange on your tongue—saying it to someone you feared, and yet, knowing it might just clear your situation in a heartbeat.

“Are you related to Senator Briggs?” Penguin asked.

“No…”

“Do you know who she is?”

“She’s trying to run for Mayor.” You tell him.

“Is that all you know?”

Uncertainly, and almost embarrassingly, you admit, “I don’t know much about politics, Mr. Cobblepot.”

Penguin continued to stare at you.

“Unbelievable.” He muttered, rolling his eyes. He brought a hand to his nose, rubbing the bridge of it irritably.

“What? Did I say…or do something wrong?”

Penguin chuckled sarcastically, “No, but that’s actually the problem, isn’t it?”

You didn’t have an answer—what could you have said to that. But obviously, he wasn’t looking for an answer to it; in fact, he wanted an answer from someone else.

Standing to his feet, he poked the table, the area just in front of you and said firmly, “Do not move from this seat.”

You whispered, “…Okay…”

“You seem like a smart woman,” Penguin uttered pointedly. “I doubt I have to say more.”

You shook your head, hoping he needn’t threaten you if you easily complied. Surprised by your instant submission, almost taken aback by it, Penguin looked at you for a second longer before his attention was drawn to the door, through which the familiar three thugs suddenly ran and then came to an abrupt halt in front of him.

They stood in a pretty chorus line, befuddled.

“Yeah, Boss?” They all said in one way or another.

Penguin pointed to you indicatively and said irritably to his employees: “Who the hell is she?”

“Senator Briggs.”

“That isn’t her, gentlemen.”

You didn’t know Penguin very well, but you could tell that he wasn’t pleased. He was far from being happy, and irritation didn’t even begin to describe his current mood.

“She was in the same office as Senator Briggs—she was in her office, Boss!” Thug One, the one that had been excessively inappropriate and insensitive, immediately came to his own defense. “She tried to fight us, just like you said she would!”

“Seriously? If any one of you walked into my office without my previous knowledge of your actions, I wouldn’t go quietly either—no one would.” Penguin stated harshly.

“So…So, that’s not her?”

“No, that is not her!”

“So, you want us to kill her?” Thug One asked carelessly. He reached behind his back, pulled out a huge Glock, and nonchalantly pulled back the hammer, cocking and aiming it at you.

Penguin glanced over his shoulder, seeing you tense up. Angrily, he grabbed the gun from Thug One, and, with it already locked and loaded, aimed it at its owner and pulled the trigger. As you let out a squeak of fright, Thug One fell over; his two other associates glanced down at him apathetically before turning their undivided attention to their boss.

“I’m guessing that’s a ‘no’?” said the logical Thug—Thug Two.

“You are very perceptive,” Penguin muttered indignantly. He gestured ironically to the dead employee, adding, “Get him out of here.”

“You want us to talk to her?”

“No. I will.”

You glanced down at the table as soon as the door closed; you heard Penguin approach. For a whole minute, you hoped he’d just leave the room, and you in your solace.

He said your last name; you barely registered his acknowledgement before lifting your teary eyes to meet his.

Unexpectedly, the anger he had shown to his employees had mostly gone with the exception of the residual irritation from the expired associate that left a trail of blood on the floor as his co-workers dragged him out of the room with an effort.

In fact, to your surprise, Penguin, the ruthless ruler of Gotham, seemed almost…What was the word?... ‘Remorseful’?

“What now?” You whispered, looking up at him. “I was right...I wasn’t the person you were looking for, I didn’t…I’ve never done anything to anyone.”

“Is that true?”

You blinked. Was that true??

“It’s true.” You said, nodding. “I’ve never hurt anyone. I never killed anyone. I just…”

“Just ‘what’?”

“I keep my head down, and I walk away.”

Saying the truth hurt more than you expected. But it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. In fact, you did more than anything not to be the hero. Despite your need to do the right thing, the easier and safest thing always took precedence.

“My men are morons.” Penguin uttered unhappily, sitting across from you at the table. “I gave them the simplest of instructions: Kidnap Senator Briggs. The flaw in that plan, of course, was that I knew what Senator Briggs looked like; they only had a small and, I have to admit, inaccurate description of her appearance. Unfortunately, you just happened to be in the right office at the wrong time, and—I hope you don’t take offense to this—you look like her.”

You met his eyes again.

“So, I’m not the one you wanted.” You said quietly. “That means…I can leave, right?”

