#if i had a nickel for every band guy that left his band to do ministry and like. became a tumblrina about it id have two nickels

[autistme]

i think i should make the tumblrina tierlist theres just So Many. a spread sheet may be in my future

[thesmokingguns]

Phone Tag

Word count: 3512

Requested: “My idea was that the reader thought Kelly was cheating on her on tour, and when he comes home, he finds her really upset and comforts her and assures her that he only loves her”

Requested by @littlemisscare-all

A/N: I just want to thank @littlemisscare-all for the request and letting me message her about questions I had. Kelly Nickels is a new character I’m writing and she was patient with my questions and so helpful. This is a little longer than my usual one shots so I hope you like it. I have three requests I need to write on top of my regular stuff I want to put out so feel free to make a request but I’m going to say the time might be up to a week now. I also have a tag list you can be added to by just messaging me or filling out the form. Please let me know what you think ❤️

Tag List: @thenobodies-inc , @littlemisscare-all , @agroupiewhore, @ayablackwood

Ring, Ring, Ring

The constant sound of the phone trying to connect with room 828 was filling my head. The high pitched sound bouncing around your mind as you wished he’d  pick up. After another minute of the phone going unanswered you hung up, wiping my sweat filled palms on the denim dress hastily.

You could see your fingers trembling, the anxiety of the situation coming out in physical ailment as your trembling hands started to get numb. You shook out your hands, flexing them, cracking them, pushing them together, anything to just calm yourself down enough to feel them again. Your heart was beating so fast that it felt like it had turned on its engine and got lodged in your throat when it pressed the gas. You couldn’t swallow down the pounding so you tried instead to take a gulp of air. Breathing in through your nose and out of your mouth. In through your nose and out through your mouth. Even though you felt like you were not getting enough air when you breathed through your nose you continued anyway trying to calm your body that seemed to be fighting you.  You were trying anything to try and stop the full fledged anxiety attack from coming on.

You stepped back into the store, trying not to make eye contact with your friend and coworker as you started to fold the sweaters  on the front side table. Your hands needed to stay busy as you tried to avert your eyes from anyone, tears pooling in them. You couldn’t think about the situation or you’d start crying. But fuck, it had been almost a week since You had heard from your boyfriend. Your hand went to my pocket, pulling out the ripped out notebook paper Kelly had given you with the name, date, room number and phone number for each hotel. He was supposed to be in Phoenix in room 828 at the Hilton Hotel. Which you had already called seven times throughout the day without any response.

“Y/N, are you okay?” Your coworker touched your shoulder and you let out a sob, hands flying to your face. The feeling of someone touching you after the last month of being alone was too much. You broke feeling the loneliness blanketing over you, covering you. Your coworker was leading you to the breakroom, thankful no one was in the shop to see you have a complete mental breakdown.

He had promised you that you would talk every day; he had seen the nervous look in your eyes when the guys talked about the tour. All the girls that would be throwing themselves at the band. They were all about the three fundamentals: sex, drugs and rock n roll. How were you going to compete with something you weren't there to see?

“Jesus Fucking Christ, where the fuck is that paper?” Kelly was tearing apart the tour bus looking for a yellow piece of legal paper that you had written down all the numbers to call you on. He had lost it a week ago after he had drunkenly started a shot game with Phil that night and that had proved to be a horrible mistake.

When he had woken up, on the kitchen floor of the tour bus, a hangover so bad he wanted to fling himself into the highway all he could think about was calling the person that he loved and telling her about his night. The sound of her voice coaxing the hangover out of him and filling him up with the love she had for him. He had pushed himself off the floor, grabbing his cigarettes from his jacket and digging in the inside pocket for the list of numbers, but the paper was gone.

It had been six days since he had lost the numbers and as much as he tried to remember a phone number he couldn’t even think of one. He had expected a phone call to explain everything but the problem was that phone call had never come. This was just another layer of frustration that Kelly couldn't figure out. For the first few weeks of the tour he had gotten the calls at the hotel but a night before he lost the number the call hadn’t come in.

So now, being the very logical, even headed, and not complete maniac that he was, Kelly was tearing apart every single part of the tour bus. Ripping open trash bags, pulling apart beds, and crawling under the table that had a weird sticky substance underneath. As he pushed half drank beer cans aside he saw the flap of yellow sticking out. His heart leapt to his throat as he snatched up the paper, flipping it over and groaning audibly. The paper had gotten saturated. One number was partially visible with only a couple numbers melting together.

Walking off the tour bus he headed over to the payphone, setting a handful of change on the metal bottom as he started to dial different combinations of the number hoping that he could finally reach his girlfriend. Hoping that her lack of calls to him didn’t mean they had broken up or what if she had met someone else? She did have that fucking girlfriend who didn’t like him. What if she had gone out to The Roxy and met someone else?

He gripped the paper so hard in his hand as the phone rang and he thought of you with someone else. He needed to talk to you,

You were walking home, unable to work as your mind went a million miles a minute. Your heart thumping so loudly that your own thoughts were muted and just scenarios were popping in your head. Images of Kelly with his arm around another girl, disheveled hotel rooms with discarded clothes, his lips worshiping someone else's body. You stopped on the sidewalk closing your eyes, fists tightening as you told yourself not to scratch your arms. It was all in your head. This was all in your head and not real.

Another shaky step towards your apartment. Your eyes were on the payphone at the end of the block and you figured you could try one more time to call the hotel. Maybe when you heard his voice it would put out the fire of your mind. He could calm your anxiety, easing you from the panic attacks it caused and draw you in with the safety of his voice. He must have known how crazy you were going and when he finally talked to you he would have a logical explanation for why he had disappeared.

As you convinced yourself that he was going to answer this time, you could feel the burning bile in your gut start to be put out as the rational part of your mind tried to make a little room for you to have hope. The way your hands trembled as you took out a dime, sliding it into the slot and dialing the number, let you know that the temporary band aid your rational side had put on your anxiety wasn’t going to stick for very long. If Kelly didn’t answer it was going to be ripped off and you’d be left with the exposed wound that you would need to deal with..

Ring...Ring...Ri-

“Hello?” your heart caught in your throat, and you could feel your eyes widening as you heard a voice answer the phone on the other end, “Hello, is anyone there?” The very female voice that was answering the phone was not your boyfriend.

“Kelly?” his name left your lips, almost a whimper. All of the worst situations that you imagined could be happening in your head seemed to come to life now. It wasn’t just in your head, a woman was answering his hotel phone.

“Ohhhh, they’re in the shower. If you call back in an hour-” you hung up the phone. It took you four tries before you could get the receiver on the cradle because the shaking in your hand was running through your entire body now. You tried to crack your fingers, a weak attempt to get some control of the motions of your body.

In the shower. If he was taking a shower at 4pm what was he washing off of himself? Who was the girl who had answered the phone? Had he not answered because he had been so busy with her all day? You dry heaved in front of the payphone, sucking in air when nothing came out. You wanted to go home and hide, burying yourself under blankets until the weight of the sadness lifted. Not that you were sure it was ever going to lift because you had just caught him cheating on you.

It was a miracle that you made it to the apartment. You dropped your keys twice, your hands not working how they were supposed to. Your grip on them slipping and letting them fall through your fingers. Had you let Kelly fall through your fingers?

You hissed out a curse, shouldering into your apartment and locking the door behind you. You were off of work tomorrow so you could stay holed up inside the apartment for at least twenty four hours before anyone would think to call. That gave you time to wallow in your emotions and feel everything you needed to feel.

Looking around at the space it dawned on you that you would need to leave. Separate your things and get out of the city before he comes back to it. Which didn’t give you enough time at all because he would be back in two days for the LA show at the Whisky a Go Go, Where were you going to live? Maybe you could find a roommate or you could always stay with your best friend. She would let you in. There was so much to do and so much to figure out but you needed to lay down and figure it out from the comfort of the bed.

On the way to the bed you tripped over the phone you had kept beside it for the past few days hoping for Kelly to finally call you. You looked at the phone hanging off the hook, knowing if anyone called you they would just get the busy signal but you didn’t hang it back up. Kelly was too busy in some hotel room with a strange girl and he hadn’t bothered to call you in a week anyway. You needed to just get in bed and mourn your relationship. You’d move out tomorrow and start a new life without him.

Kelly hung up the phone, looking at his apartment phone number that the girl at the shop had just given to him. He had missed you by twenty minutes and from what he had just heard you were in bad shape.He sucked in his bottom lip as he dialed the home number. He would explain everything to you as soon as he had you on the phone. He could already picture you asking him if he had at least won the drinking game.

“What the fuck?” He looked at the phone when he got the busy signal. It had to be the right number. He had repeated the number twice to make sure that he got the correct number and now he was getting a busy signal. He dialed again, getting the same alert sound. Then again. And again. He stopped after constantly calling for ten minutes to take a breath. He was going to need to have a beer and try again.

He tried calling twenty minutes later, an hour, three hours, and before he went on stage for the show. His mind was thinking of how you could be on the phone for that long. He frowned as he grabbed his bass going over to the band's manager. He needed to get home sooner than the tour bus would take him.

You got out of the shower, wrapping your sweater around you over your nightgown. Your eyes skimmed the apartment where you had spent the last four hours cleaning like a maniac and separating everything. Your records were in a milkcrate by the door, along with a trash bag of all your clothes. Things like pots and pans didn’t seem worth fighting over. You would leave those for him. Even though you weren’t even sure if Kelly knew how to fry an egg.

Twirling a piece of hair around your finger you tried to calm the uneasy feeling filling you. He had been the one who hadn't answered your calls or called you. He was the one who had a girl answer the phone in his room. He wanted you to leave but he didn’t want to see the hurt he caused by telling you it was over. Your friends had all warned you about dating a rockstar so it wasn’t like you could expect much sympathy from them. But you had been with Kelly for over a year and hadn’t seen it coming. It felt like you were blindsided. To love someone so much had really just opened you up to the pain you were feeling now.

Moving to the bedroom you looked around the room, the pit of your stomach turning in sadness as you thought about this being the final time you sleep in this bed. The tears boiling up and tumbling down your face as you sat on his side, touching the pillow that he slept on. You could smell his aftershave and scent on his pillow just making you cry even harder. The feeling in the pit of your stomach growing as you missed someone who was gone.

Over your tears you didn’t hear the sound of the front door opening. You were wrapped around a pillow mind racing in a thick fog of all the reasons you weren’t good enough. Why couldn't he love you? Could anyone love you?

“Y/N, baby, what’s wrong?” Arms were wrapped around you. You were being pulled onto a lap, hair pushed away from your tear stained face.

“K-Kelly?” It comes out weekly, almost afraid you’re hallucinating arms wrapped around you, fingers touching your tears, pushing the puddles that gathered on your skin with an expert flick of a thumb.

“Yeah, baby, I’m here. What happened? Why are you so upset? Who do I need to fight?” He was trying to defuse the situation with humor to drag you out of your hysterics. But he was the one that had gotten you to this place.

Sitting up you pushed yourself off his lap, a frown forming on his face from this action. You could feel the way your hands were starting to go numb as you wiped your tears, knowing there was going to be a confrontation with him.

“I called you for a week, Kelly. I called all the numbers multiple times a day and you didn’t answer. You didn’t call me back.” The way he frowned at this didn’t go unnoticed by you. You took it as a sign of his guilt. He had been ignoring you on purpose. “And I called this afternoon and a girl answered from your hotel room.” He stood up suddenly shaking his head.

“No, no, no.” You rolled your eyes at his weak attempt to lie about the fact you had spoken to a girl that was in his room, “Oh fuck, we didn’t even check into the hotel today. I was on the tour bus looking for the list of numbers you had written down for me.” He was digging into his leather jacket pocket looking for the yellow paper. You were trying to process what he was saying.

“But they said you were in the shower when I asked for you.” You said with a frown, trying to process what he was saying. It would be easy to believe him, tryst him blindly and forget all the drama but there were so many things that just weren’t adding up. He produced the yellow list holding it up with the missing pieces and wet pen running into a blurred mix of ink.

“Call the hotel now. I’m obviously here with you. Maybe they heard you wrong?” He knew you needed real proof. He looked at the phone on the floor that was off the receiver, “I tried to call you today. I guess this explains the busy signal.” He moved to hang it back up.

“I called you and you didn’t answer all week and you didn’t even call me once.” You pointed out. “You’re on tour with all your horny band members and I’ve been out with you all before.” You didn’t want to ask him because you knew that he would answer you honestly. He couldn’t lie to you, even on little things he was always 100% honest. Which you had found out one night when you tried on a new dress and asked how you looked and he had told you the dress looked like a rejected extra from a Cyndi Lauper music video.

“I lost the phone numbers when I was drinking with Phil one night. It took me a week to find them on the bus.” He confessed. That story seemed pretty on par for who they were, “And are you asking if I was stupid enough to cheat on you?” At the words you went white, gripping the sheets. Kelly took in your reaction and knew that’s exactly what you were thinking had happened. “Listen, Y/N.” He moved over to the bed gripping your face in his hands, stroking your cheeks with his thumbs and giving him a soft smile, “I love you. Just you. And I wouldn’t do anything to ever lose your love. I spent a week trying to find a paper just so I could hear your voice. I was waiting for you to call all week, baby. Why didn’t you call me?” The soft way he spoke was melting the ice in your veins, calming you with the right touches and bringing you to the current situation happening in real life and not just in your head.

“I called you so much. I called all the hotels that you told me to call. But you never answered me.” You pointed to a crumpled up ball on the nightstand. Watching him grab it and smooth out the page of numbers.

“Oh shit.” He rubbed his chin and looked up at you with an almost embarrassed look. You knew exactly what that look was. He had made a mistake, “So, um, these hotels are out of order. I must have copied them backwards because this one.” He pointed at the last hotel you had called today. “Should have been here.” He pointed a few up and you sighed in relief. The tears still came flowing out but this time in relief, “I’m an idiot. I’m sorry, baby.” He reached out, folding you to him. Your body was relaxed, allowing him to calm you with his back rubs and head kisses. Comforting you by holding you in his arms and reminding you that he loved you with his touch.

“I’m sewing my name and our telephone number into all your clothes tomorrow.” You muttered after a little while. He chuckled, kissing the top of your head.

“Next time, just come on tour with us. That way we never have to worry about playing phone tag.” You nodded your head listening to his heart beat. “We’re going to have to spend tomorrow morning unpacking your stuff. But I do respect your commitment to cut ties so thoroughly that you organized the records.” He got the laugh out of you that he was looking for. You sat up, shrugging your shoulders.

“I was just looking for an excuse to steal your Bowie records.” You teased him. He scoffed, pulling you to lay down beside him.

“I flew back here to be with you, Y/N. The least you could do is not threaten to steal my records.” Kelly pulled you close to him. “Do you feel better now that I’m back?” The concern in his voice warmed you to the core. You nodded your head at him. “Now you know you’re stuck with me and how wrapped around your finger I am.” You sighed out softly, eyes heavy as you felt like you could finally get some sleep after having a week of anxiety dreams and panic attacks preventing you from getting more than a tossing turning sleep for the week.

“Maybe next time send me a postcard to let me know you love me.” You said through a sleepy haze.

“Maybe I’ll train carrier ducks to send messages. Or learn how to do smoke signals.” A smile slipped out as you cuddled closer letting him lull you to sleep with his soft touches and soft mutters. He loved you, you could feel it. And that was all you needed

[hops-hunny]

Distance Makes the Heart Grow

CHAPTER 1

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Mafia Boss!Neville Longbottom x Reader

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 1.8k

Summary: (Y/n) lives a normal life. But that’s the issue, it’s normal, it’s plain, and it’s growing boring. Everyday she wishes for something, anything to spice up her life. But, when her old school friend (and crush) shows up at her bakery with a new look (and what looks like a new life), what will it bring for her? Will their puppy love grow? Will his big secret lead to the end of them or will it spark a new beginning?

Warnings: None for this chapter!

A/N: Nothing major happens in this chapter, this is sorta just like the beginning stages.

(Y/n) let out a load groan, hand searching aimlessly for the alarm clock on her side table. “Where is it?!” she continued to slap her hand around on her table, many objects falling to the floor before her hand finally landed on the right one, the rooster noises ceasing as her hand collided with the big snooze button. She rolled over, sighing as she stared at her speckled ceiling. “Perhaps I really should take the time to learn how to use the alarm on my phone.” it wasn’t that she was bad with technology persay. It’s just if it was produced after the year of 2008 you could forget it. Could you really blame her though? During all her years at Hogwarts, she had never made the switch her fellow classmates made with modern technology. Sure she had a smart phone but the only thing she could manage to do with it is call, text, and make notes in the notes app (something she had just recently learned as well).

Unwillingly, she crawled out of bed, stretching as she let out a large yawn, bones snapping and cracking like a New Year’s firework. She made her way to the bathroom, looking into the same mirror she always did, watching the light in the center flicker the same way as always. Life for (Y/n) was seemingly unchanging. Day after day, month after month, was spent exactly the same. She’d wake up, get ready for work, and then travel a few blocks down the street to open the bakery. Her bakery.

It wasn’t that (Y/n) didn’t enjoy what she did. She happened to enjoy her job very much. All her friends at Hogwart’s had encouraged her, giving her the push she need to travel the journey of opening her own business. It was something she had always wanted to do but her parents begged her not to. In their words they didn’t want ‘an over zealous and unrealistic’ daughter on ther hands. However, their rude words simply were fuel to the fire. During her 5th year, she began to busk tables at various shops in Hogsmeade. It was hard work, balancing long shifts at 3 different shops and still maintaining decent scores in each class. But, she knew if she couldn’t handle that then there was no way she’d be able to handle running a bakery. So day in and day out she’d work, and work, and work and by the end of her 7th year she had a decent amount of money saved up! 

The first issue had been finding a place in a good area that would gain traction and attention while the second one was finding someone willing to sell to someone fresh out of school with no prior business experience. She’d spoken to many people in various different places, some good, and some bad before she finally had been blessed with the chance of meeting Mary and her wife Denise. It was a miracle really. (Y/n) was short on the money, exponentially so however, Mary had sold to her anyways. She said she saw a passion in the girl that she hadn’t seen for a very long time and that it was something she wanted to help foster considering she had had her time to live her dreams and explore passions of her own. So with that, a handshape was exchanged for a beat up envolope filled with the entirety of the girl’s life savings. She had invested every nickel and dime she had ever earned into the place and she prayed it wouldn’t blow up in her face.

Which brought her to where she was today: a proud owner of a highly successful business. And of course, with great business comes a nice chunk of money which caught her parents’ attention. They had began to call her everyday but when that they didn’t work, they showed up at her shop unannounced. At first, she had felt warm inside. Her usual cold and distant parents had come to visit her! However, when they started crunching out numbers and percentages, that short lived happiness was replaced by irritation in which she quickly kicked them out, placing a charm on the building that when they’d attempt to enter (if they really, truly, had the balls to come back), their bodies would be flung right back onto the sidewalk into the heaping piles of trash on the city side walks. Now, (Y/n) was by no means wealthy, but she made a nice amount of money to be engaging in something she enjoyed so heavily, which is why she was confused where they had gotten the idea she had money to share with the main two people who were the cause of her insecurities. Plus, every extra dollar she had she put right back into the shop. Paying her workers, building maintenance, ingredients. She wasn’t a fan of having too much money, her family had shown her what that could cause (and how easily you could lose it all). 

Yet still sometimes she found herself wishing she could live the lavish lifestyle her parents once did. She mainly dreamed more so of the more engaging parts instead of the status and power that came with it. As she frosted various different cakes with thick buttercream, her mind would wonder to vivid imagery of beautiful hotel rooms, with breath taking views. Michelin five star meals, coated in delicious cream sauces. Endless adventure waiting to be discovered.

And yet here she was, sitting at a table as she stuffed her face with a raspberry marzipan cupcake. It was a Wednesday, first one of the month and as per usual, her and Twyla were set together, sampling cakes, chocolates, and other treats for the upcoming days. Wednesday had been the official day  they had chosen due to the slowed flow of people that would come in. (Y/n) liked to have a different theme each day of the week. The customers lived for it and she had massed a group of frequenters who came each day, wondering what the theme would be that day.

“You know boss, I’ve gotta say it. Working here and sampling all these cakes with you is giving me quite the ass!” Twyla said, turning around as she wiggled her ass in the girl’s face for emphasis. (Y/n) giggled, rolling her eyes as she swatted at the girl, missing as she jumped away from her last minute. “Hey! You gotta take me out to dinner first for that.”

“Just because we’re sampling cakes doesn’t mean that the store is closed! Anyone could walk in at any moment and would you really want that to be their first experience here?” she asked, eyes scanning the silver platter in front of them. She decided on the new dessert flavored chocolates she had been working on. Popping it into her mouth, she let out a moan of approval.

“I mean, I dont’ see why not! We’d definitely make a lot more money with a cake like mine!” the blue haired girl said, sitting down as she grabbed a chocolate as well. “Besides, I don’t think those little noises you’re making would help the scene.” she stated, snickering as the girl across from her tensed up.

“It-it’s not like that! The chocolate- it just- I just- ugh!” she stuttered out, huffing as she crossed her arms over her chest, pouting at the girl. “If you’re gonna keep being mean we can end this process. Just tell me what you think of the blueberry pie chocolate so I can know if we’re adding it to tomorrow’s spread.”

“Oh come on (Y/n) it’s good! Every first Wednesday we sit here, you overly critique yourself, then me and Tiana end up picking out our favorites for the next day!” Twyla was right, even their patterns for trying new things remained the same. (Y/n) wiped her messy hand on her aprons, sighing as she stood up to go back to her position behind the counter. Her employee followed, grabbing the platter to put back into the kitchen before joining her boss behind the counter.

“You’re right. I swear everyday is beginning to feel the same.” She opened her notepad, beginning to take inventory of the sweets they had in the display counter. “I’m grateful for everything I have, I really am. But sometimes I just wish I could have something, anything….”

“New?” the green eyed girl added, catching the (h/c) haired girl’s attention. She nodded, looking at the girl who had snuck a cookie out of the glass case. “I feel ya, girl. Everyday feels the same. Sometimes even when new people come in, I can already tell how they’re going to be. How they’ll act, what they’ll order, what method of payment they’ll use.” (Y/n) eyed the girl up, raising a brow.

“Are you sure you’re not just using legilimens?” she questioned, watching as the girl shifted on her feet, scratching the back of her neck.

“Okay so maybe I do sometimes. But a lot of the times I don’t! Like the other day this weird guy came in and- woah. (Y/n) I don’t wanna freak you out but I have a feeling those hotties in suits across the street are going to be walking in here soon.” Twyla said, in an uncharacteristically quiet tone. The shorter girl followed her friend’s gaze, looking out the glass doors across the street. Three unfamiliar men were crossing over, all in suits that she could only assume cost as much as four months of rent. However, the one in the middle really caught her eye.

Before she knew it, the bell chimed and the three of them made their way in. They looked very out of place in the brightly decorated shop. The one in the middle looked the most important, towering over the other two men. He had dark slicked back hair, an eyebrow piercing, and tattoos that were visible on his neck and hands (which had a few beautiful looking rings on them (none of which were a wedding band…)), yet his hazel eyes held a soft look to them. To his left was a redhead boy, freckles danced all along his face. His eyes were bloodshot from god knows what. He had tattoos as well (not as many as the middle man) and a few unique ear piercings. The guy to the hot tall guy’s right was attractive too but not nearly as serious looking as the other two. In fact, he was humming a song under his breath, a smile causing the tattoo on the right side of his face to crease. 

As she went to open her mouth to greet them, the man in the middle eye’s grew wide, his mouth gaping as he stared at her. He walked closer, examining her face closely which caused her to grow confused.

“I’m...I’m sorry. Do I know you?” she asked.

“(Y/n)?” she gasped at the sound of the familiar voice, her notepad and pen dropping from her hands. She made her way around the counter, staring up at the tall man.

“Neville?!”

NEXT||

TAGSLIST: @vayeya11 @pink-hufflepuff @clancyscookies @beewitchedlou @nevillelongbottomsgirlfriend @redpanda-poetry @vibingaesthetically

[nikki-writes-stuff]

Sweet As Sin - Part Four

Summary: After losing your job and having to spend all of your savings, you find yourself completely broke as you desperately search for a job. On a whim, you join a website for sugar babies and sugar daddies can meet, and you’re surprised when you immediately make a connection with Captain America, of all people. But as you grow closer to Steve, you start to realize that there may be a dark side to America’s golden boy.

Pairing: SugarDaddy!Steve Rogers x Reader, with eventual Dark!Steve Rogers

Read part three here!

A/N: Here be smut! 18+ only, please. :) Enjoy and let me know what you think!

Your GPS navigated you to the address Steve had texted you that morning, and you immediately felt out of place as your old, battered Impala puttered down a road lined with well-manicured brownstones. Each one was a little bit unique, but they all had the same thing in common – they were wicked expensive, located in one of the nicest areas of Brooklyn. You had passed a boujee private school, two quaint shopping centers, and a small dog park on the way, and now you were parallel parking in front of Steve’s house.

After reaching into the backseat to sling your duffel bag over your shoulder, you turned on your heel and stared up at the three-story building. Planter boxes lined every window on the street-facing side, and you smiled at the thought of Steve planting and tending to the ferns growing within them. The door had been painted a bright, cheerful red, and an American flag was flapping just to the left of it. You had to chuckle a little at the cliché, but you knew that Steve was an old-fashioned guy. It was easy for you to picture him making this house his home.

You climbed the front steps and knocked on the door, adjusting your knit cap as you waited for your boyfriend to answer. The wind was biting as it whirled through the streets of New York, and a quick glance skyward told you that snow would be coming soon.

You were broken out of your thoughts when the door opened, revealing Steve smiling down at you from its other side. He was dressed in a cable-knit sweater that was the same color of his eyes, and your mouth watered when you saw the steaming mug of coffee in his left hand.

“Hey, doll,” he greeted you, and you immediately stepped into the warm space, pressing your forehead against his chest.

“You’re so warm,” you groaned, eliciting a chuckle from him.

“Glad I can be of service,” he joked. The door clicked shut behind you as his free hand rubbed your back. “You’re cold as ice, hon. Come in; let me take your things.”

Steve slid your duffel bag off of your shoulder, waving at you to follow him into the living room. Along the way, your eyes skimmed over the space, taking in the pictures he had dotted around the walls. You paused at one that showed him sitting on a couch with some very familiar faces; Tony Stark was sitting directly to Steve’s left, holding his hand up behind his head to give him bunny ears. Then, there was the famous Natasha Romanoff, who had her legs draped over Hawkeye’s knees. Thor – the actual Thor - was standing behind the couch holding a massive stein of beer, a large, dopey smile spread across his face as he posed for the camera. And, to top it all off, Bruce Banner was sitting on the floor in front of Mr. Stark with a shy grin.

“That’s me and the original team,” Steve said from behind you, and you jolted at how close he suddenly was. “We took that about a year after the Battle of New York. Tony’s always throwing these parties around holidays.”

You smiled, turning back to face him.

“You guys look like you’re all good friends,” you commented.

“Yeah… We’ve had our ups and downs, but we all know that we have one another’s backs.”

You grinned and wrapped your arms around his neck, playing with the baby hairs growing at the base of his skull.

“You need to tell me about some of your adventures sometime,” you remarked. Steve laughed and squeezed your hip, pressing a quick peck to your lips.

“You’re my favorite adventure so far.”

“Oh, my god,” you laughed. “That was so cheesy, Steve!”

He smiled sheepishly before stepping back, leading you towards a crackling fireplace waiting just in the other room.

“As cheesy as it is, it’s true.”

You nearly melted once you laid eyes on Steve’s living room. The space was incredibly cozy; there was a large, beige sectional sofa to one side, and a matching loveseat was placed directly in front of it on the other side of the hardwood coffee table. To the left, there was a large bay window that had been visible from the street, and there was a window seat built into it full of decorative pillows. Bookshelves lined the opposite wall, and you recognized one of them from the picture Steve had sent to you during your first ever conversation.

The fireplace, though, was truly the heart of the space. It was large and made of stone, and above the mantle, there was a huge painting of the New York skyline done in abstract shades of brown and red. As you walked further into the room, you felt the heat from the fireplace wash over you, and you didn’t hesitate before taking a seat on the floor in front of it and sticking your hands out to warm them by the fire.

“Steve, I’m in love with this room,” you gushed, smiling up at him.

“And here I thought I’d never be jealous of my own house,” he joked, lowering himself down beside you. He set your duffel to the side and carefully set his coffee down a few feet away before pulling you flush against his side. You leaned into him as his arm came up around your shoulders, closing your eyes as you breathed in the scent of his cologne.

“I can’t take full credit for this place, though,” Steve continued on. “When I picked this house out, Tony surprised me by hiring a decorator. But there are a few things that I’ve done here and there to put my own spin on it.”

“Like what?”

You watched as he pointed at the painting above the mantle, nodding towards it.

“Well, I did that about a week after I moved in.”

“Wait, you painted that? Steve, that’s amazing.”

You turned to him just in time to catch the blush that was painted over his features. He just chuckled and shook his head, waving off your compliment.

“Nah, it’s nothing. I don’t make nearly as much art as I used to,” he confessed. “Back when I was growing up, I would draw on the side to earn extra cash for me and my mom all the time.”

You smiled, craning your neck so you could look up at him.

“What kind of things would you draw?” you asked.

“Usually people,” he reminisced. “I would set up my sketchpad on a street in a rich neighborhood, and some people passing by would give me a nickel to do a quick sketch of them.”

“Wow… So on top of everything else, he draws too,” you chuckled. “Is there anything you can’t do, Steve?”

He laughed, pulling you tighter against him.

“Oh, god, yeah,” he laughed. “You could write a series of encyclopedias about the things I can’t do.”

“Oh, please. Name just one.”

“I can’t dance,” he said immediately.

“C’mon, everyone can dance-“

“Everyone except for Steve Rogers,” he insisted. “It was the same back when I was younger; whether it’s to modern music or not, I can’t dance without looking like a goober.”

You snorted, shaking your head.

“I’m sorry, just… ‘Goober’?”

Steve winced, glancing at you sheepishly.

“…People don’t say ‘goober’ anymore?”

“Steve, no one has used the word ‘goober’ in a sentence in a thousand years.”

“Now, I know that’s not true. I’m old, but I’m not a thousand-“

“Are you sure about that?” you interrupted with a grin. “Because anyone who says goober should probably be checked into a nursing home. Actually, I passed a few on the way, if you’d like to consider-“

You cut yourself off with a squeal as Steve turned you around, pressing your back to the floor as he straddled your hips.

“You know what?” he laughed. “I don’t need to take this abuse.”

You couldn’t hold back the giggles that were tumbling out of your lips, and Steve’s smile matched yours as he held you firmly in place despite how much you were squirming.

“Oh, what, do you have somewhere to go, miss?” he asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Yes!”

“And where is that?”

“I was hoping,” you smiled, “to explore my boyfriend’s house a little bit. See what kind of incriminating things I can find in his bedside drawers and medicine cabinets; you know how it is.”

“Hmmm… No, can’t say I do. What I do know, though,” he remarked, moving one of his hands slowly down your side, “is that your boyfriend has something else he would rather be doing.”

You bit your lip, looking down to watch as his hand snaked lower and lower, eventually finding the button on your jeans. His fingers played with it a bit as he watched your face to gauge your reaction; you looked up at him, staring into his blue irises, and saw how his pupils seemed to dilate.

Suddenly, his mouth was on yours, and you made a small noise of surprise before wrapping your arms around his back and kissing him. The carpet was soft beneath your skin as he slowly started to pull your shirt off, and when you finally broke your kiss, it was only so he could fully remove it and toss it onto the couch. The heat of the fire was warm against your right side, but you still shivered as his eyes hungrily settled on your breasts. You said a silent thank you to your past self for deciding to wear one of your nicer bras that morning as Steve ran his hands over the pink lace of your lingerie.

“I really like this,” he murmured under his breath, most likely to himself. You felt your cheeks heat up from his praise, but your eyes widened when Steve abruptly reached around your back and ripped the bra’s band clean in half.

“Steve!”

“I’ll buy you another one just like it,” he promised, hushing your protests with another searing kiss.  

He tossed the now-useless scrap of fabric away before greedily kneading at your tits, rolling them in his palms as his hips started to grind against yours. Every time his bulge pressed against you just right, you felt shocks of pleasure emanate from your already-drenched pussy.

His lips slowly started to trek downwards, trailing a path down your cheek to your neck, and you cried out when you felt him bite your flesh. Your fingers dug into his shoulders as he licked over the bitemark, soothing it before once more sucking in what you were certain would be an impressive hickey later.

Suddenly, though, you felt yourself being flipped over, and your breath was nearly taken away when Steve maneuvered you onto your belly.

“I wanna try something,” he murmured against your ear. You nodded quickly as you felt him guide you up onto your knees, and you shifted to support your weight on your elbows.

You craned your neck and looked over your shoulder, watching as Steve efficiently started removing his and the rest of your clothes, tossing them into a neat pile before turning his attention to you again. He smirked, giving you a wink as he knelt behind you.

“Have I mentioned,” he asked, “how much I love your ass?”

As soon as the words left his mouth, you saw his jaw clench as he brought his palm down hard against your ass. You gasped, closing your eyes and letting your head fall forward. Again, he spanked you, and you bit your lip from the sting it left in its wake.

“I asked you a question, baby,” Steve cooed as his hands groped and squeezed your ass.

“I-I,” you stammered, trying to gather your scattered thought. “Uh, n-no, I don’t think you’ve mentioned it.”

“Well.” You could hear the smile on his lips as he once more leaned down, covering your body with his as he kissed your shoulder. “I love it. And I wanna watch it as I fuck you.”

You gulped and nodded, biting your lip as Steve’s mouth trailed down your spine. A noise escaped your throat as his hands spread your ass cheeks, and your pussy clenched as it was exposed to the sudden rush of cool air. You spread your knees wider apart and arched your back, glancing behind you once again.

Steve’s eyes darkened as he took in your form, sitting back on his heels as his hands shifted, using his thumbs to keep you spread open while the rest of his digits curled around your hips. His tongue darted out, licking his lips as his eyes focused on your pussy.

“So wet,” he observed, leaning closer. “Is this all for me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And do you want me?”

“Yes, Steve, please-“

“What happened to sir?”

He arched an eyebrow, smirking up at you, and you felt something mischievous stir within you.

“Sorry, Captain,” you purred, wiggling your ass. “I meant to say, ‘Please, sir, fuck me until I can’t walk straight-‘”

A moan interrupted you as Steve leaned in and licked a stripe up your pussy, from your clit to your entrance. Your eyes fluttered shut, and you let out a moan as he lapped at your clit, circling it with the tip of his tongue. One of his hands trailed up your back until it rested between your shoulder blades, and you felt him slowly start to press you downwards until your chest was flush against the carpet and your ass was sticking further up into the air.

All the while, his tongue was starting to flatten out, tracing patterns against your clit that had you seeing stars. You squeezed your eyes shut and pressed your forehead against your crossed forearms, your hips jolting any time his tongue changed its pace. Moans fell from your lips unbidden, and you hoped to God his neighbors couldn’t hear you as you grew louder and louder.

The carpet was rough against your knees and your hands, and the lewd sounds of Steve’s tongue laving over your soaked cunt filled the air. You could feel your own juices running down the inside of your thighs, and you could tell from the knot tightening in your belly that you were getting close to cumming.

“Steve,” you panted, pushing your hips back against him. “Fuck, I’m close-“

As soon as the words were out of your mouth, though, Steve pulled away. You whined at the loss, your nails digging into the carpet as you squeezed your thighs together. Within seconds, though, you felt Steve grip your hips as he drew himself up onto his knees, and before you take a breath to prepare yourself, he was pushing into you.

“O-oh, fuck,” he groaned, “Been thinkin’ about this pussy all damn day…”

He wasted no time before starting to move, and you braced yourself as you felt the way your pussy stretched around him; his cock was still just as big as you remembered it being, but despite the burn from being stuffed so full, it still felt amazing as your cunt took his hard length.

“Captain, oh my God-“

You craned your neck to watch him, taking in the way his muscles tensed and flexed as he rolled his hips forward. His eyebrows were furrowed, and his jaw was clenched; you wondered if he was straining to control himself and his strength, doing his best not to hurt you.

Ragged groans were emanating from his parted lips as he fucked you into the floor, and his hands were continuously exploring your body, gliding over your ass to your tits and then back to your hips. With every thrust, the head of his cock was slamming into a spot deep inside of you that had you all but screaming his name, and you knew it wouldn’t be long before you found your release.

“You’re getting close,” Steve grunted, pressing his chest against your back and caging you in beneath his body. “I can feel it; you gonna cum for me?”

“Y-yes, sir,” you moaned. “F-fuck, I’m so close-“

One of Steve’s hands moved towards your pussy, brushing past your folds to tap your clit in time with his thrusts. You wailed, your body tensing as your orgasm ripped through you. Your eyes rolled as wave after wave of pleasure washed over your body, and somewhere in the background you could hear Steve’s groan as he came inside of you. Hot cum coated your inner walls as you both rode out your highs, and you shivered as his cock began to soften inside of you.

“Fuck, doll,” he sighed, rolling over onto his side. He gently took you in his arms, spooning you from behind as you faced the fire. “I’d been looking forward to that.”

A laugh bubbled past your lips, and you turned your head to press a quick peck to his lips.

“Me too. To be honest, I don’t know how I’m gonna be able to keep my hands off of you, now that I’m gonna be staying here.”

You turned away just as a wide grin spread over Steve’s face, and you missed the pleased, possessive gleam in his eyes as he pecked your cheek.

“I hope it takes them a long time to fix your heating, then.”

____________

The rest of the day went by quickly. You and Steve laid there, talking and dozing for a good hour before going for another round. This time, he fucked you from behind as you laid on the floor, rocking his hips slowly as he whispered filthy things into your ear. Your orgasm was slow-building and languid as he slowly wrung it out of you, and you didn’t even realize you’d fallen asleep afterwards until you awoke to find Steve picking you up.

“Sorry, doll,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Oh! Oh, no, it’s… it’s fine. Shit, what time is it?”

“It’s almost five.” Your eyebrows flew up as he started carrying you to the staircase, climbing it with long, confident strides despite baring the weight of an entire other person in his arms. “I was just about to start on dinner.”

“Oh?” A yawn interrupted you, and you giggled when Steve yawned immediately after. “Oh, sorry.”

“For what?”

“For giving you my yawn.”

Steve frowned.

“I… Don’t understand. Your yawn?”

“Yeah! Cuz, you know. Yawns are contagious?”

He shook his head as he carried you into a bathroom decorated in white and blue tile. He sat you down on the counter as he bent down to retrieve a hand towel from beneath the sink, and you took the opportunity to admire just how wide his shoulders were.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“Yawns are contagious; for most people, if they see someone else yawn, it makes them yawn, too,” you explained. “It’s a sign of empathy.”

“Huh.” Steve smiled as he ran the towel under the sink, getting it wet with warm water. “Well. Since I caught your yawn…”

“…It means you’re a very empathetic person,” you finished. “But I could’ve told you that anyways.”

“Mm.”

He pulled your legs apart gently as he nodded, and you felt your cheeks heat up as he started to clean the cum from between your legs. His touch was exceedingly gentle as he ran the rag over your skin, and the warmth in his eyes as he looked at you made butterflies erupt into flight within your chest. You thought that this might just be the most intimate moment you’d ever shared with another person; there was something about the sudden shift in mood and the vulnerability of your position that made you want to cling to Steve and never let go.

You weren’t sure who leaned in first, but his lips found yours in a slow, lazy kiss that had your toes curling. You ran your fingers through his hair, feeling his beard as it tickled and brushed against your chin. He tasted like coffee, and he was so warm; you felt as if you were going to dissolve into his touch.

From there, Steve carried you into the kitchen, which was right next to the living room. It, too, was decked out with blue and white tile, and there were several modern stainless steel appliances with the Stark logo on them. You sat on one of the barstools at the island in the center of the room, making easy conversation with your boyfriend as he set about cooking a casserole of some sort.

“Thanks again for letting me stay with you,” you sighed, setting your chin in your hand. “Leave it to my luck to have my heat go out during the coldest time in the year.”

“I don’t think it had anything to do with luck,” Steve spoke, glancing up at you. “I looked into it, and apparently three other apartment complexes in your neighborhood had the same thing happen.”

You straightened upon hearing that; you hadn’t seen that anywhere on the news.

“Oh, wow. I had no idea.”

He shrugged, pulling a head of broccoli from the fridge.

“Well, your side of town isn’t exactly the, uh…safest place to live,” he mused. “If anything, I’m surprised this hasn’t happened sooner.”

“Hey, it’s not so bad,” you quickly defended. “If anything, it’s on the nicer side of things for that part of Brooklyn.”

For a moment, Steve looked as if he wanted to say something, but he held back, closing his mouth before he could make whatever point he’d just thought of.

“…I guess I just worry about you,” he finally huffed. “Sorry; I know that’s probably paranoid.”

“It is,” you agreed. “But… It’s also very sweet. And I am grateful that you invited me to stay here with you.”

A smile came to his lips, and his eyes twinkled as he looked over at you.

“It’s my pleasure, sweetheart.”

As it turned out, the casserole Steve made was actually good, despite its bland coloration and questionable look. It was a recipe from the 30’s, after all, but you weren’t disappointed. After eating, you insisted on helping Steve do the dishes, which you did standing side by side in a comfortable silence.

Once the dishes were dried and put away, Steve brought your duffel bag up to the bedroom, giving you a quick tour of the space on the way.

“There are three stories and a basement,” he explained as you ascended the stairs. “But I only use the first and second floor, for the most part.”

He paused on the landing, pointing out various doorways as he listed off rooms.

“Office, bathroom, and bedroom through there,” he explained, gesturing to each respectively. He turned and pointed towards the second set of stairs, which lead upwards. “Upstairs is there, but don’t bother checking it out; it’s just storage and old boxes.”

He walked into the bedroom, which had in it the biggest bed that you had ever laid eyes on. It looked like something out of a movie, and you immediately walked over and sank down, headfirst, into its grey sheets. Steve laughed as he set your bag on the dresser.

“Comfy?”

“Oh, my God,” you groaned, your voice muffled by the sheets. “It’s so comfy, Steve.”

“I did not understand a word of what you just said,” he joked. “But I think it was a yes.”

That evening, the two of you sat on the sofa and watched movies in your pajamas. As it turned out, Steve had never seen Star Wars (though you weren’t terribly surprised by that fact), so he rented A New Hope for the two of you. He kept up with the plot surprisingly well, though you could tell some of the science-fiction jargon went way over his head. And once it was over, he asked if you would watch Empire Strikes Back with him next, which you happily agreed to do even though you were starting to feel your eyelids grow heavy.

Steve’s reaction to the ending, though, was completely worth staying up. You laughed as he sat there, watching the credits, his jaw still slack with shock.

“…So wait a minute,” he finally said, setting his elbows on his knees and staring at the screen. “You’re tellin’ me that Darth Vader is Luke’s father?!”

“I cannot believe you haven’t had that spoiled for you before,” you laughed.

“I mean, I thought it was a little funny that his name means ‘father’ in German, but I thought it was just a coincidence,” he huffed, running a hand through his hair. He let himself relax once again, sinking back into the sofa cushions, and you set your head on his shoulder as he tapped his foot restlessly.

“Darth Vader is Luke’s dad,” he whispered to himself, and you barked out a laugh. Directly afterwards, though, a yawn overtook you, and Steve looked down at you with an arched eyebrow. “Gettin’ sleepy?”

“Just a bit,” you yawned once again. You blinked up at Steve slowly, finding a fond smile plastered across his lips.

“I think,” he said, pulling you into his arms, “that it’s time for us to go to bed.”

You made no protest as he picked you up, effortlessly carrying you through the house as he went around, shutting off all the lights. He only let you go once he brought you to the bedroom, and you kissed his cheek before kneeling down by your duffel, looking around for your toothbrush.

“Oh, shit,” you groaned under your breath. “No, no, come on-“

“What’s the matter?” Steve asked from the other side of the room.

“I forgot my toothbrush,” you sighed, standing up. “I’m gonna have the worst morning breath.”

Steve chuckled and gestured for you to follow him to the bathroom.

“Don’t worry; I picked up an extra for you the last time I was at the store,” he told you.

“Oh, thank God-“  You paused, arching an eyebrow at him. “Wait… How did you know I would be over?”

The smile on his face faltered for just a second as he turned to answer your question, but it righted itself before he spoke next.

“Oh, I didn’t. But I was hopeful that you’d spend the night here at some point.”

You grinned, nudging his shoulder with yours after he pulled a still-packaged toothbrush out of the medicine cabinet.

“Someone was confident,” you smirked.

“No, not confident,” he corrected you. “Just hopeful.”

____________

You slept like a baby that night; how could you not? Steve held you in his arms almost the entire time; as it turned out, he was a bit of a cuddler in his sleep. You weren’t complaining, though; when you woke up the next morning, you felt more well-rested than you had in a long, long time.

“Oh, you’re finally awake.”

You turned to find Steve walking into the bedroom, already dressed in a pair of jeans and a blue button-down. A quick glance towards the clock told you that it was only 8:07 in the morning, but you could already smell breakfast wafting from downstairs.

“How’d you sleep?” Steve asked, drawing your attention back to him.

“Perfectly,” you smiled, pushing the sheets back and stretching.

“Well, I’m glad. We have a busy day ahead of us,” he remarked. You arched an eyebrow as you stood up and made your way over to your duffel.

“Oh, really? What do you have planned for us, Cap?”

You jumped when you felt him press up against you from behind, and you let him tilt your head to the side so he could press a soft kiss to your neck.

“Well,” he murmured, trailing his hands over your hips. “I thought that we could eat a big breakfast, first off. And afterwards, I was thinking we could go to the zoo.”

You gasped and spun around, feeling excitement spark in your chest.

“What?!”

Steve laughed, a wide grin spreading over his features.

“Well, why not? I’m in between missions, so there’s nowhere for me to be. And I’ve always wanted to take a dame to Prospect Park; me and Bucky were actually at the opening of the zoo there back in the 30’s.”

“That’s…really cool, Steve,” you smiled, starting to pick out your outfit for the day. “What was it like?”

Steve sat on the bed and watched as you debated which sweater you wanted to wear with the jeans you’d picked out, thinking back to the fond memory.

“Well, me and Bucky were broke, first of all,” he chuckled. “We couldn’t afford a ticket in, but Buck was friends with one of the zookeeper’s sons. So he snuck us in with him when he went in to work that morning.

“The whole place was packed that first day; things were different back then, you know. Most people had only ever seen pictures of an elephant or a lion, and even then, the pictures weren’t detailed and in color the way they are today. So people were seeing these creatures they’d only ever imagined before in real life for the first time. It was…”

You looked over as you pulled your sweater over your head, catching the small, wistful smile on Steve’s face as he thought back to that time.

“It was magical, as corny as that sounds,” he finally sighed. “Plus, that opening day was the day before my birthday, so it was extra special for me.”

“Oh, I bet that was one incredible b-day,” you said. “What day is it on?”

At that, Steve paused, and you could have sworn that a blush had started to spread over his cheeks.

“I… Well, it’s…”

You frowned, walking over to set your hands on his shoulders.

“What is it?” you asked? “Don’t wanna tell your own girlfriend when your birthday is?”

Steve let out a huff of laughter at that, letting his hands come to rest on your waist.

“It’s just… Well. When Tony found out about it, he never let me hear the end of it. In fact, every year since he found out, he’s thrown an enormous, obnoxious birthday barbeque for me.”

“Oh, come on, that doesn’t sound so bad-“

“My birthday is on the fourth of July.”

You blinked, trying your best to fight back the grin that was trying to spread over your face. A sharp burst of laughter escaped you, and you quickly threw your hand over your mouth as Steve let out a sigh.

“…Yyyyeah…”

“You’re kidding me,” you giggled, letting your hand fall from your mouth to your chest. “No, that’s…that’s too perfect. The universe would never be so rude to you.”

Steve shook his head, scratching his beard.

“Tony puts up these banners that say Happy America Day, and my cake has been red, white, and blue for the past five years.”

You couldn’t help it; you laughed so hard that tears came to your eyes; Steve had just looked so defeated as he said that, and you couldn’t deny the irony that Steve would also just happen to be born on the same day America declared its independence from Britain. He took it like a champ, though, and just laughed with you at the coincidence.

“Well,” you finally said, still grinning, “this year we’ll do something for your birthday that’s decidedly not patriotic.”

Steve, for his part, actually looked touched, and there was a tone of relief in his next words.

“I would…really like that.”

______________

That day might have been one of the best of your life. After feasting on pancakes, bacon, and scrambled eggs, the two of you dressed up in your warmest coats and left for the zoo. Steve had offered to drive you there on his motorcycle, and despite your initial trepidation, you’d said yes. As it turned out, you enjoyed the experience, if for no other reason than it gave you an excuse to have Steve between your legs for the duration of the short drive. It was nice to feel the wind rush around you as you clung to him, and the way the bike tilted into the twists and turns of the road was exhilarating.

You’d never had as much fun at a zoo as you had that day. Steve gave you a grand tour of the parts he remembered from the 30’s, and you told him random facts about the various animals the two of you saw. And despite the fact that Steve swore up and down that he didn’t enjoy using modern technology, he took nearly a thousand pictures that day – most of them were of you or whatever animal you were looking at, but you managed to convince him to take a few selfies with you.

You even captured a picture of Steve that, in your opinion, was priceless. It was of him in front of the lion exhibit, and it was taken the moment one of the lions started walking right towards the glass. Steve’s eyes were wide in the photo, and his mouth was open wide in an excited smile; you’d found out later that lions were his favorite animal. He told you that as you two sat in the zoo’s main plaza, snacking on some overpriced pizza that Steve had insisted he didn’t mind getting for the two of you.

“To be fair,” he said after laughing at the picture, “lions are my favorites. I get that excited any time I see one.”

“Really? Why lions?” you asked.

One of the corners of his mouth lifted in a smile, and he took a sip of his beer before answering.

“They were always my mom’s favorite,” he explained, and you could hear a hint of melancholy in his voice. “I used to draw them for her; they always made her happy, even after she got sick.”

A sad smile had fallen over his face, and your heart squeezed at the sight of it.

“…I can tell you miss her,” you spoke softly, reaching over to put your hand over his. “But for what it’s worth, I know that she was proud of you, and she’d be even prouder to see who you’ve become. But… I know that doesn’t make it any easier.”

Steve’s eyes found yours, and no one could miss the affection that was glimmering in them for you. His hand squeezed yours, and he leaned in to press a kiss to your cheek.

“Thanks, doll,” he murmured. “It does help, more than you know.”

After the two of you finished your lunch, you walked around the rest of the zoo, hand in hand. Steve’s beard made it harder for people to recognize him, but there were still a few who came up asking for selfies with him. He was always gracious about it, letting them take a quick photo and thanking them for their kind words before turning back to you. There were others who didn’t come up to talk to him but who definitely still recognized who he was; you saw a few of them taking pictures of you, but you tried not to worry about it, focusing instead of Steve and the scenery around you.

Once you were done at the zoo, you two walked around for a while without any real purpose or destination. You took in the sights of the city, strolling down tiny side streets and exploring what Brooklyn had to offer. Towards mid-afternoon, you stumbled upon a small, hole-in-the-wall café that had the most delicious smell wafting from its open door. The two of you had stepped in to find that the shop owner had just baked some homemade cinnamon rolls, and so the two of you took a break in your exploration of the city to have a cup of coffee while sharing a cinnamon roll. It, of course, was sinfully delicious, as was the sight of Steve licking icing off of his lips.

He caught you staring at one point and winked, causing you to look away as your cheeks heated up in embarrassment. You got him right back, though, when you saw his eyes linger on your mouth as you licked icing off your fingertips.

“See something you like, sir?” you’d asked quietly. His eyes had visibly darkened, and his voice was husky when he leaned in to murmur his reply.

“I��m gonna remember that later on tonight, baby,” he’d promised.

And once the two of you got back to his place, that’s exactly what he did. That night, the two of you could barely keep your hands off each other. When you finally did manage to go to sleep, you were thoroughly exhausted, which might have been the reason why you slept so late the next day. In any case, when you finally woke up, the clock on the nightstand told you it was 9:30 already.

“Fuck,” you sighed, sitting up stiffly as your sore muscles ached in protest.

No amount of stretching was able to calm the ache in your limbs, but despite how it made your every movement burn, you didn’t regret a single thing about the day before. A small, sated smile had settled over your lips as you pulled on one of Steve’s t-shirts and made your way downstairs. Halfway there, though, you heard your lover’s voice coming from the kitchen, and he didn’t seem happy.

You paused, a frown spreading over your face you slowed to a stop.

“I don’t care, Fury,” Steve was saying. You peeked around the corner, seeing him seated at the island, a stormy expression on his face as he stared down at his cup of coffee. You could just barely catch the sound of a man yelling something on the other line, but you couldn’t make out his words.

“Then get Natasha to lead the mission,” he suddenly barked, and you ducked back around the corner as you listened. “Or Sam; he’s more than capable of-“

He was interrupted again, and you bit your lip, contemplating whether or not you should reveal yourself. Maybe you should go back upstairs? But what if he heard you walking away – would he realize you’d been eavesdropping?

“Director, my personal relationships are none of your business,” he all but growled, and your ears perked up; was he talking about you? “And neither are my reasons for turning down missions. Bottom line is, I’m not going. Sam will be willing to lead, and you can send Wanda in for extra backup. And before you say anything, yes, she’s ready for this.”

With that, Steve hung up; you heard the clatter of him dropping his phone onto the countertop. You held your breath and counted to ten in your head before straightening up and walking around the corner, watching as his head popped up to look at you.

“Good morning,” you smiled, walking over to press a kiss to his cheek. “Did I hear you on the phone with someone?”

Instantly, the worried lines on his face disappeared, and an easy smile overtook his features as he pulled you in for a quick kiss.

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” he said. “Just some business back at the compound – nothing to worry about.”

You pulled back, looking over his face; as upset as he’d sounded before, now there were no traces of frustration to be seen. A small part inside of you glowed at the thought that you’d been the one to relieve his tension so quickly, but you couldn’t help but wonder about what his phone call had been about.

“I was thinking we could go back to that café we found yesterday for breakfast,” he said abruptly. “Does that sound good to you?”

“Oh! Yeah,” you said, smiling. “I’d like that. I’ll go get dressed.”

Steve smiled and nodded, watching your ass as you walked back towards the stairs. His eyes followed you until you completely left the room, and even then his gaze lingered where you’d been standing moments before; he was totally, completely, addicted to the feelings you brought up in him. At first, he’d felt guilty about tampering with the heating unit for your building, but he reasoned that it would only take them about a week to fix it. And, God, did he need this – a week alone with the woman he was so quickly growing to adore.

Any shred of regret he’d felt from stealing the copper wires from your heating unit or from turning down missions just so he could spend more time with you had faded away as soon as you came walking into the kitchen wearing nothing but his t-shirt. So, no, he wasn’t going to entertain Director Fury’s tantrums when he said no to an assignment. In fact, he reached for his phone and turned it off before sliding it in his pocket and picking up the newspaper in front of him.

He sipped his coffee as he skimmed over the articles, and although he usually discarded the gossip and entertainment sections entirely, his eyes fell on a headline that caught his attention. Biting his lip, he turned to its page, staring that the picture printed before him. It was from yesterday, when the two of you had gone to the zoo. His hand was in yours, and you were smiling up at him as the two of you strolled past the elephant exhibit. ‘Captain America Finally Finds Love?’ was scrawled boldly across the top of the page, and his eyes scanned the article, taking in the various speculations as to who you were and how you’d met the famous super soldier.

Just as he was finished reading, he heard your footsteps start to descend the staircase, and he quickly pulled the page out of the paper and folded it in half a few times, sliding it into his pocket just before you appeared in the doorway, looking absolutely gorgeous in a deep burgundy sweater dress and soft gray leggings.

“Ready to go?” you asked, adjusting the knit cat perched on top of your head.

Steve grinned and stood up, grabbing his keys before making his way over to you.

“I sure am, doll.”

[hbostolemysoul]

Band of Brothers fluff alphabet : George Luz

A = Attractive (What do they find attractive about the other?)

It was your laugh. George does his part to try and keep the spirits of Easy up, but as the war drags on the laughter lessens and becomes less genuine. Hearing you full on belly laugh at one of his dumb jokes helped to bring back a spark in him that had almost been extinguished.

B = Baby (Do they want a family? Why/Why not?)

After the war absolutely. As goofy as Luz can be he will be nothing but committed to you and any children you have. Some of his fondest memories come from goofing around with his younger siblings. So you best be prepared for a few mini Georges running around. (Good luck)

C = Cuddle (How do they cuddle?)

George is a pretty affectionate guy, but his favorite position comes from him half laying on you after a rough day. His head will be resting on the left side of your chest. He will make some crude joke about 'cushioning', but in all honesty the sound of your heart helps to keep him in the present. He finds it easy to get lost in memories of the war. Hearing that steady beating reminds him that he is safe and in your arms.

D = Dates (What are dates with them like?)

Movies. Or at least the theatres you are still allowed in. George has a knack for picking up dialogue quickly. He is like your own walking spoiler alert. But you love him anyway.

E = Everything (You are my ____ (e.g. my life, my world…))

" You are the straw to my berry"

All of the puns. Prepare for a new one every day, each one worse than the last.

F = Feelings (When did they know they were in love?)

The very moment he saw you knock Talbert on his ass for trying to 'grab fanny'. From that day on George decided he wanted to be the only one you knocked on their ass for trying to cop a feel.

G = Gentle (Are they gentle? If so, how?)

George would never, EVER hurt you. He is more the teasing gentle type. Soft kisses that are never enough followed immediatley by him blowing raspberries to get an exasperated laugh from you.

H = Hands (How do they like to hold hands?)

During the war he had to restrain himself from holding you close and openly comforting you. You were already a woman in a company full of men, he did not want any unsavory rumours started about you. But there would be times when you would both be sitting side by side on the back of the trucks, and his hand would slowly find yours. Cold fingers intertwined away from prying eyes.

Now that the war is over though, his hand hardly leaves yours when you are out together...or sitting on the couch together....or ;)

I = Impression (What was their first impression?)

He would never admit it, but he blushed so hard the tops of his ears turned pink. You were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

J = Jealousy (Do they get jealous?)

Pouty. He gets pouty. Mostly because he knows you will respond with an exasperated sigh, roll your eyes, and then gently kiss him.

K = Kiss (How do they kiss? Who initiated the first kiss?)

You. It was the morning after D-Day, when you managed to regroup with Easy. The sound of his dumb voice broke something in you. Racing over you manged to grab and pull him behind a nearby wall and smash your mouth against his. He was stunned for maybe a moment before he started to slow the kiss down, deepening it and making you tingle right down to your toes.

"I'm happy to see you too" he said with that small grin of his.

L = Love (Who says ‘I love you’ first?)

He does. You were by Muck and Penkala's foxhole when they got hit in Bastogne. When the shelling stopped he just sat there as Lip went to check on everyone. Like a startled animal his eyes shot up as you slid down into the foxhole next to him. Covered in dirt and twigs in your hair, but otherwise unharmed. Luz pulled you close and held you for longer than what was probably safe. The words were whispered into your neck so softly at first that you almost did not hear them. After that day he made a habit of sneaking up on you and whispering the words into your neck, leaving a teasing kiss behind every time.

M = Memory (What’s their favourite memory together?)

The first night the two of you were able to spend together in something other than a hole in the ground. You did nothing more than sleep, but the feeling of your body next to his brought him a sense of peace he had not felt since home. He can still remember the way the morning light illuminated your sleepy form.

N = Nickel (Do they spoil? Do they buy the person they love everything?)

George is the king of dumb gifts. We are talking random shit that he knows will either make you groan or laugh.

O = Orange (What colour reminds them of their other half?)

Yellow. You represent everything bright and beautiful in his world. Much like the sun on the morning you two first woke up together.

P = Pet names (What pet names do they use?)

Doll, Baby, Light of my life, ect. He likes to change it up sometimes to see how you would react

Q = Quaint (What is their favourite non-modern thing?)

Old black and white films, even the silent ones. He enjoys making up the dialogue as the movie progresses

R = Rainy Day (What do they like to do on a rainy day?)

Rainy days = Sad Luz days. It rained lots over seas, and his memories turn as gloomy as sky. You would find him smoking under the porch watching the sky. It is in these moments that he needs you most. A reassuring touch, a gentle kiss that turns in raspberries/pay back will usually get that small glint back in his eyes.

S = Sad (How do they cheer themselves/others up?)

George is a pretty happy guy, but sometimes the happiest people hurt the most. It can sometimes take a few days for Luz to come out of his funk. But having you close to cuddle with makes the bounce back process a hell of a lot easier.

T = Talking (What do they like to talk about?)

What doesn't Luz take about?? Never a dull moment I can promise you that.

U = Unencumbered (What helps them relax?)

Much like cuddling, the sound of your heartbeat and your gentle fingers running through his hair.

V = Vaunt (What do they like to show off? What are they proud of?)

You...and the puppy (giant ass puppy) he named after Bull Randleman.

W = Wedding (When, how, where do they propose?)

He would ask you to marry him as soon as the war ended. You would probably be married later that year, surrounded by the Luz clan and some buddies from Easy. If the war had taught you two anything, it was that you should never waste a moment of happiness.