“You seem intelligent enough to know that what you want is not a likely option.”

The answer set a small trickle of emotion through your heart; first it started as a quake, then your face started heating up.

“So, I’m a prisoner?” You questioned.

You didn’t expect this. Death, sure, but not imprisonment. Ironically enough, neither had Penguin as he looked you over, the expression of his remorse set more prominently in the expressive lines of his face.

“I am sorry.” Penguin offered his sentiment. It was sincere enough that you believed it.

“I guess I’ll be chained up in some dungeon.”

Your half-witted and half-serious response registered collectively in him. He smiled at your dark sense of humor, and he offered his hand. You looked at it uncertainly, but he insisted; you took it, and he gently lifted it and you followed him.

Where you were going, you weren’t sure.

Then you realized, you were going to the kitchen. It was here that he let go of your hand, realizing only later than he’d held it for so long in the first place. His reaction was one of embarrassment; the pink in his cheeks and the nervous smile he sent you almost made up for the kidnapping that had come only an hour earlier.

“A prisoner though you may be,” Penguin uttered almost half-jokingly, “but a degenerate, you are not. Your stay here is not of my intention nor yours…clearly”—(He raised his eyebrows and let out a cynical chuckle, marking the irony of the situation)—“but a direct result of my men’s idiocy. I take responsibility for that, seeing as they work for me. Your presence here will be kept under the secure scrutiny of my staff”—(Penguin indicated the maids and butlers and body guards that seemed to pepper around the mansion.)—“but you will be treated as my guest.”

You couldn’t say much to that. In fact, you were so startled by his gentleman-like introduction to the Rules of Engagement that it was hard to register the idea that you were still a prisoner. For someone as remarkably ruthless and homicidal as Penguin was made out to be in the papers and even among the people you worked alongside, he was a gentleman, held to the highest degree.

“You’re wondering where I’m going with this,” Penguin assumed, smiling at your stunned silence.

“Well…Yes.”

“Olga.” Penguin said the name; a plump but stocky maid wearing the classical maid’s attire appeared seemingly out of thin air. You hadn’t noticed her, at least. “She is my house maid, but a phenomenal cook; she’ll provide your meals while you are here.”

Olga smiled (if you called it that) and then left to do some house cleaning.

Penguin approached you, coming closer than what was needed. He stood an inch taller than you, yet you could feel the power radiating off him; the power he had over his minions, over a Senator (apparently), and the way he held himself to such a high standard said it all.

“Your stay here may be unwelcomed, but I hope it isn’t too uncomfortable.” Penguin assured.

For the first time since being kidnapped, you allowed yourself to smile. You couldn’t help it really; he was so sweet.

“What do you think?” He asked.

“What do I think?” You repeated uncertainly. “What can I think?”

“I’m open to any ideas you may have.”

There. It happened again. You couldn’t help another smile come to your face. Maybe it was the fact that Penguin, although having literally just killed someone in front of you, was truly sincere in his efforts to placate the repulsion that his men had incurred.

“What if I just want to go home?” You asked. “And I promised never to say anything to anyone about what happened.”

“The thing about that,” Penguin returned calmly. “They always make that promise, but seldom do they ever keep it.”

Well, there was no denying that. Were you really going to keep that promise? You weren’t sure, but he had a point, though.

“And what makes you think that if you fall asleep that I won’t try to even the score?” You asked.

The unsteady wavering of your tone surprised the both of you. No, you hadn’t a single volatile bone in your body; even Penguin could have picked up on it. The ballsy comment though—where the heck had that come from?

“You could try to even the score,” Penguin offered cleverly, leaning forward. “I doubt you’d get far though.”

You leaned back, by instinct.

You smiled nervously, knowing he was right.

“For what it is worth,” Penguin uttered civilly. “In whatever way this inconvenient but otherwise unprecedented situation may end, you are probably one of the most interesting people I have ever met.”

He started walking away; you turned, watching him.

He gestured to the ceiling, saying, “Your room will be upstairs, the third room on the right as you walk down the corridor. If you want to exact your revenge, as misdirected as it really is, I sleep in the room across from you. I’m normally in bed by nine o’clock.”

Penguin left you in the kitchen, and he didn’t bother looking over his shoulder.

Chapter 3: Bad Dreams

Living under house arrest within Penguin’s mansion.

There have been horror movies made in far worse circumstances in far more dreadful locations.