X = Xylophone (What’s their song?)

Good Times - All Time Low

Y = Yes (Do they ever think of getting married/proposing?)

Heck yeah. As soon as possible.

Z = Zebra (If they wanted a pet, what would they get?)

An English Mastiff (big ass dog = Bull the dog)

[shewantedtobeasecretgirl]

Dangerous Type

Sooo... there was this writing prompt of @shadowsonoureyes ... that I really liked and I immediately started working on it... But something happened in the meantime. I think everyone who understands my username knows what I’m talking about... and I’ll probably feel weird or even guilty about writing my dumb little stories for a while, although I always tried (and keep trying) to do it as respectful as I can. Despite all these feelings I decided to finish and post this one shot, please don’t judge me because of doing it. And... as my side project called “real life” allows, I’m going back to work slowly on my “regular” fic... seeya...

Seattle, Friday, August 17th, 1990

When I stop my car opposite Central Tavern, I can already see the crowd gathering at the entrance. I agreed with Cee, my roommate on meeting each other somewhere there. It’s not difficult to spot her: being a young, aspiring artist, she always wears something extreme. And she always gets clues about the most promising gigs in town from her bohemian friends. I was still at the bureau when she called me on my office number so that I didn’t go home after my self-defense class but met her here. Normally, I don’t accompany her to these occasions but today is somehow different; that “carpe diem” vibe that strikes me once in a blue moon led me here.

“Hey, Al, what a babe!” she greets me. Gosh, I hope not many people heard that; I feel embarrassed enough in my classy “little black dress”. But you don’t really have a choice if you work at one of Seattle’s leading law firms…

“Don’t tease me, I’ve had a terrible day.” I roll my eyes as we’re heading to the bar counter. “Unbearable clients, piles of documents, impatient bosses… I can’t wait to have a blast.”

“The good girl in party mode? Finally!” she glances up at the ceiling with an exaggerated, victorious arm move. “Couldn’t you get the everyday shit out of yourself at the training?”

“Negative. Today, we worked in pairs and I had to fight against that menopausal hammer thrower… you can imagine, I spent the whole class lying on the mattress, searching for my internal organs.”

“Oh, you poor baby… You should…”

She’s cut off by an annoying teenage guy-like voice.

“This place is getting worse and worse, they already let cheap sluts in too.”

No. This too? Not today. I turn with a lightning fast move to find the owner of the voice. The first guy I spot is a tall, lanky kid leaning against the counter. He’s wearing a baseball cap with bandana and his hair down, so I can’t really see his face of the shadow of the visor, only the spaniel shape of this whole combination. A little move of his head reveals the region of his mouth and I realize he’s staring us with an obnoxious, challenging smirk. Who the fuck does he think he is?

“Excuse me???” I spit and instead of apology, I receive a short, nasal chuckle as answer. After a few seconds of blackout, the first thing I perceive is that the guy sits on the ground surrounded by lying bar stools and I feel a dull pain in my fist.

“Allison Holmes, what the fuck are you doing?” Cee screams and jumps to him. She crouches down and starts desperately examining his face.

“I… I don’t know… I probably… punched him?” I rather question than answer.

“Yes, you punched him, are you crazy?”

“Am I?” I mutter but slowly, I’m getting able again to recall what happened.

“Jesus, girls, are your conversations always that effective?” he laughs getting up leaning on Cee’s shoulder.

“Shut up, you jerk! And it’s me who should ask that, Cecilia, are you serious? He just called us sluts and you help him? You should punch him too!” I yell.

“Cool down, Al. Nobody will punch nobody, this is Stoney.” she explains and I feel my blood pressure dropping, I have to hold of the counter to prevent myself from fainting.

“Who?” I breathe although I exactly know the answer.

“Stone Gossard, from Northwest High.” she repeats. Of course. Jesus, a few minutes earlier I could have sworn this day couldn’t get worse but it can. It definitely can.

“What’s going on here, people?” I hear a male voice and as I turn back, I see a doorman approaching us, followed by a police officer. I burry my face into my palm, not that this way of hiding helps me get away with this.

“Nothing, everything’s fine, officer.” Stone answers but I wish he didn’t, his nose is bleeding and the purplish-blueish spot around his left eye doesn’t make his look better either.

“Where’s the other troublemaker? Someone reported disorderly and…”

“There’s no other troublemaker, officer. I punched myself.” Stone mimes hitting himself in the face with his fist.

“Of course, and I’m Ronald Reagan. Where is he?” the cop doesn’t let himself be tricked.

“There’s no one else, only me. You know, I’m not really satisfied with my nose, it’s kinda big, hard to miss it, I thought some intervention couldn’t hurt… but it did… Seriously, I think you deserve more complex crimes than inconsiderate self-harm at a bar… You seem to be a man of conscience, don’t waste your skills on idiots like me…”

‘Oh… well… even if I don’t believe a word from what you said, I’m sure you’re a nice kid so… I warn you, next time I won’t be that lenient.”

“There won’t be next time, officer.” he grins, knowing his tactics worked.

“I hope so. Take care of yourself, son.”

I wait until he gets out of earshot before I react anything.

“You’re familiar with talking your way out of shit, aren’t you?” I grunt.

“He’s known for his smooth-talk abilities, you’ve seen a classic Stoney performance.” Cee wraps her arm proudly around his shoulders.

“I do what I can… but do you have paper handkerchief? I’m already standing in a puddle of blood…”

“Jesus, of course…” I hand him a packet of it and try to repress my giggle as he stuffs Kleenex carefully into both of his nostrils.

“Look, I still don’t know what’s going on here but you look awful. I came by car, I’ll take you to the hospital… your nose seems to have been broken, you should see a doctor…” I offer.

“That’s the least you can do after having attacked him.” Cee agrees giving me a stern look. “I accompany you, I don’t want to leave you unsupervised.” she adds and I can’t decide if it’s only me whom she addresses with her words…

***

“Uhm… I’d pick the backseat, if you don’t mind… I want to feel safe until we get there.” Stone mumbles. I open the backdoor for him rolling my eyes but prevent myself from saying anything sarcastic. I would behave probably the same way if it was me whose nose got swollen to the size of an eggplant. Cee takes place next to him with a large packet of handkerchief we bought at the corner store in the meantime.

As I start the engine and begin to direct the car towards the closest hospital, I can’t help glancing in the rearview mirror. Stone is listening to Cee’s rambling with a straight face but his well-tamponed nose reminds me of a walrus, which makes me smile even if I feel terrible about that whole embarrassing incident. Stone Gossard. If I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard this name… Cee and him have met as old friends from time to time, Cee is even dating one of their common friend, Josh, so his name came up occasionally in our discussions… but as Cee was witnessing the hopeless episodes of my love life, these occasions got regular. Unrequited, platonic crushes, awkward dating attempts with disastrous consequences, endless ice cream and movie sessions on the couch with her… and the final conclusion was always the same: “I should introduce you to Stoney.” And this sentence was usually followed by an endless tirade about his smart, funny, handsome, talented friend who could be a perfect match for me. But her praises had exactly the opposite effect on me as intended: I refused even the thought of meeting him, the annoying superguy, who’s a musician by the way. What probably means he doesn’t know at all what to do with his life, he’s a rock guitarist in a town when there are more bands than inhabitants, he pulls espressos in a café and makes her girlfriend pay his rent. Sometimes I wondered if Cee mentioned me to him with the same idea in her head and if yes, what he might think of me… But I got these kinds of thoughts easily out of my head convincing myself about the logical fact: we wouldn’t like each other and I don’t need one more disastrous love affair.

And now we’re here. I managed to introduce myself to him in a pretty memorable way, which basically puts an end to the dilemma: I knocked him out, I can be happy if I’m not prosecuted by him, let alone go on a date with him…

“And… ahem… what’s this inside joke about cheap sluts?” I inquire to shut the voices in my head up.

“Everything began when we performed Cabaret at Northwest.” Cee begins. “I didn’t manage to earn any of the main roles so I was put in the choir that basically meant I had to play a random German prostitute. I was wearing fishnet stockings so I started calling them my “cheap slut stockings” and Stone started teasing me with it every time I was wearing them. And as you know, I’m wearing fishnet stockings today so…”

“Did you think I was serious? Or that I was talking about you? Your dress is not slutty at all… I mean, it’s a nice dress… but not slutty enough. I mean…” Stone giggles in a more nasal voice than earlier. Great, now I’m sure I broke his nose.

“I don’t know what I was thinking, I was tired and angry, okay?” I answer harshly. “Anyway, you used the plural form. Sluts…”

“She’s got two legs, for God’s sake…”

“Watch the road, Al.” Cee stops our developing debate about the grammatically correct way of calling someone a slut.

In the remaining part of our way I fume silently; I only notice after stopping the car that my hands got all sweaty, I must have gripped the steering wheel to tightly. We walk into the building and I lean my back against a pile waiting for them to arrange the registration at the counter of reception.

“What, four hours?” I hear Cee screaming.

“What happened? I approach them.

“We’ve just have been informed that the waiting time takes about four hour… which is a huge problem, since I have to get up early tomorrow, I promised Josh to accompany him to that outdoor video shooting… that can be true…” Cee whines.

“I’m a big boy, you don’t have to…” Stone clucks in.

“I can stay with him and drive him home.” I jabber and swallow hard at the end of the sentence.

“Really? That’d be great! I could even catch the bus! ” Cee grins and I start doubting in the existence of that video shooting. Whatever… I did what I did, I must take the consequences. “You’re the best!” she pulls me into a tight hug. “I’ll call you later, Stoney. Behave yourself!” she shouts back storming down the stairs.

Stone and I glance at each other with the same embarrassment for seconds that seem like an eternity until he speaks up finally.

“Uhm… I’m unbeatable at Twenty Questions.”

***

Gosh, that’s so embarrassing. We’ve been sitting here next to each other for like fifteen minutes and we’re just staring in front of ourselves. No questions have been asked yet, let alone twenty... I glance around and look desperately for excuses to leave him at least for a few minutes, I can’t stand this. A vending machine, bingo!

“Uhm… do you want to drink something?” I ask nodding towards it.

“Uhm… yup, a cola would be nice!”

Thank goodness! I walk to the machine and drop the coins into it but of course they land in the hole of change. As I lean down to fish them out I spot him staring at my direction but realizing I noticed him, he quickly turns his head in the other direction. Wait, was he checking me out? Stop Allison, you’re not a femme fatale at all, why would he…? I give a next try and this time the machine accepts the money and the can slowly moves… and gets stuck on its way. I can’t believe this. I beat with my fist a few times against the glass without any success. I try it more aggressively until I completely lose my temper and push it at full strength, using my entire body.

“Come on, work, you pile of thrash! Work!!!” I yell and finally, it reacts to my efforts. Luckily, I don’t have to fight that much for my ginger ale.

“Thanks” he smiles when I sit back next to him and hand him his drink. “To you anger issues!” he grins lifting it towards me and I can’t help reciprocating his expression.

“To your criminal introduction.” I answer as we clink our cans.

“Sooo… you’re that lawyer chick, huh?”

Great, if I ever had doubts about him having heard about me, now I can forget them. He definitely knows who I am.

“Almost. I still study and work as an intern at a law firm. I rather like to call myself an office monkey.”

“Ah. In that case, I’m not going to prosecute you. You must have a lot of slick colleagues who are ready to save your… backside.”

Am I out of my mind or did he actually emphasize the last word “that way”?

“Eheh, not really… they’d only undertake my case if I paid a shitload of money, I’m their droid, not their friend… Aaaand… you’re that rock star dude, huh?” I try to impersonate him.

“An almost-famous good-for-nothing with no band, at your service.” he lifts his baseball cap slightly.

“World famous rock band looks for a singer, lead guitarist, bassist and drummer?” I grin at him and we both start chuckling and silently smile at each other for a few second.

“Actually, you’re not far from truth. My former band… stopped existing this spring and now I’m trying to put together something new.”

“I’m said to be very talented at playing the pocket comb with parchment paper.”

“Nah, thanks, I rather need a washboard specialist.”

“I learn fast… anyway… Cee mentioned what happened with your last band… I’m really sorry about it.” I add in a lower voice and his smile evaporates immediately.

“Yeah… it was hard… but our record was released, we had to promote it not to breach our contract while we all knew it’s over… it’s crazy.”

“I know… Cee told me what happened… I don’t know much about record labels but I’m sure they are only interested in profit, no matter what happens with the band in the meantime.”

“It’s ridiculous, you haven’t even played one single note in the studio but you have already paid a shitload of money, as you said, and you have to decide with your bandmates in questions from which you don’t even have a clue. Not to mention that in our case, they try to overhype “the tragic death of the singer” situation.” he rolls his eyes while drawing air quotes with his hands.

“It’d be nice if someone helped young and unexperienced bands know their way around the business… But it’s difficult to find anyone who’s not only interested in money.”

“Right?” he agrees enthusiastically. “I wish I could have my own label and help other musicians.”

As we go on with discussing the topic, I realize he’s not that unreliable slacker I thought. On the contrary, he’s a rational, left-brained, down-to-earth guy who’s able to analyze everything without being blinded by his emotions. A lawyer brain. And Cee was right, he’s really smart, very smart and funny. It’s too bad he’s not my type. He’s cute but come on, that bandana, the baseball cap…

When the nurse calls him by his name, I glance at the clock on the wall and almost let out a scream of surprise. We’ve been talking for four and a half hour.

***

“Home, sweet home…” Stone groans stretching his arms in the air entering the kitchen of his tiny apartment that also serves as hall and living room. It’s almost 2 a.m., I offered to drive him home since public transport is basically non existing in that crazy hour. My assumption proved to be right: I did break his nose. The doctor re-tamponed his nostrils (obviously with more professional methods than Stone’s stuffing technique) and fixed it with a bandage; he also wanted to call the police seeing the nature of his injury but Stone managed to dissuade him from doing it by claiming he was attacked by an angry ape in a dark alley who also robbed his wallet. Surprisingly, he didn’t get to the psychiatry ward due to his improvised story…

“Do you need anything? Do you have enough painkillers, don’t you?” I ask although I can barely speak coherently and I feel I could fall asleep anywhere, this day is much longer than planned.

“I think I can handle pain.” he grins as he opens the cupboard that is full of alcoholic beverages.

“Whoa, I didn’t think you drink that much.” I remark and I can hear signs of disappointment in my own voice… but why do I care at all…

“I don’t. That’s why you can see the result of hoarding. I only drink beer… okay, sometimes a good, smoky whiskey can’t hurt.” he shrugs closing back the door.

“So no sex and drugs and rock and roll, right?” I smile fidgeting with the hem of my dress. I can’t believe I’ve said this, I started acting like an idiot, I should go…

“Sex and rock and roll are pretty okay to me.” he answers raising one eyebrow meaningfully. Damn, I’m blushing.

“Fuck, this headache… You did a proper job…” he presses his palm on his forehead.

“Uhm, maybe some cold poultice or ice would help. Do you have anything in the freezer?” I ask but I don’t even wait for his answer, I step to the fridge and open it. Okay, opening is a smooth expression, the door of the fridge is stuck in so I basically tear it off.

“Whoaaa… I knew you were going to try to finish the job and kill me before the sun rises.” he laughs and I realize he came nearer in the meantime so I almost managed to slap him in the face with the door.

“Ugh… do you prefer frozen peas or corn?” I inquire basically putting my face into the freezer so that he can’t see my embarrassed face. And the ice cold air maybe helps me win my normal face color back.

“Peas, please.”

As I close the fridge, I find him leaning against the counter squinting at me expectantly. I reach the package towards him but he doesn’t move. Does he want me to do it?

“You should take that cap off.” I walk to him reluctantly. He obeys and lets me cautiously remove the bandana too. I overcome the urge to dig my fingers into his thick hair and I brush one rebellious strand out of his face. He stares into my eyes for a moment, which I respond but I wish I didn’t since I find myself in the middle of some wild whirl, dazing and weakening, pulling me closer to reach those fathomless, green irises… Luckily, he closes his eyes, which pushes me back to reality and forces me to rearrange my breathing. I slowly lean closer and cool his nose area with my own breath before pressing the frozen bag against his forehead.

“Mhm, that feels good…” he moans softly as the ice meets his skin. Great. And now? I’m standing here holding frozen peas to his head… Do I have to wait in this position until they thaw out?

“Ahem… I think that’s all I could do for you so…” I clear my throat after a while and put the bag on the kitchen counter.

“Anyway, when I was sick or got some injury, my mom would give me healing kisses.” he goes on still holding those damn green eyes closed. Okay, this is ridiculous, this is the lamest pick-up line I’ve ever heard…

“Are you trying to say I should drive your mom here too?”

“Nah, that’s definitely not what I’m trying to say.” he snorts shaking his head. With still closed eyes.

“I think my job’s done here sooo…” I make an attempt to finish this awkward scene again but he’s still standing at the counter with a sassy smile.

“…sooo…?”

“…sooo… I’m sorry again, I wish you a quick recovery and... bye.” I jabber.

“Uhm… but you’re still standing in my kitchen.”

And blackout occurs again. A few seconds go by and I’m standing at the door again… but what happened in the meantime?

“I definitely feel better.” he smirks. No. Oh no. The first thing I start to remember is his scent, then the texture of his skin and I might have put my hand on his shoulder too when I pressed that short, light and most importantly, mindless peck on his face. I can’t believe I couldn’t resist, he’s not even my type, he’s only a kid...

“I really have to go.” I mutter and run out of the building not even looking back.

***

Seattle, Friday, September 1st, 1990

 “Allison, are you ready with that memo?” I’m woken up by my boss calling my name.

“Ugh… I need only ten minutes and I’ll bring you.”

I glance desperately at the piles of files and documents in front of me. Okay, if I force myself to focus on work I can do it in ten minutes. Actually, I haven’t been very effective in these days… I haven’t met Stone since the incident, but Cee called him a few times to check his condition. I don’t know if he told her about what happened after she left, I guess he didn’t… but he began to send me funny messages about our first meeting through her and I responded them… so I’m not sure whether something started between us or not… his messages weren’t particularly flirtatious… but the fact he didn’t forget my name immediately and decided to stay in touch even if we haven’t seen each other in the meantime… See, Allison, that’s why you’re not able to proceed with work. You’ve sworn so many times you give up daydreaming… and you’re still doing it. You build up a romantic plotline around the first guy who smiles at you, which already implies disappointment. But he’s smart and funny and amusing… Not that they all aren’t like this for the first time… they play the attractive, sweet guy only to pick you up but slowly and surely, they always show their true colors. And he isn’t an exception either, no matter what Cee tells you. She just wants you to date him to have a company on double dates, that’s all. But Cee is a friend, she wouldn’t promote someone who doesn’t deserve it… Gah…

“Allison???”

Ugh, fuck…

…

I somehow manage to survive the day and drive home. All I want is to order a pizza, curl up on the couch and watch a good movie. But as I get home, I find Cee in the kitchen in the company of a large amount of sandwich ingredients and crackers.

“What the hell…?”

“Oh, hi Al. Would you help me? Otherwise I won’t be able to finish the food by the time the guys arrive.” she tweets.

“Guys? What are you talking about?”

“Oh, haven’t I mentioned to you we’re throwing a party tonight?” she asks innocently.

“Cee, you’re impossible, I’m tired and I don’t really want to meet anyone and you haven’t even asked me…” I grunt at her.

“Come on, Al, it’ll be a very small party. Not that “everyone should bring one more person” sort of party. Only our friends…”

“…that means…”

“Josh, Karen, Steve, Sally, Regan, Tony… and Stoney.” she adds the last name in a casual voice.

“Stone?” I squeak. “I can’t believe you invited Stone…”

“Why? He isn’t angry at you because of what happened at all… plus… the phone calls… you seemed to get on well with each other and I thought you’d be happy to see him again.”

“That’s exactly the problem!” I throw my arms in the air. “I’d be happy to see him again and that’s exactly why I can’t see him again. I don’t need one more trouble.”

“You’re crazy. Anyway, he got super psyched when I told him about the party and I don’t think it’s a coincidence. And now help finally.” she puts a knife in my hand.

I began to chop vegetables and cheese with automatic moves but my brain keeps processing. What if he’s not as handsome as I remember? What if he’ll ignore me? What if he turns out to have a girlfriend? What if he even brings his girlfriend here? What if…

I almost drop the knife by the loud knock on the door.

“I’m coming!” Cee shouts and hurries to the door. Our guests arrive with loud laughter greeting us with hugs, waving with the wine bottles they brought as contribution. Stone is the last one to enter.

“Miss Balboa.” he nods at me with a deadpan and touches his Dallas Cowboys baseball cap briefly like a real Texan cowboy would do with the brim of his hat. Following the others he takes it off and hangs in on the hook on the wall, his hair spread all over his shoulders and… I have to grasp the edge of the table since he’s truly not as handsome as I remembered. He’s much more handsome. Okay, now that he’s not wearing that ridiculous bandana and baseball cap combo and he doesn’t have purple bruises around his nose, it’s pretty obvious that he’s the most handsome guy I’ve ever met. And he’s funny. And smart. And talented. And interesting. Shit.

I follow them in the living room and settle down on the couch. As I glance at him our eyes meet for a second and I can’t help sending a little smile at him that he responds and moves towards me but Regan plops down next to me. Great. Thanks, Regan. Stone takes place right in front of me, in the armchair. During our usual social activities – talking, playing card games, teasing each other –, the well-known game begins. Stolen glances, squints, awkward moves when we accidentally touch each other while serving ourselves from the food… it’s been the same embarrassing routine since my teenage years. Did he just look at me or am I just hallucinating? Was that a smile? Is he following me with peripheral vision the same way as I do with him? Jesus, I don’t dare watch him for too long, what if he notices it… What if he told the guys about our flirtatious scene in the kitchen? What if it wasn’t our scene, only mine? What if it wasn’t flirtatious but ridiculous? But fuck, I don’t care, who cares, apart from a few, punch-related jokes with which he addressed explicitly me, he hasn’t shown any interest in me. Inviting him was the idea of the year, thanks Cee.

We quickly run out of sandwiches so I decide to provide the bunch with supplies and head to the kitchen. I open the window and lean out to fill my lungs with fresh air. I feel immediately better as if it cleared my head too, making me realize we’re not in a tragedy, it’s no big deal if he doesn’t like me.

“Don’t jump.” I hear a nasal voice from behind my back.

“Hah, funny…” I close the window with a bitter smile. I open the fridge and pile the ingredients on the table ignoring him standing aimlessly in the room. I start spreading butter on the slices of bread signaling I’m busy.

“Hey, they don’t need to be stabbed… are you angry?” he chuckles examining my moves.

“I’m not angry!” I answer in a sharp voice. “I just thought we…” I flail but due to my intense moves the knife slips out of my hand and flies right in his direction.

“Whoa, knife throwing… that’s new to me but I’m in.” he leans away laughing as the knife bounces back from the wall and falls down with a loud jangle.

“Will you help me or did you come only to crack jokes about what happened two weeks ago and about which I’m really sorry? How many times should I repeat it?”

“Hey, easy girl, I didn’t want to hurt you. And I know you’re sorry. And I don’t mind it happened at all. And please tell me in which drawer I can find the cutlery.”

I point pouting at the drawer in question and reach my hand for a clean knife but he shakes his head with a severe expression.

“Ha, did you think I let you take pointed objects in your hands after this performance? I spread the slices and you put the ham and cheese on them.” he declares undeterred and I obey shrugging. We work silently for minutes when he speaks up again. “So what did you think?”

“Huh?”

“You haven’t finished the sentence you began when trying to kill me.”

“I…” I take a deep breath before going on “I just thought you were over it.”

“I am, just as I told you a few minutes ago…”

“But you keep joking about it…”

“Hey, I joke about everything in case you hadn’t noticed it… Plus, I haven’t known you very well yet so that’s the only thing related to you I can joke about…”

“Hey!!!” I nudge him.

“’I’m just kidding… just kidding…” he giggles nudging me back.

Okay, I can’t procrastinate it, I have to come up with it to avoid misunderstandings.

“And… I hope you don’t feel bad about the other thing either…” I jabber fixing my eyes on the table.

“About what thing?”

“You know… the other thing… the embarrassing one… I mean the other embarrassing thing that happened after the first embarrassing thing.”

“Uhm…” he scratches his chin. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re talking about. I mean, I do remember one more thing from that night but that one was rather pleasant than embarrassing… no, it was considerably pleasant.”

I finally muster my courage and look up at him and our eyes linger on each other’s smiling face. It does exist. We have a thing. I wasn’t imagining it. It’s not only my fantasy. Maybe I should…

“Hey, guys, what takes you so long? Do you also butcher the pig and make the ham by your own?” Regan opens the door and peaks in putting his head in the doorway. “Oh sorry, I didn’t want to bother you…”

Thanks, Regan, again.

***

I hate this bowl. It’s so damn difficult to wash it without flooding the whole kitchen. And I hate these plates too, I’ve always hated that ugly pattern on them. And I hate these cutleries with their sticky plastic handle. Fuck, I hate everything. The dirty and disgusting dishwater gets mixed up with my teardrops, I try to wipe my eyes with my hand but it’s wet, I can’t even wipe my eyes, I hate, hate, hate…

I knew this was gonna happen. I don’t even know what I was thinking when I hoped he’s interested in me. After we had gone back to the living room, Regan sat down meaningfully in the armchair, and I took it for granted Stone would sit next to me and he did. And we talked and made each other laugh the whole evening like we’d done in the hospital and I got in that easy, happy bubble again with the guy with whom I couldn’t feel bored for a single moment… And that was it. I was hoping he’d ask me out or we agreed on meeting each other later or anything… But nothing happened. He left with the others, all he said was a short “seeya” and that’s all. It was only a flirt to him. And I rather don’t start daydreaming about him calling me later or looking for my company because it’s not gonna happen. He’s the first guy I’ve been really interested in since my latest relationship ended but obviously, he only wants me to be the girl in the bunch with whom he can flirt only not to be bored.

And Cee went with Josh to his place so I’m alone with my anger. At least I can beat my fist against the furniture and kick in chair legs as loud and strong as I can. And no one would laugh at me if I pummeled pillows. Ugh, but I’m swimming in tear and snot, I should restore my dignity at first. I walk to my jacket since I always keep a small packet of handkerchief in its pocket. And I spot that baseball cap on the hanger. He forgot to take it back… Great… Whatever, Cee can give it back to him anytime. Or what if he comes back for it? Or should I call him later or… No, stop, Allison. The guy has just ditched you and you’re already looking for excuses to see him again? And what about your dignity? If he wants the cap, he will…

I freeze as I hear a knock on the door again.

“Who’s that?” I ask loudly and try overcome the trembling in my voice.

“A dangerous criminal. Calls decent girls sluts, provokes fistfights and stabbings.” I hear a familiar nasal voice from behind the door. And I’m grinning from ear to ear again, how can he make me laugh in like two seconds every time he’s around?

“I take the risk.” I answer as I open the door for him.

“I forgot my baseball cap here.” he explains still standing in the door.

“I know, I’ve just noticed it.” I stare at him paralyzed.

“Are you okay? You’re eyes are red and swollen.” he leans closer and I lean back terrified.

“Oh, I was… I was washing the dishes and the detergent got into my eye so…

“I’ll help you.” he enters, closes the door quickly behind himself and marches in the kitchen and I can’t do anything but follow him. “I’ll do the dirty work, you dry.” he puts on the apron and throws the dish towel towards me. Since I’m still numb of surprise, it lands on my head and we both burst out in loud laughter. We start to work in the utmost harmony and I must admit, my anger evaporates in seconds to make place for this new-found comfort.

“Ugh, I’ve always wondered how delicious food can turn so quickly into alien snot due to a few drops of water.” he frowns cleaning kitchen sink with the sponge and then disappears behind my back probably to dry his hands and take off the apron.

“Actually, I’ve always thought they’re not food residues, there must be an alien base in the pipeline and they come up through the drain.” I explain drying the slotted spoon.

“Whoa, you almost put out my eyes.” he startles. “I’ll take this from you, nice try, again.” he takes the spoon out of my hand. Ouch. I didn’t notice he was standing that close behind me. Wait, why was he standing that close behind me?

“And… we’re ready… thanks for helping.” I wipe my hands in the towel hanged on the cupboard.

“You’re welcome.” he nods standing with his hands stuck deep in his pockets. “It’s late, I should let you sleep and go.” he adds but still, he makes a step towards me.

“Yeah, it’s late and I don’t want to waste your time, thanks again.” I walk closer to him too and began to examine my shoes.

What if this time I didn’t wait for the guy to make the first step? Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?

“You know, I thought, once we could…” I perk my head up and…

“OUCH!!!” we both yell as our foreheads collide with each other.

“Do you always try to kill guys who like you?” he groans pressing his palm against his head.

“I don’t… what? Who???” I stutter on the verge of fainting not because of the splitting ache in my head but due to the wild pace dictated by my heart.

“I glance a pretty girl with my friend but she punches me. We’re talking all night but she tries to knock me off with the fridge door. She touches and kisses me so softly that I nearly melt but then she runs away. I try to approach her again but she throws a knife at me. I leave my baseball cap intentionally at her place to be able to come back and stay alone with her and as I’m about to embrace her finally, she attacks me with a slotted spoon. I make an attempt to kiss her and she headbutts me. You’re a dangerous type, you know?”

“Am I?” I send a timid smile at him biting my lower lip. “You know… I only try to kill guys whom I like…” I utter slowly not taking my eyes off him.

“I want to try something, but you have to cooperate, okay? It’s extremely risky.” he explains stepping to me again, trying to keep a strict face. “First, I have to make sure you won’t make any sudden, unexpected move.” He wraps his arms around my waist pulling me closer.

“But my hands still have a clear way… that’s not safe enough… what if I put them here… like this?” I tiptoe and lace my arms around his neck.

“Excellent idea.” he mutters brushing his nose against mine.

I can’t stop smiling even when our lips finally meet in a long, light, gentle kiss caressing and tasting each other for long moments.

“I think we’re both still alive” he breaks the kiss breathing against my skin.

“I’m… I’m not sure… if I am…” I mumble between further stroking kisses.

“Actually… there’s one more thing I really want to try out with you… as for now…” he pulls away for a second. “But it’s very dangerous… we need to take more precautions…”

His one hand wanders slowly upwards on my back and his fingers end up in my hair while the other hand of his slips under my shirt to touch my bare skin.

“Precautions are important…” I whisper against his neck as I mirror his moves. He’s about to capture my lips again but this time it is me who cuts in.

“Stone?”

“Mhm?” he starts swaying with me impatiently.

“I’m so glad I punched you…” I sigh and let him pull me into a deep, greedy, relentless kiss…

[voulezvous-rpg]

STAFF: THE BANDMAN

apollo saxe 36 years old singer, performer, and band leader played by ash. 24. she/her. est.

The cosmos are aware that they’ve lost a star on the day he is born – but perhaps where he lands, he is needed much more.

He is brought into this world in the heat of June in New York City – Harlem, to be exact. A spirited little one with the sun in his smile and galaxies in his eyes. A boy who was given the name of his deadbeat father, who he never saw not once, but haunted his mother’s dreams every single night like clockwork. A boy whose fingertips only seemed to make mischief, but made music too when he’s handed his first alto saxophone at age eleven. A boy who sends girls flocking, abandoning their jump-ropes on asphalt as they listen to him croon radio singles on the jungle gym. A boy whose only haven is the broken down music room of his high-school, more time spent there than in the library, more time spent there than in his own home. A boy who abandons everything he knows to pursue his dream.

But the life of Lonnie Daniels Jr. is not one that matters much, because the story truly begins when Apollo Saxe takes hold of his destiny.

I. “You walk out of school, you walk out of this house.”

He’s eighteen, about to graduate, maybe even go onto college had he just waited for his acceptance letters to come in the post. Make something good of yourself. His mother begs him with her eyes, already wet with the anger and disappointment she feels, because she too already knows his choice. Lonnie – ever stubborn – knew exactly what his soul was calling him to do: play music. And who was he to turn his back on his calling?

So he walks, taking a backpack of belongings and his saxophone case with him as he does. (His music teacher hadn’t allowed him to keep it, but he’s sure his school wouldn’t miss one instrument.) He doesn’t even reach the bottom step outside before he hears his mother’s cries but he knows that he simply must go.

Lonnie Daniels’ Greatest Hits. No one would want to hear that, he thinks, already dreaming dreams so large that they consume all thoughts of where he’ll sleep, where he’ll get something to eat, where he’ll shower and how he’ll keep clothes on his back. It’s that thought that triggers his transformation, the shedding of his skin, of his old life as he trades it in for a new one.

Apollo Saxe, he becomes on that day. Because he is the apex, he is music, and he’ll die a god, a legend, when he’s through. Or else, what’s the point, right?

It gets no easier from there.

His home is not his own, finding lodging among the pigeons in the rooftop of an abandoned building. His mattress is old, as is his tattered sofa. But there’s a place to lay his head, rest his records and his saxophone – so what if he can’t entertain company.

Every single day was a job search, resting only to wake and find someone who would just hear him play. His hunger for success rumbling within his belly much stronger than any other pang for sustenance. “You’re good, kid,” he constantly is told, as they soften the blows of rejection. Band after band turning him away, claiming to already have their own saxophonists, leads and backup singers to their name. But he doesn’t give up, crawling his way up just as jazz becomes the new thing, performing at open mic evenings in smoky backlit lounges, scraping nickels together to get cigarettes and key grease.

It’s on a fateful night when he enters the One Note club that he hears the dilemma play out before him. The very dilemma that would change his life. He waits in the wings, solely there for his own performance, one ankle propped on his knee as he tuned his instrument. Four guys, all varying in cultures and styles, but the aura around them united. All one blaring red as they argued. They were down a member, something or other about pneumonia taking him in his sleep as luck would have it.

“Heard you fellas need a guy on sax,” he’d offered, swaggering up. And with a tip of his fedora, the rest was history.

II.  They’re a hit.

Bad Benny and the Harlem Drifters were on their way, the streets and those who whispered within them were only speaking their names, a following growing and traveling as they did from gig to gig, nightclub to nightclub. Instead of having to beg for their fifteen minutes, they were being requested, commissioned to perform not one track but the whole damn setlist. They’d grasped both hands onto a new thing, and they were going to ride it all the way to the top. Their sound a breath of fresh air to the earbuds and their experience life-altering, for the band-members and fans alike.

Apollo had never seen so much money at once, never been promised so much luxury to call his own, all but ready to dive in and lavish himself with as much as his cut of the checks could buy. (It’s what he deserved, was it not, after how long he’d worked for this?) It’s simply too bad that he purchases a car and a fur coat and way to much blow than one should consume in a week – before he sees a single dollar sign.

Their talent takes them overseas, the Europeans much more receptive than their own brethren, and at a time when race-relations were high and the mere difference in melanin in their skin was grounds for civilian execution, they embraced the culture shock with open arms and instrument cases. It is at this time that they’re introduced to the den of sin that was the Moulin Rouge, a successful show turning into a late night celebration. Apollo might just tell you he fell in love a second time that night. (His first love would always be the music, but the Moulin Rouge was the closest second, he thinks.) They sat amongst intellectuals, writers and artists; their nights spent discussing music and culture over bubbling champagne. They were treated like kings, regal virtuosos, carpets rolled at their feet – dope and hard liquor practically brought on silver platters if a finger was snapped. And every time, at the center of it all, was Apollo. Because he’d be damned if he didn’t indulge.

But he was damned.

The months go by and his bandmates realize his addiction makes them unemployable.The young man in perpetual state of bloodshot eyes and a clouded haze, his need for the high and his need to create in equal amounts. But it left no room or energy left for him to perform. So one after the other, venues began turning them down as they tried to book shows. No one wants to hire the band with the doped up frontman, who was late to every single show, or all but missed them entirely as he galavanted with loose women in his flashy ride, talking sweet to them with his city accent.

“We think it’s best for the group–” is how they explain that they’d been discussing is departure for some time. (An impostor with a bowler hat that they intended on replacing him with, was already holding his sheet music.)

Where he tells them they can shove their instruments is a place that the sun doesn’t shine.

III. Paris had been good to him. So so good to him. It’s why he takes what he has left and steps on the first boat out of the harbor. New York had lost its sparkle, its flair, and so he was going to the one place that lit his fire like nothing else. It’s on his very first night in the City of Lights that he steps foot into the Moulin Rouge again. He hadn’t known there’d been a fire, and he certainly couldn’t tell – the club just as velvety and inviting as he had remembered it being.

He returns the next day, and once more a few days later, frequenting for the women, but staying for the music.

It’s then that Apollo gets a glorious idea…

He’s played for kings and queens, performed before royals in their finest robes, he preaches with every bit of grandiose embellishment he could muster. The Proprietor doesn’t exactly need to know that these ‘aristocrats’ are but the underground’s elite and not the crowned stiff-upper-lip sort. Kingpins and their main squeezes, ruling over their debauched territories, gold dripping from their wrists and furs draped along their collars. To Apollo, he differentiates them none, royalty is royalty, all one needed was a kingdom. And the Moulin Rouge was about to be his new one. He didn’t need the others, he only needed himself.

They allow him a test run – one performance to gauge the crowd and their reception of him.

(But little do they know, a single performance is all he needs.)

He’s slick, sly and good on the fly. The Imperial Improvisor. The Electrifying Entertainer. (Because it should be said, Apollo Saxe is nothing – not just a musician, not a mere vocalist – if not an entertainer, a performer in his prime who put on a true show.) And between the smooth tones of his voice, the delightfully unique nonsense he’d scatter over melodies every bit an instrument in his own right, and the magnetic moves he pulled on-stage, adding his name to the bill was easy as they placed him as the frontman, a shiny new band at his command. His sound becomes the pulse of the Moulin Rouge, beating madly in 2/4 time.

Just like that, a new home and a new fate was in his grasp. Perhaps this time, he’ll handle it with care.

FC: Chadwick Boseman

[limitedrevolverworks]

Varmints -5- [END]

“They ask me, Doc, what in tarnation was this all ‘bout? And what was I suppos’ta say? Nothing, that’s what. Ain’t no point in explainin’ to a dire bear that y’aint really intrudin’ in his territory, jus’ strollin’ by, no biggie. That’s how you turn your noggin’ into dire bear fodder."

“So what’d you tell ‘em then?”

Doc Norton’s eyes, thrice their size through the magnifying lenses in front of them, looked up from the mistletoe and the hands methodically plucking its leaves. They met the inquisitive gaze of Beth and lingered there for good while, apparently more interested in counting the myriad, occasionally bioluminescent scales dotting the young lass’ face like freckles, rather than giving her any manner of answer.

“Troll shamans.” The words tumbled out of his ‘stache like the laconic payoff to a grand train heist.

“No way!” The girl’s visage alighted like a starlit tapestry, bright blue light pouring forth from the millimeter-sized flakes sprinkled all across a pale gray mask of bewildered dissatisfaction. The sturdy wooden table creaked under the weight of her chin and arms sprawling suddenly dropping on its levigated surface, the noise melding almost seamlessly into Beth’s prolonged whine. Doc Norton felt for the poor kid - irritation, mostly. Her tiny fingers had latched onto the corners of his vision, pointy claw-like nails digging into the table right besides his own busy hands and the precious plant. Not quite close enough to disturb his work, at least; shame he couldn’t have said the same of the small pair of boots digging their tips into his shins in a series of lazy, and yet entirely too precise kicks.

“But you always say it was troll shamans, unca!”

“And it always works. Now stop kickin’ me ‘fore I go ahead and make salves out of that tail of yours, missy.”

She stopped, about three particularly more violent kicks later. The quiet sound of leaves being plucked was the sole one heard within the atelier for a dozen merciful seconds, at the ends of which Beth, her glowy pout held by her hands, decided that she’d had enough. The dull thump of her tail against the legs of her stool said as much; Doc Norton’s attempt to feign deafness fell flatter than the dish where he was collecting the mistletoe’s remains.

“‘Kay. You still ain’t told me what these ‘varmints’ are s’pposed to be.”

“And I reckon there ain’t a reason why I should.”

“There ain’t a reason why you shouldn’t, though!”

With a sharp snap, the mistletoe was left a mere tangle of naked stems, the last of its leaves dropped into the glass dish besides it. Doc Norton stared at the veiny pathways that the plant seemed to paint on the support panel where it had been laid, admiring the intricacy of their design, but mostly the fact that they couldn’t bother him about his reticence.

He set the magnifying glasses down, massaged his forehead and then his moustache. When he reopened his tired eyes, Beth was still where he’d left her, waiting for her childish curiosity to be thoroughly sated.

Narrowing his eyes, no, his entire face right down to the last follicle protruding from his upper lip did absolutely nothing to dim the bright determination of those young eyes, or the far more literal one painting her skin, for that matter.

It was troublesome, especially because Beth was right: none of the reason he had to keep quiet with ignorant, trigger-happy daredevils truly applied to this smart(ass) of a kid.

“A’right, a’right, fine. Guess y’aint completely wrong on that.”

The curve of Beth’s lips flipped upside down before she’d even started bouncing on her seat, triumphantly throwing her arms up and some locks of the humongous golden mass that was her hair along with them.

“Right, chill down a bit, you nag of a lizard.” grumbled Doc Norton as he sat up, and for all the cranky vibes dripping from his every word, a minuscule speck of something resembling anticipation seemed to seep through. It was the reluctant excitement that came with prying open the seal on a self-imposed taboo, the guilty pleasure of indulgence with nothing but regret at the end of the path it paved. The pharmacist resented the lightness with which he moved about his little realm of beaks, ampoules, vials and metal vats. Nostalgia coursed through him with a jolt that left behind bitter disgust and something akin to warmth, when he finally found what he was seeking; he retraced his steps with half a mind to do the same with his words and substitute them with a single nevermind. The sight of Beth’s dangling legs kicking a jolly rhythm into empty air, while her throat silently hummed its non-existent tune through lips sealed into a giddy smile, convinced him to do otherwise. He plopped back into his chair, setting down on the table the miniature model of the world that he’d plucked from one among the many shelves in his atelier.

“The thing about this crazy ol’ world of ours, y’ see, is that we do things differently, depending on which Layer one’s from. We think different. We live different. And, of course, we fight different. That’s how it be, when your planet’s a fractured mess of continents floating about atop and below one other.”

Beth nodded diligently, her eyes fixated on the pharmacist’s hand which, like a dragon oil salesman, danced about in front of the product he was expounding about, or at least its minute representation: two distinct sets of flat, curved shapes representing the land masses, floating into two distinct spherical orbits, two layers, with one containing the other. Or float the originals did anyway; the ones on the model were stuck like skewered wererat meat on rods that protruded from a compact mass at the very center of it all, metal bits and pieces chaotically assembled together into ball that constituted the core of this broken planet’s pale specter.

“Now, lass, show me you ain’t been loitering around for nothin’. What’re the three basic principles of pharmacy?”

Beth straightened on her seat, from the top of her head right down to the floppy end of her tail, so eager to answer she might have fallen from her seat, not at all helped by the considerable height between the soles of her boots and the floor smeared with numberless splotches of evaporated concoctions.

“Creation, tranf… traaan…” she began, trapped in a struggle with her forked tongue’s inability to deal with such a ridiculous combination of sounds. “Trannnngh! Transformation! And destruction. Them’s the three of ‘em, right?”

“Aye, looks like you got a good head on your shoulders. Pity ‘bout what’s inside it… guess you won’t be winnin’ the spelling bee anytime soon.”

Doc Norton almost regretted it when his knees started aching from the aftereffects of Offended Lizardite Hybrid Kicking Syndrome.

“Anyway. Creation, transformation…” He made sure to take his time pronouncing the word, letting each phoneme filter through his ‘stache with maximum accuracy and ludicrous amounts of mockery for an adult talking to the little girl shining angry hues of dark blue at him with her face.

“...And destruction. When you get down to it, that’s all pharmacy’s about.”

“But unca,” interrupted Beth, only slightly less miffed thanks to a sudden burst of curiosity, “don’t you always say that pharmacy is about knowin’ the world and how it works?”

“Aye, you smart lil’ lizard. That’s ‘cause the three principles are what the world’s built on. Take us folks here, in the Middle Layer.” He wriggled a finger into the large gap between two of the surface continents to poke at another beneath, shaped like the top view of a hat that had been stomped on repeatedly and with purpose. “No matter what the sheriffs and constables will want you thinkin’, it’s the wand that sets the law here. It be through the wands that money exchanges hands - the big money, mind you, not pocket change. Folks steal, pillage, buy and sell… shamans bring the dead up. Rich bastard dies, a poor sap inherits his fortune, only to get killed on the way back to his stable. That night, a merry band of wandmen are havin’ a jolly good time at the local waterin’ hole with their freshly stolen goods. Somebody trips into the wrong table, wands come out, chaos. One of the guys gets thrown off a window and runs away with his part, decides he’s had with this mess of a life, settles down, starts an activity, it’s successful, grows old on a neat little pile of savings… the cycle repeats, or maybe not, it don’t matter, ‘cause there’s a hundred other cycles like that going on around a continent or the other of this Layer of ours. Here, we’re all about transformation. Hell, even the dead ain’t let be here. Something’s always bound to begin right as another’s ended.”

“And that’s what makes it fun?”

“It’s what makes it a big damn mess, lass. Still, we got it good here, all things considered. Them sorry bastards on the Lower Layer, now...”

Doc Norton turned the model until he found a seam to stick his finger through and touch the sphere of collected metal standing in the middle, right atop the pedestal’s rod running through it.

“They got no time to spare for shenanigans like ours, not when they be sittin’ right atop the Core and making a livelihood out of it. The Lower Layer, y’see, is where creation happens. It is an ever growin’ sprawl, a parasite of steel and nickel and titanium. A machine that keeps on breakin’ on itself, one that you can’t just go and open to see what’s wrong, no, ‘cause by that time the technology’s grown obsolete, blueprints have evolved, techniques refined. On the corpses of empty, busted engines the size of a whole town they build a new, bigger, more efficient pumpin’ station that sends magma like blood through the veins of this beast that don’t know anymore what its true shape’s like. They got no time to look backwards in the Lower Layer, only forward. They’re runnin’ away, no more, no less. The moment they’ll stop creatin’, is when their world’ll collapse beneath them and catch up.”

“That sounds sad…”

“They don’t got time to be sad. They’re too busy hammerin’, breathin’ smoke like we do oxygen and orderin’ their golems around to care.”

That sounded even sadder to Beth. Doc Norton let her silently mull over the harsh conditions of Lower Layer dwellers - then, the half-lizardite raised her small hand to poke one of the smoothly-edged continents sitting at the top of the world’s ethereal structure.

“Then, unca, the Upper Layer’d be...”

“Destruction.” anticipated Doc Norton, and for all the effort he put into concealing it, Beth couldn’t miss the harsh flavor that he’d given this single word, nor the way he was looking at the Upper Layer’s reproduction. Like a wandman would have the corpse of a duel’s fresh victim.

“Is it bad up there?”

“Aye.”

“That why you left?”

“Aye.”

Beth and Doc Norton waited, not for one other but for themselves to find something suitable to say. The girl’s childish imagination nor the doctor’s wealth of knowledge couldn’t quite find anything of the sort, and so they simply let their eyes linger on the vision of this tiny little world’s attempt to represent their own.

As time passed, however, something odd happened: the size of Beth’s cheeks began to increase exponentially, accompanied by the unmistakable phenomenon known as pouting that all lasses were so thoroughly proficient at. An explosion wasn’t probable as much as a given inevitability, and it hit Doc Norton’s reverie with all the force of a major caliber fire spell.

“Nevermind that, unca! How’s about you tell me what this has to do with those varmint thingies already?”

The pharmacist nodded once, than again, more firmly, as he recollected his thoughts, smoothing them out like he was doing with a corner of his ‘stache.

“I was gettin’ to that, impatient lass. Y’see, varmints are these eensy teensy little clumps of concentrated bastardry, the kind of disruptive nonsense that them Upper Layer screwballs spend their time comin’ up with.”

“Okay, but what are they, unca?”

“Larvae. Sorta. They be smaller, not really alive per se, and lotsa more troublesome, since they feed on gold.”

“They… eat gold?”

“Aye, them little shits love themselves a fat shiny luncheon. And there’s gold aplenty up above, though the stuff they make with it… nothin’ on any other Layer compares. Complicated golden spellwork printed under the surfaces of machines the size of a mountain, phlogiston runnin’ through them like blood to power golden cannons which shoot aether able to pulverize a continent’s whole surface… books inked with gold, able to store knowledge in the language of patterns and release it directly into the reader’s mind… if phlogiston is the lifeblood of the Upper Layer, gold’s what lets it flow where it’s needed. You rid a city of that and you’ll have won yourself a war in no time.”

An awed woah was all which Beth could muster while holding onto her tail in an attempt to keep it from destroying her seat from all the excited swaying it felt like indulging into.

“Varmints are some of the foulest stuff made up there, no doubt. Just rain a bunch over a sea of corpses - and there ain’t ever a shortage of those, in the Upper layer - and soon you’ll have gotten yourself an army of livin’ anti-civilization bombs.”

“That sounds ugly… and evil..”

Doc Norton couldn’t have found better words to describe the Upper Layer and its idiosyncrasies.

“How’d they get on the Middle Layer, unca?”

“Good question. Guess someone made a miscalculation with wind trajectories, timin’, whatever and rained their death cargo at the wrong time. Could be that the stuff got shot off the edges of a continent before it could be properly deployed, too. The cause don’t matter to us Middle Layer folks, anyway, and the effect’s been cared and dealt with.”

“That’s true…”

Beth hopped off her stool, skipping a few paces away where a sizeable tub was sitting on the floor, and peeked over its contents. A distorted reflection arched its eyebrow back at her.

“...Though you got them varmints right here.”

“I sure do.”

“Didn’t you tell them folks at the farm that you’d like, get rid of them?”

“And that I did.”

“But you didn’t… uhm, eliminate completely with that concoction of yours?”

“And waste a perfectly good batch of useable varmints? I ain’t spittin’ on a free batch of gifts from our cretinous neighbors, silly lizard. The acid I made only served to dissolve the corpses I had them wandslingers toss into. It got no effect on varmints, resilient sons of squirmy bitches.”

“Aah…”

Beth grimaced slightly at the pungent odor coming off from the clear liquid, at the bottom of which clumps of slimy, translucent filaments of worm-like substance swam into each other, or perhaps simply drifted, moved by the currents spread from the surface. Then, a thought occurred to her which gave her an incentive to look away from the tub and shove her clawed hands on the part of her dress’ long skirt where he hips were. Doc Norton was too busy twirling his moustache and looking at some portion of the world model to notice the tiny slits through which the half-lizard was looking at him.

“Say, unca… was spittin’ into the acid also a key component?”

“Nah. I just told ‘em for what us smart pharmacist call the ‘shit’ and the ‘giggles’.”

The surface of the liquid inside the tub rippled with the vibrations of an exasperated - and, towards the end, admittedly amused uncaaa…!

[castawxayaway]

not your average night

collection of writing

just to make this clear as otherwise, it might be a bit confusing- this is set in 1920′s during the prohibition. I’m aware there was not a prohibition in the UK, so interpret it how you want. there is a lot of slang used that I believe is predominantly American. but I’ve been wanting to do something like this for ages and am pleased with how it worked out!

(also I might as well include translations for some of the words that are less than obvious to figure out to save confusion- also they may not be 100% accurate but all the words came from one website so good as we going to get!)

bluenose: killjoy  Mrs Grundy: uptight  hotsy totsy: attractive/ pleasing to the eye  don’t take any wooden nickels: don’t do anything dumb  eggs: wealthy people with extravagant lifestyles  zozzled: shitfaced  Oliver Twist: extremely good dancer   Iron my shoelaces: be excused  Four-flusher: gold digger  handcuffed: engagement ring  dewdropper: wallflower  ossified: drunk  jake: okay/fine  gasper: cigarette  Sheba: sexually desired woman  wurp: buzzkill 

All I could hear was the roaring jazz play from inside, the place where secrets were kept hidden whilst the sun slept along with most of the city. But, there were those invited along, or in my case had many connections to events like these. 

“You sure it’s sl’right?” I grab onto my brother's arm, causing him to turn and face me. He smiles softly, fixing my diamond headband into its place and brought my curls forward, framing my face. 

He glances behind him and I watch as girls in flapper dressers of golds, blacks and silvers walk by, a fur wrap around their arms as their small heels click almost in sync along the pavement to the descending staircase. “Why wouldn’t it be? Stop being such a bluenose.” I scoffed at his response and punched his arm lightly. 

“I’m no bluenose! I’ll show you.” Walking ahead of him I straighten my dress as the frills sway around my knees and wear a small, but inviting smile on my face. Ought to show him, calling me a bluenose that Mrs Grundy. 

Walking down the stairs I can hear him calling my name, but I focus solely on the music as it fills my ear. The sax that blends with the trumpet and the occasional piano. My feet can’t move quick enough as two large men stand either side of the doors. “Aren’t you a hotsy tosty.” One of the guards speaks up, and I laugh it off as they open the door. 

“Bet you say that to all the ladies.” I wink at him and he pulls on his suspenders, making them snap against his large chest. Another man inside pulls back the beaded doorway and I politely nod, unaware of the sight before me and how vast it could be compared to what I had pictured. 

Before me down the entrance was a large stage where the band performed, all in white suits and red bowties playing their instruments as a ground danced below. Yet in centre stage was a microphone, vacant of a singer leaving the gold curtain backdrop exposed. “Where is the performer?” I turn to ask my brother, sensing his presence to my left. 

He links my arm with his as we walk down into the crowd and I look around, allowing myself to take in my surroundings. To our left is a wall long length bar, nearly every set is occupied as I see various bottles being lifted from behind on the glass shelves. My eyes follow the bartenders who mix various liquids and shake them before pouring it with grace into the glasses. “You wouldn’t even know it were the prohibition here.” I joke to my brother and he manages to crack a smile. 

“I’m going to get a drink, want one?” Nodding in response his arm slips from mine, “Don’t take any wooden nickels!” I roll my eyes at his remark, what bad can I cause by standing on the spot? Glancing to my right to see a series of red velvet booths with gold lining the fabric with wooden tables in the centre. 

In one booth, rather blatantly sit six eggs. You could sniff ‘em from a mile off based on their choice of suits and their suit vests that match their jackets and trousers along with their hats as they smoke. Clouds of grey disguise their faces and I turn away, not wanting to be caught staring and giving off the wrong impression. 

“Wanna dance?” Someone places their hand on my forearm and I turn around to face them, assuming it were my brother with one drink in his hand from having drunk his at the bar. He’s always eager, coming home from these places completely zozzled. 

Facing the stranger I was pleasantly surprised, and without a second to spare I pulled his arms towards mine and backed into the crowd of couples dancing. As we begin to dance the music becomes more lively, “Time to Charleston.” He laughs and everyone positions themselves and we all dance in sync. 

Watching the stranger dance he moves his feet with some agility but lacks the finesse I see others perform with. We join hands and dance together, and now I get a better glimpse of the stranger. Bright brown eyes and blonde hair with one of those suits on from earlier. “I mean you aren’t much of an Oliver Twist I’ll say.” I half-joked, wanting to dance with someone else as my dress’ frills swing from side to side, never remaining still. 

Looking around as we danced I saw a young gentleman sat at the bar, watching the crowd dance. Unlike this egg, he seemed less dapper in deep blue trousers as opposed to black with a creased suit shirt and suspenders. Watching him eye the crowd I saw him take his glasses out, covering more of his face and I smile towards him, hoping for this stranger to avail me of this situation. 

Zoning out from my dancer's chatter I laugh along, smiling to him as we dance all the whilst trying to gain the attention of the cat. “Excuse me, I just gotta iron my shoelaces.” The egg pardons me and I walk off slowly, slightly more sultry and in the fashion of a woman as opposed to the child my brother deems me as being. 

Once the man is out of sight I find a vacant spot, conveniently next to the onlooker at the bar and order myself a drink. As it is presented before me I take a swig, feeling the burn slowly crawl down my throat and I resist the urge to cough forcefully as I wipe my mouth with the white silk gloves. “That’s a pretty dress you got on.” Placing my glass down I shift my focus to the gentleman next to me. 

“Never worn it before, got it for tonight.” I tell him as we both look in different directions. He observes the dancing and I focus on my drink, not wanting to risk ending up zozzled like my brother on my first night out since the prohibition. “Do you dance? Or just watch everyone?” 

I can see his feet bounce along to the beat of the music, “I can’t dance, no Oliver Twist like those guys.” He motions to the dancers who dominate the floor, the girls twirl and the frills of their dressers fly exposing their thighs for the short while as they laugh giddily. 

“So you come for the drink?” Looking down a drop of whiskey fills his glass. “Or perhaps the music?” This time I see his eyebrow rise and he turns around, his knees clumsily knock mine. 

Getting a better look at him I smile, behind his glasses he has warm blue eyes that wear hardship in his gaze. His jaw is lined with stubble and some marks of dirt whilst he continuously brushes his dark brown hair out of his face as it hangs down. “Don’t get a lotta music like this at the docks. Nights like these, take every chance to listen along.” He picks up his glass, taking the last sip before sighing as he places it down. No sooner is it cleared and replaced. “Gotta name doll?” 

“Might do, how ‘bout yourself?” I ask as I sip my own drink and one side of his lips rise, a half smile forming playfully. 

“Name’s Dan.” He picks up my hand, kissing my glove lightly and I chuckle at the action. “Not a lotta guys do that? You used to eggs I suppose.” 

I shake my head, “Far from it. Don’t mix with what you aren’t worth.” Words my Mother always battered into me. “I keep on finding upstage guys, once a four-flusher who my brother highly disagreed of.” Thinking back I remember how my brother forced him out of the house as he eyed up our decor rather than me. “Short-lived relationship, no handcuff which I expected it’d end with.” 

“So, you aren’t engaged? Single then?” He straightens up, a smile now being displayed. 

“Do you see a handcuff on my finger?” Slipping my glove off he picks it up, his nails slightly dirty, but I don’t mind. He’s different from the guys I meet on my way to see my brother at work. He hasn’t thrown himself at me or called me names, he’s just sat here like a dewdropper. “There you go then.” I remark and take my own hand back, placing my gloves in my bag. 

Whilst he stares at me with a smile I tell him my name before I take another more confident sip at my drink. “You gotta beautiful name.” He huffs and I smile in response. “So, what brings you here?” 

“I wanted to come out, heard all about these places from my brother. Got a dress, used my Mum’s headband and here I am.” Motioning to myself I chink my drink to his, feeling less constricted and more free with him. “So, any of your dockers with you tonight?” 

He begins to look around, pointing three others out to me as they remain dotted around the club. “We’re pretty tight, grew up with those guys. They’re always complaining ‘bout me, I wanted to sing you see.” 

“So why don’t you? Ain’t too late to try.” He shakes his head in disagreement. 

“See me?” He stands up, motioning to his attire and pulls on his suspenders and lack of tie. “I don’t fit the part. Can’t ‘ford such a thing anyway.” 

Sighing in disappointment he turns around, back to face the bar whilst I stare aimlessly at the stage. Something clicks and I lightly smack his arm, “Dan, you, you should sing!” My eyes wide with excitement he laughs it off. 

“Yeah, you sure are ossified.” He comments and returns to drinking. 

“No, come on.” I stand up, a light buzz running through me as we make our way through the crowd and I approached the sax player. “How’re you doing handsome?” Working with what I’ve got Dan stands behind me, allowing me to take lead. The saxist glances down, clearly eyeing my attire I turn to face Dan. “We’re dancing, right now.” Taking his hands we begin to move, him with less ease but I focus on the saxist. 

“What’re you after toots?” I move closer to the stage until we are next to it.

Pushing my hair out of my face I twirl one of the ends, “My friend here is a singer. And I’ve noticed your lacking one tonight. Come on, give him a chance?” I bat my eyes to him, knowing it’s one way to swoon a fella. 

He rubs his lips together and Dan remains silent. The saxist turns around and Dan holds my waist, spinning me into him and I rest my hands on his chest. “What’re you doing? I can’t perform in front of all these people.” I can hear the fear mixed with the haziness. 

“All they want is something to dance to, they’re not gonna focus on you that much. Everything’ll be jake.” I try to convince him, but worry swarms his blue eyes. 

“Miss?” Glancing up the saxist motions to the mic. “Ready for ’im.” I face Dan and give a supportive smile. 

“You got this.” I tell him, and I can see a spark grow from eye to eye. 

The music continues to play and he tightens his grip on my waist, bringing me closer. He lightly kisses me before walking away onto the stage, standing in front of the mic with his eyes up, focusing on the entrance. 

I laugh at what has just happened but remain slightly stunned. Touching my lips I can feel the roughness of a dockyard worker, the lust and desire he held in his kiss. He exchanges a few words with the musicians, and they begin to play another upbeat song. His hands grip the mic stand and he begins to move his feet. Around us everyone continues to dance, no one completely aware of the vacant spot being filled. 

My eyes remain on him, and he glances down with a smirk on his face as he begins to sing. In that moment, it all comes to life. The entire room is ecstatic with life like a wildfire as the dancing becomes more excitable, the music has more thrill to it and I even see those in the booths nod to the stage. 

As I dance along I feel a tug on my arm, and I start to be pulled out of the crowd and away from Dan. I watch his eyes follow but he can’t stop singing now, it’s his chance. Pulling away I see my brother and sigh loudly. “Really, now?!” I groan angrily to him and try to release his grip on my arm. “I know the guy on stage, I was getting along with him.” 