Your routine for the next two months had taken an interesting turn…or rather turns, as there had been more than one occasion that had made you wonder about your current predicament.

The first three nights were the hardest. You lied in your Queen-sized bed, wearing some extra silky pajamas that were a size too big for you (Penguin had instructed Olga to go to the malls and buy you the extra clothes you’d require for the unexpectedly long stay). You had to appreciate the extra effort by which he’d gone in order to make up for his minions’ idiotic error.

Still, you missed your bed. You missed your apartment, although, by now, your studio sized humble abode was already being rented out to the next available buyer who wouldn’t miss two monthly payments in a row.

And luckily, you hadn’t owned a pet so they wouldn’t starve or miss you anytime soon.

On that note, it was convenient, too, that no one in your family seemed to care that you were gone—and if they could’ve cared, they weren’t alive to tell you these days. A mother who disowned you because you refused to leave Gotham (it was your home). A father who had died a few years ago, and possibly, was the only person who cared about you and vice versa. A brother you never spoke to, based on political differences and opinions on morality. And a friend who you thought would’ve called the police, but to your knowledge, you hadn’t shown up on the police’s radar no more than the homeless veteran had.

Some people, you thought unhappily. Some friends.

And yet, despite missing your unappreciative friends and your depreciating apartment, you couldn’t help but be a little grateful towards Penguin. While he had to cope with the idea that you might very well end up slitting his throat in the middle of the night (as he might worry with most people he might have kidnapped in the past), there was a certain gentleman-like, roommate-ish vibe to him.

Every morning when you came to breakfast (if you did, that was), he greeted you with a ‘Good Morning’ and he always addressed you by ‘Miss’ followed by your last name. He wasn’t passive aggressive, neither was he overtly friendly.

Even then, you might’ve welcomed it.

The overtly friendly part, not the passive aggression.

Oswald Cobblepot was an attractive man. While he might be modest about his appearance, knowing he was partially attractive and perhaps staying on the more-than-just-modest side of the spectrum, you knew he was handsome.

Blue eyes, or green, if the light hit them just right. Raven hair, which, these days, he kept out of his eyes and off his forehead, combed back and held up by what you assumed was an array of hair products, and still appearing soft to the touch.

Thin and trim, by the looks of how he carried himself. Even while he limped, his walk still had a bit of a saunter to it. Confidence spoke volumes; Oswald Cobblepot was no different.

A friendly gesture was welcoming you to his home. A more-than-friendly gesture was having his maids go to the store, buy you what might have been every single piece of clothing not stapled to a mannequin, and having it dropped off by your bedroom door every morning you woke up.

A friendly gesture was giving you free reign around the mansion, able to leave your room and not being solely sequestered to it like a cell. The more-than-friendly gesture that he decidedly used was even permitting you to not only walk about the mansion but even extending an offer for you to have lunch with him at a public restaurant, permitting, of course, that you made no move to alert the police of your awkward and otherwise complicated situation.

You seldom took his offer of going to the restaurant. Perhaps it was knowing yourself too well, knowing you’d try to escape and you simply did not want to exacerbate what was overall a pleasant situation into a worse off circumstance…But really, that was what you told yourself.

The truth was, of course, that you actually wanted to have lunch with him. You wanted to be with him, and what was more ironic and perhaps even more confusing, is that you would more than happily walk into his room at nine o’clock when he was just getting ready for bed but not for the murderous reasons he had put in your head.

Oswald Cobblepot was attractive. You knew that all too well.

And it was a thought that had started as an inkling, then became something more of a daydream.

Stockholm Syndrome, you remembered. Beauty and the Beast.

If you were pretty, and he was attractive, which of the two of you were the beast, you wondered amusedly.

The nights came all too quickly.

This night, in particular, made you more restless.

The day over all had been quiet, almost boring. Penguin had been gone for the better part of the day, leaving you to wander around the mansion; the maids and butlers kept a close eye on you, literally the entire time. Glancing around the corner; peering over their dusted equipment or their baking goods to make sure you weren’t trying to slip the wool over their eyes and escape.

Staring at the ceiling, you considered escaping. Ultimately, you knew the truth better than anyone else: You wanted to stay. And furthermore, you wanted him.

Restless nights, indeed. Thinking of Penguin: A powerful man who had the city at his fingertips, every helpless man and woman at his beck-and-call; every mayor who took the last mayor’s place would consistently fall and give submission and their own power over to the one man who had a hook in every dirty pool and every mob’s circle.