My brother half laughs, “I know what getting along is with you. You think I’m going to allow that under my nose tonight?” 

“It weren’t like that tonight!” Walking up the stairs we exit the club, the bitter chill hanging outside as I can feel the life draining from the music the further away we get. 

Standing still with my arms crossed he begins to smoke, “Wanna gasper?” I shake my head as he continues to smoke and I simply pay attention to the music in the background. “I know you think I’m being harsh,” I scoff at his comment, but he continues needlessly. “but to him, I know you’re just a Sheba. You’ll have your fun tonight and then he’ll go back to his home in some alleyway an’ never see you again.” He takes a long puff and blows it to the left of us, “I’m just looking out for you, doll.” 

“No.” I state and he removes his gasper from his lips. “You aren’t. I’m not a little girl anymore you can boss around. If I met some egg and introduced you, I bet you’d be happy. But because I met some fella who works in the docks and has dreams I’m not allowed to see him?” He remains silent, and I begin to walk away. 

My brother angrily calls my name, “Don’t you walk away from me!” He yells and I stop. 

Turning to face him he throws the fag on the ground, crunching it beneath his foot. “Dan has more of a personality, a sense of humour and bigger dreams than any egg I could meet. Earlier I danced with one and he was lifeless like a dewdropper so stop being a wurp and let me have fun.” 

He sighs in defeat and I turn around. As I lift my eyes Dan stands there, the music continuing to play inside but he’s here. “So, I’m better than some egg, eh?” A smile forms on his face as he keeps his hands in his pockets, his sleeves now rolled up exposing more dirt on his arms. 

Walking towards him I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him, this time I can taste the whiskey on his lips and savour it. Pulling away I smile, “Now we’re even. And you owe me a dance.” 

He takes my hand in his and we head back down the stairs, back to where the life and fun are held. The music returns to my ears happily along with the warmth and excitement of tonight.

[ragmword]

Still Only A Nickel

Still Only A Nickel

The looks had changed but the location and function remained the same. It was a two pump service station then and a two pump service station now. Ethyl and Regular had been replaced by two state of the art electronic charging units. The new devices delivered electricity to batteries as opposed to gasoline filling a tank. The service station had become modern in every sense except one.

No one knew for sure when the Coke machine appeared in front of the station. The vintage and oral history suggested that it was some time no later than the 1920’s. Yet there it stood, watching history unfold.

According to the present owner, a truck would show up weekly, fill up the machine, pick up the empties and disappear. The profits would be credited to his bank account monthly. All very correct and professional. The bright red and white machine was always full and ready to dispense an ice cold ten ounce bottle of Coca-Cola.

Way back when, the bottles tended to have a green tint. Most of the time now they’re clear. The colour of the bottle however, in no way diminished the experience when the bottle touched your lips.

You take a hot, a mean a hot humid summer day, add an ice cold bottle of Coke and a swish sound and you have created the right formula for magic.  Or is it science? Maybe even something not of this world? It doesn’t really matter if you’re the man you are about to meet.

Allow me to introduce, Jefferson Roosevelt Nixon. Mr. Nixon was a product of the world he was born into and never once considered life would be any different. For him, it is and always will be, just as it is now. He was a snapshot in an album of pictures which included everyone else. From his electric car to his digital wallet, Nixon was typical of the age.

When asked if he was named after famous presidents, his response was, “not that I want to remember. The past is what it is and something that should stay that way.” So it was no surprise that what was about to unfold would happen to none other than Jefferson Nixon.

Scanning his digital wallet across a screen, a 5 cent coin was deposited into a holder which he then took and dropped into the coke machine. Pushing the silver handle down, an ice cold bottle of coke was dispensed at the lower opening. Grabbing the bottle, he placed the mouth in the opener and swish.

When the bottle touched his lips, Mr. Nixon was the catalyst needed for the secret formula to work it’s magic. In an instant, the gulping sound was overcome by the sound of brass bands horns, men talking, bells ringing and the squawk of a radio. The words blaring out over a loud speaker announced that President Grover Cleveland was on the podium and about to set the wheels in motion. Lowering the bottle of Coke from his lips and opening his eyes, Jefferson Nixon found himself in a different place and a different time.  

Turning himself around and around, looking at his surroundings, his brain tried to understand. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder. Stopping abruptly he turned to the man at the end of arm.

“Hey buddy, you alright?.”

“What’s happening? Where am I?” the confused Nixon asked.

“Where are you? You’re at the 1893 World’s fair in Chicago.”

“But how? How did I get here?”

“Like everyone else I would guess. Thought the front entrance.”

“I have no memory of coming here. I was recharging my car, drinking a Coke and here I am.”

“Coke I know, recharging a car. Is that one of those horseless carriages things over at the science building?”

“I get it. It’s a hologram, right? I’m in a huge elaborate hologram. A way for the service centre to attract business.”

“Listen bud, I don’t know anything about any hologram. You’re on the midway at the World’s Fair, plain and simple. There’s a first aid spot up past the magician on the right. I suggest you pay them a visit.”

Once his head finally stopped spinning and Nixon could focus, he found himself seated in a brightly lit refreshment stand. Marble and glass adorned the counter and walls. The man behind the Tiffany lead glassed soda fountain taps was coaxing him to order.

“Listen mister, I don’t have all day. Order something or hit the road. This is a busy place.”

“What’s happened to me? Where am I? What is this place?”

“You a fruitcake or something? I know, you got into some bad liquor. There’s a lot of that going round. Why just the other day the coppers had to drag a guy away. He didn’t know his name from a hill of beans.”

“Please, just answer the question.” repeated Nixon.

“Well my good fellow, you’re at the 1893 World’s Fair in my beautiful city of Chicago. And this here place is where people come to refresh themselves with an ice cold glass of Mr. John S. Pemberton’s magic elixir. Coke. Only a nickel.”

“Coke?”

“It is, it is. Coke a Cola to be exact. Place your order or vamoose back to the midway you drunken clown.”

Nixon rose and left the refreshment booth. His rubbery legs made following the man’s directions difficult. Finally he collapsed in front of the magician’s booth where the Houdini brothers were performing.

When he awoke, he found himself in an archaic looking hospital bed unable to move and wearing only a hospital gown and a pair of socks. The overwhelming and distinctive smell of disinfectant permeated the room. A dingy white curtain surrounded the bed, closing him off from the strange world he had just woken up in.

His arms were strapped at his side, his legs secured to the bed in an undignified spread eagle position. The only cover in sight was on the a copy of Hospital Monthly magazine, laying on the side table, next to an enamel bedpan.

“Somebody, is there someone there? What’s happening? I’m feeling kinda cold, anyone?”

From the other side of the curtain, a woman’s voice could be heard, asking if he was decent. Unable to move and with nothing to cover himself, Jefferson Nixon had to acquiesce to the situation.  Movement of the curtain at the foot of the bed heightened the anxiety he was feeling. He closed his eyes for a moment and braced himself for the soon to come embarrassment.

“You’re awake. That’s good. How are you feeling? You gave us quite a scare.”

“What is this place?”

“This place, as you call it, is the County Hospital first aid post.”

“What’s happening to me? One moment I’m getting my car charged, then I was told that I was at a fair, the next thing I know, I’m in a hospital bed. Am I in a nut house?”

“Oh pshaw Mr. Jones, no one here thinks your nuts. Just a little confused.”

“My name is Jefferson Nixon, not Jones.”

“Well, when you were brought in, there was no identification in your belongings. Rather strange looking clothes I may add. We had to call you something.”

“My name is Nixon. Jefferson Roosevelt Nixon!”

“Relax Mr. Nixon, no one is calling you a liar.”

The young nurse left the room and returned with a man, who Nixon judged was a doctor. His white smock and stethoscope gave him away. Other than the cigarette hanging from his mouth, the man was just another face to the bewildered Jefferson Nixon.

Pulling a chair up beside the restrained man, the doctor flicked the ashes from his cigarette into a bed pan and returned it to his mouth.

“The nurse informed me that you say your name is Nixon. Is that correct?”

“Yes. Jefferson Nixon.”

“Well Mr. Nixon, if you agree to remain calm, we’ll remove the restraints. You were quite uncontrollable when they brought you in. It was only for your safety you understand.”

“I’ll give no trouble, I just need for this nightmare to go away.”

“Which nightmare are you referring to Mr. Nixon?”

“The one I’m in right now. Where I’m back in time. In an archaic looking hospital room strapped to a bed against my will.”

“Like I said, it was only out of safety. Nurse undo the restraints. I’d like to hear more about your nightmare Mr. Nixon.”

“From the beginning Doc?”

“Yes, from the beginning or from the middle. Whatever makes you comfortable.”

“Very well, it’s like this.”

Jefferson Nixon went on to explain that he was at the service centre charging his vehicle. He was thirsty and purchased a Coke from the old fashioned vending machine. Then he found himself in a Coke a Cola refreshment booth on the midway at the World’s Fair.   “That’s quite a yarn Mr. Nixon. Did anything else happen?”

“Just that I woke up here strapped to a bed.”

“Listen Mr. Nixon, I think you have suffered a bit of sun stroke. Get dressed. You can go. There’s a nice haberdashery just down the way. Perhaps you should think of purchasing a hat.”

Realizing that his present situation did seem ridiculous, Jefferson Nixon went along with his present circumstances, if only to assure his independence. An explanation for him being at the 1893 World’s Fair would not be found in a first aid station.

Having regained his composure, Nixon’s plan was to return to the place where the present nightmare started. The Coke a Cola refreshment both. This all started with a Coke, and the answer must be found with a Coke.

Inside the refreshment booth, Nixon took a seat at the counter and waited. Soon the same soda jerk came to serve him.

“You again? What’s the problem? Not enough to see? Why it’s one of the greatest shows on earth.”

“I need answers and I want them now.”

“Listen up friend, I only work here. You want answers, your going to have to talk to the guy in charge.”

“So where is the guy in charge? How do I meet him?”

“The guy you’re looking for is over at the science and technology exhibition. His name is Tesla.”

“You must be joking! Tesla here!”

“So you know of the guy. A right genius they say. As long as your name’s not Edison, that is.”

With directions provided by the soda jerk, Nixon headed to the science and technology exhibition to find Nicola Tesla.

To Nixon it was like walking into a museum. Jam packed with old fashioned junk. Nothing at all like the electronic digital world he knew. Asking about Tesla, Nixon was directed to a group of men standing inside a large metal cage. From just outside the entrance he called out Tesla’s name. The men turned around. Tesla knew at once that Nixon was literally not from around here. Dismissing his party, Tesla hurried over to Nixon and ushered him away to a private room. Making sure no one was in the room or listening, Tesla asked,”

“When and where?”

“What do you mean?” asked Nixon.

“From what time and place are you from?”

“2093, The Hegemony of Western America.”

It was unclear who was more relieved. Both men had something to prove. Tesla’s time travel experiments and Nixon’s sanity.

“Hegemony? Who and what pray tell?” inquired the inquisitive Tesla.

“The western continents.”

“And the rest of the planet?” asked Tesla.

“The World Electrospirit Empire.”

“What kind of world is that? Please explain”

“A world where the spirits of dead electric and electronic devices rule. Not a ghost in the machine. But where the electro and electronic machines actually becomes the ghosts. At first they were just disembodied electronic spirits. Some good, but most were bad. They evolved in a very short time into a life form and challenged for the planet. They filled the void left by the collapse of Europe and Asia. An armistice was brokered with the Hegemony There you have it, in a nut shell.”

Shocked, Tesla and Nixon returned to the refreshment booth. A large glass of ice cold Coca Cola was placed in front of Jefferson Roosevelt Nixon. Once again, touching the magic elixir to his lips, he instantly found himself back in front of the vintage coke machine with an empty bottle in his hand. What the brain in an instant had perceived as imagination, soon congealed into reality. The brochure from the 1893 World’s Fair was in his one other hand, and a broadcast over his digital wallet announcing that the World Electrospirit Empire had been extinguished. Somehow, somewhere, Nikola Tesla had changed the future.

ello.co@01021956bob

[twentyonepilotsficlibrary]

Trans Masterlist

Her name is Tyler by ttsg (1/1 | 20142 | Explicit)

Josh didn’t typically pick up other guys in a bar and take them home but then again he also didn’t see many guys wearing a soft pink skirt.

Don't Leave Me Alone by Schizzar (1/1 | 1729 | Mature)

"Hi Tyler. I'm Josh."

Tyler smiles.

Wear a hat so you can't see my hair by slacked (1/1 | 3046 | Teen ad Up)

He didn’t know what was going on. He knew the rules. He knew that his parents weren’t ready, that’s why they couldn’t call him Tyler, that’s why they still called him a girl, that’s why he couldn’t cut his hair. He had to be ‘patient with them’. But it seemed that his body was rejecting the rules. That the pulling had become a symptom. And it wasn’t stopping.

Doubt by leooX (1/1 | 1498 | Teen and Up)

Tyler meets Josh at the supermarket.

Pot Roast by Blurryface__0 (1/1 | 1456 | Not Rated)

"Hey, I saw your posts on tumblr from last night and wanted to make sure you were okay. If you need to come over you can. I know it gets hard for you sometimes and I'm here for you, don't forget that please. Stay strong, my prince."

hooped earrings by lavenderlow (1/1 | 1485 | Not Rated)

you have got to do this now, or you can never come home again.

Focus!AU by Dun_with_Life (9/9 | 15531 | Teen and Up)

Josh, A seasoned master of misdirection, Becomes romantically involved with novice con artist Tyler. As he teaches her the tricks of trade, She gets too close for comfort and abruptly breaks it off. Three years later, The former flame -- now an accomplished femme fatale -- shows up in Buenos Aires In the midst of Josh's last, very dangerous scheme. She throws him off his plan for a loop...and the consummate con man off his game.

We Could Fly Far Away by Pinkstationfrerard (20/20 | 55576 | Mature)

When he was 13 years old, Tyler left his phone number in a bunch of random books for a boredom-curing bet. 6 years later, Josh Dun finds one of those books.

(a.k.a the "You found my phone number in a book and decided to text me and hey you're not a creepy old man for once- you're actually pretty cute" AU featuring socially awkward trans!Tyler)

I'm boyish enough, right? by minecraftwarcat (27/27 | 13381 | Mature)

Tyler Joseph is transgender. And for that, he gets bullied a lot. Enter Joshua Dun, the new student with a smile that Tyler loves and hates at the same time. Josh likes him, and Tyler has no idea why.

Should have brought my library card because I wanna check you out by gardenpsyche (dorktier) (10/10 | 17339 | General)

'I’m a librarian and I catch you almost every week moving your favourite fantasy series from the fiction to the non-fiction section.'

AKA josh is big scifi nerd and tyler is an overworked librarian dealing with his shenanigans

Not a Client by edy (1/1 | 40180 | Explicit)

my name is tyler joseph, the post reads, and if you see this, then i am in trouble. i have been unable to gain access to my queue to remove this. please, if you see this, call 911.

Mustard by edy (1/1 | 14827 | Explicit)

The one where Tyler sits on street corners and plays his ukulele for money and Josh hates his life.

P.S I Love You by Pinkstationfrerard (8/8 | 24189 | General)

Liking your best friend is tough. High school is tough. And to top it off, not fitting in or accepting yourself is pretty tough, too.

... And here is the story of a not-so-simple high school AU featuring trans!Tyler and ace!Josh.

Safe by edy (1/1 | 3111 | Explicit)

"Hey, you should fuck him." She points, and she drinks, and she says, "I heard he was easy. I heard he's got a pussy. You should fuck him."

Pay Attention by ttsg (1/1 | 2228 | Explicit)

Tyler's not paying attention

How to Love Your Body in 10 Easy Steps by planetcleer (1/1 | 1077 | Teen and Up)

Josh’s fingers itch anxiously, like the always do before he performs, but the other poets are talented and more than once he loses himself in the way their words feel.

And then this girl walks up on stage. She looks to be around Josh’s age, hair just grazing the tips of her ears, tattoos banded around her arms, tall and lanky but fitting. Someone announces that this piece is called “How to Love Your Body in 10 Easy Steps”, and that the speaker is named Tyler Joseph.

People murmur.

Josh blinks.

The girl on stage begins.

slow on sunday morning (and i never want to leave) byfobfantasia (1/1 | 2214 | Mature)

virginal trans boy tyler who was too worried about sex that he never really explored it nice i suck at even the mildest of smut

Jake by edy (1/1 | 7851 | Explicit)

shut up, Tyler would text. send me a dick pic

now send me a video where you're jacking off

stay with me tonight by pretttysounds (1/1 | 2217 | Mature)

Josh is sleepy and cuddly, but Tyler has other ideas.

Wicked Crush by edy (1/1 | 7449 | Explicit)

The one where Josh robs houses on the side and accidentally steals a few pill bottles, vials of testosterone, and a pair of tweezers from Tyler. Josh swears he didn't know it was Tyler's house when he broke in. Please believe him.

85 Percent by marsakat (1/1 | 2991 | Explicit)

Josh doesn't do this often, but tonight is different than every other night.

The Ballad of You and I by franticatlantic (2/2 | 2775 | Explicit)

The window is open, Tyler is cold, and he smells bacon.

Steer Me from the Hive of Bees by edy (1/1 | 8072 | Explicit)

He has that dream again.

this love by roseq (1/1 | 1260 | Teen and Up)

josh is trans and having a bad dysphoria day. tyler tries to help him out.

Can't Spell Without A by edy (1/1 | 17534 | Mature)

By September's end, they're living together.

By January's time, Tyler's lips will turn blue.

Josh doesn't know that yet.

On The Nickel by orphan_account (7/7 | 8763 | Not Rated)

They don't get it.

Another Western Vampire (Different Time, Same Place) by stalksoftly (9/? | 28798 | Explicit)

Tyler Joseph is a mysterious cowboy. Cityslicker Josh Dun doesn't know what he got himself into when he agreed to be his ranch hand for the summer.

Joy to the World by edy (7/12 | 52453 | Explicit)

Fires will consume soon.

Leave while you can.

I heard Greenland is nice.

Everything will be okay.

This last message is sprawled across the front of the bakery, two suns for the dots of the i. Josh reads and believes the message.

okay so this is nowhere near all of the trans fics that have been written but i plan on updating it again sometime soon. this is just a quick list so please don’t be upset if your fic is left out i just haven’t gotten to it yet) -Madi

[hotelconcierge]

The Tower

hey man there’s a hole in my head where information goes

I. 

1 And the whole earth was of one language and of one speech.

2 And it came to pass, as they journeyed east, that they found a plain in the land of Shinar; and they dwelt there.

3 And they said one to another: 'Come, let us make brick, and burn them thoroughly.' And they had brick for stone, and slime had they for mortar.

4 And they said: 'Come, let us build us a city, and a tower, with its top in heaven, and let us make us a name; lest we be scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth.'

5 And the LORD came down to see the city and the tower, which the children of men builded.

6 And the LORD said: 'Behold, they are one people, and they have all one language; and this is what they begin to do; and now nothing will be withholden from them, which they purpose to do.

7 Come, let us go down, and there confound their language, that they may not understand one another's speech.'

8 So the LORD scattered them abroad from thence upon the face of all the earth; and they left off to build the city.

9 Therefore was the name of it called Babel; because the LORD did there confound the language of all the earth; and from thence did the LORD scatter them abroad upon the face of all the earth. (Genesis 11:1–9)

In Sunday School or Illustrated Classics, we are taught that God punished humanity for hubris, for daring to disobey Mesopotamian zoning laws. That’s not what it says here.

Biblical man didn’t build a tower to sneak into Heaven’s happy hour without ID. He wanted to “make a name; lest we be scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth.” The tower was symbolic, decorative, a community service project. It was supposed to bring people together.

And accordingly, the LORD doesn’t care about the tower, doesn’t even mention it by name. The tower is merely a tip-off that something is awry. When God descends to Earth, His complaint is,

'Behold, they are one people, and they have all one language; and this is what they begin to do; and now nothing will be withholden from them, which they purpose to do.’

The Judeo-Christian capital G—o—d, robed, bearded, opinionated, deadlifts, thematically male, is the avatar of civilization, just check the year. Even so, His omnipotence is not uncontested. He knows this. You should see what He did to the guys with the golden calf. God said, “Let there will be light,” and there was light. But just as Nyx preceded Zeus, that means the darkness was already there. And the house always wins at the second law of thermodynamics.

“Behold, they are one people, and they have all one language; and this is what they begin to do.” God didn’t punish Homo sapiens sapiens for hubris, he launched a pre-emptive strike. “Now nothing will be withholden from them, which they purpose to do.” Far be it from me to psychoanalyze God. But if I’m reading the tone correctly, He did this because He was scared.

II. 

But it’s alright, Ma, it’s life and life only.

—Bob Dylan

Everyone deserves to figure out the meaning of life at least once or twice. We’re talking late teens and early twenties, when work is too easy and finding better work too hard. Turning the post-acid feeling of cosmic oneness into a fridge-note to-do list is harder than expected, but whatever man, MWF pass/no pass. Start from the basics. Matter is math, mind is matter. Determinism except for the quantum stuff. Time is a flat circle, space is a mobius strip, morality is aesthetics and aesthetics is quantifiable. Big Bang and billiard balls of 1s and 0s colliding and uncolliding on loop. “Though existence has no inherent meaning,” you tell your ex over chamomile, “in the end, all we have is each other.” Reply: something about how all behavior is an expression of the ancestral Art that is shared by our collective unconscious. “Um, yeah,” annoyed, “I thought that was obvious.”

Ah, surprise surprise, turns out your inch and footnoted masterpiece was predicted by the Greek philosopher Fuchylus in 380 B.C.E. Like, you could have right-clicked that guy’s papyrus for synonyms. Not to mention the next twenty-three hundred years of middlebrow philosophy you somehow missed. Why did you think your reductionism was original? Even your doodles are boring. Wolfram plays coy. The rock band turns to sediment. Making a fool of yourself drunk won’t get a rise from fate and sobriety gives a hangover too. Atoms don’t touch they just brush electrons; the sky magnifies the sun onto the anthills of man. Spilled soda on the counter and cashed bowls on the kitchen table; it’s the witching hour, and some guy in an Neff beanie is asking if you have any Xanax. And the meaning of life strikes again, that sacred cosmic oneness, how strange it is to be anything at all—but just for a second. And with the wisdom of a philosopher, you reply, “Dude, I need to sleep.”

That’s when the open-mic audience would start finger-snapping and I would do a handle pull from whatever was available, probably Seagram’s. Look, we’ve all been there. And to the best of our abilities, I hope we’ve all moved on.

It has gradually become clear to me what every great philosophy up till now has consisted of—namely, the confession of its originator, and a species of involuntary and unconscious auto-biography; and moreover that the moral (or immoral) purpose in every philosophy has constituted the true vital germ out of which the entire plant has always grown. (Beyond Good & Evil)

But I also hope that you’ve kept some sympathy for homebrew creation myths. Even though one inevitably stumbles upon some version of “existence is suffering, might as well floss,” the challenge of applying vocab words to reality sometimes reveals patterns that would not otherwise be obvious.

So consider yourself warned: the unfortunately academic ideas hereafter will not take the controls you so desperately proffer, and they will not grant you an answer that does not exist. I still believe they are important.

The question is thus: why don’t we choose to be happy?

For those who doubt humanity’s anti-joy stance, look no further than the sci-fi concept of Wireheading. If in the year 20XX the Hegemony announces a Guaranteed Happiness Machine, would you use it? There’s no catch. You sign in triplicate, there’s low-volume Sinatra playing from an overhead speaker, a lab tech hooks up electrodes to your forehead, terms and conditions, agree, YES, ON. And then you feel good. As good as it is possible to feel. The machine makes heroin look like a sharpie high. The feeling it gives you isn’t mere hedonistic pleasure, it is limitless understanding, loving and being loved, progress and growth—whichever nouns or adjectives you prefer, the sum feeling is happiness. The machine never stops working and it never induces a tolerance. You can stop anytime, although no one ever does, they live in rapture while undergrads making $12.50 an hour tend to their fluids. Ninety years later, they die.

I have no doubt that some readers would hit the ON button so hard they’d break a metacarpal. Not unreasonable, if you are depressed or a hippie circa 1967. I can’t question your axioms, I’ll drop a few nickels when I pass by on Telegraph Ave. Those of you who reject suicide by Hallmark, I agree, but please note that instead of happiness, equanimity, transcendence, or any other internal state postulated as the ‘meaning of life,’ you are prioritizing something that is not a feeling at all.

A second thought experiment re: that something. Suppose that your behoodied Silicon Valley boss offers you an all-expenses-paid vacation to virtual reality paradise. This is more than a chemical high: an analysis of your preteen forum posts nudges the universe into whatever genre fiction your unconscious craves most. The VR offers you the chance to live out your dreams. Alas, for copyright reasons, any memories of the vacation will be wiped upon your return, any skills you acquired will be unlearned, and any metadata of your adventures will be destroyed. You’ll remember inhaling the sedative, then you’ll wake up with lumbar back pain to show that time has passed.

I’m more tempted by dreamland than the empty calories of wireheading, but even so I recognize that both choices are fundamentally the same: an ecstasy that leaves no trace vs. bland but tangible reality. The decision is almost binary. If you would spend a year in the Matrix, why not twenty? Why not the rest of your life?

These concerns are not theoretical.

In the study, Kahneman and colleagues looked at the pain participants felt by asking them to put their hands in ice-cold water twice (one trial for each hand). In one trial, the water was at 14C (59F) for 60 seconds. In the other trial the water was 14C for 60 seconds, but then rose slightly and gradually to about 15C by the end of an additional 30-second period.

Both trials were equally painful for the first sixty seconds, as indicated by a dial participants had to adjust to show how they were feeling. On average, participants’ discomfort started out at the low end of the pain scale and steadily increased. When people experienced an additional thirty seconds of slightly less cold water, discomfort ratings tended to level off or drop.

Next, the experimenters asked participants which kind of trial they would choose to repeat if they had to. You’ve guessed the answer: nearly 70% of participants chose to repeat the 90-second trial, even though it involved 30 extra seconds of pain. Participants also said that the longer trial was less painful overall, less cold, and easier to cope with. Some even reported that it took less time. (Summary by this website, source Thinking Fast and Slow)

Ur-Rationalist Daniel Kahneman distinguishes between the experiencing self, which reacts to the bartender’s “you’ve had enough” with pain fiber shocks of disbelief, and the remembering self, which, subject to biases such as duration neglect and the peak-end rule, leaves the two star Yelp review. The cold water experiment is a brilliant demonstration of how, as in the wirehead and dreamland examples above, our remembering and experiencing selves often disagree. This should be intuitive: consider the TV series ruined by the finale, the regret that follows junk food bliss, or the bad date that turns into a comedic memory.

Except Kahneman doesn’t take his idea far enough. Consider the motivations of a suicide bomber. The experiencing self knows nothing save immediate pleasure and pain. It has no interest in martyrdom. It will only pull the trigger to end some greater agony, such as during sickness, when some elemental part of you literally does “want to die.” The remembering self is what chooses to endure the flu, since it knows from its internalized stories that all pain eventually subsides; failure of this mechanism is the cognitive basis for depression. At times, the remembering self will even coax the experiencing self into discomfort, e.g. work, in exchange for a future reward, e.g. dough. But the case of a kamikaze, the remembering self is willing to die not for its own postponed pleasure, but so that some other remembering self can look back on its behalf.

Ask any teenage boy, would you prefer an miserable life—and I mean no “life satisfaction,” no “dopaminergic reinforcement,” nothing but anhedonia and abject suffering—with a great legacy, or a happy but unremarkable stay? All he’ll have to do is point to his Nirvana t-shirt. In his own faux-hawked way, he’s continuing the sacrificial tradition of his ancestors: warriors, prophets, and parents. Any given hamartia may cut your QALYs in half, but plenty of Greeks would’ve taken an arrow to the heel in exchange for a Homeric cameo. This is why utilitarianism is for nerds. I get the need for a heuristic, fine, but the remembering self doesn’t want quality of life, it wants quality of death, and it is impossible to factor that into your calculations because nothing ends, Adrian, nothing ever ends. Your story continues postmortem on the Ship of Theseus down the River Styx, vulnerable to necrophiliacs and redeemable by eulogy. The remembering self is not bound by pleasure, it is not bound by time, it is not even bound by self.

If someone hits your hippocampus with a rock and proceeds to wipe every trace of your existence from humanity’s collective memory, then you aren’t you anymore, pick a new name and maybe stop messing with the CIA; but anything short of that and the remembering self rises up like The Thing. In every interaction worth memory, some fraction of your breath-by-breath biography is pasted into the the recipient’s memory and thus into their remembering self. The size of this interpolation varies, as does the fidelity of translation. Cashier gets a caricature, lovers get a short story, and you get an anonymous manifesto called ‘The Tower.’ Burroughs: 

The word has not been recognised as a virus because it has achieved a state of stable symbiosis with the host. (The Electronic Revolution)

Of course, it’s not just words. It’s everything.

The idea of “cultural evolution” is as old as Darwin, the idea of transmissible cultural information bits—“memes”—at least as old as Dawkins [1]. For the idea of human consciousness as a collection of memes, Keith Henson coined the term “memeoid,” although he defined the term as “victims who have been taken over by a meme to the extent that their own survival becomes inconsequential.” Pleading guilty to the goofy vocab, I contend that we are all such victims. Schizophrenics are absolutely correct to be worried about the insertion and theft of one’s thoughts. Memory is a collection of memes. The so-called remembering self scores our attempts to secure the interests of such memes, the experiencing self totals the millivolts of pain and pleasure, and the algorithm to which we ascribe free will chooses between them.

But by this point I hope that I have demonstrated the limitations of Kahneman’s terminology. So, in older and perhaps better words: superego, id, ego. Q.E.D.

III.

One is a sterile number. When there is only one there can be no love, no yearning, no union. Two are required to forge a relationship. Without the other, the self has no meaning. (Myth = Mithya)

Mirrors and copulation are abominable, for they multiply the number of mankind. (Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius)

The first dichotomy, per Freud, divides ego-instincts from object-instincts. Ego-instincts bubble up from within. Our necessities, the autonomic-prompted lower rungs on Maslow’s hierarchy, are such: hunger, fatigue, defecation, micturition, respiration, crude sexual desire. Newborns, lacking cerebellar motor plans, with vision only capable of parsing light and motion, respond solely to ego-instincts, treating the entire world as an extension of their ill-defined bodies. We are born narcissists.

Object-instincts, together composing the infamous libido, develop as we learn the range of our power and begin to direct it outwards. Freud marks draws his second dichotomy as the yin and yang of libido: Eros, the love instinct, and Thanatos, the death instinct. I have written elsewhere about this dichotomy. Whether our interactions with the outside world can be reduced to two fundamental modes is debatable, but while other categorizations are possible, I find this one to be a useful approximation.

In my view, Eros—true love, sure, but also the sacred moments of connection between strangers in a mosh pit—is best approximated as belonging. Not cognitive empathy, affective; not the conscious decompiling of another’s code, just the instinctual feeling of namaste, “the light in me sees the light in you.” Eros can mirror neuron a puppy or a mood-concordant landscape; even the Buddhist desire to renounce desire falls within her domain. Eros asks for nothing save acceptance. Acceptance is belonging and belonging is pleasurable. Only when we see ourselves reflected by the universe can we believe that it is part of us.

With Thanatos, Freud describes an extreme. Our other primordial desire is not for death per se, but for control—Ananke. Self-destruction is the ultimate form of such power—the pleasure of failure is that you know how to do it—but sudoku falls on the same path. Ananke hates nothing but entropy. Ananke rewards us for turning atoms into tools and tools into appendages, so much the better if those atoms comprise other humans, viz. the high of domination. But Ananke cares not if we are weak, so long as we are choosing to be weak, viz. the high of submission. Ananke demands action. Ananke compels us to learn, to make the universe predictable, to gain control over time, what next happens, and space, what happens next. Only when the universe is predictable can we believe that it is part of us.

"The ego is the libido’s original home," says Freud. Other human beings are no more than anthropomorphized objects and anthropomorphization is no more than self-reflection in a funhouse mirror. We are born narcissists and it is narcissism to which our instincts pull.

Exposition and truisms, nothing more distasteful, I apologize for inflicting them on you. What I’m trying to prove is that the battle between id and superego is cooked from the start. All of the above goddesses are bound within the id. The id is what we want, by definition. The superego has to sneak and skulk around this fact. Its power—our sacred power as conscious beings—is that we can choose how to go about wanting.

How do we make that choice? At first, Pavlov. Suckling is a spinal cord reflex, calories are tasty, welcome to the rat race, kid. Ananke drives development: contracting the sarcomeres of babbling or crawling is intrinsically pleasurable because it is a new form of control. Once we piece together the object permanence scam, operant conditioning takes over as lead programmer. Convincing dozens of children to sit quietly and crank out long division is possible only with a mass conspiracy of reward and punishment for strange, bureaucratic tasks, see also golf, San Francisco, writing longform on Tumblr. These inculcated memes compete for the real estate of your mind, e.g. a meme A that reads, “Do not allow meme B entry.” (Although the message might sneak past the immune system as a mutated meme B2.) Memes also cooperate—“Do not forget meme C, no matter what”—and this process of anchoring new memes to existing residents (per terminology, creating a “memeplex”) is the mechanism behind semantic memory. As always, the map becomes the territory. Certain memes sate the id and are reinforced into habit, new memes follow through behavioral association and in turn dangle the carrot and wield the stick. The final algorithm of one’s existence must to some extent serve Eros and Ananke in each moment (you have to “want” in order to act), but it may or may not work towards their long-term procurement, or the sum of their derivatives, happiness. However, pleasure or not, the remembering self will use the superego’s algorithm when assigning meaning to memory: “Did I do what I really wanted?”

But whoever considers the fundamental impulses of man...will find that they have all practiced philosophy at one time or another, and that each one of them would have been only too glad to look upon itself as the ultimate end of existence and the legitimate LORD over all the other impulses. (Beyond Good & Evil)

The remembering self doesn’t care what MacGuffin you pick. Five-act memories are the natural consequence of movement toward a goal—static friction, activation energy, climax, relaxation, rest, there’s no other way to so much as cross the street. Stasis is the enemy, action begins with the disruption of routine. Minimum wage jobs are worse because of their pointlessness more than because of their indignity, work harder/better/faster/stronger and no one cares, screw up and you’re replaced without a missed beat. No direction, no story; the days blur together until arthritis leaves you crippled. Stoned summers don’t get you off the hook, duration neglect compresses both good and bad sensations. No matter how pleasant, when nothing is happening, the superego starves. There’s a reason couples fight on vacation.

The secret to a cozy deathbed is to pick a single memeplex and grind towards its goals alone, a Nietzschean Will to Power over Schopenhauer’s Will. Being a dilettante is simply too easy: flat lines don’t form memories. Reinventing yourself between brunches feels good—the illusion of control—until you’ve dreamt the same dreams too many times and they no longer get you high. A little navel-gazing, mind-wracking, and soul-searching is necessary, but adolescence is supposed to come with an expiration date, and adulthood marks the switch from explore to exploit. The menthol-smoking relativists in acid-wash jeans are correct: the meaning of life is arbitrary, constructed, cultural, fake. But the path to a meaningful life is universal.

Happiness and meaning—sometimes they overlap, sometimes you must choose. I don’t have the answer, there is no answer, all I can do is warn you about the trap by which you obtain neither. Even if you’re sign-me-up-for-the-Orgasmatron all in with Team Experiencing Self, the id is too myopic to be any good at long-term hedonism. The unchecked id would have left us cavemen, samizdat & chill wouldn’t even be on the table. Conversely, even if you’re polishing trophies for Team Remembering Self, the default superego is an incoherent mess, infected with millions of selfish, MALIGNANTLY USELESS memes that have no interest in your happiness, care not for the coherence of your autobiography, and will drive you to madness rather than let you winnow them away.

The key word is default. We all have some degree of protection, either through physical isolation or memetic immunity, “Mom says not to trust strangers who say they have candy.” But most of us fall short of contact precautions. And in that case, we are ruled by probability—by Moloch, by Nyx, by Nature, the only force that God fears. Why else would He confuse mankind’s language? Why would He demand obedience to 613 commandments? Circumcision? What was Judaism, with rabbinical prohibition against interfaith marriage or proselytization, except God’s attempt to create a religion that would not spread? It failed, as it always does. Autotune and Manifest Destiny. The house always wins at the second law of thermodynamics.

With free flow of information, how can any belief system hold? All belief systems rest on axioms, if you grant equal footing to a contradictory axiom, the belief system collapses. I suppose I’m that guy claiming that atheists invent a God—not an interventionist God, nor a fuzzy deism, but a set of unprovable principles that determine right and wrong and to which one must atone. Don’t give me that humanism bullshit. When someone slaps your hypothetical girlfriend’s ass in the proverbial club, what does humanism say you should do? At least toxic masculinity has an answer. Humanism is a motte and bailey, a set of milquetoast ideals which provide no guidance in day to day life and so leave you passive (“Hey, man—first principles!”) or, more likely, vulnerable to whatever crypto-ideology is most virulent. If you do not have a code of conduct, one will be provided for you.

With free flow of information—a suppressed memetic immune system, a hypothetical Tower of Babel—it is statistically inevitable that every meme will attain its most infectious form. There are countless ways to make an idea more or less palatable, but the first step is always the same, a single amino acid substitution, a lingering desire affixed to every thoughtlet: “SPREAD THIS MEME.” With free flow of information, this will be the only value that remains—every other axiom will be cancelled out by its opposite, but the codon “don’t spread this meme” will, definitionally, not spread.

A pathogen that is too restrained will lose out in competition to a more aggressive strain that diverts more host resources to its own reproduction. However, the host, being the parasite's resource and habitat in a way, suffers from this higher virulence. This might induce faster host death, and act against the parasite's fitness by reducing probability to encounter another host (killing the host too fast to allow for transmission).

But as long as transmission continues despite the virulence, virulent pathogens will have the advantage. So, for example, virulence often increases within families, where transmission from one host to the next is likely, no matter how sick the host. Similarly, in crowded conditions such as refugee camps, virulence tends to increase over time since new hosts cannot escape the likelihood of infection. (“Optimal virulence,” Wikipedia)

At least natural selection is a package deal: half your genes per haploid donation. Even the most selfish of genes is bound to help its chromosome buddies reproduce. Not so with our minds. Speech can excise one meme at a time. That meme has no obligation to help any of your other memes spread. Indeed, insofar as your other memes occupy time and energy, they are its enemies. The result: an overpowering desire to be understood, all I want in life’s a little bit of love to take the pain away, unquenchable, because the memes that want to be understood are contradictory and changing from moment to moment: you have failed to define a you, so you are a vessel [2]. 

At least the force of natural selection acts along one axis. Here, you are torn apart.

IV.

Art is form struggling to wake from the nightmare of nature. (Sexual Personae)

“Culture is not about esthetics” by Gwern Branwen is worth reading even though I oppose its conclusion with a vehemence others reserve for colonoscopies and Ayn Rand. I can’t do justice to 125 footnotes of background research with a bullet-point paragraph, but the argument goes:

We subsidize the creation of art, both directly (museum fees, camgirl wishlists) and indirectly (universities, copyright law).

There is already far more art than could possibly be consumed in a lifetime.

Old art is better than new art—because of the selection bias of time, if nothing else.

People would be happier if they consumed only the best art.

We should not encourage the production of new art; indeed, if it truly is harmful, we should ban it. (Gwern gives nonfiction a pass.)

If you’re not in the right mindset, this may seem completely insane, which it is, but you have to respect a guy who goes for the null hypothesis hat trick. Intellectual honesty is best achieved by contrarianism against every belief encountered, including contrarianism. We arrive at verisimilitude by ping-ponging between falsehoods, praise be unto Gwern for serving as one of the paddles.

The first objection to an art ban: what qualifies as “better?” Let’s assume that all art can be boiled down to a single rating between 0 and 10. Perhaps even then an 8 may be situationally better than a 10; perhaps for some people Eminem’s rhymes resonate more than George Chaucer’s. Do niche and novel issues benefit from niche and novel perspectives?

Gwern says no. “Fiction can be unfairly persuasive, bypassing our rational faculties.” “Time consumption is zero-sum between fiction & nonfiction.” “As a society, is it good to have our discussions and views about incredibly important matters like space exploration hijacked by fiction?”

Either fiction is effective as propaganda and setting societal agendas, or it isn’t. If the latter, then the loss is nil; if the former, then fiction is dangerous!

Gwern seems to think that if we banned Guardians of the Galaxy the relevant audience would switch to Douglas Hofstadter. The assumption here is that nonfiction exists, distinct from and more truthful than fiction. I don’t buy it. Whenever a human is involved it’s fiction, and if policy decisions came from Excel spreadsheets that data still would have been collected by a mortal of limited peripheral vision. Please recall that extremely fucked up scientific racism tomes of yesteryear such as “Crania Americana” and "Diseases and Peculiarities of the Negro Race" were nonfiction bestsellers. A glance at the news site of your choice will show that we have achieved only a marginal improvement in veracity. If you ban sensationalist fiction, odds are that the proles will get their info from sensationalist nonfiction, and if you think our discussions and views are hijacked now, just wait.

But the greater oddity here is that, when pondering the possible benefits of fiction, Gwern chooses to talk about...space. This reeks of too much Modafinil. Gwern gives two lines of courtesy toward the majority of modern fiction:

Now, what good deeds could only new works produce? Certainly it’s not edifying & educating our youth; it is not as if the pedagogy of Euclidean geometry has changed much over the last millennia, nor is 20th century fiction known for teaching moral lessons.

What the hell? I don’t know what 20th century fiction Gwern has been reading. Even Go, Dog. Go! had a moral.

That’s right. Love in the Time of Cholera, natch. Fiction needs motion which requires a MacGuffin which generates a value system around it. Fiction dispenses a moral lesson even when it’s not trying, and before you come at me with “the only moral question is whether you voted for Trump and how many bednets are you sending to Africa!!!!” allow me to point out that fiction is strongest when it deals with microethics, not “is war bad y/n.” (“A triumph of honesty...a shocking exploration of modern values.”— The New York Times.) We face a hundred small dilemmas every time we get close enough to breathe another person’s exhaled nitrogen and NOTHING BUT ART CAN ANSWER THESE QUESTIONS. We can gin and rummy about how conserved moral questions are over time—I’m sympathetic to Gwern’s object-level claims, the classics are underutilized, subsidies are bad—but even if the disease is ancient, you have to speak a living language if you want to recognize the symptoms.

All of this supports the first objection: that new art provides a nontrivial benefit to the observer. But I’m going for a bigger claim: it doesn’t have to.

Gwern states the following:

The humanities have made notoriously little use of science’s techniques, worldview, or results...Conceptually, I see no problem with a nation of sober hard-headed engineers and scientists doing quite as well without the novelists.

This seems like Gwern’s idea of a utopia. So let us suppose this art-banned nation of engineers exists—every man, woman, and child, speech-therapied and carbuncular, saluting a flag of the golden spiral—and indeed, is so successful that a post-scarcity economy is achieved and everyone retires to leisure. Now, enlighten me: what would these people do all day?

They could read Dostoyevsky. Maybe Notes from the Underground, if they’ve retained a sense of irony. They couldn’t write analyses of Dostoevsky, however—that would be new art. There wouldn’t be much in the way of comedy, but why would that be needed when one can recite from the classic jest and prankbooks of yore? As for tragedy, at the funeral of a loved one, choose from any of the more than sufficient eulogies already written. No new fashion but khakis are always in season. No new recipes but who doesn’t like Mealsquares. They could fuck. They could play tic-tac-toe. They could plug into the Orgasmatron—and this, I suspect, is the endgame of Gwern’s utilitarian fantasy hell, inspired by a glance at Maslow’s Hierarchy and, “Well, that part seems unnecessary.” I know it’s gauche to claim that your opponent’s philosophy would lead to the extinction of the human race, but he not busy being born is busy dying. “People would be happier consuming only the best art.” A rat in a cage will mash its nucleus accumbens until it starves to death. Are you a rat?

Gwern never defines what is art, perhaps because a broad conception would render his argument absurd, so I’ll help, apologies in advance for clichés. Art is compressed communication. The better the compression, with regards to both perceived fidelity and amount of information contained, the more artful the art. Limitation—poetic meter, scene-cut-scene, verse-chorus-verse—is the essence of every form because removing redundancies and noise, unnecessary memes, is how one creates a map. Satire is effective when via exaggeration or noun-swapping absurdism it calls attention to the underlying pattern. A twelve minute ambient or noise track may lack musical structure but conveys a precise-yet-generalizable mood to the listener; a random field recording feels less artful because it does not. A Pollock canvas may be composed through randomness and chaos, but the choice to use randomness and chaos...and so on. Life itself is walls between fluid. Beauty is objective, because we all interpret beauty by this criterion, and subjective, because experience dictates the extent to which we can unpack a given compression [3].

Art is not necessary for a meaningful life: if you contort your superego enough you can find meaning in rolling a boulder uphill. But given the Tower of Babel, the Will known to teenage pirates as “information wants to be free,” most human beings are compelled to spread memes above all else. And if your goal is such, then you must choose between compression and manic, babbling psychosis. The sharing inherent in romance and child-rearing is still the most efficient method of spreading one’s memes, but a conversation and a concerto are different in degree, not kind. Good fortune spoils if you cannot share it, yet when the pink slip arrives your instinct is to forgo the yellow pages to work on your novel. The old and homeless tell bawdy jokes and cirrhotic anecdotes, anything to anyone who will listen, street preferred to asylum, that anoxic last ditch expulsion of gametes trying to leave behind something of meaning. We live an world of aspiring communicators if not aspiring artists, everyone but the children who do not yet know they will die. Art is the way by which man purifies his soul from chaos, it his revenge against Nature, he decides which memes of consciousness to spread and he takes the rest to the grave. Or she.

“Best art?” There is no best art, only more and less true. Art exists for its own sake, it may heal, torture, corrupt, enlighten, restrain, or indulge, but this is incidental; all it wants is to be understood.

V.

I am a man of substance, of flesh and bone, fiber and liquids—and I might even be said to possess a mind. I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me. Like the bodiless heads you see sometimes in a circus sideshow, it is as though I have been surrounded by mirrors of hard, distorting glass. When they approach me they see only my surroundings, themselves, or figments of their imagination—indeed, everything and anything except me. (Invisible Man)

I’ll pull the political band-aid—I think “ease of having one’s art understood” is a defensible conception of “privilege.”

Don’t @ me, bro. I’m not trying to score internet groupies, here, I just want to torch this hydra of semantics once and for all. Per Wikipedia:

Privilege is a social theory that special rights or advantages are available only to a particular person or group of people. The term is commonly used in the context of social inequality, particularly in regard to age, disability, ethnic or racial category, gender, gender identity, sexual orientation, religion and/or social class. Two common examples may include having access to a higher education and housing. Privilege can also be emotional or psychological, regarding comfort and personal self-confidence, or having a sense of belonging or worth in society.

This is one of the better definitions, and it is still so vacuous that when I plugged it into Google Translate my computer crashed. No one disputes that “some groups have advantages relative to other groups,” even proud racists admit this. The argument concerns who has which advantages and the relevant score multipliers. Case in point: the above definition includes "self-confidence” and "worth in society.” So who has more privilege, a cis-white-hetero billionaire with full-checklist depression or an unemployed transgender black woman who, despite this, is basically content? Either the billionaire has less privilege, in which case “privilege” is a Harrison Bergeron happiness tax, or the suicidal person has more privilege, in which case, how much does “privilege” matter, really. I know, not supposed to be a linear scale, but in a country of unhappy people this is the question that always comes up: “I am so alone and so miserable, you’re dancing on tables at the gay club, sympathy bottled or on tap, and I’m supposed to prostrate myself to atone for my 'privilege?’”

The academic leftist notion of privilege fails—is infuriatingly counterproductive—because it rests its weight on the experiencing self. Kahneman (in)famously found that, in the U.S., income’s effect on "positive affect” saturates after $75,000 per annum; race and sex impact happiness less than one might think; I’ve met Upper East Side kids less fulfilled by their iPads than Sub-Saharan kids without running water were with “catch the rock.” I am not saying such differences are insignificant. They are significant. But the vicissitudes of chemistry and fate (sickness, isolation, loss, defunct serotonin receptors) are the most important predictors of day to day happiness, which correlate but refuse to be limited by demographics. Saved wealth buffers against tragedy but suffering finds a way. Hedonic treadmill is the buzzword: as monoxide salesman Thomas Ligotti puts it, “We do not have the power to make our lives monumentally better, only monumentally worse.”

The remembering self tells a different story. Kahneman’s 75k study found that while happiness levels off, “life evaluation” does not satiate with income; other studies support a stronger link between income and “life satisfaction” than income and happiness. Of course these surveys are semantically loaded enough to put a postmodernist into anaphylaxis. The satisfaction question is usually phrased: “How satisfied are you with your life as a whole these days?” This is not a good measure of the remembering self. For our purposes the question ought to be: “Looking back, how satisfied are you with how your life has played out?”

Now even the most melancholic billionaire is gonna start singing My Way. The suicide note of George Eastman, founder of Kodak: “To my friends, my work is done – Why wait?” Poverty does not allow for such closure. Like a forgotten drive to work, we are amnestic to routine, and memories of “eat, menial labor, sleep” blur together in the rearview mirror. The important-yet-oft-forgotten obverse is that, independent of happiness, wealth buys freedom from routine. Chores—with increasing tax bracket, dry-cleaning, maid, gardener, and nanny. Work—the cheapest jobs get replaced by machines, nurses deal with the predictable consequences of urination and defecation, PAs treat a narrow range of colds and sore throats, doctors can research, lecture, politicize; at the top of the food chain, some CEOs fly to new city each day. Even leisure—a night at the opera is no more fun than pizza and brewskis, but the former is novel, for a time, and the latter soon fades from memory.

Just as freedom from routine can be spent on new experiences it can be spent on new ways to express them. Most purchases this side of a bodega are autobiographical product placement, from name-brand Tylenol to the SkyMall catalogs of the 1%. Ever since Gutenberg invented copy/paste, however, it’s been cheaper to ditch symbolism and go straight for the symbols. We describe upper-class people as “cultured” because...they know a lot of culture. Class is language, education over wealth, no one would invite a Duck Dynasty heir to the new Soho vegan place but you can tell instantly if a homeless guy went to college. What counts is breadth not depth, knowing the right way to convey your opinions—“underrated,” “progressive,” “guilty pleasure,” “ironic, I think”—not the specifics of taste. The bourgeoise use The New Yorker as a word a week calendar, or Slate if they can’t read. In a post-guillotine world, mainstream culture is the new counter-counterculture, and since dressing oneself in the morning is a middle finger to the haters, it should be no surprise how many childfree consumers are working on novels or at least unwatchable concert videos. We are all celebrities now. Map becomes territory, and as anyone who has kept a journal knows, soon you witness the present as you plan to record it, seeking out events good or bad that are likely to yield something worth recording. As the old try and fail to teach the young, life comes at you past.

Pause, value check. Leaving aside the moral question of whether it’s okay to Eat Pray Love while lonesome atheists starve, is Cash 4 Novelty, as a personal value system, a) the disgusting slop of narcissist-capitalism, or b) the boy in the bubble and the baby with the baboon heart? Answer: yes. Let’s review. Option 1, reject the demands of the remembering self altogether, “memes are viruses and should be purged.” But this takes you to some weird places: if you’re a glass half-full kinda guy, wirehead extinction; if you’re a pessimist, vas deferens snip-snip and/or mass suicide. Option 2, the remembering self is good but the Tower of Babel is pathological, we should make like Sisyphus and find meaning outside self-expression. Whether or not this is a noble sentiment, it is an inevitable flop. The Tower of Babel is a logical consequence of memetic selection: to prevent a version of "spread this meme” from taking over, one would have to ban any and all communication between human beings. Seems impractical.

And so we face reality. Pleasure is necessary, so necessary, all the more necessary as one grows older—but not sufficient. We plan our lives around being understood. If wealth grants freedom from routine, increasing the ability to define oneself and the language to express this, then it bestows a privilege independent of its effect on happiness.

This has political implications, namely, that money is good [4]. If a country’s per capita GDP rises threefold over ten years, that is a positive even if the happiness surveys don’t budge. A trade policy that bumps the purchasing power of the bottom quintile by 5% and the Bilderberg Group by 500%—increasing both societal wealth and inequality—is in vacuo a good idea. Absolute amount of money, not relative, buys freedom. Economics is not a zero sum game. (There may be better ways to distribute the dough, sure. Different argument.) Switching political stances in the batter’s box, the reactionary claim that American women were happier before they had orgasms or jobs is untrue. But even if it was, the indisputable increase in the ability for women to self-define and self-express is likely worth the cost. See also: every other pitch for traditional values and neonatal pneumonia.

It is perhaps not generally realized that a refrigerator can be a revolutionary symbol—to a people who have no refrigerators. A motor car owned by a worker in one country can be a symbol of revolt to a people deprived of even the necessities of life... [Hollywood] helped to build up the sense of deprivation of man's birthright, and that sense of deprivation has played a large part in the national revolutions of postwar Asia. (The Medium is the Massage)

Which brings us back to privilege. Belonging to the dominant race and sex of a culture grants the same in memoriam advantage as class, but by a different mechanism. Poverty and lack of education prevents one from speaking the language of culture. Differences of race, gender, and orientation prevent others from listening.

Without getting too bogged down in vocab, the canonical term is “stereotype.” Stereotypes are necessary to function. If art is compressed communication, a stereotype, in the broadest sense, is a pattern of extrapolation. We are constantly making small stereotyped judgments. A raised eyebrow and pause after the end of the sentence may signify “He’s skeptical,” “He’s joking,” “He’s mad,” or, “He’s mad because I ran over the Japanese Prime Minister,” depending on context. Conversation would be unfeasible without these snap judgments, with social confusion verging on autism.

Contrary to the pop-ethical consensus, discrimination is not caused by having too many stereotypes but too few. If you wake to find a lithe man dressed in all black standing over your bed and holding a katana, it may be quite reasonable to infer that he is a hired ninja and that you are in grave danger. If, however, you assume this about every East Asian man that you encounter, you lack nuance of stereotypes. If you want to insert a more topical example, go ahead, it should be obvious however that misunderstanding can result in racist outcomes even without conscious ill-will. Example: stories about disparities in use of Emergency Room analgesia make the headlines about once a year. My observation has been that there are certain culturally accepted ways to express pain, some verbal (saying “I have a high pain tolerance” suggests the opposite) and some nonverbal (wrong ratio of gritted teeth to screaming). When ordering the Dilaudid, physicians unconsciously underestimate the pain of patients who didn’t dot the i’s and cross the t’s of their agony, or, less charitably, unconsciously realize that an undocumented migrant is less likely to write a complaint letter than the hawk-like Shakespeare professor who has given two stars to every book club novel for the past 45 years.

Small comfort for the guy with a broken femur, I agree. But this matters hugely for any campaign against -isms. The above bias would not necessarily be picked up by the, ah, "replication-challenged” Harvard Implicit Bias Test, because if a person of the race in question was wearing an argyle sweater and reading Middlesex the mistreatment would not have occurred. The collegiate notion that some folks are Racist and some have been Saved betrays a preschool understanding of human beings. Most racists are really culturists, or “I don’t hate them, unless they X,” and all racism starts this way, a single heartfelt (although not necessarily true) observation that is falsely extrapolated. I am not defending this, just pointing it out that you do it too and that to some extent it is inevitable. Race and gender are social constructs, but the cultural norms that correlate with race and gender—and goth, prep, jock, etc—are real. Avenue Q theory: until we evolve a hive mind or learn to speak pheromone, every interaction will be mediated by a model of the other. There will always be a stereotype. The unsurprising path forward is to talk to the stereotyped individual, acquiring new detail which is added to the map as it asymptotically approaches the territory. “Be aware of your biases” is excellent advice, but framing this as “don’t be racist, join or die” fails—is infuriatingly counterproductive—because it doesn’t create a new stereotype to work with, an alternate explanation for the genuinely felt observation.

Denying one’s stereotypes altogether is impossible, although you can’t say the woke garbage wytch industry isn’t committed to the attempt. Nevertheless, if you, well-intentioned young person who gets anxiety with phone calls, are trying very hard not to fit someone’s behavior to a stereotype, thinking “don’t stereotype don’t stereotype” over and over throughout the perilous encounter—then too bad, kid, because a) you need to start lifting or something, b) you have a fixed view of how to treat someone based on demographics, which is c) uncomfortable for all concerned, and d) a stereotype. The social justice term for such benign stereotyping is “microaggression,” but when it concerns the opposite sex, it is more precisely dubbed “objectification.”

The Reddit demographic seems to have a mental block about this concept, so allow me to Joe Rogan you some experience: it is perfectly acceptable to think that buxom blonde women are hot. However, if you convey to your waitress that you are attracted to her solely because she is a Hot Blonde, you are saying that all of her other personality traits are irrelevant, i.e. her choices don’t matter, e.g. you get maced. (See also: “What should I wear tonight?” “Honey, no one cares,” and then the fight.) What’s confusing is that sometimes it is okay to like someone just for being comely and flaxen-haired—even the same waitress at the club that night. But notice the difference: at the club, the waitress is trying to convey “Hot Blonde.” You’re not boxing her in, you’re correctly identifying and complimenting her outfit. See also: catcalling vs. dirty talk.

Microaggressions are no different. Someone asking to touch a black woman’s hair may lack malice but nevertheless reminds the woman that in the eyes of others she cannot escape her race. Even explicitly positive stereotypes are harmful—gays are fashionable, Jews are smart; 1970s rockstars lamenting dehumanizing fame—and I hope you can see that they are harmful not against the experiencing self, for at some level attention is always enjoyable, but against the remembering self, which demands to be understood.

What’s less obvious is that the mere existence of a stereotype is harmful. If you have never been hated, as in people-wish-you-were-dead hated, then you may not understand this, but—hatred is painful even if you never encounter those doing the hating. There’s an element of paranoia, sure, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about this very old very fundamental feeling of being misconstrued, of one’s memes being stymied somewhere out in the ether, of one’s legacy going down wrong, a feeling closely related to shame and to which the response is, invariably, rage.

This particular flavor of suffering spares the privileged: historically, straight white males. They had the money so they got the education so they defined class so they controlled the language so they spread the most stories, any of which can serve as template for “white dude.” This says nothing about acuity of suffering, only that such suffering can be communicated more easily and with more nuance. “I’m not Elliott Smith depressed today—it’s more of a Bright Eyes feel. Know what I mean, officer?” “No lies, just love, sir. You have a nice day.” Gross misunderstandings are rare. Oh, you can try—Bushwick art majors tweeting “white people be thinkin physical intimacy be spicy food”—but it rings hollow, because everyone knows at least one horrible “free hugs” guy and his equally horrible friend with a fetish for sriracha. Or at least knows the type. In contrast, white people get their info about minorities from cuckold porn, or worse—sketch comedy.

If we care about the remembering self and we care about other human beings then forging new stereotypes is crucial. This puts me in agreement with mainstream liberalism—although I hope my conservative readers can see that this comes from a genuine desire for fairness rather than brownie-point trend-hopping or sublimated self-loathing—that minority representation is important. Something worth fighting for.

Except there’s a catch: the current push for “diversity” isn’t going to work. 

Like so many policies with charitable intentions but terrible incentives, executed by so many people with no understanding of Goodhart’s law, the current push for multiculturalism will spin the wheels of progress while accomplishing very little. It will create a new hatred for every one that it solves. And those in power will laugh all the way to the vault.

VI.

Real, total war has become information war…the cold war is the real war front—a surround—involving everybody—all the time—everywhere. Whenever hot wars are necessary these days, we conduct them in the backyards of the world with the old technologies…It is no longer convenient, or suitable, to use the latest technologies for fighting our wars, because the latest technologies have rendered war meaningless. (The Medium is the Massage)

If globalization is the defining phenomenon of the modern age, then immigration—physical and cultural, the latter determining who gets to be understood—is the defining political conflict. Let’s take a break from theory and see what the LA Times is doing to bridge the gap,“How Houston has become the most diverse place in America”:

The boys sprint in white and yellow uniforms down the green turf, grunting and sweating as the coach shouts from the sidelines. “Búscalo, búscalo,” he yells in Spanish, urging the players to sprint for the ball.

“Umusitari!” comes a voice on the sidelines — run down the line — from Biganiro Espoir, a native of the Democratic Republic of Congo.

The Margaret Long Wisdom High School soccer team hails from Central America, Mexico, Africa and points between. Its bench hums with Spanish, Kinyarwanda, Swahili and often English. But its real unifying language — soccer, played hard — is universal.

Okay, first of all, no American gives two shits about soccer in between World Cups. Entry number 80, Stuff White People Like: “The Idea of Soccer.” ("Many white people will tell you that they are very into soccer. But be careful, it’s a trap.”) Nor is it a coincidence that the photographed uniforms lack red and blue. I’m just saying, kind of provincial that they didn’t call it football.

“It’s really surprising to see a place like this in the South, where you consider it to be racist and xenophobic,” said Michael Negussie, a Wisdom High School senior from Ethiopia. “Stereotypes of Texas don’t apply here.”