And yet, Penguin was still a man. A gentleman, a sensitive soul.

You weren’t sure what possessed you to get out of bed and pull the silk red robe over the navy-blue pajamas, made of the same material. You weren’t sure what took control of your extremities, pulling you out of your room and, with a steady hand, turned the door knob to the bedroom across the way.

Whatever it was, the power was strong. Its force so compulsive, so persuasive, you almost felt no fear what so ever. Amplified in your ears and standing within the ear-ringing silence of Penguin’s bedroom, you could hear his quiet, steady, slow breathing.

He was asleep.

As you approached his King-sized bed, there was a part of you, begging to leave, begging to flee. What the hell are you thinking! It’s screaming at you, hoping you’ll listen to reason and take flight.

But that part of you doesn’t reign anymore. Maybe it was Penguin’s influence, seeing him do what he wanted, when he wanted without asking anyone’s permission or hoping for a better outcome than that which he always pursued and—as always—faithfully received.

You wanted the same outcome.

So, you followed his example.

There was a flicker of mischief in your heart; it buttered your insides with glee and excitement, knowing that what you were doing was far from what you might have usually done in the past. And while the feeling you had was one of earnest and suspense, it slightly flickered into concern.

The moment you heard his whimpers.

And you realized…

Penguin…Oswald Cobblepot, a man, was having nightmares.

Bad dreams. And from the sound of his helpless sounds…Very bad dreams. The worst.

Your eyebrows furrowed in concern; the suspense and eagerness of doing something naughty now transformed into one of need to comfort and protect. He’d done his job in protecting you from his thugs—it now only seemed justified that you’d return the favor.

You lied next to him, hoping against hope that he’d not wake up and think you were trying to accomplish what he suspected might have been your intent this entire time.

Penguin looks like he’s trying to evade his nightmares, his body scrunched up in a fetus position. You lie next to him, and gently touch the shoulder opposite of you; with your other hand on his side, you lightly move him so he slowly sinks into you, huddled closer to the only other warm body.

He doesn’t resist. In fact, he seems desperate to escape the monsters that torment him at night; the ones that torture him in his waking hours are not nearly so cruel, you realize.

“Don’t…” He mumbles in his sleep.

“It’s okay, Oswald.” You whisper.

He’s facing your direction; you rub his back as you lie on your side.

What external opposition you may have against the monsters wrestling against his subconscious, it seems to do the job. He relaxes; the tension leaves his face, and his body. Apparently, it’s a positive enough result that it pulls him out of his nightmare, enough that he opens his eyes and sees you in his bed.

“What…” Penguin says, slowly beginning to sit up.

“Wait, wait, wait!” You say quickly—you know what he’s about to reach for, and you’re hoping you can calm him down a second time, although you wonder if such a thing has ever happened in his lifetime.

“Why are you here!” Penguin demands. Sudden anger.

“I’m not here to kill you,” You tell him; you do your best not to stammer, lest you be perceived as a liar. “I heard you…Having bad dreams, so I thought—”

Penguin stares at you.

He’s trying to understand what just happened during his resting hours, and he glances at the door, realizing it’s fully open. It was never shut…You left every trace of a footstep possible to make your presence known, to him as well as to any guard that might show up.

In his hand, he’s holding a switchblade. He held it up at first, as a deterrent. Now, he lowers it, looking at you with a different type of emotion. One that you were familiar with, seeing as it would flicker across his expressive face for only a few seconds before he masked it with a civil, aloof reaction, instead.

“I promise,” You say quietly. “I wasn’t trying to kill you. I came into your room, and I heard you—”

“Wait.”

You stop talking, hearing his soft command.

He puts the knife on the end table, and he moves closer.

“If you weren’t trying to kill me, why did you come into my room?” Penguin asks curiously.

You smile nervously. Oh, the things you want to tell him.

“Well…” You began.

Damn! It was easier thinking it than saying it aloud. That feisty, mischievous spunk that had been in your system was suddenly no where to be found. Damn it!

“I…” You began, searching for the words. “I was just…um…thinking about how nice you’ve been and how you were sweet and caring and-and thoughtful and we’ve practically been together for about two months now, s-seeing each other every day, and there’s a couple of times where I thought you might…I don’t know…like me more than what—than what you might have led me to believe…”

The words came out like vomit, although, thank goodness, there was no real actual vomit. The stammering that inevitably found its way to your unsteady tone, the small gestures of desperate attempts to convey your thoughts with your gesticulating, however, trembling hands.