Note that it’s taken for granted that “you” consider the South to be racist and xenophobic—and indeed, the stereotype only doesn’t apply because:

...demographic experts say the Houston metro area, home to the third-largest population of undocumented immigrants in the country — behind New York and Los Angeles — is a roadmap to what U.S. cities will look like in the coming decades as whites learn to live as minorities in the American heartland.

What that means is a whole new dynamic, in which minorities are no longer seen as outsiders. “Suddenly these are 100% American kids, and they’re falling in love with each other, making multiracial babies,” Klineberg said.

A “psychology of inevitability” begins to set in around immigration, he said — it’s happening, and it might not be a bad thing.

“Maybe it’s going to position Houston…for success in building the connections to the global marketplace. Maybe I can make money off of this.... And then we begin to say, how do we make this work?”

This article is bad. It’s bad for conservatives, it’s bad for immigrants, and it’s bad for anyone caught in the crossfire called America. No matter our superficial differences, I hope by the end of this essay we can agree on one thing: if the revolution ever comes, the LA Times should be a first round draft pick to be burned to the ground.

Theory of mind, please: how does this article look to conservatives? When I said that since white people control the language they have an advantage in communication, I didn’t mean, like, Republicans. It’s no big mystery that sleeveless undershirts can only get off to NASCAR and daydreams of slavery. Count off the archetypes: hypocrite evangelical priest. Serial killer. Grandiloquent but inept oil baron/plantation owner. Mentally addled inbred bucktooth. The only nuance is whether those hicks are gonna die off from diabesity or heroin, am I right?

This didn’t happen overnight. At some point there was a modicum of mutual respect, or so I’m told. But ingroups gonna outgroup, and slowly—faster after the insult of George W. Bush—the y’all class became a stereotype, got stereotyped so thoroughly that they weren’t interesting to talk about, which left them no way to contest the verdict. So now the LA Times can take your opinion as a given, and the poor, suffering factory workers are only brought up when some Coachella communist wants to say “they’ve been fooled by the 1%” and call for “solidarity.”

No. It would be unfair to say that you have blinders on when far as I can tell you have gouged out your eyes altogether. Talk to any, any, any Trump supporter, and you get:

There was a working-class, white bar I spent two days in and that’s where it really struck me: This man [Trump] is really resonating. This message is really taking hold and really hitting people. What sociologists and others have long talked about when you go to a poor, working-class black neighborhood is that there is this code of honor, this demand for respect. That same thing was taking place in the white bar I was seeing. And Trump was fulfilling that respect. It was all about respect, regaining respect. (The Atlantic)

Respect. Being understood as an imperfect human being struggling for his or her values, “even if I don’t agree, I can see where you’re coming from.” It’s so simple and yet no one wants to do it, because once you concede that other value systems are valid you start to question your own. Better to pretend at being Robin Hood, 90% tax on Martin Shkreli and basic income for all. And maybe that’s a great idea, but it doesn’t solve the problem: You could give every Appalachian 2 mil and they’d still vote for Brexit and Le Pen. They don’t want your money, they’ll take whatever government handouts are offered but they’d rather go nuclear than beg. Class matters, but this problem is cultural, not economic. “Look, I’m [gay/Muslim/an immigrant/from Portland]. You’re asking me to ‘respect’ people who would deny my existence.” I empathize, you don’t have to respect them, but you unless you think bigotry is Mendelian you should at least look a little deeper:

“...is a roadmap to what U.S. cities will look like in the coming decades as whites learn to live as minorities in the American heartland.”

The LA Times is speaking excitedly of how a group that has already been forced out of the social discourse will soon lose their voice completely. They’re thrilled by the up-and-coming Yelp $$ restaurants and the possibility of “making some money off this” in the “global marketplace.” They’re saying that once the right sort of people move in it might turn out to be a really nice neighborhood. The direct consequence of this brand of pro-immigration sentiment is hatred of immigrants. Oh, I’m sure there was some animosity to start with—that’s why the media had to build a Doomsday Device, to make sure the situation didn’t get out of control. 

Cheesy example, bear with me: “The Gay Agenda.” Treated as a joke, and does indeed sound like a fantastic glam rock band, but when rural conservatives denounce it they mean “the advocacy of cultural acceptance and normalization of non-heterosexual orientations and relationships.” And here’s the thing: they are right to worry about this—just as they are right to worry about immigration—not because David Bowie will corrupt the youth but because of the LA Times. Once acceptance becomes orthodoxy even private dissent becomes grounds for ostracization. No matter your other convictions you become a stereotype that society will single-issue-vote off the island, just ask Brendan Eich. Of course I support gay marriage; my point is that if one’s views before were “well, it is kind of weird,” then being told “soon there will be enough of us that we won’t have to deal with people like you at all”—that makes homophobia logical. And at least you can change your opinion of gay marriage. It’s much harder to change being white and low-class.

It would be correct to blame the LA Times and their ilk for the rise of Donald Trump. But that would let them off too easy. This problem began long ago and it extends far beyond a political issue or presidency. If you’re working class and want to get a promotion then odds are you will have to impress a bureaucrat, be it a manager or a Dean of Admissions. You will fail unless you share their values or convince them that you do—these values are the biggest obstacle to your advancement. So when some vacant skull in a dinner jacket tells you that the working class “votes on social issues” and “against their economic interests,” splash some pinot on his ascot and inform him that they are one and the same.

No one is born hateful, stranger anxiety doesn’t even start til six months. But culture war is history being written by the winners, first draft. Conservatives are offered the choice of fighting the ever-changing tides of social values or toiling away in obscurity while journalists pretend to like soccer. People want to be understood. And they will rage all sorts of ways against the dying of the light.

It is always possible to bind together a considerable number of people in love, so long as there are others left over to receive their aggressiveness...When once the Apostle Paul has posited universal love between men as the foundation of his Christian community, extreme intolerance on the part of Christendom towards those who remained outside it became the inevitable consequence. (Civilization and Its Discontents)

Please understand: I don’t think that the red tribe is in any way morally superior to blue, see above and also history. But in our society there is a meaningful asymmetry between them. The upper-middle class—mostly urban, mostly blue—claims by far the largest share of America’s income, more than the middle class and far more than the 1%. This, despite their protests to the contrary, gives them disproportionate control over the news and entertainment industry, which in cyberpunk America is tantamount to controlling the culture. 

So even though individual subgroups may feel under-represented—perhaps the mainstream media is “liberal” and likes Katy Perry while certain free-thinkers are “leftist” and like Kate Bush—they are by and large clueless as to the feeling of freak-show isolation that comes from existing outside their norms altogether, norms which are ubiquitous every time you turn on a screen. They are, one might say, “blind” to their “privilege,” blind to the fine print disclaimer of their culture, “Swipe left if you voted for Trump.”

I didn’t vote for Trump. And my personal experience of refugees and illegal immigrants—via medical and psychiatric asylum cases—has been overwhelmingly positive. But policy decisions shouldn’t be settled by anecdotes. There is a moral imperative to help those in need—and conservatives should recognize this—while at the same time friction is inevitable when two cultures exist side by side—and liberals should recognize this. One would hope for a reasoned discussion of how to balance the two. But that won’t happen as long as those whose are insulated from the consequences of policy—need I point out that Los Angeles is not located in Houston?—use multiculturalism as a weapon to enforce class.

And what’s so infuriatingly tragic is that it doesn’t have to be this way. Do migrant farmworkers have more in common with Sarah Silverman or a rural mother of four? Polls show that 9 out of 10 Syrian refugees think John Oliver is worse than the war. One of my Muslim colleagues wears a Dallas Cowboys hijab and plays Fire Emblem in the break room—why doesn’t the LA Times do a story about her? How come when “multiracial babies” get mentioned the context is always sexy brown man and not sexy brown woman? Do liberals think that only Broad City characters have the capacity to consent? Some right-wingers buy into the predatory immigrant mythos wholesale, and they’re idiots, but many more are concerned not because they think most immigrants are drug dealers, rapists, etc, but because if they were, the castrato left would post three monkey emojis and say that the reports of such incidents are proof that Islamophobia is alive and well. It would be so easy to validate the concerns, to say #notallmigrants, sure, but to say just as loudly that misdeeds are misdeeds and will be punished as such. I’m no skinny-armed libertarian saying “if only we didn’t talk about race, no one would be racist!” I’m saying that the specific way the media talks about race and culture, creating an incoherent set of rules regarding “appropriation” and etiquette, proudly crying out that this is the end of those boring, selfish white people, has made the situation much, much worse. If the left wanted to prevent assimilation, there would be no more effective way.

That’s the point.

VII.

“The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting.” — Sun Tzu

Suppose you’re a benevolent Disney executive (maybe an oxymoron) who wants to increase minority representation in movies. How are you going to do it?

Well, your first instinct is to throw a fistful of Franklins into the writer’s room and scream “write me some of them brown people!” But here’s the problem: all your writers are white.

So now the decision tree forks. You can tell them to write “how they imagine” a person of color would talk and act, taking food choices, cultural dialects, and quinceañera celebrations into account. Or you can tell them to write an a-racial dude and use the paint bucket tool in Maya.

And that’s not really a decision at all. Not only could asking white boys to Tarantino another race lead to potential uh-ohs, having your characters speak anything but the dominant language/culture would limit your audience (definitionally, else it wouldn’t be the dominant language).

So you tell the writers to write an a-racial character, but since the cis-white-hetero patriarchy created the dominant language, the default assumptions of how people act—that means white. Which gets you a blockbuster superhero movie and a million Tumblr webcomics. Nice!

Except you’ve only sort of increased representation: there are minority characters, but in every way besides melanin they’re lighter than Luke Skywalker. There’s something to be said for that (for children in particular, since kids are kids wherever you go) but it’s not going to help the 18 year old black girl whose tastes, mannerisms, and values have been shaped by the pressures of being black in America, if nothing else.

Ergo, you decide to hire some minority writers to write your minority characters. Applications rush in. How are you going to decide who makes the cut?

“You know, the usual. Interview. Letters of recommendation. College transcript—”

This is part of a larger, systemic problem with the way power has shifted not from Group A to Group B, but from ground up to top down, and top down works in a very specific way: it concedes the trappings of power while it retains the actual power. (The Last Psychiatrist)

This is how the system protects itself against change. At every step of the social hierarchy, what is required for a person of color or a woman to succeed is determined by the values of the ruling class. I think that’s “white patriarchal supremacy,” but don’t quote me. Of course, the same principle applies to e.g. homosexuals and Jews; thankfully those traits are easier to hide.

Here’s your analogy: when you glance over at the in-flight movie flickering in front of the passed-out behemoth blocking your path to the bathroom, it is instantly apparent whether he’s watching a good movie like Face/Off or terrible Oscar bait. What gives the latter away? The meticulous set design? The histrionic orchestra? The slow pacing? The lingering close-ups of faces? The heavily scripted funny-because-it’s-sad-and-true? Oscar bait films are theatrical, a word which is supposed to mean “keeps reminding you that you’re in the audience,” but actually means “keeps reminding you that you are the audience.” The actors are side characters, background dancers. The hero is the camera. It’s the one with the character growth, guilt and redemption, it’s the one for whom the score sings. Which means the hero is...

It’s better than nothing. Better than segregation, better than open and unpunished murder in the street. It’s progress. But as Baudrillard said, that The Matrix was the kind of film about the matrix that the matrix itself would produce, I suspect that the most art about inequality is precisely the art that inequality sanctions.

And that’s bad. There’s a case to be made for affirmative action, but you know who gets the scholarship? Whoever can best conform to the in-demand stereotype. Middle of the road for the med school application. Tone it down if you want to get into Wharton. But maybe play it up a little for the grant proposal—go ahead, be a queer Chicano nationalist, send some mean tweets, academics eat that shit up. Of course they’re the only ones that will: the rest of society will stereotype you as “another” queer Chicano nationalist academic and never listen closely again. Even if you’re Manny Pacquiao you better not step from the party line. About half of African-Americans oppose gay marriage—you ever see that op-ed in the Times? Of course not, no one wants to hear that, they want Dear White People, an extremely controversial show about how important it is to pay Ivy League tuition. This is the scam behind every campus free speech debate: Freddie DeBoer and Ezra Klein draw pistols at dawn, but no matter who wins it is further cemented that Twitter, Vox, and college are where the correct opinions of class are determined. I often hear arguments about [insert school] not having [insert support group], which might be a real concern except that no one seems to care that outside of college it’s either AA or the bar. Harvard Inc. was America’s first corporation, FYI. Better make sure your toddlers are practicing their Latin.

You want some sick irony? Everyone knows that class is somehow hereditary, that a rich kid will get a better job than a poor kid even if the former has a rap sheet for selling ecstasy to One Directioners. But if you know or have had sex with any of the sons/daughters of the bourgeoisie you will have observed that no one is more critical of such nepotism. These “gifted” but “troubled” people will bumble through their whole lives, getting second through tenth chances, mysteriously finding that anything involving an authority figure goes their way, as they ruthlessly condemn capitalist injustice, never realizing that criticizing privilege is...the language of privilege. And wouldn’t you know it, the promotional video for the latest Run The Jewels album features none other than the cast of Portlandia, helping such youth bridge the gap between the predictable children they’ve been and the predictable adults they are going to be.

This isn’t a new trend, although it is trending. Think about it this way. The service industry is any job where the customer is always right, e.g. writer, therapist, barber, sales. This has always been a proxy for class, since only the aristocracy had the time and knowledge to make listicles for the King. (“The Ten Most Protestant Criminals In Bastille Prison—You Won’t Believe Number Three!”) On the other hand, if you have a manufacturing job—anything that involves doing rather than talking—no one cares whether you have problematic faves.

Enter the industrial revolution, as featured in Office Space (1999): mind over matter, words over matter, manufacturing jobs get replaced by machines. Unemployment + labor saving machinery = a lot more people have the time and ability to read Wealth of Nations. No more kings, no more monopoly rights, now theoretically anyone can code Ye Flappying Birde and please the market. So if you’re an aristocrat and being literate was like, your whole thing, how are you gonna keep partying like it’s 1899? You need a job that lets you tell other people what is okay to read/write and consume/produce—a job that keeps you one step ahead and thus relevant. And so the meta-service industry: mass media, academia, and government work. Fast-forward, and note that the remaining manufacturing jobs now involve a) operating machines or b) designing machines. And gosh darn does the newspaper hate those alt-right nerds and those Silicon Valley tech bros.

So the conspiracy comes full circle. The meta-service industry promotes a version of “multiculturalism” that is hostile to everyone outside their class but doesn’t affect them, LA ain’t in Houston and Manhattanites would never step in a neighborhood without HBO. This pushes the suckers of the working class into xenophobia, and those they mark as alien have to abandon the idea of making things and assimilate through the only other path offered: the meta-service institutions. Now you have a glut of wannabe thinkpiece writers. Supply and demand, university prices go up, labor costs goes down, and everyone buys the assigned woke products and logs onto Twitter to bemoan capitalism. Well, you may not love capitalism, but capitalism loves you.

In a global market, the main criterion for a service industry gig is your ability to speak inoffensive in four languages, which winds up being a proxy for class. Fine, no surprise, pop music sucks. But the incentive of the meta-service industry—I’m not saying it’s all they do, but it is the incentive—is to create new ways to be offensive (n.b: not offended), new required extracurriculars, new rules of etiquette making it harder to advance the class hierarchy without paying up. Some would call this racketeering. Those would be uncharitable people. But consider effort the school system spends on teaching the approved answers to ‘why’ questions, as opposed to ‘how’ questions like ‘how to balance a checkbook’ and ‘how to feed oneself,’ with the assumption that if you reach the upper class you’ll be able to pay someone to do those practical skills for you— and if you don’t, hey, there’s always food stamps. Think carefully about whether this mode of education is likely to make society more meritocratic or less.

The issue is not that youth of color see academic success as limited to whites. It is that they typically see white teachers as enforcers of rules that are unrelated to the actual teaching and learning process. (For White Folks Who Teach in the Hood...and the Rest of Y'all Too)

Bonus: if you say that you’re trying to help the disadvantaged, then when your policies make the situation worse—well, that’s all the more reason to redouble your efforts.

What’s the solution? There’s only one and it is so radical that I hesitate to even suggest it: stop being a pleb. You. Stop treating words as a substitute for action. Stop paying time and money into institutions that loan a symbol of mastery in lieu of actual depth. Stop looking for such symbols in others. Stop judging policies by the veneer of good intention rather than the details of consequence. Stop looking past people, because this is all the same, isn’t it? Working from a map, a stereotype, a symbol, instead fighting for the complex truth? None of this horror requires malice or even stupidity. All it requires is taking the easy way out.

Or don’t change. Keep hitting the like button, the algorithm guarantees it’ll be something you like. But there’s a price to pay. And it won’t hurt right away. It’s a price paid in memory, not sensation. That’s why it’s so terrible. It won’t sink in until it’s too late, when you look back and wonder,

What and how much had I lost by trying to do only what was expected of me instead of what I myself had wished to do? (Invisible Man)

VIII.

“The ingenuity and adaptability of Homo sapiens has led to its becoming the most influential species on Earth; it is currently deemed of least concern on the Red List of endangered species by the International Union for Conservation of Nature.” (“Homo sapiens,” Wikipedia)

Accelerationist philosopher Nick Land is very smart and very edgy and can sometimes finish a full sentence without asking the reader to recognize this. This eagerness makes him very empathizable and lovable, and he does get the problem, even if his solutions are, you guessed it, calamitously, catastrophically, direly, and dreadfully wrong.

Since this is the epilogue, i.e. not the place to defang every noumenon, I’ll skip to the punchline: Nick Land thinks we’re nearing the end of the world. Or at least the end of a world where debates occur via blog post rather than bone cudgel. Per his condensed manifesto, “The Dark Enlightenment”:

Civilization, as a process, is indistinguishable from diminishing time-preference (or declining concern for the present in comparison to the future). Democracy, which both in theory and evident historical fact accentuates time-preference to the point of convulsive feeding-frenzy, is thus as close to a precise negation of civilization as anything could be, short of instantaneous social collapse into murderous barbarism or zombie apocalypse (which it eventually leads to).

No, man. Tell us how you really feel.

As the democratic virus burns through society, painstakingly accumulated habits and attitudes of forward-thinking, prudential, human and industrial investment, are replaced by a sterile, orgiastic consumerism, financial incontinence, and a ‘reality television’ political circus. Tomorrow might belong to the other team, so it’s best to eat it all now.

Land titles the next subsection “The arc of history is long, but it bends towards zombie apocalypse” and provides stats for the possible governments (“Communist Tyranny,” “Authoritarian Capitalism,” “Social Democracy”) that occur in sequence before “Zombie Apocalypse.” Okay, sick campaign setting. But why is this all inevitable?

Militant secularism is itself a modernized variant of the Abrahamic meta-meme, on its Anglo-Protestant, radical democratic taxonomic branch, whose specific tradition is anti-traditionalism.

Land is describing the Tower of Babel. I wouldn’t name its essence as “anti-traditionalism,” but the meme “spread this meme no matter what” has a similar destructive effect. Land’s solution, depending on the essay, is either an omnipotent AI ruler or biotech augmentation of high IQ individuals into elite übermenschen. Which, who knows, maybe that is how the Rapture will go down. I’m not here to make fun of anybody’s religion.

But in the short term, Land is wrong. This isn’t the end. The fall of Babel wasn’t a warning of what might happen. It’s something that happens all the time.

Since the death of God there’s been a vacancy, now everyone wants evolution to answer “why.” If anything seems unjust, it’s because evolution cares only about memetic fitness. Moloch, who elects foolish politicians! Moloch, who crowdfunds terrible podcasts! Moloch, who makes it so girls only like tall guys who drink Natty Light!

The catch is that evolution doesn’t care about memetic fitness. That’s a meaningless statement; evolution IS memetic fitness. And what determines memetic fitness is: whatever we decide.

Competition is ugly, no denying that. But blaming Moloch for fidget spinners is unfair to that poor Carthaginian spirit: people just want fidget spinners. If they didn’t, there wouldn’t be fidget spinners. It’s possible that folks don’t know what’s good for ‘em, sure, and you can elect some small deity to enforce your taste as law, but you haven’t killed Moloch, you’ve just shifted the arena in which people compete. Now all the bullies are under 5′7″ and pontificating about how partying is for nerds. Or how much they love Stalin.

Evolution is always bound by a value system. History has a progression, but it’s not an arc, it’s a spiral. God strikes down the tower, the “democratic virus” burns through society, we move towards a single language, the masses cry now nothing will be withholden from them, and God strikes down the tower once more. This is predestined by the very fact that each human being is unique. When you impose one language, one value system, when you hold someone back from that desperate desire to be understood—don’t expect that person’s God to forgive you.

And God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light. God saw that the light was good, and he separated the light from the darkness.

Land and his followers are wrong twice over. Wrong because they are fooled by the word “multiculturalism” and thus advocate for the pretend solutions of social exit, “assortative mating of the elite” or a “white ethno-state,” when it was cultural inbreeding of a white aristocracy that created the monoculture, multiculturalism in name only, that they so despise. It wasn’t Moloch, it wasn’t Nature, it was regulatory capture and top-down imposition of values. Those who feel persecuted for thoughtcrime are those who should be pushing hardest for diversity—real diversity, as opposed to a slick brochure of the indebted. Such diversity of ideas was what made America great, not that we haven’t punished people for race and sex and religion and a million other insane reasons that are not “bad behavior,” but even so America is the country of the stolen sample and the conspiracy theory, a nation of ingenuity and creation like no other, while the “white ethno-states” or “Scandinavian social democracies” you adore have created, I think, Avicii. Like wealth, class should not be treated as a zero sum game. There should not be a single ladder of correct beliefs. Having more ideas, even bad ideas, allows more ways to self-actualize and has worth in of itself.

It’s true that no group can perfectly match the values of its constituents. But the reactionaries are wrong again because their ideal nation would look no different. There is always a language gap between human beings, and fidelity is sacrificed to bridge that gap. Groups come together and cleave apart; it is the nature of individuation. Even if our society prohibited every value but the uncritical passage of information, soon we would be competing to pass information the most uncritically. Soon we would split into rival factions based on philosophy of uncritical passage. Man is a machine that extracts meaning. But communication of such meaning occurs in spite of groups, not because of them. Only when treated as an individual do we feel listened to. Existence is suffering, but once in a while someone else gets it. Might as well floss.

Still, don’t let me trick you into undue optimism. Though all value systems can generate meaning, though individuals will always fight to belong and then fight even harder to push away—that does not mean that all value systems are equal. Not long ago kids would argue over which console was better. Now teenagers whisper ‘cuckold’ and ‘nazi’ like it’s considered good manners. We are in the midst of a profound rearrangement of what traits are to be incentivized and rewarded, driven by some seven billion people each acting with what they believe to be the best of intentions. But who can foresee with what success and with what result?

[1a]. Memetics is not without controversy: in academia, it often stands accused of the heresy of dualism. The meme of “Christianity” cannot be sequenced in the way that DNA can, so how can one confidently say that it has “spread” from missionary to convert? Or that a gnostic sect is a “mutation”? Show me the nucleotides of thought, quoth the critics.

Two objections. First, we can’t isolate memes for mass spectrometry because consciousness isn’t a physical entity, it is a PATTERN of relation AMONG entities, an emergent property, meta-neuronal, not neuronal. The order of letters gives meaning independent from the letters themselves, ditto words, ditto sentences.

Second, it doesn’t matter. Is your neural firing pattern for “green” is the same as my neural firing pattern for “green”? Maybe or maybe not, perhaps your brain codes hues in RGB and mine uses hexadecimals. But it seems clear that some information is exchanged between us when we agree that grass is green. “Meme” is a proxy term for that unit of information. And if you accept this, then the burden of proof is on you to show why the mathematical algorithms of evolution—mutation, migration, and selection—the near-universal laws of information exchange—fail to apply here.

[1b]. If you take memetics seriously—and you should, Daniel Dennett’s in the New Yorker so it’s gonna be status quo in 10 years—then you should be skeptical of the gross extrapolation of IQ. Review: Is IQ a useful measurement of innate cognitive ability? Yes. Is IQ a summation of multiple somewhat-correlated skills into one number? Yes. Are some, if not all, of those skills trainable? Yes, with the greatest effects in early childhood. Are IQ tests sexist/racist? No, but they are trainable, training is culture-dependent, and culture cares a great deal about sex and race.

Ah, but here’s the trick. Let’s pretend that, like the SAT, IQ is an immutable and comprehensive measure of inborn intelligence. It would still describe hardware, not software. An out-of-date Compaq could still run new games if you allowed for a slow enough frame rate. Someone with an IQ of 80 could pass medical school given sufficient perseverance; there’s no single meme in the medical field (or quantum mechanics, etc) that is too big for the human brain, it just takes varying amounts of time to flip the pages. If you claim that IQ predicts various negative life outcomes, fine. If you claim that it’s an ability cap, you’re an idiot.

[2]. Note that the desire to love another (Eros) is actually more primitive than the desire to be loved (i.e. understood, Babel). If this seems counterintuitive, note that the Eros does not require recognition of the love object as a separate being. Babel does, and empathy takes effort. Last time you felt desperately alone, was the dominant emotion, “I hope one day someone loves me,” or “I hope one day someone accepts my love?” Pet your therapy dog and think about it.

[3]. Hence the template model (section II) of human beauty: men are attracted to wide hips because experience teaches that this trait is representative of the category “woman,” not because of an inborn preference for curves over lines. I suspect that inanimate beauty follows a similar mechanism: a view from distance is pleasing because if you zoom out far enough you can see a pattern in anything, symmetry is pleasing because... 

Paglia: “Every time we say nature is beautiful, we are saying a prayer, fingering our worry beads.”

[4]. Of course, it’s possible to blow one’s freedom from routine on a fresh set of rituals. Buying novelty is meaningful only until it stops feeling novel. It’s quite easy (and socially encouraged) to pull a Blue Jasmine and wake up just as unfulfilled with more credit card debt. Struggling with increasing strength against escalating challenge—“work”—is the only lasting source of meaning precisely because of this escalation: all other wells of novelty will run dry. But as previously alluded, landing this type of job requires personal wealth (e.g. time and money to apply to grad school) and societal infrastructure (e.g. institutions to hire you). Exhortations to “finish your Soylent, there are kids starving in Africa” are the worst sort of pointless sanctimony, but there’s a real lesson hidden inside “be grateful”: if you’re hearing it, you have the freedom to change.

[chiseler]

Gee, That Palace is Cheap

A “taxi-dancer” gets paid for every circuit around the floor with her customer – “dime a dance girl” is another one of her many appellations. Or, since she only keeps half that dime, “nickel-hopper” also works as slangy job descriptions go. And yet there’s a definite dark side to the services provided here… In makeshift ballrooms, while management looks the other way, these women rent themselves out to strangers in pursuit of fox trots and more. What follows is a genuine case history.

The girls who get the most tickets have to go the limit – roll their hips and stomach and let a guy grip their legs between his, or bend them back till they’d have to be contortionists to go any father, but the guys wait till they get to a corner of the floor… don’t do so much of it out in the middle of the hall. The fellows wouldn’t care where they did it but the bosses tell them: “Not out here, bo!”… To rake in the tickets a girl’s got to stand for more too – pinching, and cheek-kissing, and thumbing. Some fellows won’t dance with a girl unless she promises to go out with them after one o’clock, and lots of girls make dates with five or six men for the same night, and then they scrap over her out on the sidewalk afterwards… Three of the girls have got husbands who live off them, and the husbands come down to the dance-hall ev’ry other night and watch their wives shake and twist on the floor, and tell them to hop to it and bring in the coin. When the cappers on the floor – the men who tear the tickets – get a crush on a girl and she won’t tumble, they swear to the boss that she’s holding out on the tickets, or getting too free, and too free in this joint means doing everything bu-u-ut, so then she gets canned… A gang of Italian toughs hangs out at the hall and when a girl stands them up, or she won’t do what they want, they beat her something terrible. Sometimes they’ll go right up to a bench in the hall and slap her, and all the bosses do is take them aside and tell them to air their troubles on the street – don’t crash her face in he-ere: d’yuh wanna get us ra-aided?” The system is not to bother the rough babies but make a big show of taking up for the girls by going after the boobs and silly-looking peanuts. When a sap tries to manhandle a girl, the-en they rush him out on his ear. F’r instance, fellows aren’t allowed to smoke when they’re dancing, but the wops get away with it and the other fellows get it in the neck. The other night a Spanish fellow was dancing and drawing at a nail – it was his first time at the hall and he didn’t know about the rule, and besides that joint wouldn’t give a fellow the idea he had to tone himself down any. Ed, one of the cappers, walked up and jerked the cig from his mouth and swore at him. Well, of course, no fellow with the least guts will stand for being treated like that! Still, all the Span’ did was ask Ed why he didn’t tell him to stop ’stead of jerking his pill away. That’s all, but the next thing he knew, they lugged him out to the hall and played jazz-drum on his face… Some of the girls live in rooming-houses and take guys up there but most of them have got a boyfriend on the side, and they try to work the customers for a good time, and big tips, without going the route with them. Some of them are in with crooks, but then the girls always manage it so’s the guy gets cleaned after he’s left them, so’s they can’t be blamed for it unless he squawks to the cops, and most of the time he’s dead drunk when it happens and he can’t even remember where it was pulled, or what the cleaners looked like… A few of the girls are decent and live at home, but they might as well not be when you think of what they have to put up with on the floor – there isn’t much lacking. The bosses don’t actually force a girl to stay with them – they don’t have to ’cause there’s enough girls only too glad to be good to them and acting like the bosses was ma-ayor, or something. But just the same, if a girl don’t yes them to death in the hall, they always cook up an excuse to can her. Ev’ry now and then one of the bosses gets on the band-platform and balls the girls out for standing in one spot on the floor and ses he’ll drop the next one he catches doing it, but it’s nothing but a play to the gallery, of course, and it gives him an opening for getting rid of new girls who don’t suit him – girls that act a little ladylike. A little’s enough to get the bum’s rush in that joint! Why, they even tell a girl to where as little as possible under her evening-rags. That’s the whole system – bluff like the devil and then close their eyes… I’ve seen some pretty square girls come to the hall, but if they don’t quit after a week or two, they start to get smutty and careless. When the girls flock into the washroom during the intermissions, the wisest person on earth would be surprised at some of the stunts and jokes they pull off… A girl gets a mean idea down at the Troc’ – she thinks she has to take abuse from a few guys ’cause they’ve got the whiphand over her, so she takes her spite out on the other fellows and lies to them and plays them for all they’re worth, and then she feels sorta like she’s revenged herself. It’s the same with the men down there – some of them act sweet and decent to the girls at first, but after they’ve been gypped and fooled a few times they turn rotten and try to put over a few tricks on their own hook… I’d like to have the mazuma the bosses pay over to the cops – a grand a month is chicken-feed. The cops’ll raid a joint that caters to Fillipinos, and Japs, and Chinks, because the higher-ups and papers raise a howl about that, but otherwise, if a hall is closed you can bet your last leaf it was because it wouldn’t pay enough. If there’s a investigation on, the halls just get more strict and stop half of the raw stuff until things quiet down again… I’m going a long ways from being straight and I’ve stood for a lot in my time, but I can’t stomach that joint any longer. It’ll make me throw up if I stay there another week!…

Case history introduced by Daniel Riccuito

Source: 60 Seconds (1929), Maxwell Bodenheim

[hbostolemysoul]

Band of Brothers fluff alphabet: Joe Toye

A = Attractive (What do they find attractive about the other?)

Walking into camp Toccoa had been terrifying for you, not that you would let it show. Having gone through basic training you knew better than to show your ‘girly’ emotions around the guys. That being said having every single set of eyes on you as you walked through camp was nerve-wracking. Most of the men stared at you, some whistled, but most of them left you alone.

You didn’t really have a problem with any of the men until you were out at a local bar one night enjoying your weekend pass. Cobb had seemed like an okay guy, a bit cynical and bitter at times but your interactions had been limited. He approached you, spilling some of the beer in his mug as he invaded your space. Clearly, he had overindulged, and his comments towards you went from inappropriate to near threatening as you denied his advances. Turning to leave you were yanked backward, your lower back slamming into the table behind you. At this point some of the men around you had taken notice, some looking like they wanted to step in, but also not wanting to add to the building tension. You felt your face flush, you broke Cobbs hold on his arm and he stumbled a bit.

As you turned to leave you hear Cobb sputter “Hey bitch”,

You turned on your heel and instead of throwing a punch at Cobb you were surprised to see Toye, Joe Toye if your memory serves you correct, with Cobbs collar in his fist muttering a quiet threat to Cobb to ‘leave the lady the fuck alone’. Behind Toye you could see Guarnere, Randleman, and even Lipton looking ready to back him up should the need arise.

Cobb backed down and stumbled back to his seat on the other end of the bar. Toye turned towards you, hand extended as he introduced himself. The boys ended up inviting you to their table while sitting you leaned closer to Toye,

“I appreciate the sentiment and all, but I could have handled that myself” Joe gave a gruff laugh,

“You flatter yourself too much sweetheart, I stepped in for his protection, not yours”, that got a laugh out of you. You and Joe got on pretty well after that.

B = Baby (Do they want a family? Why/Why not?)

Joe had dropped out of high school in his junior year to work in the mines to help support his family. He had been raised to put family first and should he ever get married or have kids their wellbeing would be his first priority.

After losing his leg and spending about 9 months in hospital he is at a loss as to what he can do for work. Before the war, he had worked in the mines and mills but without his right leg, those were no longer options. He wrote to you and in his own ‘tough guy’ kind of way expressed that he felt lost. He did eventually find work as a drill bit grinder at one of the mines in Reading, Pennsylvania.

When the war was over, and you had been shipped back home you decided to visit Toye. You two had always had an easy friendship, so coming to visit felt pretty natural for both of you. A one week visit extended to several, to you eventually moving into his guest bedroom, to said guest bedroom being made into an impromptu nursery.

Your pregnancy hadn’t been planned, but you and Joe took it in stride. Your friendship had always been an easy one, and when you two sat down to talk about things it became apparent that you both had been harboring ‘deeper’ feelings for each other.

You were a champ through the delivery because that child was by no means small. A hearty little thing that was a perfect mix of you and Joe, just having them in your arms made up for the 21 hours of labour you just went through, not that you would tell Joe that. Him doting on you had been kind of nice, and you were going to milk it for as long as possible.  

C = Cuddle (How do they cuddle?)

You will usually fall asleep close together, and wake up your back to Joe’s chest, his arm wrapped securely around your waist.

D = Dates (What are dates with them like?)

Joe is a pretty simple guy, beer and pizza. You also happen to like those things so you two often just order in and hang out. When his leg isn’t acting up you two sometimes go down to one of the local bars. If it’s a particularly good night Joe will even dance to a slow song or two with you.

E = Everything (You are my __ (e.g. my life, my world…))

“You are the toughest little thing I have ever met, y’know that?”

F = Feelings (When did they know they were in love?)

You and Joe had talked about ‘feelings’ and what not when you first found out you were pregnant. While you both knew you loved the other the words hadn’t been said yet. Truthfully, they hadn’t felt right until Joe saw you with a hand on your lower back, gently scolding the child within you for “kicking my damn bladder again”. Joe wasn’t a super touchy-feely guy, but for whatever reason, he just blurted the words out. It was kind of funny as you looked up at him, he blinked owlishly at you as if shocked by his own admission. You just grinned and waddled over, raising on your tip toes you place a gentle kiss to his mouth, “Love you too. Do you think we can get pizza for tonight? I really want olives”.

G = Gentle (Are they gentle? If so, how?)

Don’t get me wrong Joe can be very gentle, but that doesn’t mean you always want him to be gentle.

H = Hands (How do they like to hold hands?)

Again Joe is not super touchy-feely, but when the mood strikes him he has no problem taking your hand in his larger one.

I = Impression (What was their first impression?)

He had seen you around Toccoa, and he had heard enough about you from the men to feel familiar enough with you. Prior to the ‘Cobb’ incident, you two hadn’t really crossed paths. What he remembers clear as day was how you were definitely going to lay Cobb out on his ass if he didn’t step in. Not that the guy didn’t deserve it. After talking with you that night he realized that you were quite funny and would totally take a guy down should the mood strike you. What can he say, he liked you.

J = Jealousy (Do they get jealous?)

Joe can get jealous, it happens more now that you two are officially together than it did before. Sure while overseas he would get annoyed with the way men would look at you, flirt with you, touch you, breath in your general vicinity, but hey you were just friends so he kept his feelings in check. But now that you are together he gets to pull out that ‘back the fuck off’ look that he does so well.

K = Kiss (How do they kiss? Who initiated the first kiss?)

You honestly don’t remember. You two had been bickering about whether pineapple had a place on pizza and somehow your mouths ended up together.

L = Love (Who says ‘I love you’ first?)

Joe did. You had been standing in the kitchen muttering to your acrobat of an unborn child when Joe just blurted it out. It had been sweet, and so uniquely Joe that it was kind of hilarious. (Also you did get that pizza you asked for)

M = Memory (What’s their favourite memory together?)

The first day you came to visit after the war had been pretty great. You two didn’t realize how much you had missed each other until you were in the same room. You two had stayed up late that night, drinking beers and just catching up. Joe also ‘forced’ the photos of Guarnere’s various kids upon you. What the hell else was he going to do with all those photos anyway?

N = Nickel (Do they spoil? Do they buy the person they love everything?)

Pizza is kind of your thing. You two aren’t particularly materialistic, so it’s the simple things that keep you two happy.

O = Orange (What colour reminds them of their other half?)

Red. You are fiery, funny, and a total badass (beast in bed).  

P = Pet names (What pet names do they use?)

Sweetheart (not in a sappy way, but like totally Joe if that makes sense?!)

Q = Quaint (What is their favourite non-modern thing?)

He has an old watch that his dad gave to him. The watch face is cracked and the battery died long ago, but it came from family so it means something.  

R = Rainy Day (What do they like to do on a rainy day?)

Joe’s leg acts up when it rains, “something about the pressure systems or some shit” as he likes to say. So you two usually stay in, sometimes playing cards.

S = Sad (How do they cheer themselves/others up?)

Joe (tough guy) doesn’t get sad, his head just gets cloudy sometimes. Pizza and beer usually fix it, until baby Toye comes along. Joe likes to have ‘conversations’ with your babbling baby, it literally keeps them entertained for hours.

T = Talking (What do they like to talk about?)

Day to day life stuff mostly, “Have you seen the remote?”, “Why is our child covered in peanut butter?”, “Have you seen my watch?”. You know. Normal things.

U = Unencumbered (What helps them relax?)

Joe will never admit it, but he loves napping with the baby. He will never admit to needing the naps though, always some excuse “The kid was already asleep. Seemed like a crime to get up and disturb ‘em”.

V = Vaunt (What do they like to show off? What are they proud of?)

Again Joe isn’t very materialistic, or showy. He is just happy to have the things he does, (You, baby Toye, a reasonable distance between the Guarnere clan and your home)  

W = Wedding (When, how, where do they propose?)

The topic of marriage comes up occasionally, but you and Joe never really felt the urgency some other couples have. It wasn’t until baby Toye had tuned into ‘full on tiny human Toye’ that the conversation comes up seriously. Mostly because you kid straight up asked “Why don’t you just ask mom to marry you already?”.

You guys had a small ceremony, your families and friends came to the reception afterward. Guarnere full on cackled when he found out how you two ‘got’ engaged, he then promptly high fived your child.

X = Xylophone (What’s their song?)

Guest Room- Echos

Y = Yes (Do they ever think of getting married/proposing?)

You two had tossed the idea around, it wasn’t until your child literally scolded you that you two got your act together.

Z = Zebra (If they wanted a pet, what would they get?)

Joe had a clear dog or nothing rule. Until your child came home with this mangy cat that they were clearly in love with…It took Joe about two days to come around, but he most definitely did not fall asleep with the cat on his chest. No, that never happened.

[brokenprimrose]

#thefirstyear.

Written By: johnnyrose / ahgarose.

She stared numb at her open laptop at the blank white screen. The word cursor blinked at her. The ends of her French braids were still damp from the sudden surprise downpour 45 minutes ago. 11:51 AM, the clock in the lower right corner read. 62 degrees, 56-degree wind chill. Wet and chilly in October, shouldn't be surprising. Especially in New England. It was still coming down outside the coffee shop where she waited. He was late. A guerilla date and she had been stood up. Glancing back and forth from her screen, to down the street her mind couldn't help but wonder to the tumultuous past year. A dull ache haunted her heart. Married last winter at a courthouse in Ohio, a move to Boston three weeks later, and mere months after that ... the bright future they imagined for themselves began to unravel. They moved to Boston so her newly betrothed could begin his internship at Massachusetts General Hospital. She dropped out of her own studies so she could follow him to Boston and get a part time job as a waitress. It didn't bother her in the least at first.

She loved him. Abruptly, she was pulled from her thoughts as a waiter refilled her coffee cup for the fourth time, “May I get a blueberry muffin please?” “You sure can. I'll be right back.”, he answered with a smile a little too wide. He’s a chipper one, she thought. God, I hope that wasn't me. Though it probably was more than likely. Her first-time waitressing was long and exhausting. Getting use to the fast pace and extremely loud environment of the sports bar near Fenway was almost impossible. Tipped platters, pushy patrons, and the constant spills on her jeans. A particularly rank memory emerged of a half-drunk customer pouring a full glass of a dark hopper beer down her grey polo work shirt. Bringing that entire section of the bar to a silent halt. She quit after that incident. She lasted 22-days.

“It was fucking terrible.”, she whined to her husband. “He laughed right in my god damn face, I might as well be a side of pretzels for the table.” He turned the shower faucet on, “I think you're over reacting.” She snatched the ruined polo-shirt off, “Really? Sniff me. I'm Samuel Adams greatest achievement.” “You work at a sports bar in Boston, what'd you expect?” He added another towel to the wobbling bar on the wall. Kicking her jeans to the side of the bedroom, a bit of off white paint chipped off where the hard button hit. “.. M.I.T. Professors?” He softly chuckled at the sight of her pouting in the doorway. “My underwear smells like yeast.” she leaned into him. Her stomach to his shoulder. “Another way to make muffins.” He teased, snapping the band of her panties with his teeth. Almost mirroring the sound of creaky water pipes behind the walls. She could help but smile. “Here you are ma'am.”, the waiter placed the small plate next to her laptop. “Need anything else, let me know,” his voice about an octave higher than she assumed was normal. 11:55 AM. She sighed, and looked down the drenched sidewalk. No one was dumb to be out in this mess. Except the clowder of rushing students, late for afternoon classes. “I left school for you!” She pinched the bridge of her nose at the sullen memory of one of their many fights. It was like she could physically see time slow down. The blur of the rain outside, the hush of the café inside turning to white noise in her ears. It was their worst.

“And what hurts the most is I don't' even think you care.” The both stood in the kitchen and dining room. Tense. “I took a year off school to get a job to pay the bills. Considering interns get paid in nickels, I thought it was the right call. I thought you’d at least be grateful for that.” They’d been shouting at each other for what seemed like hours. Months of passive aggressiveness finally exploding with a grape scented haze over dinner.

“Oh my god, you don't think I know that?? As if you don't remind me, what the fuck would make you think I’m not? And I never asked you to drop out—”

“I should be studying for my finals right now, not asking people if they’d like a refill—”

“I thought you liked your restaurant! —”

“Not the point!” they yelled over one another.

His voice lowered as leaned against the kitchen counter. “You went to a community college, I doubt your missing anything worth studying anyway.” Her eyes narrowed and cheeks flushed, ignoring the shadow of regret on his face. “You wanna’ say that again?” “Just stop, okay. Every time I talk about the hospital, I see it. You may not say it out loud, but I fucking see it.” They sparred.

“Cut the shit. I like hearing about your work. I like hearing about the new things you’re getting to do. I love the passion you have. Your ambition—drive,” she groaned in frustration. She stood exasperated, cheeks and eyes still chagrin. There was more she wasn’t saying and he knew it. “What?” He asked. His eyes steady, arms firm, and a quivering lip; often occurs in stressful situations. A nervous tick she found adorable under normal circumstances, but now only served to further upset her. She sighed, “When I go to the hospital to see you, you never introduce me to your colleagues, you rush me out of the building—” He interrupted. “Wha—I'm working. You kno—” “I'm not a fucking idiot, I knew what to expect when I married you, and I supported you. I still do.” Her voice was softer. “So, what?” He also spoke softer, his arms relaxed a fraction. “You think I’m embarrassed of you or something?” She said nothing, only shrugged. He studied her. Her eyes shifted, she hugged herself, one hand reached up to tug her ear, “What is it? What aren’t you telling me?” She pressed her lips together. Forbidding herself from having to say it out loud. “Say it,” he pressed. She shook her head. “Jesus Christ—” “I saw.” She pronounced.

“Saw what?” suddenly, she looked up to meet his eyes. “I saw you two together, the on-call room.” He froze. That was the last thing he wanted to hear. “What are you talking about?” He was lying, and she knew.

A crack of thunder brought her back. She could feel a sting in her eyes as she sipped her latte. That part of her life was over, she was determined to not let the devastating feelings of that night drag her backwards. That was over. She had to move on.

11: 57 AM. Ten more minutes. If this guy didn’t show up in another ten minutes she was leaving. Back out into the rain and make a run for the train. She flinched hearing the sky crack in fury. The rain began to come down in sheets completely obscuring any chance of seeing a soul pass by. She took a bite of her muffin and wiped the rock sugar crumbs from her top lip.

The last time she was out of the house in this type of weather was on a Sunday about 9 months ago. Before her marriage fell apart.

She traded the sports bar for a quaint artisanal restaurant not too far from the hospital. It was a quiet place with nice people. She was free to wear her own clothes and managed to waver daytime hours. Every other day she could walk to the hospital during a lunch break and eat with her husband and he’d often show up at the restaurant to see her. Inevitably he’d get a page 911. Him being an intern, every page was a matter of life and death, even if they weren’t always life or death. She didn’t mind when it happened. She had almost a sense of pride knowing her husband was running to save a life.

The only downside was having to see her. They’d never been formally introduced to one another, but she knew enough about her husbands’ colleague. The way she lingered around him just a little too close. The way she’d touch his arm for just a little too long. Laugh just a little too hard, only remove herself just enough when she noticed the wife nearby. She mentioned it to him, “Collins? No, she’s just another intern,” he laughed at the silly accusation.

She believed him. She could always tell when he was lying, he wasn’t.

This Sunday she was planning on surprising him at the hospital with food from her restaurant, but she received a text from him saying he wouldn’t be able to make it. A little disappointed, but not crushed. He’d been on a 48-hour shift already and she understood the need for extended hours in his line of work. She was even a bit thankful he canceled. The rain out was abhorrent. Dark and blinding.

The restaurant was half-full of people who needed a quick escape from the thunderstorm. She was staring out the window at the grey blur of rain when the entrance bell dinged behind her. Her eyes stayed glued to the rain that lashed against the windows, but even from the back of the dining area she could feel the rush of air from outside. A few moments later, she felt pressure on the back of her neck.

Gasping in surprise, she quickly turned around.

The sight before her was amazing. Her husband stood completely soaked as if he took an afternoon swim in the harbor. His hair stuck to his face, raincoat—totally useless—hung defeated against his scrubs that looked glued to his skin, down to his NIKE memory foam sneakers that left a puddle on the wood floor where he stood. She could see what use to be white socks that turned a sad dingy grey through the mesh of the running shoes.

“Oh my god,” she said bringing a hand to her mouth in humor and horror.

He reached inside his coat to his inside pocket and presented a pitiful looking flower. A carnation? Chrysanthemum? Rose? It was difficult to tell. “Sorry I’m late.” As he offered her the flower, the stem snapped. She stifled a laugh. “Oh sweetie, why?”

He shrugged, “Its Wednesday.” She grabbed the small towel from her waist belt and patted dry what she could. “.. and I exceeded my 60-hours apparently, so they forced me home.”

She wiped his forehead, “In this weather?”

He laughed, “It wasn’t raining when I left.”

“Poor baby,” she cooed. He took the towel and she took the flower. She snapped off the bud of the flower and stuck it in her shirt pocket, leaving a large wet spot on her chest. “I’ll order a bisque for you.”

“When’s you break?” he sat at the small table for two she was standing in front of.

“Another half hour. Coffee?”

“Ah, tea please. If I have any more caffeine today my hearts’ gonna’ stop.” He said half joking. He peeled off his rain coat and ran the now soaked towel through his hair. He was as handsome as when they first met. She tapped the lobster bisque and his favorite hibiscus tea on her touchpad as she headed toward the kitchen when she heard the first sneeze behind her. She stopped in her tracks. Crap.

“Robin? Robin?” The barista behind the counter shouted into the coffee shop holding a grande cup and small to-go bag. Although it was clear no one was planning on exiting the shop with the rain outside. There was no longer a Nor’easter out, but it was still coming down hard enough to garner caution. She sat her cup down on the table and mindlessly scrolled through the ESQUIRE website, loitering from her intended studies. The only thing that had her attention now were the happy memories of her marriage. It wasn’t always so grim. They both genuinely loved each other.

He had always been sweet to her. Even in their most heated fights his natural humor kept the situation from escalating further. He was naturally funny, and she loved it. He was always the more romantic of the two. She had her moments, but he had a real talent for it.

He would always come home with her favorite snack, no matter how strapped for cash they were. He was a great cook. When they were both still in school, he’d always be the one to cook dinner. An olive oil and butter pasta dish was her favorite. He loved to snuggle. When he would be at the hospital for overnight shifts, he’d plant small love notes for her to find. In the bread box where she’d grab a morning bagel, or on a random banana she’d find in her bag. She hated bananas, but accepted his. An inside joke between the two. And flowers. Lots of flowers. Just because. The little things he did for her is what she loved the most.

12:00 PM.

She looked around the small shop. There were quite a few couples around. Embarrassed, she couldn’t help but feel a little green in the face that she was still sitting there alone. For almost an hour. The nervous ball in her stomach made her push away the muffin she barely touched. She didn’t handle rejection well. She looked out the window again at the now much gentler rain.

“With this ring, I promise to love you, comfort you, help guide you. I vow to ease your burden. To share your pain, and hold you up when you can’t. With kindness, trust and unconditional love, I take you to be my lawful wedded wife. Through good and bad, sickness and in health. As long as we both shall live.”

Her eyes were closed as she clutched her coffee. A laugh escaped her as she remembered that morning.

She sobbed quietly listening to him recite his vows, and then... Panic. She forgot her own vows.

Another laugh escaped and quickly dissipated. To ease your burden. To share your pain. To ease your burden. To share your pain. She mauled over this. The same man would later bring up the word divorce. They married young, but they weren’t naive to the meaning of marriage. They knew what it meant, and they took it seriously; but life happens; and some things can’t be helped.

His parents were particularly pleased with the news of the annulment. They were never her biggest fans to begin with. Unfortunately stemmed from the fact that they came from different backgrounds. Both financially and ethnically. His parents had a plan for his future she didn’t fit the image for. Luckily the indifference she had for his parents was a mutual feeling that brought them closer together.

12:04 PM. She sighed heavily and shut her laptop. This guy wasn’t coming. She huffed as she shoved her computer into its case and pushed her physics notes in there with it. The rain softened to a pitter-patter. She should leave now before it started storming again.

As she was shoving her things in her bag, a shadow fell over her table. She looked up.

She felt a strong sense of déjà vu looking at him standing in front of her. His wet hair tousled and a smile, almost shy. A mirror of the day they first met.

“Excuse me?” She looked up from her text book to see a brown-haired, brown-eyed, very good-looking guy teetering in front of her. “May I sit here?” he asked.

She looked around the Starbucks connected to the Barnes &. Noble. It was basically empty besides three other customers. The comforting sound of the rain on the windows and the clanking of coffee pots behind the counter created a soundtrack to the meeting.

Confused, she looked at him again and noticed he was wet from the rain outside. He had a small smile on his lips. Shy, but not quite. For some reason, she found the stranger endearing. The brightness behind his eyes seemed almost mischievous. There was a magnetic pull in her gut.  “Sure.” She answered in a small voice. He smiled a beautiful smile, and just like that, she was already swept away. It’s a difficult thing to explain. How do you explain such a personal connection upon a single look of a stranger?

She tucked a loose piece of hair behind her ear and gestured to the seat across from her. He felt a sense of accomplishment as he sat down. He had seen her around the Town-Centre a total of three times that day, but she’d disappear in a blink. He saw an off-white knee-length sweater at the corner of his eye as he was walking past, he knew it was the girl, and walked right in. Trading his evening biochemistry class for a chance to say hello to a beautiful stranger.

“Sorry I’m late,” her husband said landing a soft kiss on her cheek. She giggled to herself at the all too familiar sight of him drenched from head to toe.

“Took you long enough, I was about to leave.” She took another sip of her drink in relief. He took the empty seat across from her.

“Did you not see the monsoon outside?” She was suppressing a smile as she slid the napkin dispenser towards him. Not much good the paper napkins would do. It would be attempting to dry a large husky with a cotton pad.

--

“—I resented you. Not—” she paused, looking to clarify. “I was jealous. I am jealous. You’re.. you, doing incredible things. You’re going be a pediatric surgeon, and me? I’m still asking people if they have enough ketchup.” She saw the look of remorse in his eyes and quickly continued, “I don’t regret moving here. I really don’t. I’m so proud of you. It just felt like you were off accomplishing these great things without me. I’d see you with the other interns, everything’s’ so important. I mean of course it is, it’s a hospital,” she chuckled to herself absently. “I’m waiting for my turn.”

“But you don’t have to wait.” There was a small pause. “About Jennifer.”

“Who?” she asked confused.

“Collins.”

“I thought Collins was her first name.”

“No, it’s Jennifer.”

“Oh. You don’t need to—”

“I never had sex with her.” It was silent. “I never touched her.” He repeated. She inhaled sharply. She could always tell when he was lying, he wasn’t. “I thought we were exaggerating when you said she was interested in me. It honestly never crossed my mind that she would be.

“What you saw that day, she kissed me. We were in records looking for a diagnosis for a patient. We just diagnosed a patient successfully and we both won the chance to assist in a surgery, and she went in for the kill. Normally when I do notice her flirting, I would just end it quickly by talking about you. No different from normal conversations with me honestly,” he laughed, “I always talk about you. They hate me for it.” He smiled thinking about the bored expressions on the other interns faces when he gushed about his wife. He had become that guy. “But I would be lying if I said I did everything I could to stop it,” he continued.

He sighed and paused for a second and looked at the crack in the ceiling above the bed. She laid next to him with the sheet up to her chest covering up the evidence of their make-up. “I was..” he chose his words carefully, “I was flattered.

“I spent my entire college life in books, I didn’t experience much in high school. So, when women flirt.” the corners of his mouth turned, “I’m needy.” He said in a pathetic voice, and with instant regret when he saw her close her eyes in the darkness. It wasn’t the right moment for humor. There was still so much that laid in between them. “It’s no excuse at all, but I’m not always smart. Clearly,” he looked for a way to express his feelings, but couldn’t, “I’m a fucking idiot okay. I have no idea what the hell to do—how to say it. I knew better. I fucking knew better than to encourage it, but we were fighting. All the time.”

He ran his hands over his face, trying to erase what happened. “The biggest mistake I made, was bringing up the word divorce.” He looked at her, “that’s my biggest regret.” Images of their separation flashed between them. Her in the bedroom, him on the couch. Both in the kitchen unacknowledging of each other. Late nights of dinner alone. Nights when they would both lie awake for hours staring at their respective ceilings. The divorce lawyer sliding annulment papers across the thick wood table.

His breath hitched in his throat as he tried to control his emotions that were becoming more and more erratic. “I am so sorry.” He sat up and leaned over his wife and looked her straight in her eyes.

Even in the dark she could see them. She could always tell when he was lying. He wasn’t.

“You hurt me.” She said finally.

“I know. You hurt me too.”

“..I know.” It was hard for her to admit, but she knew she wasn’t exactly innocent. Things she did didn’t make an already devastating situation any easier. Whether it be picking meaningless fights, pushing her own insecurities onto him, intentionally or not, or flaunting another guy in front of him to see him hurt the way he hurt her. Something she deeply ashamed of. He was even more sensitive than she was. She knew how something like that would affect him. “I’m sorry.” She choked through silent tears.

He wiped away at the corner of her eye as one fell from his. He as he laid back down, he brought her to his chest. A few minutes passed in silence, “So what do we do now? I, um,” she rubbed her nose and continued, “I got a voicemail from your lawyer the other day... You signed.”

A minute passed before he confirmed. “I got a call from my lawyer too. He congratulated me on my new-found freedom,” he spouted the last sentence in unintentional bitterness. “What?” he asked when he felt her muffled laughter. “What’s funny?”

She laughed harder. “Did you see the manila envelope on the coffee table?” He hadn’t. With the ferocity of their earlier screaming match that turned into a passionate ‘lovers reconcile’. “I sent mine in, but they were sent back.” She laughed more. “I forgot to sign it.”

He was stunned. “We’re still married?”

“We’re still married.” She parroted in giggles. “Oh god, your mothers’ gonna’ be pissed.” His own laughter rocked the bed.

--

A large cup of tea was sat in front of her husband by the chipper waiter, along with a chorizo-egg sandwich. Her anxiety finally eased, she watched him eat as she sipped her brew. She felt happy. Content in this moment. The shadow that was their first year of marriage was a large one. Difficult to ignore. But she didn’t think they should ignore it. Not completely. If she had to go through this first year all over again, she would. To arrive at the place, they were now in this coffee shop. She wouldn’t change a thing.

She was about to have another bite of her muffin, and she noticed a small bird chirping on the window sill near to her hand.

Oh? The rain stopped? She thought to herself.

She was still looking up at the dark clouds over head when—

“—Achoo!” he sneezed.

She froze in her seat. Crap.

12:08 PM.

+ Thanks for reading. <3

“Blue Ocean Floor” “Mirror” “Another Song” “Not A Bad Thing”

—     Justin Timberlake 

[witchjailwitchjail-blog]

New 7-inch is a-happening! Taking pre-orders now on our Bandcamp page, records ship out on February 10th!

Here's the scoop, via the mighty Nick Spacek at The Pitch:

"When The Pitch premiered the last installment of the Too Much Rock single series, last October — Hipshot Killer's "All the Hell in the World" — the man behind the series, Sid Sowder, let us know that he already had the next single ready to go for early 2017.

Here it is, not even a full month in: the exclusive premiere of the next Too Much Rock single, in the form of Witch Jail's "Slimewave, U.S.A." Like the band's Depseration Beach cassette, it's a hit of surf-infused, psychobilly madness.

The flip side of the vinyl single, a cover of Alien Sex Fiend's "My Brain Is in the Cupboard (Above the Kitchen Sink)," will make its debut on KKFI 90.1's MidDay Medley on Wednesday, February 8.

I asked Witch Jail's frontman, Guy Slimey, how the single came together.

The Pitch: Were you aware of the single series before Sid asked you to do it? If so, were you excited or apprehensive about what song he might ask you to cover?

Guy Slimey: Absolutely we were aware, yes. In fact, I was kind of in disbelief when Sid approached us. I thought for sure he was just trying to get us together in a room to murder us for some reason. I don't know ... it's refreshing — and a little shocking — when someone likes your work and is willing to take a chance on you, especially when that same someone has put out records from some of your favorite local artists. So, at that point, we didn't really care what song he asked us to cover: we were just blown away that he wanted us at all.

How familiar with Alien Sex Fiend were you before being asked to cover their track?

I listened to them a LOT in college, back in my "black eyeliner" phase. Didn't everyone go through one of those?

What's the process of learning a song from scratch?

We took the song and immediately threw it out the window. I was determined to do a lounge cover, with vibes and shimmery ocean sounds. I had it all worked out in my head. I broke it all down for the band one night at practice. Then we got loaded and said, "Fuck that," wrote a completely new song from scratch, and put the Alien Sex Fiend lyrics into it. We went into the studio the next day.

Where did the A-side come from — was it a recent composition, or did you have something left over from the Desperation Beach cassette?

We wrote the A-side specifically for the record. We met with Sid last March and really wanted to do something new for him. [Guitarist] Eddie Morphine was still pretty new to the band and we hadn't written anything with him yet. We told him to come up with a riff or he was out of the band. We're assholes like that.

I think he bought the riff from some forum on the Dark Web — spent all his hard earned bitcoins. He brought it to us and we knew it was an all-timer, so we spared his musical life. At the time, we were between drummers, so we had to sit on this chunk of gold until Matty Rat finally swooped in and got us back on our feet. Viola!

We actually recorded it with the mighty Joel Nanos at Element over the summer. We didn't record our tape until last October. It's been real hard keeping this baby a secret for so long, knowing how many lives it could change.

Are you all vinyl fiends?

Oh yeah, totally. There's something about vinyl giving weight to your music — actual, physical weight that you can feel in your hands. And doing a single for Sid sweetens the deal. He's a great guy doing great things — every single he's put out so far has been incredible, and we're absolutely flattered to be in such good company.

Who did the art, and what was the inspiration?

[Guitarist] Suzy Bones and myself built those sets and took those photos. Our cat, Waxy, was kind enough to pose for us. We're both big fans of thrift-store lounge records, that whole idea of luxury living on a nickel budget, and it's always been our plan to re-create that feeling for a record cover should the opportunity arise. Our original idea for the back cover kind of fell apart at the printing stage, but Sid had a few suggestions that actually helped it conform more to our vision. Our tacky, tacky vision."