You took in a long, deep breath, realizing it had been a few minutes since you had taken one and you looked at Penguin, now, with a hopeful smile. He stared at you still…Not so much as ‘perplexed’ or even ‘repulsed’ by it, but more or less subdued by your astounding ramble.

Basically, you said you liked him. More than just a friend, even so, at all, considering you were his prisoner.

“You weren’t trying to kill me, then?” Penguin asked carefully.

“No…Why would I?”

“Why would you?”

“Well, aside from the obvious circumstance. But I couldn’t kill you. You’ve treated me so well, a lot better than my past boyfriends or girlfriends have ever treated me.” You tell him, unable to ignore the warmth in your face as you knowingly blush. “And…you were having bad dreams, so I thought I could try to—I don’t know—make it easier for you?”

“And that objective required you to be in my bed?” Penguin asked with a small sly smile.

“Well, no, it didn’t require me to be in it, but I figured…Why not?”

You think he’s going to make some satirical remark, but it’s the opposite. At first, he’s taken aback by your response and then he smiles at you. Not just sincerity as he normally passes off to you, but there’s more to it.

“So…” Penguin says uncertainly. “Now what?”

“Well, it’s boring in my room. So can I sleep here?” You asked politely.

He paused. Then says, “Sure…”

He lies down, uncomfortably at first as you do the same. You snuggle closer to him, smiling when he tenses up at first and when you’ve stopped moving around, he relaxes and puts his arm around you.

He wishes you goodnight, saying your name softly as though his voice alone could caress it in its own soft syllables.

“Good night, Oswald.” You whisper, smiling.

Before you can drift off to sleep, he kisses your forehead. You lift your head so his lips end up kissing yours, completely by ‘accident’. You don’t acknowledge the incidental slip as it was by your own device and you quickly return the kiss without so much as a hesitation. You can feel it in the kiss as he eagerly responds, having longed for that feeling of intimacy and human contact that you just as wantonly crave and return as well.

An unprecedented event in a ruthless town and you found what you needed most in a man that needed the same.

Chapter Four: The Confession

Your bedroom became storage after a time. Without a body to warm the mattress or a soul to graze its presence, the room just became yet another space for Olga to gussy up, to dust, to vacuum. After she finished, the door was closed; not a single person in Oswald’s employ would have been able to tell that at some point or another, it might’ve been a place for you to sleep. At the same time, every staff member could attest to that.

While your bedroom became ‘just another room’, Oswald’s became a home for two.

Every night, in fact.

Since the day you’d crawled into his bed to calm his ever-so-torturous resting demons, his sleep had become more than restful; naturally, he wanted it to continue. Three weeks later, when the day was over and yet another day was happily spent in his abode, you eagerly locked the front door then retired to bed.

As you lied there, you slowly fell asleep. After a time, you felt the bed shift with the weight of a second human as Oswald dressed down to pajamas. A pang of pity stung your heart; he always came to bed seemingly exhausted; a soft sigh left his lips just as he lied on his back, directly beside you. Very little space ever remained between your bodies, especially when he made himself comfortable.

The first couple of nights he spent sleeping beside you—you’d seen him at his most vulnerable, and some of the most adorable interactions you’d ever witnessed. For someone like Penguin who was so self-assured more than 99% of the time, always affluent in all things political, business, or any subject matter regarding manipulation and the other, Oswald was out of his depth when it came to any type of physical interaction—especially when it concerned yourself.

—————-Author’s Note——————-

It’s about 5300 words and some change, and I enjoyed writing it. If you want an Oswald Cobblepot/Penguin imagine, send me a message or ask. It takes me a couple of days (or in this case, a week) to get it done, but I usually DELIVER. :)

@gotham-dumpster-fire Look what i did! I did a thing XD

@ceruleanrainblues @penguinsheart @ahsfan23 @oxwald-nyxma @ladypenguin21 I thought you all might appreciate this too, so I tagged you as well :) @cobblepotkingpenguin @kpopgirlbtssvt @oswald-cobblepot-imagines

#Oswald Cobblepot imagine #Penguin Imagine #Oswald Cobblepot and Reader #Oswald Cobblepot and OFC #Gotham Fanfiction #Gotham Imagine #Fluff #SFW #Oswald is a sweetheart #even when he's taking people prisoner #I loved writing this btw #Thank you for the opportunity #XD

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